The Work of The Devil

By Ken Hudson

London 1641: The first revolution by the people for the people is about to begin. The showdown between cavaliers and roundheads is coming to a head. Patrick Growsby is a printer's devil. His writing ability is discovered by his employer Samuel Marmite and is featured in Marmite's fledgling newspaper 'The Speculator'. Patrick soon finds himself embroiled in the street riots and begins the first investigative journalism. By telling the truth he is hunted by the authorities and is also the ultimate target of a series of ritual murders. To survive he must solve the riddle of the killings and avoid the forces of the Crown hell-bent on silencing him and the newssheet.
Growsby has one ace up his sleeve – he is the world's most forgettable character ... nobody remembers or even recognises him! When he is given the pen-name of The Devil his writing looks set to swing the people and the balance of power to his side. But which side will that be?
In a roller-coaster romp, told in the style of the times, through the streets, taverns, waterways and whorehouses of London Patrick Growsby learns that there are no winners and losers or heroes and villains when it comes to a country tearing itself apart. With the help of the cheeky Edward and the homicidal beauty Ethus he bluffs and tricks his way through a Dickensian array of lords, cavaliers, villains, soldiers, whores, puritans, parliamentarians, mummers and Winkle Nelly, the disgusting scavenger of London Bridge. Anticipating the picaresque world of Tom Jones, Joseph Andrews and Moll Flanders, The Work of The Devil is a 130,000 word adventure full of the sounds, sights and smells of a crowded city bursting with life and ready to explode into revolution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Hudson
• Release date: Nov 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9780473310073

Ken Hudson

I was born in London quite some time ago. My family emigrated to New Zealand when I was 12. A small but rather beautiful country, New Zealand is tucked away in the south Pacific. Christchurch, my city, suffered two devastating earthquakes in 2010-2011. The centre of the city was almost completely wiped out so we currently live in a donut. Life is still good however in this laid-back place where people treat very seriously their leisure time and their coffee.I first thought of a novel about roundheads far too many years ago. In the meantime I met quite a lot of success as a playwright and prose took a back seat. I have a fascination with social history and the moods of the ages. In my musical Till The Boys Come Home I used songs from WWII to provide the emotion for the various war years. Each song was used in its year of release. More recently I wrote another musical Pounamu Cut that contrasts European and Maori values over a road that is about to cut through a major greenstone (nephrite jade, called pounamu in Maori and a spiritual treasure) deposit. Set in 1870 it again uses songs accurate to the time.I live with my wife Marie-Gabrielle and our chocolate Labrador, Poppy. Currently I am teaching at a high school – English and Drama, of course!

Book preview

The Work of The Devil

***

Ken Hudson

WindRise

Christchurch

Copyright © 2014 Ken Hudson

All rights reserved

The writer asserts his moral right to be recognised as the author of this work.

Epub ISBN 978-0-473-31007-3

Cover illustration from

Panorama of London by Claes Van Visscher, 1616

{PD-old-100}

Introduction

In creating a chronicle of Roundheads and Cavaliers I wanted to find a different viewpoint that would encapsulate the particular insanity that comes out in a civil war. In this one battle lines were never simple, allegiances impossible to predict. All was sound and fury and, in the end, signified nothing except a brief flirtation with a ‘commonwealth’ which was in reality a dictatorship that none mourned when the staus quo was restored.

One lasting legacy of the conflict was journalism. It began as the clash began, and here was my viewpoint. Most writers of the time indulged in propaganda. What would have happened, I wondered, if someone had simply told the truth? More, if they tried to discover the truth? Patrick Growsby was such a person and thus became the world's first investigative journalist.

For style I looked to the times. Writing as an old man in 1685 Patrick is contemporary with Samuel Pepys and anticipates the picaresque style of Henry Fielding, Daniel Defoe and others. Indeed, The Work of The Devil could be seen as the first English novel!

To lend some air of authenticity I did not wish to use any words that were not in existence at the time Growsby was writing. To aid in this I turned to Douglas Harper's excellent Online Etymology Dictionary. It became my constant companion. I was genuinely surprised by the number of words that could be traced back to before the novel was written and the dictionary has earned my eternal gratitude. There may be a few later words that snuck in but for the most part the vocabulary can be seen to be authentic, even to the extent of old and out of date usages and expressions, especially if they added to the fun.

Many, many online historical sources were also consulted. This is an age of vast information stores just a few clicks away. I hope I have used this storehouse well.

