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seen the Mummers marching by and, like a little child, had gone marching with them. He often did this – the call of the ring was too strong for him – and now he was off to Shoreditch, to the spring fair. Betsy was worried, for although she knew that he would come back, he would possibly be beaten to a pulp from fighting and wrestling for wages which no one ever paid him. Sometimes, on these occasions, he even ended up in the Fleet Prison and it cost a lot of money to get him out. Now Betsy was in two minds about whether to hitch up her skirts and run over the fields to get to town before Rolly did. But Sam, lord and master, had other ideas, and she and Sam had quarrelled incessantly all day long.
    Marcelle was looking thinner and paler than ever, as she went about her tasks, trying hard to shut out the shouting and swearing that was going on around her. Over and over again, she recited the Lord’s Prayer as she knelt down on her knees on the steps, scrubbing the entrance to the inn.
    By nightfall, after the inn had closed and guests were all asleep, Sam and Betsy had started their fighting again. From downstairs came screams and shouts, and the sound of breaking glass, and thuds as objects were thrown about. Finally Betsy fell into Marcelle’s room beaten to a standstill, since Rolly had not been around to defend her. Marcelle quickly locked the door and pushed a heavy chest up against it. Outside, Sam was drunk and vicious, stumbling down the corridors shouting and yelling.
    ‘Send that skinny bitch out here!’ he yelled. ‘It’s time she earned her keep. I’ll learn her, she’ll soon know what life’s all about . . .’
    With her legs weak and buckling, Marcelle knelt down to help poor Betsy whose nose was pouring blood. One of her eyes was closing, and her clothes were in ribbons. Her whole body seemed to be a mass of bruises from Sam’s well-aimed boots. Sam continued to rant and rave outside Marcelle’s firmly locked door until one of the guests, woken by the racket, called out angrily: ‘Pox on you, landlord. Do I pay good money to listen to your drunken rages all night?’
    It was only then that Sam calmed down and finally left them in peace. In bed, Marcelle cuddled the weeping Betsy to her.
    The next morning, the bright sunshine shone through the bedroom window and brought in sounds of movement from the road outside – the clatter of carts taking produce to the city, the singing of the flower girls and the cries of the water carriers. Marcelle lay motionless in bed, gazing down at Betsy’s poor battered face. Betsy lay on her back snoring. There was dried blood all around her mouth, her eyes was extremely swollen and her blonde hair, spread out over the pillow, was bloody and tangled. She was not a very nice sight to see so early in the morning, but Marcelle looked at her with pity in her eyes, and only saw her friend’s pathetic, tear-stained face, not blousy Betsy. She turned towards the little statue of the Virgin, which had meant so much to her on those unhappy days. The Madonna had long golden hair and a bright blue dress painted on her wooden form. She seemed to smile sweetly at Marcelle. To this little virgin Marcelle always prayed, telling of her secret fears and kneeling long hours before her when her mind was troubled. This morning, however, suddenly seemed a special day and there was nothing to worry over. The Virgin’s sweet smile on her little wooden face gave Marcelle confidence; there was nothing to worry about.
    She crept out of bed and rearranged the little posy of wild flowers she kept beside the statue. As she did so, her thoughts flew back to another place where there were lots of flowers – fields of them – and with her was a woman with shiny black hair and rings in her ears. She could still hear her gay laughter and see the even white teeth as they flashed in a smile. Where was that place and who was the lady? Many times this memory picture came to Marcelle’s mind, and