In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(35)
As they took the turn at Honey Lane, they were again stopped by a gaggle of commoners. The horses pawed the ground, but no one in the crowd paid them mind. Rose lifted the curtain drawn round the litter ever so slightly, fighting back the duststorm that rose to meet her. The stink was overpowering with no curtain to filter it. The city streets stank of beer and urine and of unwashed bodies sweating in the August heat. The usual heat in August was not bad, but the drought that had cursed them took with it all the comforts of summer. There was no relief, not from the poor and their odours, nor for the farmers and their crops. Stalls should have lined this street with vendors selling the early harvest, blackberries being here by now, cheeses and herbs. Nothing lined the street today except these dread people and some amusement parading before them that had stopped them all dead in the street.
Rose leaned out of the litter, lifting herself a bit to see what amused them, and how long this delay would last. Margaret peered out the other side.
“Margaret! Stay inside!” Rose called to her.
Both women strained for a good view above the crowd. A group of men and women were being led down the street, their hands tied behind them, each with a bundle of wood tucked into their grasp. Their faces were red and pocked, ravaged by disease once and ravaged again by something new, some unknown shame. After them came several men on horseback, but it took Rose a moment to comprehend this sight, for the men rode backwards, and on their backs was painted a placard describing their crime. Rose tried to work the letters, but it was hard to read with the signs being jostled and the letters written in a loose hand.
She stopped and ducked back into the litter, grabbing Margaret and pulling her in.
Margaret did not look well. Perhaps the stench and heat were too much for her. She looked for a cotton veil Margaret could wear, one with tiny holes cut for the eyes. It would give her another layer of protection.
But Margaret did not want to wear it. She told Rose to stop. “Rose, why don’t we shop for our fabric on another day? The heat is too much for me.”
Rose would have consented, but she saw that Margaret was not sweating much. Her face was not flushed with red, but was instead pale and distant, as if the oppression came from within. Rose began to be nervous, her stomach pierced through by darts of panic.
“Who were those people, Margaret? You could read the signs; I could not.”
Margaret cut her cold stare from the flapping curtain back to Rose.
“They were heretics, Rose, guilty of owning one of the books Father has banned. The wood they carry is the wood that will be used to light the fires at Smithfield, the fire that will burn them to death if they commit the same offense again.”
“But they did not read it? They are condemned for owning it?” Rose wondered that those men and women she saw could read; not many could, even among the nobility and clergy.
“Owning it is the same as reading it, Rose. Father and Wolsey, they say a book can infect a house with a thousand devils even if the words are not loosed.”
The litter broke free and the women lurched forward, startled by the sudden return to the journey. Rose lost the question that was next on her tongue, and Margaret said nothing else. She still did not look well. They arrived in short order at Goodwife Grisham’s fabric shop. The store was hard to find, tucked between the rows of shops on Honey Lane, but once inside, Rose was glad to be free of the streets and crowds. The air in here was better, from dyes made of flowers, clean cottons, linens, and rich damasks. There were fabrics hanging along the walls to display their patterns, great bolts of fabric stacked on tables and against benches, and fabrics lining the stairs that led to what Rose supposed was the workroom. Tailors bustled up and down the stairs, checking the books that were opened to numbers and names, often grabbing fabric when they went back upstairs.
A fabric caught her eye, a deep navy with swirls of gold and a leaping unicorn flying through the inky folds. A woman, sweating heavily and taking generous slurps from a pot of beer, bustled towards them.
“Mistress Margaret! Child, dear one, lovey, come in, come in! What ye be needing today, hmm? What ye be needing, love?”
Rose wondered if the woman always repeated herself or if the beer and the heat were poor bedfellows.
“Goodwife Grisham! ’Tis so good to see you again,” Margaret said, pecking her on her cheek. “This is my maidservant, Rose.”
Goodwife Grisham squealed and took Rose’s hand, dragging her closer to look at her face. “Such pretty eyes! Very pretty! You’re a marvelous girl!”
Rose tried to smile but was afraid to part her lips even a bit for fear of inhaling near the woman. The beer smelled as sour as her bosom in this heat.
“Goodie, we’re attending a revelry at His Majesty’s request, in honour of my father accepting the title of Chancellor.”
“Yes, yes, he’s moving up, isn’t he? Won’t this be marvelous? The king’s inner circle. What nobleman won’t be fighting for your hand? What man won’t fight for you?” Goodie Grisham’s voice kept rising higher, like an expired ash that floats up and away from the fire.
Margaret began to say something, but Goodie’s face changed into a menacing dark pageant, twitching and glowering. Rose was convinced that the woman was mad, until Margaret pulled on her hand and pointed to the door. A royal guard, a tall redheaded man in a Yeoman’s brace, stood at attention. Behind him was a carriage with a coat of arms Margaret must have recognized from the rose.