I was exactly the same myself, on that early October day in the year of Our Lord 1471 when I crossed London Bridge and entered the city proper for the very first time. It was, as I recall, a morning of frost and needle-sharp sunlight, all white and gold. Everywhere there was brilliance and light, from the sparkle of rimed branches and rooftops to the glitter of the rutted road and the sun-spangled glint of horses’ harness. I was young, strong and ready to take on the world. The thought of any personal danger in the quest which lay in front of me never so much as entered my mind.
I had spent the night in Southwark, at the home of one of my new acquaintances. And it was thanks to him that I had acquired my first knowledge of the capital. Stretched beside him on the floor of his master’s bakery, saved from the cold of the night by the warmth of the ovens, I had nevertheless found it difficult to sleep on account of the noise from the house next door. In the chill of the small hours, when my friend rose to rekindle the fires for the early baking, he discovered me wakeful. When I explained my problem, he laughed.
‘I should have warned you,‘ he said, ‘ that the house next to this is a brothel. There are dozens of them in Southwark, all belonging to the Bishop of Winchester, so the local whores are known as Winchester geese.’ He also told me that I could recognize a prostitute by the striped hood she wore.
I was naive enough in those days to be shocked by this information. Innocent that I was, I had believed until then that all churchmen, fallible human beings though they were, at least abided by the rule of chastity and assisted laymen to do the same, even if they were often unsuccessful. To find out that the See of Winchester actually owned houses of ill repute gave me a jolt from which I did not soon recover.
But now, as I approached the already lowered drawbridge, my stomach full of a shared breakfast of porridge and small beer, my pack comfortably settled on my back, my cudgel swinging in my hand, I had no thoughts for anything but my first real sight of London. At the southern end of the bridge were three stone towers with portcullises, the outer two topped by a row of traitors’ heads on spikes, each sightless, grinning mask in a different stage of decomposition.
I had no difficulty passing through the gate, but the Warden had little time to answer my request for directions. ‘Cross the bridge and ask again,’ he grunted, and indeed I could see that he was busy. I had never encountered such traffic as there is in London, nor so many people. I had been told by one of the pilgrims that it was home to some forty or fifty thousand inhabitants, but my mind refused to encompass so vast a number. Now, jostled on every side by carts and waggons and foot travellers like myself, I was overwhelmed by the noise and general air of confusion. The surface of the bridge, between the two rows of overhanging shops and houses, was badly pitted, and on at least three occasions I stumbled, twisting an ankle. But each time a neighbourly hand caught my elbow and prevented me from falling. I decided that London might be overcrowded and rowdy, but the people were friendly. Long before I had reached the end of the nineteen-arch span, I was feeling more cheerful and less intimidated.
I had been advised by my host of the night to make for one of the quays east of London Bridge, where ships coming up river from the mouth of the Thames docked at the wharfside and sold goods direct to customers on shore. And after my success in Canterbury my pack was in need of replenishing. Once clear of the bridge itself, I had a better view of the river, already bustling, even at that early hour of the morning, with boats and barges of all shapes and sizes. There were swans, too, gliding gracefully through the waterborne traffic, apparently unperturbed by the movement. I could see groups of men around the piers of the bridge, fishing for the smelts and salmon, pike and tench and barbel, with which the river abounded. (I learned later that they were known as Petermen, because they used nets, like St Peter.)
At Marlowe’s Quay, an eel ship had just docked, and the housewives were already gathering with their money and baskets. A big man with a broken nose and huddled in a good wool cloak against the rawness of the morning was just going aboard, while the women stamped their feet and blew on fingers blue with cold.
‘Who’s he?’ I asked my neighbour.
She gave me a pitying look, sensing at once that I was not a Londoner.
‘That’s the water-bailiff, of course. He goes through the catch and throws overboard any undersized or red eels he might discover. After that, it’s his job to supervise the weighers, to make sure we get good measure.‘ She eyed me curiously. ‘You waiting to buy?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m a chapman. I need laces and threads and silks for you women to fritter your money away on.’
My companion snorted. ‘Small chance of that, with prices rising the way they are. Mind you, things’ll get better now that Edward’s on the throne again, God bless him!’
