The prickly Aubépine, as Henri called him, seemed a good deal less prickly than simply weak-willed and hapless in his judgements when he received Bellièvre and his retinue in the great salon of his embassy, being one of those simple-minded Frenchmen who, when abroad, are constantly boasting about France and Paris, openly denigrating the country they’re living in and speaking its language poorly and with an atrocious accent, as I could tell immediately from the two or three English words that escaped him.
To hear him tell it, we could expect only trouble and disappointments in London. It was a very small city, occupying only the north bank of the Thames, and only half as grand as Paris, lacking the rich shops, the delicious meals, the healthy climate, the beauty of the women and the accommodating manners of the French capital. Of tennis courts there were but few, the players mediocre, the balls (except those imported from France, of course) lacking proper bounce. The English pastimes of bowls, archery, cockfighting and bear-baiting were all sad affairs. Aubépine warned, with special insistence, against setting foot in any English theatres such as Burbage’s in Shoreditch or his son’s in Blackfriars. Besides the fact that the plays were in English and insufferably silly, these theatres were known to be houses of ill repute where you could catch the plague or syphilis from a prostitute or by sodomy (the roles of women being played by boys).
“Avoid Southwark like the plague,” he added, “which is a neighbourhood on the other side of the river from London, where brothels flourish, along with women whom I wouldn’t touch with the end of my cane! And for the love of God, don’t go sticking your nose into any of the city taverns, because someone is sure to pick a fight with you, since you’re French, and we’re greatly detested by the common people because we are of the Holy Roman religion and are all suspected of taking part in plots against the queen. When you let rooms and lodgings, as you must, since I cannot receive you all—only Monsieur de Bellièvre here—at the embassy, keep a sharp eye on your purse and don’t go cavorting with the chambermaids: they’ll fleece you like lambs. And finally, try to go out in groups, so you’ll be able to defend each other if attacked.”
I had no interest in this last piece of advice, wanting to get to know the English in London and not stay with the French, whom I already knew all too well from our contacts at court. Also, believing that it would be much easier for my secret contact from the queen to reach me directly if I were lodged alone and not surrounded by my compatriots, I gave myself permission to take “French leave”—or, as we would say, “to sneak off like an Englishman”, each people being accustomed to attribute to his neighbours the worst of his own habits, as for example the terms for syphilis, which the northern Italians call “the Naples sickness”, the French “the Italian sickness” and the English “the French sickness”.
And so I took “French leave”, claiming that I had a most unfortunate twisting of my bowels that necessitated my departure, and, mounting my horse, followed by Miroul and our packhorse, left the French embassy behind and headed for Whitehall, the most magnificent of the queen’s dwellings. Estimating that I wouldn’t be able to find lodgings in this wealthy quarter, where rich houses (which had nothing to envy in the most beautiful mansions in the grand’rue Saint-Honoré in Paris) bordered the Thames, I asked my way of an urchin who seemed like some sort of apprentice and who, rather than answering me, asked me where I was from; hearing that I was French, he gave me a terrified look and ran off as fast as his legs could carry him. I had no better luck with a milkmaid, who, when I hailed her, blushed like a poppy and, without a word, turned a cold shoulder.
“By the belly of St Anthony, Miroul,” I mused, “could Bellièvre be right? The wenches are icicles in this country!”
“Well, Monsieur,” laughed Miroul, “just wait a bit! There’s no icicle that won’t melt in a hand or a mouth. But ask that young man over there. He looks nice enough!”
“Sir,” I said to this fellow, as I slowed my horse to a walk, “I’ve just arrived from the Low Countries and I’m looking for lodgings in the city.”
The fellow stopped, and his face took on a very serious expression, as though I’d just asked him for a state secret. He looked me over in silence from head to toe, then looked at my horse, then at Miroul, then at his mount, then at the packhorse. This done, he remained silent, and I was just about to give up and set spurs to my horse when he said:
“Sir, I understand that you’re Flemish. Then you don’t have any love for Felipe II.”
“None whatsoever.”
“Nor the Pope?”
“Nor for him, either.”
“Then sir, I suggest you take a room at the Pope’s Head Tavern in Cornhill.”
“Where, sir, is Cornhill?”
“Follow the Strand, then Fleet Street. Continue east behind St Paul’s Cathedral. Cross Cheapside and Cornhill is there.”
“Sir,” I said, doffing my cap, “I thank you and salute you!”
“Sir,” he replied, “may God protect you and give you succour!”
“Monsieur,” said Miroul as he pulled his horse alongside mine, “I liked that fellow. He reminded me of your uncle Sauveterre.”
“You’re right! And Sauveterre would have certainly wanted to lodge at the Pope’s Head Tavern.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means a tavern with the head of the Pope for its sign.”
“What, just the head? Do they think they’ve managed to behead him here, at least in thought?”
“I believe so.”
