Thank you for the music: He dances his troubles away

(Thursday, February 24th, 1600) When I spoke with Master Kemp at the inn in Burntwood he told me, though if it were me, I would certainly have made more of a complaint of it, that he had strained his hip as he left Romford. But he decided it would not be worth the trouble of consulting a surgeon. Having pulled my own shoulder slightly (I should have accepted help with my saddlebags) I feel the same way: the most likely treatment would be either leeching or bleeding and a rub with something that smells like horse liniment and probably contains most of the same ingredients.

I do feel, though, that if anyone has cause to complain, it is poor Will. The market crowds combined with sightseers both from London, and North Essex were so thick when he reached Burntwood (these days the name has slipped to Brentwood) that he had difficulty making his way to an inn. I managed to find a 21st century picture of the Bell where we stopped in Ingerstone (Ingatestone), which is a comfortable stopping-place, if not very large. I'm just thankful we managed to get a room to ourselves. Most of the travellers are sleeping two or three to a bed tonight. I sometimes think the horses are more comfortable down in the stables than we are, crammed in like peas in a pod. While I was talking to Will, he told me that the town sheriff arrested a pair of cutpurses who followed us all the way from London. Right now, they are as he put it, "enjoying the hospitality of the town", and I wouldn't care to bet on a rosy future for them unless, and this is very unlikely, they can claim "benefit of clergy". The penalty for misdemeanors is commonly corporal punishment, and most felonies are capital offences. In Kemp's own words, he foresees them dancing a lively Trenchmore in the Burntwood pillory to the rhythm of the cat-o'-nine tails. From his description, I think they might be the types of villains commonly known as dummerers: when first captured, they pretended to be dumb and deaf, and might have succeeded, but the sheriff knows a few tricks himself. The events of the day have brought home to me in a horribly real way what a brutal age this can be: although I had put it out of my mind, on our way out of London we passed the Bear Pit where the yelping and growling that accompanied the cheering told the story of a bear baiting in progress. I thought that Master Kemp would remain in Burntwood, resting his injured hip, which is why I recommended we make the most of the daylight, riding for Ingatestone, but to my surprise, even though it is now dark outside, bitterly cold and snowing half-heartedly the commotion outside heralds the arrival of Will Kemp, purveyor of the best bel-shangles and tril-lilles between Sion and Mount Surrey, together with the hardy folk determined to follow him on his jig. Having made something of a friend in Tom Slye, I pay for a hot supper for himself and Will Kemp, and ask Tom's help in transcribing another morris which helps to take my mind off the sorry thoughts that have occupied my mind for most of the day.