The Clerkenwell Tales by Peter Ackroyd (good short books .txt) 📕

“I have heard that a good cook is half a physician. That seems to be your theme.”

“And a good physician is half a cook. I cook essences and qualities over the fire. As no one will eat night-old vegetables, so no one will trust a cure that has not lately been mixed. Why, the other day –”

“Stint your clap, leech.” Emnot said this in good humour; it was the licence of the coquina. “My ears ache with your drasty speech.”

“For the earache I have a very good ointment.”

“No more.”

“Better unfed than untaught, master clerk.”

“I said, no more. Do you have any news that does not come by rote?”

The physician leaned forward. “Only that the nun is about to be challenged.”

“For what?”

“For prophesying against the king.”

“Everyone now prophesies against him, Thomas. She will not be so wrong if she fears his ending.”

“The city will take her, be sure of it. They wish to keep her silent until they know what will befall. They are for Henry, if Henry wishes to be king. They will roll their dice with the winner. But you know, Emnot, I have more news than that.” The physician sat closer, and savoured the odour of the clerk’s breath. “May I speak in secrecy?”

“You may.”

“You know of the five wounds?”

“Of our Saviour?”

“No. Of our city.”

It had begun to rain, and Emnot Hallyng allowed his eyes to settle upon the open doorway; the rain slanted across the prospect of a horse and cart standing idly by the side of the road.

“I think,” Gunter said, “there will be wild fire at St. Michael le Querne. And then later at St. Giles in the Fields.”

Emnot pretended to cough upon the piece of Sussex cheese, which gave him the opportunity to put a cloth up to his face. How could Gunter know about the preparations of the predestined men? He was no part of their assembly and, as far as Emnot Hallyng knew, was acquainted with no other member. Could it be some black art that had given him the skill to peer into their conventicles in Paternoster Row?

“How is all this known to you? How?”

“A poor summoner spoke to me of some arrow pointed into the heart of the city. Of secret men and hidden ways. Then I learned further from one much more exalted.”

“Who was this?”

Gunter looked around at those eating in the coquina, to ensure that no one could overhear him. “What I say, Emnot, must be declared to nobody in life.” He then informed the clerk of his dinner with Miles Vavasour, and of the notes he had found scrawled on the back of a legal parchment; he described, too, the clandestine meeting of the London notables in the round tower.

Emnot Hallyng had no need to feign surprise. He was alarmed, and horrified, by what Gunter had told him. How could these meetings – of alderman and under-sheriff, knight and sergeant – be connected with the actions of the predestined men? Miles Vavasour was not one of the foreknown, and yet he had written down something about the fire soon to visit the church in Bladder Street. How could such a high man of law have foreknowledge of a great crime – that is, of felony and sacrilege – without making any attempt to forestall it? Thomas Gunter had whispered of secret bands and concealed associates, but the physician had no knowledge of the predestined men. Gunter knew only that the guardians of the city were meeting in private conclave under cover of night and darkness. Then Emnot repeated the question to himself. How did any outsider know of Exmewe’s preparations? Emnot Hallyng felt himself to be in a maze, and he suspected that great danger was already lurking there. He believed that he and his companions were free in every sense, and that they carried within themselves the seeds of divine life, but that vision had acquired the darker vestures of human fear and suspicion.

Now the meal was over. The clerk and the physician took cardamom seeds, from a bowl, to sweeten their breath. Then they walked over to Roger’s stables. “I am afraid,” Gunter was saying as he shielded himself with his cloak from the rain, “that ignorance, the mother of error, has blinded and deceived certain persons.”

“It seems so, Master Gunter. God keep you in His care.”

“I commend you to God, Emnot Hallyng. Ride hard through this wind and rain.”

Roger of Ware was standing at the door of his coquina, murmuring “God give you good day” or “May God be with you” to each departing guest.

“It was fine meat, Roger.”

“Sir, by God, you are welcome.” Hanekyn Fytheler had drunk too much, and Roger helped him across the cobbles to his horse. Then he went back into the cookshop, wiping his hands. “God save this fair company and its farts! God give them good turds!” He began to inspect the premises. “Who is this that has thrown his bones under the table? Who was at this table, Walter?”

“Four velvet hoods from the Swithin guild.”

“When men are fools, four is three too many. Did you belch in their faces, Walter? Did you blow your nose on their napkins? Did you pick your putrefied teeth?”

“No, sir.”

“More the pity.” The servers were putting the stale bread trenchers and the leavings into the alms-dishes. “Did you see Goodman Rochford? His hose was so tight that I could see his horrible member. It was like some swollen hernia. I almost fainted away.”

“In his hind part,” Walter added, “all the guns were blasting. It made a terrible stink in this part of the room.”

“It is a foul world, Walter. There are some ox-tongues left here. Take them up for supper. And sponge your jacket. I spy fat upon it.” He stopped and bent down in a corner. “Jesus, someone has pissed here. Fetch a bucket. May God’s curse be upon him!”

Walter laughed, and went out whistling “Double me this burden.”

Roger sighed, and took