London Folk Tales (15 page)

Well, you can imagine the flurry and fuss, the relief and the wild celebration … and how the tongues tattled, rumour ran riot and truth turned to wild speculation. But the brave fiddler lad, they all do agree, lived healthy and wealthy and well.

And did he find the right wife too? Only Uncumber can tell.

The Inns of Court – the very place one might have thought that rules are kept. For in its hallowed walls the laws are studied in great depth. They must be known in every detail and yet explored again to find the perfect match for each new case. But knowledge sometimes leads more to their breach than the observance. Or so it seemed amongst certain students of law there.

Robert Perceval grew up altogether too well-blessed for his own good. Too blue-blooded to be told off by nurses or tutors, too rich to be restrained from spending as he wished, and too good looking to be refused by any woman. Consequently, he knew no limits of any kind, and so indulged himself in excess of every sort. Even though he was studying law at the best Inn of the Court, he had no notion of self-regulation. Things had come to such a pass that people were at last concerned, and pressed him for his own sake to reduce or turn away from his riotous lifestyle. But he would only laugh, or perform some act of crass stupidity, just to show off to his devil-may-care friends. He even persisted in carrying a rapier more than 3ft long, despite the queen’s specific orders to the contrary.

One night he was returning to his rooms near the Temple. He was drunk from a party that had lasted day and night, and left a trail of havoc in its wake. He had, at least, the grace to be slinking in quietly, being well past the hour that the gates would have been opened, had he not always ‘oiled’ his way with tips.

Almost by the archway that led to his stairs, he stumbled and then fell full length. As he scrambled, cursing, back to his feet, he saw a shadow lurking ahead. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, but there was no reply. He went on, rapier now ready in his hand. Someone was waiting at the stairs, outlined against the light from the lamp by Robert’s room. A man in a cloak, but turned away from him; he couldn’t see the face at all. ‘What the devil are you doing there?’ he demanded, but still there was no response. He grew angry then and tried to catch hold of him, but the figure slipped ahead and away up the stairs. Robert ran after, rapier poised, and as the man turned back towards him he struck. His assailant crumpled, stabbed in the chest, the cloak falling back to reveal who he was. And Robert, peering down in the flickering light, was horrified to see his own face looking up. The dead man was himself.

The shock was so great that he fainted on the spot, and when he came round, the figure had gone. It must have been a dream. Yet the fright was such that for a while Robert changed his ways. But little by little, he lapsed again, returning to his old friends and drinking habits, and laughing at the scare he had had.

That winter, the gatekeeper was woken late one night by a terrible drawn out scream. Fearfully he scrambled out of his warm bed, and went to see what it was. It seemed to have come from somewhere near the Temple, where that rascal Robert Perceval had rooms. The gatekeeper almost turned back then, for he’d had enough trouble from that quarter. But duty drove him on. Down the narrow passageways, and round the church, but he saw no one there. Then he noticed the doors to the stairs were open.

Grumbling he went through, and halfway up the stairs he saw a dead body lying on its back. It was Robert Perceval alright, and the cause of his death was clear. The weapon was still stuck in his chest. But it was odd, because it was his own rapier. And there was no sign of anybody else.

Where would London have been without the mercers, the merchants, the shopkeepers, the salesmen of the town? And where would they have been without the out-of-town traders, the chapmen, the market stallholders, the pedlars, the hawkers and all? Without that ever-widening web of dealers taking the goods to buyers wherever they may be, buying and selling and buying and selling again? If not for that chain, with a reduction at every link in the status of the seller, and the size of goods exchanged, money would never have gone round, and London would not have grown at all.

It led to other things too, like making maps. The trade radiating out of London travelled along ever-diminishing passageways, like blood distributed over the whole body of the country. From the arterial routes centred on London – the Roman roads, solid and straight, often strengthened with stone – to lesser highways; to bridleways; to byways; to small lanes; to drover’s routes; to footpaths; to sheep trails; to rabbit runs; to foot-flattened grass that sprang up again fast. The traders and the drovers held maps in their heads as they walked to and from the market towns and up and down to London each year. One or two scratched them out on slates or bits of parchment. And then an enterprising chapman drew some out and put them on the back of playing cards to be sold. So the trade in road maps began.

Most major London mercers had several chapmen with whom they regularly dealt. The name came from the title ‘cheap men’ because the smaller parcels of materials they dealt with, in line with the people they were selling them to, were relatively inexpensive.

Chapmen were small fry, but by no means the bottom of the heap. Yet they could always slide down if times were tough. That, no doubt, is what had happened to John Chapman, the peddler of Swaffham, about whom we’ve heard so much. He was the one who dreamed a dream that he should go to London Bridge, where he would find a fortune. A Swaffham story that shouldn’t concern us here, apart from the London end of the tale. For he and his little dog walked all the way, and stood on London Bridge for three days. But apart from saying his prayers to St Thomas in his chapel there, John Chapman spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. And no fortune was to be seen.

He was just about to go, when a nearby shopkeeper threw his dog a bone. It turned out he had a dog of his own, so he’d noticed John’s hanging round hungrily for days. He was a silversmith and doing well. But what was John doing, simply standing and waiting, neither selling nor buying, as far as he could tell? When he heard that they had come there all due to a dream, he laughed and laughed, and told John he was a fool. He himself had had a dream that seemed much the same. He had dreamt of a garden in a place called Swaffham, with a tree, and beneath that a whole pot of gold. Apart from making him smile in his sleep, there was no more good to come out of it. For dreams, he said, were only fancies no one should pursue. But John had heard something that made him smile too, so he thanked the man and took his name. Then he hurried home, where he found that gold in his own back garden, just as foretold in his new friend’s dream.

