Shield of Three Lions (12 page)

’Twas a happy song joyously sung and I began to feel an excitement stir in spite of my fears, when of a sudden the Scot joined the chorus. What ailed the oaf? Had he forgotten utterly our need to be inconspicuous? Not only did he bray in his native tongue louder than anyone, he sang some toty tune up in the clouds known only to himself.

I tried to shrink wee as a fairy, but the horror was soon doubled when Twixt was jostled out of step by a fat horse, and a female voice called out, “Don’t stop! Sing on and I’ll join ye.”

Enoch grinned and complied while I stared from under my hat at a plump partridge riding a white mare. She sang lustily loud, further off-key even than Enoch, her mouth stretching wide over her pointed gap-teeth. I had never seen such a bold wench, a chicken vendor to judge by the huge white hens caged on the rump of her mare, for her dress was cunningly contrived to show more than it concealed. Her egg-white wimple was starched stiff as parchment, but slipped back to display wiry red crinkled hair; her full freckled face was framed by heavy dangles in her ears; her pale brows were plucked above jade-green eyes threatened with sties; her bosom was covered to its cleavage—albeit with a transparent gauze; her kirtle was pulled tight at her waist so that both hips and breasts bulged like melons; her scarlet skirts were hiked to show a bold expanse of thick hairy legs above her brown boots. Yet no doubt she was a handsome dame in her coarse way, for she was spritely and friendly as a sparrow.

“Be gay! Be frivoli gay!” she bellowed a few beats after Enoch had finished, then laughed to make all heads turn for it sounded as if she were calling for cows: “Caaaa! Caaaaa! Caaaaa!” Whereupon her chickens cackled in loud chorus.

“That’s good,” said the Scot.

“Go on, ye’re bletherin’ me!” And she pushed him off balance so hard that Lance snarled upward. “Oh look ye, a wolf! Did ye ever see the menagerie King Stephen kept in the royal castle?”

“We’ve not been to London afore.” Enoch doffed his hat. “Enoch Angus Boggs at yer service and my wee brother Alex.”

I threw him a fierce look for not calling me Tom, but he was too dazzled to notice.

“Ye’re a Scot then! La, I
love
Scots. O’course, that’s why ye can sing so. Is that not called harmon-izement?”

“That it is, a Celtish gift. You English dynt on one note and think it music while we carol like birds in a tree, each to his own tune but working togeddir.”

“’Tis a jolly dynt withal and you do it wondrous well, better than most men, I trowe. Caaaa! Caaaa! Caaaaa!” And off went the poultry again in a mad jabber.

Enoch laughed just as heartily though I failed to see the humor. Then the dame introduced herself as Mistress Gladys Stump on her way from Oxenford to Smithfield Market to sell her hens.

Her face grew solemn. “I have to support myself now that my dear husband is in his grave, alas, for I’m a poor widow.” Her green eyes squinted and she added archly: “Well, not so poor, mayhap, if I had some strong smart wight to manage my property, for I was left with considerable.”

“Ye’re a brave lass and bonny. Certes yell nocht be alone long. I envy the lucky fellow what will take yer cue and gain him some fowls.”

“Caaaa! Caaaa! Caaaa!”

Everyone stared as I winced and thought we might as well have carried a banner announcing our presence as to take up with such a brazen loud hussy. Enoch showed remarkably poor judgment after all his caution in the forest.

“So ye’ve ne’er been to London before. ’Tis a most ‘wildering city withouten a guide to show ye the sights.”

Enoch reached to pat the mare’s neck and hit Gladys’s flank by mistake. “I was hopin’ I dared prevail on yer service, yif ye’re nocht too busy sellin’.”

“I don’t sell all the time. Guidance I’ll give away gladly.” And once again came the long hawking laugh as I cringed and the fowl cackled.

And so they jangled through dinner and beyond, for we’d acquired a companion, that was sure. As the road became ever more crowded, she proved to know everybody and everything.

“See that haughty train there what deigns not to notice no one but itself? That be the Bishop of London on his way to his palace which be on this side of the old Bourn. He can keep an army of seven hundred under his roof.”

We stared at a tall beefy prelate with a wispy goat beard.

“Or those knights, the ones with square helmets and cowls?

They be Knights Templar goin’ to their Temple which ye can just see beyond the next curve. They brought yellow stone all the way from Caen in Normandy to build it and ’tis said to be a fine place for pilgrims, but I think it monstrous ugly Give me plain thatch and white walls and I’m happy.”

