London - Edward Rutherfurd [186]
The curate of St Lawrence Silversleeves was thirty-five. His hair was grey and sparse, and he suffered from dizzy spells. His wife, who worked in the bakery next door, was stouter but suffered from varicose veins. And his two sallow daughters reminded Mabel of nothing so much as a pair of broken candles. They all lived together in a huddled little tenement behind the church; and so miserable were they that, one Christmas two years ago, even the Silversleeves family had given them a shilling.
Sister Mabel went to them as often as she could. Today, after a busy session with pestle and mortar in her larder, she had brought a philtre of wood lettuce to cure the man’s failing vision and betony for his giddy spells. She brought savine for his wife’s swollen feet and whey bread because both their children had worms. She had spent an hour with them dispensing these medicines and her own, blunt comfort, and now she had emerged with a single thought in her mind. “Damn that Silversleeves. He must do something for them. I shall make him.”
She went to his house but he was not there. “I’ll find him,” she muttered, as she tramped back towards Smith-field. And just as she entered that broad, open space she did indeed catch sight of him. He was standing not far from the gateway to St Bartholomew’s church, talking to Brother Michael. “Got you,” she whispered with satisfaction; and she hurried across, her basket bumping against her leg. But she was only twenty paces from them when she stopped dead in her tracks, blinking in astonishment at what she saw.
For there, standing just behind the two men, as clear and as solid as the priory behind, was a strange, green and white figure, with a bird-like face, a curving tail, and a trident in his hand. There was no mistaking him: it was that very demon she had spoken to, years ago, when she had had her vision. And now – there was no mistaking this either – his beaked face was gloating. He’s come for Silversleeves, she thought, without remorse. Well, serve him right.
But then, as she watched, she saw to her horror that the green and white demon was not looking at Silversleeves at all, but putting his long arms around saintly Brother Michael. And Brother Michael was entirely unaware.
When the seven men met in secret soon after Michaelmas that year, it was agreed that Alderman Sampson Bull deserved congratulation.
“You handled Silversleeves perfectly,” their leader declared. And indeed, Bull did feel that his performance had been masterly.
Not that he had lied. No Bull ever did that. “But I may,” he confessed, “have exaggerated a little.” And Pentecost had been so willing to believe.
When he had told the Exchequer clerk that spring that John’s envoys had opened negotiations with some of the leading aldermen of London, Silversleeves’s fright had been wonderful to behold. It was in fact true that some discreet conversations had taken place, but John was not yet confident enough and nor were the aldermen ready to do more than hint at mutual interest. But by allowing Pentecost to suppose that a fully fledged conspiracy was already afoot, Bull had galvanized him into action.
“For with these monstrous tax arrangements in force,” he warned Pentecost, “I can’t imagine the city will fail to support John in any attack upon your master.”
From that day, Bull had been able to play the Exchequer clerk like a fish that had been hooked. No one was more active in counselling the chancellor as to the dangers of offending London. Hardly a week went by without Pentecost meeting Bull and anxiously asking for news, to which the thickset merchant would always reply with some vague but frightening statement such as, “John is everywhere,” or “Things look bad for Longchamp.”
Silversleeves was assiduous. By midsummer,