THE DRAGON COURT
“A citizen
Of credit and renown;
A trainband captain eke was he
Of famous London town.”
Cowper.
In spite of his satisfaction at the honourable obsequies of his dog,
Stephen Birkenholt would fain have been independent, and thought it
provoking and strange that every one should want to direct his
movements, and assume the charge of one so well able to take care of
himself; but he could not escape as he had done before from the Warden
of St. Elizabeth, for Ambrose had readily accepted the proposal that
they should travel in Master Headley’s company, only objecting that
they were on foot; on which the good citizen hired a couple of hackneys
for them.
Besides the two Giles Headleys, the party consisted of Tibble, the
scarred and withered foreman, two grooms, and two serving-men, all
armed with the swords and bucklers of which they had made so little
use. It appeared in process of time that the two namesakes, besides
being godfather and godson, were cousins, and that Robert, the father
of the younger one, had, after his apprenticeship in the paternal
establishment at Salisbury, served for a couple of years in the London
workshop of his kinsman to learn the latest improvements in weapons.
This had laid the foundation of a friendship which had lasted through
life, though the London cousin had been as prosperous as the country
one had been the reverse. The provincial trade in arms declined with
the close of the York and Lancaster wars. Men were not permitted to
turn from one handicraft to another, and Robert Headley had neither
aptitude nor resources. His wife was vain and thriftless, and he
finally broke down under his difficulties, appointing by will his
cousin to act as his executor, and to take charge of his only son, who
had served out half his time as apprentice to himself. There had been
delay until the peace with France had given the armourer some leisure
for an expedition to Salisbury, a serious undertaking for a London
burgess, who had little about him of the ancient northern weapon-smith,
and had wanted to avail himself of the protection of the suite of the
Bishop of Salisbury, returning from Parliament. He had spent some weeks
in disposing of his cousin’s stock in trade, which was far too
antiquated for the London market; also of the premises, which were
bought by an adjoining convent to extend its garden; and he had divided
the proceeds between the widow and children. He had presided at the
wedding of the last daughter, with whom the mother was to reside, and
was on his way back to London with his godson, who had now become his
apprentice.
Giles Headley the younger was a fine tall youth, but clumsy and
untrained in the use of his limbs, and he rode a large, powerful brown
horse, which brooked no companionship, lashing out with its shaggy
hoofs at any of its kind that approached it, more especially at poor,
plump, mottled Poppet. The men said he had insisted on retaining that,
and no other, for his journey to London, contrary to all advice, and he
was obliged to ride foremost, alone in the middle of the road; while
Master Headley seemed to have an immense quantity of consultation to
carry on with his foreman, Tibble, whose quiet-looking brown animal was
evidently on the best of terms with Poppet. By daylight Tibble looked
even more sallow, lean, and sickly, and Stephen could not help saying
to the serving-man nearest to him, “Can such a weakling verily be an
armourer?”
“Yea, sir. Wry-mouthed Tibble, as they call him, was a sturdy fellow
till he got a fell against the mouth of a furnace, and lay ten months
in St. Bartholomew’s Spital, scarce moving hand or foot. He cannot
wield a hammer, but he has a cunning hand for gilding, and coloured
devices, and is as good as Garter-king-at-arms himself for all bearings
of knights and nobles.”
“As we heard last night,” said Stephen.
“Moreover in the spital he learnt to write and cast accompts like a
very scrivener, and the master trusts him more than any, except maybe
Kit Smallbones, the head smith.”
“What will Smallbones think of the new prentice!” said one of the other
men.
“Prentice! ’Tis plain enough what sort of prentice the youth is like to
be who beareth the name of a master with one only daughter.”
An emphatic grunt was the only answer, while Ambrose pondered on the
good luck of some people, who had their futures cut out for them with
no trouble on their own part.
This day’s ride was through more inhabited parts, and was esteemed less
perilous. They came in sight of the Thames at Lambeth, but Master
Headley, remembering how ill his beloved Poppet had brooked the ferry,
decided to keep to the south of the river by a causeway across Lambeth
marsh, which was just passable in high and dry summers, and which
conducted them to a raised road called Bankside, where they looked
across to the towers of Westminster, and the Abbey in its beauty dawned
on the imagination of Stephen and Ambrose. The royal standard floated
over the palace, whence Master Headley perceived that the King was
there, and augured that my Lord of York’s meiné would not be far to
seek. Then came broad green fields with young corn growing, or hay
waving for the scythe, the tents and booths of May Fair, and the
beautiful Market Cross in the midst of the village of Charing, while
the Strand, immediately opposite, began to be fringed with great
monasteries within their ample gardens, with here and there a
nobleman’s castellated house and terraced garden, with broad stone
stairs leading to the Thames.
