London in Chains (21 page)

Lucy was still nervous of the soldiers, but she had to admit that they appeared well-disciplined. They marched in neat ranks: the horsemen four, the infantry six abreast, each man with a sprig of laurel in his hat. After the vanguard came the Independent members of Parliament, returning in triumph, led by the two Speakers in a grand coach. Behind them came an open carriage, drawn by six matched bays, which was greeted with cheers. A dark-haired man sat there with two women. Several men in the crowd took their hats off. ‘That's Black Tom!' one informed Lucy and Thomas.

She stared at the man with interest: so that was the much-discussed Lord General Fairfax? He looked tired and ill, though he smiled and waved at the crowd. ‘Who are the gentlewomen?' she asked.

The man hesitated. ‘His wife and . . . and her maid.'

There couldn't be much question which was which: one of the women was an elegant aristocrat, at ease in her fine gown; the other was stout, red-faced and nervous in a clumsy imitation of it. Lucy later learned, however, that while the elegant woman was indeed Lady Fairfax, the awkward ‘maid' was actually Mrs Cromwell.

The carriage rolled by. Another troop of horse followed it; at their head rode a middle-aged man in half armour. The crowd cheered again: ‘Cromwell! Cromwell and the Ironsides!'

Cromwell looked disconcertingly
ordinary
: without the armour he might have been any solid, red-faced farmer come to spend a day in London. The iron ranks of his horsemen followed him, though, row after row of buff coats and hats decorated with sprigs of laurel, an endless beating of hooves on cobblestones. They passed under the decaying heads displayed above London Bridge and racketed on, on, into the City. Lucy had expected to feel triumph, despite her fear of the soldiers, but there was something terrifying and relentless about their progress, and she couldn't help remembering that this was a triumph of the sword.

To the citizens' relief, Lord Fairfax did not garrison the City: the Army departed from London again, peacefully and in good order. War had been avoided, and the right side had won. On her way to the next meeting at The Whalebone, two days later, Lucy wondered why she still felt so much disquiet.

She had not crossed the Thames since being freed from Bridewell, and the reformers' council hadn't met for several weeks because of the disturbances. When Lucy and Thomas arrived, Ned hurried over grinning. He flung his arms around Lucy and kissed her.

‘God bless you!' he said, while she gasped and gaped at him, torn between pleasure and alarm. ‘I've not had a chance to thank you, Luce. You went to Bridewell for me!'

For the press!
she thought, but it seemed churlish to say so. She gave Ned a flustered smile and nervously checked that her hair was tucked safely under her coif. Uncle Thomas stared at Ned, equally flustered, evidently wondering if he ought to object to a young man's kissing his niece.

‘I wished to visit you there,' Ned went on, ‘but Jamie said I would waste your sacrifice if I were taken.'

‘Aye,' she agreed. ‘It was no great sacrifice, Ned. I was only in the place three days!'

Someone coughed, and she looked round and saw Nicholas Tew. He looked alarmingly healthy, in a new coat with his hair tied back. ‘Mistress Wentnor!' he said, extending his hand. ‘God keep you well! I've heard of your brave stand and I must thank you for it. Your courage is much above your sex.'

Lucy wasn't sure how to respond to this: she didn't think she'd been particularly brave and she disliked the assumption that courage was a purely masculine virtue. The last thing she wanted to do, though, was offend Mr Tew, so she shook his hand and smiled.

‘I am glad to say you will be spared such dangers in future,' Tew went on. ‘Now that I've recovered my health I can take up my trade again. I can even bring my press back to its right home and soon, God willing, print lawfully!'

Lucy felt her smile congeal. Her hands searched nervously for her apron, but, this being an evening meeting, she wasn't wearing it. ‘Sir? You'll shift the press back into the City?'

‘Aye,' said Tew happily. ‘Tomorrow or perhaps the day after.'

‘And . . . and will you need any help with it?'

He frowned at her. ‘You seem troubled, Mistress.'

She muttered something incoherent. Surely she couldn't be dismissed from her job so quickly, with such complacent goodwill?

Tew glanced at Thomas uncertainly. ‘I hope the loss of the girl's wages won't cause any hardship to your household, Master Stevens.'