I discovered that the Londoners regarded Edward of Rouen as peculiarly their own King. Big, strong and handsome, he spent freely among them, increasing the trade and prosperity of the city. And last spring he had done the impossible, by reaching his capital from the North without the loss of a single man.
I moved on, threading my way in and out of riverside alleyways and narrow lanes whose names were as yet unknown to me. The woman had told me that I needed Galley Quay, nearest the Tower, and sure enough, when I finally got there, I found a Venetian galley unloading bales of silk and velvet, barrels of spices and sweetmeats, iron- bound chests of brooches and rings. Many of the goods were too costly for hawking in the streets, but I bought a remnant of damask, enough to make a dress, and a few cheaper items of jewellery. There were also some phials of perfume and scented oil, which I added to the other wares still in my pack. It was while I was paying for my purchases that I noticed the pungent smell of rotting flesh, borne upriver from beyond the walls, and learned that it came from the decaying corpses of executed pirates, whose bodies were left until three tides had washed over them, between Wapping and St Katherine’s Wharf.
I wandered back the way I had come, still dazed by everything I saw; the great cranes along the wharfsides, busily unloading spices and oranges from Genoa or cargoes of Normandy apples and fine Caen stone. The roads were jammed with traffic, carts, drays and carriages forcing a passage between wandering pedestrians; chapmen, such as myself, itinerant friars, piemen, sailors, messenger boys. The noise was deafening; people cursing and shouting; cries of ’Beef ribs! Steaming hot!‘ ‘Clean rushes!’ ‘Good sheep’s brains!’ ‘Apples and pears! Every one ripe!’ Agitators haranguing the crowds; boatmen, the roughest and toughest of all the Londoners, brawling with one another over prospective clients; the continuous jangling of the bells.
By mid-morning, my head was aching and my eyes bolting from my head. The early frost had melted, leaving the roadway wet and slippery beneath the overhanging eaves. My pack was weighing heavily on my back as I dodged the offal and garbage of the streets. My initial excitement had begun to wane, and remembering suddenly that it was St Faith’s Day, I decided to go to Mass. I had already passed so many churches that choosing one was not a problem, but I wanted particularly to see St Paul’s. Even country bumpkins like myself knew its name and reputation. A friendly shopkeeper directed me towards the Lud Gate and at the top of the hill I found it, its huge steeple thrusting into the air, crowned by a golden weathercock.
I don’t know what I had expected. A holy calm, a sanctified hush, perhaps. I was certainly unprepared for what I actually discovered. By the great cross, in the northeast corner of the churchyard, instead of a priest giving godly exhortations, a man in a stained leather tunic and scuffed felt boots was holding forth, well away on some political hobby-horse of his own. The cloisters were lull of people walking up and down, and it did not take me long to figure out that the bulk of them were lawyers, either touting for business or discussing cases with their clients. Inside, in the nave itself, there were more of them, together with stalls selling food and drink to the pilgrims, who, like me, had come to St Paul’s to see its many holy relics: an arm of St Mellitus, a crystal phial of the Virgin’s milk, a strand of St Mary Magdalene’s hair, and the knife Jesus used for carving when he was a boy. There were others, but I did not wait to see them. The noise and confusion here was as bad as in the streets, and I pushed my way outside again.
As I emerged from the churchyard, I saw that people were being forced to one side by a mounted sergeant-at- arms, who was clearing a pathway for a procession of horsemen just entering through the Lud Gate. The sergeant was wearing the insignia of the White Boar, and I realized then that the young man at the head of the group of riders must be Richard, Duke of Gloucester, the King’s younger brother.
‘You and the lord Richard were born on the very same day,’ my mother used to say to me when I was small; although how she came by so exact a piece of information she would never divulge. However, I accepted that we were of an age, although that was all we had in common. In every other respect, our lives had been widely divergent. Richard of Gloucester had been Admiral of England, Ireland and Aquitaine, had levied and commanded troops for his brother throughout the entire South-West, and been the King’s trusted lieutenant all by the age of eleven. In the eight years since, he had grown spiritually and politically in stature, remaining, unlike George of Clarence, totally loyal to his elder brother throughout all the vicissitudes of Edward’s troubled reign. Today, he was not only Admiral but also Constable of England, Warden of the West Marches towards Scotland, Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster beyond Trent, and Great Chamberlain of the realm. He had only recently returned from the North, where he had successfully subdued the last flicker of rebellion against Edward’s resumption of the crown. I was a failed monk and a humble chapman. What greater contrast could there have been?
