Bartholomew Fair (13 page)

‘A character indeed,’ Anne said. ‘We will not forget him in a hurry.’

I nodded. ‘We will not. Ah, look! I can see Peter over there. He’s waving to us.’

When we reached him, Peter greeted us with relief. ‘I feared you had gone home,’ he said. ‘We heard what happened with the soldiers. Where is Master Ambrose?’

‘Gone to find what has become of Mistress Hawes,’ Anne said. ‘And you seem to have lost Mistress Winger.’

Peter laughed. ‘We all seem to be losing each other in this maze. No, she is just there, buying a pair of gloves. And please, she would like you both to call her Helen, if you are agreeable.’

‘Of course,’ Anne said, with her usual warmth. ‘I must see whether she has found a good glover.’ And she walked away from us.

Peter raised his eyebrows at me. ‘How can anyone think of gloves in this weather?’ He took out a handkerchief and mopped his face.

‘Only fine ladies who wish to protect their white skin from the sun,’ I said, glancing down at my own hands, which were still well browned after weeks in the Portuguese heat.

‘When they are finished, shall we find somewhere to lunch, out of the sun?’ Peter said. ‘I’m hungry enough to eat a horse. I was on duty from midnight so that I could have permission to come to the Fair today. I never even broke my fast this morning.’

‘I agree,’ I said, ‘but I will not eat pig.’

‘Of course,’ he said. Peter had known me long enough not to be surprised. ‘I’m told there is an eating place on the north side of the Fair, a fine big place, where they serve all kinds of roast meats, not just Bartholomew pig, but beef and lamb and rabbit. There are tables and chairs as good as any tavern, outside under an arbour of green boughs to keep out the heat, and a tapster to serve beer and small ale.’

‘That sounds just what we need,’ I said, suddenly realising I was hungry too, despite my piece of gingerbread. ‘Especially the green boughs. The heat here in the fairground is enough to try anyone.’

Anne and Helen were concluding their business with the glover when I turned to Peter. ‘Do you remember the puppet tent we told you that we saw yesterday?’

‘Aye.’

‘Have you heard anything about the people? One of the other stallholders said they were foreign. Italian or Spanish.’

‘Spanish?’ he said, in the very tone I had used myself. ‘I would hope not. The officials of the Fair would be very wary of allowing any Spaniards into Smithfield, surely? It is barely a year since the Spanish navy launched their attack on us.’

‘Probably it is nothing,’ I said. ‘The man is most likely mistaken. Or they are Italian. No great friends of ours, but not such enemies as the Spanish.’ Although I trusted Peter implicitly, I did not want to start any hares running. ‘I expect they are Italian. As the stallholder said, the Commedia is Italian and so are the best puppet masters.’

‘Well, we shall see this afternoon, shall we not? You still want to attend the show?’

‘Aye,’ I said, ‘I certainly want to attend the show. Come, I do believe the girls are finished at last. Let us find this tavern of yours and a table under green boughs. I shall be glad to get out of the sun and drink a large pot of cold ale.’

‘It may not be cold.’

‘Well, warm beer, then!’

Peter led the way to the large temporary tavern on the northern edge of the Fair. Although it was still early for the midday meal, most of the tables were already occupied, but we managed to find one under an arbour roofed with intertwined leafy branches, which offered an oasis of cool shade away from the heat and dust which thickened the air of Smithfield. The ground had dried out thoroughly after the storm earlier in the week and the passage of thousands of feet was kicking up a cloud of dust everywhere.

We laid claim to a trestle table and four joint stools, sitting down with relief. This tavern was a cut above the other eating stalls I had seen scattered about the fairground. There were even clean white cloths on the tables, and the food was being served on pewter plates, not rough wooden trenchers.

‘You’ve done very well, finding this, Peter,’ I said. ‘It’s as clean and wholesome as the best London inn.’

He smiled knowingly. ‘It is run by a well established innkeeper, who was a patient at Barts while you were away. He told me then that he would be setting up here. He had even paid for his pitch two months in advance. And here he comes!’

