The House of Shadows

up against the freezing cold, made their way to the spacious tavern, the Night in Jerusalem, which stood on the broad thoroughfare which swept down to London Bridge. The night was bitterly cold; the season of Advent was only a month away. The seers had prophesied snow, but the night sky was cloud-free and the stars brilliant. A full moon bathed the reeking alleyways and lanes in its ghostly light. The day’s business was done, windows were shuttered, doors locked and barred. The cats slunk away whilst the rats, as if they sensed what was going to happen, kept well clear of the frozen rubbish heaps.
    Everyone knew about the Great Ratting. Those who liked to gamble or play hazard had already laid their wagers. Others were just curious as to see what would happen. Of course, every thief could smell a profit. There’d be purses to be cut and pockets to be picked whilst enjoying a good night’s entertainment. The news had spread across the swollen black Thames, attracting the more well-to-do and genteel from Cheapside , Farringdon Ward, and even as far north as Clerkenwell. Moleskin, the boatman who sailed out of Southwark Steps, was promised a roaring trade. The Thames, however, was choppy, the river breeze sharp as a dagger, so many just slipped under the chains at London Bridge , scampering along the narrow lane between the houses and the great selds, or warehouses, built either side of the bridge. All excited, they ignored the frozen midden piles containing every type of waste heaped high along the middle, nor did they pause to stare at the severed, mouldering heads of traitors placed high on spikes on either side of the bridge. They showed a similar lack of pity for those caught stealing from stalls during the previous day’s trading; these malefactors were now fastened in the stocks by hand, head or leg, or shut up in the cages at each end of the bridge, where they would stand all night and suffer the freezing cold.
    The petty traders and chapmen, the sellers of figs and apples, the tallow chandlers, the wax chandlers, the fleshers and the tanners all forgot their trade rivalry, flocking to the Great Ratting. They were joined by doxies and the whores in their gaudy rags from Walbrook and Hounsditch. These ladies of the night hid their charms behind cowls, hoods, shabby cloaks, and masks with gaps for their eyes and mouths. Once they reached the spacious tap room of the Night in Jerusalem they removed such disguises.
    The tap room’s tables and chairs were ringed by row after row of barrels, each table being lit by a yellow tallow candle or a bowl of oil with a burning wick floating in the centre. Even though the champions hadn’t arrived, the wagering had begun, encouraged by the good silver and gold brought by the young men of the court, garbed in their tight hose, puffed jackets, protuberant codpieces and high-heeled boots. In the view of many of those who flocked to the tavern, these popinjays with their high-pitched voices, soft hands and faces, and curled, crimped hair were the real reason for the evening. They carried purses and wallets openly for all to see, and the fingers of many itched to be so close to such wealth. A few arrivals brought their own dogs, bull mastiffs, terriers, and even the occasional greyhound or whippet so as to measure up the opposition.
    They all crowded in, gathering around the grease-covered tables or going to stare at the stuffed corpses of other prized dogs who had won the title of ‘Champion Rat Killer’. Pride of place was given to the embalmed corpse of a white bull mastiff with black patches around its protuberant glass eyes. A collar about its neck proclaimed the dog as ‘The Greatest Champion of all times’. In the centre of the tap room stretched the great pit, still covered over, a broad and very deep whitewashed hole ringed with lanterns and hour candles, the flames of which were already approaching the eleventh ring. Soon the games would begin. Mine host, a great tub of a man who rejoiced in the name of Master Rolles, was already enthroned in his chair of state on a velvet-covered dais overlooking the pit. He sat there like a king, bawling for more lights to be brought. Link boys hurried up with lantern horns they’d filched from the doorsteps of houses in the wealthier parts of the City. Once these were in place, Master Rolles, his fat, greasy face shimmering in the light, stared petulantly round, small lips pursed, greedy black eyes gleaming, ready to make