My random wanderings seldom took me across the river but on a crisp January day in 1536 I stuffed half a manchet loaf and a flask of Canary wine into my saddle bag and set out across London Bridge. Islands of ice were drifting slowly downstream to grind against the bridge and break themselves on its piers. On the other side, I turned westward, deliberately avoiding the crowded Southwark streets clinging to the towering bulk of St Mary Ovey’s priory church and the Bishop of Winchester’s even more impressive palace, and jogged along Bankside. Steadily I put behind me the monastic hostelries and the fashionable houses built for nobles and bishops which gazed across at London and Westminster. A gaggle of onlookers were down by the royal barge house taking the opportunity to have a close look at the king’s magnificent river craft, which had been brought out and moored at the wharf for its annual redecoration. Three men were applying fresh crimson paint and gilding while others worked inside the windowed cabins. Apart from them, there were few people abroad on this raw winter’s day. That suited my solitary mood. I followed the river round the wide bend to Lambeth and rode on past Archbishop Cranmer’s palace. A bleary sun was wrapping itself in folds of translucent cloud as I rode out on to Kennington Common. I gave Dickon a canter to the top of the hill, unpeopled save for two bodies dangling from a frost-rimed gibbet in the breezeless air, and in their company I stopped to eat my simple meal.
But not for long. The sky was darkening ahead, threatening snow. It was time for Dickon and me to retrace our steps. We had reached the semi-cultivated area known as Paris Garden and were just passing the bear pit when a sudden roar from one of the creatures caged there startled my horse. He skittered sideways, caught a hoof in a frozen rut, stumbled, recovered and broke into a frightened canter. I was almost unseated. It took me several moments to regain my balance, rein Dickon in and pat his neck to calm him. Then after a few more paces I realised that something was wrong. The poor animal was walking awkwardly. I dismounted and lifted his left foreleg. It was as I had feared: Dickon had cast a shoe.
Unless I could find a farrier, I faced a long walk home. Either way I needed to make haste. Dusk would be early and I wanted to cross the bridge before the bascule was closed for the night. Southwark, a haunt of whores, cutpurses and criminal gangs, was no place for honest citizens after dark. Only months before, the king had tried to close the bawdy houses. He could as well have ordered the river to stop flowing for all the good his edict did. This side of the Thames fell under the sway of Bishop Gardiner of Winchester, one of Henry’s own councillors, and that good man of God earned too much from the rents paid by harlots and their panders to have the area cleared of the ‘Winchester Geese’, as these women were known. I took hold of the reins and set off, leading my horse, towards Southwark.
I had not been walking many minutes when two riders coming in the opposite direction halted and greeted me. I eyed them carefully. The elder of the two seemed to be a man of some substance. Though his heavy cloak was well wrapped round him, I glimpsed beneath it short trunk hose of a style fashionable at court some dozen years or so earlier and the hilt of a short sword. His boots were shiny and of good hide. The other man, in a leather jerkin and worsted cloak, I assumed to be his servant. They looked respectable enough but many of the thieves and ruffians who infested our roads were masters of deception. I was automatically on my guard.
‘Good day to you. Do you have a problem with your horse?’ the senior enquired with a polite doffing of his cap.
I was aware that Dickon and I were being scrutinised as carefully by these strangers as I was evaluating them. Well, I had taken no care of my dress. If they were contemplating villainy, they would have seen a dishevelled young man with three days’ stubble on his chin, who was unlikely to be carrying much money. There was, however, no disguising Dickon’s pedigree. He was bred out of sturdy, dark-haired Friesian stock but had taken his Irish mother’s colouring and easy temperament. It did not need a wily coper’s eye to recognise a beast that was strong, fleet and willing. He would be a considerable prize for any murderous villain. ‘Lost a shoe,’ I said, preparing to continue along the road. ‘Just my luck. It seems we’re in for snow.’
‘Do you have far to go?’ the older man asked.
‘Not too far,’ I replied non-committally. ‘But I must keep moving. God speed you.’
The strangers exchanged glances and the servant nudged his mount sideways, blocking the path. ‘Take care, young sir,’ he said. ‘This ain’t the best place for a gen’leman travelling alone.’ By the man’s rough speech I marked him for a countryman, probably from Kent. ‘Why, if you knew the number of poor travellers what’s bin waylaid on this bit o’ road… Ain’t I right, Ned?’
‘You are, indeed, Jed. Now, sir, might I suggest you give my companion and me the pleasure and privilege of accompanying you as far as your lodging?’
I glanced along the road. There was no one else in sight. ‘That’s remarkably kind, but I couldn’t allow you to delay your own journey for me.’ I tried to sound more relaxed and casual than I felt.
‘’Tis no more than our Christian duty, sir.’ ‘Ned’, or whoever he was, turned his horse. ‘Jed, let the gentleman have your mount. We cannot allow him to trudge the road like a wretched vagabond. You can lead his poor, afflicted beast.’
I had to think quickly. I waited while Jed dismounted. Then, as he handed the reins to his companion, I leaped back into Dickon’s saddle, pulled his head round and legged him hard. There was no point in riding back along the road. The discomfort of the missing shoe would slow my horse down and I would have been swiftly overtaken. So I plunged in among the trees of Paris Garden. Despite its name, part of the area was still tangled and wooded and had the reputation of being a hideout for criminals and a place of assignation for those whose affairs called for secrecy. Desperately, I hoped that its deep shade would provide me with a hiding place from my assailants.
The trees were very close together and the undergrowth beneath them a jumble of ferns and briars. We made what pace we could, dodging around trunks, slithering into gullies and leaping over fallen, rotting boughs. I had no idea how close we were being followed. All my attention was given to peering ahead through the gloom for obstacles and low branches. It was such a branch that I did not see which proved my undoing. It caught me full on the temple and knocked me clean from the saddle. I felt myself thrown to the ground and sudden pain as my shoulder struck something hard. Then nothing.
Chapter 2
My first sensation when I came to myself was the smell — a mingled odour of latrines, stale sweat and something sickly sweet. When I opened my eyes I could only make out a blur of timber beams and mottled paintwork. I turned my head in an effort to identify my surroundings and was rewarded with a flash of pain across my temple. Then I sank back into welcome unconsciousness.
When I awoke again the pattern of ceiling beams was clearer. They were wide, suggesting another floor above. They had been painted, as had the plaster between, but long since, for the surface was flaked. This was not my room, nor any room I recognised. I turned my head slowly and carefully to the right. A good-sized chamber with plain wooden walls and over a simple chimneypiece a single candle burned. Night, then. Painfully I shifted my position and the truckle bed creaked its protest. Immediately there was movement in the room. A young woman’s face and shoulders entered my vision. She wore her long, dark hair unbound but I could see little of her face which was in shadow.