Prologue

When Scotland’s James I became king of England he had a very different idea of power than the English. He believed he was God-appointed to rule absolutely. English tradition held that power was shared between the monarch and parliament. In particular, parliament grasped the purse strings and was the only body charged with taxes and revenue.

In 1611 James ran out of patience and suspended parliament. It didn't meet again for ten years. He used his friends to run the country, rewarding them with titles and lands. Resentment built up and when James recalled parliament in 1621 the relationship was worse than ever.

James died in 1625 and was succeeded by his son Charles. Short, slight and with a stammer, Charles was the second son and became heir only because of his elder brother's untimely death. Weak and insecure, Charles blamed parliament for the stress on his father. He was an even stronger believer in the divine right of kings – possibly because he was not a natural leader.

Arguments with parliament grew worse and in 1629 he padlocked Westminster Hall and ruled under the royal prerogative for 11 years. His various attempts to raise money caused outrage.

Charles also managed to upset the Scots, so much so that he was forced to recall parliament in late 1640. It did not take long for a vicious power struggle to develop. Charles was High Anglican and seen as a Catholic sympathiser, parliament was controlled by puritan factions. They forced the king to agree that parliament could only be dismissed if it agreed, and that his right-hand men, Laud and Strafford, be tried for treason. They were both executed and the king was determined to exact revenge.

All through this period intrigue, influence and the London mob played a key role. It also coincided with the development of the first newspapers – part news, mostly propaganda but immensely popular as the citizens

craved information.

By 1641 a showdown between king and parliament was inevitable. Given their respective hardline views, there would be no backing down. The big question was what side would the people support?

Those who controlled information controlled hearts. They were the front line of revolution.

For

Marie-Gabrielle

PART 1

The Autumn in which The Devil shows his Works

Chapter 1

I wish it to be known, dear reader, that the events that I hereby relate may never have come to light had it not been for the fact of my entirely indistinguished looks. It is not that I am pig ugly. I have no deformity of features or body. Nay; neither am I offensively tall nor discomfortingly short. I have a complete absence of moles, pimples, scarring, even freckles. My nose tends to the aquiline with slightly over-flared nostrils. My mouth is, perhaps, a little too full and my childhood habit of keeping my mouth slightly open has persisted long after my maturing. My chin falls away rather too quickly for any claim of nobility. My eyes are, I am told, serious without being brooding, and although a dark brown, lack any sinister or disturbing countenance. My brows are full but well shaped, my forehead is almost flat, and my hair has too much determination for curling to be in any way styled for whatever fashion may be current.

I am not particularly grotesque. I am not in any way handsome. I am remarkable only in that I am average; so average as a matter of point that I am completely forgettable.

It is something I have grown used to over the years. My schoolmasters could never remember my name. I was left off any lists for teams or triumphs. I always pursued friends, never they me. Even my family would sometimes overlook me: birthdays were a matter of supreme suspense. Would they be remembered? I could not take offense. My lack of presence was too universal for that. If I were in a small crowd of six people, witnesses would later swear that there were only five.

I did not particularly mind my situation. I considered it to be not only time-honoured but immutable. There was a period, thankfully brief, when I raised my hopes for romance and perhaps a healthy lust, but in order for someone to be attractive to the opposing gender they must first be noticeable. So while other young bulls met, conquered and sometimes married the maidens of their choice, I took more and more to my studies, telling myself that such things were a distraction, nothing more.

I was, at the age of thirteen, indentured as a printer’s devil to Samuel Marmite, Esq. Gentleman of the Eleanor Cross area of London. Marmite’s Printers and Stationers was one of the larger establishments and provided general printing services to many establishments in the affluent parts of the city. Samuel Marmite himself was exceedingly well connected, being a member of three gentlemen’s clubs as well as a regular sitter at the card tables of titled personages. As such he was always assured a regular and loyal clientele. That loyalty had been tested of late when Samuel followed the latest trend and started a broadsheet: ‘The Speculator’. It was rumoured among many that Samuel had become somewhat bored with the ease of his business and, missing the thrills of the unpredictable, sought to encourage it. The Speculator was his answer. He used it to stir rumour about those very people he rubbed shoulders with at clubs and around gaming tables. It was also remarked the Samuel Marmite, Esq. had been of recent times walking with a decided spring in his step.

