After a short, always treacherous merchant ship trip to Newcastle coal port in the year of our Lord, of the reign of King Charles 1, 1631 ~ Hugh Cannaday, a Mariner, sometime resident of Wapping, did the honourable thing by the pretty wench from Bishops gate.
Hugh was 21 and rightly proud… yet humble. It was a successful trip to Newcastle as second mate. It had been bloody hard, dirty work, and if they got home in one piece was paid better than any Royal crew.
The boat ferried the lads over to the shore-line, sailors like excited children across to the Wapping playground; unadulterated Sinners.
The Captain and the Vicar were clever; Their earnings were sorted in the Vestry. It was no pay and no play until they’d expressed gratitude to the Holy Trinity at the Sailor’s Church in Stepney for getting them home alive.
It didn’t hurt to sit and begin to adjust to land and lovers, but this time he was going to do things differently. He had turned 21 in the year 1631. He could deflect the fatigue on his knees at the altar, and stand and sit for a reading of the Gospel and singing of a Psalm.
Once he was carrying a purse full of cash from his profitable sea-coal venture to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, returning to the Thames, though his back bone was weary, nothing a hot tub and rub by a musclie Turk couldn’t fix.
God Almighty knew his purpose. He wanted to see that girl again. No need for whores along Wapping Wall. He wanted to impress. There was still time to get fitted for new boots.
It would be bright tonight, suit a new shirt – she liked to stroke it…Yes, he needed the Barber, the shirt, the boots. Nothing else, after-all he was only tempting a daughter of Eve not marrying one!
The Italian barber insisted Hugh soak his hands in a bowl of warm soapy water then nails scrubbed if he was to please his mistress, or maiden is she? Believe me a female is allured like we had slinky, spot coat of the leopard at the Tower.
Really, as the Lord is my Saviour, my wife go wild in the bed everywhere when I take her to Royal Zoo.! True! Hair done, magnifico, very handsome man.
He took the money, and his eyes shone. Hey don’t forget to come back and tell me your love story! Angelo not a fighter, am a lover heh? I can tell you are too. He winked. Hugh was not one for revealing licentious information about his affairs with anybody, let alone with this depraved Roman.
His hand coveted his sword hilt. The barber was quick to notice. with pockets of money had considered not entering that particular tavern where they had met previously, danced to the early morning, then sneaked him back to her father’s shop, only a few doors down, and my God they were up for it.
He had paused at the threshold of the tavern Bishops-gate Street having a sense something momentous was about to occur. He surmised it was the thought of nothing else but the thought of fuckin’ with Thomasine again, or anybody with a nice round arse to grab.
He was 21years, a man who had a wage packet and feeling horny, but he wasn’t going to go with any tart who could give him Mother Clap for his sin.
He could remember she was a comely 17. Could have been a gypsy. Aah, stop it, get over it, so he stepped into the bar where a mixed crowd of a Friday night generated the hive of convivial activity.
The barman greeted him with a nod, first drink on the house son; one group of youngsters were playing skull drinks, friends trained their eye to knocking the skittles, a balladeer sung favourite romances.
The fire was roaring, beckoned him over to sit with his tankard and relax after half a year of a profitable
“How do I know you ain’t stitching me up!” he said to her Mother, it could be any one of these fellas in this tavern?” Margaret Bond of Bishopsgate was 17 and burst into tears.
Dear God, forgive him, for he knows what you the Almighty wants to be done. She took his hand and pulled him to the floor to pray.
Margaret stayed seated. “He’s a good, hard-working man who would make a good father and husband, just as your Son, Jesus had in Saint Joseph. He was but an ordinary Carpenter but he performed the task which you God had purposed for him.
Due to this randy sailor my Virgin Margaret is no more, she fell for him, hook, line and sinker. As you blessed Saint Elizabeth, to be a Mother of John the Evangelist, and Blessed Mary, Mother of God, may this man Hugh consent to carry his Paternal line of Cannaday
to do your Will. Amen. Amen. Hugh had been ambushed. Margaret’s father Thomas Bond entered the room, “Here we are my dear, the finest Brandy to welcome the next little bundle of joy!” The three adults in the room stood and clinked goblets.
“Don’t forget me!” blabbed their daughter, “It’s me needs the medicine to fortify the Soul. You’re always ignoring me!, and he burst into tears. Her father rushed to her side after an urgent silent direction from his mother.
“There Pet, get this down you. It will settle you both down for the night. Please sit young man. We will leave you two betrothed love birds to re-aquaint.
See you in the morning, sweet her father kissed her head, shook his soon to be son-in-law’s hand, and said, “Margaret, you’ll have to show your young man what you have been collecting in your sea-chest!
Margaret complied. Her mother said to her, now he was reeled in, all she had to do was make him comfortable on the bed and stroke his cock.
She led him into the adjoining room with a double bed and hung curtain decoratively attached to the four posts. Margaret explained to him this was the conjugal bed which they could use until they got their own.
“I’m sorry I was weeping like a weak woman,” she moaned. I was so looking forward to seeing you handsome face and feel your strong arms around me.
“You have very understanding parents” he said as she leaned her breasts over to touch his side, lifted her gaze to his. They kissed. She was ravishing him so he had to succumb, being in an aroused state of shock.
Hugh lay back on the pillow. He thanked God for leading him to the mother of his children. What was amazing was the smell of fish, strong, fresh fish which would fly out of the sea onto the deck of the ship, showing, said he Captain, the fecundity of God.
Fecund. They took turns in saying the word in different ways. When she asked if he had seen a Mermaid, he laughed. “Not at Sea, but you are very close to how I imagined her to be.”
Now, what would they wear when they walked down the aisle at St.Mary’s Whitechapel?
Thanks for stimulating the writing episode today – David Fictum at the wordpress blog