Part 5

“Do look at that pretty nun. How she’s laughing!” exclaimed Betty. “Oh! what a lovely coat!” she cried again, as a handsome young man rode by, gaily and beautifully dressed. “And look at the fat woman with the scarlet stockings, and the enormous hat.... But what a lot of monks and nuns there are, aren’t there?”

“Yes,” agreed Godmother, “London is full of them. Everywhere there are great rich monasteries, and some of the monks and nuns are becoming very lazy and neglecting their duties. You may read in the Introduction to the ‘Canterbury Tales’ how Chaucer makes fun of them. Though he doesn’t forget to do honour to those of them who are good,” she added. “Look at that kind-faced priest with the shabby robe. No doubt Chaucer is at this moment planning how he will describe that very man as the good priest, who practises what he preaches.”

Betty glanced at the poet again, and wondered what he was thinking.

“Let us follow the pilgrims a little way,” Godmother suggested. “Before they actually leave London they are sure to go into some inn to have a meal or to drink wine, and you would perhaps be interested to see what fourteenth-century inns were like?”

Betty was more than willing, and glancing back she saw that the quiet-looking, brown-clad poet was following them.

“Now we are in Southwark,” Godmother said as they went off the bridge through the gateway under the tower. “Think of Southwark as you saw it this morning! _There_,” she pointed to a meadow golden with buttercups, “ran the railway bridge over which trains were thundering, and where as far as you can see now, there are hedges and woods, if we had walked this morning we should have gone through miles of streets in Bermondsey and Newington.”

“Oh! And look at the church!” exclaimed Betty. “It’s the St. Saviour’s we saw this morning, isn’t it? But that beautiful great building near it is a monastery, I suppose?”

She remembered the narrow strip of churchyard she had seen a short time previously, and gazed with astonishment at the gardens and broad green lands that now surrounded the church.

“Oh, how different. _What_ a pity!” she sighed. “I wish we didn’t live at the time we do, don’t you, Godmother?”

“Our times have _some_ advantages,” said Godmother. “We’ll count up our blessings some day. But I agree that we haven’t improved Southwark,” she went on, smiling. “A few houses, but only a few, as you see, are standing on this side of the river in the fourteenth century, and most of these, as you may notice, are inns.”

The train of pilgrims was entering the courtyard of one of them at the moment, and soon Betty and Godmother stood in the archway looking round at the quaint old place.

“This inn is called the _Tabard_,” Godmother told her. “It is the very one that Chaucer, now, as you observe, talking to the fat landlord, is going to describe as the meeting-place of his pilgrims.”

“What does the Tabard mean?” Betty asked, looking at the sign-board over the main door. “There’s something painted on that sign, but I don’t know what it is.”

“It’s meant for a coat worn by a herald, and sometimes also by knights over their armour. Such a coat is called a _tabard_ in these fourteenth-century days. Now look well at this particular inn, because most of the other taverns are very like it, and this fashion of building lasted for years. In fact, there were some left in Southwark till quite lately, and even now there is just a corner of one still remaining. The inn you see follows three sides of this square courtyard. Look at the curiously-carved galleries running round two floors of it, and at the quaint gables above.”

“How pretty it looks to see all the pilgrims walking and sitting about,” exclaimed Betty. “And how they are chattering and laughing!”

She could have stayed for hours watching them and was sorry when presently they all remounted and with loud farewells to the jolly host of the Tabard, clattered out into the country road.

“Just think what miles of dull streets they would have to ride through if they were riding to Canterbury in our time,” she said.

“As it is,” said Godmother, “they’re in leafy lanes already, where the birds are singing and the banks are covered with wild flowers. That road they are taking to Canterbury, is still called the Pilgrim’s Way. The next time we take a country motor drive I’ll show you the continuation of it that runs over the green Surrey hills which by the end of the day those pilgrims will reach....”

“What shall we do now?” Betty inquired when the long procession was out of sight.

“Would you like to look on at a Miracle play?”

“What is a Miracle play?”

“Come and see. Fortunately there is one going on now at the Church of St. Margaret’s, not very far from St. Saviour’s.”

