Forged in the Fire (10 page)

The carrier had a pack-train with horses and several carts. We were fitted in among bales of woollen cloth and sat on benches in reasonable comfort. The first overnight stop was at Shifnal. We rose early next day and joined local Friends at Meeting – for the carrier left later than usual on first-day mornings.

Having been only one day on the road it was irksome to me to have to stop at all, and I began the meeting in a state of restlessness, but Alice's testimony helped me to cease fretting and attend to the light within. She spoke simply of our group's mission and of the suffering of Londoners. She is a woman of some forty-five years, small and round and sweet-faced, very plainly dressed, and uncaring of her appearance – for her mind is turned continually to God. There is such gentleness about her that even those who despise Dissenters cannot help but respond to it.

Alice understood my anxiety to be away, and when at last we set off again she smiled and said, “Now, with God's grace to speed us, we shall go all the faster.” But I confess I saw little evidence of it. The horses ambled on, and the carts bumped their way slowly over cobbles in town or ruts on the country roads; and once our cart slipped half into a ditch and had to be hauled out with the help of some men working in nearby fields. One of them winked at me as I stood waiting and seemed surprised when I did not blush or look away.

“Her gave me a straight look!” he joked to his companion.

His accent was strange to me. I wondered where we were, and how far on our way. In Mary's shop, before I left, I had spread out maps and looked at the route we might take, from Birmingham perhaps to Northampton, or Stratford, coming in to London from the north-west. I had travelled long distance before: to Oxford, to see Will; and when I was five or six years old I had moved from Bristol to Shropshire with my parents. But neither journey was as far as London.

Once back on the road, we travelled between endless fields, some full of sheep or cattle, some with men ploughing. For mile after mile the countryside looked much the same: brown fields, grey skies, flocks of birds following the plough. We passed through many villages about the size of Long Aston, and many small towns. Each night we stopped at an inn. Sometimes by the time we arrived I was so stiff and cold I did not enquire where we were, or care: only that there was a bed, and water to wash in, and a hot supper. For several days it rained relentlessly, and our progress was slowed even more as the wheels churned through mud. The goods were protected under a layer of waxed cloth, and the carrier's men used some more of this to erect a rough shelter for us. From beneath it we peered out over the horses' heads at a dark, wintry world; some days it barely grew light.

I remember reaching Northampton, and Bedford, where new travellers came aboard; and then, after more than a week on the road, we reached Islington, our last overnight stop. I gazed across the fields in the direction of London and saw, less than two miles distant, the smoke from many fires, and what seemed to be a great flock of birds circling. Another traveller told us these were the kites which hung constantly above London, the middens and ditches being so plentiful that they were never short of carrion, especially in this time of plague.

Islington was a small village, but busy with many coaches and pack-trains. The inn where we stayed was full of travellers from all parts of the country; I had never heard so many different accents.

Next morning I woke long before dawn, and could not get back to sleep, my mind was so busy. I knew we'd be in London within a few hours – in the city itself, which Will had told me was little over a mile square. He'd be near; in no time, surely, I'd see him again. I tried to bring his face clearly to mind: his smile; his eyes, which I thought so beautiful – light greenish-grey, with dark lashes. I had no doubt that I'd know him, even from a distance. But his last letter troubled me: that shaky handwriting telling of changed circumstances. Anxiety mixed with my excitement.

At dawn we climbed aboard the cart for the last time. The sun was a pink glow in the east, the fields white with frost. Cold air stung my face, enlivening me. It would be a bright day.

The carrier set us down at Aldersgate.

The street was crowded and full of noise: wheels on cobbles, hawkers shouting, the harsh, fast speech of Londoners. I looked up and saw a great statue of a king on horseback atop the central arch of the gateway and other carved figures decorating the side towers. A woman carrying baskets of fruit and herbs bumped into me as I stood staring.

“Step aside, wench!” she said. “You block the way.”

