He reached out his arm, his fingertips raking the stone. Still, he had not reached the end of the gap. His view of the alley swam in a blur. Panicked and scared, Fisk screamed.
“Fisk, stop your mouth! Give me your hand!”
“Anna? Anna, is that you?”
“Ye silly goose. I can almost reach ye. Give me your hand and I’ll pull you out.”
“Is anyone coming?”
“Nay, but if you keep squawking there will be.”
Fisk dutifully raised his arm and his little sister grabbed onto his wrist. Being just a twig of a girl, Fisk doubted what use she could be, but still, he was glad she was there and thankful for her human touch. He had no choice but to put his faith in her.
Anna leaned back and Fisk felt his shoulder being tugged. He let out a yowl then stopped his mouth. If she pulled his arm off, so be it.
“Pull harder!” he cried, trying to lean towards her. He felt her sustained weight like she must be bracing her feet on either side of the gap. He sucked in his breath. Slowly, his body began scraping the walls. His optimism returned. Just a little more and he’d be free. “Anna, you can follow me wherever you want,” he said with tears of joy streaming down his face. “If you want to play bladder ball, I’ll make sure you don’t get tackled.”
“I don’t like bladder ball.”
Fisk felt Anna’s grip start to slip. He snatched for her hand, but she fell away.
There was a shrill yelp, then a dull whump.
“Anna, speak to me!”
Fisk strained his ears to hear her move. Even a moan would have been reassuring.
“I fell,” she said at last. Her feet squished in the mud. “Mother just washed my kirtle. She’ll beat me.”
“She won’t. I won’t let her. I’m almost out of here! Hurry, take my hand!”
“Shh! Someone’s coming!”
“Who? Who’s coming?” Worried it might be the cord vendor, Fisk described the man. “Is it him? Is he looking at you?”
But Anna didn’t answer.
Chapter 2
“The King’s policy is foolish,” said Mackney, the portly curber, as he finished off his ale at the Dim Dragon Inn. He tugged on the skirt of a passing serving wench to order another.
“Fie! The walls have ears, and do ye want to end in Newgate for disparaging the king?” Smythe, his partner in pilfering, looked over his shoulder and slunk down, making himself small.
“Did I say the king is foolish, or his politics?”
“One is the same as the other.”
“I think not.” Mackney shoved a fist under his cheek and dug a fingernail of the other hand into the trestle following the grain of wood. “You should be grateful you avoided conscription. A soldier never returns the same as he left.”
Bianca exchanged looks with Cammy Dawney, her friend and tavern wench sitting opposite, slurping porridge before returning to her work serving customers. The two had been commiserating over their paramours being gone, now nearly ten months.
While Cammy’s beloved Roger had showed exemplary archery skill, Bianca’s husband John had made a muddle of his chance to impress the officers. His View of Arms had ended badly with him being made a pikeman--arguably the most dangerous assignment in the king’s army. They were the first into battle, with the explicit task of protecting the bowmen.
The two young women often met at the tavern and shared their thoughts over a meal and ale. Neither of them knew if their men would return home from the borderland or whether they had found their final rest in a field beyond the River Tweed, but the two found consolation and a source of strength in their camaraderie.
Word about the campaign on the northern border was as coveted as news from across the sea in France. It seemed to the four of them sitting there in the Dim Dragon Inn that each conflict was fraught with miscalculations that had resulted in dubious gains at best. But any news making it as far as this seamy tavern in Southwark, had, no doubt, been misconstrued by miles of weary couriers and newsmongers, so that God’s honest truth was neither God’s, nor honest.
Bianca had listened to the incoming tales of war and had tried not to ruminate too long on matters that she could do nothing about. Still, it gave her pause when men talked of a ‘union’ with Scotland. If King Henry desired to bring a rogue country into England’s fold then why did he order his men to burn and pillage their villages?
