The Tudor Bride. Joanna Hickson

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      ‘Ah – optimism!’ I cried. ‘You see, you too are a good travelling companion.’

      The pot boy brought us ale and, as Walter had predicted, it was weak but not sour and the pottage, when it came, was actually quite tasty, well-seasoned and laced with herbs and scraps of meat. It served its purpose, which was to warm us up and fortify us for another long ride. Providing the horses had been as satisfactorily cared for, all should be well and, to our delight, when we stepped out into the stable yard the rain had stopped and a watery sun stood high in the sky.

      ‘Now we might reach London before curfew,’ said Walter, taking Genevieve’s reins from the ostler and helping me to mount. ‘It pays to be optimistic.’

      At last able to ride with my hood back, I settled in the saddle and began to look around me. We were travelling east on the Great Western Road out of London and a steady procession of traffic came against us. Mule-carts and hand-carts, many of them empty, were returning to the vegetable gardens and poultry farms of the Thames valley having sold their loads of roots, onions, chickens, ducks, geese and eggs in the city markets. Well-guarded strings of laden pack-horses plodded steadily at the start of their journey to the ports of Bristol and Exeter and the occasional sound of a horn heralded a knight or nobleman with his posse of retainers, bidding us to clear the road to give him passage. We passed through a series of villages until the road once more met the River Thames at Chiswick and became even more crowded as the spires and towers of Westminster grew clearer in our sights.

      We skirted the palace and abbey to the north and it was very slow going on the stretch between there and the London wall, but the sun had dried us out and I was comfortable enough to be fascinated by the sights. This loop of the Thames was, like the stretch of the Seine between the Grand Pont and the Hôtel de St Pol in Paris, the chosen location for the city residences of a number of nobles and bishops, close to both the merchant hub and the centre of royal power that was the palace of Westminster. These mansions were well-protected by high walls and gatehouses, but often the gates were open and it was possible to catch a glimpse of the busy courtyards within, noisy with the clatter of horses hooves and the shouts of servants and varlets bustling through doors and arches.

      ‘This road will take us to the Ludgate,’ Walter shouted above the rattle of iron-bound wheels on a passing cart. ‘Let us hope there is not too much of a queue.’

      ‘Why, when is the curfew?’ I yelled back.

      ‘Not until after the Compline bell, so we should get through before dark. Then it is not far to Tun Lane.’

      Walter had very kindly invited me to stay at his family house on the edge of the Vintry, the wharf area on the river where wine cargoes were unloaded and stored in warehouses.

      ‘Shall I meet your father?’ I asked with interest. ‘Is he in London?’

      ‘I believe so. He usually lets me know if he is travelling to France.’

      ‘And will your aunt be there? The one your sisters wish was not?’

      He gave me a worried look. ‘Yes, but I hope you will not make any mention of that,’ he said. ‘I probably should not have told you.’

      I smiled reassuringly. ‘I promise I will be the soul of discretion. It is extremely kind of you to offer me lodging. I hope your aunt will not be put out by it.’

      He looked as if the thought had never occurred to him. ‘I cannot think why she should. We have plenty of room. Anyway, you can have my chamber if there is any problem and I will sleep in the hall with the servants. It would not be the first time.’

      I did not pursue the subject, but nevertheless felt a stab of misgiving. His original description of his aunt had not encouraged me to think that she was an easy-going woman and I feared my arrival might rouse her ire.

      ‘Well, I will be very grateful not to have to take a room in a strange inn,’ I said. ‘The prospect does not appeal to me.’ Catherine had suggested I seek lodging at Westminster Palace, but I suspected that when the royals were not in residence such a place would be cold and eerie and, anyway, I wanted to be closer to the shops and workshops in the city.

      We waited less than half an hour in the queue to pass through the wall and immediately began to plod up a hill on a narrow roadway lined with tightly packed half-timbered houses whose overhanging gables almost grazed our heads, obscuring the setting sun and trapping the acrid odour stirred by our horses’ hooves. Behind us the Compline bell began to ring from a nearby abbey, tucked into the corner formed where the London wall dipped down to the river bank.

      ‘Blackfriars Abbey,’ Walter revealed. ‘Of the Dominican order. Their bell denotes the start of curfew. We only just made it through the gate.’

      At my request we had been speaking English all day. I was getting more fluent and needed the practice. I had discovered that learning the language led me to understand the English character better and it was becoming clear to me that although many of them were descended from Normans, they displayed very different characteristics from their continental cousins. I found them more phlegmatic, less quick to anger and generally more straightforward in their attitude to life.

      Walter leaned from his saddle to speak above the clanging sound of another bell which began to ring out from a large building silhouetted at the top of the hill. ‘That is St Paul’s,’ he said, ‘the greatest church in London. In the churchyard you’ll see a big cross where many a famous sermon has been preached. Crowds block the street to hear them, especially in times of trouble.’

      When we reached the elevated churchyard it was just possible to see over the patchwork of tiled rooftops down to the river Thames, its brown and turgid waters transformed by the reflected sunset into a golden highway dotted with boats and ships. London seemed smaller than Paris, crammed tightly within its walls and, judging by the miasma of smells that assailed our nostrils, afflicted with the same city problems; waste, ordure and disease. It also radiated all the excitement and opportunity that resulted when people massed together in the right location for trade, industry and creativity.

      We had stopped to let our horses draw breath after the climb and to allow me to admire the view. Walter was eager to share his pride in his native city, ‘The river looks magical in this light, does it not? The Vintry is this side of London Bridge,’ he said, indicating the higgledy-piggledy line of buildings on the many-arched bridge I remembered crossing the day before Catherine’s coronation. ‘Our house is in Tun Lane, off Cordwainer Street. Ten minutes’ ride. I hope supper will be ready!’

      When we reached the Vintner house it was already shuttered against the night, but the street gate quickly opened in response to Walter’s rat-tat-a-tat-tat coded knock. A grizzled servant emerged first from a narrow passage at the side of the house and took our horses, while seconds later down some steps at the main entrance tumbled two young girls, laughing and exclaiming as they came.

      ‘Walter! Walter! It’s you at last!’

      Light spilled out a welcome from lamps burning in the inner porch and Walter returned the enthusiastic embraces of the two whom I assumed to be his sisters before shushing them and ushering me up the steps towards the warmth of the interior.

      ‘Now calm down and show your manners to my guest,’ he admonished gently. ‘This is Madame Lanière, who is Keeper of the Robes to Queen Catherine and deserves your greatest courtesy. Madame, may I present my sisters? This is Anne, the eldest and this hoyden is Mildred, although we call her Mildy because she does not deserve such a saintly name.’

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