But I race ahead of myself. I spent my long days at the printery performing my duties as diligently as I knew. The process of printing begins with the compositor assembling the individual cast letters into a chaise that the printer feeds under the press. From the compositor comes the style; from the printer comes the skill in the evenness of ink coverage and crispness of impression. Once the printing process begins the devils come into their own, providing the necessary bulk of the labour for the systematic steps that keep the press pulling. When the impression is completed it is the devil’s job to clean off the press, wipe down the chaise and dis (or put away) the hand set type. While this is happening, the apprentice is also given training in the journeyman arts so that upon completion the apprentice will become a master in turn. For this privilege the family of the novice will pay handsome sum to the printer and the lad will be a virtual slave for five or more years.

As I mentioned previously, I was a hard-working devil. In that I was not alone, for all the apprentices at Marmite’s – and the many other print houses – were of the same disposition, Indeed, we had little choice for beatings were commonplace across all trades. The printing houses, however, differed from other trade houses in two ways. One was the amount of free time allowed to devils and the other was the high level of remuneration enjoyed by qualified journeymen. The Chapel system ensured an impenetrable phalanx to the employers across the land. So high were the rates of pay that many printers, especially those in rural areas, were unable to employ full time tradesmen. They would be called in once a backlog of orders had reached the point where it became economical; hence the name of journeyman.

While other lads made the most of their free time and attracted the local lasses, I spent mine improving my education, especially in the crafting of words. Such diligence attracted the attention of the supervisor and through him of Samuel Marmite himself. This led to a change in my fortunes, which led to the work of The Devil.

It was a completely unremarkable day, a mild Saturday morn in the farewell to summer of the year of out Lord 1641. I was, as usual, mucked up to just below the elbows with residual black ink.

‘Blogley!’ The voice was unmistakeably that of the proprietor. ‘Blogley! Where the devil are you?’

‘Here, Sir Samuel’ called Mister Blogley, the print shop supervisor, from within the privy. Vivian Blogley, or Blogger to us devils, was as old as the Thames and just as reeking. He had some form of disease of the innards (the subject of much speculation) which found him so frequently sitting on the privy that we christened his favourite seat the Blog Bog. I have no doubt that our employer was well aware of Blogley’s habits but he was as much a fixture within the building as the press itself, and his habit of addressing mister Marmite as ‘Sir’ was as amusing and flattering as it was inaccurate. Our employer believed that nothing would be more justified nor deserved than his being bestowed with that title.

‘Blogley, get your breeches hitched and get out here.’

‘Coming, Sir Samuel.’

‘Dammee, Blogley, I swear blind you are the only creature in God’s good earth who can allow out ten times what is allowed in.’

‘Sorry, Sir-‘

‘Never mind that. Look at this. What do you make of it?’ He held in his hand a sheath of papers instantly recognisable to me. My cheeks flushed. ‘Do we have some scribe I know nothing about?’ He continued. ‘I’ve never seen these scribblings before.’

‘Let me see, said Blog the Bog and studied the pages intently. ‘This is a diary. We have never printed a diary in my memory. What of The Speculator?’

‘Never. I’ll never have some cursed journalist ruining my news paper. I presume I am paying a salary for this?’

‘I don’t know, I’m sure. Let me see, is there a name attached?’

‘Not that I can see.’

‘I don’t recognise the writing.’ I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Actually,’ Blogley continued, ‘This is quite good. Have you read any of this?’

‘What? Of course I have!’

‘No I mean really read it, without worrying about the shillings and pence of the thing. It is really very good.’

‘Er, ah... pass me something.’ Blogley divided the sheaf roughly in half and passed the bottom pile to our employer. There was some silence for a short while, then, like a will o’ the wisp they began to chuckle.

‘Oh yes. Oh I say.’

‘Very apt. Very true.’

‘Hah! Good shot!’ The chuckling grew and turned into a whirling wind of amused exchanges. ‘I know him, Blogley. I know this chap. This writer has unerring aim.’

‘Read this! Oh yes, this is priceless.’

My writings, in the style of a diarist, were sometime observations about the activities in the street outside, a street within the spokes of Westminster and therefore a constant swirl of movement. I chronicled the shopkeepers, merchants, peddlars, hawkers, and popinjays; the gentle, the grotesque, the ladies grand, gross and loose, and the protesters, puritans, parliamentarians, bishops, bumpkins and more. I had an eye for detail and was able to poke fun at many of the established personages of the area.

