London (77 page)

Sometimes, she had to admit to herself, Amy wondered how she would accomplish this with Carpenter. Of course, she still admired his quiet strength; but the experience with Tyler’s revolt had disconcerted her. When he had returned from St Bartholomew’s, he had had nothing worse than some burns and a massive bump on his head. But who knows what might have happened to him if it had not been for Ducket? Nor had he changed his views. “It was London ruffians who did the looting,” he told her. “We still live under a godless authority. One day it will have to change.” She was not sure what she felt. But he was still her man. And so she knew she must be glad when, shortly before Christmas he announced: “I think we might marry in the summer.”

To many in England, after the calamities of the previous twelvemonth, the start of the year 1382 seemed to promise a new and brighter hope. In January a happy event took place. Richard II, the brave boy king, was married to Anne, a plain but kindly princess. She was almost as young as he, and had come, enduring a dangerous sea crossing, from the distant land of Bohemia, in eastern Europe. To the delight of all it was obvious that, as in a fairy tale, the young king and Anne of Bohemia had fallen instantly in love.

In the Bull household there was a hope that they might be similarly blessed.

In the last week of February the fat girl decided to speak. If there was a reason why she chose to do so then, it was buried deep in the folds of her person. “Ducket wasn’t in the riots,” she remarked, quite suddenly, to Tiffany in the kitchen one day. “He was saving a man’s life.”

When Tiffany told her father about this, he was not very encouraging. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m not convinced. The fat girl only had the tale from Ducket himself. And whatever he says he was doing, there’s no doubt he was at the Savoy. Besides,” he went on, “you may recall Dame Barnikel’s suspicions about the theft of money. I’m not prepared to revise my opinion, and,” he gave her a hard look “you’re to stay away from him, if you please.” To which Tiffany bowed her head meekly and said nothing.

Then she sent a message.

Ducket came as appointed to the church of St Mary-le-Bow.

It was over six months since he had been barred from the house; and now, as she gazed at his familiar face, his cheerful eyes and jaunty shock of white hair, she felt a sudden pang of guilt. Even if her father was right, how could she have let so much time pass without even attempting to see him? How must he have felt, an outcast, without even a show of friendship from her? And now, knowing what she did, she felt even greater embarrassment. But when she told him what she had heard, he showed no sign of resentment. “I’m glad you feel it’s safe to talk to me now,” he laughed. “It’s funny though,” he confessed, “how everyone’s been so cool towards me in the last couple of years. I don’t know why.”

But Tiffany did. And suddenly, thinking of her father’s and Dame Barnikel’s suspicions, and looking at his smiling face, she knew as certainly as she knew anything in the world that he could not have done what they thought.

“I think,” she said, “there’s something you should know.”

During the Easter season, in the year 1382, several copies of a very dangerous book were infiltrated into London. Since books had to be written out by scribes, the number of copies was limited; but the authorities were alarmed nonetheless.

The book was the Bible. It was a literal and not very pleasing translation, made partly by Wyclif himself, mostly by other hands; even its authors viewed it only as a first attempt. But it was in English; and men like Carpenter could read. This was the frightening thought. “An English Bible,” Bull told his wife, “means sedition.” With John Ball’s sermons still ringing in the people’s ears, and the terrifying rebel horde such a recent memory, the idea of simple folk reading the Bible and making their own sermons struck terror in responsible men. The followers of Wyclif now came to be known by a pejorative nickname, which meant either mumblers or layabouts: the Lollards. Wyclif’s Bible was called the Lollard Bible. And both were dangerous.

Ben Carpenter wanted a Lollard Bible. He had been able, so far, to obtain the Book of Genesis. Like many Lollard bibles, it was prefixed by a series of Lollard tracts; and he had read both tract and scriptural text, slowly but successfully, twice so far. He did not bring it to the George since Amy said it would annoy her mother, who had ceased to like Wyclif since the revolt. But several times he had conducted Amy to a quiet spot and read her chapters on each occasion. “When the weather’s warmer,” he promised her, “we can walk out in the evenings and I can read it to you for longer.”

A wet spring night, rather cold for May. Gusts of wind rattled the shutters as Ducket made his way out past Ludgate. He had waited patiently for this chance, two months from the day when Tiffany had warned him of Dame Barnikel’s suspicions, and now he was careful to keep his quarry in sight.

