by Karen Brooks
It was Rose who told me why.
‘She’s afeared she’ll see the man who hurt her mother, the one who controls all the bawds in that ward. He’s a nasty piece of work who used to beat Lowdy. She’s afeared if he sees her, he’ll snatch her back and there’ll be naught you can do to stop him.’
‘Sweet Mother Mary.’ I was filled with righteous anger. Nobody would harm my Lowdy – or anyone else in my care for that matter.
Without wasting time, I told Rose to see to Lowdy, grabbed my cloak and hood, made Drew and Arnold carry knives and look as smart and fierce as they were able. Milda and Donnet practically ran out of the house after me, baskets swinging. I strode past vendors I’d normally engage with, set on a mission.
Drew and Arnold marched either side, clearing a path like scythes through wheat.
Milda and Donnet urged me not to do anything imprudent. But my plan was simply to let the maudlyns of Gropecunt, Soper, Bordehawe and Puppekirty Lanes and any others plying their trade in the parishes of St Pancras, St Mary Colechurch and the Cheap, know that if ever a hair on Lowdy’s head was touched, there’d be hell to pay. That message would get back to whoever dared to frighten my girl. She was but a child. I never thought about the consequences. I just wanted Lowdy safe. I wanted them all safe.
Gropecunt was dank and filled with shadows and the lingering smells of misery and urgency. Even the sunlight stayed away. Stains that might have been blood, but could have been tossed from a jordan, splayed the slimy cobbles and the sides of a closed alehouse. Animal pens contained sorry looking hens, two flea-ridden kids bleating painfully, and broken barrels, a rusted wagon wheel, a trampled cloak and torn boot. A cracked shingle swung in the breeze. I banged on the door of Lowdy’s old house, a sorry place with bowed shutters, filth on the doorstep and an overflowing ditch. Mould grew all over the facade, its smell cloying. It reminded me of never-ending nights filled with terrible dreams. That she ever lived here squeezed my heart.
Impatient, I nodded to Drew to rap on the door again.
‘You’ll not find anyone,’ said a voice. ‘We’re over here. It’s warmer.’
Across the way three women were huddled in a doorway, a small fire burning in a brazier at their feet.
In the flickering light, they could have been beldames, so buried beneath shawls and swathes of fabric were they; the flames cast their faces into a series of deep planes and angles.
They were the Fates manifest.
I crossed, fiddling with my purse, wincing as I thought of the cheese we’d forgo, the ale, and signalling for Drew and Arnold to remain where they were. The last thing I needed was to intimidate these women. A few houses away, a group of men broke apart to study us, whispering and nudging each other. Was Lowdy’s pimp among them? I glared in their direction.
A forlorn child with a nest of fine hair stared through an open shutter in the house next door; I couldn’t tell if it was a boy or girl. A small kitten was tucked beneath a grimy arm. Weary voices could be heard through thin walls. The wail of a baby, the chitter of women. The deep bass of a man singing a ditty. Somewhere, glass broke. A scream rent the air; it was swiftly cut off then replaced by sobbing.
‘God give you good day, ladies,’ I said, trying not to shudder.
They murmured a return blessing, hands floating before the weak fire.
‘I’ve a message to deliver –’ I began, coins ready in my fist, when one of the women straightened.
‘You’re that woman what took Lowdy,’ she said.
Taken aback, I regarded her closely. It was Megge. The maudlyn with the defiant eyes who had brought Lowdy to Honey Lane.
‘I am.’
With a cry, the women leapt to their feet and threw their arms around me, showering me with kisses, speaking at once.
‘God bless you, mistress!’
‘Sweet Jesu, you be an angel on earth.’
‘We seen Lowdy. Catch her eye sometimes. Why! She’s a different girl ’cause of you, mistress.’
I gripped hands, accepted blessings, gazing at them in astonishment as they came out of the shadows and into the street, their hoods falling back, their shawls askew. Why, these weren’t old women. They were young, just worn, tired, bruised and weary.
A piece of my heart broke. I forced the coins into their fists.
‘Nay, mistress, we can’t take this,’ said Megge. ‘Not when you already done so much.’
The others agreed, and fought to close my fingers, trying to give me back the money. If it hadn’t been so sad, it would have been funny, these ragged, lovely women returning my poor attempt at largesse.