‘Seems like we have ourselves a genuine wit in the establishment’ pronounced my employer. ‘But who the devil is it?’ I decided the situation could be advantageous to me so I though it time to speak up. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’

‘Yes, what, what?’

‘I am the author of those papers.’

‘You are?’

‘Indeed. I amuse myself with these observations in the evenings; to improve my expression.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr Marmite, who then turned to Blogley. ‘Who the devil is this?’

Blogger turned his full attention on me. He gazed me up and down, his face registering mystery followed by a brief flush of recognition which was quickly wiped away in the fog of mystery. ‘Who are you?’

‘Growsby, sir. Patrick Growsby.’

They looked at each other blank-faced, each waiting on the other for enlightenment.

‘Who?’ vetured Blogley, as if he had misunderstood.

‘What did he say? Who is he?’ demanded Mr Marmite in that arrogant way some have of placing responsibility on those beneath them.

Blogley had no choice but to abandon politeness. ‘Who ARE you, Growsby?’

‘I am apprenticed here,’ I explained.

‘Ah!’ said Blogley.

‘Ah!’ agreed Mr Marmite. ‘You are?’

I nodded.

‘Since when?’ questioned Blogley.

‘Four and a half years.’

‘Truly? Are you sure?

‘I believe I am sir. It has been my honour to be a part of this establishment since I was thirteen years of age.’

‘What did you say your name is?’

‘Patrick Growsby, sir?’

‘Ah.’

‘Do you remember him?’ Mr Marmite asked of the Blogger.

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘Same here.’

‘It is of no weight,’ I announced. ‘I seem to have a particular talent for being overlooked.’

‘Yes, but... but... Are you positive you are employed here?’ Blogley challenged.

‘If not, why am I up to my elbows in the afternoon edition’s residue?’

‘Huh,’ chortled Mr Marmite, ‘Snookered, by Hera. Corner pocket!’

‘Well, er, Growsby. You have been hiding your light.’

‘Thank you, Mister Blogley sir.’

‘But what’s to be done with you?’

‘How do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Well, I mean, what would happen if every apprentice devil in the place took it upon himself to be a scribe? Nothing would ever get done. It was generally acknowledged that Blogley was responsible for the welfare and conduct of the apprentices. Because he was also an employee he needed to be seen to take charge. ‘No, young lad. It will not do. Not do at all.’

I glanced down, shamefaced and as I did so, noticed that my leg had begun trembling. I felt a shiver down my back and wondered if I would not then and there suffer an attack of the vapours. It was shame I felt; shame at the imminent dismissal crouching behind the supervisor’s words. My dear father had paid a handsome sum, considerably more than the family could afford, to ensure my indenture at the print shop. Now I would have to announce that I had let him down, brought shame on the family name, and all for the sake of greed. Yes, greed. Greed for knowledge beyond my schooling. Greed for skills beyond my station. Now I was to face up to my fatal flaws and so suffer the humiliating consequence the only consequence, the inevitable consequence.

‘Splendid!’ yelled my employer.

‘Sir Samuel?’ Blogley was taken aback.

‘The lad is splendid. Listen to this: ‘Is is not that I would readily describe Mister A in nautical terms, but the comparison is inevitable. Nor is it odious, for Mister A is infused with odour. In short, he smells of fish. He begins in a resting state with the miasma of cod or perhaps salmon, but as he exerts himself he exudes stronger species, herring or winkles or even cockles.’ Ha! It’s Ambrose, the fishmonger. And he does. He does!’

‘Be that as may be...’

‘Wait, there is more. ‘Poor Mister A. It were bad enough if his only connection to the sea were his smell, but the man actually looks like a fish, with grumpy mouth and gill-like jowls. A fish indeed, and a bottom dweller too.’ What do you say to that. He’s got the feller cold. Cold as a fish Huh, huh!’

‘Indeed sir. But yet...’

‘Yet what, man?’

‘Yet his duties are...’

‘Whatever I say they are, dammit. If the lad is doing this in his own time...’

‘Oh sir,’ I rushed in. ‘It is, I assure you.’

‘There you are, you see.’ Decided Mr Marmite.

‘But...’ The conversation would have continued in this fashion for the remainder of the afternoon and my fate would in no manner have been assured. Mister Blogley was after my hide (Mister Marmite was after – I knew not what – but clearly I could amuse him) but Blog the Bog lived up to his name and was forced to retreat to the privy once more.

My employer leaned toward me in a conspiratorial manner. ‘Listen to me, young... young...’

‘Growsby.’

