Thomas held out his hand and took the old man’s. His skin was as thin and dry as parchment. ‘Good morning, John. A pleasure to see you again. I have come to visit Abraham.’
John Porter nodded. ‘Of course. Your old tutor, as I recall. It must be more than a year since I last saw him. No more books for him, I fear. His eyes were getting very bad.’
‘He sees almost nothing now. Shapes and shadows only, he says, although his mind is still clear. And how do you fare, John?’
The old man spread his arms in a gesture of resignation. ‘As you can tell, Thomas, it is not the shop it used to be. The University Press has closed, it’s impossible to get books from London and I’m reduced to what you see. Not that it matters much. There are no scholars, and few soldiers care to spend their pay on books. I should have an inn or a bakery. Then I’d be a wealthy man.’
‘You’d be a hopeless innkeeper or baker, John. You’d drink the ale and eat the cakes. Much better to stick to your books.’
John Porter laughed. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Is it any better in Romsey? It is Romsey, isn’t it?’
‘It is. I don’t sell many books either, and we have had trouble with soldiers, so I suppose it’s much the same. Let’s hope the war ends soon and we can get back to normal.’
‘Normal. I’ve forgotten what that is. I hardly dare go out after dark for fear of being robbed or worse, I go for days without seeing a customer, and the army takes everything there is. I couldn’t even buy an egg last week.’
‘Do their majesties’ households not read?’
‘They do not. I daresay the king’s lot are too busy having their portraits painted, and the queen’s being lectured on her faith. When she’s not throwing money away on her masques, that is. I heard the last one was her most extravagant yet.’
‘So I heard.’ Thomas thought it prudent not to mention that he had actually attended the masque. ‘This war is a terrible thing, is it not, John? What would Queen Elizabeth have said if she’d known what was going to happen to the country less than fifty years after she’d gone?’
‘I shudder to think. And what will men say fifty years from now? That we destroyed England or that we set her on a new road to peace and prosperity?’
‘I suppose that will depend upon the outcome. It’s hard to imagine an England without a king or without a parliament, yet one of them may not survive.’
‘If they can’t find a way to work together, one of them indeed may not. I’m a Royalist at heart, if only because, like every other man alive, I’ve never known an England without a monarch. Yet, in Oxford, for all the university’s traditional support for the king, most of the townspeople are against him. And the longer his court and his army are here, the more they’re against him. It doesn’t take much to understand why.’
Thinking of the Pembroke courtyard, Thomas could only agree. Filth and squalor among the beauty of the colleges, Francis Fayne and his like in place of books and scholars. The University’s support would soon be wavering, too. He was about to say so, when the door opened and in came two familiar figures. One was a tall, bald Franciscan friar, the other a slim, elegant lady in a long yellow coat and a wide-brimmed yellow bonnet.
‘Your luck has changed, John,’ cried Thomas. ‘Here are two enthusiastic customers, thirsting to spend their money. No need to offer them special prices. They’ll happily pay as much as you ask.’
‘Thomas,’ said Simon sternly, ‘you know perfectly well that Franciscans eschew worldly possessions. I have no money, even for books. I am merely escorting Lady Romilly, who wishes to purchase a present for a friend.’
‘He is not a close friend,’ added Jane, pointedly ignoring Thomas, ‘so a small present will suffice. Can you suggest anything, Master Porter?’
‘Do you know anything of his tastes, madam?’ enquired Porter.
‘His knowledge of plants and flowers is pitifully slight. Have you anything of that sort?’
‘I fear not, madam. Is he perhaps of an artistic turn of mind?’
‘Literary, I think, rather than artistic.’
‘Then may I suggest a volume of poetry?’
‘You may. If you have concluded your business with this gentleman, of course.’
Porter glanced at Thomas, who was thoroughly confused. ‘While Master Hill is considering the matter, madam, allow me to show you what I have,’ he replied, leading Jane to a corner of the shop where a few dusty volumes sat on a shelf.
‘Take no notice, Thomas,’ whispered Simon. ‘You are the last person she wanted to find here. Better disappear.’
Taking the hint, Thomas waved a farewell to his friend and slipped out of the shop. A book of poetry for a literary friend who knew nothing about flowers was grounds for hope. But no more Milton, please. If John Porter had them, Shakespeare’s sonnets would be excellent. He would commit the best of them to memory when he was back in Romsey and time permitted. In Oxford, alas, time did not permit.
He could not dwell on the matter. He felt guilty enough at having missed most of a morning’s work, and he should get back to it without delay. The pile of paper would soon be growing again. Putting the lure of the meadows out of his mind, he went straight back to Pembroke.
The remainder of the day and part of the night were spent with quill and ink, encryptions and decryptions. Erasmus Pole must either have been a genius or, more probably, inclined to overlook some of the paper that came his way. It was hard to believe that one man could have coped adequately with the volume. When at last Thomas could do no more, his eyes and head ached and his hand was shaking from holding the quill.
Early the next morning he struggled awake to answer a knock on his door. It was Silas. ‘Good morning, sir. Master Fletcher asks that you join him at the gatehouse. I’ve just taken him there.’
‘Do you know why, Silas?’
‘He said something about seeing the town.’
‘But he can’t see.’
‘I know, sir. That’s why he wants you.’
Torn between duty and pleasure, Thomas had no difficulty in choosing pleasure. Another diversion, and Abraham’s company was always good. He pulled on a thick shirt and followed Silas to the gatehouse, where Abraham was waiting for him. There was an early-autumn chill in the air and the old man wore a heavy cloak and a hat. ‘Good morning, Abraham,’ called Thomas as he approached. ‘I gather you want a walk around the town.’
‘I do. And I need you to accompany me to make sure I don’t fall into any drains. I have enough problems without being covered in shit.’
‘I should be delighted, although I have had no breakfast and my pile of papers is a foot tall.’ Thomas took Abraham’s elbow and guided him out of the college. ‘Is there anywhere in particular you would like to go?’
‘Around the meadow and by the river, along High Street and into a college. I want to find out if I can tell which one it is by the sounds and smells.’
‘Very well. Let us be off.’
They made their way cautiously down St Aldate’s as far as the entrance to Christ Church Meadow, where they turned in and walked towards the river on the other side. Here the sounds were of the comings and goings of soldiers and townsfolk about their business. Men and women were cleaning and polishing the long lines of artillery pieces. I suppose a clean cannon must be more deadly than a dirty one, thought Thomas. More impressive, anyway. Some thirty yards from the river bank, they stopped.
‘I can hear the river and I can smell it,’ said Abraham. ‘How is it looking today?’
‘It’s running slowly. The level is low.’
‘I thought so. The sound is gentle. Last winter it was running very fast down to the Thames.’
They walked along the bank, neither man saying much, until Abraham stopped again. ‘Last night, I had a premonition of impending death. It rather frightened me, Thomas. That’s why I asked you to accompany me this morning. I feel it might be the last time I leave the college.’