Free Mayflowers for November: The Rise and Fall of Anne Boleyn by Malyn Bromfield Page A

a child,’ I muttered so that Mother couldn’t hear.
    ‘Look to your purse, Avis. Is it safely tied?’
    ‘Pray, don’t fret Mother.’
    Mother held my wrist fast as a fetter and with my other hand I felt for the small bulge under my kirtle where the coins were safely tied inside the thick hide purse hanging from the iron guard at my waist.
    ‘Cutpurses and rogues will be abroad looking out for pickings,’ Mother said.
    Everyone surged forward and came to a standstill before the west facade of the church and I tried to hear the lord mayor’s proclamation above the braying, whinnying and grunting of animals, the whining of children and the drone of the crowd.
    ‘I do straightly charge and command, on behalf of our sovereign lord, the King, that all manner of persons of whatever estate, degree or condition ... keep the peace ...’
    ‘There will be constables abroad, Mother. The mayor has this minute spoken of stewards and the Court of Pie Powder.’
    ‘Pie Powder is for trying those who give bad measure or sell unwholesome food, not for vagabonds and thieves.’
    ‘It is the court for travellers with dusty feet. I remember Tom telling me that when we were children.’
    ‘Your father thought that maybe Tom might visit the fair. He has asked me to look out for him.’
    ‘The fair lasts for three days, Tom may not visit today if he comes at all. We don’t know where he lives since he vanished, he may be far away from London.’
    ‘Would you care, Avis, if he was a great distance away?’
    Mother had hold of my wrist so tightly that I could not try to pull away.
    ‘Even if Tom is here today we might not see him amongst all these people. He isn’t tall like Anthony. In his old duds he would seem to be just another beggar.’
    ‘You don’t answer my question,’ Mother said. ‘If he is here today and we are alert and keep our watch mayhap he will chance upon us or we upon him. I don’t understand you, daughter. Tom was ever your good friend and yet you care little that he has vanished these last three months. Your carpenter boy is gone from Greenwich now that his master’s work is finished. Maybe now you will begin to remember old friends.’
    ‘Father was Tom’s friend also, perhaps he should be here to keep a look out for the rat catcher boy.’
    ‘There’s nothing here that your father would want to goggle at. What use has he for palfreys, pigs or trinkets.’ Mother pulled me through the crowds. ‘See how many booths there are,’ she said excitedly.’ Each year the fair spreads further and further into the churchyard and fields beyond. Come, make haste, it will take all day to look at everything.’
    The vendors cried their divers wares: ends of gold and silver, buy woollen cloth, buy new leather wares, fresh Wainfleet oysters. The visitors shouted above the hubbub, some using strange dialects that stallholders could barely understand. Buyers and sellers held up their fingers to name a price, shook their heads, nodded, frowned, smiled and shook hands when a price was agreed.
    Mother headed straight for a pewter booth, as I knew she would. Mistress Pudding had given her several pieces of pewter for her New Year gifts. Pewter was for better-off folks, not for outer courtyard servants. In the great kitchen at Greenwich Palace we ate from wooden trenchers with wooden spoons. Mother was very proud of her small collection of pewter ware which she kept in a little wooden casket and carried with her when the court moved from one palace to another. Her favourite piece was a mirror case which had once belonged to a pilgrim. It depicted Christ on the cross with St John and Mary either side. I wondered which shrine the pilgrim had visited and what magic charms had been captured by the mirror. My own favourite was a candlestick depicting Saint Apollonia holding her tooth in a pincer. Whenever father had a toothache, we had to burn a candle to her. Mother had bought a Bartholomew spoon last year. He always holds