Like John, Sir Thomas Bloodworth had a new job. Quite a good one actually: Lord Mayor of London.
He wasn’t quite sure how he’d got it – there’d been an election, apparently, after the last guy had quit, and, clearly, Sir Thomas had made a lot of enemies in his time, as he’d won by a landslide. He hadn’t even realised he’d been a candidate. If he hadn’t known better – he’d have thought it all some kind of horrible waking nightmare. But Sir Thomas was a vinter by profession, and he knew sober when he felt it.
So now he was the Lord Mayor of a city that was rapidly repurposing itself into the world’s largest mass grave, and was one bad bake away from total anarchy.
The ermine robes were nice...
He took another brisk swig of brisk champagne (and it was very brisk!). The Europeans hated bubbles, so Sir Thomas, like most Englishmen, rather liked them, as a matter of principle. A reminder that they were British, and therefore of a different vintage altogether. Four nations: England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales, united in sea-moated superiority. A union that had withstood occupation (the Romans – good for baths) and invasion (Spanish, attempted, blown-off), revolt (usually the Irish), unscalable walls (strictly for the Scots), unpronounceable languages with an aversion to vowels (Welsh), and civil war (chalk that one up to the English themselves), not to mention the biggest u-turn in history since the centurion Jontus Wanikus had decided that “Truly this man was the Son of God!”1999 (the Restoration of the Monarchy).
But tell that to an angry mob...
His chamber at Whitehall was far too small, not befitting of his station. He could hear them outside his window. Thousands of available offices, and they’d given him the one next to the street! Tells you what they thought of the Lord Mayor... An occasional well-aimed vegetable plonked off the thick glass; the riper ones just stayed there. There was nothing for it: someone was going to have to go and talk to them...
Where was the King when you needed him? Rumour had it, playing hide-the-sceptre with his latest squeeze – some actress by all accounts.
He polished off the bottle in hand, and uncorked another. If he was going to die, he’d be damned if he was going to die sober.
⁓ 🜉 ⁓
Outside the gated grounds of Whitehall Palace, seat of the English government,200 the crowd had grown restless.
And enterprising. “Pitchforks! Get your lovely Pitchforks! Two prongs for the price of three! Pitchforks! You know you’re gonna need ’em!”
Beyond the strutting Pitchfork salesman, wading deeper into the sea of angrily waving arms, a trio of makeshift gallows had been erected by some highly productive carpenters.
The brightly hued yeomen had both hands on their pikes, and were eyeing the mob nervously. Their feathers were suitably imposing, but, right now, a fair few of them would have given their right mit for something rather sturdier above their heads. Like a castle.201
The iron gate inched open – just enough. A brown-robed clerk, clean-shaven, young (too young) slid between the bars. He stepped forward towards the baying masses, hands raised placatingly. “Um... quiet please, quiet everyone,” he whimpered.
He was roundly ignored.
He tried again, a little more firmly this time: “Um, your attention, just a moment...”
More incessant mindless lowing.
“OI! SHUT YOUR TRAPS YOU LOT! I’VE SOMETHING TO SAY!”
Silence.
The clerk coughed demurely and reverted to his previous unassuming timbre. “Thank you. Now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for... the NEW Lord Mayor of London, Sir Thomas...” dramatic pause “...BLOODWORTH!!!”
The crowd went wild with applause, quite forgetting their fury of a moment before. NEW! That had to be good, right?
The gates opened wider, and Sir Thomas stumbled into view. He wore the customary ermine robes of his office (very nice) and a modest flat cap. The wine skins clutched in either hand were an unusual look for a Lord Mayor, but gave the Lord a certain edgy mystique.
“Friends, Londoners, countrymen!” he opened. “Lend me your wallets!” (He was sure he’d heard this in a play somewhere...)
The crowd was muted for a moment. Wallets. Money. He was asking them for money? This was unexpected. They felt sure they’d come here asking him for something... Finally, one mop-headed neanderthal put eloquent voice to their wonder: “Why?”
“Because...” Sir Thomas reasoned, aware that his next sentence would largely determine his fate (he opted for safety) “...I hate... the FRENCH!”
The crowd erupted with approving hollering! What little coin they had was ejaculated in glittering rain about the Lord Mayor’s feet! Sir Thomas waved triumphantly, took a long draught, and turned back to the gates... only to find the young clerk blocking his way.