‘Growsby. Are you sure you are part of my establishment?’

‘God’s honour.’

‘Remarkable. Now listen, Growsby. How often do you make these jottings?’

‘I call them sketches, sir.’

‘Do you indeed. Well you are under my roof, your future comes from my pocket, so they are jottings.’

‘In that case, sir, I find time for my jottings perhaps four hours each week. A complete ‘jot’ such as you hold will be completed each fortnight.’

‘Yes, and how much of the street have you recorded?’

‘Perhaps a tenth, Just those establishments viewable from my dormitory window.’

‘Well I want you to jot down the whole street. The whole thing, mind. Do not concern yourself with Blogley. I shall inform him as necessary. What do you say? Are you the man for it?

What could I say? It was a dream come true. The printer published its share of farthing fictions: short and silly stories that were phenomenally popular. The writers, under appropriate pen-names, were earning a high degree of popularity as well as approbrium from the puritanical; fiction of any sort, theatre especially but including the novel story type, were the voice of sin. ‘Certainly, Mister Marmite, sir. It would be my singular honour.’

‘Capital. Capital. You may begin by ridding yourself of that word.’

‘Which would that be?’

‘’Singular’. Ridiculous affectation.’

‘But-‘

‘I am a publisher. As such I detest censorship. I’ll never tell any man what to write. I am also your employer and I’ll be damned if I have to put up with annoyances. So I believe I can tell a man what not to write.’ I had no wish at that moment to point out that he had exactly defined censorship. I decided on discretion. I had already won a significant victory.

Blogger approached me some time later and informed me that our proprietor had told him of my new duties and that I would henceforth be allowed to finish my cleaning duties forty minutes earlier each evening to permit me to conduct my jottings. I pointed out that I would need to investigate the length of the street during the daytime bustle. He hemmed for a while then decided that I could take one hour during the morning’s compositing, and before the press was ready for impressions, provided that I begin the day one hour earlier. I was not sure what would be expected of me in that time, since I would be beginning the day ahead of anyone else, but I thought I could perhaps use the time to continue with my street reflections.

The street in which Marmite’s Printers and Stationers (‘Publishers of The Authorised Bible, The Speculator and Other Trusty Opinions and also numerous Fictions.’) occupied a double frontage on what was called Wales’ Walk. It ran at an acute angle west from one of the early Eleanor Cross thoroughfares, which had undoubtedly been in existence for as long as London itself. That cannot be said of Wales’ Walk. The street received its name from nightly route taken by Llwelyn the Last, in point of fact the first recognised Prince of Wales as he took to the countryside – some said to a tryst cottage – for his health and wellbeing while being entertained in the city by King Henry III. Unfortunately for Llewelyn his title (and his life) was taken from him fifteen years later when Edward I invaded that ancient principality and decided that the Welsh crown belonged to his own son and heir. The district centred around a cross erected by that same Edward in memory of his elegant French wife.

The adjoining street almost certainly dated to the Roman times. If was, according to general understanding, to have been the pathway to the nearby Cerring encampment, following that Roman custom of discouraging troops from occupying and disturbing the peace of the citizens in Londinium proper. The corner with Wales’ Walk was occupied by an Inn – The Trembling Fletcher – in the cellar of which, if one looked carefully enough, could be seen Latin inscriptions within the flagstones and which, amongst other things, noted that ‘The Epping Skins of Mead Are to Be Examined With A Particular Care’. On the other corner was a private dwelling, clearly less than a century old yet built upon a stone apron that was also first set in place at the time of the Legions.

The spread of London was mirrored in the development of Wales’ Walk. As one progressed along the street the buildings became ever more youthful and a student of history and architecture would see similarities in the development of the Walk with the rings of a tree. Time saw the city expand, and expansion added more and more addresses to the Walk so that it now extended some three chains.

Entering Wales’ Walk around that well-established corner involved no little fight through a noisome throng. A hundred voices competed for attention. Some called out for alms, some offered all manner of wares from foods to ribbons. Others offered themselves for rent – as workers, prostitutes or notaries. Others cursed as water, rubbish and the occasional pisspot were emptied from upper windows. More urgent were the calls to ‘make way’ from those hurrying by – on horseback, in carriage or sedan. There were ornate chevaliers on the King’s business, their own business or simply of an opinion that their affairs, no matter how trivial, were of much greater import than those around them. It was to be observed that there were almost none of a social standing or merchant wealth that would travel the Walk at this end. Carriages and sedans were no mere affectation. The street was awash with waste food, water, straw, animal dung and piss. In addition to the many horses, it was not uncommon to see sheep, goats or pigs herded along the street. For those who could afford it, the ability to avoid treading through this combined muck had much to recommend it.