Last spring, not long after the men had left, stories of towering flames over a castle on a hill filtered down to London. The burning of Edinburgh was horrific and almost impossible to imagine or listen to, and they both hoped that John and Roger had not been involved in the debacle. Henry meant to punish the Scots for rejecting the Treaty of Greenwich. The Scots refused a marriage between infant princess Mary, and Henry’s six-year-old son, Edward. Of course, there must be more to sending an army north than just a failed marriage plan, thought Bianca.
Mackney grinned. “The king stands on the roof of Hampton Court Palace and sees the Papists in Scotland and France waggling their crucifixes back at him.”
“The Scots do love the pope,” said Cammy.
“Because the Pope doesn’t rape and ruin them,” said Mackney. “The French are wise to help Scotland. A river of English money keeps being diverted north instead of to France. The French mean to distract Henry from Boulogne.”
“But Boulogne is his,” said Bianca.
“True that. However, it is late winter and the season for war is nigh upon us. The French will retaliate. How could they abandon their land to a king from across the sea?” Mackney smiled at the wench delivering his refill. He took a long quaff and wiped his mouth on his thread-bare sleeve.
“Henry fears a French invasion on the coast,” said Smythe.
“As well he should,” commented Mackney.
Bianca often wondered how Smythe had successfully avoided conscription for so long. Perhaps officers noted his scrawny build, his skinny calves, and bony arms. They must have concluded that he would be dead two days out and not worth the time to train.
“My meal is done,” said Cammy rising from the board. “Alice is giving me the eye.” She put a hand on the small of her back and stretched. Several locks of ginger hair had worked loose from her headrail and she took a moment to tuck them in. The former farm girl took up her bowl. She had just wished Bianca and the two crooks a good day when the door opened, letting in a burst of weather and a bedraggled-looking fellow.
His cheeks were ruddy from the wind and a rough beard rimmed his face. His hands were wrapped in wool and the overcoat he wore was dingy from hard use. He made much of his entrance--that moment when customers turn to gape at whoever just arrived. Poised as if he was lord of all, he cast a world-weary eye about the room. Bianca had never seen him before, and Cammy showed no sign of recognition. They watched as he wended between the tables and found a place at a trestle next to theirs.
“You look as if you’ve had some travel, sir,” said Cammy. “A tankard for your weary person?”
“Aye,” he said in a gravelly voice.
Mackney’s eyes slid askance, studying him. He watched the fellow unwind the wool from his hands.
“From whence did you come, traveler?” he asked once the man had pushed the pile of rags aside.
“The borderland.”
Cammy placed a hand on the table, leaning forward toward the man. “Sir, pray tell what news do you bring?”
“You have come from the border to Southwark?” asked Bianca. “It is a long journey.”
“If by sea, it is not so long,” said the stranger.
“Say not another word, sir, until I return with your drink.” Cammy scurried off to the kitchen and the others eyed their guest with curiosity, finding it difficult to keep from asking questions while waiting for her return.
Cammy reappeared carefully toting a pottle pot filled to the brim. She set it before him and slid onto the bench next to Bianca, ignoring the perturbed
stare of Alice, who wished for some help serving the clientele.
“What was your business so far north?” asked Bianca.
“I brought supplies to the Earl of Hertford and his men.”
“Earl of Hertford?” Bianca glanced at Cammy. “Is he not responsible for the burning of Edinburgh?”
Smythe answered for the fellow. “Aye, he is. Henry tasked him to ‘put every man, woman, and child to fire and sword’.”
The thought of it made Bianca wince. Neither she nor Cammy had ever known how many men were dispatched to the border or how they had been organized. The less she knew the easier it was to imagine Roger and John had not been involved in the rumored brutality. While she was curious to know all that the stranger had to say, she braced herself for the worst.
Apparently, Cammy thought the same. “Roger and John may not be under his direct charge,” she said. “We do not know for cert.”
Bianca fidgeted in her seat. “Does the Earl have other commanders under him?” she asked.
“He does. But they follow the Earl’s orders.” He took another drink of ale, closing his eyes to savor the taste, scrunching his face in judgment before setting it down. “And the Earl follows the king’s bidding.”
