London in Chains by Gillian Bradshaw Page A

his parliamentary clerk fobbed him off. Waiting until Geoffrey’s gone would not be dishonesty but–but simple avoidance of a quarrel!’
    She could see that the argument carried some weight, but still Thomas frowned. ‘Sweet, I would not risk my own daughter thus: how can I risk my poor sister’s?’
    â€˜Uncle . . .’ Lucy began, then had to smile. Thomas stared in surprise. ‘Uncle, can you imagine Hannah ever doing such a thing as this? She–well, she’s a sweet, gentle soul, but . . .’
    Thomas suddenly returned the smile. ‘She would be affrighted and she would beg me to take her home.’
    Lucy nodded. ‘I’m not Hannah! I like the work very well, and . . . and I like this cause very well, if it can succeed without bloodshed! You are not risking me: I am risking myself .’
    Thomas considered that for a long, uneasy minute. Then he drew a deep breath and nodded. ‘Well, then, I’ll tell the others you’ll attend after your cousin has left London.’
    Cousin Geoffrey left the following week. A daily attendance at Westminster and a heavy expenditure in bribes had failed to get him the strip of land and at last he gave up and went home. Ned, who listened with interest to Lucy’s account of the matter, said probably a Parliament-man had his eye on the land. Geoffrey, however, blamed Thomas.
    â€˜This is what comes of rebellion!’ he muttered angrily, as he mounted his mare on a wet Monday morning. He glowered at Thomas from the saddle and added, ‘I will tell them at home how you fare, Uncle!’ He made the polite words a threat.
    Thomas was distressed: he loved his brother, Geoffrey’s father, and was afraid of a breach; he was also frightened of Daniel Wentnor, despite Lucy’s assurances.
    Lucy, however, was simply relieved to see the back of Geoffrey. Even if she’d been inclined to worry about what he’d say, she had little time for it. The flow of print had continued unabated, and in the middle of it they’d had to move the press.
    The carriage house of The Whalebone had never been intended as more than a stopgap printworks: the authorities were well aware of the tavern’s clientele. The only reason the press had been located there at all was that The Whalebone had been searched immediately beforehand and it would be a month or two before anyone searched again. The ‘common council’ meeting which discussed Lucy’s attendance had also settled on a new location for the press. This was a disused barn outside the city wall by Bishopsgate, over towards the parkland of Moorfields. It was immediately beyond Bedlam – Bethlehem Hospital for lunatics – which meant any casual traffic was disguised by people coming to gape at the madmen.
    The barn was only a ten-minute walk from The Whalebone, but moving the press was still a huge task. It was too big and heavy to travel in one piece: it had to be taken apart, loaded on a cart, driven to its new home and then put back together again. The actual move was done using a dray borrowed from a brewery. Lucy packed up the cases of type, paper and ink, took down the drying lines and helped to disassemble the press. It was heavy work and left her with a sore back and a torn fingernail. She was glad of the nagging aches, though: it distracted her from the prospect of working alone in a barn. She’d been unable to do that since she went to milk the cows early one morning, two years before.
    Ned was in the thick of the move: he borrowed the dray and drove it out to Bishopsgate in the evening, its incriminating load concealed under a stack of empty beer barrels. The next morning he turned up early at the barn and helped to reassemble the press before rushing off to put in a day’s work at his tavern. He paused only to speak to Lucy. He handed her the key for the padlock that was to secure the barn door and said, ‘Come