But what happened after, once John Chapman was rich? Well, when he was done with handing out money back home, he got in his fine coach and he rolled up to town. And he went to London Bridge to give thanks to St Thomas, patron saint of London, and to Henry the smith too, for the dream which had made John’s dream come true.

Well the silversmith was delighted when heard the good news. But he was a good man, and wealthy enough already, so he wouldn’t take a penny by way of thanks from John. But he did agree to go to the George to celebrate. Back there then, towards the end of Queen Bess’s glorious reign, it was the finest of taverns, right by the bridge, in Southwark, just as it is to this day.

So they sat down to drink and to dine of the best, and their dogs scrapped for bones beneath the table with the rest. They talked of this and that, and the change in Chapman’s fortunes, and how that would make his whole life better from now on.

‘But no,’ said John; though most was an improvement, there were some things he hadn’t reckoned on. On his way in his coach, he had come the same route that he had walked before when he was destitute. Last time he’d had to beg a bone or a bite, and a chance to sleep on some straw for the night. It was rough and it was tough, but one thing was clear enough – the way you were treated showed what folks were really like. But now he was rich there was nothing but smiles. Everyone was there to help, new friends gathering like flies. All of a sudden it was hard to tell what was true and what were lies.

Henry Smith couldn’t help smiling. John Chapman was such a simple, honest man. At the end of the evening they parted good friends, although they made no arrangement to meet up again.

But next morning, when Henry thought harder, he realised John was not simple at all. For the pedlar had made him consider matters that he’d not thought of before. Henry had always seen kindness in people, but was that because he had never been poor? How generous was he? And what about his friends? How could he know who was truly as charitable as they might pretend?

The question worried him so much that he couldn’t work properly, so he went across to St Thomas’s chapel for some help. After the trouble Thomas had had, surely he had some advice on seeing into people’s hearts? Henry stayed and prayed, and watched people pass. Men, women, and children too, coming and going with their secrets all hidden inside. And then he realised. He would only discover the truth if he himself were disguised.

His little dog was very pleased when Henry came out to find that instead of stopping at the shop they were going for a walk. When he turned right off the bridge towards Southwark, Bankside, the dog went into the lead, guessing at once where they were going. ‘The Stews’, as they were called, were the brothels near the prison, where they had been ever since the Bishop of Winchester first licensed the women to work, with dues all paid to him, of course. The women then had to wear little white aprons to show what their trade was, and when they stood outside, waiting for custom in the darkness of the street, their white bibs made them look like geese. So they were known as ‘The Bishop’s Geese’. But now, of course, the rules were different, and the women waited in the brothel house.

Henry had been going there ever since his wife had died, several years before, in yet another unsuccessful childbirth. So he had neither children nor a wife waiting at home. But he always saw the same woman at the brothel; they were comfortable together and he was fond of her. Today, however, she was in for a surprise – a different service altogether, although he paid the usual fee.

She thought it such a great jape that he should want to disguise himself; she even managed to get another woman to help. And with much laughter and teasing they set to work on him. His neat curled beard had grey wool and dirt twisted into it, to make it look dingy and long. His hair was straggled and knotted with honey and bits of straw, his face and hands stained with walnut juice. Finally, they exchanged his smart cloak, doublet and hose for ragged beggar’s clothes, and his fine leather boots for things that seemed more holes than footwear. By the time they were done, he was unrecognisable, and they even put spots on the dog so that she wouldn’t give him away either.

However, as they pointed out, he did not want to be taken for a vagrant without proper employment, and be whipped out of town. So they put some bits and pieces in a pack to wear on his back, and gave him a pedlar’s pouch too, so he could pass as a hawker of some sort. And they warned him too not to be tempted to talk – that would give him away at once. ‘Pretend you cannot speak,’ they said, ‘that might get you some charity too.’ So he learnt the thumb to tongue sign that explained he was dumb.

He had decided, meanwhile, who he was going to test: an alderman on the governing council of Mitcham parish. Henry knew him well, and often gave him money, as he was a noted benefactor to the poor.

It seemed like a game at first. It was a fine afternoon, and pleasant to be outside, and his broken shoes were not as uncomfortable as he had feared. But as he walked along the street, his dog beside him, he was shocked to see how many people moved aside so he didn’t come too near to them, and looked annoyed too, as if they had assumed he would have the decency to get himself out of their way first. He soon got the hint and did as was expected, especially when he saw ladies coming. But even then he almost caused offence, for he did it with a sweep of his arm, almost bowing as any gentleman would, and so appeared to be making fun of them. Even eye contact seemed unseemly from a poor pedlar, such as he was pretending to be. There was a lot to learn of this other world.

At last he got to Mitcham and he quickened his pace as he neared his friend’s house. He almost gave himself away by going to the front door, but just in time he remembered to walk round the back. Unfortunately, his little dog didn’t understand that. She had been there quite often as a welcome visitor, even allowed into the library with her master. So she barked and whined and scratched at the kitchen door until it was flung open by a furious servant who promptly emptied a pot of slops all over the poor creature. ‘The next one is for you,’ she said to Henry. ‘If you don’t get your filthy face out this instant.’