The Lost Boys of London

by Mary Lawrence

  The Lost Boys of London

  By Mary Lawrence

  Books by Mary Lawrence

  THE ALCHEMIST’S DAUGHTER

  DEATH OF AN ALCHEMIST

  DEATH AT ST. VEDAST

  THE ALCHEMIST OF LOST SOULS

  THE LOST BOYS OF LONDON

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

  RED PUDDLE PRINT

  www.marylawrencebooks.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Mary Lawrence

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  Red Puddle titles are available through Ingram and Amazon.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7347-3610-6

  First Red Puddle Trade Paperback Printing: May 2020

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Calvin and David

  What should I say,

  Since faith is dead,

  And truth away

  From you is fled?

  --Sir Thomas Wyeth (1503-1542)

  Chapter 1

  London, February 1545

  The twists and turns of an inconstant king are as serpentine as the lanes and alleys of London’s Castle Baynard ward. At one end squatted massive St. Paul’s Cathedral. Licking the ward’s toes at the other ebbed the greasy gray Thames. In between were four parishes and enough bread shops to adequately keep the inhabitants’ heads filled with guilt and their stomachs filled with gluten.

  This warren of tightly packed residences, ordinaries, mercers, stationers, chandlers, and cordwainers sat in unremitting penitence near the ominous cathedral, and never was their compunction more intensely felt than during the bleak days of this mid-winter. The incremental gain of daylight was not enough to cheer the citizens. They didn’t notice they did not have to light their tallows quite so early, nor did the lengthening days remind them that spring would soon…spring. Nay, the winter felt interminable, as did its dark, shivering days.

  For England was at war.

  Harry had lightened his coffers by hiring German and Spanish mercenaries to aid his British soldiers in subjugating the Scots to the north and the French across the sea. He’d spent his money on fortifications along his southern coast and on growing his fleet of warships. Such is the price of hubris.

  Though King Harry grew in girth and petulance, he ignored signs of his diminishing health. His leg wound ulcerated, emitting a foul odor while his physicians scurried about trying different poultice wrappings, even cauterization, in an effort to offer the king some relief. Short of amputation (for who would dare mention, much less attempt it?) little could be done.

  So, Harry continued to plant apple trees in his orchard in Kent and busied himself with the politics of war. And the citizens of London, indeed of the entire realm, continued to labor and abide by the whims of their peevish king.

  To a boy with two younger siblings and a mother struggling to feed them, a king’s impulsive policies didn’t matter a spit. All he knew was that his father had gone away to fight, and he was the eldest son, and as such he understood he should tend to the welfare of his family.

  While his mother embroidered a stomacher for a lady of wealth’s fine dress and fended off a two-year-old’s attempt to pull the thread, Fisk edged out the door of their tenement off Ivy Lane. He scampered down the dreary side street, threw a stick for a dog in the opposite direction, leapt over a steaming turd almost before it was too late, and headed toward Westcheap Market.

  Although he had learned the lesson of stealth, he did not notice his younger sister, Anna, trailing behind at a safe distance. Anna had always been a keen observer of her older brother, and she studied his methods. She knew how to fold into a crowd and when to freeze to evade notice by not being obvious. He’d caught her before when she was less experienced, and had made her swear on their mother’s grave that she would never follow him again. But, reasoned Anna, their mother wasn’t dead.

  Fisk hurried down Paternoster Row, pulling his cap down over ears turning pink in the wind that blew raw against his cheek. His hands were nearly white with cold, and he jammed them under his armpits and tucked his chin so that he looked up beneath his brow, like a goat butting his way through town. When he passed St. Michael le Querne, he glimpsed Eleanor’s Cross ahead and the myriad of sellers with their awnings stretched taut over their goods.

  Fisk approached, carefully slinking along the perimeter, and blended into the crowd. His chances of filching some meat for his mother’s pottage depended on finding a vendor who could be easily distracted or who was too busy to notice a small boy stuffing it under his jerkin. After a thorough tour of the market, he found a butcher displaying bacon at one end of his cart, exposed, an easy nab provided someone showed an interest in the pork bellies on the opposite side.

  Fisk studied the fellow. He noted how the butcher became completely focused on an interested buyer to the exclusion of everyone else. But something gave Fisk pause. At first, he thought it was that little spurt of conscience he’d feel whenever he contemplated stealing. He took off his hat and scratched his scalp. Nay, it wasn’t that. Puzzled, he put his cap back on. Looking to the left he saw no one watching or even walking toward the stand. To the right was a row of buyers, mostly women vying for the butcher’s attention. Now would be the opportune moment--yet…

  Something was behind him.

  He could feel it.

  Fisk spun on his heel and immediately spied his little sister falling in behind a woman selling mittens.

  “Anna!” He stomped over and pulled her aside. “You swore you’d never follow me again.”

  Anna shrugged and looked down. Her blue eyes focused on the mud caking her worn shoes. There would be no passing these poor leathers on to her younger sibling.