A plump man in his fifties was approaching our table, his prominent belly swathed in an enormous apron as brilliantly white as the cloths on the tables. His hair was a sparse sprinkling of ginger bristles, and there were at least three layers of chin above his plain collar. I wondered how he managed to keep his apron so white amidst the greasy business of roasting meats and dirty dishes.

‘Master Lambert!’ He bowed deeply to Peter. ‘What can I serve you, you and your friends? I shall make you a special price, for I have not forgotten your kindness when I was unfortunate enough to spend time in St Bartholomew’s.

‘I thank you, Master Chawtry.’ Peter had reddened a little at this praise.

Helen Winger looked at him admiringly. ‘My father says that you will make an excellent apothecary, Peter.’

Peter looked even more embarrassed and turned from the innkeeper to the rest of us. ‘What will you eat?’

The other three all chose Bartholomew pig, for this annual treat is almost a ritual with Londoners. I asked for beef. The innkeeper said he would bring us a salad to start with, for the first roasts were just ready and only now being carved. Afterwards, there were custards, another Bartholomew favourite.

When he had returned to the tent I said, ‘He seems too prosperous to have been a patient at Barts. He’s not one of the London poor.’

‘Oh, I daresay in the normal way of things he would have been attended by a private physician,’ Peter said, ‘but on a particularly hot day in June he collapsed at the very gatehouse of the hospital. You can see that he is a heavy man, with a rubicund complexion. He was carried in unconscious before anyone knew who he was.’

‘Dr Stephens bled him,’ I said gloomily. I could imagine the scene.

‘Aye. He was sure Master Chawtry was suffering from an excess of choler. I know your father believed in bleeding only as a last resort, but he was already . . . he was dead by then.’

I nodded, keeping my face expressionless. ‘So how did Master Chawtry fare, after the bleeding?’

‘He was unconscious a good few hours, and when he woke at last, he was very weak, barely able to move. Could not even sit up in bed. I had not much work to do that day, and both Dr Stephens and the new physician had gone home by then. I stayed with him and gave him some of that cordial your father used in like cases. It’s all finished now. Also he was very thirsty, so I gave him plenty of small ale. I hope I didn’t do wrong?’

He looked at me anxiously.

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘In the circumstances, I’m sure that was the best thing to do.’

‘Master Chawtry began to recover and gave me the credit for it. He refused further bleeding the next day, then his wife fetched him home the day after. I did very little, really.’

I frowned. ‘Was Dr Stephens’s assistant not there, or the new man’s assistant?’

‘Oh, they went home after the bleeding. They are most particular about their hours of work now.’ Peter gave a somewhat sad smile. ‘They make sure they do not work for longer than they are paid. Not like those endless hours when we cared for the soldiers from Sluys.’

‘No, indeed.’

We had worked all night then, all of us. Even, I recalled, Dr Stephens.

However, the innkeeper looked none the worse for this episode of ill health, for he was now bustling about, directing a small army of lads and maids who were serving the customers. It would do him no harm, I thought, to lose some of that excess weight, but that is a danger of his profession. Who would ever trust a skinny innkeeper?

We ate our salad, which was surprisingly good, for your London salad is usually a miserable affair, then we tucked into generous plates of roast meat. The tavern even provided napkins and a finger bowl for rinsing our greasy fingers after picking up our meat.

The custards that followed were firm and creamy, without that layer of watery sludge you find at the bottom of most. They were decorated with candied rose and violet petals, as good a finish to the meal as you could find in a first class inn. After this abundance of good food and several mugs of ale, we were all a little sleepy, without much energy to wend our way back to the puppet show.

Anne yawned, covering her mouth with her hand and apologising. ‘Too much sun and too much food,’ she said.

‘Aye, and too much ale,’ I pointed out.

Helen looked at me severely. ‘She has drunk less than you, sir.’ Then she blushed at having spoken so frankly, but I laughed.

‘You are right, but she does not have the head for it.’

