The Invention of Fire

He considered me, hand at his thick chin. ‘You’re looking after that mess up at the Long Dropper.’

I allowed my silence to answer him.

‘Gongfarmers’re all jawing about it, the rakers and sweepers as well,’ he went on, loosening up. ‘It’s the gab of London. Fifty men, thrown in the sewers to drown and rot.’

‘An exaggeration,’ I said breezily. ‘Sixteen victims, all happily dead before they were tossed in the privy.’

‘That may be,’ he said, his black look making me regret my light and careless tone. ‘Yet treated no better than shit from a friar’s arse. Denied the ground, and a Mass, and a proper burial. Whoever’s done it had best keep his murdering nose free of Aldgate, or he’s in for a rough time of it from the guard, that’s certain.’

‘To be clear, Bagnall, you know nothing about these men?’

‘Aldgate hasn’t heard a whisper about this matter, Master Gower.’ He tugged at his cap. ‘I’ll own we’re a busy gate, what with all the Colchester traffic, marches out to Mile End. But a company of sixteen, riding or walking in from outside? Even the sleepiest of my men would take notice, and a pile of corpses would fare no better. Wherever those poor carls came in, they didn’t come in through Aldgate, nor the Tower postern, or I would have heard about it.’ The postern was a small entrance along the wall north of the Tower. Not a full-fledged gate but a heavy door, though just as carefully watched.

Bagnall left us with a curt nod. Chaucer stared after him as the old stairs protested his descent with a groan of loose nails. ‘Blunt man. Always has been.’

‘Bluntness has its place,’ I said. ‘Though I’ll need such frankness from more than your gateman if I’m to learn who these poor fellows were, and where they came from.’

Chaucer pressed my arm as he walked me to his Aldgate door for the last time. ‘I shall be back for Parliament soon. You will be in town?’

‘Do I ever leave?’

‘You’ve not come out to Greenwich yet, John. I have plenty of room for visitors – more than I ever had in this place.’ He looked around, his bright eyes mellowed with regret at leaving a city so much a part of his blood. Like his father, a London vintner, Chaucer had been born and would surely die within these walls, which he had always regarded as a sort of outer skin. I thought of him strolling through the countryside, waking to roosters instead of bells, attending Mass at the tiny church in Greenwich rather than at the urban parish that had been his devotional home for so many years.

He caught my sad smile, and at the door he turned his full attention on me. Ours was a unique friendship, its complexity never more deeply felt than at those moments of farewell, all too frequent in recent years.

‘Be careful with yourself, John, and mind your back.’ His palm was on my wrist. ‘Whoever threw those bodies in the Walbrook knew they would be found.’ He looked out along the rooftops of the inner ward. His grip tightened. ‘And didn’t much care.’

From the narrow passage before Chaucer’s house I walked north through the boundaries of the parish of St Botolph, lingering at each tower to dispense coins and questions. From that height London appeared almost tranquil, cleaner and somehow nobler than the square mile of squalor and moral compromise sprawled between these walls. The city’s roofs formed a grand patchwork of ambition and decay, the spans of greater halls and the thrusting heights of new towers set within the humbler timbers of tenements and lower shopfronts. Even the smoke rising from smithies and ovens possessed a humble majesty, grey tendrils striving for the sky, vaporous strands of the city’s hopes.

Yet London was hardly at peace. Masons were at work at every turn, fortifying the wall and heightening it in certain places deemed particularly vulnerable to engine or incursion. It was known that a great navy had been assembling at Sluys since mid-summer, ready to seek vengeance for years of English brutality in France and Burgundy. With the Duke of Lancaster in Castile seeking a crown and much of the upper nobility increasingly belligerent toward the king, a mood of lowering doom had settled over the realm of late, as the nation braced itself for invasion from the sea.

The feeling sharpened as I neared Bishopsgate and the armouries. Somewhere below three smiths worked in tandem, the varied weights of their hammers entwined in a clanging motet, turning out breastplates, helmets, hauberks, the mundane machinery of war. I spoke for a while to the tollkeeper, whose wife I had bought out of a city gaol the previous summer, though learned no more than I had from Bagnall.