  Fisk lifted Anna’s chin so that she had to look at him. “You should be home helping Mother with Janeth.”

  “I want to help you.” The wind caught hold of her coif and blew it to the ground, exposing her fair hair. Anna went after it and plopped it back on her head.

  Exasperated, Fisk watched her tie the strings under her chin.

  “Do you want to help?” he asked when she had finished.

  Anna nodded enthusiastically.

  “Then go home!”

  Her bright face clouded. “I followed ye all the way here and ye didn’t know it ‘til now,” she said indignantly.

  “If I’d known you would go back on your word, I would have been watching for you. Just because you think you can trail me without me noticing, doesn’t mean that you should. I’ve got important matters to tend to.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like making sure you get home and stay there. I’m not spending the day keeping you out of trouble.”

  “I’ll watch myself. You won’t even know I’m here.”

  “If you don’t turn around now and walk home, I’m going to tell Mother you’re a nuisance at market, then she’ll switch the back of your legs until you can’t walk.”

 
Anna twisted her mouth, thinking twice about arguing. She looked past his shoulder at the vendor he’d been watching.

  “What’re ye going to do?”

  “Nothing I’d tell you about.”

  “Ye was going to snatch something, wasn’t ye?”

  Fisk’s patience had run out. He seized Anna’s elbow and pulled her through the market all the way to Old Change Street before he let go.

  “There,” he said, pointing to Paternoster Row. “I’m going to stand here and watch until you turn the corner for home.” He gave her a little push in the right direction. “Go on.”

  Anna took a couple reluctant steps then looked dejectedly over her shoulder.

  Fisk waved her on.

  With a sigh of resignation, Anna put one foot ahead of the other and plodded down the street. She stopped for one last look over her shoulder. There he was, her older brother, watching just as he said he would; his arms folded over his chest and his dark eyes boring into her even from that distance.

  Fisk waited an extra minute to be sure that Anna didn’t reappear, then walked back to Westcheap and took up where he’d left off. He was glad to see the butcher still busy with customers, and gladder still to see the flitch of bacon still displayed.

  Again, he studied the vendor and eyed the sellers on either side of him. One did a brisk business selling nuts and the other stared off into Scotland with only an occasional bypasser showing interest in his woven cords. So long as the fellow remained in dazed inattention, Fisk believed he could pilfer the defenseless meat and be speedily gone.

  The little thief sidled up to the cart, giving himself enough room to break into a run if needed. He insinuated himself beside a vocal woman of some age who did her best to flag the vendor’s attention. A more perfect foil would have been difficult to find.

  Fisk stood quietly, unobtrusively, biding his time until the moment was right.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d stolen to help feed his family. At first, he’d had to explain to his mother how he’d come about getting a loaf of bread and a stray head of cabbage. Every story became more fantastic until finally she stopped asking altogether. When one has several mouths to feed, he guessed necessity mattered more than a clear conscience.

  The butcher finished with his customer and as the woman leaned forward, waving her arm at the harried seller, Fisk snatched the flitch of bacon and slid it under his jerkin.

  Just as he started to leave, the woman rocked back on her heels and with a look of dismay pointed to the empty space where the handsome slab of meat had been. At first, the butcher looked bewildered, then his face flushed red. Fisk took one look at the two of them, and turned tail.

  He took off in a wild sprint. Amid the commotion of shouts and yelling, he dodged shoppers, barrels of produce, and stray dogs. But Fisk was fleet of foot and, with some distance, the shouts soon faded. He slowed, then glimpsed over his shoulder, expecting he had outpaced his pursuers. Indeed, it appeared he had escaped them all.

  With a smug grin, Fisk stooped over to catch his breath. He could almost taste his mother’s pottage that night. He rubbed his stomach to silence its hungry growling. Maybe she would make it especially thick since there was plenty of meat.

  Once his breathing steadied, he began walking as if nothing had ever happened. No one knew the wiser what was under his coat. His steps took on the carefree lope of a typical ten-year-old boy--but just to be sure, he cast a furtive glance over his shoulder.

  To his utter horror, the cord vendor, that dozy-eyed mound of muscle rounded the corner, huffing for breath and looking for him. It was as if no one else was around, for the vendor spotted him straight away.

  Fisk ran like his shoes were on fire. With no thought about the muddy conditions, he slipped so badly that the vendor made a swipe for him, but Fisk outmaneuvered the lumbering adult and changed direction.

  Fisk pressed his hand against the flich of bacon trying to slide out from under his coat--all of this effort only to lose the meal would be a sad thing. He dipped and sidestepped obstacles, remembering an alley close by with an egress between two buildings. Only a child could navigate such a narrow space. And, if his timing was right, it would look as if he had vanished in thin air.

  When he got to St. Michael le Querne he turned down Old Change, where only moments before he’d left his sister. Surely he could outrun a fat old goat. How could the fellow fare any better than he? Even with his shoe pulled off by the sucking mud, Fisk knew he could outrun the galumphing oaf.