Barges and wherries plied up and down, the former often gaily canopied
and propelled by liveried oarsmen, all plying their arms in unison, so
that the vessel looked like some brilliant many-limbed creature
treading the water. Presently appeared the heavy walls inclosing the
City itself, dominated by the tall openwork timber spire of St. Paul’s,
with the foursquare, four-turreted Tower acting, as it has been well
said, as a padlock to a chain, and the river’s breadth spanned by
London bridge, a very street of houses built on the abutments. Now,
Bankside had houses on each side of the road, and Wry-mouthed Tibble
showed evident satisfaction when they turned to cross the bridge, where
they had to ride in single file, not without some refractoriness on the
part of young Headley’s steed.
On they went, now along streets where each story of the tall houses
projected over the last, so that the gables seemed ready to meet; now
beside walls of convent gardens, now past churches, while the country
lads felt bewildered with the numbers passing to and fro, and the air
was full of bells.
Cap after cap was lifted in greeting to Master Headley by burgess,
artisan, or apprentice, and many times did he draw Poppet’s rein to
exchange greetings and receive congratulations on his return. On
reaching St. Paul’s Minster, he halted and bade the servants take home
the horses, and tell the mistress, with his dutiful greetings, that he
should be at home anon, and with guests.
“We must e’en return thanks for our safe journey and great
deliverance,” he said to his young companions, and thrusting his arm
into that of a russet-vested citizen, who met him at the door, he
walked into the cathedral, recounting his adventure.
The youths followed with some difficulty through the stream of
loiterers in the nave, Giles the younger elbowing and pushing so that
several of the crowd turned to look at him, and it was well that his
kinsman soon astonished him by descending a stair into a crypt, with
solid, short, clustered columns, and high-pitched vaulting, fitted up
as a separate church, namely that of the parish of St. Faith. The great
cathedral, having absorbed the site of the original church, had given
this crypt to the parishioners. Here all was quiet and solemn, in
marked contrast to the hubbub in “Paul’s Walk,” above in the nave.
Against the eastern pillar of one of the bays was a little altar, and
the decorations included St. Julian, the patron of travellers, with his
saltire doubly crossed, and his stag beside him. Little ships, trees,
and wonderful enamelled representations of perils by robbers, field and
flood, hung thickly on St. Julian’s pillar, and on the wall and splay
of the window beside it; and here, after crossing himself, Master
Headley rapidly repeated a Paternoster, and ratified his vow of
presenting a bronze image of the hound to whom he owed his rescue. One
of the clergy came up to register the vow, and the good armourer
proceeded to bespeak a mass of thanksgiving on the next morning, also
ten for the soul of Master John Birkenholt, late Verdurer of the New
Forest in Hampshire—a mode of showing his gratitude which the two sons
highly appreciated.
Then, climbing up the steps again, and emerging from the cathedral by
the west door, the boys beheld a scene for which their experiences of
Romsey, and even of Winchester, had by no means prepared them. It was
five o’clock on a summer evening, so that the place was full of stir.
Old women sat with baskets of rosaries and little crosses, or images of
saints, on the steps of the cathedral, while in the open space beyond,
more than one horse was displaying his paces for the benefit of some
undecided purchaser, who had been chaffering for hours in Paul’s Walk.
Merchants in the costume of their countries, Lombard, Spanish, Dutch,
or French, were walking away in pairs, attended by servants, from their
Exchange, likewise in the nave. Women, some alone, some protected by
serving-men or apprentices, were returning from their orisons, or, it
might be, from their gossipings. Priests and friars, as usual, pervaded
everything, and round the open space were galleried buildings with
stalls beneath them, whence the holders were removing their wares for
the night. The great octagonal structure of Paul’s Cross stood in the
centre, and just beneath the stone pulpit, where the sermons were wont
to be preached, stood a man with a throng round him, declaiming a
ballad at the top of his sing-song voice, and causing much loud
laughter by some ribaldry about monks and friars.
