Rebellion's Message. Michael Jecks

Sunday 28th January 1554

      There was a man lying on the ground in front of me when I came to. He was dressed in travelling clothes, and I stared with a grimace at the stained and torn cloak, the sun-bleached hat and worn boots. His face, I thought, looked familiar, but for the life of me, at that moment, I couldn’t work out why. Mind you, I had a serious lump, at least the size of a duck’s egg, on the back of my skull, and there was a series of important questions troubling me just then, not least of which were: Why had someone clobbered me over the pate with what must have been a maul or hammer? Why was I sitting on the ground? Exactly where was I? And why was my knife in my hand?

      And what was smeared over the blade? That should have been uppermost in my mind, to be honest, but just then the other questions seemed more urgent.

      My companion, on the other hand, had no questions or concerns of any sort. Not any more. He was past caring, since someone – possibly me – had caused him to add his blood to the piss and mud of the ground out there. Yes, I was outdoors, in a small yard, and the noise that now came to me reminded me that I had been in a tavern. From the smell, this was the yard that was the unofficial privy out at the back.

      I climbed to my feet, the world spinning lazily. It felt as though a giant had bound me to an enormous bobbin and was twirling it enthusiastically. I don’t know whether you have experience of such events, but, to me, waking beside a dead body with my knife besmeared with blood was not looking like a good turn-up for the books. Especially when I heard a door crash wide, steps and a sudden grunt of surprise.

      There are many men who are experienced with dead bodies. Some are used to finding them; others are used to finding those responsible for them. Me, I’m more used to avoiding them.

      I ran.

       Earlier that day

      Later, when I had time to think back, life had been so delightfully unremarkable only an hour or so before. It was just an ordinary, everyday Sunday morning.

      We had all been sent out at daybreak by Bill, determined to catch the early attendees at church so that we could enjoy a good meal that evening. Yes, it was shameful behaviour to rob the religious on the Sabbath, especially in a church, but we had to live, and pickings had been poor the past week.

      Bill? He’s our company’s fencing cully. There were six of us: Bill, Wat, Gil, Ham, me and Moll – Bill’s wench. A man on his own in London nowadays, in the year of Our Lord fifteen hundred and fifty-three – or, if you prefer the new method by which some capricious fools are setting New Year in the week after Christmas, fifty-four – is in danger all the time. There are too many men with knives, clubs, guns and swords, and a fellow on his own is likely to be beaten over the pate and arrested before he’s nipped his first bung, but with a man like Bill in charge of the company – a fellow who could fence the goods we found, who could source food and drink, beds and protection – life is a lot safer. I’d been with him for months now. When we stole something, he would find a buyer; when I cut a purse loose, he would take the money and make sure that it was held safe for the good of all of us, with the pelf being split equally. Bill ensured we all got a fair share and none of us would go hungry.

      But enough of Bill.

      That morning I’d decided to go to the cathedral. I reached the street near St Paul’s, down close to Ludgate and the Fleet river, and there I pulled my woollen cap down over my eyes and studied myself as best I could in the limited reflection from a window-pane. Not tall, but not short, mousy hair a little ragged where Piers last cut it because he was drunk. Piers is a pimp and hairdresser working in a brothel, mainly because he lost his wife and house to the ale, but he could still handle a pair of scissors quite well – and better while sober. I suppose, as an apple-squire, he had to know how to keep the doxies looking as well as they could. The wenches there were installed to cater for a better class of client. They never would let me inside, not without seeing the colour of my money first. Actually, if they saw the inside of my purse, they wouldn’t let me in anyway.

      I suppose it is as well to explain a little about myself. A fellow setting out on a narrative of this kind should naturally inform his readers as much about himself as possible. In that case, since by reading this, my dear friends, you are joining me on the journey of my adventures, I will explain.

      First, I go by a number of names. Foremost is Jack Blackjack, since that is the name my father gave me; then there’s Jack of Whitstable and Jack Faithful by those who know me well. But I have been known to use other names as I see fit. Peter the Passer, John of Smithfield, Hugh Somerville – all have been used or misused by me. As to the rest of me, I suppose I am well formed, if slender, with a face that inspires trust – which is lucky. It is my face that has earned me my keep these last two or three years: square, with a kind of rugged integrity in my brown eyes and straight nose. True, there is a scar on my left cheek, but that gives me an air of devil-may-care insouciance. I like to tell women how I won it defending the virginity and honour of a maiden – although, in truth, I won it tripping while running from an enraged miller who found me in his daughter’s bed. It would have been fine, but when he glared at me and said, ‘Who is he?’ his daughter turned her limpid blue eyes to me and gave a squeal. ‘I don’t know! I’ve never seen him before!’ Names hadn’t mattered the night before, mind, but I suppose she saw no need to overuse the truth. In any case, when telling a tale like that of my scar, it’s best to tell most of the truth – just not quite all. I want to entice a gull to listen to me while I snip the strings of his purse.

      So, as I said, I studied myself, checked my appearance and walked into the Black Boar tavern, just another slightly scruffy fellow who had entered for a sup of ale, and hardly anyone cast me a glance. Why should they? They didn’t know that within the hour I’d be a wanted man, a notorious murderer.

      It was dark inside the tavern when I entered, and I almost brained myself on the low ceiling. Smoke curled from the fires, thick fumes choking at the throat and creating a warm fug. It was hard to see from one side of the room to the other.

      Men were seated at settles and benches, and I glanced about me as I entered, hoping for a suitable victim. The barman saw me. He was big and red-faced, and had the cheerful look of a man who knew exactly where the club under his bar sat waiting. He raised a leather tankard in a dumb show of offering, but I shook my head briefly. I was there for a different occupation. Besides, I had no money. I pushed past drinkers and a threepenny upright who was haggling with a man who couldn’t take his eyes from her chemise top, to where two men were playing dice on a rough tabletop in a window. One was a great bear of a man, with a beard that was as black as a sinner’s soul. The other was fair-haired and had a bright smile and youthful grin. Pushing past me, a fellow with a broad-brimmed hat went to the table and sat, his face hidden, and seemed to stare at the murky glass of the window.

      There was no point hanging about hopefully. A quick inspection of all the fellows inside told me that there were no pickings in there, not that I’d be keen to try it. I like the Boar and wouldn’t want to be forced to seek a new watering hole because desperation had forced me to steal from a customer in there. I wanted to watch the street, but the men near the window showed less inclination to move than dogs at a three-day corpse. The Bear glowered at me while he continued his game, and I leaned against a wall and peered through the window at the yard outside while they exercised their eyes in my direction. I eyed the game briefly, to see whether they were playing with fullams or some other form of loaded dice, but I am not experienced enough to tell. Dice are a mug’s game. The sharpers know how to trap a coney and empty his purse in minutes. The three played on, the hatted man seemingly joining in without speaking.

      It was hard to see through the window at first, but I knew that place, and in my mind’s eye I could fit the people to the scene, even with the filthy and smeared glass.

      The great looming bulk of the cathedral was just down from here. I could make out the steeple against the sky, the roofs of the canons’ houses, and even the school for poor boys. And all about them were the people of the city, wandering and bellowing.

      There were days when this city drove me to distraction. I come from Whitstable, and the ribald cries of the hucksters and