Cockle
The seed of this plant when seen under the microscope shows a resemblance to a curled up hedgehog.
They let me out very early. The cobbled walkways and courtyards were empty as I walked beneath the blanket grey sky. Birds sang frantically, no doubt trying to keep warm. Through the fog I saw the outline of a large man the size of a wine barrel waiting outside the Bulwark Gate. It could only be Dowling. What words of wisdom would he have prepared for me?
When he saw me he hurried over, took my hand as if to shake it, but instead gripped it hard and squeezed it, whilst peering into my swollen eye. In truth I must have looked terrible. I hadn’t slept well, the eye throbbed – as did most of my ribs and both my thighs, and I felt like my head was floating two feet above my neck.
‘I’m well enough. Tell me what happened while we walk.’ We made our way slowly up Great Tower Street up towards the City.
‘I was allowed to see him in the morning.’ He walked with his shoulders scrunched, hands in pockets, looking at the dirt beneath his feet. ‘I stayed awhile, waited for them to come and collect him.’
‘How was he?’
‘Calm. He told me of the trial. They made him stand before the Lord Chief Justice with his back to the court. The Lord Chief Justice said that he would not look into the face of Satan. Various fellows, one after the other, all appeared before the court and told the same story, that they had seen Joyce running from Bride’s with blood on his hands, screaming like a devil, with black spirits clambering about his back, attacking him with their talons. He was there two hours listening to the same tales. At the end of it the Lord Chief Justice asked him if he had anything to say. He said, “I think the poorest man in England is not at all bound in a strict sense to that government that he hath not a voice to put himself under.”’
‘Fine words,’ I noted, dubiously.
‘They were Rainsborough’s words at the Putney Debates.’
‘Of course.’ The Putney Debates took place twenty years ago, at a time when the army still pretended to rule in place of the King. Rainsborough was a Leveller.
‘Aye, but the Lord Chief Justice flew into a frenzy according to Joyce. Jumped to his feet and started shouting and screaming. He had to be becalmed, while Joyce just stood there wondering what he’d said.’
‘Odd fish.’
‘Aye. Anyhow, Joyce had a better perspective than we did on the certainty of his fate. He was resigned to it.’ Dowling laid a meat plate on my shoulder once more. ‘He bore you no malice, Harry.’
I didn’t need Joyce’s perspective to establish the futility of my efforts. ‘What next?’
‘The old cleric from St Andrew Hubbard came, the fiery fellow with wild white hair. He had been drinking beforetimes to give himself strength methinks. It was he that hung the cross round Joyce’s neck. Then they bound him tight. They were all in there, pushing him, prodding him, waiting for him to struggle so they could give him a good beating, but he didn’t protest at all. But then, just as they’re leading him out, he turned round, and spake out clear as you like, ‘Villains!’ I thought they would beat him then, but he stared right into their eyes, standing to attention like an old soldier. He looked like a soldier too, even with the cuffs of his jacket halfway up his elbows and his trousers halfway up his knees.’
We walked on past the Custom House, towards the Bridge. At the crossroads with Fish Street Hill we had to stop and wait in a crowd of pedestrians, carriages and sedans. As more traffic arrived from behind we found ourselves jostled and cramped.
‘What’s going on?’ Dowling shouted to a coachman a few yards ahead, up on his seat.
‘Turkeys,’ the coachman shouted back, shrugging, ‘thousands of them.’
Dowling strained his neck above the melee and fidgeted a while, then apparently resigned himself to the delay. ‘He stood there like the King himself, looking down on them like they was brutes, which of course they was. You could see they saw it too, didn’t know how to respond. Then he looked at one of them and said, “Thou art dull indeed.” Thou art dull indeed! As God’s my witness, it was the funniest thing I ever saw! The cleric called them to order, told them to stop their growlings and get him to the cart.’
Didn’t sound funny to me. There was a clearing in the crowd just ahead of us. Two men ran frantically in circles chasing the birds. ‘Did you go with the cart?’
‘They allowed me as far as Sepulchras. After that I made my own way to Tyburn. My cousin set his own cart up there. There was a big crowd outside Newgate blocking the gate and stopping the cart from setting off. There were four that went, Joyce and three others, but the crowd was there for Joyce. They threw apples, some old cabbage, but it just bounced off his head. The throwing soon stopped because the guards were having it worse than Joyce. Two of them went into the crowds with their sticks.’