We gathered our group together and turned to walk into the city; and at once I saw ahead of us, rising above the shops and houses, a great steeple-house – so huge it could only be Paul's. It was a commanding slab of a building with a square tower covered in scaffolding. (God had struck off its steeple during a thunderstorm years ago, a Friend told me.) This vast steeple-house was to me a symbol of the power of the Church and its corruption. And yet my spirits rose when I saw it. I knew that Creed Lane, where Will lived, must be close by, and that he worked in a shop in Paul's Churchyard, and might be there at that very moment, so close I could reach him in minutes. I gabbled all this to Alice, and she said, “Child! Child! Be calm! We will find this inn our fellow travellers spoke of, and unburden ourselves, and give thanks to God for a safe journey. And then we will make enquiries.”

We'd planned to stay at an inn the first night or two. Our group had names of Friends in the city, and we had no doubt that hospitality would be offered us once we had made contact with the meetings.

The eight of us split up and went to various inns near by. Alice and I found one that the carrier had recommended: the Three Tuns in Martin's Lane. A serving man showed us to our room, and set the luggage down; and then a girl brought us water for washing, and a mug each of small beer.

As I drank mine I looked out of the window into the street below, and saw crowds of people passing by – and yet the girl had said the town was half empty. A cart, laden with barrels, turned into the lane, its iron-shod wheels clattering over the cobbles. A coach coming in the other direction blocked its way and the two drivers shouted at each other and made obscene gestures. The noise in the street, from voices, traffic, and goods being unloaded, was greater than anything I'd known in Hemsbury. The street was narrow, and the room we stood in was jettied so that it overhung the street. Below our window swung the inn sign, with its three barrels; other signs, painted on boards or hanging from poles, showed all the way along. I peered out, noting a glover's shop, and a saddler's. A hooded figure went by carrying a white staff, and I saw how the mass of people parted around this person, like water around an island, and none came near. An apothecary, I supposed, or a searcher: some such that dealt with plague sufferers. I shivered.

“Pull the window to,” said Alice. “Let's give thanks.”

So we sat down – Alice on the only chair, me on the bed. I closed my eyes and let myself become quiet and calm. I was here, and thanked God for it.

We remained silent for a few minutes. When I heard a slight movement from Alice I opened my eyes. She said, “Now I think we must eat.”

I'd had nothing but a piece of bread since waking at Islington, and realized I was hungry. But first I wanted to be clean. I made Alice wait while I washed all over, and changed into clean linen and stockings, and combed my hair and set my cap neatly over it. There was a mirror on the washstand, and while Alice was occupied in reading her Bible I studied my reflection. I'd had no mirror in my room at Mary Faulkner's, so this was a novelty to me. I pulled out a strand of hair to curl either side of my face.

We ate in the main room of the inn, where I listened to the medley of voices around us. Londoners talk fast and clipped, and speak as if everything must be done today, and as quickly as possible. We attracted a few glances when we came in – I suppose because of our country dress – but we sat in a secluded corner and spoke quietly together.

A serving girl brought our meat. She was about my own age and wore a crimson dress, immodestly low-necked, I thought, and made of some fine silken material; I guessed it to be a rich woman's cast-off, for I had heard that there was a brisk trade in such clothes at city markets.

I asked her, “Dost thou know Creed Lane?”

She smiled a little at my slow way of speaking, and repeated, “Creed Lane? Yes! It's but a step away – the other side of St Paul's.” And she described how to get there, so quickly I could hardly take it in, but reckoned I'd find my way. I had memorized Will's address: Thomas Corder's house, next to the Blue Boar.

“I thank thee,” I said, as the girl left.

“I see nothing will hold thee now,” said Alice.

“Will thou come?” I didn't want her to.

“No. I shall read my Bible, and wash, and perhaps sleep a little before taking the air. We shall meet later. Go carefully, Friend Susanna.”

“I will.”

I soon found Creed Lane. It was a short, steep road, and the Blue Boar lay at the bottom. On one side of it was a small shop, shuttered and locked, on the other a tall, narrow, run-down house where a woman in a dirty apron was swilling a bucket of food scraps into the gutter.

I asked her if this was Thomas Corder's house.

“It is.” She regarded me curiously.

