For two hours, as the wagon rumbled and lurched northward, Campion heaped upon her mother the troubles of a female Job, each ailment more terrible than the last, and for each Mrs. Swan had a remedy, always infallible, though she also always knew of someone who had died despite them. The conversation, though tiring on Campion’s imagination, was a very heaven for Mrs. Swan. “The ague, dear? My grandmother had the ague, God bless her, but she didn’t die of it. No. She was cured, but then she prayed to St. Petronilla. Can’t do that now, of course, thanks to some I won’t name.” She glowered at the minister to whom she had taken an irrational dislike. “Does she have sore breasts, dear?”

“Very.”

“She would, she would,” Mrs. Swan sighed heavily. “I had sore breasts, dear, when my husband was alive, but then he was a sailor. Yes. He brought me the image of St. Agnes from Lisbon and, do you know, it worked like a charm, but then it was a charm, of course.” She was raising her voice to provoke the minister. “Mind you, dear, they were sore. And there’s plenty of them to hurt!” She pealed with laughter at the thought, her eyes unblinking on the man of God who, sure enough, reacted. Whether it was the talk of Romish saints or the discussion of breasts that had offended him, Campion could not tell. He leaned toward Mrs. Swan.

“You are indecent in your talk, woman!”

She ignored him and smiled at Campion. “Does she have long ears, dear?”

“No.”

“God be thanked for that, dear, ’cos there’s no cure for long ears except a clouting. A good clouting!” She turned to the minister, but he had already leaned back in defeat, his eyes on Ecclesiastes. Mrs. Swan tried to rouse him again. “Has she got the falling sickness?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Yes. My aunt had that, God rest her. One moment she was on her feet, the next she was flat on the floor. Just like that. St. Valentine cures that, dear.” The minister stayed silent.

Mrs. Swan settled back on the bench. “I’m going to sleep now, dear. If anyone molests you,” and here she looked hard at the travelling preacher, “you just wake me up.”

Mrs. Swan was her guide, her mentor, her protector, and now, as they alighted at the end of the Strand, her landlady too. She would not hear of Campion seeking lodging in an inn, though she had not been slow to make clear that her hospitality was not free. “Not that I’m greedy, dear, no. No one can say that of Mildred Swan, but a body has to look after a body.” With which gnomic words the deal had been made.

Even though Charing Cross and the Strand were not London proper, but just the westward extension of the houses built outside the old walls of the city, it seemed fearful to Campion. The eastern sky was hazed dark with the smoke of innumerable chimneys, a haze pierced by more church towers and spires than Campion could have dreamed possible; the whole overshadowed by the great cathedral on the hill. The houses in the Strand, down which Mrs. Swan led her, were huge and rich, their doors guarded by armed men, while the street was filled with cripples and beggars. Campion saw men with empty, festering eye-sockets, children with no legs who swung themselves along on strong arms, and women whose faces were covered with open sores. It stank.