To the great noise on the street was added the laughter, insults, banter, threats and more from those within the shops or The Trembling Fletcher, or those who like to share a joke or a bawdy comment from second or third storey windows, for these were substantial buildings befitting the city. Finally there were animal noises: chickens in cages, ducks scavenging on the street, gulls from the nearby river. Finally there was an incessant barking of dogs. They seemed to accompany every second traveller or stood guard at every doorway. As much as an Inn is the meeting place of humanity so it is also a meeting place for their hounds. They were a means for work and for wagering. Baiting, racing, rat catching ... dogs were as valuable as they were ubiquitous.

As one leaves the corner and moves west down Wales’ Walk one steadily leaves the chaos behind. The Walk moves from commerce to gentility then finally to rural peace and quiet, for Wales’ Walk could be seen as an exitway from the city, except that there is finally a very thick, large copse at the end, of interest to very few. The commercial establishments at the eastern end similarly moved from roughness to gentility. They included, in approximate order, crossing and re-crossing the Walk, a smithy, tanner, fishmonger, butcher and smoker, spicery, coach builder, and furniture and casket maker. Sitting in the sun were half a dozen maidens making lace outside a millinery establishment. They were engaging in light-hearted banter with three loose women across the road; loose in morals and loose in clothing, as if somehow the one complimented the other, one never being entirely certain which was guiding which. The next house of trade was, curiously, a timekeeper’s workshop ... but perhaps not so curious, for accurate time keeping is the cornerstone of many a profession.

It was here that the professions did indeed begin to make a regular appearance. Leading them was an apothecary (which, once again, was all-too fortunately positioned), a barber and surgeon, a notary, our own establishment, a chandlery, several men of laws, a puritan chapel, a somewhat mysterious menagerie of scribes, notaries, architects and draughtsmen, a doctor of medicine, the first of four gentlemen’s clubs, several residences and finally a thinning of habitation as cottages mingled with gardens, grazing fields and then the aforementioned copse. These were newer constructions, for as one travelled down the Walk so one saw a progression from a mishmash of straw brick and stone, through to exposed beam and whitewashed facades to the recent flirtation with brick & stone and formal frontages.

Hidden behind a surprising number of the frontages were the multitude of games and contests that would sometimes win and almost always lose small fortunes. From the gaming tables in the more genteel west end establishments to the rough and raucous arenas and pits in the cellars and back yards of the eastern trade houses, the preoccupation with gambling was everywhere. This was all to the complete disdain of those pious souls who made daily journeys to the puritan chapel, on fine days running the gauntlet of gents spilling from The Trembling Fletcher and the lacemakers and bodice looseners sitting outside and ready to demonstrate their coarse (but exceedingly effective) wit.

Samuel Marmite’s occupied a one hundred and fifty year old former coaching stop. From my window I could see and report perhaps thirty yards in either direction. I could see neither the corner, nor the chapel, nor the lacemakers. To fulfil my employer’s request would involve daily trips and well-planned observations. Since it was closer, I decide to begin with the corner closest to the Cross – in actuality a medieval excess of carved stone that looked like nothing so much as a disembodied spire from some great abbey. That was, perhaps, the intention: a magnificent tribute to not only a much adored queen but also a statement of England’s belief in its rights to large tracts of French territory. The Trembling Fletcher would provide a convenient and comfortable base from which to observe the rush of city life and, more importantly, the regulars to that establishment.

It quickly became my practice to take a slice of peas pie and some bread each midday and occupy a small table close to the great bay windows that, along with a stone fireplace so large it had its own stone benches within, were the most prominent features of the inn’s ground floor. There I would order a pot of ale and sit quite contentedly with my note papers, inkpot and quill on the table and my food hidden in my lap. This was a simple and effective ruse, until the fourth day.

‘Ello, some sorta author are we, luv?’ The voice came from the sweet and petite girl who previously served my ale and had obviously been glancing my way.

‘Oh,’ I replied, ‘The paper and quill?’

‘No ducks, the bread and pie you keeps hidden betwixt your legs.’