Master Headley turned aside as quickly as he could, through Paternoster
Row, which was full of stalls, where little black books, and larger
sheets printed in black-letter, seemed the staple commodities, and
thence the burgess, keeping a heedful eye on his young companions among
all his greetings, entered the broader space of Cheapside, where
numerous prentice lads seemed to be playing at different sports after
the labours of the day.
Passing under an archway surmounted by a dragon with shining scales,
Master Headley entered a paved courtyard, where the lads started at the
figures of two knights in full armour, their lances in rest, and their
horses with housings down to their hoofs, apparently about to charge
any intruder. But at that moment there was a shriek of joy, and out
from the scarlet and azure petticoats of the nearest steed, there
darted a little girl, crying, “Father! father!” and in an instant she
was lifted in Master Headley’s arms, and was clinging round his neck,
while he kissed and blessed her, and as he set her on her feet, he
said, “Here, Dennet, greet thy cousin Giles Headley, and these two
brave young gentlemen. Greet them like a courteous maiden, or they will
think thee a little town mouse.”
In truth the child had a pointed little visage, and bright brown eyes,
somewhat like a mouse, but it was a very sweet face that she lifted
obediently to be kissed not only by the kinsman, but by the two guests.
Her father meantime was answering with nods to the respectful welcomes
of the workmen, who thronged out below, and their wives looking down
from the galleries above; while Poppet and the other horses were being
rubbed down after their journey.
The ground-floor of the buildings surrounding the oblong court seemed
to be entirely occupied by forges, workshops, warehouses and stables.
Above, were open railed galleries, with outside stairs at intervals,
giving access to the habitations of the workpeople on three sides. The
fourth, opposite to the entrance, had a much handsomer, broad, stone
stair, adorned on one side with a stone figure of the princess fleeing
from the dragon, and on the other of St. George piercing the monster’s
open mouth with his lance, the scaly convolutions of the two dragons
forming the supports of the handrail on either side. Here stood, cap in
hand, showing his thick curly hair, and with open front, displaying a
huge hairy chest, a giant figure, whom his master greeted as Kit
Smallbones, inquiring whether all had gone well during his absence.
“’Tis time you were back, sir, for there’s a great tilting match on
hand for the Lady Mary’s wedding. Here have been half the gentlemen in
the Court after you, and my Lord of Buckingham sent twice for you since
Sunday, and once for Tibble Steelman, and his squire swore that if you
were not at his bidding before noon to-morrow, he would have his new
suit of Master Hillyer of the Eagle.”
“He shall see me when it suiteth me,” said Mr. Headley coolly. “He
wotteth well that Hillyer hath none who can burnish plate armour like
Tibble here.”
“Moreover the last iron we had from that knave Mepham is nought. It
works short under the hammer.”
“That shall be seen to, Kit. The rest of the budget to-morrow. I must
on to my mother.”
For at the doorway, at the head of the stairs, there stood the still
trim and active figure of an old woman, with something of the mouse
likeness seen in her grand-daughter, in the close cap, high hat, and
cloth dress, that sumptuary opinion, if not law, prescribed for the
burgher matron, a white apron, silver chain and bunch of keys at her
girdle. Due and loving greetings passed between mother and son, after
the longest and most perilous absence of Master Headley’s life, and he
then presented Giles, to whom the kindly dame offered hand and cheek,
saying, “Welcome, my young kinsman, your good father was well known and
liked here. May you tread in his steps!”
“Thanks, good mistress,” returned Giles. “I am thought to have a pretty
taste in the fancy part of the trade. My Lord of Montagu—”
Before he could get any farther, Mistress Headley was inquiring what
was the rumour she had heard of robbers and dangers that had beset her
son, and he was presenting the two young Birkenholts to her. “Brave
boys! good boys,” she said, holding out her hands and kissing each
according to the custom of welcome, “you have saved my son for me, and
this little one’s father for her. Kiss them, Dennet, and thank them.”
“It was the poor dog,” said the child, in a clear little voice, drawing
back with a certain quaint coquetting shyness; “I would rather kiss
him.”
“Would that thou couldst, little mistress,” said Stephen. “My poor
brave Spring!”
“Was he thine own? Tell me all about him,” said Dennet, somewhat
imperiously.
She stood between the two strangers looking eagerly up with sorrowfully
interested eyes, while Stephen, out of his full heart, told of his
faithful comradeship with his hound from the infancy of both. Her
father meanwhile was exchanging serious converse with her grandmother,
and Giles finding himself left in the background, began: “Come hither,
pretty coz, and I will tell thee of my Lady of Salisbury’s dainty
little hounds.”
