The Lost Boys of London

by Mary Lawrence

  “Broderers, sirrah?” he responded. “The only offense those mousy needle-wielders are capable of is mayhap forgettins to pay their landlords. My ward is respectful and law-abiding.”

  Constable Berwick poured himself more wine. He swirled his goblet. “I seem to have forgotten the purpose of your visit, Patch.”

  Annoyed that he was not particularly succeeding in vexing the fellow, Patch repeated his desire to know if Berwick had any knowledge of the so-called Deft Drigger.

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, Patch, but this fellow, this Deft Drigger as you will, is the collective name of all successful overseers of cutpurses. There is no one conspicuous or noteworthy perpetrator for you to single out.”

  “So says ye,” said Patch. The fellow likely didn’t trouble himself with making the slightest effort to finding out. Either that, or he had a vested interest in ignoring the offender. Patch chose the latter--culpability over laziness. It seemed to suit Berwick’s character. How else could the fellow afford wine with his dinner? “Methinks it is convenient for ye to want me to think that.”

  Berwick chuckled. “I wonder why you are so interested in this boy’s death? Granted, it was unfortunate and a bit of a spectacle. It does raise questions if one gives it any thought, but the likelihood of his death mattering appears remote. I doubt such an incident is likely to repeat itself.”

  Patch glared at the arrogant sluggard and felt a wave of heat roll up his neck. His desire to prove Constable Berwick incompetent grew. Men such as he should not be tasked with keeping order in a ward.

  “Berwick, I am interesteds in doing the duty vested in me by the Lord Mayor and his aldermen. It is a responsibility I take seriously.” He was intending to remark upon Berwick’s apathy when he was interrupted by a formally dressed young man entering the office abruptly. He had a protective hand on the flap of a satchel slung over his shoulder and across his chest.

  Berwick held up a finger to silence Patch and motioned the courier forward.

  “A missive sir,” said the fellow. He removed a sealed letter and handed it to Berwick, then left.

  Berwick turned the letter over and noted the owner of its wax seal. “Bishop Bonner,” he said. “I wonder what he could want.” He laid the petition on the table next to his plate and continued eating. “Continue, my friend. I should not want to miss a word of what you have to say.”

  Patch watched distractedly and forgot his line of thought, so impressed was he by the Bishop’s seal, its scarlet-colored wax looking so conspicuous and official.

  Constable Berwick suppressed a smile, sensing Patch’s jealousy. “As you were saying?” he prompted.

  Flustered, Patch had no further words, but vowed silently to ruin this man. Colleague or not, at the very least he would see him humiliated.

  ***

  Bianca left the Cockeyed Gull--frequented mostly by locals in its unassuming neighborhood in London, and went to the Dim Dragon Inn--less discreet, but also frequented by locals, this time in Southwark. Her kirtle and scarf were wet from the constant mist, and she submitted to the lure of friendship and a warming tankard of ale near home.

  Though she could have walked back to Westcheap Market and started questioning the numerous butchers there, she felt perhaps the weather might be better tomorrow for traipsing around London. Realistically, she didn’t know if Fisk was in danger. She sensed his mother was withholding information that might have informed her. But children could be sensitive and their feelings easily bruised. He could be intentionally staying away to worry his mother in the hopes that she would appreciate him more.

  Once, when she was his age, Bianca had been upset by her father’s poor treatment of her mother and she ran off, so angry she didn’t want to return. She spent a night near the derelict docks off Castle Alley staring at the star speckled sky and the lone wherries plying the river. That had been a warm summer night and this a cold late winter one, but Fisk was of rugged stuff and, if given a good enough reason, she had no doubt that he could easily survive a night in the poor weather.

  Bianca came through the door and saw Cammy eating a meat pie near the window. Her friend looked up and waved her over.

  “Have a bite? It is freshly made.”

  “I’ve already eaten.” Bianca sat down opposite.

  “Then prepare for good news,” said Cammy.

  “Do tell,” said Bianca, cheering at the idea of ending her day on a hopeful note. “I am eager for it.” She waved to the tavern wench for an ale and gave Cammy her full attention.

  “A ship arrived in port from Scotland. They say it is filled with plunder from the army’s campaigns on the border. The army is strong with English Borderers. And the commander has successfully gotten the border Scots to swear their loyalty to the King.”

  Bianca’s ale arrived and she took a drink, then cupped her hands around it.

  “Should we assume the men are victorious?” she asked. “I suppose plunder is proof of their success.”

  “Aye,” said Cammy enthusiastically. “The war is nearing an end. The men shall soon return!”

  “That is our greatest hope,” said Bianca. “But we mustn’t expect it to happen just because a ship arrives with Scottish plate and sheep.”

  “There are sheep?” asked Cammy taking Bianca seriously.

  Bianca smiled. “Cammy, I know nothing more than what you told me. Granted, the news sounds promising, but we should not think that Scotland will bend easily.” Cammy’s expression fell, and Bianca felt sorry that she did not share her friend’s optimism. One ship toting plunder was hardly worth getting hopeful about. “Mayhap, though,” she added in afterthought. “They have been gone for months, and the numbers of men are in our favor.”

