Rebellion's Message. Michael Jecks

at the end of January, it was cold and wet outside. In here, at least a man could find a patch that wasn’t sodden on which to sleep. A place where a man could lie in the dry, without fearing that rain and snow would hasten his end, was always appealing. Bill had found this place. Yes, it had leaks in the roof, and the stench from the river was foul in summer, but it was mostly dry, and we all felt safe, which is more than most people could say in London.

      He took my purse and pulled at the laces. Soon he had a handful of coins and began counting them.

      ‘What kind of a nobleman was he?’

      ‘He was no nobleman! I think he was more a bumpkin. Not a man of note,’ I said.

      Bill chuckled. ‘You think so? Then he had gulled a rich man or robbed him! Look at all this cash! It’s enough to keep us in beer and meat for a month!’

      FIVE

      His words were enough to make me frown. The fellow had not looked inordinately rich. He was dressed more as a servant than a man of property. It was peculiar that he should have so much money, so perhaps Bill was right and he was another thief like me – except a man used to robbing others would have been much more suspicious of a helpful man like me.

      Bill carried the coins into a shaft of light, throwing the purse aside. I picked it up, thinking it might be useful to me, and found that there was an odd thickness to the base. I felt the leather and discovered that there were two layers. Without thinking, I pulled the purse inside out and saw that someone had added a second patch inside, as though to mend a hole. But there was no hole. As I manipulated it, I could feel something inside that crinkled.

      ‘What’s that?’ Bill said. ‘Did I miss one?’

      ‘No, I was just looking at it. I thought it would make a good purse for me.’

      ‘You think so?’ He looked at me with a sour grin. ‘It’s a bit good for the likes of you. Mind you aren’t seen with it. Anyway, you’ll need a new lace.’

      ‘Yes,’ I agreed. I knew where there was a spare thong in my bag and went to fetch it. While I knelt, I pulled at the inner patch of leather, and some of the threads broke. Soon the patch was free, and I could see a piece of parchment inside. I took that out and opened it, but there was nothing of any interest, only a series of strange figures. I can read my letters, after a fashion, but this was not any English I had learned.

      ‘You can’t take that purse,’ Gil said. He was bigger than me. Not in height, and definitely not in intellect, but, equally certainly, his breadth was double that of my slender shoulders. He walked to me and snatched the purse from my hands. He smirked at me as he did so. Gil and I had never been friendly, but I didn’t want to dispute with him. He was welcome to the purse. It was easier that than me winning a broken nose or worse in a fight with him.

      ‘You take it,’ I said. ‘It’s tatty enough to suit your clothing.’

      Which wasn’t true, but it made me feel a little better for saying it.

      We all went out when the noise of cheering and clapping came to us. The yeomen were marching from the city, and we walked up the road to where the London folk were gathered.

      No, we didn’t go from any daft sense of pride in the military, but because where the army marched, a man might attempt a little business. A crowd was heaven-sent for us, scoundrels as we were. It meant incautious women and cheerily drunk men. It meant rich purse pickings.

      I went along behind the others. Gil was bent, threading my thong through the holes in my purse as he went, occasionally casting a sneer in my direction as if determined to enjoy my discomfiture as much as possible. I never liked Gil. He wasn’t a pleasant soul. We hurried along Candlewright Street and caught up with the soldiers as they approached the bridge.

      They marched well, all in good order as soldiers should, their weapons slung over their shoulders, their white coats and emblazoned crowns and royal insignia gleaming in the sunlight. Fortunate for them that the weather was holding, I thought. Us, too. The crowds would have been thinner if it were piddling down.

      ‘What will happen?’ Moll said.

      ‘The rebels will march here, meet the soldiers and surrender – or get a thrashing they’ll never forget,’ Bill said dismissively. ‘If they’re lucky, some will be allowed home. The rest … Tower Hill has space for many gallows, and the heads on the Bridge Gate are rotting. They could do with some new ones on their spikes.’

      The soldiers were marching like stern retribution, but then, as we craned our necks to see more clearly, one of the men suddenly dropped his arquebus and ran to a woman. He grabbed her and bent her backwards, kissing her, and although his companions continued marching, they raised a roar of approval for his actions. There were cheers from the crowds, too, where men and women cheered and applauded, but the men were needed in Kent, and they dared not delay even a moment. It fell to an officer on horseback shouting at him to get him to rejoin his companions. He went, a shortish, dark-haired figure, running to take up his gun again, and then racing on to catch up with his comrades, while the crowd clapped and hooted. He looked in my direction for a moment, and I saw a young man with the face of an innocent. It was like staring at a child about to go away on an adventure – or a prank. As he and the other men continued on their way, I was left thinking that this poor fool could well be strolling out to his death.

      There were not only the Whitecoats. The news of rebellion and the fear of civil war had brought out all the city’s martial spirit. There is nothing that the City of London detests more than a war nearby – it plays merry hell with the merchants’ incomes – so behind the Whitecoats came another five hundred or more, these a contingent of volunteers from the city, all waving their hats merrily as though leaving to go hunting at Greenwich or beyond, and the women cheered them. There is little that stirs the breast of a woman so vigorously as the sight of men marching off to fight and kill other men, I’ve noticed.

      It’s not for me.

      Why not?

      When I was a young lad growing up in Whitstable, my father had early on tried to interest me in his business, making leather jacks and buckets. It’s a good trade, after all. Wherever the Navy has a dock, wherever there is a tavern, there is a need for blackjacks, and few men can have such a guaranteed business. My problem was, the thought of spending all day with my hands in water preparing leather, or tugging the linen thread tight in the stitches until my hand was a mass of cuts, did not appeal to me. My indifference enraged him at first, then infuriated him. I’d never have an income, he swore. He wasn’t the most affectionate of men, and the idea that I might have my own ideas about a career didn’t occur to him. In any case, if I was to have a trade of any sort, it would be with him, rather than another man gaining an apprentice as cheap labour. It was one more thing that we would never see eye to eye on. So, at his wit’s end, he tried to shove me towards the military. He wanted to see if I had the necessary strength and determination, I suppose, but I would have nothing to do with the notion. It’s one thing to fight and injure or kill a man; but there’s always the other aspect of life in the military: the risk that an enemy would fight back and maybe kill me. I never saw the attraction of that. So, naturally, he declared me a coward as well as a rascal. Well, I don’t deny it: he was right. He declared me a rascal so often that perhaps the idea took hold and bore fruit. After all, I was now the living embodiment of his fears.

      But I would prefer to be a disreputable person of no name, hanging about London and cheering the poor women mourning their soldier-boys, than to be a soldier lying with my belly slashed open on a field of blood and gore. That was never likely to be my choice.

      ‘Any gulls here?’ Moll asked, peering about her at the crowds.

      Her words brought me back to my senses. With all the excitement, I think we had all forgotten our purpose. While viewing the marching ranks was satisfying, it was not as satisfying as a full belly and a pot of ale in the fist. There were plenty