Read Online 4 A Plague of Angels: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery by P. F. Chisholm - Free Book Online
Authors: P. F. Chisholm
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footpads, he nodded at this good advice.
***
St Paul’s was surrounded by a market full of little stalls filled up with booksellers and papersellers, more books than Dodd had ever seen in his entire life before. Even the Reverend Gilpin had never had such a lot of books. How could a man tell which he wanted to read? It was indecent. And the place was full of people standing around reading books or talking and arguing with each other. Two poorly-dressed, hungry-looking men were arguing loudly with a fat man in an ink-stained apron who they seemed to think owed them money for their writing of a book, which he was strenuously denying.
Barnabus threaded through purposefully, swatting boys away from his pockets and disentangling Dodd from a pretty young piece in a mockado gown who seemed to think Dodd was her long-lost cousin.
They climbed the steps and went into the cathedral of London town, which was a great echoing monster of a building. The nave was full of little stalls, and scriveners tables, the aisle was full of young men who paraded in clothes that made Dodd gasp for the colours of them, the outrageous size of their cartwheel ruffs, the velvets, damasks and satins, the vast padded breeches and the long peascod bellies, the slashings and panes and embroideries. The human butterflies were in constant motion, bowing to each other, talking, laughing.
‘Mm,’ said Barnabus, staring about critically. ‘Now where is everybody?’
‘Eh?’ said Dodd.
‘Nobody here,’ Barnabus said over his shoulder as he threaded across the circling stream of haberdashery to one of the huge round pillars near the high altar screen with its blaze of gold and silver and red silk banners. There were a number of men in jerkins or buff leather standing around the pillar, looking hopeful, pieces of paper pinned to a noticeboard behind them. Barnabus went straight to it, stole two pins from one of the older notices, and stuck up his own paper.
‘There,’ he said. ‘I’ll be sorry to leave ’im, but what can you do?’
‘You’re resigning from the Courtier’s service?’
‘I’ve had enough,’ sniffed Barnabus. ‘Carlisle don’t suit me, what with nuffing to do and nearly getting hanged in the summer. I’ll leave ’im when I’ve found a new master.’
‘Hmf,’ said Dodd. He’d never thought much of Barnabus, who rode like a sack of meal and half the time made no sense at all. Mind you, he had good skills at knife-throwing and the Courtier seemed to rate him, but that was all you could say in his favour really.
Barnabus squared his shoulders and looked round at the competition, some of which seemed large and ugly enough.
‘Don’t know what I’ll find though,’ said the little man gloomily. ‘What with nobody being here.’
‘But…look at ’em all.’
‘Nah,’ said Barnabus, folding his arms and leaning against another pillar to glare disapprovingly down the aisle. ‘The Mediterranean’s half-empty for the time of year. Must all be up at Oxford, arse-licking the Queen.’
How did they all fit in when they were here, Dodd wondered. He craned his neck to look up at the roof which seemed very new, the upper walls part burned. St Paul’s had no proper spire, only a temporary roof where it should have been. Barnabus was beckoning one of the urchins playing dice by the altar steps.
‘Here, you, boy. Show my friend here round Paul’s for me and if nobody’s nipped his purse by the time he gets back, I’ll pay you a penny extra.’
Dodd shrugged and followed the mucky-faced child who pointed self-importantly at a large monument full of moping angels and rampant lions and the like on the south side, with a little chapel next to it. Apparently it was Duke Humphrey’s tomb for certain sure and definite though some scurvy buggers said it was some John Beauchamp fellow or other, which it wasn’t but Duke Humphrey’s, did he understand?
Dodd shrugged again and said it could be Good King Henry’s tomb for
***
St Paul’s was surrounded by a market full of little stalls filled up with booksellers and papersellers, more books than Dodd had ever seen in his entire life before. Even the Reverend Gilpin had never had such a lot of books. How could a man tell which he wanted to read? It was indecent. And the place was full of people standing around reading books or talking and arguing with each other. Two poorly-dressed, hungry-looking men were arguing loudly with a fat man in an ink-stained apron who they seemed to think owed them money for their writing of a book, which he was strenuously denying.
Barnabus threaded through purposefully, swatting boys away from his pockets and disentangling Dodd from a pretty young piece in a mockado gown who seemed to think Dodd was her long-lost cousin.
They climbed the steps and went into the cathedral of London town, which was a great echoing monster of a building. The nave was full of little stalls, and scriveners tables, the aisle was full of young men who paraded in clothes that made Dodd gasp for the colours of them, the outrageous size of their cartwheel ruffs, the velvets, damasks and satins, the vast padded breeches and the long peascod bellies, the slashings and panes and embroideries. The human butterflies were in constant motion, bowing to each other, talking, laughing.
‘Mm,’ said Barnabus, staring about critically. ‘Now where is everybody?’
‘Eh?’ said Dodd.
‘Nobody here,’ Barnabus said over his shoulder as he threaded across the circling stream of haberdashery to one of the huge round pillars near the high altar screen with its blaze of gold and silver and red silk banners. There were a number of men in jerkins or buff leather standing around the pillar, looking hopeful, pieces of paper pinned to a noticeboard behind them. Barnabus went straight to it, stole two pins from one of the older notices, and stuck up his own paper.
‘There,’ he said. ‘I’ll be sorry to leave ’im, but what can you do?’
‘You’re resigning from the Courtier’s service?’
‘I’ve had enough,’ sniffed Barnabus. ‘Carlisle don’t suit me, what with nuffing to do and nearly getting hanged in the summer. I’ll leave ’im when I’ve found a new master.’
‘Hmf,’ said Dodd. He’d never thought much of Barnabus, who rode like a sack of meal and half the time made no sense at all. Mind you, he had good skills at knife-throwing and the Courtier seemed to rate him, but that was all you could say in his favour really.
Barnabus squared his shoulders and looked round at the competition, some of which seemed large and ugly enough.
‘Don’t know what I’ll find though,’ said the little man gloomily. ‘What with nobody being here.’
‘But…look at ’em all.’
‘Nah,’ said Barnabus, folding his arms and leaning against another pillar to glare disapprovingly down the aisle. ‘The Mediterranean’s half-empty for the time of year. Must all be up at Oxford, arse-licking the Queen.’
How did they all fit in when they were here, Dodd wondered. He craned his neck to look up at the roof which seemed very new, the upper walls part burned. St Paul’s had no proper spire, only a temporary roof where it should have been. Barnabus was beckoning one of the urchins playing dice by the altar steps.
‘Here, you, boy. Show my friend here round Paul’s for me and if nobody’s nipped his purse by the time he gets back, I’ll pay you a penny extra.’
Dodd shrugged and followed the mucky-faced child who pointed self-importantly at a large monument full of moping angels and rampant lions and the like on the south side, with a little chapel next to it. Apparently it was Duke Humphrey’s tomb for certain sure and definite though some scurvy buggers said it was some John Beauchamp fellow or other, which it wasn’t but Duke Humphrey’s, did he understand?
Dodd shrugged again and said it could be Good King Henry’s tomb for
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