And I had good reason to think so, knowing that the Anglican Church and the English queen had no more ferocious enemy than Sixtus V, who, with even more bitterness than his predecessor, had relaunched against them the Jesuits, Guise and Felipe II… and even, from what I’d heard, given his explicit blessing to the immense fleet that the Rex Catholicissimus was building in order to invade England, calling this great armada “my daughter”.
At Cornhill, where we arrived after a good half an hour’s walk, the first thing I saw was the tavern’s sign, on which was painted the Pope’s head, grimacing, pimply and quite devilish; under his tiara could be seen two diabolical horns and his hair was in the form of serpents. But as the inn seemed to be very presentable and clean, and was constructed of wood, stone and brick, I dismounted and, throwing my reins to Miroul, entered the common room, which also seemed quite clean and was, at this time of day, deserted. The innkeeper, who could have passed for a Frenchman from Provence, so dark was his skin and hair, asked me in rather abrupt tones what I wanted, since he didn’t serve bread or wine until eleven o’clock.
“My friend,” I replied, “we would like lodgings here for myself, my secretary and our three horses.”
“Sir,” he said, “who are you?”
“I am a French gentleman,” I said, deciding that I must tell him the truth, since he would have to give a truthful report to the provost of London.
“Papist?”
“My friend,” I smiled, “would I ask for lodgings here if I were?”
“Papist?” he repeated without a trace of a smile.
“No,” I answered, imitating his brevity.
“Do you have the plague?”
“No.”
“We’ll see about that!” he replied. “Sir, come in here,” he continued, preceding me by several paces, and without touching me at all, into a small room where, thank God, a bright fire was burning, since the morning was misty and chilly.
Once inside, he himself left, closing the door on me. My backside was quite sore from the long horse ride, so, instead of sitting down, I went to warm myself before the fire, my hunger increasing at the thought that we’d have neither food nor drink before eleven o’clock.
At length the door reopened and a young, buxom chambermaid entered, as blonde as the innkeeper was brown, but in her manner just as abrupt and cold as he had been.
“Sir,” she said, waiting by the door, “please undress.”
“What?” I protested. “In
front of you?”
“Please undress,” she repeated without batting an eye.
This did not please me in the least. But, since I did hope to eat and get some sleep, I consented, half amused, half ashamed to be treated like a pestiferous threat, and ended up putting on Adam’s “clothes” in front of a woman who, for her part, without blushing in the least, examined me with great curiosity and very thoroughly in all my parts, telling me to bend over, spread my legs, raise my arms and I don’t know what else. After which, still as taciturn as ever, she told me to get dressed, and left the room, no doubt to advise her master that she’d discovered no buboes or other signs of the plague, for the innkeeper now appeared with a register, in which he invited me, with scarcely more civility than before, to write my name, my condition and my religion, as well as my address in Paris and the reason for my visit to England. I had no problem with these precautions, and, indeed, would not change a single one. If only we had such rigorous precautions in Paris and a Walsingham to enforce them. There’d be much less for the king to worry about!
Once Miroul had been examined by the same buxom lass and found to be healthy and hardy, he was free to go and tend to our horses in the stable. Afterwards, he came to join me in my room, which was next to his, to see to my luggage; I gave him a hand with it, but we were so tired and hungry we said scarcely a word to each other, except to ask the chambermaid for some bread and wine—a request that was rudely rebuffed with the phrase “After eleven o’clock!” pronounced as drily as the crust which we so hungered for.
At the strike of eleven, I called the blonde chambermaid and again requested that she bring us some victuals, but was rebuffed a second time, as she threw over her shoulder the words: “In the common room.”
We were very surprised, when we went down, to find the room full of fellows seated at the tables, sipping wine and smoking their tobacco pipes, whose smoke, though some physicians in France praise its medicinal properties, seemed to me to provoke coughing and inflamed eyes. We had to cross the entire smoky room before finding a table, a crossing that was not very comfortable since every eye was fastened on us with a suspicious air.
The chambermaid was a long time in coming to serve us, and even though I’d twice asked her that morning for bread and wine, she asked what I wanted. After having repeated myself, she indicated that we had to pay in advance (though it was clear she had not asked this of the others there), and, as I handed her an écu, she looked at it quickly and gave it back as if it were burning her fingers, saying in quite a loud voice that it was French and that she couldn’t accept it.
At the word “French” I saw the eyes of the entire company fasten on me like arrows aimed at a target. Of course, I felt very ill at ease to be the object of such malevolence, and, at the same time, almost in danger of perishing from hunger despite the 300 écus in my purse. But after a moment, I reflected that a great merchant city like London must have money-changers, and then, remembering that I’d seen some near St Paul’s Cathedral on the way here, I sent Miroul off with five écus that I pulled from my purse. The minute he’d left, however, I regretted having deprived myself of his company and help, given how increasingly menacing my neighbours’ looks were becoming.
There were in this assembly of men, who looked better dressed than is the fashion in France, but two wenches, clearly whores, who were heavily made up with rouge and ceruse, and whose breasts were more outside than inside their bodices; they were the only ones not looking daggers at me. One of them, whether because she’d seen the coins I’d taken from my purse, or because the look I’d given her in my predicament was not unfriendly, arose and headed towards me. But she didn’t succeed in this attempt, for, as she was trying to pass between the tables to reach me, legs were stuck out on all sides, causing her to trip and nearly fall, whereupon, realizing the purpose of these obstacles, she frowned and returned to her seat.