“I care not for dainty little hounds,” returned Dennet; “I want to hear
of the poor faithful dog that flew at the wicked robber.”
“A mighty stir about a mere chance,” muttered Giles.
“I know what _you_ did,” said Dennet, turning her bright brown eyes
full upon him. “You took to your heels.”
Her look and little nod were so irresistibly comical that the two
brothers could not help laughing; whereupon Giles Headley turned upon
them in a passion.
“What mean ye by this insolence, you beggars’ brats picked up on the
heath?”
“Better born than thou, braggart and coward that thou art!” broke forth
Stephen, while Master Headley exclaimed, “How now, lads? No brawling
here!”
Three voices spoke at once.
“They were insolent.”
“He reviled our birth.”
“Father! they did but laugh when I told cousin Giles that he took to
his heels, and he must needs call them beggars’ brats picked up on the
heath.”
“Ha! ha! wench, thou art woman enough already to set them together by
the ears,” said her father, laughing. “See here, Giles Headley, none
who bears my name shall insult a stranger on my hearth.”
Stephen however had stepped forth holding out his small stock of coin,
and saying, “Sir, receive for our charges, and let us go to the tavern
we passed anon.”
“How now, boy! Said I not ye were my guests?”
“Yea, sir, and thanks; but we can give no cause for being called
beggars nor beggars’ brats.”
“What beggary is there in being guests, my young gentlemen?” said the
master of the house. “If any one were picked up on the heath, it was I.
We owned you for gentlemen of blood and coat armour, and thy brother
there can tell thee that, ye have no right to put an affront on me,
your host, because a rude prentice from a country town hath not learnt
to rule his tongue.”
Giles scowled, but the armourer spoke with an authority that imposed on
all, and Stephen submitted, while Ambrose spoke a few words of thanks,
after which the two brothers were conducted by an external stair and
gallery to a guest-chamber, in which to prepare for supper.
The room was small, but luxuriously filled beyond all ideas of the
young foresters, for it was hung with tapestry, representing the
history of Joseph; the bed was curtained, there was a carved chest for
clothes, a table and a ewer and basin of bright brass with the
armourer’s mark upon it, a twist in which the letter H and the dragon’s
tongue and tail were ingeniously blended. The City was far in advance
of the country in all the arts of life, and only the more magnificent
castles and abbeys, which the boys had never seen, possessed the amount
of comforts to be found in the dwellings of the superior class of
Londoners. Stephen was inclined to look with contempt upon the
effeminacy of a churl merchant.
“No churl,” returned Ambrose, “if manners makyth man, as we saw at
Winchester.”
“Then what do they make of that cowardly clown, his cousin?”
Ambrose laughed, but said, “Prove we our gentle blood at least by not
brawling with the fellow. Master Headley will soon teach him to know
his place.”
“That will matter nought to us. To-morrow shall we be with our uncle
Hal. I only wish his lord was not of the ghostly sort, but perhaps he
may prefer me to some great knight’s service. But oh! Ambrose, come and
look. See! The fellow they call Smallbones is come out to the fountain
in the middle of the court with a bucket in each hand. Look! Didst ever
see such a giant? He is as big and brawny as Ascapart at the bar-gate
at Southampton. See! he lifts that big pail full and brimming as though
it were an egg shell. See his arm! ’Twere good to see him wield a
hammer! I must look into his smithy before going forth to-morrow.”