Now Cripplegate. On the second level above the gatehouse there was a small hermitage, filthy from the habits of its longtime occupant though an unavoidable stop, given my needs. The low and nearly secret door, reached by squeezing around one of the guard towers from the lower walkway, was closed against the wind. A smudged face could be seen through the rectangular gap in the bricks that served as the chamber’s sole window aside from a narrow squint low on the far side. The hermit’s eyes were closed above his massive beard, a swath of matted filth that covered nearly every inch of a face thinned by years of self-denial and hunger. The stench from the hole was a rich stew of man, dung, and time.

I squatted and peered in. ‘Good day to you, Piers.’

With a start the hermit opened his eyes, then gapped his mouth in a dark and toothless smile. He kept his door closed but scooted his ragged frame toward the window, jutting his nose and lips into the aperture. ‘Why, John Gower himself, the Saint of Shrouded Song! You have – oh – spices in your pouch for Piers, do you, or – oh – a heady lass?’

Piers Goodman, though thin of brain, was one of the city’s more useful hermits, with sharp eyes and good ears, unafraid to stick his head out of his hole and sell what he knew, which tended to be a great deal. The Hermit of St Giles-along-the-Wall-by-Cripplegate was the rather pompous title he had chosen for himself long ago, and for years its grandeur fit him. Nobles from the king’s household, bureaucrats from the Guildhall and Chancery, mercers and aldermen: all sought his counsel on matters large and small, climbing up to the old storeroom he had claimed as his hermitage, offering thanks, charity, and spilled secrets to a man as discreet as he was pious – or so it appeared to most of those who consulted him. In reality the hermit leaked like an old wine cask, sharing the private lives of others for trifles: coins, fruits and pies, the occasional whore. In recent years the cask would often run dry, though with Piers Goodman you seldom knew what you might get.

It took a while to lead him around to the subject of the day, but when I finally did he was, as usual, quite forthcoming. ‘Strangers, you say? Company of men? Oh, we’ve had our share of strangers we have, and companies – why just Saturday or was it Tuesday a little brace of – oh – Welshmembers it was. Whole flock of Welshmembers, herded through Cripplegate quick as you please. Piers saw them he did, looking down through his slitty slit, and Gil Cheddar told him all about it. Big trouble for the mayor says Gil Cheddar, those Welshmembers. And had a carter of Langbourn Ward up here – oh – last week? Weeping mess he was too, with a sad sad sad sad story to tell about his cart and his cartloads. What’s in his cart and cartloads, Gower, hmm, what’s in his cart and all his cartloads? Not faggots, mind, not beefs, mind, not Lancelot, mind, but—’

‘Stop there, Piers. A company of Welshmen, you say?’

‘Aye Welshmembers they were, and right through the gate they went says Gil Cheddar, who brings Piers his supper and his—’

‘You said this Gil Cheddar told you about them?’

‘Aye, he did, told me all that business. Not ale, mind, not—’

‘And who is Gil Cheddar?’

‘An acolyte of St Giles Cripplegate is Gil Cheddar, and the sweetest face you’ll ever see on him. Gil Cheddar brings his old hermit his suppers he does – not every day, but some days his suppers he does. Breads, fishes, cheeses, a dipper of ale for Piers and I’ll thank you for a piece of silver, and now a song for you, Gower? A song of hermits pricking bold, aye, that is what Piers’ll seemly sing.’ And he entuned it in his nose: ‘I loved and lost and lost again, my beard hath grown so grey. When God above doth ease my pain, my cock shall rise to play …’

I pushed a coin through the window and left him to his melody. Back on the walkway I had a decision to make: proceed along the wall through the remaining gates or descend to the outer part of the ward and try to find Gil Cheddar. It was not a feast, and as an acolyte, Cheddar would likely not appear at St Giles until later in the day. I would return in several hours.

