My name is Marie, and this is my story…..

I had heard the legends, of course; everyone had. However, that is all I had ever believed them to be: legends, myths… tales spun to frighten, to terrify the young. Of course I’m not naïve; I believed that surely somewhere, back in time, these legends had been based loosely on truth. A truth which had, over the years, grown with each successive telling, as these things were wont to do. But I also believed that with each passing generation, the tales had surely been twisted beyond imagining, transformed from the simple truth upon which they had been based to the dark terrifying tale of death that stalked in the night. Never could I have imagined that such horrors could be real, or that their fearful shadow would fall without mercy upon those whom I held dear.

London in 1624 was far different than the London we know today. The city itself was considerably smaller, and the streets were narrow and mostly cobbled, although some consisted merely of dirt, packed hard by years of passage. Houses in most quarters were closely crammed, often leaning out over the streets below. There were no proper drainage systems or sewers, and refuse littered the streets. Chamber pots were emptied from windows onto the streets below, and thus the stench of human refuse was strong in the air; however, floating over the underlying reek of civilisation wafted the clean clear scents of the nearby countryside.

Noise was abundant in London, from the rattle of coach wheels or the scrape of hooves on cobblestones to the calls of the traders and the noisy scuffles of the young apprentices. A constant hum of sound hovered above the city at all times.

All that remained of my little family were myself and the patriarch, Pierre. My older siblings had moved away over the years, seeking out new lives in other towns or countries. I had two brothers in France and a sister in Cornwall, and still others over the years had succumbed to death in one form or another.

Pierre was not tall for a man of that time; however, his slight frame belied incredible strength and grace. He was a master with a blade, as well as being an accomplished marksman, horseman, and hunter. Amongst other achievements, he was a fine pianist, and one of my greatest joys was to sit by the fire listening to him play for hours.  He had been reared at court in Paris, his parents minor nobles from Rouen who had sent their son to court at the tender age of seven to be trained in the gentlemanly arts; once at court he found a place first as a page and later as a squire. His hair was fine and silky, a soft brown with the slightest touch of sable. His eyes, a deep forest green, could sparkle brightly with delight or burn terribly with fierce rage.   

Our home was fairly modest, but in no way meagre. A three storey brick and timber home, plastered in white, its timbers treated with tar and sporting a beautifully-thatched roof. It was an attractive home on a cobbled street situated just on the outskirts of the more opulent noble district. We kept no live-in servants, preferring to do for ourselves in most matters; our needs were few, and what little we did require I was able to attend to myself. We employed a young widow as housekeeper, and she would come by three days a week to clean and maintain the house. During her visits, we would entertain ourselves in the parlour; Pierre would play for me, or read from one book or another. We would sometimes play cards or draughts, or I would attend to my embroidery while Pierre would pore over the accounts. On occasion he would entertain me for hours with wondrous tales from his youth.

Pierre loved the theatre, and we would take our place each week in our own box; seated far above the riotous plebeians with their rankness and squalor, we delighted in the majesty and mystery of the worlds to which the players carried us, each evening an enchanting and ceaseless wonder. Fantastic tales of love and betrayal, of death and tragedy were brought to life before our eyes. Distant lands were recreated in miniature on the boards of London’s Blackfriars Theatre, which was invariably Pierre’s venue of choice.

After a pleasant evening’s entertainment, we would sometimes take a stroll through the Monastery grounds or along Fleet Street towards The Savoy. Other times we would take in Cheapside, with its fine jewellers and mercers; no matter our path, however, we always enjoyed the stars shining brightly down on the cobbled roads, and found the air a little more fresh and clear the farther one moved away from the foetid stench of the poorer quarters.

Pierre would escort me, my arm linked with his and his stride modified to accommodate my own far shorter one. We would talk, then, of the show we had just seen and discuss its finer points; what had made us laugh, which lines had struck poignantly at the heart, the performance of the actors and the beauty of the backdrops.  These were magical times, ones that I know I will continue to remember with fondness, treasuring their memory for all the days of my existence.

Later we would continue on to the noble district, along The Thames towards The Strand for a meal; we always chose to dine in the more resplendent areas of the budding city, enjoying an unhurried meal meant to be savoured and enjoyed, a sumptuous feast both fine and rich. After all this, we would make our way home again, either on foot if the night was still pleasant enough and the distance not too great, or otherwise by a carriage that would carry us swiftly home through the darkened streets.

Life was good then, filled with all the delights and joys that one could ask for.