“I am looking for William Heywood.” My heart beat fast as I spoke his name.

“Oh – Mr Heywood! You must ask Mr Lacon about him. He's at work.”

“Who? Nat – Mr Lacon?”

“Yes. He works for a printer in Alum Court. He should be home in an hour. Do you want to come in and wait?”

I didn't. “I'll find him,” I said.

“Other side of St Paul's. Off Old Change.”

I thanked her and left.

Alum Court was near, but I struggled to find it in the maze of busy streets where people crowded and jostled me, and where I had to crane my neck to look up at the signs. On the way I passed Paul's Churchyard, but many of the bookshops there were closed; and besides, the woman hadn't said Will would be at work; she'd said I must ask Nat. My anxiety returned.

At last I turned a corner into Alum Court – and there was the printer's shop, with the sign of the hand and pen, like Mary's, and the name
Amos Bligh
above it. The drop-down counter that opened onto the street carried a stock of quills and ink and various kinds of notebook. A youth minded it. I caught his eye and asked, “Is Nathaniel Lacon within?”

The boy called his name. And then Nat came out of the back of the shop, looking just as I remembered him: young for his age, ink-stained, fair hair hanging in untidy curls. He knew me at once.

“Susanna!” he exclaimed.

I stepped into the shop and he caught me in a hug which drew all eyes to us and brought tears to mine.

He set me at arm's length, still holding on to me. “Su, how didst thou get here? Did Will send for thee?”

“No. I came alone. Will doesn't know. I had to come; his letter, and thine, made me so afraid. Is he ill, Nat? Where is he? I went to your lodgings but the woman said to ask thee…”

“There's no need to fear.”

He led me further into the shop and introduced me briefly to the other men as a Friend from home. The sound of the press, the smells of ink and paper, the printed sheets hanging to dry, were all familiar to me and, despite the noise and activity, somehow calming.

“He's with our Friend Edmund Ramsey,” said Nat. “Edmund is a wealthy man, a merchant. He took Will from Newgate to care for him. Will has been very sick, but thou need not fear for him now. He is still living at Edmund Ramsey's house.”

“And is he recovered?”

“I hear he is much improved.”

So the two had not met recently.

“Where is this house? Is it near? I must see him.”

“Throgmorton Street. It's near the Exchange. Not far.” He glanced at his idle press. “I'll go there when I finish work – tell him thou'rt here.” Then, seeing my face, he added, “Or I'll take thee.”

“But, Nat, I can go myself, and see him at once.” I couldn't bear to wait.

He ran an inky hand through his hair and frowned. “I wouldn't go there alone, Su. They're grand folk … big house…”

“I don't care about that! They're Friends, you say? They won't refuse to let me in.”

“No, of course not.” But he still seemed uncertain. When he saw that I was determined to go alone he gave me directions and said, “I'll speak to thee tomorrow, perhaps, and hear thy news?”

“Yes, for sure. I'm staying at the Three Tuns in Martin's Lane.”

So I left him. I could not wait, now, to find Will. I left Alum Court and, following Nat's instructions, found my way to Cheapside. Despite the press of people, there were still many shops closed and an atmosphere of dejection about the place as the light began to fade. The air was colder now, and I walked on quickly, looking about me till I came upon what must be the entrance to the Exchange. I stopped and gazed in at the large pillared courtyard, crowded with people, and surrounded on three sides by shops – two storeys of them – lit with candles that shone in the deepening dusk. I stood entranced, for I had seen nothing like it before.

A woman near by smiled at me. She wore a fine fur jacket cut low to show her white bosom.

“It's a sad sight,” she said. “Half the shops still shut, and no one of quality here.”

“But it's beautiful,” I said.

She looked me over. “Down from the north, are you?”

“Yes.” I began to retreat. I wanted to be on my way now.

But she laid a hand on my arm. “If you need a place to stay, I can help you.”

I saw then what she was about, and said, “I thank thee, no,” and moved quickly away. Instead I asked a respectable-looking maidservant, “Please, where is Throgmorton Street?”