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

“They are the beads of the devil’s rosary.” Richard Marrow knew the litany of contempt.

“They are the kin of Cain. The children of Judas singing from the prayer book of hell.”

Just then a loud argument broke out, with the cries of “Havoc!” and “Heads! Heads!” Mixed with them were the noises of the animals in a muddy yard beside the tavern, roped together and constrained by oaths and blows; Hamo could not endure the sound of horses and cattle being lashed, pummelled by fists, whipped by laughing children. It broke open for him all sense of order. He would rather have stripped himself bare and gone into the middle of Smithfield as a sacrifice. Instead he put his hands to his ears and let out a low insistent moan. All the woes of this world seemed to enter him.

Exmewe hit him upon the head. “You will mar us all. Depend upon it.”

On no account did Exmewe wish to draw attention to himself. Swiftly he led them into Duck Lane, a narrow and confined thoroughfare paved with cobbles and oyster shells, with a row of open arches down its west side; there was a bench across the lower part of each arch, with variously coloured cloths and tapestries piled in profusion. Richard Marrow looked upon their rich colours and textures with disfavour. “When the fire falls,” he muttered to Exmewe, “all this will burn to blue ashes.”

“Be of good heart. It is the veil.”

When he was a carpenter’s apprentice, Marrow had been mightily impressed by the news that Christ himself had been a carpenter; he was of a naturally pious disposition and, having learned his ABC at the free school of the local abbess, picked up what scraps of learning in English he could find. He was a reflective man, not much given to speech, but he did converse on spiritual matters with William Exmewe. They had met while Marrow was repairing two side tables in the refectory of St. Bartholomew, where Exmewe had been kitchener before he was elected sub-prior, and they had soon reached agreement on the nature of Christ’s example.

Now they came out of Duck Lane close by Aldersgate, where the city ditch was used as a privy. This was against the law and custom of the city, which enjoined strict rules of cleanliness upon its citizens; but in the words of the mayor, the goldsmith Drew Barrantyne, “human nature feels its way through filth and folly.” The phrase had been repeated about the streets until it turned into a popular refrain. Eventually it became part of one of the “London songs” which filled the air for several days, or weeks, before disappearing. Some wooden shops and dwellings had been erected between the ditch and the wall itself, with a few planks laid down as a bridge to reach them, and Exmewe pointed out a small shed. It was painted in Naples green. “This is where you will find it,” he said to Marrow. “This is where your fire will be. You will take it to the oratory. Over there. In the street of St. John.” At the bottom of Aldersgate, standing just in front of the gate itself, a blind man and blind woman were holding slender white willow wands and singing in unison, “Ora! Ora! Ora! Pro nobis!”

Exmewe was staring at Marrow. “Why do you say nothing?” He had suddenly grown angry. “Do you hesitate in this high purpose? Listen, Marrow. Our work will be as hard as hell. Do you know that? Do you?”

They passed through the gate in silence and entered the city. They were in the street called St. Martin, with its row of four-storey houses on either side. In front of them some stew was being boiled in a cauldron on a bowl of coals, and an ancient woman skimmed off its fat with a perforated spoon. A tooth-drawer, with a wreath of teeth draped over his shoulders, passed them and then looked back with an expression of delight as he loitered among the street-stalls piled high with garlic and wheat, cheese and poultry. The late rains had left the street reeking of night-old vegetables and piss. Exmewe was still filled with this mysterious and unexpected anger. It might have been the anger of God, unfathomable. “Do you hear this chatter of humankind?” he shouted to Marrow above the press of people and of horses. “God has gone deaf!”

He stumbled over a long cart that was being drawn through the street, and the porter yelled at him, “Rouse your eyes, man! Do you not see?”

Yes, he did see. He saw the tooth-drawer walking back towards them and approaching Marrow. The carpenter was looking into the musical instrument shop.

“May I see your face, sir?”

“Why so?” Marrow asked him.

“Curiosity. I love teeth.”

Marrow raised his leather hood, and the tooth-drawer sighed. “Yes. I know you. I have seen you with the Lollards in Coleman Street.” The drawer looked around, seeking for witnesses, and Marrow swiftly stepped into the shadow of the shop’s sign. “Loller!” The drawer pointed at him. “False Loller!”

At that moment someone hurled himself against the drawer. He smashed his raised arm savagely against the drawer’s face. Hamo Fulberd had come to save Marrow.

The drawer fell back, concussed, and collapsed into the gitterns and fiddles, the trumpets and tabors, which were suspended from the ceiling of the shop. There was a noise of twanging instruments as Hamo kicked the head of the prostrate man. At the first sign of violence people ran eagerly across the street, ready to use violence themselves, but Marrow remained calm.

“Run, Hamo,” he whispered and then called out in a loud voice. “God be here!” He pointed to the tooth-drawer. “This man is a Loller.”

At once there was cry of “Stock him! Stock him!”

William Exmewe had already vanished, and in turn Hamo made his way quickly down Bladder Street. A child in a leather cap and long coat stared at him,