  Why did the fellow care so much, wondered Fisk? Most grown-ups tired quickly, especially if it wasn’t a matter that directly concerned them. They would have given over to the painful stitch in their side. Of course he would have to keep a wary eye out for them because if he were ever caught …well…at the very least he’d get a thrashing he wouldn’t soon forget.

  The alley was on the cathedral’s side and, without slowing, Fisk rounded the corner next to a draper and plunged into the shadowy ginnel. His feet slapped the mud, his steps echoed off the stone buildings. A slender shaft of light revealed the opening.

  He had only used the gap once before and that had been a year ago. He didn’t suppose he had grown all that much since then, but it had been a snug fit, especially in the middle. He’d had to turn his feet heel-to-heel to inch through the passage. Once he got half-way through, he could come out the other end and get away before his pursuer had time to backtrack and catch him.

  Fisk paused to glance around. Was this the gap that he had used before? It looked different. Perhaps he had been mistaken. He took a few more steps and peered down the opening towards the bright sliver of St. Paul’s courtyard at the opposite end. The passage looked impossibly tight. He would have to turn his head to one side and keep it that way for the entire length.

  Fisk had turned sideways to start down the passage when the cord vendor slid around the corner in a display of cursing and grunting and wind-milling arms. From the look on his face, his determination had not waned. Fisk squeezed himself into the gap turning his head to keep an eye on his pursuer.

  Crabbing his way between the damp stone walls, Fisk made enough progress to keep out of the man’s reach. The space was painfully narrow and void of light. He had no sense how far he must go to reach the other end. Fisk tried not to think of getting stuck, but the fear kept whispering in his ear, telling him he would surely never get out. Panicked, Fisk kept moving. He pushed and wormed…until he couldn’t.

  The cord vendor’s face appeared at the gap.

  “Ha, ye little knave. Ye looks to be frightfully wedged.” He guffawed rudely. “A fine fix ye is in, I’d say. But then, I did say it.”

  Instead of construing where Fisk might emerge, the vendor delighted in Fisk’s predicament. For a terrifying moment, Fisk thought he might be permanently stuck. But a boy’s ribs are more malleable than a man’s. He took a deep breath of musty air enough to change his shape and he wiggled forward. He even felt a breeze on the back of his neck. He was making progress.

  “I sees ye fleerin’ at me. It is not me ye should hold so carelessly, little thief, but the honest man whose goods ye stole. I only means to make ye pays for what ye took, but then I’d say ye is, of a sorts, paying for whats ye did. As ye did it to yeself, getting wedged that is, I’d say. And I did say it.”

  There was no avoiding his tormentor. Fisk wished he could turn his head or clap his hands over his ears to muffle the man’s taunts. Instead, he did the only thing he was able--he worked his feet as fast as he could.

  “Where is ye?” asked the cord vendor, his head bobbing trying to see. “Ye is in the dark, now.” He stepped away from the passage and looked towards the entrance of the alley as if someone was coming. He turned back and leered at Fisk. “Ot, I see yer outline, lad. Ye won’t make it to the other side that fast.” Then, just as abruptly as he had appeared, the cord vendor left.

  A stream of water trickled down the back of Fisk’s neck add
ing to the chill he already felt pressed against the stone wall. Perhaps he should scream for help. Where had the vendor gone? Had he gone for help? Mayhap the vendor was sussing out where the other end of the gap was. Fisk whimpered. If he was rescued, he’d surely be in a heap of trouble. One thing was for certain, he needed to get out of there and quickly.

  He reached his arm to the side, hoping to feel the corner of the building--but alas, he only felt the stone wall beneath his touch. He inched and squirmed, concentrating on making himself as thin as possible. No one appeared in the alley. Fisk closed his eyes imagining himself free.

  Somehow, he felt he was inching forward. If he could only reach the courtyard before the vendor did. And if he ever got out of this miserable fix, he would change his wicked ways. He knew he took a chance by stealing. He might end with one less hand, or, if the magistrate was merciful, one less finger. But how else could he feed his family? There were no options for a family such as his.

  As he edged closer to the courtyard, he heard a priest’s vitriolic sermon echoing in his ears. For as loud as the preacher at Paul’s Cross was, and for as guilty as Fisk felt, the priest might as well have been standing at the end of the gap, admonishing and damning him. Most of the time, priests mumbled the convoluted word of God that no one else understood. What was the use in that? Fisk sighed. He was cold and miserable and God didn’t care.

  For all of the inches he managed to gain, Fisk lost heart when stymied by yet another tight space. The bacon under his jerkin had now become a hindrance. He completely regretted having nabbed the smoky comestible. All this to no avail. He couldn’t even kick a stone in frustration.

  Fisk’s eyes welled with tears. He cried out in despair. No one knew where he was except the cord vendor, and for all he knew, the fellow had abandoned him there to starve. He should have let Anna follow him. She could have gone for help. He’d be in trouble, but at least he wouldn’t die lost and forgotten between two buildings. Tears spilled over and froze on his cheeks.