‘We did promise to meet Ambrose at the puppet show,’ Anne said, ‘though I hardly think I can move.’

‘Well, we cannot sit here all day,’ I said, trying to be brisk. ‘They will want our places for other customers. Peter, can you call for the reckoning?’

The cost of the meal was modest. Clearly the innkeeper had done as he had promised, and given us a special price. Peter and I divided it between us, for on such occasions I must play the man. Luckily Sara had insisted on giving me enough coin to cover a meal for the two of us, judging that Ambrose would be too taken up with his young lady and might not stay with us.

‘We have seen nothing of your mother, Anne,’ I said. ‘Did you make an arrangement to meet her?’

‘No, we thought we should easily find each other, but never thought there would be such crowds. We have not come to the Fair for a few years and the last time it was wet. Not many people came. I did tell her about the puppets, though, and she thought that would amuse the children. We may find her there.’

The first person we saw as we approached the puppet tent was Ambrose, for with his height he stood out from the crowd. Beside him was a very elegant young woman whom we soon discovered to be Mistress Hawes. She presented me with a limp hand when we were introduced, and I went through the charade of raising it to my lips, as that was clearly what she expected. Ambrose had told us that she had spent a brief time in France when things were peaceful between our countries, and had picked up French manners. Amongst the middling sort in London we do not normally go in for such folderols.

It was not yet two o’ the clock, and we stood together a little way from the tent, which was still tightly laced. No one was even trying to tempt the crowds in or to sell tickets, as most entertainers at the Fair will do. My attention wandered over to the toy stall and I saw that Nicholas Borecroft had shut up shop. The counter had been raised and secured in place, the door was closed and a padlock fixed through the catch. Then I saw the man himself, moving almost stealthily for such a large and boisterous fellow, heading toward the back of the puppet tent.

Then my heart gave a jerk. He was not alone. Another man was also sidling round between the stalls to reach the far end of the tent. It was – and this time I was certain my eyes did not deceive me – it was definitely Robert Poley. Robert Poley, whom Phelippes believed to be on a mission for Sir Francis abroad. Robert Poley whom I thought I had glimpsed in the street the other day. Robert Poley, whom Phelippes suspected, as I did, of possibly being a double agent. At the time of the Babington Plot, Poley had helped to catch the conspirators, but I knew that he had lied about his friendship with Anthony Babington. He had acted as a go-between, taking orders from Sir Francis but possibly also from the traitors. He had been intimate with them. Perhaps even sympathised with them, though I was certain that he was a man who would never act from principle, he would only ever do what served his own best interests.

When the conspirators were rounded up, three years ago now, Poley had been rounded up with them and taken to the Tower. Unlike them, he had never stood trial nor faced a brutal execution. Instead he lingered in the Tower – up to what mischief I could not be sure. He stayed there two years, then was quietly released. I had seen him briefly before leaving for Portugal, an occasion when he had taken the opportunity to remind me that he knew my secret and could expose me to terrible retribution whenever he wished. Since then he was supposed to be working abroad, in Denmark and the Low Countries. When I thought I had seen him in the street the other day, I had assumed I must be mistaken. But I was not. As he slipped behind the puppeteers’ tent with the toy man, he was no more than a few yards away. I could not be mistaken this time. By great good fortune, he did not look my way.

‘What is, Kit?’ Peter said. ‘You have gone quite white. Are you feeling the heat?’

I shook my head. ‘No, no. I have just seen someone. Someone who should not be here. It’s no matter. Nothing to worry about.’

But I was worried. Poley clearly had a meeting with the puppet masters who were foreign and possibly dangerous. Certainly dangerous, if they were Spanish. Perhaps dangerous, if they were Italian. Was he working here for Sir Francis? Surely Phelippes would not then have told me he was abroad. Phelippes was ever cautious, but I believed he was generally honest with me. If he had wished to conceal Poley’s presence in London, he need have said nothing. No, I was sure Phelippes himself had believed that Poley was indeed out of the country.