10 - The Goldsmith's Daughter (3 page)

He looked the same as ever, small and wiry with the thinning grey hair that made him appear older than his forty-four years. His voice still retained that rasping quality, which reminded me of iron filings being rubbed one against the other, and his weather-beaten skin was as heavily pock-marked as I remembered it. And when he moved, he still walked with the military gait he had acquired as a young man while soldiering in the Low Countries.

As soon as I had made him free of the reason for my being in the capital, and as soon as he understood that I had married again, nothing could stem the tide of his enthusiasm. He immediately shut up his stall, ignoring the line of waiting customers, and piled his unsold clothes into a basket to take back to his shop.

‘Where is this wife of yours, then?’ he demanded. ‘Come along! Lead me to her and then you’re both going home with me.’ As I started to jib about his loss of trade, he slapped me on the back. ‘Don’t talk such blethering nonsense, man! Jeanne would never forgive me if I didn’t bring you to see her right away.’

Jeanne Lamprey was indeed as pleased to see us as Philip had promised, and even more excited than her husband, if that were possible, at the news of my marriage. In the one room daub-and-wattle cottage behind their shop in the western approaches to Cornhill, she embraced us both fervently and plied us with meat, bread and ale, despite our assurances that we had eaten a good dinner at ten o’clock.

I could see that Adela, in spite of being forewarned by me what to expect, was at first somewhat taken aback by our hostess’s youth and vitality. This little, bustling body, with the bright brown eyes and mop of unruly black curls, was, at that time, not yet twenty-one years of age and a most unlikely wife for someone like Philip. But she loved him deeply, ruled him with a rod of iron, had curbed his excessive drinking habits and pulled him up from penury and the gutter to be a respectable trader with a shop and a stall of his own.

Her unreserved pleasure at meeting me again I found touching, considering that the last time we had met, a year ago, I had placed Philip in danger of his life. But Jeanne Lamprey was not one to bear a grudge, and one of her many qualities was her loyalty to friends. She was also extremely observant, and within quarter of an hour of being introduced to Adela, had wormed her secret out of her.

‘Well, I think you’re very brave to journey all this way in your condition in winter,’ she said, kissing my wife’s cheek. ‘But,’ she added accusingly, turning on me, ‘I can’t understand Roger allowing you to do it.’

‘You mustn’t blame him. He was given no choice,’ Adela answered quietly. ‘I was determined to come. I’d never been to London and I badly wanted to see it. And I also wanted to see the little Duke of York’s wedding.’

Philip expressed surprise that this news had reached us in Bristol as long ago as Christmas. ‘But in that case,’ he continued, ‘you must also have heard that Clarence is about to be brought to trial. With one event following immediately after the other, it’s difficult not to speak of both in the same breath.’

I acknowledged that we had heard, and for the next ten minutes or so he and I were engrossed in the inevitable speculation as to why King Edward had at last decided to take action against his troublesome brother – when he had forgiven him on so many former occasions.

‘It’s all very well people saying that he’s just lost patience with the Duke,’ Philip remarked, thoughtfully rubbing his chin, ‘but it’s my opinion that there’s something more to it than that, although I doubt we’ll ever get to the bottom of what that something is. However, I did hear one titbit of gossip that might have some bearing on the mystery. Yesterday, when I was over by the Moor Gate . . . Which reminds me, Jeanne! Don’t, as you value your purse, go anywhere in that direction. They’re rebuilding and repairing stretches of the wall on either side of the gate, and the locals are out rattling their money boxes, waylaying anyone and everyone for contributions. But as the Common Council’s already decided that each household has to pay fivepence a week towards the cost, I told ’em straight that I’d be damned if they got anything extra out of me, or out of any of my friends.’

He seemed inclined to brood darkly on this enormity until his attention was gently recalled by his wife.

‘You were telling us what you heard yesterday, Philip, about the Duke of Clarence.’

‘Oh . . . Yes! Although it wasn’t exactly to do with him.’ Philip cleared his throat impressively. ‘I was told that the Bishop of Bath and Wells had been arrested and imprisoned round about the same time as the Duke, but was released after paying a heavy fine. This man – the man I was talking to – seems to think that the two events might have some connection, although I honestly can’t see why they should. But I was wondering if you’d heard anything in your part of the world, Roger?’