Because of my height, I had a good view of the little procession over the heads of the other onlookers. The Duke was not at all what I had imagined him to be. I don’t really know what I had expected; someone big and blond perhaps, like his brothers, who had once or twice been described to me; certainly not this slight, almost boyish figure, the serious face partially concealed by a curtain of dark, swinging hair. The hysterical adulation of the crowd, cheering wildly and throwing their greasy hats in the air, was sufficient to turn the head of a much older person, but this slim young man of just nineteen showed no signs of any self-congratulation. Rather, he seemed uncomfortable and ill-at-ease, anxious to be free of the clamour. Surly, I thought; then was immediately forced to revise my opinion as the saturnine face lifted into a smile of recognition for someone near at hand. It was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and although the expression was fleeting, its beauty had revealed a different man. As the cavalcade moved on and the crowd dispersed, I made a guess that the Duke of Gloucester was not happy in London.
I realized that my earlier fatigue had deepened. I was not only hungry, but feeling dirty and badly in need of a wash. I made inquiries from a messenger boy, resplendent in the gold and green uniform of his master’s livery, who directed me to one of the city’s public wash-houses, where, for the payment of a groat, I could immerse myself in a tub of steaming water. I was fortunate, on reaching my destination, to find that it was one of the hours reserved for men. Mixed bathing was naturally not allowed, although I learned that this was not the case everywhere in Europe. A small, heavily pock-marked man in the tub next to mine, who was vigorously scrubbing his back with a long-handled brush, asked in a throaty whisper: ‘You ever been to Bruges?’
I shook my head, trying to work up a lather with the coarse grey soap. ‘I’ve never been outside this country.’
‘I’ve been,’ the man informed me in the same quiet, rasping voice. ‘I was a soldier, I was, until I was wounded in a street fight. In the stomach, it was. I weren’t no good fer anythink after. But I was in the Low Countries fer a while afore that.’ The hooded eyes sparkled reminiscently. ‘If you’re ever in Bruges, cocky, go to the Waterhalle. Cor, what! I’ll tell you! Men and women can bathe together there. Naked as the day they were born! Just s’long as the woman wears a mask and don’t tell you ‘er name. And all with the blessing of the Duke of Burgundy, ‘imself, God love ‘im! I tell you, in this country we don’t know ‘ow to live.’
I laughed, but had no ready answer. London was as much as I could cope with at the moment, and tales of foreign countries beyond the English Channel only confused me further. When we were dry and dressed again, I invited my new friend to have dinner with me, judging by his clothes, which were even shabbier than mine, that a free meal would not come amiss. He accepted with alacrity and steered me in the direction of Fish Street, which ran north from London Bridge and where there were a couple of fine inns, the Bull and the King’s Head. My companion, whose name I had discovered to be Philip Lamprey - a nickname, on account of his partiality for that particular fish - chose the former.
‘Not so many of the gentry come in ‘ere as go to the King’s Head.’ He added lugubriously: ‘I’m not easy with the gentry. You can’t trust the buggers.’
But there were still a number of men in the Bull whose mode of dress and richness of apparel proclaimed them well-to-do merchants or burgesses at the very least. Lowborn creatures like us were directed to a smaller room where there was straw - and none too clean, at that - on the floor instead of rushes, and where the soup was served in wooden bowls rather than tin or pewter. And the pot-boy who brought our food and ale treated us with an ill-concealed contempt. His offhand manner told us plainly that he would rather be serving the gentry.
While we ate, I heard more of Philip Lamprey’s past. His wife had run away with a butcher and gone up north while he was soldiering abroad, taking their two sons with her. The rest of his family, parents and four sisters, were all dead, and his one remaining kinsman, a cousin, had died in the recent outbreak of plague. He made a living as best he could by begging, an occupation which some days rewarded him handsomely, but on others left him almost destitute. He was going through a bad patch at the moment, he told me: people were less charitable than they used to be, possibly because prices had rocketed during the late troubled times. But now that King Henry and his son were dead, Margaret of Anjou in custody, and good King Edward, the Londoners’ friend safely back on his throne again, things were bound to improve.