‘Who were the other three?’
He pulled me by my jacket, stepping nimbly between a sedan and a woman carrying a pail on her shoulder. I tried to keep up with him so he wouldn’t stretch the cloth. ‘I don’t know, none was interested, it was our Joyce they talked about. But they were all three of them drunk as lords. They started to sing as soon as the cart began to roll. Only Joyce wouldn’t take a drink. Like I told you, I went with them as far as Sepulchras. The mob was quiet there, wanting to hear what the clerk had to say, listen to the prayers. He gave each one a small bunch of winter flowers. The drunkards took them and made fun of him, which made the crowd angry. They were angry at Joyce besides, for he just ignored the flowers. The clerk tossed them into his lap in the end, had done with it.’
‘He was bound, though, you said?’
‘Well aye, he was, that’s true, and the only one bound. Reckon they thought they’d keep him tied for his own protection. The other three wasn’t. They all three took the ale keenly enough, sat around telling each other stories. Like an alehouse on wheels it was, but with Joyce sitting in the corner like Death.’
The crowds pressed in, squeezing me up against the wheel of a coach. Dowling eased me forwards and off it with one trunk-like forearm. People started to shout, complaining at the squash. Just as I thought my ribs might break, the pressure was relieved and the crowd surged forward. We were carried with it, Dowling as helpless as I, over the crossroads, turkeys running in a panic about our feet, feathers everywhere. At the first opportunity we stepped off the main thoroughfare and into narrow Candlewick Lane. A turkey followed us, gobbling and grumbling.
‘I left them there and hurried off to Tyburn. Took me best part of half an hour, the crowds were so thick. No room for a horse or coach. I had to run around the alleys and side roads, but he had a good spot, my cousin, only twenty yards from the gallows. Getting to it was the problem.’
I stopped to take a breath. The crowd had pushed hard onto every tender spot on my body. It felt like I was being beaten up again. I waved away Dowling’s fussy concern. ‘Go on.’
‘The mood was altered by the time they got to Tyburn. Joyce was still in a world of his own, if you ask me. But the other three had lost their nerve. Either they didn’t have enough ale or else had too much. Twitching and scratching, wiping their brows and hair, rubbing themselves, licking their lips. They were looking for salvation by that time, but the guards were roused. Having pushed their way through the mob for three miles, been spat on and thrown at, they were of a wicked, foul temper. The crowd had eyes like foxes staring at chickens. Whichever way you looked there was a sea of heads. God’s eyes, did they get frightened! They started running about the cart, looking to jump off it into the crowd. Course, the crowd thought that was great fun, just kept picking them up and throwing them back in. Great sport it was, until one of the guards climbed up and started thrashing about with his stick. Then the three of them quietened down, just sat there shivering, terrified almost to death they was, poor souls. Must be a lonely feeling. Hearing the big roar, knowing it’s for your own death.’
I felt sick.
‘Packed to the galleries, it was. They had two wooden stands set up and they were full. Must have been six or seven thousand. Hanging from windows, perched on the rooftops, leaning from poles and sills. Anyway, as they come up to the gallows, Joyce stood up. The women screamed, all frightened and excited. But Joyce just stood there grinning, grinning I tell you. I never saw anyone look less afraid. People was throwing things at him, but somehow they all missed. Some poor fool hit one of the soldiers with an orange, soon regretted that. The soldier lets out a bellow louder than the bells of Paul’s and goes running after him with his pike. Then the crowd sets on him, and it’s a right mess. There was almost a riot.’
‘And Joyce was alright?’
‘Oh aye, he was alright, surveying it all like a badly dressed angel. Things quickened up a bit then; I think the soldiers were keen for it all to end. Four of them lifted him right up into the air for everyone to see. That got the crowd roaring again.’ Dowling took a deep breath. ‘Then I think his nerve failed him a moment. His knees buckled and he looked up to the sky with his eyes wide open and his mouth gaping. He said something, I don’t know what, then fell down and the soldiers had to carry him.’
I felt my eyes fill. ‘God have mercy.’
He put an arm around my shoulder. ‘Aye, but then he righted himself. He stood up straight again and looked out at the crowd. I could see the right-hand side of his head clearly. Peaceful, I swear.’