Mackney entered into the discussion. “We only hear drips and drabs, stranger. Mostly hearsay. Your witnessed account would please us well.”
“But wait. By what name should we call you?” asked Cammy. “Forgive us not asking.”
“I take no offense,” said the stranger. “I see by your worried brow that the border conflict concerns you.” He paused, meeting her eyes. “Call me Baldwin. I am returning home to Croydon.”
“Was this your first trip to the border?” asked Bianca.
“Nay. I have been once before. But I have not been so far north as to see the destruction of Edinburgh. Though if it should be similar to what I saw in Kelso and Roxburgh, then I believe there is not much of it left.” He looked into his tankard as if a scene of destruction floated in the amber liquid beneath his nose.
“We heard that Edinburgh burned for four days,” said Bianca.
The man gave a slight nod. “So it has been said. And, after what I saw in Kelso, I have no cause to doubt Edinburgh’s complete ruin. There is nothing left of Kelso but the graves of the slaughtered.”
“It was our victory,” recalled Mackney.
“Victory,” huffed Baldwin in disgust. “Tell me, sir, what victory is there in massacre?”
Smythe thought the answer obvious. “The fear of retaliation is slim because there be no one left to take up arms and resist. It is the way of war.”
Baldwin’s brow furrowed as he studied Smythe. Bianca could almost hear the man wondering why a young fellow--a young, tart-tongued fellow--was not contributing to his king’s efforts. If indeed, those were his thoughts, he kept his opinion to himself. “It is an unjust means of suppression. There is no lasting benefit in harsh exercise.”
Bianca agreed. She did not say so aloud, such sympathies being more common with women and less widely voiced among men. Still, she appreciated Baldwin’s sentiment and wished the king felt similarly.
“Resentment festers and only breeds more hatred,” said Cammy.
“Still, sir,” said Smythe. “You benefit from this war.”
The man’s eyes flashed. “I do what is asked of me. It earns me coin, but I should not be sorry if I never went again.” He stared hard at Smythe. “What one must understand is that the people living on the border have no allegiance. They care not for our king, but neither do they think of themselves as Scots. They favor whoever gives them money or whoever leaves a village vulnerable to their plunder. The wind is more predictable than their loyalty.”
“A lawless land,” said Cammy.
“A dangerous one,” added Bianca.
“The Earl knows how to sway the Borderers to his side. Whether by threat or by bribe, he plays the clans to work in his interest. The grievances between these border families run long and deep. Feuds last for generations. They are a vindictive people.”
The table fell silent as they considered Baldwin’s opinion of the Scots. Bianca wondered if their enemy shared the same opinion about them? But for all of Baldwin’s information, he only had a cursory knowledge of the campaign in Scotland. He did not know the whereabouts of John or Roger, or who their commander was, or where the forces were exactly. Still, his words were of some use. They gave her a better understanding of the predicament John found himself.
“Have you heard, sir, about the army in France?” Bianca had heard enough about the horrors on the border and wished to learn more about the conflict across the sea. There was always the possibility that John and Roger might end up there.
“The king continues to hold Boulogne despite leaving a relatively small contingent of men to defend it. Henry worries that the French will invade our southern coast. He spends heavily to fortify the area from Gravesend to Portland. And it is thought he will extend his armies to Lincolnshire and Suffolk and more.”
“But tell us more about the borderland,” interrupted Cammy. She held up a finger to Alice whose hand had gone to her hip in annoyance. “Are there enough men in England to do everything the king wants? How can he have armies in all these places?”
“He hires men from Spain and Germany to do his bidding,” said Baldwin.
“If his immediate fear is a French invasion on the coast, should he not bring home his own men to defend it?” asked Bianca.
The stranger tilted his head and shrugged. “If he brings men home from Scotland the border will return to lawlessness. He will need to leave some men behind to keep order. They will have a difficult task.”
