London - Edward Rutherfurd [261]
Half an hour later, Carpenter having come round though still burned and shaken, Ducket left him with the good brothers at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, and started off towards the George, to let Amy know what had happened.
James Bull was not a man to give up. True, his rich cousin had never sent for him in the last five years. True also, a year ago, judging her to be old enough to receive such things, he had sent flowers to Tiffany, together with a lumbering poem that had never been acknowledged. But how could he bring himself to the attention of his cousin and earn his approval?
When James Bull saw Tyler’s men enter London, he knew exactly what he thought. Most Londoners hated the poll tax. Many sympathized with the men from Kent. Some had gone to join them. But James had no such ideas. They were troublemakers. He did not have to think about troublemakers, he knew, deep in his bones what needed to be done. They must be put down. And in this, indeed, he proved himself to be a true Bull. Keeping his distance, but eyeing them with deep suspicion, he had followed their progress to the Savoy. Now, as he watched, he saw what he could do.
Later, he felt sure he had done his best. He had dragged three would-be looters out of the burning Savoy, and only stopped when the crowd made it plain that if he did it again they would lynch him. Then he had gone off to look for support. Finding none of the city sergeants or anyone else in authority, he hurried back towards Ludgate in the hope of finding some men-at-arms. After all, if he wanted to make a name for himself and impress his cousin on London Bridge, he needed to do something remarkable, and in front of witnesses. As he passed the burning Temple and reached Chancery Lane, he had seen Silversleeves on a fine horse. “Carry me to the Tower. We must get help,” he cried, but the lawyer only gave him a silent look and then rode swiftly off, to the west, down a lane that avoided the Savoy by a good half-mile.
So it was an unexpected piece of good luck, just as he reached London Bridge, to see one of the rebels walking alone. There could be no mistaking it: the white patch in his hair; the burned hands. He ran forward, threw himself on the man, and as they went down held him fast, with a cry: “Got you.” Yet surely it must have been providence that, as the winded rebel tried to struggle free, James saw, approaching from the bridge, the burly form of his rich cousin, to whom he cried out: “Sir, help me. This fellow was looting the Savoy.”
He was rather surprised when the merchant, after asking if he was sure, turned to the rebel as if he knew him and, with a look of thunder declared: “So, Ducket. You shall pay for this.”
The hours passed slowly in the kitchen of the house on London Bridge. Bull had ignored Ducket’s protests. Though if young James Bull, who had hurried on to the Tower, could have heard the merchant’s comments he would have been pleased indeed. “Capital fellow. Grown up sound, I must say. I may have misjudged him when he was younger.” Bull’s words to the apprentice, however, were bleak: “You’ll stay under lock and key until I can hand you over to the proper authorities,” he told him. The doors were locked, the windows barred and shuttered. Only one person remained with him, and this was the fat girl. “You watch him,” Bull said. “If he tries anything, raise the alarm.”
From time to time, Ducket would look at the fat girl. At one point, having nothing better to do, he tried to explain to her how Amy had sent him after Carpenter, the things he had heard and seen, and lastly how, far from looting, he had rescued Carpenter from the flames. “So you see,” he concluded, “I’m not guilty of anything at all.” But the fat girl continued placidly eating and said nothing.
This regime lasted all the next day. The cook was briefly in the kitchen in the morning. She spoke little but told him