Brewer's Tale, The (50 page)

It was our great good fortune that, as we prepared to leave Canterbury, we were able to join a band of pilgrims who had braved the wintry conditions to visit St Thomas à Becket's shrine and were now returning to London. There was safety even in small numbers and though good King Henry ensured the roads were patrolled, his lands were vast and his eyes and men could not be everywhere.

And so we found ourselves numbered among the pious. If anyone in this motley band of worshippers wondered why I might take to the roads to seek the solace of shrines and saints, a single servant in tow, one look at Betje's scarred mien silenced them. No-one said anything directly, they didn't have to; but even after the initial shock passed of seeing a little one with flesh so mortified you couldn't tell if she was a boy or girl, their interest in me remained. I didn't wear the grey cloak that bespoke a pilgrim, nor did I possess a staff or wear any of the little leaden brooches that denoted other journeys to shrines.

The decision to reveal as little as possible about our past and reasons for braving the roads was taken from me, as it was evident within moments of joining the pilgrims that the price to be extracted for travelling with them would be a tale.

Prior to leaving Dover, Adam, Mother Joanna and I concocted a story to explain our journey if needed; one that required me to don the mantle of widowhood and a new name. The moment we passed through Dover's high city gates, turning our back on our temporary haven, I was no longer Anneke Sheldrake — that woman was a fugitive, subject to arrest should she be caught. She was also the prey Sir Leander hunted. I was now a Lowlands woman, Mistress Anna de Winter, pregnant widow of a recently deceased (may God assoil him) sea captain, travelling with my servant and grievously injured younger sister to gather what dues my husband's employers, the Hanse, owed with the intention to resettle in the city.

Alongside a diverse bunch of pilgrims, all of whom shared their stories as we made our way, we swayed atop the cart, loyal Shelby at its head. We were anonymous, protected, and thus we headed to London.

Or, at least that was what we intended.

APPROACHING LONDON VIA LONG SOUTHWARK

February

The year of Our Lord 1407 in the eighth year of the reign of Henry IV

A
fter days of fog and shivery miles, the clouds parted allowing beams of golden sunlight to strike the road, illuminating the puddles of water and the thick hedgerows lining the holloway. Enjoying the sudden warmth, Shelby's pace quickened slightly and he raised his head, and I could not help but feel a similar shift in my own mood. Having been denied the sun for so long, it was a welcome companion. Much like the woman sitting beside me.

Adam had surrendered his seat atop the cart to one of the pilgrims, Goodwife Alyson Bookbinder, a much-married wool merchant who, having made her fortune in Bath, relocated to Southwark a few years ago.

Chatting amiably when she first sat up beside me, remarking this was the fourth time she'd travelled this particular route, though never at this time of year, she tried to engage me in conversation but, as the road became treacherous, I had to concentrate and could not respond. Walking in front, Adam took Shelby's head and between us we avoided the worst of the rain-made holes and gullies. After a while, the road improved but by then the goodwife had forgotten her questions and I was preoccupied with a dull ache in my lower back.

We rode in companionable silence, broken only by little grunts from Betje, who had unfurled like a flower at the first touch of the sun before falling asleep against me once more. Chatter from the pilgrims walking or riding flowed around the cart, rising, falling and melting into the day, becoming a veil that settled over the group. Goodwife Alyson opened a bag on her lap and fished out two apples, passing one to me. I took it gratefully, unaware I was hungry until I caught scent of the fruit.

After a couple of bites, I gave the rest to Betje, who'd stirred, and I listened to her pleasure as she nibbled the tart flesh. Flocks of starlings wheeled above, their song fading, their dark wings silhouetted against the afternoon.