Cammy and Bianca studied the traveler, wondering what the future held for Roger and John. Their expressions must have mirrored their concern, for the man’s rough manner softened.
“Kind maids, you suffer needlessly. Unless you learn word that your men have succumbed, worrying serves no useful purpose. Besides,” he added, “I helped replenish stores for an army of five thousand. Unless the Earl of Angus can rouse enough volunteers to stop them, our men shall continue their triumph.”
Mackney, seized the optimism in Baldwin’s message. “With numbers so large, how can the effort fail? John and Roger might soon be coming home.”
Bianca and Cammy’s eyebrows lifted and they both smiled tentatively, both wishing to believe it might be possible, but keenly aware of its slim likelihood.
“One can always hope,” said Cammy, and she squeezed Bianca’s shoulder before collecting the empty tankards and plates from the table.
Chapter 3
Fearing for his sister’s safety, Fisk rose on his toes and found a smidge more room further up the wall. He squirmed and leaned, braced his hands against the stones and leveraged himself higher. It worked. He inhaled, expanding his chest more than he’d been able, and his fingers found the corner of the wall.
Then he heard a scream.
“Anna!” Fisk struggled with the last bit of passage and landed in the open courtyard of St. Paul’s Cross.
His worst fear was realized.
The vendor held Anna about her waist. She fought valiantly against him, repeatedly stomping his shoes and trying to bite his arms. He lifted her and she started kicking his shin.
“Let her go!” shouted Fisk, scrambling to his feet.
The vendor ignored this request until Anna jabbed an elbow where a leather codpiece would have been helpful. He doubled over, dropping Anna, and she ran to Fisk.
“Is that yer little sister, boy?” asked the man, once he could straighten. He eyed Anna peeping from behind her brother. “I see troublemaking runs in yer family.” He spat on the ground and tipped his head towards a crowd gathered to hear the latest sermon. “It wouldn’t take much for me to summon yon beadle and tell him about your mischief-making.”
“If you come near her, I’ll scream,” warned Fisk.
The
corner of the cord vendor’s mouth rose in an indulgent smile. “But then, if ye give up what ye stole from the butcher, I’ll return it to its rightful owner. I’ll tell him ye dropped it, I will. No one is the wiser. Ye get on your way, and no one loses a finger.”
“You’ll keep the bacon for yourself,” challenged Fisk. Far be it for him to give up his hard-earned booty. He wanted to run, but he worried whether Anna could keep up. True, she’d gotten some speed on her of late, surprising him a couple weeks ago by outrunning him and his mate when she’d taken the spike they were using to play quoits. Still, if the vendor caught up to either one of them it could end nastily.
“Naw, no,” assured the vendor, easing forward. “The butcher and me looks out for one another. There be lots of rascals like ye. Little thieves, boys needing to be nipped. If ye don’t stop now, ye’ll end in a bad way. Ye might look on me as doin’ ye a favor.”
Fisk gave Anna a slight nudge with his elbow and their eyes locked.
“Ye’ll not get far,” said the vendor, reading their intent. “Give it over and avoid a frightful consequence. Because, have no doubts--I will catch ye.”
If Fisk had given it any more thought, he would have frozen with inaction. After what he had gone through for this bacon, why would he just hand it over? This was his. This was for his family. With nary a hint, Fisk took off running.
Anna sensed her brother move before his feet even twitched. Completely in step with her brother, she was at his side, keeping pace.
They ran for the door of the cathedral. “Meet me on Knightrider,” shouted Fisk. “You take the first lane and I’ll take Do Little.”
The two entered St. Paul’s Walk, the long corridor inside the cathedral, haven to news mongers, thieves, and strumpets. They ran abreast, knocking into men of station taking their noonday walks, intent to learn the latest news and court gossip. Paul’s Walk was not exclusive. There were plenty of beggars and those with mad thoughts with nowhere else to go, taking shelter from the weather. All manner of humanity gave audience as the young pair ran willy-nilly through the nave.
The Lost Boys of London Page 2
