Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits - Donoghue [74]
No, those aren't Benet's bells, she realises; they're lower. Besides, she's seen no young scholars out this evening, and there's another sign of trouble. Most Saturdays they're to be found hanging round Fitzbilly's pie shop, with their catapults and scornful looks. The older ones roam the streets in packs of three score or more, and nobody can bar their way. Scholars will never be townsfolk; they're only here to study their seven arts for seven years, serving their time before they go out into the world as priests or physicians, lawyers or treasurers. To them, this town is no more than an inn on their road.
Could these be the bells of Great St. Mary's she's hearing? But those never toll except for Sunday Mass. Besides, they've gone on too long. And now that Margery lets herself listen, there are feet thudding by as fast as goats, and the odd shout on the warm evening air.
The Widow Starre stands in her doorway, hands braced against the jamb. It's started, then. The bells of Great St. Mary's must be the signal. Her heart joins in, clanging against her ribs. Cambridge is rising.
"Our time is come!"
Midnight on Saturday, and the old rabble-rouser howls out his message from where he stands on the keystone of the bridge. His beard is white and stringy.
"Ye are folk in bondage as were the Israelites in Egypt of old. And now comes this new poll tax, this cruel stone laid on the head of every person in England, which to the rich man is felt as a mere pebble, but as for the bondsman, it weighs him down and bends his neck. This is too much to bear!"
Behind her barred shutters, the Widow Starre covers her head and tries not to listen.
"All men be made equal in the beginning, come of one father Adam and one mother Eve," roars the rabble-rouser almost joyfully. "Whereby then can these gentlemen say they be greater than we? No more will the honest folk of Cambridge squirm under the boot of this University! No more shall ye sweat your days to pay these foul taxes to the Kings cruel ministers! For too long," he bawls, his voice cracking, "these lords and bishops and clerics have gone clad in camlet and ermine, while ye wear but coarse cloth. For too long have they feasted on wine and spices and white bread, while ye be choking on rye and husks and plain water!"
Margery sits in the dark. She blew out her lantern hours ago, for fear of it's being noticed. There's not much plain water getting drunk tonight. She can hear the shrieks and splashes of men fighting in the river. The Mayor has issued a Proclamation of Revolt, or so they say. The College of Corpus Christi—landlord to half the town, including Margery—has been sacked. Not an hour ago, she saw three girls stagger up the street, bearing between them an oak door with the College's crest on it. Margery felt a tiny flicker of excitement at that news, but still, it's a dreadful thing, and one of the mob lies dead of his wounds, and in time, she's sure, the tenants will all pay for the damage ten times over in higher rents. Also a tax collector's son is holed up in the little church of St. Giles, claiming sanctuary from the mob who tried to cut his head off in the graveyard. Rebellion passes from street to street like a burning sickness, like a plague, like the Black Death that ate through England the year Margery turned twelve. Terrible!
She's done nothing, and no one will be able to say she has, afterwards. She's stayed home and waited for it all to be over. Do