London in Chains

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First world edition published 2009

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2009 by Gillian Bradshaw.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Bradshaw, Gillian, 1956–

London in Chains.

1. Publishers and publishing – Political aspects – England –

London – History – 17th century – Fiction. 2. Great Britain –

History – Civil War, 1642–1649 – Fiction. 3. Historical

fiction.

I. Title

813.5′4-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-110-1 (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6796-4 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-165-2 (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

Contents

. . . the people's expectations that were much greatened, and their hopes of relief in their miseries and oppressions, which were so much heightened, are like to be frustrate, and while you look for peace and freedom the flood-gates of slavery, oppression and misery are opened to the nation.

Acknowledgements

In researching this book I have taken shameless advantage of other people's expertise. I am particularly grateful to printer Martyn Musgrove and the staff of Blists Hill Victorian Town, and to Brian Russell, who volunteers in the printshop. They not only allowed me to work on the Victorian hand printing press and enthusiastically shared their extensive knowledge of printing, but also went out of their way to get me on a British Printing Society junket to visit a replica Tudor/Stuart press reconstructed by Alan May. All of this was invaluable, and a lot of fun, too. Any printing-related errors are mine, not theirs.

One

It was as though they were riding into Hell.

A dirty smudge had been visible against the blue sky ahead when they started on the road that morning. It broadened as the day went on, and now it was all around them, stealing the brightness of the afternoon sun. A haze of smoke filled the air; buildings were blackened with layers of grime; even the leaves of plants were filmed grey. The expected scent of coal-smoke, though, was almost swamped by the reek of butcher's offal and rendered tallow, the tannery stink of rotting hides and the acrid bite of fullers' shops, the stench of the urine and dung of animals and men. Lucy breathed through her mouth, blinking hot eyes.

There was noise, too, everywhere: the clatter of iron-shod wheels and hooves on rough cobbles, the rumble of carts and cursing of drivers. Passing a coppersmith's, she was deafened by the ringing of hammer on metal; even before the din began to fade, it was overwhelmed by the thudding of the neighbouring cooper's mallet. Everywhere there were voices: talking, shouting; raised up in long swooping howls as vendors tried to make themselves heard.

‘EE-ee-EE-ee-EELs alive O!'

‘Any KNIVES to GRIND?'

‘MIIILK-below, MIILK-O!'

Lucy looked round at the milkmaid's cry, thinking of the dairy at home, but, instead of the strong young countrywoman she expected, saw a dirty, white-faced girl in a tattered skirt. The April weather was chilly, if bright, but the milkmaid's arms were bare; the heavy milk-can on the girl's head seemed to press her down into the mud, and the mugs and ladle hooked to it rattled at each step like a cough. A ragged beggar-woman, her face covered in sores, held up a hand pleading for a sip for the child huddled against her. The milkmaid brushed past her without a glance.

On the next corner, two men begged side by side, one blind, the other missing both legs; the blind man still wore the buff-leather coat of a cavalryman. The legless one had an evil face and was muttering to himself. The jostling passers-by didn't appear to notice him but still managed to give him a wide berth, despite the press of the crowd.

Lucy had never imagined so many people. When she first saw the crowds in the street before them, she'd asked Cousin Geoffrey whether they shouldn't wait until the march or riot, or whatever it was, was over. He'd laughed at her.

‘This is
London
, girl! It's thus all the day – and half the night!' He guided his nervous mare through the thick of it. His servant William followed on his sturdy gelding, and Lucy, sitting pillion behind William, tightened her grip on the servant's belt. Behind them, the pack-mule tossed her head resentfully.

London. They'd been travelling for eight days, with one halt to keep the Sabbath, and now, at last, they'd reached their destination: the new Jerusalem, the new Babylon, the seat of government and the fountain of rebellion. Lucy wasn't sure what she'd expected London to look like, but it hadn't been this.

‘London Bridge!' announced Cousin Geoffrey, drawing rein and sweeping a hand at the street ahead of them. ‘Our uncle lives in Southwark, yonder on the other side.'