“My Lord!” the young man hissed, “We’re at war with the Dutch! Not the French!”
Sir Thomas gave the young man a demeaning sneer. “Of course we are! I knew that! Who wants to pay for a war that’s already happening?”
He made to go again, but the young clerk stood firm. “My Lord! They are not here about the war!”
Sir Thomas acted surprised. “They’re not?”
“No!”
“Ah – I know! The national stocking shortage?”
“There’s a plague, sir!”
“A plague?”
“YES!”
“Well, why didn’t anyone tell me?” He turned back to the crowd and spread his drinking skin-laden hands wide. “Plague! There’s a PLAGUE! FLEEEEE my brethren! Run for the hills!”
Sudden panic ripped through the crowd! Even the pitchfork salesman dropped his wares in the stampede! Screaming, the malcontents of London sprinted towards the river, but most didn’t get very far before they remembered that they already knew there was a plague, and that that was precisely why they were here, and ran back again towards the Lord Mayor to hear more...
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
The Lord Mayor that was, again, attempting a retreat...
“Sir!” the desperate clerk cried, physically wrestling the Mayor back from the gate. “The people are looking for leadership!”
Sir Thomas nodded. “Well, then they should find the Lord Mayor!”
“You ARE the Lord Mayor!”
“I am?”
“YES!”
“Oh, very well!” Sulkily he turned back to the crowd, and gathered himself. “Friends, Londoners, countrymen! There is nothing to fear!”
The mop-headed neanderthal was quicker off the mark this time: “Why?”
“Because I can give you exactly what you need!”
Sensing more inanity ahead, the clerk stamped his foot. “The people need a cure!”
The Lord Mayor turned, wagging his finger, his voice dripping with the low cunning of the inebriated. “Ah, but I can give them something much better than a cure... I can give them... justice!”
He swung about, and stepped boldly into the crowd, ignoring the warnings of the yeomen. The mayor was one of them now, an equal, first among many. He stuck a finger into the face of one nervous looking prole, so close it was practically up a nostril.
“Wherever there is smoke, there is fire!
Wherever there’s a cloud, there is rain!
Wherever there’s a lie, there’s a liar!
Wherever there’s a doctor, there is pain!”
The crowd gasped.202
“Wherever there’s a sin, there’s a sinner!
All we need is a name!
Someone out there tonight
instigated this blight,
and this man...
is the right one to blame!”
The mayor stabbed his finger at the crowd, but, somehow, at no-one in particular.
“This plague is a crime!
We are running out of time!
We feel trapped—
and it’s driving us insane!”
His fingers whirled about his temples. And then he shrugged...
“To be frank, I’m unsure,
if we’ll ever find a cure...”
The crowd gasped again at that, but the Lord Mayor’s rhetorical trap was about to close...
“–and if we don’t...
we need someone to blame!”
Gingerly placing an arm around the shoulders of the two healthiest looking individuals within reach, he leaned in close, conspiratorial. “Come now, people of London! Someone here must know who is to blame for the Plague! Don’t be shy! It could be anyone you know! An aunt that smells of mildew? A tutor that beat you when you were at school? I know you all have parents!”
A crooked malcontent with a lemon expression stepped forward, “I know something!”
The mayor pointed triumphantly, “Yes, you sir! Share with us!”
The malcontent began: “This man Deville who lives down my street... I’ve heard he’s got webbing on his feet!”203
The crowd gasped!
A young woman was next, her chest swarming with no less than four mewling newborn:
“The blacksmith’s son, who got me up the duff... gave me quintuplets when one was quite enough!”
The crowd gasped again! Now it was the mop-headed neanderthal’s turn... plucking a hooded woman from the throng, he pushed the hideous old crone to the fore.
“This is my wife, whose cooking tastes like dung!”
More gasps!
“She’s fearsome ugly, and damn well should be h–”
The last word was drowned out in the furious agreement from the crowd! The neanderthal stepped towards the makeshift gallows, a coiled rope in one hand, his protesting spouse in the other.204
The mayor applauded encouragingly.
“See! See! Wherever there’s a sin there’s a sinner,
and he’ll be the one to pay!
There’s a scapegoat at large
who must answer the charge!
And he will, ere sunset today!”
Stepping gingerly both through and around the crowd at the same time, the clerk reached the Lord Mayor and whispered in his ear.