“Is St. Margaret’s Church still standing? We didn’t see it this morning when we went in the car, did we?”

“Not a stone of St. Margaret’s is left in our time. Some day you shall see all that there is now, to remind us of a church which in this fourteenth century is very celebrated for its Miracle plays. They don’t as a rule begin till Whitsuntide, but there happens to be a special performance because it’s May Day, and a general holiday.”

“A play in a _church_?” exclaimed Betty.

“Yes. Most of the acting in this fourteenth century, takes place either in churches, or in churchyards. Scarcely any of these people you see about you, can read, and so the priests and monks have hit upon the plan of teaching them the Bible stories by means of acting. Sometimes religious plays are performed inside the churches, but more often—as in the case of the one we are going to see—outside them, where there is more room for the people. There! isn’t that a curious sight?”

They stood before a church which seemed to be part of a great monastery, whose buildings rose at the back of it. In front of the church was a wide grassy space where a great crowd of people was gathered, gazing breathlessly at strange figures moving about upon platforms raised up on scaffolding, close to the church door.

There were three of these platforms. On the lowest, near the ground, swarmed a number of boys dressed as demons, dancing round an ugly creature with claws and a long tail, who was meant for the Devil.

“That platform represents Hell,” said Godmother. “The next one, which as you notice is on a level with the top of the church door, is _Earth_, and the two people upon it are Adam and Eve. You see there are one or two trees, to show that it’s meant for the Garden of Eden.”

“And there’s the serpent!” exclaimed Betty. “He’s wriggling!”

“Yes, there’s a boy inside that painted case representing the serpent, tempting Eve to take the apple. Now look up at the highest platform, level with the church windows. That is Heaven, and the figure with the golden crown, and the priestly robe, stepping from the window on to the platform, means God to the people. You have only to glance at them to understand how full of awe and reverence they are.”

Looking at the faces in the crowd, Betty saw that this was true, for the people were silent and grave. Many of the children, frightened by the black demons and the clanking of their chains, were hiding their heads in their mothers’ skirts, and some were crying.

“It all seems very childish and even absurd to _us_, doesn’t it? But remember these are simple ignorant people who can neither read nor write, and to _them_, it is wonderful. It is through these plays that they have learnt most of the Bible stories they know.”

“It’s awfully interesting!” Betty murmured, feeling that though at first she had been inclined to laugh at what seemed to her a funny performance, the people were so serious that she must be respectful.

“This fourteenth century is the great time for Miracle plays,” explained Godmother, as they walked away from the gaily-coloured crowd grouped round the church. “Most of the people have still very childlike minds, and they depend upon the priests and monks to teach them. We have noticed already how full London is of these priests, and everywhere, as you have seen, there are monasteries. Pay attention to them as we pass, because the next time we see London, nearly all of the monasteries will be in ruins.”

“In ruins? Why?”

“Think of your history. The Reformation is coming, when all the monks will be turned out of their homes, and the great buildings in which they lived will be pulled down, and all the enormous wealth now belonging to the Church will be taken away from it, and given to the State. England will become a Protestant country, and the old form of worship will disappear in London, as in every other town in the land.”

“What a pity about the monasteries,” Betty said. “They are so beautiful and splendid. It’s awful to think of not seeing them again.”

“Yes. You see London now when the Church is all-powerful. The next time you come, its power will be broken, and London will be a Protestant city....”

“Where shall we go now, Godmother?” asked Betty as they left the south side of the city, and recrossed London Bridge.

“Well, it’s almost time we slipped back into our own day. But before we do that, you shall just have a glimpse of the _Chepe_.”

“The _Chepe_? What does _that_ mean?”

“Didn’t we drive down Cheapside this morning?”

“Yes. I remember it. That busy street near St. Paul’s, was Cheapside.”

“And do you remember Bow Church in Cheapside?”

“Yes,” said Betty eagerly. “It has a lovely steeple with a dragon on the top. I always remember it because the bells that Dick Whittington heard, were the bells of Bow Church.”

