The Nightingale Gallery

small boys, the children of servants, played hide and seek behind the carts, baskets and bales of straw. Servants hurried in and out of kitchens with pitchers of water while others sat in the shade whiling their time away with dice and other games of hazard. Outside the kitchen door scullions were bringing out steaming chunks of bloody red meat to throw into huge casks of pickle and salt to preserve them. At the other end of the yard, carpenters were busy around a huge, gaily decorated cart, the four sides now being covered with elaborate cloths and carvings. Sir Richard took Cranston and Athelstan over.
    'Oh, by the way, Sir Richard. The Syrians, the beautiful chess set, what happened to them?' asked Cranston.
    Sir Richard stood still, staring up at the blue sky, turning his face to feel the sun.
    'Too precious to be left out on display. Master Buckingham has polished them and put them away, locked in a casket. They are safe. Why do you ask?'
    Cranston shrugged. 'I wondered, that's all.'
    The noise around the carts was terrible: the banging and the sawing and the moving of wood. The air was thick with sawdust and the sweet smell of freshly cut wood. The pageant prepared by Springall, which was only a small part of the vast coronation procession, looked even more magnificent at close quarters. The cart was huge, about nine feet high. The merchant explained there would be a tableau which would give honour to the king as well as reflect the glory of the Goldsmith's Guild, with huge screens on which the carpenters and masons had carved elaborate scenes.
    'There are four,' Sir Richard explained, 'one for the front, one for the back and one for each side of the cart. These will be fastened on and above them a platform. On that will be set the tableau. Everything has to be correct,' he commented. 'We do not wish to bring any disgrace or dishonour on the guild from our cart collapsing as it rolls through the streets of Cheapside.'
    No expense had been spared. Athelstan particularly examined each of the screens showing the four last things; Death, Judgement, Heaven and Hell. He admired the sheer complexity of the scenes as well as the genius of the craftsmen, in particular in their depiction of Hell. There was a representation of the devil carrying off the wicked to Hades. Each of the damned souls was guarded by a group of hideous demons. In the centre of the piece was a carving of a shoemaker resisting four shaggy devils who were dragging him from the embraces of what at first Athelstan thought was a young lady but, on looking closer, realised that with his tail and close-cropped hair, it was a depiction of a male prostitute. The profession of the Devil's captive, a shoemaker, was made apparent by the bag of tools clutched in one hand and the unfinished shoe in the other.
    'Who carved this?' Athelstan asked Sir Richard.
    'Andrew Bulkeley.'
    'Where is he?'
    Sir Richard turned and called the man's name and a small, bald-headed man wandered over. His vast form, more corpulent than that of Cranston, was swathed in a dirty white apron. He looked like one of the carefree devils he had carved, with his fat, cheery face, snub nose and large blue eyes which seemed to dance with wicked merriment.
    'Master Bulkeley.' Athelstan smiled and shook the proffered hand. 'Your carvings are exquisite.'
    'Thank you, Brother.' The voice betrayed a soft burr of warmer, fresher climes.
    Athelstan pointed to the depiction of Hell. 'This particular carving, it's your work?'
    'Yes, Brother.'
    'And the idea is yours?'
    'Oh, no, Brother. Sir Thomas himself laid down what we should do and how we should carve it.'
    'But why the shoemaker and why the male prostitute?'
    The craftsman wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
    'I don't really know. I have done such scenes many times. It's always the same. Someone being dragged from the warm embraces of a group of young ladies. But this time, I think Sir Thomas had some secret joke. He insisted that it be a shoemaker and the prostitute be male. That's all I know. He paid the money, I did what he asked. Have you seen the others?'
    'Yes, thank you,' Athelstan said, and looked across at Cranston.
    'Master Allingham came out to look at these carvings?' Cranston asked.
    'Yes.'
    'Do you know why?'
    'No.'
    'Any carving in particular?'
    The craftsman shrugged.
    'He'd look at them all, usually when we were not there, but he constantly asked why Sir Thomas had chosen certain themes. I gave him the same answer I gave