He had been to London twice before, as he liked to tell people. He was an eldest son, the heir to the family farm, and he thought highly of himself; Lucy's opinion of him was not nearly as elevated, but she kept it to herself. She peered round William. For a moment her eyes couldn't make sense of the scene: there was a river, broad and brown and crowded with boats, but the street seemed simply to continue across it, the tall buildings overhanging the road. Then she realized that there were houses built on the bridge, their back walls hanging out over the river. Shops, too – the signs for them dangled just above the heads of the men mounted on horseback. Londoners busily sold soap and spoons, pewter and plaster, suspended above the current of the river.

The traffic slowed as they made their way forward, then came to a halt. Lucy peered round William again: there was a jam where two carts had clipped one another in the narrow passage between the shops. Through a gap between two of the buildings on their left she could see the brown water foaming and tumbling around the piers; it seemed to drop several feet. Below the bridge, though, the stream was tranquil, and the boats moved up, down and across it, as many of them as there were carts on the road.

William, who'd accompanied his master on the two trips to London, grinned at her over his shoulder and jerked a thumb towards the boats. ‘Plenty of folk take to water to speed them over the river,' he explained. ‘A bridge crossing can be slow.'

Lucy nodded, but did not reply. William had become overly-familiar during the journey, encouraged, perhaps, by the fact that she had to sit so close behind him on the horse every day. If she gave him the slightest encouragement, he'd start to take liberties – and Cousin Geoffrey would blame
her
for it.

‘When we came before, we mostly stayed the Southwark side of the bridge,' William informed her. ‘Southwark's a
grand
place. There used to be theatres, four or five of 'em. I saw fine shows then!
The Revenger's Tragedy –
that was a good one, with more murders and poisonings than a man could count on all his fingers. The maid I took to see it, she screamed and hid her face in my jerkin.' He grinned smugly at the memory.

Geoffrey glanced back reprovingly. ‘You'll have to do without such licentious fare, Cousin Lucy. Our godly Parliament has closed or torn down all the theatres, and I say, well done!'

I didn't want to see murders anyway
, thought Lucy,
not even make-believe ones
, but she knew there was no point in saying so. Geoffrey would only be annoyed that she'd talked back.

‘Mayhap there's still bear-baiting, though,' said William hopefully. ‘You ever seen a bear-baiting?'

‘Nay; nor do I wish to!'

‘It's good sport!'

‘Parliament has banned it!' snapped Geoffrey, giving his servant a stern glare. ‘It gave occasion for license and depravity!'

William subsided, muttering something that might have been ‘Roundhead killjoys!' He shot Lucy a conspiratorial look, which she ignored. She found his assumption that she'd
agree
with him exasperating. He surely knew that her family was just as Puritan as Geoffrey's! Did he think she was soiled, or was she just supposed to have been won over by his loutish charm?

They edged forward, halted, edged forward again. The pack-mule suddenly snorted and kicked, and then Cousin Geoffrey's mare danced nervously: a pair of ragged boys had squeezed past on foot, one of them actually darting under the mare's belly. Cousin Geoffrey cried, ‘God
damn
you!' – an oath he would have rebuked if anyone else had uttered it. He dismounted to soothe his horse, and Lucy took that as permission to slide down from the gelding, relieved at the opportunity to ease her aching rear – and get away from William. The servant, however, also dismounted. ‘A good notion,' he said, grinning at Lucy. ‘Spare the poor beast's back and our arses!' His eyes lingered on her backside as he ostentatiously rubbed his own.

She said nothing, only went back to check on the mule. The animal bared yellow teeth threateningly. ‘There's a good girl,' Lucy whispered approvingly. ‘Look after yourself!' The mule snorted and canted her ears forward, and Lucy patted her shaggy neck.

They made the rest of their slow progress on foot, leading the animals. At the far end of the bridge there was a tower: the road passed under the arch of its gateway. The parapet above it was decorated with black lumps on posts.

‘See the heads?' William asked gleefully, pointing to them. ‘All that's left of traitors! I reckon there'll be a mort more of 'em before long!'

Was it true, or was William simply trying to scare her? (‘
She screamed and hid her face in my jerkin!
') She stared at the objects, and her eyes snagged on the unmistakable curve of a skull, showing white where the blackened skin had pulled away. She shuddered and looked down at the street, wondering whose head it was and what he'd died for. Who were the
traitors
in this new upside-down world where the king was imprisoned by his own Parliament?