‘You’re pulling my leg.’
‘Well, you may say. But I tell you I never saw a wrinkle of remorse. At peace with himself, he was.’
‘Aye, well hopefully some others saw that too.’
‘People come to a hanging for the show, Harry, they don’t come for sober reflection and philosophy.’
‘So then they hung him.’
‘Aye. The crowd shouted so loud you must of heard it in the Tower. Hangman put the rope round his neck and the crowd went quiet, waiting for him to beg for his life. Holding its breath.’
‘Did he beg then?’
‘No, just looked up at the sky. The other three were crying and wailing like women, but Joyce actually smiled, grinned over the top of the rope that was wrapped around his throat.’
‘You go too far.’
‘I’m telling you he smiled. Once the horse was smacked – well then he shat himself, his tongue popped out and started going black and all those things, but before that, he smiled.’
I looked away. ‘Did they cut him?’
‘Aye, they cut him,’ Dowling growled and scratched at his cheek. ‘One of the soldiers took a blade and cut him from his groin up to his ribs. Three cuts. Did it well.’ A look of respect came into his eyes for just a second. ‘Then he reached inside his gut, pulled out his innards and set them alight in front of his eyes. Though I think he was dead by then. Then they let him down and cut him into pieces, showed the crowd his head and his heart.’
‘I wager the crowd enjoyed that.’
‘The mouths of the wicked devoureth iniquity.’
I really had to sit down, and Dowling saw it too. I persuaded him to come with me to a coffee house close by on Eastcheap. We found ourselves a quiet spot where we sat in silence for some minutes, while we waited for coffee to be poured and while I waited for the worst of the pain to subside. Dowling sat with the top of his head forward, looking into my eyes with his mouth set grim. This was not the self-assured Dowling of a few days ago.
‘So, Davy,’ I managed to speak without my ribs breaking, ‘Mary Bedford is dead and now Richard Joyce. Neither our doing, but I don’t give much credit to our efforts neither. Do we stop here – tell the story that the affair is ended with the hanging of Joyce? You and I both know it wasn’t he that did it.’
‘Aye,’ Dowling nodded gravely, ‘and we have the husband to consider.’
John Giles, of course. The chicken running headless while the fox sits complacently in its lair biding its time. ‘What do we do, then, about Hewitt?’
Dowling wriggled on his seat. ‘I will talk to the Mayor again, but it will not be easy. He will want to know why we concern ourselves with Hewitt now that Joyce is dead.’
He was right. The Mayor would be a waste of time. ‘I will go to Cocksmouth,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I can establish the source of this mystery there. There is some devilry at the root of this which I do not yet comprehend.’
‘Would you have me come with you?’ Dowling asked.
It was kind of him, but he didn’t know what he was volunteering for. I declined the offer and we went our own ways.
Cocksmouth. Cocksmouth was north and west, beyond Buckingham. It was a long journey and I would be gone from London at least three days. Plenty of time for reflection.
My father was not an educated man, a deficiency that I did not hold against him, God knows. Yet I could not fathom why he made such importance of the need for me to study at Cambridge on the one hand, yet behaved with such stubborn disregard for good logic and sense on the other hand – if ever it came from my mouth. Whatever opinion I expressed, observation I made, could be guaranteed to elicit contradiction. The same determination that I should enjoy greater fortune than he appeared to stir a bitter jealousy against me. His head was like a sealed globe within which wild storms continually raged. Whenever he opened his mouth a violent gale blew. My own policy to deal with such contrariness was to remain silent in his presence. The fewer words I spoke, the kinder the climate. So. Tomorrow to Cocksmouth. Birthplace of my mother’s ancestors. A place where pigs foraged before finding themselves strung up with their guts sliced in the front room of my uncle’s house. Godamercy.
I walked south, deep in gloomy thought, pushing through the crowds on Cornhill, heading for the bridge. I walked straight, taking no notice of the tradesmen striding down the streets as if they owned it, shouting out their wares so that all could hear within a half-mile radius.
