lucky not to be on a gibbet,’ the man replied.
Thomas moved swiftly on into Market Street, making for the Crown. Market Street was even busier. Uniformed men and women in rags bargained noisily with the tradesmen hawking their wares from stalls on either side of the street. At least the town’s bakers, brewers and tailors were doing well. The crush of bodies around the stalls forced him to the middle of the street, down which ran a reeking open drain, half blocked in places with shit and refuse. He took care to avoid being jostled into it, as some had been. On a whim, he continued past the Crown and into Brasenose Lane – the lane Erasmus Pole had walked down after dinner at Exeter. It was a stinking, rough, narrow passage, un-cobbled and with high walls on both sides, dark even at that time of day. Avoiding the worst of the muck, he kept to the middle of the lane, skirting the drain that ran down it. He had taken barely ten steps when a foulwhore, what was left of her face pitted by pox, emerged from the shadows on his left and grabbed his arm.
‘Looking for company, sir? Meg’ll make you stand to attention.’
Yellow spit oozed out of her toothless mouth like pus from a boil. Thomas recoiled in horror and pulled his sleeve away. Resisting the urge to turn back to Market Street, he swallowed hard, squared his shoulders and carried on up the lane. Beggars lined the walls, some crippled, others diseased. Hands were held out as he passed, and pleading voices raised. He ignored them all. Abraham was right. A cautious old man would not have walked this lane in daylight, never mind at night. At the east end of the lane, where it met Radcliffe Square, a whore was being humped against the wall by a grunting soldier. When the woman saw Thomas, she called out to him.
‘Won’t be long, sir. Be your turn soon.’
He quickened his pace, turned right into the square and made his way back to the Crown, where he found a corner seat and ordered a bottle of port wine.
On a table at the back of the inn, a noisy game of hazard was in progress. Four well-refreshed soldiers were laying down their money and cheering or cursing loudly at each throw of the dice. Knowing from experience that it was a game which required a clear head anda quick brain, Thomas wondered that they could play with such speed despite being full of ale. The loudest of the men was the caster, a fair-haired captain who stood out like a peacock in a chicken run. Flowing locks over his shoulders, a short cape over a fine linen shirt and tight blue knee-breeches marked him as a man who did not wish to be mistaken for a supporter of Parliament. And his manner was as brash as his dress. He thumped the dice on to the table, roared lustily if they behaved as he wished, and cursed his foul luck if they did not. Now and again he hurled them so hard that they rolled off the table and on to the floor. When that happened, he yelled at one of his companions to pick them up and be quick about it. The peacock evidently saw himself as the leader of this flock. The others, more soberly attired in the leather jerkins and loose breeches of fighting men, merely grinned and raked their coins off the table. Thomas could not help noticing that the stakes in the game were a good deal higher than those he had once played for on the same table. A scholar’s penny had become a soldier’s shilling.
As Silas had said, the Crown did serve well. After a plate of good roast mutton with oysters and radishes, and a sweet apple cream flavoured with ginger and lemon, Thomas felt more himself. Taking his purse from his pocket, he asked the landlord how much he owed.‘How will you be paying, sir?’ asked the man suspiciously.
Taken aback at the question, Thomas held up his purse. ‘The usual way, landlord. Coins of the realm.’
The landlord grinned. ‘In that case, sir, two shillings’ll do nicely.’ Thomas handed over the coins.
‘What other case is there?’
‘Ah. You must be new in
Thomas moved swiftly on into Market Street, making for the Crown. Market Street was even busier. Uniformed men and women in rags bargained noisily with the tradesmen hawking their wares from stalls on either side of the street. At least the town’s bakers, brewers and tailors were doing well. The crush of bodies around the stalls forced him to the middle of the street, down which ran a reeking open drain, half blocked in places with shit and refuse. He took care to avoid being jostled into it, as some had been. On a whim, he continued past the Crown and into Brasenose Lane – the lane Erasmus Pole had walked down after dinner at Exeter. It was a stinking, rough, narrow passage, un-cobbled and with high walls on both sides, dark even at that time of day. Avoiding the worst of the muck, he kept to the middle of the lane, skirting the drain that ran down it. He had taken barely ten steps when a foulwhore, what was left of her face pitted by pox, emerged from the shadows on his left and grabbed his arm.
‘Looking for company, sir? Meg’ll make you stand to attention.’
Yellow spit oozed out of her toothless mouth like pus from a boil. Thomas recoiled in horror and pulled his sleeve away. Resisting the urge to turn back to Market Street, he swallowed hard, squared his shoulders and carried on up the lane. Beggars lined the walls, some crippled, others diseased. Hands were held out as he passed, and pleading voices raised. He ignored them all. Abraham was right. A cautious old man would not have walked this lane in daylight, never mind at night. At the east end of the lane, where it met Radcliffe Square, a whore was being humped against the wall by a grunting soldier. When the woman saw Thomas, she called out to him.
‘Won’t be long, sir. Be your turn soon.’
He quickened his pace, turned right into the square and made his way back to the Crown, where he found a corner seat and ordered a bottle of port wine.
On a table at the back of the inn, a noisy game of hazard was in progress. Four well-refreshed soldiers were laying down their money and cheering or cursing loudly at each throw of the dice. Knowing from experience that it was a game which required a clear head anda quick brain, Thomas wondered that they could play with such speed despite being full of ale. The loudest of the men was the caster, a fair-haired captain who stood out like a peacock in a chicken run. Flowing locks over his shoulders, a short cape over a fine linen shirt and tight blue knee-breeches marked him as a man who did not wish to be mistaken for a supporter of Parliament. And his manner was as brash as his dress. He thumped the dice on to the table, roared lustily if they behaved as he wished, and cursed his foul luck if they did not. Now and again he hurled them so hard that they rolled off the table and on to the floor. When that happened, he yelled at one of his companions to pick them up and be quick about it. The peacock evidently saw himself as the leader of this flock. The others, more soberly attired in the leather jerkins and loose breeches of fighting men, merely grinned and raked their coins off the table. Thomas could not help noticing that the stakes in the game were a good deal higher than those he had once played for on the same table. A scholar’s penny had become a soldier’s shilling.
As Silas had said, the Crown did serve well. After a plate of good roast mutton with oysters and radishes, and a sweet apple cream flavoured with ginger and lemon, Thomas felt more himself. Taking his purse from his pocket, he asked the landlord how much he owed.‘How will you be paying, sir?’ asked the man suspiciously.
Taken aback at the question, Thomas held up his purse. ‘The usual way, landlord. Coins of the realm.’
The landlord grinned. ‘In that case, sir, two shillings’ll do nicely.’ Thomas handed over the coins.
‘What other case is there?’
‘Ah. You must be new in
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