As the sun began its rapid descent, the blue of the sky transforming into blushing pinks and violets, the number of folk heading to the city increased, especially once we left the small town of Deptford. London was almost in our sights. Beside the cart, farriers, blacksmiths, carpenters, clerks and many other tradesfolk ambled, the manner of their clothing and even their posture revealing their skills. Farmers, keen to sell their livestock in the markets, herded pigs and cattle, while some carried chickens trussed in cages or tied on poles. A noisy choir of baying, clucking and lowing accompanied our steps. Women, children, drably garbed monks, a couple of jugglers and minstrels, instruments strapped across their backs, also swam in the growing human tide.

As we crested the final hill, I could not prevent the exclamation that escaped my lips. Goodwife Alyson bit back a smile.

Surrounded by a huge angled wall that looked like a frozen wave of stone, sprawled London. According to the goodwife — who now commented loudly on all that lay before us, her gap-toothed grin flashing, her fingers pointing out one landmark after another — the best and worst of the world was contained within those walls, and she should know, she said, having seen enough of it in the last five or so years. From our vantage point, I could perceive the riddle of streets that divided the city, some wide enough to appear more like fields, while others were so narrow they were swallowed by numerous houses. Pockets of green and brown added extra colour to a tableau already alive with textures, sights and possibility. To the right, and seemingly a part of the wall, was a huge stone fortress. This was the Tower, said Goodwife Alyson. A moated castle complemented by smaller edifices, it was the province of all things royal — a symbol of power, untold wealth, cruel justice and fear. I shuddered. To the left, beyond the city walls, sprawled the other royal residence, Westminster, a grand extravagance befitting the monarch, according to the goodwife.

Between Westminster and an area called Ludgate, new homes and inns were taking shape; jetties the goodwife swore had not been there when she left less than a month ago rose out of the water. Within the walls, plumes of smoke billowed into the air, competing with the steeples of many churches — for, as Goodwife Alyson observed in a strident voice, where there was iniquity there would also be piety and vice versa and thank the good Lord for that. A few chuckles and some imprecations met her remark. I didn't respond as, by then, the thick, sinuous river had captured my eye. In the dying rays of the afternoon sun it was a shimmering ribbon of gold, wrapping the city. It was simply magnificent.

Coming down the hill, past the taverns, inns and shops that formed a corridor of bustle between the country and the river, another wonder took its place. Twenty arches and nineteen piers (called starlings, according to the goodwife) comprised London Bridge, under which flowed the mighty Thames, its waters frothing and surging against the footings; above them, multi-storey houses and over one hundred shops bulged. More like a town or suburb, its span was bursting with people, animals, vehicles, colour, noise and, even from a distance, odours.

‘I'd never imagined …' I said to Goodwife Alyson, struggling to find the words. ‘I never thought …'

‘Nay,' grinned the goodwife, ‘no-one ever does.'

‘Betje, Betje, wake my sweet. You must see this for yourself.'

Betje stirred and slowly, painfully, pulled herself into a sitting position, careful not to leave my side entirely.

As Betje's one good eye scanned the horizon, she tilted her chin and pushed back her hood to see the better, and I noted Goodwife Alyson conducting her own examination. It was all I could do not to fling a protective arm over Betje, shield her from the goodwife's study. But I had to allow it, test the waters, so to speak — and the woman.

‘Why,' said Goodwife Alyson leaning so her words reached my ears alone, ‘only one side of the child's face is badly marred. On the other, you can still see the beauty she'd have become and which you, Mistress de Winter, are the realisation.' Goodwife Alyson sat up and frowned. ‘I wonder which is crueller? To have it all taken away so there's no echo, or to have something of what you once were to remind others of your loss?'

I regarded her with dismay, but also a modicum of gratitude. She hadn't flinched in revulsion nor ignored the obvious, but sought to discuss Betje's injuries as one might a broken limb or a runny nose. This was easier to deal with than vile observations and abuse.

I pondered her words as we wended our way towards the bridge, the press of people increasing as the sun sank.

With the reins in one hand, my other gently rubbed my spine. Dear Mother Mary, I would be glad to leave this cart. My body was aching.