‘Do you have room for more?’ A tall woman stood in the doorway behind the trio. It had been so dark, I hadn’t noticed the door open. Her belly arrived before she did, swollen with child. Long golden hair tumbled down her shoulders. Her proud nugs sat heavy atop the arm she’d slid under them – whether to support her breasts or shield her stomach, it was hard to tell. Her sullen eyes regarded me, a sneer twisting her lips. All the same, even covered in dirt, she was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen.
‘I … I don’t know what you mean …’ I began.
‘I mean,’ she said slowly, as if my mind was bent, ‘since you’re so generous, would you take this when it’s born?’ There was no mistaking her meaning as she rubbed her belly in wide circles.
‘Take your child? I … I can’t do that.’
‘See,’ she said to other women, throwing her arm up dismissively. ‘They’re all the same, these do-gooders. These grand beldames who strut the streets, offering nothing but words and prayers. They don’t mean nothing. Nor does her coin. Why –’ she peered at the pennies in Megge’s palm, ‘I can earn that in a minute sucking some cove’s prick. More on me back.’ She slapped Megge’s hand, the money striking the cobbles. Out of nowhere, an urchin scrambled for the coins, disappearing in the wink of an eye.
‘You make out she’s some saint,’ hissed the golden-tressed bawd. It was clear who had power here. ‘The only reason she took Lowdy was ’cause she got herself cheap help. You think she cares ’bout that girl? More like, she cares the child can scrub a hearth. Bah. She’s no more a saint than Widow Gardy over there.’ She spat in the direction of a shrivelled woman who sat at another open window staring out into the street, a distaff slung across her shoulder and a great cloud of wool atop it.
Widow Gardy’s face split into a wide, gummy grin.
‘You don’t mean that, Leda,’ said Megge.
One side of her face was horribly swollen. The other women bore a variety of injuries – cut lips, blue and purple bruises on their wrists. Even Leda had red raw marks around her neck.
Unaware of their wounds or accustomed to them, the three continued to plead with Leda.
‘God forgive you, you can’t ask her to take your babe.’
‘He wouldn’t allow it.’
‘He’ll see you dead …’
I was vaguely aware of their imploring, the one called Leda cursing them, me, Donnet stiffening in protest, Milda plucking at my sleeve. The steady spinning of the crone sent my mind into a whirl.
‘Wait,’ I said loudly as Leda went to disappear into the house.
‘What?’ she said with such venom, I stepped back.
‘Can you spin?’ I asked.
‘What?’ Whatever Leda was expecting to be asked, it wasn’t that. I’d a brief advantage and, by God, I took it.
The women parted as I closed the distance. ‘I asked, can you spin? It’s not a difficult question.’
‘Mistress, no!’ said Milda.
‘I can,’ said Megge, pushing to stand beside Leda. ‘I can spin.’
‘We all can,’ said Leda, giving Megge a shove, cutting off the others, wresting back control. ‘What’s it to you?’
A slip of a woman sidled next to Megge, her eyes flicking to my face before settling on her boots. Her hair had been shorn badly. Her cap had slipped, revealing patches of pale scalp, some cuts. One eye bore a
n old bruise.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked softly.
‘Yolande.’ Sweet Jesu, she was so young. Soon, I had all their names. Leda, Yolande, Megge and Bianca.
They stood expectantly in a semi-circle around me.
‘What would you say if I asked you to come and spin for me?’
‘Mistress! Alyson!’ Milda tried to force me to look at her. ‘Are you mad?’
Donnet tugged at my sleeve. ‘Mistress, we need to go.’
I shook them both off.
‘Well? What do you say? Will you leave this …’ I looked about. ‘Come work for me? I can’t promise much, but you’ll have a bed, food and, mayhap, some wages. Not as much as you might make with a cock in your mouth or spreading your legs.’ I dared Leda to defy me. She remained tight-lipped. ‘But you’d be safe. Just like Lowdy. I can promise you that.’
Could I? Could I really?
The weight of Milda’s consternation hung in the air. I pushed aside my doubts, the alarum screaming in my mind.
The women were stunned into silence.
‘Don’t have much to say for yourself anymore,’ I said to Leda. Her eyes narrowed. ‘What do you say, ladies?’
Megge turned, her hands clasped in an attitude of prayer.
‘She’s full of shit,’ said Leda, arms crossed.