“Well, come and see Cheapside as it looks now at the end of the fourteenth century. It isn’t called Cheapside yet. The people of London call it the _Chepe_, which is an old English word for _market_. The Chepe (_Cheapside_ in our day) is the great market-place of London. We needn’t walk to it. Just shut your eyes and wish yourself there. A magic visit such as this has many advantages. One of them is that we needn’t tire ourselves with walking.”

Betty did as she was told, and a second later looked round her.

“Oh, Godmother, what a nice place! But it isn’t a bit like _our_ Cheapside. It’s much wider, for one thing—and of course the houses are all different. Oh! it’s lovely.”

They stood in a broad open space paved with cobblestones. On either hand there were quaint houses like those in Thames Street, and among them a few much finer and larger, with carved balconies, and coloured and gilded coats of arms on their walls. “Those are the houses of the wealthy merchants,” said Godmother, pointing to the grander buildings. “Do you remember when we were in the car this morning passing a street out of Cheapside called Wood Street?”

“With a big tree at the corner? Yes!”

“Well, we are standing just about there.”

Betty gasped with astonishment.

“Oh! how difficult it would be to _imagine_ all this if I wasn’t actually seeing it,” she murmured.

Down the middle of the market-place, at intervals, were stone fountains, and close to where she stood (opposite the modern Wood Street), rose a beautiful stone cross.

“That’s one of the crosses put up by Edward the First, in memory of his wife, Eleanor. You remember the story? And that church on the right, is Bow Church.”

“But it doesn’t look a bit like the Bow Church I know!”

“Except for the foundations it’s _not_ the Bow Church we know, but another, built on its ruins. You have to remember that all this market, and in fact _nearly the whole of London_, is going to be swept away by a fire nearly three hundred years later on.”

“In the Great Fire, you mean? In the reign of Charles II? So I suppose _that’s_ why London looks so different in our time?”

“It had to be almost rebuilt, so no wonder it’s different.”

“What a pity!” sighed Betty. “I like it so much better as we see it now.” She scarcely knew which to look at first, the quaint timber houses surrounding the market-place, or the amusing crowd with which it was filled. In the open space before her were arranged wooden booths upon which bread, milk, fruit, poultry and meat were sold, just as in a modern country market. But the crowd round the stalls was very different in appearance from a modern crowd. The noise was terrific, for from every booth came cries from the sellers to buy, buy, buy! and everywhere there was laughter and screaming and singing.

“Why are the houses decorated, I wonder?” asked Betty presently. For beautiful draperies of scarlet and blue and purple were hung over most of the balconies, and banners fluttered from the windows.

“Don’t forget it’s May Day. The Lord Mayor is going to ride through the Chepe. He must be coming now. See how the people are hanging out of the windows, and crowding on to the balconies! Let us stand up here on the steps of the cross, and watch.”

In a few moments a pretty May Day procession was seen crossing the market-place, led by a boy playing on a pipe, and followed by young girls and children crowned with flowers, and singing. Then came the clanking of horses’ feet, and soon a stately-looking man riding on a horse whose gay trapping hung low, came into sight. He wore a rich crimson cloak trimmed with fur, and a flat cap of crimson velvet with a plume, and by his side rode several other splendidly-dressed gentlemen.

“Those are the Sheriffs, the men who help the Mayor to govern the city,” Godmother explained. “This Lord Mayor is very popular. Listen to the cheering of the people! And see, they are showering flowers upon him from the windows.”

Just as he passed the cross, the Lord Mayor reined in his steed, lifted his cap and bowed to the applauding crowd, and at the moment, Betty caught sight of the heavy gold chain that lay about his shoulders, and across his tunic.

“Godmother! There’s the very chain you took out of your cabinet,” she cried.

“It is. And do you know the name of the Lord Mayor who wears it? No? Then I’ll tell you. Sir Richard Whittington.”

Betty stared at her. “Not _Dick_ Whittington?”

“Yes—that’s Dick Whittington grown up, and this is the third time he’s been Lord Mayor of London.”

“Why, I’ve been to a pantomime about him!” exclaimed Betty. “I never knew he was a _real_ person.”

“He’s a very real person, as you see.”

