‘For in much wisdom is much grief, and he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow.’ Dowling leant over and patted the man’s hand, which action seemed to frighten the poor fellow, for he sat back and regarded Dowling with timorous eye.
Did John Collis’s wife jump into the river? Behind each shadowed face around this table hid a lifetime of experience, tales of tragedy and joy, darkness and hope, few clues of which manifested themselves in tired expressions.
Not every man became wiser with sorrow. Some became angry and bitter. The world was a different place since the plague’s grim visitation. The King’s return to Whitehall symbolised a new beginning, yet the shadow of the Pest stretched long. Dead relatives, lost friends, missing neighbours. Though the City simmered quiet, behind that melancholy facade lurked fury. You heard it in the words of those who spoke of King and Parliament, of others that spoke of the Dutch with whom we were at war, or the Catholic French, or even God.
I was more afeared than angry, afeared of Lord Arlington. Officially, I still reported to him. He was an evil fellow, who plotted to kill us both at St Albans. Instead I saved his life and he hadn’t spoken to me since. I bided my time nestled in the sweet arms of the Mermaid every afternoon, not leaving while still I could walk. I shook my head and determined to think only happy thoughts.
‘How is Jane?’ asked Dowling.
‘She is well,’ I replied thoughtfully. ‘Her usual noxious self. When the plague arrived in London she nagged me incessantly to leave; after we left she nagged me incessantly to return. Now she complains that all men are self-pitying miseries.’ Me mostly.
Jane was my house servant. I fetched her to Cocksmouth out of the goodness of my big heart. There my mother lived in a small house
with her brother Robert and several pigs. They invited me to sleep in my dead grandmother’s room, out back, and arranged for Jane to live with an elderly woman in the village, who walked in her sleep and dribbled constantly out the side of her mouth. A dreadful place, yet the only safe haven I had access to. We lived in Purgatory for six months, with only each other to rely on for sane conversation. Though she maintained her usual foul temper with effortless ease, something stirred between us, something mysterious I could not yet comprehend. All I knew for sure was that we ended up in a warm, sticky embrace one quiet afternoon, the consequences of which were still to play themselves out.
‘We lay together,’ I whispered.
‘Lay where?’ he asked, hoarse.
‘Upon my jacket to begin with,’ I replied. ‘Though she quickly pulled me over onto the grass.’
‘You lay with her?’ Dowling hissed, spittle spraying against my ear.
‘I didn’t mean to,’ I protested. ‘Nor did she.’
I blamed six months in Cocksmouth. Six months safe from plague but not so safe from a more insidious infection that penetrated a man’s skull and caused it to gently rot. Boredom. Never was I so bored in all my life. Isolated from tavern, playhouse and every other occupation man invented to keep himself entertained. Except one.
A strange, guttural whine emanated from Dowling’s open mouth. I barely smothered a loud laugh upon contemplating his horrified expression. Instead I snorted beer out of both nostrils.
He jabbed my shoulder with iron forefinger. ‘And when Shechem the son of Hamor the Hivite saw her, he took her, and lay with her, and defiled her.’
‘Who was Shechem, son of Hamor the Hivite?’ I struggled to recall.
‘He defiled Dinah, daughter of Jacob,’ Dowling kept poking me. ‘And in return the sons of Jacob insisted that every man in the city be circumcised, and when they had done it they came upon the city and slew every male.’
I nudged his finger away. ‘I did not defile her. We defiled each other.’
‘You are the master and she the servant,’ Dowling whispered a little too loud. John Collis turned his head slowly towards us. His wife already watched wide-eyed, repulsed. I tried to smile.
‘We shall talk about it later,’ I said, firmly. ‘When ye may circumcise me at your will.’
Dowling simmered, like a cauldron of hot water.
I bent my head towards him. ‘What is it like to be married?’ I whispered, regarding Collis and his wife out the corner of my eye. I saw no sign of celebration upon his ruddy chops. What force inspired him to enter into such intimate union with so little enthusiasm? ‘You’ve been married many years.’
Dowling perked up. ‘You are getting married?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ I answered quickly, rubbing my sore arm.
In truth, I didn’t know what I thought. I always maintained a strange fancy for Jane despite her constant ferocity, for I reckoned she couldn’t possibly be so angry with me unless she nurtured a passion that matched the intensity of her fury. If that passion was hatred, then why did she stay with me? A question I asked myself constantly. Yet before we travelled to Cocksmouth, never had I touched even a hair on her head with the end of my finger. To do so would have invited a swift and painful retribution. In Cocksmouth, though, she shared with me a different passion entirely.
‘I don’t think she would marry me,’ I said, for once we returned
to my little house on Bread Street she returned to old behaviours. I tried to stroke her hair once and she almost cut off one of my fingers with a chopping knife. I showed the finger to Dowling, the scar still angry and red.
I wondered, though. Would she marry me if I became an apothecary? A happy apothecary, who didn’t go to the Mermaid more than once or twice a week?
The stringy fellow stared. Collis watched me too, stiff-necked and mournful. There would be no flinging of the stocking tonight, nor escorting of the newly wedded to their bedchamber. Not by me anyway.
I thought of Jane again. Today was Thursday and Thursday brings crosses, I thought, becoming gloomy. God save us from more of those. Red crosses on doors marked whole streets at the worst of it. When Jane became infected, someone painted my door. A faint outline remained, despite my best efforts to brush every mark of it away. The legacy of plague would never be wholly removed.
I reached across to pour myself another cup of warm beer but Dowling pushed the jug away. ‘Slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep and an idle soul shall suffer hunger.’
Hunger perhaps, but not thirst. He was still cross with me.
Collis’s wife put a hand to her mouth and bowed her head afore suddenly running from the room, gagging. I saw a glint upon her finger. ‘He gave her a posy ring,’ I noticed. Now she had left, perhaps I might too.
Dowling watched, concerned. ‘Inscribed faithless to none yet faithful to one.’
I regarded the groom with new respect. Poetry indeed.
‘It is a shame this place stinks so bad,’ I reflected, ‘but perhaps it is
a good sign. It’s good luck when the bride sheds tears, which she shall surely do when she vomits.’
Dowling clicked his tongue and crossed his arms.
‘Whoever wed in August be, many a change is sure to see,’ I said. ‘For them today may mark a change in fortune.’
‘Not this year,’ the man to my right chirped again. ‘The people will be generally troubled and the King shall be subject to internal scheming.’
A pessimist then. I ignored him.
Collis rubbed his lips together and stretched his neck towards the door, eager it seemed to relocate his wife, though not so eager he considered getting to his feet. The bridesman to his left rubbed his hands together and showed his teeth in nervous smile. He searched the room for a kindred spirit to join him in lifting the mood. None offered. Collis raised himself to his feet at last, sheepish expression upon his fleshy face, and walked unsteadily out the room, waddling like a duck. I scanned the serious faces about me, each staring into space like their heads slept.