Soon after Cripplegate the wall bent southward, angling past the peculiar roof of St Olave’s and the five towers placed like sentries above this misshapen corner of the city. I learned nothing at Aldersgate nor at Newgate, where I had extensive connections among the guard, though I did gather a few nuggets about unrelated matters for later use. On leaving Newgate I got a warning from one of the guards to watch my step farther on. As I soon discovered, the walkway had collapsed perhaps forty feet short of Ludgate, beams leaning askance from the wall, planks dangling creakily in the wind. A heavy scaffold had crushed an abandoned shack beneath, leaving a sprawl of broken timber that looked too rotten for salvage.

I retraced my steps to the stairs before Newgate and descended into the narrow ways of St Martin, the small parish spread between St Paul’s and the wall. My whole day had been spent floating above London, with scarcely a thought for the eternal squalor below, though descending now to the close streets I knew so well came almost as a relief, despite the fatigue of a long and trying day. I walked nearly to the cathedral before turning to approach Ludgate from the east, angling around the gateyard to avoid repair work on the conduit ditch, which looked to have sprung a leak. At the corner of the yard I bought three bird pies and a dipper of ale.

From the pillory holes in the yard dangled the hands of Peter Norris, a parchment collar affixed to his neck, his uncovered hair lifting morosely with each gust of wind. He must have been in place for hours already, as the area was free of hasslers. A boy of about eleven sat at the foot of the stocks, faking a cough.

Norris’s eyes were to the ground as I approached. His unshaven neck rasped against the parchment collar, inscribed in high, dark letters with his crime: I, Peter Norris, stole pigeons. His was quite a fall, for Norris had been a powerful man in former days, a wealthy mercer with nearly exclusive command of the city’s silk trade with France, though that was before he would be brought low by his own poor decisions.

‘Norris,’ I said, handing two pies to the boy and holding one out to his father’s mouth.

As the boy started to eat Norris made an effort to turn his head, angling his gaze up to meet my own.

‘Spit that out, Jack!’ Norris commanded weakly when he saw me. The boy stopped chewing, his eyes gone wide. ‘John Gower here’s like to poison you dead, without a thought for your boy’s soul.’

I sniffed. ‘Not today, Norris.’

I glanced at his son. The boy, twig thin, wore a woollen cap, his golden hair stuffed beneath the narrow brim. The cap had ridden up slightly, exposing ugly stumps where his outer ears had once been. A cutpurse, then, caught knifing and sliced for his crime. He took a few coins from my hand and wandered off toward the gate, both pies already gone.

Norris looked after his son as long as he could, neck straining against the skin-slicked wood. ‘That boy, he’s a loyal one he is. He’s got as much rot thrown in the face this week as his father, with no fuss about it, and sits here with me all through the day. “The Earl of Earless” they taunt him on account of his stubs. Worse things, too.’ He shook his head.

‘Can he hear it all?’ I asked, curious about the boy’s affliction, thinking of my own.

‘Oh, young Jack hears what he wants to hear, as all boys do.’ He laughed fondly.

Norris, I realized as I followed the boy’s progress, had a perfect angle on the traffic into the city from Ludgate. Beyond the imposing façade lay the legal precincts and the royal capital. An important city entrance, bringing visitors and goods from Temple Bar, the inns, and finally Westminster a good walk up the Strand.

‘How long have you been at the pillory, Norris?’ I held the cup for him.

He took a slow sip of ale, smacked his lips. ‘Since the dawn bell,’ he murmured. Another sip. ‘But an hour and a bite and I’m free, for all that’s worth.’

‘This is the last day of your sentence?’

‘Aye.’

‘And the rest of it?’

‘Ten hours in a day right through a week, as was my sentence at the Guildhall, and all for a festering brace of pigeons swiped and sold to a pieman! Constable wouldn’t have taken me in at all, if an alderman’s daughter hadn’t happened to stomach one and empty her guts.’ He looked out at one hand, then the other. ‘Give me Jesu’s cross over the pillory. A man’s not meant to stand bent this long.’

He was right about that. Though the punished generally stood at the stocks for no more than an hour at a time, the longer sentences could lead to permanent disfigurement: pillory back, its sufferers easily identifiable by their crooked spines and frequent grunts of pain as they hobbled through the streets.

After a few pitying murmurs I began gently, asking Norris whether he had noticed any unusual activity at the gate in recent days, particularly involving a large company of men.