King on his enemies, on a spike above Westminster Hall. He had
known Ireton, and Cromwell, as living men. He did not care to see their
decaying skulls impaled for the crows to pick at.
You could buy
anything you chose, in London. Anything you had the coin for, if your heart
desired it and your mind could conceive it, you could have. Aye, and buy pardon
for it afterwards, if you wanted. Anything from a ribbon to a life, with
dreadful, thin, scrabbling figures scratching in the drowning mud at the side
of the river to see what they might scavenge and sell. Thomazine wanted to give
them money, she wanted to empty her purse and see them all fed and clothed
decently -
"Wouldn’t
help, tibber," he said, without looking at her, keeping his eyes
resolutely fixed on the road in front of them. "Too many."
And he'd tapped
on the roof of their hired carriage with the hilt of his sword to encourage the
driver to move off, an affectation which she was beginning to find profoundly
annoying.
Their lodgings
were clean, and decent, and shabby. Mistress Bartholomew was a timid little
mouse who hardly dared look Thomazine in the eye, but scuttled from room to
room with the Bartholomew-baby clinging to her skirts like a fat white spider,
wielding an anxious broom and rearranging the furniture. A good housekeeper,
Thomazine admitted, grudgingly, but she wondered if there had ever been a
Master Bartholomew, or whether that fat little baby's round blue eyes might
turn slate-grey as he grew older.
She risked a
look at her husband at that moment. His slate-grey eyes were closed, and
if she were feeling charitable, which she was not, ringed about with slate-grey
shadows. He looked tired, and pale, and a little ill. "Dear?" she
said gently, and the unscarred side of his mouth lifted, though he did not open
his eyes.
"Am
I?"
He had come in
from another of his interminable affairs of business, and laid on the bed
without troubling to take his muddy boots off. There, that was another thing
she did not care for, about London. It bred fevers and agues worse than a dog
bred fleas. If they had been at home in Essex, with fresh air and decent
feeding, he would not look as if he had aged ten years and lost as many pounds
in weight, in a little under a week. She passed her hand gently over his
forehead and he stirred under her touch, murmuring as if he were grateful for
it.
"Are you
unwell?" she said, and tucked a little of his loose hair out of his eyes,
behind his ear.
"Just
tired."
"I can ask
Mistress Bartholomew to make you up a posset."
"No,
tibber, she has enough to tease her without -"
"Without my
teasing her further?" Her lips tightened. Like that, again, then. "I
can make it myself, you know. I need not trouble that good lady at
all ."
"Thomazine,
I am fine. I am just tired. Will you not leave me be?"
"Surely,"
she said crossly, and slid off the bed and stomped to the window. Making as
much noise as possible with her wooden heels on the bare wooden boards, which
was childish, but satisfying.
Few riders came down
this far into Aldgate. Their carriage had been stared at as if it came from the
moon, when they arrived. A shabby part of the city, but dignified-shabby, not
desperate, not beggarly. This was where working men and women lived; the silk
workers, the seamen, the carpenters. Poor, but decent. But a carriage was
beyond most of their wildest dreaming, and even the stabling of a fairly
average horse was an expense few could support. The dark horse picking its way
gingerly through the puddles and the missing cobbles was not an average horse.
It was a rather fine one, if presently somewhat dejected, in the penetrating
grey mizzle. And its rider was dismounting, and disappearing under the
projecting overhang of Mistress Bartholomew's upper storey. He retained a firm
hold of his mount's bridle, Thomazine noted with amusement.
Shouting. There
was always shouting, in London. Any time of the day or night, someone,
somewhere would be shouting,
known Ireton, and Cromwell, as living men. He did not care to see their
decaying skulls impaled for the crows to pick at.
You could buy
anything you chose, in London. Anything you had the coin for, if your heart
desired it and your mind could conceive it, you could have. Aye, and buy pardon
for it afterwards, if you wanted. Anything from a ribbon to a life, with
dreadful, thin, scrabbling figures scratching in the drowning mud at the side
of the river to see what they might scavenge and sell. Thomazine wanted to give
them money, she wanted to empty her purse and see them all fed and clothed
decently -
"Wouldn’t
help, tibber," he said, without looking at her, keeping his eyes
resolutely fixed on the road in front of them. "Too many."
And he'd tapped
on the roof of their hired carriage with the hilt of his sword to encourage the
driver to move off, an affectation which she was beginning to find profoundly
annoying.
Their lodgings
were clean, and decent, and shabby. Mistress Bartholomew was a timid little
mouse who hardly dared look Thomazine in the eye, but scuttled from room to
room with the Bartholomew-baby clinging to her skirts like a fat white spider,
wielding an anxious broom and rearranging the furniture. A good housekeeper,
Thomazine admitted, grudgingly, but she wondered if there had ever been a
Master Bartholomew, or whether that fat little baby's round blue eyes might
turn slate-grey as he grew older.
She risked a
look at her husband at that moment. His slate-grey eyes were closed, and
if she were feeling charitable, which she was not, ringed about with slate-grey
shadows. He looked tired, and pale, and a little ill. "Dear?" she
said gently, and the unscarred side of his mouth lifted, though he did not open
his eyes.
"Am
I?"
He had come in
from another of his interminable affairs of business, and laid on the bed
without troubling to take his muddy boots off. There, that was another thing
she did not care for, about London. It bred fevers and agues worse than a dog
bred fleas. If they had been at home in Essex, with fresh air and decent
feeding, he would not look as if he had aged ten years and lost as many pounds
in weight, in a little under a week. She passed her hand gently over his
forehead and he stirred under her touch, murmuring as if he were grateful for
it.
"Are you
unwell?" she said, and tucked a little of his loose hair out of his eyes,
behind his ear.
"Just
tired."
"I can ask
Mistress Bartholomew to make you up a posset."
"No,
tibber, she has enough to tease her without -"
"Without my
teasing her further?" Her lips tightened. Like that, again, then. "I
can make it myself, you know. I need not trouble that good lady at
all ."
"Thomazine,
I am fine. I am just tired. Will you not leave me be?"
"Surely,"
she said crossly, and slid off the bed and stomped to the window. Making as
much noise as possible with her wooden heels on the bare wooden boards, which
was childish, but satisfying.
Few riders came down
this far into Aldgate. Their carriage had been stared at as if it came from the
moon, when they arrived. A shabby part of the city, but dignified-shabby, not
desperate, not beggarly. This was where working men and women lived; the silk
workers, the seamen, the carpenters. Poor, but decent. But a carriage was
beyond most of their wildest dreaming, and even the stabling of a fairly
average horse was an expense few could support. The dark horse picking its way
gingerly through the puddles and the missing cobbles was not an average horse.
It was a rather fine one, if presently somewhat dejected, in the penetrating
grey mizzle. And its rider was dismounting, and disappearing under the
projecting overhang of Mistress Bartholomew's upper storey. He retained a firm
hold of his mount's bridle, Thomazine noted with amusement.
Shouting. There
was always shouting, in London. Any time of the day or night, someone,
somewhere would be shouting,
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