He was right, of course, but there'd been a thought stirring around in my skull. That evening I wrote a message to Hasling.
If you wish to talk of Romans or antiquities, I shall be some nights at the Tabard, near London Bridge.
This message I forwarded, unsigned. None knew of my interest in antiquities but Hasling, nor that I was in London. I saw no easy way in which the message could be traced back to me, yet I was worried. Despite his foppish dress, Genester had the look of a shrewd one.
Jublain and I no longer looked like country bumpkins. Attired like gentlemen we could go where we wished, but the public room at the inn was a hotbed of gossip and information, so we loitered there, that first day, listening to talk of roads, people, and politics, of the theater, bear-baitings, brawls, and robberies.
'Gosnold?' It was the reply to a casual comment of mine. 'Oh, aye! He'll be going yon. Newport, also. He has a letter from the Queen and can take prizes. If you be the sort with a taste for action, he's your man.
'There's others stirring about you'd best beware of. Cap'n Nick Bardle ... no better than a pirate. He's outfitting this minute and will be off to the coast of America. The man's nae to be trusted. Take the coppers from a dead man's eyes, he would, and might even hasten the dying.
'He's got a bad lot sailing with him and if he's a man short he'll just knock some poor duffer on the head and before he comes to his senses he's at sea.'
'If it's venturing you want,' Jublain said, 'it must be Gosnold or Newport, or Weymouth when he gets in. All have sailed the coast of America, all are solid men.'
Yet I was thinking of something else. Hasling's quickness to buy my coins excited my interest in antiquities. If he was interested—and his unnamed friend, too—others would be. Here was a market ready to be supplied by a man with a quick eye who could get around the country.
Casually, I mentioned buyers of old things. 'Aye,' a drover told me, 'there be plenty. They've a society that meets to talk of such things. They'll chatter like magpies over an old coin, a chair or a casque.'
Here might be a source of income unsuspected, for the gentry rarely knew the back roads as did we who labored with our hands. Nor did they suspect the number of dealers in junk who bought all manner of things from peasants, gypsies, and vagabonds. I had been to such places searching for tools, and had seen oddments lying about of no interest to anyone.
Of no interest to me either, then. Now I began to see that if a man had some knowledge, and a little money, then he might find, buy and sell to a substantial profit.
I remembered then that my father had once told of a man who devoted much of his life to wandering about compiling notes for a history of England. He had walked the cart roads and lanes, roamed along the seashore, and explored many ruins left unnoticed before his time. My father had traveled with him a time or two for a few days. His name, I recalled, was John Leland.
He died well before my time and before his history was written, but his notes had been copied.
Now if I could come upon such a copy ...
Frequently I'd seen a man about the public room at the inn who eyed me from time to time with a quizzical cast to his eye. He had the look of a rogue, and I'd no doubt he was one, but he struck me as an amusing and interesting fellow. So when he next looked regretfully into the bottom of his glass, I suggested he have another.
He accepted quickly enough, and I said, 'You have the look of a man who knows what's about.'
'Here and there,' he admitted.
'There was a man named John Leland who wrote some notes for a book about England. I'd like a copy of them.'
'A copy of a book?' he started at me, then shook his head. 'I know nought of such things.' He looked up from his glass. 'It comes upon me that I know a man who once said he'd copy anything for a price, and reasonable enough, too.'
'You have a glass of ale,' I said, 'and you can have another, or a meal if you like. Who is this man?'
He glanced right and left, yet I believe it was the looks of Jublain, not too unlike his own kind, that won him in the end. 'Do you know Saint Paul's Walk?'
'I do,' said Jublain.
'There be scribes there, and there be one scribe who ... well, what you need done, he will do. He knows much of books and such. If it is a copy of something, he'll find it for you.'
'What is it to be? The meal or the ale?'
He grinned, his teeth yellow and broken. 'I'd prefer the drink but I need the meat.'
When I had ordered, I asked, 'The name?'
'Ask for Peter Tallis. If it be an altered bill of lading, a warrant or a license, he will have it for you.'
When we were outside Jublain looked at me, exasperated. 'You are an odd one. Who would pay for the copy of some idle notes?'
'Watch me,' I replied cheerfully. 'I will pay.'
Saint Paul's Walk was where London's heart could be heard beating. Actually, it was the nave of the great cathedral, but forgetting that Jesus had driven the moneylenders from the temple, the Dean had welcomed them back, and with them had come the scribes, the lawyers, sellers of badges and souvenirs, and, in fact, every sort of business. The playing of ball was forbidden, as was the riding or leading of horses.
It had become the greatest promenade in London, haunted by gallants courting their ladies (or prospecting for new ladies to court), and by thieves, pickpockets and traders. Tailors came there to study the latest in fashions, and around the north door gathered balladmongers, sellers of broadsides and street musicians.
We made our way through a confusion of people and their accompanying odors. People crowded about the stalls, listening to the pitch of the venders, or to the more intimate sounds of rustling petticoats.
Peter Tallis proved to be a man of middle age, with curled gray hair at his temples and no wig. When I stated my purpose he leaned back in his chair with a fat smile. 'Hah! At last a new request! I have been asked for everything but this! Yet ... it amuses me. And I know of these notes.'
'You have seen them?'
'Ah, no! But ... I knew the man. He came often to the Walk to question people. As you know, this is the greatest clearing house for information in all of London—perhaps the greatest in Europe. More business is done here in a day than at the Royal Exchange in a week.
'You wish a copy of
'You need not say. Had I the time I would find and copy the notes myself, but I need them now. At once.'
'You can write?' Tallis was skeptical.
'As well as you, my friend, and perhaps better,' I replied brusquely. 'When the copy of the book is ready I shall pay you eight shillings for it.'
'It is very little.'
'It is very much. A farm laborer makes but three shillings a week.'
'This is a man who can write,' Tallis protested. 'Ten shillings.'
'Nine, then,' I said, 'but not a penny more, or I do it myself.'
'Nine then.' He paused. 'Where shall it be delivered?'
'I will come back in one week,' I said.
'Nine shillings!' Jublain protested, as we walked away. 'Are you made of money? Nine shillings for something you have never seen! What are you thinking of?'
'It's a gamble,' I replied frankly. 'I need friends, and aside from you I have none. I need money, and believe I see a way to get it.'
'It had better work,' Jublain replied grimly. 'You are spending enough.'
Much of the money I had brought was gone. More would be gone by the week's end, but I still had four gold pieces, ancient coins brought to Britain by some traveler or soldier.