“By what gate will we pass through the city wall, Gladys?” Enoch asked.

“The nearest be Ludgate.”

“Be it a narrow way?”

“Aye, why do ye ask?”

“Well, let me confess a wee crime. Back a few nichts at the Sign of the White Swan, I had me a brawl with one of them nasty Border Englishmen who swore as how he’d wait for me here in Londontown and git even. Now as I see it, his only chance of catching me be at a gate, for once in the town proper I’m like to pass through wi’out bein’ noticed. Do ye ken my meaning?”

Her jade eyes widened within their red rims. “I’ll bet he’s e’en more afeard of ye, whoever he be.” Her hand shot to his forearm and she also missed, touching his flank instead. “Ye just leave it to Dame Gladys Stump. I’ll lead ye through Smithfield which be a broad way milling with folks coming to the horse fair.”

I glanced slyly at Enoch’s bland face, apologizing to him with my eyes for not kenning his purpose. I, too, had dreaded being caught at the gate, a natural checkpoint where we could easily be spotted and ambushed.

Mistress Stump continued an unbroken line of description as our road began to twist gradually downward, for now both sides of the street were lined with handsome palaces surrounded with wooded parks. Then we took a sharp turn to the left and suddenly the city of London lay magically at our feet. Enoch and I both gasped and pulled short, while Gladys turned her mare to stay with us. From this height, London lay in a round bowl surrounded by walls on three sides, a river on its fourth. The golden glow of the late-running sun caught hundreds of spires which grew like trees in the meadow of low houses. At that moment bells rang out Nones
cum multis aliis
in universal praise of God as the travelers bowed their
heads in prayer. ’Twas all in miniature, clean and sweet as a confection. Then we began our descent again and lost it.

When we got close to our actual entrance, Dame Gladys suggested that I find some way to control Lance, for dangerous packs of curs roamed the London streets. I persuaded the wolf to jump on Tippets back where I secured him with his harness.

Now the push behind us welled so we were forced to narrow our file in order to cross two bridges where rivers converged. Mill wheels roared around us while the sound of the city rose in awesome cacophony. The wall flanking Ludgate loomed eighteen feet above with guards poised to strike; mendicants lined the narrow passage with outstretched palms, and we gladly avoided its perilous way to follow Gladys to our left along the outside of the wall. I didn’t breathe easy till we came to Smithfield, an enormous expanse teeming with horses and hawkers, so ’twas easy to get lost. To our surprise, Mistress Stump told us to wait till she sold her hens, for ’twas Friday, the day of the fair, and we would enter London at Newgate after dusk. ’Twas a good scheme withal, so we dismounted to see the sights.

Smithfield centered around a horsepool where all sorts of steeds were tethered for sale. Small boys rode bareback on huge war horses—called “destriers” here—for interested purchasers, and their skill was a marvel to behold as they dodged and turned in mock battle. The thought crossed my mind that I might do this if I were forced to stay in London long, for I was as good as they were, I trowe. Circling the horses were craftsmen making intricate harnesses and armor for the beasts, such fine leather and metalwork as I had never imagined. The outskirts of the field were filled with people like Gladys Stump, hawkers of every stripe selling their wares.

Enoch and I watched with interest as Gladys unfolded a neat contraption which turned out to be a platform, then set up broad swinging fans made of chicken feathers. Even before she was ready to sell, her stand was surrounded, for she was well known. When all was in place, three men helped her up, two on her arms and one pushing behind.

She spread her arms and shouted over the din with the blast of a hunting horn. “Come one, come all! Fat hens for sale! Stump broadies,
none like them. Steady supply of eggs guaranteed or put them in the pot!”

“Heigh Gladys, how ‘bout the red squawker afore me? I hear she be the best layer of all.”

The dame flashed a grin. “The cock that claims that be a liar!”

“Never cry ‘foul’ to a crowin’ cock, Mistress Stump.”

“Then tell him not to crow before he sees dawn.”

“Why not? A cock can hope, can’t he?”

“’Tis a dumb cock that hopes for an early rising!” cried the dame.

Delighted laughter everywhere. Her method worked, for in no time her hens were gone and she was ready to show us the sights. I trailed behind her and Enoch as we watched the dancing bear, the quoit throwing, the javelin hurling. However, such wonders had lost their savor since Dunsmere. I hung my head low, remembering.