‘I don’t-’

‘I wouldn’t waste me breath, my luvvy. I’ve been a-watchin you for a couple of days now. You has a sip, dips your pen, makes a quick look round the room then dips your head quick like and comes up chewing. Can’t afford our food; sits on ’is ale; ink and paper, there you ’as it.’

I could not help but smile. ‘How long,’ I enquired, ‘Did I get away with it?’

‘Sorry, ducks?’

‘I asked how long I got away with it for.’

‘Oh.’ She scratched her ear. ‘About ten minutes, I ’spect.’

‘Crumbs,’ I said. She laughed and tossed her head back in a way that brought an immediate flush to my cheeks.

‘That would ’ave done it, even if I ’adn’t spotted you. You’ve been leaving a right old pile of crumbs each time you leaves.’ I could not avoid looking alarmed. ‘Don’t fret yourself, ducks, I swept ’em away quick-like. You can trust Ethus to keep your secret.’

Ethus (or Ethelbertus as I later learned: a proud – and mistaken – Saxon name chosen by her father who thought it a way to ward of ‘foreign muck’; even with her accent she insisted on pronouncing the ‘th’ with intense correctness) was in my opinion a radiant beauty. Perhaps not to others but I was quite young, very shy, and reacted warmly to anyone who actually noticed me, smelled of rosewater and seemed, to my inexperienced heart, to be flirting with me.

‘But why-?’

‘Why not turn you in? That’s easy. Wizzles is a pig.’ She was referring to William Wizzley, the owner of the establishment. He was one of the first subjects for my latest jotting. I had summed him up as ‘wize in name but wanting in every other ways except sustenance. He had a girth that would challenge the most skilled tailor.’ For some reason, Ethus’ simple nickname summed him up so much more effectively than my half page of scribblings.

‘A pig?’ I asked, quill at the ready.

‘A right porker. Ee’s as tight as a drum, an’ steals our wages. Honest. ’Ee expects us to carry three tankards in each ’and an’ if we so much as spills a drop ’ee takes it out wot ’ee owes us. Three tankards ... in these ’ands.’ She held her slim hands and slender fingers close to my face and I thought them the finest hands I had ever seen. I even managed to look beyond the scaly knuckles, in-ground dirt and cracked nails. I looked up. Her stunningly raven hair cascaded down the sides of her pale cheeks, brushed with only just too much rouge. Her lips were narrow but friendly. They were painted a red so deep they seemed almost velvet. But all this was but a frame to hazel eyes that shone with youth, life, innocence, knowledge and experience in equal measure. I found I could not help but say:

’Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,

Woods or steeply mountain yields...’

‘Wotjasay ducks?’ Ethus said, absent-mindedly picking something from out of her ear. ‘My ’earing ain’t so great anymore.’

‘I know someone who can help there,’ I said, thinking of Cutter the barber.

‘I ain’t ’aving no leeches. Conzie ’ad that ’an they left a terrible smear across her cheek.’ Conzie – Consuela – was another serving maid at The Trembling Fletcher.

‘I wouldn’t send you to no – any – doctor. I know a barber and surgeon who could clean out your ears in no time at all.’

‘Really? Well I never.’

‘Ethus!’ The shout came from a short man large in girth but small of breath. Every sentence he uttered finished with an audible ‘huf-huf’ as he recovered from the exertion of talking. His face was a study in apoplexy. If he were buried to his neck in fertile soil he would for the entire world pass for a beetroot.

‘Oh ’eck. Wizzles is after me. You stay here, but keeps your food well hid. You might have to go ’ungry for a bit.’

‘I think I can manage that,’ I chuckled.

‘Ethus! Get yer backside over ’ere. Look after the payin’ customers, not yer sittin’ sippers.’

‘Sittin sippers?’ I wondered?

‘That’s you, ducks. Buy one then sit and sip it for the rest of the day. Don’t worry. ’ee never wallops the customers, only us servants. Wots your name?’ I told her. ‘Well, Pat. Will I see year tomorrow?’

‘The devil himself wouldn’t keep me away.’

‘Just as you please,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for you. Bye for now,’ she said and was gone in a swish of skirts leaving a rosewater scent hanging on the empty air. I looked at her going into the server. There was a raised apoplectic voice then I saw a hand raised and strike down. I fumed. I wanted to rush in there and give the bully a good thrashing. The reasons I didn’t were both simple and basic: I am exceedingly bad at thrashing anybody, and the inn employed two toughs who’s only duty was to intervene in any altercation then forcibly eject the trouble-makers – in this case me. I proceeded to do what I was becoming skilled at. I jotted down a particularly vicious description of Wizzles and then compared the twin toughs to a pair of well worn boots: ‘Nothing much higher than the gutter in which they truly belong’. Not really feeling any the better, indeed feeling rather ashamed, I finished my ale and returned to my primary employment. As I get up and left, though, I derived enormous satisfaction from sprinkling all my bread crumbs on the wooden floorboards. That, I thought, would teach him.

