Mask of Night Read Online Free
Author: Philip Gooden
coin.”
This sharpness was unusual, for Abel. Plainly something in Kemp’s predicament had struck a chord with him. I would catch him in a more cheerful mood and ask him about it later. Normally I would have turned off at this point towards my own lodgings but instead I accompanied Abel in the direction of his. Fellowship perhaps. Also it was a pleasant afternoon, and I wanted to walk off the effects of Kemp’s dim room. But then both our attentions were diverted. Or rather everything to do with Kemp – everything to do with everything (except for one subject) – was swept away.
Abel lived near the edge of Southwark, where town meets open country in a raggedy fringe. I don’t think it was because he could not afford better lodgings closer to the Globe playhouse (“better” is a relative term south of the river, you understand). In fact I’m pretty certain he could have afforded them. He’d hinted at a store of cash salted away somewhere, the fruits of his coney-catching days around the country. He might have abandoned his old dishonest ways but he still retained some of the tools of his trade – salves and other preparations – in a large wallet which he carried everywhere with him, as if at any moment he might set out on the open road once more. For there was still something of the open road about Abel. That may be the reason why he liked to be within sight and smell of the trees and fields, liked to keep a gap between himself and the worst stinks and vapours of the town. Anyway he was accommodated in Kentish Street, so called because once it had untangled itself from the city’s vicious grip it ran off in the direction of that county as fast as its muddy heels could carry it.
Although there was plenty of space in this part of town, the houses tended to huddle together as if for protection from some malign force. These houses were crammed with mean, dirty rooms which made my own lodgings in Dead Man’s Place appear generous. The individuals inside these rooms were frequently mean and dirty too. If you’re looking for real spaciousness – for grand chambers and fine gardens – then it is the mansions and palaces in the heart of our city that you must visit.
When the plague attacks it often strikes at London’s dirty skirts first, although, if unchecked, it may eventually creep its way into those same grand chambers and fine gardens. But the fringes and skirts of London are the earliest to fall. There’d already been rumours of cases, as Will Kemp had suggested, but nothing very definite. Now, however, the clown’s predictions and forebodings took shape before our very eyes.
We hadn’t yet reached Abel’s lodging-house when we came across a row of squat single-storey dwellings. A group of official-looking people was gathered before a single doorway in the middle of the row. Beyond them, and at a distance of a few yards on the opposite side of the street, stood a small, gawping crowd. Men, women and children, a couple of dozen in all. Some babies cradled at the breast. Naturally we joined the crowd. It would have been difficult to squeeze past them. No one was saying anything. Their eyes were aimed at the group in front of the door. I identified a constable and a beadle by their dress and badges. There was also a short man who appeared to be in charge of the scene, as well as a pair of shrouded, hag-like females. I knew what was up. So did the rest of the crowd. I felt goose-flesh break out over my body, and yet I would not, could not, have moved away. I suppose that everybody in the crowd – men and women and those children who were old enough to understand what was happening – must have been in the same frozen state.
A dispute was in progress by the door. Every word was audible. The short man was saying to the beadle, “And I tell you, Master Arnet, that this will
not
do. This – this is too quickly defaced or removed altogether. Like this.”
So saying, he ripped down a paper bill from where
This sharpness was unusual, for Abel. Plainly something in Kemp’s predicament had struck a chord with him. I would catch him in a more cheerful mood and ask him about it later. Normally I would have turned off at this point towards my own lodgings but instead I accompanied Abel in the direction of his. Fellowship perhaps. Also it was a pleasant afternoon, and I wanted to walk off the effects of Kemp’s dim room. But then both our attentions were diverted. Or rather everything to do with Kemp – everything to do with everything (except for one subject) – was swept away.
Abel lived near the edge of Southwark, where town meets open country in a raggedy fringe. I don’t think it was because he could not afford better lodgings closer to the Globe playhouse (“better” is a relative term south of the river, you understand). In fact I’m pretty certain he could have afforded them. He’d hinted at a store of cash salted away somewhere, the fruits of his coney-catching days around the country. He might have abandoned his old dishonest ways but he still retained some of the tools of his trade – salves and other preparations – in a large wallet which he carried everywhere with him, as if at any moment he might set out on the open road once more. For there was still something of the open road about Abel. That may be the reason why he liked to be within sight and smell of the trees and fields, liked to keep a gap between himself and the worst stinks and vapours of the town. Anyway he was accommodated in Kentish Street, so called because once it had untangled itself from the city’s vicious grip it ran off in the direction of that county as fast as its muddy heels could carry it.
Although there was plenty of space in this part of town, the houses tended to huddle together as if for protection from some malign force. These houses were crammed with mean, dirty rooms which made my own lodgings in Dead Man’s Place appear generous. The individuals inside these rooms were frequently mean and dirty too. If you’re looking for real spaciousness – for grand chambers and fine gardens – then it is the mansions and palaces in the heart of our city that you must visit.
When the plague attacks it often strikes at London’s dirty skirts first, although, if unchecked, it may eventually creep its way into those same grand chambers and fine gardens. But the fringes and skirts of London are the earliest to fall. There’d already been rumours of cases, as Will Kemp had suggested, but nothing very definite. Now, however, the clown’s predictions and forebodings took shape before our very eyes.
We hadn’t yet reached Abel’s lodging-house when we came across a row of squat single-storey dwellings. A group of official-looking people was gathered before a single doorway in the middle of the row. Beyond them, and at a distance of a few yards on the opposite side of the street, stood a small, gawping crowd. Men, women and children, a couple of dozen in all. Some babies cradled at the breast. Naturally we joined the crowd. It would have been difficult to squeeze past them. No one was saying anything. Their eyes were aimed at the group in front of the door. I identified a constable and a beadle by their dress and badges. There was also a short man who appeared to be in charge of the scene, as well as a pair of shrouded, hag-like females. I knew what was up. So did the rest of the crowd. I felt goose-flesh break out over my body, and yet I would not, could not, have moved away. I suppose that everybody in the crowd – men and women and those children who were old enough to understand what was happening – must have been in the same frozen state.
A dispute was in progress by the door. Every word was audible. The short man was saying to the beadle, “And I tell you, Master Arnet, that this will
not
do. This – this is too quickly defaced or removed altogether. Like this.”
So saying, he ripped down a paper bill from where
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