I hated Shrewsbury and Keeling, and all like them. Before I had never cared, they were the distant purveyors of venerable wisdom. Now they were cold calculating politicians, supreme saviours of their own skin – and hunters of mine. It was mid- afternoon and London’s walls felt oppressive, the crowds pestilent. I strode out onto the Bridge and marched down the middle of the road, avoiding the clamourings and cajolings of the shopkeepers. By the time I reached the wooden drawbridge to the Southbank I was sweaty and my temper had subsided into a mere simmering brew of resentment. As the mists thinned I became more aware of my surroundings. I passed beneath the arch of Nonsuch House. Its copper-covered cupolas shone like blood. I turned to gaze upon the heads that waved stiffly on the end of tall wooden poles, grinning teeth and dull hair coated with a fine layer of freezing frost. A peeling face stared sadly at me from the top of its pole with dull mouldy eyes as it swung over the edge of the archway. The meat on the head was white and torn. I recognised Colonel James Turner, wealthy goldsmith and embezzler. I looked into his eyes, noted the jagged cuts about his neck, the ragged state of his head where the crows had been feeding. He had been loved and respected once. Not any more.
No politics here on the Southbank. This was where the poor people lived. No politics because there was no money. This was where the leatherworkers and feltmongers lived, free of the powers and sanctions of the livery companies based north of the river. This was where the breweries were based, the brothels, the worst of the alehouses, and most of London’s beggars. The City dignitaries would not allow them to cross the Bridge into the City. It was also the place, I suddenly realised, reading the billings plastered here and there, where Harry Hunks was fighting in about twenty minutes’ time.
I hurried towards the bear-ring at Paris Gardens. The crowds milled around, ordinary folk in working clothes, men mostly, debating the prospects of the dogs against blind Harry. I paid my dues and found a seat. The acrid smell of stale sweat filled the air. There were two or three hundred people crammed into the ring, all crowded round the small arena. A single solid pole stood up in the middle of it. Chained to the pole was a big brown bear, his fur matted and dirty, moulded with his own excrement. Peering forth through streaming eyes, small and caked with hard lumps of dried pus, he waved his nose in the air, seeing what he could through smell and sound, his eyes useless. This was blind Harry Hunks, hero of the Southbank.
Two men jumped out into the arena, one struggling to hold a rope attached to the collar of a huge grey wolfhound, big as a man, its mouth and nose strapped in a leather muzzle. The dog strained forward, eyes and nose and every sinew pointed at the prowling bear. Saliva dripped from its muzzle and it growled in violent greedy anticipation. The two men looked much the same. A small fellow with barrel chest strode out into the ring and began introducing the afternoon entertainment, loud and bellowing, striving to rouse the crowd into a state of excitement. At last the time came and the crowd quietened, expectant. The two men crouched and took off the muzzle and the dog sprang forward, launching itself at the bear’s neck. But blind Harry could smell the dog, could hear the dog, and had been waiting for this moment just as avidly as the crowd. With perfect timing the bear rose up onto its haunches and casually swiped a great paw with talons extended. The wolfhound caught the blow across its jaw and ended up in the dirt on its head, tumbling over and against the palings. It rose to its feet unsteady and dizzy, shaking its head, surprised and confused. Blind Harry resumed his prowling, facing away, but fully aware of the dog’s whereabouts, its uncertainty and reluctance to continue. Blind Harry roared, and the crowd sat back satisfied, their fears that this giant dog might hurt blind Harry allayed. The dog trotted forward, growling again, but more timorous now, hovering out of blind Harry’s range, snapping, dashing forward and backward, looking for an opportunity. But blind Harry was ready every time, a seasoned veteran, too clever by half.
‘I love old Harry Hunks, don’t you, my lover?’ A woman leant across me and put a hand on the top of my thigh. She looked at me with bright, lively, brown eyes, round and wide, laughing, enticing. She allowed her hand to drift across my groin, resting momentarily upon my crotch before withdrawing once more to my thigh, then away.
‘Aye.’ I nodded.
‘Let me take you to the Leaguer, lover. We’re all clean at the Leaguer, can take away all that anger I see in your face.’ She smiled, lips parted, her teeth white and clean. She looked at me with an excitement of her own, the anticipation of a done deal.
‘Aye. Why not.’ I stood and let her lead me by the hand.
It was a little while later that it again occurred to me that I had been displaying less wit than a Kynchen cove and less fortitude than Agnes Hobson. I had to take to heart the lesson of blind Harry Hunks, and I had to begin by visiting my father.