“Then it’s true, about his cat, and Bow Bells ringing ‘_Turn again, Whittington_,’ and Alice, the beautiful girl he married, who was his master’s daughter?” asked Betty, all in one breath.

“I’m afraid it’s not _all_ true, though a great deal of it is. In the story, he’s a poor boy who leaves London with a bundle on his back, to seek his fortune. Stopping to rest on Highgate Hill he hears the bells of Bow calling him to return, for he shall be Lord Mayor of London. Well, I’m afraid he wasn’t a poor boy. He was the son of a country gentleman, and he was sent to live with a relation of his, a great London merchant called Sir John Fitzwarren. Dick was an industrious boy while he was learning his trade, and now he has grown very rich. His wife is Alice Fitzwarren, his master’s daughter, and he is Lord Mayor. So a good deal of the story is true after all.”

“But the cat?” said Betty. “Isn’t it true about his lovely cat?”

“_Something_ must be true about the cat, because later on, the image of a cat was put on all the houses that were built with the money Dick Whittington left for that purpose. So a cat must have had something to do with his success. I only wish we knew exactly what it was! Dick Whittington is now so wealthy that he sometimes gives banquets to the King, and he has a splendid house not far from the Chepe.”

“He looks nice and kind,” said Betty.

“He is very generous, and has done much for London. Already he is building a monastery and some almshouses for poor people.”

“Why, there are some Whittington Almshouses at Highgate.”

“Yes. But they were only built about a hundred years ago. They were built, however, with Dick Whittington’s money, and it was a nice thought, wasn’t it, to put them where, according to the story, he heard Bow Bells?”

“They said ‘_Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London!_’ And now he _is_ Lord Mayor, and there he goes riding by. It seems too good to be true that I’ve actually seen him, Godmother!” declared Betty excitedly. “I used to love the picture-book of Dick Whittington we had in the nursery when I was little. And I loved the pantomime about him too. It was so _jolly_ to hear the bells ringing when Dick sat on the stile at Highgate and listened to them.”

“There’s another old rhyme about Bow Bells, which tells a pretty story about these young ’prentices you see all round you, standing at the doors of their masters’ shops and shouting, ‘Buy! buy! buy!’ This is the tale. At one time an order was given by the Lord Mayor that Bow Bell should ring every night at nine o’clock. It was the signal for the shops to be closed. But according to the ’prentices the bell always rang late, and so kept them at work longer than there was any occasion. They were angry about this, and made a rhyme which they wrote out and put up against the clock:

‘Clerk of the Bow Bell, with the yellow lockes, For thy late ringing, thy head shall have knockes.’

To which the bell-ringer replied in another rhyme,

‘Children of Chepe, hold you all still, For you shall have the Bow Bell rung at your will.’”

“Oh, how nice of him,” said Betty. “I like the part about the yellow locks. Look! there’s a young man going past now with fair hair almost to his shoulders. He must be rather like that clerk who had to ring Bow Bell.”

“You will remember that rhyme the next time you go down Cheapside in an omnibus and pass Bow Church. Many other things you may remember also. For instance, when you look at the names of some of the streets leading out of the modern Cheapside, they will recall this market-place of the Middle Ages. Do you see, for instance, how certain articles of food like milk and bread and honey are sold in separate places? All the milk sellers have their stalls together, you see, and all the bakers are together over there, and so on. Well, certain streets in or near the modern Cheapside are still called by such names as Milk Street, Bread Street, and so forth, and they mark the very spots where now, bread and milk are being offered for sale. So you will perhaps find Cheapside a more interesting place now that you have seen the _Chepe_ of which it is the remains,” added Godmother with a smile.

“Oh, every time I see it, I shall remember this!” Betty declared as her eyes wandered over the beautiful market-place with its cross and fountains, its picturesque houses brilliant with coloured draperies, and its throng of quaintly-clad lively people. The bells of many churches were ringing and clashing merrily, but she heard the sweet chimes of _one_ above all the rest.

“Bow bells!” she said, looking up at the church. “I wonder if the Lord Mayor is listening to them now, and remembering the time when they said ‘_Turn again, Whittington_’!”