Stephen clenched his fist and examined his muscles ere donning his best
mourning jerkin, and could scarce be persuaded to complete his toilet,
so much was he entertained with the comings and goings in the court, a
little world in itself, like a college quadrangle. The day’s work was
over, the forges out, and the smiths were lounging about at ease, one
or two sitting on a bench under a large elm-tree beside the central
well, enjoying each his tankard of ale. A few more were watching Poppet
being combed down, and conversing with the newly-arrived grooms. One
was carrying a little child in his arms, and a young man and maid
sitting on the low wall round the well, seemed to be carrying on a
courtship over the pitcher that stood waiting to be filled. Two lads
were playing at skittles, children were running up and down the stairs
and along the wooden galleries, and men and women went and came by the
entrance gateway between the two effigies of knights in armour. Some
were servants bringing helm or gauntlet for repair, or taking the like
away. Some might be known by their flat caps to be apprentices, and two
substantial burgesses walked in together, as if to greet Master Headley
on his return. Immediately after, a man-cook appeared with white cap
and apron, bearing aloft a covered dish surrounded by a steamy cloud,
followed by other servants bearing other meats; a big bell began to
sound, the younger men and apprentices gathered together and the
brothers descended the stairs, and entered by the big door into the
same large hall where they had been received. The spacious hearth was
full of green boughs, with a beaupot of wild rose, honeysuckle, clove
pinks and gilliflowers; the lower parts of the walls were hung with
tapestry representing the adventures of St. George; the mullioned
windows had their upper squares filled with glass, bearing the shield
of the City of London, that of the Armourers’ Company, the rose and
portcullis of the King, the pomegranate of Queen Catharine, and other
like devices. Others, belonging to the Lancastrian kings, adorned the
pendants from the handsome open roof and the front of a gallery for
musicians which crossed one end of the hall in the taste of the times
of Henry V. and Whittington.
Far more interesting to the hungry travellers was it that the long
table, running the whole breadth of the apartment, was decked with
snowy linen, trenchers stood ready with horns or tankards beside them,
and loaves of bread at intervals, while the dishes were being placed on
the table. The master and his entire establishment took their meals
together, except the married men, who lived in the quadrangle with
their families. There was no division by the salt-cellar, as at the
tables of the nobles and gentry, but the master, his family and guests,
occupied the centre, with the hearth behind them, where the choicest of
the viands were placed; next after them were the places of the
journeymen according to seniority, then those of the apprentices,
household servants, and stable-men, but the apprentices had to assist
the serving-men in waiting on the master and his party before sitting
down themselves. There was a dignity and regularity about the whole,
which could not fail to impress Stephen and Ambrose with the weight and
importance of a London burgher, warden of the Armourers’ Company, and
alderman of the Ward of Cheap. There were carved chairs for himself,
his mother, and the guests, also a small Persian carpet extending from
the hearth beyond their seats. This article filled the two foresters
with amazement. To put one’s feet on what ought to be a coverlet! They
would not have stepped on it, had they not been kindly summoned by old
Mistress Headley to take their places among the company, which
consisted, besides the family, of the two citizens who had entered, and
of a priest who had likewise dropped in to welcome Master Headley’s
return, and had been invited to stay to supper. Young Giles, as a
matter of course, placed himself amongst them, at which there were
black looks and whispers among the apprentices, and even Mistress
Headley wore an air of amazement.
“Mother,” said the head of the family, speaking loud enough for all to
hear, “you will permit our young kinsman to be placed as our guest this
evening. To-morrow he will act as an apprentice, as we all have done in
our time.”
“I never did so at home!” cried Giles, in his loud, hasty voice.
“I trow not,” dryly observed one of the guests.
Giles, however, went on muttering while the priest was pronouncing a
Latin grace, and thereupon the same burgess observed, “Never did I see
it better proved that folk in the country give their sons no good
breeding.”
“Have patience with him, good Master Pepper,” returned Mr. Headley. “He
hath been an only son, greatly cockered by father, mother, and sisters,
but ere long he will learn what is befiting.”
Giles glared round, but he met nothing encouraging. Little Dennet sat
with open mouth of astonishment, her grandmother looked shocked, the
household which had been aggrieved by his presumption laughed at his
rebuke, for there was not much delicacy in those days; but something
generous in the gentle blood of Ambrose moved him to some amount of
pity for the lad, who thus suddenly became conscious that the tie he
had thought nominal at Salisbury, a mere preliminary to municipal rank,
was here absolute subjection, and a bondage whence there was no escape.
His was the only face that Giles met which had any friendliness in it,
but no one spoke, for manners imposed silence upon youth at table,
except when spoken to; and there was general hunger enough prevailing
to make Mistress Headley’s fat capon the most interesting contemplation
for the present.
The elders conversed, for there was much for Master Headley to hear of
civic affairs that had passed in his absence of two months, also of all
the comings and goings, and it was ascertained that my Lord Archbishop
of York was at his suburban abode, York House, now Whitehall.
It was a very late supper for the times, not beginning till seven
o’clock, on account of the travellers; and as soon as it was finished,
and the priest and burghers had taken their leave, Master Headley
dismissed the household to their beds, although daylight was scarcely
departed.