Judging by its height, it was about mid morning – the only thing he was able to tell before a hard shove in his back propelled him from the doorway on to the street. It told him little – except he was no longer in Southwark. He’d have recognised the dwellings, smaller in the main, and usually beside some place of business, be it shop, brothel or tavern. This street’s houses were larger and well made, the common silvery grey of untreated oak beams here painted over with black, the beiges and umbers of loam, usually unpainted, here daubed a pristine white. A prosperous street then, and such inhabitants as he saw well dressed. Merchants or . . . clerics, he thought, the idea confirmed when they rounded the first corner and he took in three sights: the river before him, Westminster Abbey upon its far shore and, immediately before him, the thrusting stone and stained glass of Lambeth Palace.His party halted on a word from the lady. She studied him for a moment, then turned to the others.