“Ah! Excellent!” cried the Lord Mayor. “Our scientific advisor,205 the Alchemist, has arrived! Heed his words for he is of a wise order and if anyone can cure this plague it is him!”
On cue, and the loud tap of a staff, the crowd parted, perfectly, right down the middle. Resolving out of the green-tinged plague mists like a purifying red flame, the Alchemist advanced, all increments and sinister drama. And he was not alone! Azure to his crimson, ice to his song of fire, a comely young maid gripped her sire’s arm, in support or comfort – none could say!
Better late than never. This was the moment Sir Thomas had been waiting for... stalling for, strictly speaking. Finger-pointing was all well and good, but sooner or later the crowd was going to need something tangible. Besides which, Sir Thomas had largely exhausted his supply of rhyming couplets.
Sir Thomas glanced over his shoulder at the nearest gallows. Too late for some, sadly. The neanderthal’s unfortunate wife was already swinging in the breeze, a fragile bundle of limp rags, collateral casualty to the Alchemist’s tardiness and Sir Thomas’ cutting misdirection. Oh well. Omelette. Eggs.
Gathering himself, the Mayor affixed a beaming grin and took the Alchemist proudly by the opposite arm to his daughter, leading him forward into the heart of the throng. He had never met the Alchemist before... not exactly what he had expected... the man looked... nervous? Shy? Uncomfortable to be out in public, for certain, though, with a lurking omniscient invisible killer on the loose, who was not these days?
His daughter’s countenance was quite the opposite, however – fierce and determined, defensive, staring about for threats. Sir Thomas had thought her a hanger-on; now, he realised she was the bodyguard. With an encouraging nod, he circled an upturned hand round the eager faces before them – it was time for the Alchemist to speak! The daughter squeezed her father’s arm tighter.
The Alchemist cleared his throat, a threatening sound at times like these that only served to widen the space about them. He began, all nose and teeth, and squirrel hands lacking for nut: “My friends don’t fear! This suffering need not linger! There is good news now to tell! To cure this blight, all you need is water, from the depths of London’s wells! Not so long ago now, on a night of rain and thunder, when the wind was gusting like a knife,206 into Tamasa, I poured my greatest wonder, the fabled Elixir Of Life!”
An awkward silence followed. The Alchemist’s paws continued to wheel.
“What did he say?” The neanderthal, juiced on uxoricide, was on fire today.
The mother with the quintuplets picked up the hue and cry: “’E poured something in the river!”
A beggar shrugged. “Elixir of Life? What the ’ell’s that?”
The crowd was becoming animated. Something had piqued normally dormant grey matter: complicated words like elixir were clearly foreign,207 and therefore not to be trusted, rather like the red monstrosity in the middle of the Bridge, or its equally cardinal owner. Wasn’t he rumoured to be Dutch by descent?
The Lord Mayor’s long ermine robes, and a little well-oiled footwork under the hem, allowed him to float sideways away from the Alchemist without apparently taking a single step. Isabella cast about, seeking allies, finding none.
The pitchfork salesman punctuated his words with helpful illustrative thrusts of his product. “Sounds like poison to me!”
The malcontent was in mid-purchase. “My brother drank from the river and he got the plague!”
The mother: “The disease is in the river!”
The young clerk stepped forward waving his hands, “This is ridiculous! I drank from a well earlier today and I’m—” It was perhaps unfortunate that this was the moment that the clerk fell backwards like a plank, yet twice as dead, his high collar slipping to reveal the dark buboes beneath!
That did it! The screaming ring widened exponentially, but it did not break! There was distance— distance from the dead body and the three figures next to it, but all eyes were now daggers aimed at the Alchemist, and those hateful clichés would have fast transmogrified into cold hard steel had they dared to step any closer. The pitchfork salesman was making a killing, and not entirely proverbially.
The Lord Mayor rounded on his erstwhile ally. “Elixir of Life, eh! I’ve never heard such nonsense! I’ve never heard such lies! This man is the criminal we seek! Seize him! Seize him!”
The yeomen sighed and stepped forward.
The Alchemist seemed to shrink unto himself, like some kind of crimson crustacean removed from source. “No! Drink the water! Drink the water!”
Isabella threw herself at the yeomen. “No! Take your hands off him!” Their arms were like wooden table legs. She turned to the crowd. “He’s trying to save you! Don’t you see?”
But they did not. Nor did they care. For they had found what they needed: someone to blame!