Of course, it might be nothing. There might be no link at all, but he could not help thinking that Fleming’s lack of money must be connected with his strange disappearances. And whatever Fleming was up to, if he wanted to clear his own name he had better find out. Ahead of him, the grocer crossed the Fleet bridge and continued westward towards Temple Bar.

The rain was blowing in his face, making it difficult to see. Just before Temple Bar, Fleming suddenly turned right and started up Chancery Lane. This was not a quarter that Ducket often visited and he wondered where the grocer could be going. He tried to draw a little closer. A gust of wind smacked a sheet of rain into his face. He wiped his eyes.

Fleming had vanished.

Taking a chance that he might be detected, he ran up Chancery Lane. A hundred yards; two hundred. There was no sign of him.

“He can’t have gone any further,” he muttered, and began to retrace his steps. “He’s got to be in here somewhere.” There were houses on both sides of the street. With their high gables and curved timbers they seemed to be looming towards him in the darkness. He realized that already he had passed a score of alleys and yards into which Fleming could have stepped. Here and there, a little light seeped out of a doorway or window, but that was all. I must keep looking, he thought. Even if I only see him coming out of somewhere, it will probably tell me where he’s going next time. Ignoring the driving rain, he wandered up and down.

Half an hour passed. An hour. And then, just as he had entered a small yard, he heard a shutter bang open, looked up, and saw a face framed for a moment in a lighted window.

Fleming watched the glowing fire with mounting excitement. This time, he thought, it is going to happen.

It had to happen. In another month it would be his daughter’s wedding. And what had he to give her? Nothing. He thought of his wife. How long was it since she had had a good opinion of him? Only money would solve it. So, once again, he had taken all the spare money he had in the box and brought it to Silversleeves. The alchemist had seemed confident too.

“This will be the last time I do this,” he had informed the grocer. “I shall not need to any more.” And seeing the grocer wondering if this meant they would make gold, he smiled. “Yes, my friend,” he said, sending up a secret prayer of thanks for Tiffany and her wealth, “soon I shall be very rich indeed.”

It was hot in the room. Silversleeves, dressed in his magic cloak, bent over his work. Slowly he mixed the ingredients of the Elixir, adding for good measure a little salt and garlic. Time passed. The atmosphere in the room grew closer, the fire hissed, while outside the rain lashed the shutters. At last he was ready. “Stoke the fire,” he ordered the grocer.

It was while Fleming was doing so that the wind burst open the shutter. With an impatient gesture, Silversleeves had motioned him to fasten it, which had caused Fleming to lean out of the window. Then his eyes had been drawn back to the fire.

Already the crucible was bubbling. “Do you think . . .” Fleming began; but Silversleeves raised his finger to his lips. Longing to say something, the grocer stood on tiptoe with anticipation as he watched the crucible trembling on the coals. The rain roared on the shutters. He was vaguely aware of a creaking sound near the door. The crucible hissed.

But then something strange began to happen. He felt the movement clearly, and so did Silversleeves, who looked up in surprise: not only was the crucible bubbling furiously and shaking, but now the beakers and bowls on the table were starting to tremble too. The door and window began to rattle; the crucible jumped. The floor itself was moving in a giddy fashion. The walls, the whole house, amazingly, started to sway.

“Dear God,” he cried in ecstasy, “this is it!” This must be what happened when the miracle of alchemy was accomplished. Why, for all he knew, the planets might be whirling wildly too, the celestial spheres themselves be shaking as madly as the house. Perhaps – a thought terrible, yet sublime – Silversleeves had just caused the world to end. Certainly the alchemist was looking alarmed.

And then the door opened.

Ducket stared open-mouthed. The last few moments had been strange indeed. First he had dived across the courtyard, up a rickety outside staircase and on to a landing, groping his way in the blackness. Then the whole house, and all the houses round, had started shaking.