‘Nay.’ Milda barged between us and stood before Leda. Forced to tilt her head to look up at the taller woman, her fists were balled, her face red. ‘She’s not. She never has been and don’t you dare say so. You don’t know her. How can you? You think because she makes an offer the likes your kind never had, she’s a swindler? A crook? That she doesn’t know what it’s like to yearn, to hope, to bleed? To be poor? To cry and wish to God in Heaven things were different?’ She pointed at me. ‘I’ve been with this woman since she was just a wee bit older than Lowdy. She’s been through more than you can imagine and, guess what? It’s never stopped her trying, nor giving folk a chance. She never says anything she doesn’t mean and she certainly wouldn’t be making offers if they weren’t genuine. You should be down on your knees thanking Mother Mary and all the saints that this woman, Alyson Bookbinder, came down this lane today and offered you decent work instead of insulting her, you foolish slut.’
Leda stared at Milda, who was puce in the face and puffing. While she spoke, the men further up the alley had joined us. They stood a few feet away, wary of Drew and Arnold, who’d drawn their knives.
Bianca shot a timid glance in their direction.
‘Well, I believe her,’ Megge said to Leda. ‘When would you want us, mistress?’ she whispered, wringing her hands.
The sun rose in my chest, warming me from the toes of my boots to my neck. ‘Now,’ I said. Before I could change my mind. ‘Gather your belongings and come this very minute.’ I glanced at Leda. ‘Those of you who want to.’
Megge and Yolande went to cross the lane, stopping only when the men barred their way. Bianca remained where she was, looking from me to the men and back again.
‘These women are coming with me,’ I said, coldly. ‘If any of you prevent them, I’ll have the beadle and sheriff down here faster than you can lace your breeches, understand? I’ll tell them you’re holding these women against their will.’
For all that the law didn’t favour whores, the one thing it wouldn’t tolerate was women being held forcibly.
‘Those women belong to Ordric Fleshewer, bitch,’ said the oldest of the men. ‘You can’t just come here and take ’em. They’re his property.’
Ordric Fleshewer. The man responsible for the death of Lowdy’s mother, who believed he owned the daughter as well.
‘They’re nobody’s property, churl,’ I said. ‘These women have no contracts, no apprenticeship.’ I gave a coarse laugh. ‘They’ve no guild. Fleshewer doesn’t own them any more than I do.’ The men didn’t respond. ‘They’re now hired workers. You tell Master Fleshewer they’ve found other employ and are leaving his service. Today. Here –’ I said, and thrust what remained in my purse into his hand. ‘Tell him this is for rent owed.’ I nodded towards the shambles that passed for a house Megge and Yolande had gone into. ‘I’ve a feeling he won’t have much trouble finding more tenants, even if it’s not fit for a river-rat.’
One of the men whispered to a lad. He looked me up and down, gave a sharp nod, then took off in the direction of St Olave’s.
I swept past the remaining men with a confidence I didn’t feel. Grateful Drew and Arnold were there, bravely defiant, staring down these men who didn’t know how to handle a bold woman or recalcitrant whores. Bless Milda and Donnet, they glared as well, brazen as you like, even as concern at my impulsive action warred within them.
Moments later, the maudlyns joined us, burlaps slung over shoulders, nervous grins upon their faces. The only exception was Bianca, who ignored their entreaties; after a few fearful glances at the men and looks of longing at me and the girls, she scurried into the house.
While my heart ached for her, I couldn’t force her. Yet …
Megge saw my ambivalence. ‘Bianca won’t come. The man with the crooked nose is her husband. She’ll never leave him.’
I tried not to look shocked. Her husband. The turd-cured coward. Bianca wasn’t his wife, she was his purse. Still, I couldn’t save everyone. I had to respect her choice, even if it arose out of … what? Fear? Fear and some misguided notion of obligation. I shot the man a look that would have felled a raven mid-flight. He laughed and spat.
I made Megge and Yolande go ahead, Drew leading the way, Arnold bringing up the rear. The men muttered grimly but didn’t try and stop us. As we reached the wider thoroughfare of Old Jewry, one of the men called out: ‘We know who you are, Alyson Bookbinder. We’ll find you.’
Damn. In defending me to Leda, Milda had revealed my name. She groaned. I turned to comfort her, only to see Leda, a burlap bumping on her back, running to join us.
