The House of Shadows

the more well-to-do and genteel from Cheapside, Farringdon Ward, and even as far north as Clerkenwell. Moleskin, the boatman who sailed out of Southwark Steps, was promised a roaring trade. The Thames, however, was choppy, the river breeze sharp as a dagger, so many just slipped under the chains at London Bridge, scampering along the narrow lane between the houses and the great selds, or warehouses, built either side of the bridge. All excited, they ignored the frozen midden piles containing every type of waste heaped high along the middle, nor did they pause to stare at the severed, mouldering heads of traitors placed high on spikes on either side of the bridge. They showed a similar lack of pity for those caught stealing from stalls during the previous day’s trading; these malefactors were now fastened in the stocks by hand, head or leg, or shut up in the cages at each end of the bridge, where they would stand all night and suffer the freezing cold.
The petty traders and chapmen, the sellers of figs and apples, the tallow chandlers, the wax chandlers, the fleshers and the tanners all forgot their trade rivalry, flocking to the Great Ratting. They were joined by doxies and the whores in their gaudy rags from Walbrook and Hounsditch. These ladies of the night hid their charms behind cowls, hoods, shabby cloaks, and masks with gaps for their eyes and mouths. Once they reached the spacious tap room of the Night in Jerusalem they removed such disguises.
The tap room’s tables and chairs were ringed by row after row of barrels, each table being lit by a yellow tallow candle or a bowl of oil with a burning wick floating in the centre. Even though the champions hadn’t arrived, the wagering had begun, encouraged by the good silver and gold brought by the young men of the court, garbed in their tight hose, puffed jackets, protuberant codpieces and high-heeled boots. In the view of many of those who flocked to the tavern, these popinjays with their high-pitched voices, soft hands and faces, and curled, crimped hair were the real reason for the evening. They carried purses and wallets openly for all to see, and the fingers of many itched to be so close to such wealth. A few arrivals brought their own dogs, bull mastiffs, terriers, and even the occasional greyhound or whippet so as to measure up the opposition.
They all crowded in, gathering around the grease-covered tables or going to stare at the stuffed corpses of other prized dogs who had won the title of ‘Champion Rat Killer’. Pride of place was given to the embalmed corpse of a white bull mastiff with black patches around its protuberant glass eyes. A collar about its neck proclaimed the dog as ‘The Greatest Champion of all times’. In the centre of the tap room stretched the great pit, still covered over, a broad and very deep whitewashed hole ringed with lanterns and hour candles, the flames of which were already approaching the eleventh ring. Soon the games would begin. Mine host, a great tub of a man who rejoiced in the name of Master Rolles, was already enthroned in his chair of state on a velvet-covered dais overlooking the pit. He sat there like a king, bawling for more lights to be brought. Link boys hurried up with lantern horns they’d filched from the doorsteps of houses in the wealthier parts of the City. Once these were in place, Master Rolles, his fat, greasy face shimmering in the light, stared petulantly round, small lips pursed, greedy black eyes gleaming, ready to make his power felt. The tavern was filling up. Master Rolles quietly congratulated himself on making a handsome profit. Once the game was over, he’d visit Mother Veritable’s House of Delights and, in the morning, light more candles before the Virgin’s altar in the Priory Church of St Mary Overy.
Dishes of burning charcoal were also brought up with incense strewn on top. The taverner liked this touch – the incense gave the tap room a holy smell and helped to hide the reeking odours of the slops-strewn floor. Master Rolles felt a little guilty. One of his maids had stolen the incense from the Priory Church but Rolles quietly promised himself that, in time, he would make compensation. Glowing braziers, their tops capped, were wheeled in from the scullery and placed around the room. More logs were thrown on to the roaring fire, building up the flames under the mantled hearth. Master Rolles bellowed an order and the carcass of an entire pig, only its head and trotters removed, was spiked on a spit and placed on the wheels on either side of the hearth to be turned and basted with spices. The pig had been killed because it had trespassed into Master Rolles’ yard. In truth, two of his stable boys had enticed it there, and Master Rolles, knowing the law of the City, had been only too happy to slit its throat. The taverner watched his cooks place the spit carefully, ladling over the spiced oil whilst giving careful instruction to the dwarf who had been paid a penny, told to ignore the heat, and to turn the spit until the pig was cooked.
‘Don’t go to sleep!’ the taverner roared.
The dwarf, who had once been a jester until he had been mauled by a bear, nodded and sat down, turning his face against the blast of the fire. The air turned sweet with the smell of spiced, roasted pork. Customers were now shouting for ale and beer. Scullions and slatterns hurried across with brimming tankards, stoups and blackjacks filled by tap boys from the great barrels. The taverner rubbed his stomach. In an hour, most of his customers would be too drunk to tell how much water he had added to the beer and wine.
The Night in Jerusalem was now almost full. In the garish light it looked like some antechamber of hell. The