But the last words were uttered in Godmother’s parlour, and outside, a newspaper boy was calling the latest racing news. “_All the winners! All the winners!_” he shouted.

* * * * *

Two or three days later, when Betty happened to be walking down St. James’s Street with her mother, it suddenly occurred to her that they were near the London Museum.

“Do let us go in for a minute,” she urged. “I want to see if there’s anything there that will remind me of the reign of Richard the Second.”

“Why are you interested in Richard the Second?” asked her mother. “Are you doing his reign at school?”

“No. But somehow I seem to know how London looked then. I’ve got a picture of it in my mind, and I can’t think why.”

“Well, we shan’t find any room _labelled_ Richard the Second, of course,” said her mother as they entered the building, “so we’d better look for a room that has to do with the Middle Ages.”

“Here it is!” cried Betty presently. “It says _Mediæval_ London on that doorway. That’s the same as the Middle Ages, isn’t it?”

In this room, when they had looked at cases full of things that were made and used in the fourteenth century, such as bowls, jugs, lanterns, keys, ornaments and a hundred other objects, Betty’s mother all at once said, “Come and see this picture of London in the fourteenth century. Isn’t it a little place? How curious to think it was once like that.”

Betty gazed eagerly at a picture which represented the painter’s idea of the appearance of London about the year 1400.

“Yes, it’s very good,” she declared. “There’s London Bridge, with just a few old houses at one end of it. And there’s all that was built then of the Tower. And that’s the first St. Paul’s Cathedral, with a spire instead of a big dome. Oh! and look, mother! There’s St. Saviour’s in Southwark at the other end of the bridge. Behind it there’s another church called St. Margaret’s, where they used to have Miracle plays. Such funny plays. Only of course they taught the people about the Bible.”

Her mother looked surprised. “You know quite a lot about it, Betty!” she declared.

“It seems somehow as though I’d _seen_ it,” said Betty in a puzzled voice.

“How wonderful it is to think of the country coming up close to that wall that goes round the tiny city,” her mother remarked, still examining the picture. “Fancy being able to walk through green fields in Southwark!”

“The children picked flowers there,” said Betty, rather dreamily, “and came running back over London Bridge with them, and sang, ‘_London Bridge is broken down._’”

“My dear child, what an imagination you have!” laughed her mother.

* * * * *

That same evening, Betty had another reminder of London in the Middle Ages. In the library at home, when she was looking for something to read, she found a book full of poems about London. Some were by new poets and some by writers of long ago. A rather long one was called _London Lackpenny_, and though the spelling and some of the wording was curious, she could make out its sense. It seemed to be about a poor young man who long, long ago came to London, and found it was a difficult place to live in unless one had plenty of pennies.

“Why, he’s talking about the very _Chepe_ I saw!” she thought as she came to a certain verse.

“Then to the Chepe I began me drawne Where mutch people I saw for to stand. One offered me velvet, sylke, and lawne, And other he taketh me by the hande, ‘Here is Paris thred, the fynest in the lande.’ I never was used to such thyngs indede And wanting mony I myght not spede. Then I hyed me into Eastchepe; One cryes rybbs of befe, and many a pye; Pewter potts they clattered on a heape, There was harpe, pype, and mynstrelsye.”

“What have you got hold of there?” asked her father, looking over her shoulder. “Oh, that funny ballad written by old John Lydgate in the Middle Ages. I expect it’s quite a good description of Cheapside as it was then.”

“It’s just right. It was exactly like that,” Betty exclaimed, thinking of the booths in the _Chepe_, piled with goods, and all the noise and bustle and shouting, and the sound of music from harps and pipes, mingled with the clashing of church bells.

“How do you know?” asked her father, smiling.

But Betty hadn’t the slightest idea—till she saw Godmother again.

III

In Tudor Days

THE LONDON OF SHAKESPEARE AND QUEEN ELIZABETH

“What are we going to see this morning?” Betty asked on the following Saturday.

“We’re not going to see anything till I know whether you remember at least the _names_ of the kings between Richard the Second and Queen Elizabeth,” returned Godmother firmly.