Chapter 7!!

Vii

Be still in the presence of the LORD, and wait patiently for him to act. Don't worry about evil people who prosper or fret about their wicked schemes.

Psalm 37:7

London

1664

It is all that I can do not to kiss the floor as we depart the ship in which we have been cooped up in for almost a week. I do not turn my head to watch the crew bringing out the numerous dead on their stretchers. It is a blessed relief to see the sunlight again, even though the sun here is weak and cold compared to that of home. The sky is a pale grey. Almost watery. Such a stark contrast to La France.

As I stand here, I feel utterly lost. The great port of London is alive and thoroughly bustling with energy. People are running to and fro, unloading and loading cargo with ropes that have seen better days, shouting in heavy accents at one another. Small market stalls litter the port itself and the adjoining alleyways leading away to the main town. Here they sell a menagerie of goods: everything from ale and French cheeses to unusually shaped purses and protection trinkets.The City itself seems to be surrounded in high stone walls. Perhaps some protection measure? There are so many people here, faces of all colours, speaking a variety of different languages. I smile internally knowing all of a sudden that we will not have much trouble disappearing into the droves. I look over to Papa who is standing tall by my side, staring and cataloguing, almost as wide eyed as I am. He looks aged and exhausted. I try to remember if we have even eaten in the last few days. I know for a fact that I was almost confined to my one corner of the dark hull. I offer him my hand and give him a small smile. His eyes tell me that all is well and everything will be fine.

The great river Thames flows behind us. Unlike our great rivers it is brown and littered with small punting boats and livestock carriers to market. There is even a barge in the distance flying the Royal flag. It smells very different here. I think I have become accustomed to the smell of the funeral pyre laced with the strong scent of burning incense. Here although I can smell the slops and animals and people the air is almost fresh. At this I shiver slightly. Even though it is mid March, there is a thick layer of fresh snow on the ground which is crisp, white and clean. My Marseilles fashion winter dress and my thin shawl is far from adequate for this uncharted territory. Taking another quick look around I notice a gaggle of vocal prostitutes by the unloaded cargo heckling some sailors. They are drinking some beverage directly from the bottles and I notice that even they have furs and have not bared their shoulders. The prostitutes in London must be rich indeed.

Francoise returns to my father. He also looks tired and older, also pale and contemplative. He has found an inn a few streets down for us to stay tonight. We can look for lodgings from there, somewhere more suitable.I feel the need to remove myself as quickly as possible from this bustling port. Too many people always make me uncomfortable and nervous. I urge my father to grab his travelling pouch and to hide his purse. Francoise grabs my arms and directs me to move.

He leads us quickly up one alleyway then another one. This City is like a rabbits warren of tiny cobbled alleyways. His hand holds onto mine as if he is afraid to loose me, he directs Papa with his swift French and expressive eyes. We pass countless taverns with their rowdy drunks rolling in the snow in front of their open doors. And finally we come to the one we are looking for. The buildings here are also very different to the ones back home. They are mostly towering, grey structures. Bland and unwelcoming. Even the alleyways are different to the large open straw strewed roads of Marseilles. Here is is all bland, cold looking. This building looks more like a goal. The stone outside is neither welcoming nor hospitable. As if sensing my hesitance Francoise puts his arm around my waist urging me forwards. I look up to my father doubtfully. He is watching the both of us silently: his eyes almost approving. I look to the other eyes I crave for, they are cool deep and brown. Calm but reassuring. We enter the inn together. Inside is dark, but warm, lit slightly by a huge fire roaring in the hearth. It is a heartwarming welcome from the cold.The interior is hardly decorated but strewn with wood, benches, tables, floorboards and all strewn with coarse straw matting. But it is at least clean. Papa takes the seats by the fire, orders cheese, broth, bread and warm mead. He talks about his great plans to find lodgings, to Francoise mostly, ignoring me.

I watch the people in the gloomy room. There are a few whores here too clucking about some men in the corner. Plying their trade, spending their earned pennies on ale. There are three or four solemn looking men in the opposite corner tutting and laughing at them, and then becoming engrossed in their backgammon. Occasionally a spatter of laughter comes from them.

My eyes drift lazily to a corner of the inn which is much darker than the others. I squint into the gloom, sure that I can see something there shifting in the shadows. My eyes adjust to the darkness and fix on his eyes. They are almost as dark as his surroundings, although the whites of his eyes make him noticeable. Suddenly before I get to grips with this connection we have in the eyes, he is stalking across the floor, heavily across the floorboards. He grabs me roughly by the throat with his dirty hands stifling my scream as it raises from my lungs. My heart beats like a caged animal beneath my ribs. I am stunned, my hands grab for assistance while my legs involuntarily flail in the air. My eyes stare pleadingly at Francoise and Papa who are dumbstruck half standing watching the man's every move. I can smell his dirty fingers on me, and his foul obnoxious breath against my cheek. He sneers into my ear

" I know what you are, little French whore. I know..." and he squeezes a little harder to emphasise his point. I let out an involuntary gag.

"Let her go...NOW" Francoise grabs the cheese knife and brandishes it at him like a weapon. but this only makes his hold on my tighten making me see small white stars.

"She your whore boy" he laughs and chokes as he throws me to the floor by Francoises' feet. Within seconds Francoise is also on his knees by my side, still pointing the weapon at the man. I take stock and look at my assailant. He is filthy, stocky and pointing at the three of us. He decides to take the floor, growling:

"You scum bring in the dark with you.....you Bastards of France. You will be the death of this Country I swear to you all this day! Get rid of the lot of 'em!! Them and their whoring ways will send us all to HELL" he hocks up from the back of his throat and spits in my face. Quickly retreating as Papa chases him from the inn. Unable to control the disgust and horror I feel I begin to weep silently into my own hands. I feel Francoise raising me back to the bench wiping my face and pressing a warm cup of mead to my lips. I open my eyes. The inn is silent. All eyes are on me.

I burn with shame.

Welcome to London.