My Miroul having returned with “healthy” English money, neither plague-ridden nor papist, the chambermaid came back to our table and rasped:
“It’s a penny for a pint of wine.”
“Here’s tuppence. And the bread?”
“It comes with the wine.”
“Now there’s a pleasant custom,” I thought, “that our Parisians would do well to imitate. Not stingy at all.” Then I set about eating and drinking, leaving neither drop nor crumb, momentarily forgetting the general antagonism that was directed at us. But it wasn’t long before we were reminded of it, for the thick cloud of smoke that hung over the room made me cough, whereupon my nearest neighbour turned to me and said with a provocative politeness:
“Sir do you object to my pipe?”
At this, I turned round, looked him in the face and, without batting an eyelid, replied calmly and quietly:
“Indeed, sir, I do not.”
And though this exchange was followed by silence, I didn’t doubt that the tavern was about to become a sort of arena in which the French bears were to be assailed and bitten by a pack of English hounds.
“Sir,” said another fellow, rising to his feet and raising his glass, “I beg you to toast with me! I drink to the health of our gracious queen.”
“Sir,” I replied, leaping to my feet, as did Miroul, and doffing my hat, “I heartily drink to the good health of your gracious queen!”
Somewhat taken aback by this, the fellow sat back down, though I noticed he did not raise his glass to his lips. But the looks that came at us from all sides took up where the words left off, and those looks were full of hate and so furious I thought we should soon come to blows, were these English not so conventional in the fashioning of their quarrels, all of their effort going into putting me at fault without putting a foot wrong themselves.
“Is it possible,” said another fellow after some moments, “that you’re really sincere in toasting Her Majesty’s health?”
“I am, sir.”
“Perhaps not, sir.”
“I am, sir.”
“Sir, are you calling me a liar?”
“No, sir.”
“Sir,” he insisted, “I affirm and declare that you are not sincere in toasting Her Majesty’s health, may God protect her.”
“May God protect her,” came a chorus of all the rest in the common room, who were now as grave and thoughtful as they would be in church.
“Sir,” I said, “it’s not enough to affirm. You must prove what you say.”
At this, a silence fell over the room and the two assailants seemed to lack sufficient munitions in this battle of words, though they were fully armed with hate and determination.
“Chambermaid,” I said, taking advantage of this respite, which I knew would be all too brief, “would you call the innkeeper, please?”
“I cannot,” she replied, looking daggers at me, “he’s gone out.”
“Wench,” I said, “in his absence you will be my witness of what is said and done here.”
“No, sir,” came her stiff retort. “I’m here to serve wine and bread, and not to hear or see what’s happening between our guests.”
At this, several vicious and conspiratorial laughs resounded in the room, which, joined with the absence of the innkeeper, led me to believe that our host was washing his hands of this bear-baiting, his absence keeping him as pure as the driven snow. And I’ll wager that Miroul understood things this way too, since, though he’d been sitting across from me up until this moment, he stood up, took his stool and came and sat down by my side behind our table, which was situated nicely in the corner of the room and thus could serve as a kind of rampart between us and the hounds.
These latter had begun to make scolding and threatening noises, though, it seemed to me, they felt restrained by the desire not to break the law. In this regard, they are very unlike the Parisians, who are of such a rebellious and anarchic complexion that there’s no law, human or divine, that can restrain them from their disorderly moods. However, I observed, not without some anxiety, that the chambermaid was leaning o
ver a bloke with a very foxy face, and had been whispering something in his ear for quite some time, casting inflamed glances at us now and then. When, after this conversation, the fellows rose, I felt we must expect the worst.
“Sir,” he announced in very polished English, “I understand you’re in the retinue of the French ambassador who has come to speak to our queen regarding the fate of Mary Stuart.”
At this execrated name, cries of rage arose from different parts of the room, and these were followed by a torrent of words so filthy and angry that I cannot repeat them here.
“Sir,” I replied, rising to my feet, “it is the ambassador’s mission to ask for a pardon for her, but not mine. I am merely his doctor and interpreter.”
“And yet, sir,” replied this fox-like fellow, “you cannot help, as a member of his party, but desire her pardon!”
“Sir,” I objected, “not every Frenchman has the same opinion on this matter. Some think, as I do, that Mary Stuart was involved in the assassination of Darnley and in the attempts on the life of Her Gracious Majesty.”
“Sir,” he snapped, “how can a papist possibly hold this opinion?”
“Sir,” I countered, “I am not a papist—I am a Huguenot.”
The foxy fellow smiled at these words and, casting his eyes about those assembled in the room, he seemed to lick his lips at what he was about to say.
“That is, indeed, what you wrote on the registry of the inn. So you’re a Huguenot, sir, as I understand you.”