When the shadows grew long, harps and pipes began to throb a ditty and Enoch asked Gladys to jig. Sitting on the damp grass watching the Morris dancers, I tried to shut out the sights and sounds and concentrate on a plan of action. I touched my caul and wished for my father’s whisper. How would I find the king? My mind stopped and listened but inside my head all was silence. Finally Enoch and Gladys returned and said ’twas now dusky enough to go to the Inn of the Red Fox, run by her friend Jasper Peterfee.

We were swept through Newgate and found ourselves on a main thoroughfare in twilight. Soon we were fighting off hawkers who fanned wares on the ends of long poles in our faces or used hooks on Twixt’s bridle to pull us to their shops as they shouted and sang:

“Green rushes to sweeten your path!”

“Pewter pots, bright as silver! Look ye! Look ye!”

“Hot peascods! Hot peascods!”

“Hot pig’s-feet straight from Paris!”

“Ripe strawberries picked only this morning!”

“Golden pears firm and juicy!”

When I could see beyond the vendors, I marveled anew at the beauty of the town for the houses built in rows were neatly whitewashed and timbered, with shops below and family quarters above in
the gabled salles that hung over the street. Flowers abounded in little gardens and baskets: blue periwinkle and iris, orpine live-forever, red and white roses everywhere.

Looking down revealed a less attractive London, for the road was awash with an open gutter filled with piles of garbage and ordure, which in turn drew flies, maggots, curs, kites and crows. Wandering kine, sheep, goats and fowl added to the general filth.

Worst of all was the smell of smoke hanging over all. Again the acrid fumes triggered memory and my heart pounded as I sought the cause. ’Twas not hard to find, for three houses in a row burned unchecked on my left, then another in a lane on my right, and still another a little way on. People wept and wrung their hands around these disasters, but I saw only four men actively hurling water. ’Twas a miracle the whole city wasn’t in flames.

Cripples and freaks diverted small crowds who tossed coins to them. One freakish fellow pushed himself ingeniously by his teeth on a wooden plank with wheels, for he had neither arms nor legs; a feeble-minded wretch in rags danced frantically as stones were hurled at her legs.

I didn’t notice when we turned off the main way into a narrow lane slanting downward, but I had to shade my eyes at the wide plain of shimmering gold before me, the Thames River which caught the afterglow of the setting sun. ’Twas broad as a lake with its soft green banks barely visible on the other side. The flood was low-tide, said Gladys, and as we drew nearer we could see the sandy bottom lying in shoals. We went all the way to the edge before we turned left along the Strand. Our inn was not far away then, on a lane just two doors off the river.

Gladys jumped down before a double stone house with handsome wood gables above as Enoch and I waited.

“Well, lad, I’m as good as my word for I’ve got ye safe and sound to London,” he said while the dame went to make arrangements. “Tomorrow we’ll gae to yer uncle Frank and mayhap by Sunday we can be on our way agin north.”

“Yes, but—” I stuttered. “Uncle Frank knows naught of what transpired and we’ve never even met and …”

The Scot made me turn my face to his. “Dinna tell me that he’ll nocht support ye, Alex.”

His tone chilled me through.

“Not at all. Only he’s not of this world.”

“He’s dead?”

“Of course not. I only meant—he’s in the Church!”

To my great relief Gladys then came out the door followed by a hobbling man on a peg leg. She introduced him as Jasper Peterfee.

Enoch and I dismounted to follow the host inside where we ducked our heads to avoid ropes stretched and hanging at all angles from the wooden beams to aid our crippled innkeeper.

As Enoch haggled with Peterfee about money I squeezed my thighs against my treasure and guiltily considered offering my share to the Scot, but decided against it when I remembered the percentage he’d wanted of Wanthwaite. Let him invest in me, take his risk like any gambler. Finally we went up to our rooms to drop our packets and I found to my relief that the host had put me in a tiny annex off Enoch’s chamber to accommodate Lance—for I’d been much vexed at the problem of sleeping in a room with the Scot and removing my clothes. ’Twas easy under the stars for we never changed so much as a sock. Now we turned around to join Mistress Stump in the salle for our supper.

A boy had already delivered cold pork pie, ale and cherry tarts when we got there, fare much to my liking. We sat with Gladys facing the Thames through an open window and ’twas a beauteous view indeed.