Thomas grimaced uncomfortably. ‘Ah, not
as such
. That is . . . of course I can provide for my sister's child! It's only that this is sudden – and Lucy's a good, sweet girl who's taken great delight in paying her keep.'

‘Well, then, I am sorry to deprive you of that pleasure, Mistress Wentnor,' said Tew earnestly. ‘I fear that I need no more help than my own household can supply, but, if you like, I can ask among my acquaintance in the trade to see if any of them need assistance, and recommend you highly to all who do.'

‘Oh . . .' Lucy's heart gave a lurch of hope. ‘Aye. Please.'

Someone banged on a table as a signal for the meeting to begin. It occurred to her that this would be the last meeting she attended: in future, it would be Tew in charge of the press. For the past few months she had been part of this company, a comrade-in-arms; now she must go back to being just Thomas Stevens' niece. She took her seat, pressing her hands together to stop them from shaking and struggling not to cry.

Stop it!
she told herself. She had known all along that the press belonged to Nicholas Tew. Perhaps he
had
fled London when it was most dangerous and only returned now that it was safe again, but he had spent five months in Newgate. That surely beat anything she'd earned by three days in Bridewell! As for her, she'd done very well out of Tew's press: she'd acquired all the skills needed in a printer. She would only drop back into dependency if she gave up; if Tew kept his promise and recommended her among his printer friends, she need not fear for her future.

She abruptly thought to wonder what
Jamie
would do now. He had no chance of another job printing: no one would take on a maimed printer, a man who could never set type or stitch up a pamphlet. He was unlikely to be offered anything other than menial work. He would probably turn to drink again.

She began to fidget, unable to pay attention to what what was being said. Thomas gave her a look of surprise, and Ned, still nearby, one of concern. She forced herself to sit still and listen.

It was bad news, confirming her sense of disquiet. According to William Walwyn, the triumph of the Army was not turning out to be the great victory they'd all expected. The eleven impeached members might have disappeared, but the rest of the old Parliament remained, as corrupt and intransigent as ever. The Army's grand officers were pinning their hopes on a settlement with the king, but King Charles had rejected their proposals out of hand, and the Grandees were looking for compromises that would appeal to him. There were rumours that the king had offered to make Fairfax a duke and Cromwell an earl if they sold out.

Edward Sexby, the Army Agitator, stood and spoke vehemently, protesting that
The Heads of the Proposals
had been too generous to the king even in the first draft; to make any more concessions would be a betrayal of everything the Army had fought for. He invited his friends to join the Agitators in drafting an alternative settlement. ‘Lord General Fairfax went to the Tower today,' he continued. ‘He asked to see the Great Charter, saying that it was what we had fought for, but he never spared a thought for our friend John Lilburne, imprisoned in that very Tower, contrary to that same Great Charter. I take that to be a more honest measure of his commitment to the people's rights than his fine words! My friends, I have no doubt that the Grandees, like Parliament and like the king, would much prefer it if we kept silent and let them dispose matters to their own advantage, but I say, if our voice is not heard now, we will lose it and be dumb ever after!'

The others cheered. Walwyn rose and proposed setting up a committee to work with the Agitators; the motion was seconded and approved immediately, and Walwyn was appointed to it, along with Wildman and a couple of others. Then Tew rose and announced that he was once more in charge of ‘the only free press in London', and that he was willing and able to print anything the council wished to publish. There was more applause; the meeting welcomed Tew back and voted him congratulations on his recovery.

William Walwyn looked towards Lucy with a smile. ‘We should also take time to thank Mistress Wentnor for her diligence in Mr Tew's absence! It is a hard thing for a young woman to take up a burden that has crushed brave men, but she never failed us. I think we've all heard of her courageous defiance of the Committee of Safety. I move a vote of thanks to Mistress Wentnor!'

‘Seconded!' cried Ned, jumping to his feet.

There was applause and cheers. Lucy got to her feet and curtsied, trying to crush the angry thought that she'd much rather have the job than the thanks.

The meeting, as always, closed with a prayer. As soon as it ended, Lucy turned to her uncle. ‘Uncle Thomas,' she whispered, ‘I should like to speak to Jamie Hudson, to warn him that we are out of work. Could you help me?'

Thomas was already shaking his head. ‘It's late now, child. The city gate will be shut. You will have to speak to him in the morning.'