As I returned to the print house I was almost entangled in a noisy demonstration. Most of the crowd consisted of apprentice boys. They were easily identifiable from the very short hairstyle popular amongst them. Indeed, a number were bald shaven. When I returned, I mentioned to Blogger about the crowd. ‘Gettin’ ready to march on Westminster’ he said. ‘Protesting about taxes.’ Although it didn’t make much sense to me, I knew better than to enquire further. Presently Mr Marmite came in, full of puff and indignation.

‘Damnable hypocrites, the lot of ’em!’ he fumed. ‘Wagering a guinea on every horse.’

‘Sir Samuel?’ asked Blogger.

‘Those bobbins at the Club. Huh! Parliament in an uproar over the King’s latest tax, so they send their apprentices out to protest, all the while double-bowing the courtiers to improve themselves in the eyes of the palace.’ Mr Marmite’s acquaintances at the City Angler’s Club – the second-most imposing in Wales’ Walk – were mostly merchants who were seeking any and all means to improve their social circles. Most were to be identified by the ostentatious Bucks Point bobbin-lace they wore on overlarge collars, cuffs and the tops of their boots. Some wore the plain and austere rounded collars of the puritanical Christians who mixed the benefits of true protestant business habits with the pleasures of the City Angler’s Club: good food, wine, wagering and the sheer delight of mutual self congratulation. ‘This is something for The Speculator, by God.’

‘Are you certain, Sir Samuel?’ cautioned Blogger. He knew, more than any, that The Speculator was Marmite’s outlet for an impish desire to stir the pot of complacency. It could also, if he were not careful, be the instrument of his social downfall. ‘I would advise caution.’

‘What? Yes, mayhap you are right. What we need is a spy, someone who can join with the apprentices and not be noticed.’ I cleared my throat noisily.

‘Yes’ said Blogger, ‘That would be the sensible course. Someone who could construct a picture, gradually, quietly.’ I could not keep still. I decided on a very loud cough, voicing my name as I did so: ‘Growsby.’

‘Growsby? ... Growsby!’ said Mr Marmite.

‘Who?’

‘That jotter chap, one of your devils. A perfect fit, by God. Where is he?’

‘Right behind you sir’ I ventured.

‘Suffer me, where did you come from?’

‘I have been here the whole time.’

‘You have? Dammee that is an individual talent you have, to be sure. Get you along to that demonstration, find out what you may then report back to me and we’ll see what is to be done.’

‘But Sir Samuel-‘ Blogger began.

‘What is it man?’

‘He has duties here.’

‘Dammit Blogley, You have been too long away from the privy. Can you not see that this is far more important?’ he asked, then turned to me. ‘You can perform your duties to make up the time. Yes?’

‘Er... yes, I imagine I shall.’

‘All settled. Off you go then! Not a moment to lose. Bustle! Bustle!’

Chapter 2

Hastily taking my leave I rushed down the Walk. The demonstration had not moved very far from The Trembling Fletcher. The seriousness of a demonstration is in perfect measure to the sense of injustice felt by those protesting. In this case it was very little. For the apprentices, released from their daily drudgery, it was more like a lark. They were in a spirited mood and laughed and joked accordingly. They were also basking in unprecedented freedom since there were no overseers and for perhaps the first time in their lives they could act with complete ease. That turned, naturally, to drink. In truth, the demonstration had not moved at all; the sympathies of the roundheaded throng choosing ale over political protests. I found that my own duty would be best served by partaking of a tankard. This was an unfortunate decision. I had recently imbibed to my usual limit and the extra soon began scrambling my senses. There was, however, the thrill of meeting with Ethus again.

When she appeared I was quite shocked. She had a swollen lip and a rapidly bruising cheek. ‘’Ello, luv,’ she said bravely. ‘Twice in one afternoon. You want to watch that. This place can be the ruin of many a good man.’

‘What has he done to you?’

‘Wossat?’ she managed a half-dismissive smile.

‘Your face! What did he do