London - Edward Rutherfurd [204]
Unfortunately, the doctors had gone too. And so that November morning the Dogget sisters considered their plight which, in the absence of the Jewish doctor’s mercury, looked grim indeed. As for little Joan, whose life they had turned upside down, they had, just then, completely forgotten about her.
Martin Fleming sat very still in the cell. “Better say your prayers,” the gaoler had said that morning. But try as he might, no prayer would form in his mind. All he knew was that they were going to hang him tomorrow, and it did not help that he was innocent.
Martin Fleming was only one inch taller than the girl he loved, but it was his curious shape which people really noticed. For in every place where most people bulged outwards, Martin Fleming caved in. His little chest was sunken; his face reminded you of the inside of a spoon. His whole appearance was so puny and concave that everyone assumed he must be weak of mind as well. Few knew that within the soul of Martin Fleming was a secret obstinacy that, once set, was as immovable as a mountain.
As his name suggested, his family were Flemings – men from Flanders. This was common in London. That great, cloth-making territory just across the sea between the French and German lands was not only England’s trading partner, but also the greatest source of immigrants to the island. Flemish mercenary soldiers, merchants, weavers and artisans – sometimes called Fleming, more often acquiring Anglicized names – merged easily into the English mainstream and usually prospered. But Martin’s family had not. His father was a poor horner whose trade, thinning horn until it was translucent when it was used as casing for lanterns, brought him only a pittance. So when the wonderful opportunity had arisen, his father had urged him: “Take it. I can’t do much for you.” And though the position itself was humble: “You never know what a man like that might do for you, if he likes you.”
If only he had.
At first young Martin had been so pleased to be working for the Italian that he had hardly noticed that all was not well. The Italian was rich, one of the moneylenders who had supplanted the Jews and whose base was the lane in the city centre just below Cornhill which – since many of them came from the north Italian territory of Lombardy – was already known as Lombard Street. A widower, whose son ran the business in Italy, the Italian lived alone and used Martin on all manner of errands. He paid him well, if grudgingly.
“But he always thinks I’m cheating him,” Martin complained. Whether it was because the Italian understood English badly, or just his mistrustful nature, Martin could never discover, but there was always trouble. If he delivered a message, he was accused of loitering; if he went to the market for food, his master said he had kept some of the money for himself. “I should have left him,” he said mournfully, afterwards. But he had not. For he had something else on his mind.
Joan: she was not like the other girls.
When he was eighteen, Martin had