She did not sleep much that night and the next morning she rose before dawn. London Bridge was eerily still in the first grey light as she crossed it, the whole great span empty of movement. Billingsgate fish market was already busy, though, and as she walked north the light grew and more and more people appeared on the streets, so that by the time she reached Bishopsgate, London was itself again. She made her way out of the city among a jostling crowd and picked her way along Moorfields to the barn.

The place was quiet and apparently empty when she unlocked the door. Nothing had been printed since the Army arrived in London, and the drying lines were empty: the press stood alone in the dim light of the interior. ‘Jamie?' Lucy called, looking up towards the loft where he normally slept.

There was no reply. She went to the ladder, kilted her skirts, and climbed up. ‘Jamie?'

Still no answer, but when she advanced there was a groan from under the straw. She squatted down and brushed some straw away, revealing a coated back. ‘Jamie? Are you ill?'

Another groan; Jamie snugged his face against his arm. ‘Let me alone, wench!'

‘You
are
ill!' She touched his cheek, but it was no hotter than her hand.

‘I am most vilely hung-over,' replied Jamie shortly. ‘I said, let me be!'

She sat back on her heels and surveyed him: now that he mentioned it, she could smell the brandy. ‘You've heard that Tew's back and means to take the press,' she concluded.

He lifted his head and surveyed her with a bloodshot eye. ‘Aye. So you've heard, too.'

‘He was at the meeting last night. Jamie, drinking won't help . . .'

‘There you're wrong, for it helped a deal!'

‘Oh? And it's helping this morning, too, is it? I'll fetch you water, and then we'll talk over what you are to do.'

‘God have mercy!'

‘Amen!' agreed Lucy tartly, and went back down the ladder.

When she came back with the water, he hadn't moved, but at the sound of her footsteps he squinted up at her resentfully. ‘Sit up!' she ordered.

‘And if I won't?'

She tipped the flask, dousing him with cold water. He sputtered and flung up a hand to fend it off.

‘This is yet half full,' Lucy said sternly, shaking the flask. ‘Will you drink it, or will I throw it over you and go fetch more?'

He groaned and sat up. ‘You're a hard master, Lucy Wentnor.' He took the flask of water, though, and drank of it. She sat down beside him.

‘I was thinking of you all last night,' she told him. ‘And it came to me that there's no reason you shouldn't go back to being a blacksmith.'

He made a noise of derision and held up his maimed right hand. She seized it. His whole body gave a jerk of astonishment and he stared at her, his single eye wide.

‘It's not that bad,' she told him, turning the hand over with her own. ‘Look, your whole palm is unhurt, and here, you still have the meat of the thumb . . .' It trembled, and she closed her fingers about it. The scar was rough and warm. ‘There are plenty of men in the city with worse, Jamie! Sailors and shopkeepers aplenty do fine with nothing but a hook, and you have
most
of your hand intact!'

‘Smithing needs two hands!' he replied. He took his hand away.

‘Indeed it does
not!
' she replied. ‘Not two
skilled
hands, anygate. Every smith I've ever seen uses one hand to do nothing more than hold the tongs or pump the bellows. Surely with use your left hand could manage a hammer as well as the right ever did!'

‘You know nothing of it!'

‘I know this much: it's
easier
to wallow in misery and drink than take up your life again!'

‘How can I even hold the tongs with
this
?' Again he showed her the hand as though he expected her to recoil from it. ‘I've not enough strength in these two fingers to hold anything more than a tankard! The day we met, you called it a claw, and so it is!'

She remembered saying it; remembered how he'd lowered his head after. She'd taken that as a prelude to attack, which now seemed to her wilfully blind: he'd been hurt and shamed. His rudeness had been nothing more than bluster, a defence against a pretty girl's horror. ‘The day we met, Jamie Hudson,' she said tartly, ‘you called me “puss” and thought to be master at my own press, if you recall! But as to how you might hold the tongs, surely you could fit some sort of brace about your wrist . . .' – she caught the hand again and circled the wrist with her fingers – ‘. . . with a false thumb, here, see?' She lifted her own small thumb where his should have been. ‘Curved, perhaps, and padded, so that it won't slip.
You're
the smith! What would
you
make?'