Ducket had never been in an earthquake before, nor had he ever heard of such a thing – which was hardly surprising. The great earth tremor of May 1382 was one of the very few recorded in London’s history, and, though it did no serious damage, it frightened the Londoners very much indeed. But he had no time even to consider the earthquake as he gazed in. This was not a prostitutes’ quarter, but he had supposed his master might be with a woman of some kind. Or perhaps a circle of men playing dice, or some game that might have caused the grocer to lose money. He had meant to open the door very cautiously, hoping to get a glimpse of what was going on and then, if necessary, beat a hasty retreat. But the sudden movement of the earthquake had caused him almost to fall against the door just as he lifted the latch. It swung open, and now, as he blinked in the strange light, he saw Fleming, staring as if he were a ghost, and by the fire a magician. Yet not a magician. He frowned. He was looking into the face of the pious and respectable Silversleeves – and his face, at this moment, was neither respectable nor even fearsome, but was a picture of embarrassment and guilt. “What are you doing?” he cried.

“Why Ducket,” the grocer said, relieved now that he realized who it was, “didn’t I say that one day you should see wonders?” His face took on a look of angelic happiness. “Oh Ducket, come and see. We have just made gold.”

Then Ducket, who had heard of alchemy, turned upon Silversleeves. “You devil,” he shouted. And the lawyer cowered.

Ducket was quite surprised, afterwards, at how easily he had taken charge. At first, it had been difficult to make the grocer realize he had been duped.

“Don’t you know,” Ducket cried, “that all these fellows are frauds. They can’t make gold. They just make you think they can so that you pay them. The whole thing’s a trick.” He strode over to the crucible. “Where’s this gold?” he demanded. “There’s none here.” Even so, it was only after Ducket, with the threat of a bloody nose, had forced Silversleeves to tell his victim the truth, that the poor fellow began to comprehend. “He has stolen all my money then,” he murmured.

“And he must give it back,” Ducket said stoutly. But by now the lawyer was beginning to recover his composure. “All gone.” He smiled sweetly.

Yet if Ducket might have expected Fleming to be angry, or threaten Silversleeves with exposure, he had overlooked one thing: the victim was guilty too. Now, with tears in his eyes, Fleming appealed to him.

“I’ve always been good to you, Ducket,” he begged. “So promise me, you’ll never tell a soul what I have done.” He hung his head. “If my wife and Amy ever knew . . . I couldn’t bear that, Ducket. Will you promise me?”

Ducket hesitated. He saw Silversleeves smirk. Of course, the cunning lawyer thought he’d got away with it. He turned on him.

“I’ll tell all London,” he said evenly, “unless this devil makes me a promise first. You give up Tiffany,” he told Silversleeves. “Give her up or I’ll expose you for exactly what you are.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Silversleeves had gone pale.

“I do. So choose,” Ducket replied, and watched the struggle taking place in him.

“All right,” the lawyer said at last.

The next morning, while all London was discussing the earth tremor and assessing the damage, Ben Carpenter enjoyed an astonishing stroke of good fortune. A man he had been discreetly meeting near St Paul’s, instead of the Book of Exodus which he had been hoping for, produced nothing less than an entire bible, all translated. Not only that, the man quoted Ben a price which, though high, was within his means.

He had a bible. He could hardly believe it. True, it had consumed a part of his savings; but it was the only book he would ever need to purchase in his life. He wrapped it in a cloth, put it in a bag, and carried it home.

Some discretion on his part was necessary. With the suspicion of Lollards still as high as ever, a Church synod meeting at Blackfriars only days ago had again vigorously condemned all Wyclif’s beliefs as heresy: even the possession of a Lollard bible was deemed suspicious. He put it away carefully, therefore, in a cupboard.

And just as he did so, a thought occurred to him. Ever since the previous summer, it had been on his conscience that he had never properly expressed his gratitude to Ducket for saving his life at the Savoy. He had wanted to make him a present of money: but Ducket refused it. Often the craftsman had wondered what favour he could do for his friend. Now, lying in the cupboard in front of him, was the answer. Reverently, but with a happy smile, he took out the Book of Genesis.

Silversleeves went out to kill Ducket late that afternoon.

It was a calculated risk. Though he did not think Fleming would talk, he had no doubt that, as soon as Ducket discovered he still intended to marry Tiffany, he would. He had, of course, no intention of giving the girl up; and with Ducket out of the way, he would probably be safe. The logic, he found, was unanswerable. Ducket must die.