The Clerkenwell Tales, Peter Ackroyd [sight word readers txt] 📗

to the porter of the Mercers’ Hall before attending to his master. Swinderby handed his cloak and gloves to him at the door of the hall, and stood before the screen until the usher took him to his table. It was often wondered how such a powerful voice came from such an attenuated body; Swinderby was short and a little stooped, with a face so pale that he looked to some as if he were being led towards his death. The sweat often stood out on his forehead, and his clothes smelt of nutmeg and ink.

There was the usual music of pipes and tabors, echoing beneath the great hammerbeam roof, as the guests greeted their neighbours at the tables. On the left side of Swinderby sat the London knight, Geoffrey de Calis; the squire, Oliver Boteler, sat upon his other side.

“Well, sir,” de Calis asked Swinderby, “what is the new news?”

“King Richard has grown honest.” A servant brought over a basin of water, and Swinderby washed his fingers before crossing his mouth. The bread, and trencher, had already been laid before him.

“Honesty will not save him now.” Geoffrey de Calis looked around for service with the gusto of one longing for meat. “His followers will be hunted as wolves are.”

“Oh, that is not the case.” Swinderby grimaced, as if in sudden pain. “He may yet win all.” There was a silver salt-cellar upon the table, in the shape of a chariot with wheels so that it could be passed down the table. Swinderby pulled it towards him as he spoke. “The followers of Henry Bolingbroke are as errant as the moon. And as moneyless.”

To the sound of a bell the marshal led the procession of servants bringing in the food. In order came the panterer, the esquires and the valetti, bearing dishes according to their rank. They placed them reverently upon the tables, while on the meat-board were piled baked pheasant, goose, wild fowl, pullets and pork. At the high table sat the Archbishop, Roger Walden, and the mayor of London; beside them were the lords and bishops while all the others were arranged by estate and by degree. It was generally assumed that the diners would form pairs; the sheriff, for example, sat beside the prior of Bermondsey. They all arose as the archbishop said grace, and then began that general din of eating and conversation which was known to the speakers of Latin as taratantarum.

Drago stood silently behind Swinderby; he had been in the canon’s service for six years, and had been instructed in all the arts of courtesy. He was trained to be careful where he spat, and to put his hand in front of his mouth before doing so. If a superior spoke to him, he took off his hat; he did not glance down upon the ground but looked steadfastly into his face without moving his hands or feet. He was taught not to scratch his head, and to ensure that his nails were always clean. He learned how to sponge Swinderby’s clothes, to make his bed and to lace his shoes. He was taught certain other lessons, also.

On the tables dishes of peacocks with pepper sauce lay beside partridges roasted with ginger; pigs’ ears baked in wine were scooped up with fish served in a green sauce made out of various herbs; a bowl of lobster with vinegar was put next to some small game birds covered with feathers so that they still seemed alive. All the food of the world appeared to be lying here.

The squire, Oliver Boteler, was in good humour. “Do you know,” he asked, “what the Proctor of the Arches told me this morning? You know that he is lately married. Well, I asked him why he had chosen so little a wife. She comes up to my hip-bone, you see. To which he replied, Ex duobus malis minus est eliendum. That is, to say in English, among evil things the less is to be chosen. Was that not well answered?” There was a flagon in front of him, carved in the shape of a knight on horseback, and he poured some wine into his cup. According to custom, they stopped talking while he drank. “Yet how,” he said, wiping his lips with his sleeve, “does he pierce her?”

At the end of the meat course a subtlety was brought forth; it was carved from sugar and paste and was in the shape of a man, wrapped in weeds, holding a sickle in his hand. It was not to be eaten but was known as a “warmer” to signal the next course of almond cream, baked quinces, sage fritters and dates in comfit.

By the time that the salads were placed upon the table, the conversation had returned to the topic of the king. “These are hard times,” the knight said. “Stony times.” He picked among the parsley, fennel and sage, as if choosing the herbs closest to his natural humour.

“No estate abides.” The squire had gathered up a handful of garlic and spring onion. “It is the wheel. And I am bound upon it.”

They knew the cause of his complaint well enough. In order to pay for his expedition to Ireland the king had been levying huge fines upon his opponents among the lords and commons; he had instituted a system of payments for legal “pardons,” but he had become cruel as well as greedy. As the verse sung about the streets put it:

The axe was sharp, the stocks were hard,

In the twenty-second year of King Richard.

“The people are stormy.” Swinderby was still inclined to support the king. “I know London well. I know the citizens. They are as indiscreet and as changing as a weather vane. They delight ever in rumble that is new. Now they say that Henry Bolingbroke is casting some plot against the king. Then it is all denied as a deceit. Like the moon they wax and wane. They are full of chattering. One