I shook my head. ‘Not a whisper. It must have been a very brief imprisonment. But then, I reckon Robert Stillington’s a man who’d buy his way out of trouble as quickly as possible. All the same,’ I added slowly, ‘your informant could have grounds for thinking there was a link between the two arrests.’ And I told Philip of the meeting I had witnessed some eighteen months earlier between the Bishop and George of Clarence at Farleigh Castle.

We were all sitting around the Lampreys’ table, and out of the corner of my right eye I saw Jeanne shift uneasily on her stool. Philip must have noticed it, too, because he laughed and said, ‘You’ve always known too much for your own good, Roger, ever since we first met, which is almost seven years ago now. You’re a dangerous person to be around, as I’ve found out to my cost. So, if you’re up to anything on this visit to London, we’d rather not be told.’

‘He isn’t, I promise you both,’ Adela quickly reassured them. ‘Our sole purpose is for me to see London, especially the Duke of York’s wedding procession. And Roger would like to attend the Duke of Clarence’s trial.’

‘We’ll all go to see the wedding,’ Jeanne announced, clapping her hands together like a child suddenly proffered a treat. ‘We’ll shut up shop tomorrow and make it a holiday. But in the meantime, we must find somewhere for you to stay.’ She glanced around at the cramped conditions of the tiny cottage before turning an apologetic face towards Adela and me. ‘I only wish we could offer you a lodging here, but you can see how very little room we have.’

‘We wouldn’t dream of imposing on you,’ my wife answered firmly. ‘But we should be very grateful if you could suggest a decent inn that won’t cost too much.’

‘The Voyager!’ Philip exclaimed suddenly, snapping his fingers. ‘Its proper name is Saint Brendan the Voyager, and you’ll find it not far from here, in a street called Bucklersbury. The landlord’s name is Reynold Makepeace, and he has the reputation for fair dealing and for not overcharging his guests. Go to the Great Conduit, where The Poultry runs into West Cheap, and Bucklersbury is on your left, running down to the Walbrook. The Voyager’s about halfway along, crammed in between all the grocers’ and apothecaries’ shops. Its sign is the saint in his coracle, perched on top of a huge sea snake.’

We thanked him and prepared to take our leave, not without protests from both our hosts. But I felt that the sooner we were settled, the happier I should be, so without more ado I picked up the big linen satchel in which we had brought a change of clothing and slung it over one shoulder. (I had not, after all, brought my pack, having been dared to do so on pain of my wife’s deepest displeasure. And an unexpected gift of money from Margaret Walker had made it easier for me to comply with Adela’s wishes.)

We left matters that if the Lampreys heard no more from us before nightfall, they could safely assume that we had been successful in finding lodgings at the Voyager, and that they would call for us there the following morning. Adela and I would spend the remainder of the short January day exploring the delights of West Cheap.

January the fifteenth dawned cold and grey, with a dank mist rising slowly from the river. But the weather in no way dampened the spirits of the crowds gathered in the vicinity of the Chapel of Saint Stephen at Westminster.

My wife and I had been successful in finding lodgings at the Voyager in Bucklersbury, and had taken an immediate liking to the landlord. Reynold Makepeace was a short, stocky man of some fifty summers, with a large paunch, sparse brown hair, bright hazel eyes and surprisingly good teeth, who exuded warmth and friendliness; and he had offered us a small but cheap and clean room, opening off an outside gallery that ringed three sides of the inn’s inner courtyard. The bed, which took up most of the space, had a goosefeather mattress and big, down-filled pillows, with the result that we had slept like logs and risen that morning refreshed both in body and spirit.

Mind you, we had been very tired, having spent the rest of yesterday’s daylight hours as we had intended, exploring the delights of West Cheap. Adela had drunk at the Great Conduit, rebuilt and enlarged during King Edward’s reign, its crystal-clear water piped in from the spring whose source is to be found in the fields around Paddington. Then we had given thanks for our safe arrival at the Church of Saint Mary-le-Bow, so called because of its underpinning of stone arches. And, finally, as we approached Saint Paul’s, visible at the top of Lud Gate hill, its steeple crowned with a copper-gilt weathercock, we had feasted our eyes on the magnificent display of wares in the windows of the goldsmiths’ shops.