Outside the Tabard Inn, the place where Goodwife Alyson had started her pilgrimage, the cart all but ground to a halt and Adam leapt onto the tray as those who'd enjoyed a respite from the road thanked me politely and disembarked. Adam assisted the two nuns, a student and a friar to the ground, warning them to mind the ditch, and I watched them disperse into the crowd. Of the original pilgrims, the only one who remained was the goodwife and she showed no inclination to leave, nodding amiably at me and winking at Adam over her shoulder. He coughed and sat with his back against one of the barrels.

Smoke choked the air, the stench of tanning hides, blacksmiths' furnaces and the unmistakable pungency of sour ale competed with the animal and human waste underfoot. Hawkers forced their way through the heaving masses in order to shove wares and greasy food in people's faces while pickpockets and cutpurses worked behind their backs. Using her foot, Goodwife Alyson kicked the more daring away, while Adam added his own threats. Shelby tossed his head in protest, forcing me to tighten his bit and make reassuring noises. Betje looked about her with interest, thrusting her thumb back in her mouth. I quickly pulled her hood forward, caressing the fabric with gentle fingers. I wanted her introduction to this place to be as kind and welcoming as I could.

There was a light touch upon my sleeve. ‘You have a place to stay?' asked Goodwife Alyson. ‘In London?'

Before I could answer, Shelby shied as another horse trod too close. The cart lurched.

‘The reason I ask,' said Goodwife Alyson as she was flung back into position, ‘is that it will take some time to traverse the bridge; it's getting late and there's a chill in the air. Rather than entering the city tonight, I wonder if you might consider coming home with me? I live on this side of the bridge, not far from here. There's a warm bed, food, a bath if you like and, of course, good company.' She gave a hearty laugh. ‘Though, there's some might contest the truth of that statement. For certes, it would give me great pleasure and satisfaction if you'd accept my humble invitation.'

I stared at her in disbelief. ‘You offer me, us —' I gestured to Betje and Adam, ‘lodgings?'

‘Aye. All of you.'

‘But I barely know you.'

‘Mayhap, but I've been on God's good earth long enough to know a decent soul when I meet one and, Mistress de Winter, I suspect you're more decent than most.' She tipped her head, daring me to contradict her generous assessment.
If only she knew.
Without thinking, my hand rested on my distended stomach. The goodwife's sharp gaze missed nothing. ‘Since you were so, how do I describe it? Let's say …
cautious
with the details of your story and your reasons for coming to London, I can only surmise that there might be more to your tale than you were revealing.'

I laughed. I couldn't help it. ‘Was it so obvious?'

The goodwife shrugged. ‘To me, but I think the others were happy enough to gaze upon your lovely face; they didn't care what
fabliaux
you wove.'

I shook my head, my cheeks growing warm.

‘Ah, but don't think for a moment my invitation is a selfless gesture. I tell you frankly, mistress, I'm not partial to that kind of thing. For, while I feel you, Master Barfoot and the little miss will benefit from a night's rest and all that entails, I also wish to hear your story — the real one — and thus far, that's been denied me. Mayhap, you'll learn to trust me enough to share it.' Her grin widened. ‘Now you've caught glimpse of this city you wish to call home, seen its chaos and glory, inhaled its wondrous scents,' she cackled. ‘I'm sure you've questions you'd like to ask, and while I don't live in London, I can call it a neighbour and as such know as much about its faults and foibles as one can — possibly more. Perhaps we can serve each other?'

I erred for a moment then opted to continue with the story we'd fabricated so as to maintain our false identities. ‘While I'm grateful for your generous offer, goodwife, I've a letter of introduction to the Stilliard and if they're unable to accommodate us, then I've another. A … a friend told me to go to Barking Abbey. She said if for some reason the nuns there refused —' again, I touched my belly, ‘are unable to help me, then I was to try the Hospital of St Mary of Bethlehem … So, thanking you kindly, I've options aplenty.'