Forged in the Fire by Ann Turnbull

jettied so that it overhung the street. Below our window swung the inn sign, with its three barrels; other signs, painted on boards or hanging from poles, showed all the way along. I peered out, noting a glover’s shop, and a saddler’s. A hooded figure went by carrying a white staff, and I saw how the mass of people parted around this person, like water around an island, and none came near. An apothecary, I supposed, or a searcher: some such that dealt with plague sufferers. I shivered.
    â€œPull the window to,” said Alice. “Let’s give thanks.”
    So we sat down – Alice on the only chair, me on the bed. I closed my eyes and let myself become quiet and calm. I was here, and thanked God for it.
    We remained silent for a few minutes. When I heard a slight movement from Alice I opened my eyes. She said, “Now I think we must eat.”
    I’d had nothing but a piece of bread since waking at Islington, and realized I was hungry. But first I wanted to be clean. I made Alice wait while I washed all over, and changed into clean linen and stockings, and combed my hair and set my cap neatly over it. There was a mirror on the washstand, and while Alice was occupied in reading her Bible I studied my reflection. I’d had no mirror in my room at Mary Faulkner’s, so this was a novelty to me. I pulled out a strand of hair to curl either side of my face.
    We ate in the main room of the inn, where I listened to the medley of voices around us. Londoners talk fast and clipped, and speak as if everything must be done today, and as quickly as possible. We attracted a few glances when we came in – I suppose because of our country dress – but we sat in a secluded corner and spoke quietly together.
    A serving girl brought our meat. She was about my own age and wore a crimson dress, immodestly low-necked, I thought, and made of some fine silken material; I guessed it to be a rich woman’s cast-off, for I had heard that there was a brisk trade in such clothes at city markets.
    I asked her, “Dost thou know Creed Lane?”
    She smiled a little at my slow way of speaking, and repeated, “Creed Lane? Yes! It’s but a step away – the other side of St Paul’s.” And she described how to get there, so quickly I could hardly take it in, but reckoned I’d find my way. I had memorized Will’s address: Thomas Corder’s house, next to the Blue Boar.
    â€œI thank thee,” I said, as the girl left.
    â€œI see nothing will hold thee now,” said Alice.
    â€œWill thou come?” I didn’t want her to.
    â€œNo. I shall read my Bible, and wash, and perhaps sleep a little before taking the air. We shall meet later. Go carefully, Friend Susanna.”
    â€œI will.”
    I soon found Creed Lane. It was a short, steep road, and the Blue Boar lay at the bottom. On one side of it was a small shop, shuttered and locked, on the other a tall, narrow, run-down house where a woman in a dirty apron was swilling a bucket of food scraps into the gutter.
    I asked her if this was Thomas Corder’s house.
    â€œIt is.” She regarded me curiously.
    â€œI am looking for William Heywood.” My heart beat fast as I spoke his name.
    â€œOh – Mr Heywood! You must ask Mr Lacon about him. He’s at work.”
    â€œWho? Nat – Mr Lacon?”
    â€œYes. He works for a printer in Alum Court. He should be home in an hour. Do you want to come in and wait?”
    I didn’t. “I’ll find him,” I said.
    â€œOther side of St Paul’s. Off Old Change.”
    I thanked her and left.
    Alum Court was near, but I struggled to find it in the maze of busy streets where people crowded and jostled me, and where I had to crane my neck to look up at the signs. On the way I passed Paul’s Churchyard, but many of the bookshops there were closed; and besides, the woman hadn’t said Will would be at work; she’d said I must ask