I’ve heard it said that there are more goldsmiths’ shops crowded together in West Cheap, and spilling over into neighbouring Gudrun and Foster Lanes, than there are in the whole of Milan, Rome and Venice put together. Whether this claim is justified or not I have no means of knowing, never having visited any of those three cities; but I do know that even on a dull January afternoon, our eyes were positively dazzled by the gleam of gold and silver, of precious and semi-precious gems. Rings, necklaces and brooches, ewers, mazers and plates, ornately decorated salt-cellars, chalices and candlesticks all glittered in the fading light.

Outside each shop had stood the apprentices, touting their masters’ wares, but secretly, I suspected, longing for curfew and the chance to remove themselves and the merchandise indoors. One undersized lad with a shock of wavy brown hair, who seemed to have no companion, had given up even the pretence of attracting custom, and was leaning against the door jamb, idly watching the passers-by and yawning behind his hand. Adela, smiling sympathetically, had drawn my attention to him, and even as I followed her pointing finger, an elderly man, spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, had leaned from an overhanging upstairs window and severely reprimanded the boy.

After that, we had had just time enough to walk along Paternoster Row, where the rosary makers have their shops, and where there are also one or two fine private houses, before the bells had rung for Vespers, and we had made part of the mass of people crowding into Saint Paul’s. Even the lawyers, who daily conduct their business in the cloisters, had stopped advising or haranguing their clients in order to join in the service; although as soon as it was over, they returned eagerly to the business in hand. (Time, I have often heard it said, is money where the legal fraternity is concerned.)

Now, with a good night’s rest behind us, and a breakfast of bacon collops and oatmeal cakes to warm our stomachs, we were outside Saint Stephen’s Chapel awaiting the arrival of the bride and groom. True to their word, Philip and Jeanne Lamprey had called for us at the Voyager, and during our walk to Westminster, Adela had had her first good look at the Strand with its splendid dwellings, their gardens running down to the water’s edge, and at the beautiful, if crumbling, Chère Reine Cross, that monument to the power of true love.

We had, fortunately, arrived early enough to position ourselves close to the main entrance to the chapel, and so had a clear view of the interior, ablaze with candles, the walls glowing with the rich reds and greens, purples and blues of tapestries. Jeanne, with womanly forethought, had brought a cushion, so that Adela, whenever she grew tired of standing, was able to sit down on the steps.

Jeanne could also enlighten us as to the identity of some of the guests and members of the royal family. The little Prince of Wales, she said, was not present, being, presumably, hard at work at his lessons in distant Ludlow Castle; but the magnificent gentleman just entering the chapel door was his guardian and uncle, Earl Rivers, the Queen’s eldest brother. And behind him were the Queen’s two sons by her first marriage, the Marquess of Dorset and
his
younger brother, Lord Richard Grey. And here were the four princesses, sisters of the groom. The eldest, Elizabeth, some eleven or twelve years old, was clutching the hand of the baby, Anne, and turning every now and then to frown at the other two – ‘Mary and Cicely,’ Jeanne hissed in Adela’s ear – who showed a deplorable tendency to shuffle their feet and cough and admire one another’s dresses in high-pitched, penetrating whispers, much to the amusement of the crowd.

There were many more guests, some of whom I remember clearly, and some of whom I cannot recollect at all. Amongst those I do recall are the little bride’s mother, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, resplendent in violet cloth-of-gold, and the King’s sister, Elizabeth, talking animatedly to her husband, the Duke of Suffolk. His heavy, surly features unexpectedly creased into a grin before they disappeared inside the chapel, the Earl of Lincoln, their eldest son, hard on their heels. The Duke of Buckingham was eye-catchingly attired in silver and green, and arrived in the company of Lord John Howard, a cousin of the Mowbrays (or so someone behind conveniently informed us). They were followed by a plump, but very pretty woman, in a gown and veil of pale blue sarcenet that defied the January cold, and which seemed to sparkle as she moved. At her appearance, a low murmur of disapproval rippled through the crowd.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Adela.

‘The King’s chief mistress, Jane Shore,’ was the prompt reply. ‘The people don’t care for her because she isn’t noble. She was plain Jane Lambert, daughter of a London mercer, before she married a goldsmith by the name of William Shore. They say she first caught the King’s eye on his return from France, two and a half years ago. And I’ve heard it rumoured,’ Jeanne continued, warming to her theme, ‘that the Marquess of Dorset and Lord Hastings – that was Lord Hastings who went in earlier, in the scarlet and black – are both extremely enamoured of her and are hoping that the King gets tired of her very soon.’