Free Bartholomew Fair by Ann Swinfen Page B

waiting to hear.’
    The crowd of guests was beginning to thin and the heat had turned sultry, as though there might be a storm in the offing.
    ‘Come,’ I said. ‘We haven’t given William and Liza our gift yet.’
    Peter and I had shared the cost of two fine glass goblets as a marriage gift, and I had been carrying them all day, carefully wrapped in cloth, in my satchel. I would be glad to be rid of them before they broke. And their cost was yet another debt I owed to Sara. We made our way over to where the couple were sitting on a bench under an arch of roses, looking shy and very self conscious. I unwrapped the pair of glasses which, to my relief, were still intact.
    William struggled to stand, leaning on his crutch, but I laid my hand on his shoulder to keep him seated.
    ‘No need to rise for friends,’ I said. ‘Peter and I thought these might come in useful when you broach a bottle of French wine.’
    We all laughed. Such a likelihood was small.
    ‘Or,’ I added, judiciously, ‘for the excellent ale I am sure Liza makes.’
    ‘Nay,’ she said, blushing, ‘I am a poor ale wife. Even Bess rarely makes ale nowadays. We City wives are too occupied with business.’ As she said the word ‘wives’, she blushed even deeper, and William smiled at her like one besotted.
    Others were coming with congratulations and gifts, so we both kissed the bride and made our way out of the inn. Before we parted, we stood a moment in Eastcheap, where the heat seemed to rise up from the ground as if it were a bake stone.
    ‘A storm before morning, I reckon,’ Peter said.
    ‘Aye. It will clear the air. But let us hope it does not spoil the Fair. Only four days to go.’
    ‘These summer storms don’t last long, as a rule. Are you still planning a party to visit the Fair?’
    ‘Aye. You. Me. Anne Lopez and her brother Ambrose. He is walking out with the daughter of one of his grandfather’s colleagues, so she may come as well.’
    ‘Five of us, then.’
    ‘Would you like to bring someone else?’
    He avoided my eye and shuffled his feet.
    ‘Peter!’ I said with a laugh. ‘Who is she?’
    ‘Well,’ he said, hesitating, ‘there is a daughter of one of the senior apothecaries. Master Winger, do you remember? Mistress Helen Winger. I have spoken to her a few times, but I’ve never asked her to walk out. She might think it too forward of me. Or her father might.’
    ‘But he could have no objection to this,’ I said. ‘A large party. Ambrose is older than we are and the grandson of the Queen’s Purveyor of Groceries and Spices. Very respectable. Mention that.’
    He laughed. ‘Very well, I will. Aye, I will. There can be no harm in a large party strolling about the Fair together. It will do excellently.’
    ‘It will do perfectly,’ I said. ‘I will send you a note when everything is arranged – where and when we should meet. You still have a room at the hospital?’
    ‘Aye. My little attic up under the roof.’
    It was hard to credit it now, seeing Peter as a competent young apothecary, but he had come originally to St Bartholomew’s as an orphan, to work as a servant. One of the older apothecaries had realised how clever and promising the boy was and taken him under his wing. Peter had worked hard to reach his present position. He would soon be fully qualified. I hoped the girl he had set his eye on was good enough for him. He was an old friend and it would be a fine thing to see him properly established at last.
    We walked together through the City to Cheapside, until I turned north to Wood Street and Peter continued west toward Newgate and Smithfield. As we parted, I heard the first far off rumble of thunder.
     
    It rained for two days and three nights, a cold downpour, the rain sheeting down the windows solid as a river, the streets awash with all the refuse afloat from gutters and kennels. Sara loaned me a hooded cloak of her own, which reminded me that I should need one myself before winter came, as