Just then, I didn’t care about the men, their threat, or that Bianca had rejected my offer. I’d just employed three women, one with a babe due, I couldn’t afford. Joy filled with reckless pluck made my heart soar, my feet fly. I turned around, walking backwards and shouted, ‘Aye, that’s my name, fellows. And don’t you forget it.’
They didn’t.
THIRTY-SIX
Honey Lane, London
The Year of Our Lord 1389
In the thirteenth year of the reign of Richard II
My plans to set the girls to work the following day were rudely curtailed. Just before lauds, I was awoken by a gentle touch on my shoulder. It was Yolande.
‘You must come, mistress,’ she said. ‘Leda needs you.’
Milda stirred on the pallet beside my bed. We threw shawls over our shifts and, first setting Lowdy to boil water, flew upstairs.
Leda was pacing the small, slope-ceilinged room before a chalk-faced audience. Her face was slick with sweat, a frown of pain furrowed her brow. One hand rested on her stomach, as if to prevent it from bursting, the other was screwed into a fist and pressed against her mouth. Upon seeing us, she groaned and stumbled.
Milda ran to her side, Yolande on her heels, but she sent them away with a growl. From the look on Megge’s chastened face, it wasn’t the first time offers of help had been so crudely rejected.
I’d been in a few birthing chambers over the years, and I’d learned that the temperament of the woman was no indication of how she’d behave when about to bring a child into the world. The most placid could turn into a snarling lion, or fling curses like a toothless beldame. Those you’d expect to moan and make a passion play of the hours would sometimes whimper softly and apologise for causing inconvenience. Inconvenience? Aye, that’s one way to describe an ornery mound of flesh forcing its way out of your queynte. Bloody inconvenient in every regard.
Without so much as a by-your-leave, I took charge. Far from being the woman of the world she pretended to be, Leda was a mere chit of fifteen. A donkey’s cousin could see the girl was terr
ified and snapping at all and sundry because she felt unsafe. I led her to the pallet, which thanks to Megge had a clean sheet atop to soak up the fluids, and pushed her onto it.
‘Yolande. Go fetch the midwife, Mistress Ibbot. Drew knows where she lives. Take him with you. For Godsakes,’ I snapped over my shoulder, ‘the rest of you, stoke the fire, open the shutters and get some fresh air in here. Smells worse than a barn. Bring the lass some ale, fast, you hear, some for me and Milda too.’ Megge shot through the door, leaving it open as was proper during childbirth, anything to aid the womb in releasing its burden. Rose and Donnet, woken by the commotion, came upstairs and did what they could. Donnet even threw some rose petals in the water when Lowdy hauled it in. Whether or not it would help, it made the room smell sweeter.
I dipped a cloth in the hot liquid, gave it a quick wring and dabbed Leda’s brow. ‘Squeeze my hand as tight as you like,’ I urged. ‘The midwife is on her way. In the meantime, shout if you must, cry and curse or praise God, the angels, Holy Mother Mary, whatever your choice, we’ll not judge.’
She shot me a look of utter disbelief as if about to level some of those curses at me when pain gripped her. She doubled over, pink fluid gushing between her thighs. At the same time, the ale arrived. Before offering Leda any, I took a great swig myself.
The hand I’d offered was now numb and Leda scarce loosened her hold when she was finally able to gulp at the mazer.
‘How long have you been like this?’ I asked.
‘Too long,’ she said.
‘She started getting ratty after matins,’ said Rose helpfully.
‘She’s always ratty,’ added Megge.
Leda would have retorted, but another spasm took hold and she gritted her teeth, rising to her knees as the urge to move overtook her.
I held her upright, then helped her up off the pallet as she sought the floor. It seemed an age before the midwife, Mistress Ibbot, followed by half the gossips in the bloody lane, arrived. Mistress Ibbot brought salt and honey to dry up the baby’s humours and bind Leda’s womb when all was over. The other women, including the two crones next door and Mistress Bordwrygt, put down the stools they’d carried, along with the jugs of ale and mazers. Crammed around the sides of the room, they began praying to St Margaret, conversing, and one even started spinning (I took note, a young wench I hadn’t seen before). The midwife pressed a jasper stone into Leda’s palm and bade her squeeze it. Grateful for her foresight, I took back my hand and massaged life into it.