  Cammy, ever hopeful, spoke. “Bianca, John may soon come home. Do you not wish for him in your bed?” Then, not giving her friend time to answer she added, “Not a day passes that I don’t fervently pray for Roger’s safe return.”

  “Cammy, I wish for nothing less,” said Bianca. Much to her dismay, her restraint was often mistaken for indifference. “Who brought word of this?”

  “A crewmember. Who else would know better?”

  Bianca kept her suggestions to herself. “It is cause for encouragement,” she said.

  Cammy finished the last of her meat pie and pushed her plate away setting her empty mug on top. “I think of nothing but Roger,” she said with a feathery look of love.

  Bianca was less inclined to spells of wistful reverie, and Cammy’s preoccupation wore thin as she considered Fisk and the unfortunate murder victim. “Cammy,” she said, with the intent of returning her friend to a state of useful practicality, “Have you heard of the cult of the Holy Name?”

  Cammy’s brow furrowed. “Nothing good comes to mind when I hear the word ‘cult’.” She wiped her nose on the inside of her wrist. “It makes me think of ranting followers of God.”

  “Cults are convinced of their righteousness.”

  “Aye.” Cammy nodded. “I saw that you were called away yesterday.” She propped her chin in her hand. “A murder?”

  “Constable Patch wanted my opinion in Castle Baynard. A boy was found hanged outside St. Mary Magdalen’s Church.” Bianca informed Cammy of the findings and her friend listened intently. Details rarely upset Cammy, and Bianca attributed her friend’s strong stomach to a childhood spent in the country. The only aspect of the murder that drew a reaction was learning that the victim was a child.

  “’Tis a shame that,” said Cammy shaking her head. “A young life taken. It is difficult to understand.”

  “We’ve not identified the boy. Some say he ran with a group of filchers organized by a man named the Deft Drigger. Perchance have you heard of him?”

  “’Tis a boastful name. I wonder who perpetrated that shameful badge? The man himself, or a victim of his conniving?”

  “No matter. He is rumored to keep his infamous crew near St. Paul’s.”

  Camm
y rubbed her neck. “I do not travel across the river much. I work long days and nights. In all my time, I’ve never been to the cathedral.” She looked up at Bianca. “But I can see its steeple from here.” She finished the last of her ale. “If this Deft Drigger lived here in Southwark I might be able to learn something useful for you. The Dim Dragon is a kettle of scuttlebutt.” Cammy glanced around then leaned in. “There is no one with whom ye might inquire?”

  “Oh, there is,” said Bianca, getting to her feet. She straightened her coif. “I just wondered if you’d heard any talk.”

  Chapter 14

  Bianca wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees. She stared through the grainy darkness at the silhouette of an alembic, with its long spout like a bird’s beak. There they were, the accoutrements of her craft, leaning against the cracked walls, looking as tired as strumpets after a night of whoring. A variety of still heads, some irreparably dented or missing a critical juncture, were piled in a corner waiting to be given a bit of care and concern. Bowls littered the table, jars of dried rue, bladderwort, and yarrow lined the shelves. Sprigs of teasel and gathered bunches of cohosh hung listlessly from pegs pounded into the overhead beams. The faint smell of burnt sage still lingered, reminding her of the promised tincture she must finish for Meddybemps. Everywhere the evidence of her passion--her madness? She almost felt as if those crocks, those cucurbits and mortars, lived a life beyond the one that included her. They sat in silent judgement, contemplating, forming an opinion. She gave them life, but for now they sat waiting.

  The space where John had slept beside her lay empty like a wide expanse of sea, calm and uninterrupted. Hobs heard her stir and jumped up to join her, chortling in question, why do you wake?

  Again, the dream. It had slipped its hand around her throat and squeezed hard enough to rouse her from slumber. She had lost her life and then regained it, but the cost was a soul waiting to be born. The child would have been three months old if it had lived. It would have been a winter baby, born during the coldest days of the year. Destined to be a reticent and resourceful child, she imagined.

  From the murky depths of the river Thames, she’d seen (or had she dreamed?) the green glowing eyes of the one who had saved her. The one who had seized her lifeless body and pushed it to the surface. Who had saved her? What had saved her? Why had she been saved? The questions tumbled through her mind and landed in a heap. She did her best to sweep them into a corner of her brain where they might be forgotten, but always the dream would remind her.

  A child was not meant to be. John would ask. She thought about John’s return and envisioned his face full of expectation. He would glance beside her, behind her. He would look for a swaddled bundle with creamy pale skin and rosebud lips. Then, not finding his child, his face would change and he would ask.

  She would tell John that she had lost the baby. Many women do, it often occurs with first pregnancies. He would want to know what had happened. What would she say? How would she answer? How could she tell him that she had pursued a murderer on the river--a man intending to kill the king’s army, and by association--him? Could she even get far enough in her explanation to mention the river before John would assume she was remiss in putting herself and their child in danger?

  Bianca fell back on the bed and burrowed under the covers. She forced herself to think on the smell of a rose and how one might describe it. What were smells, she pondered? Smells were invisible, but present. They were definitive, but intangible. One could easily describe the look of a rose, its color, the shape and size of its petal, the prick of its thorn, but the scent? A rose could only smell like a rose, but why was that smell so singular? It was not like any other flower. It was not like any object. And why were smells unique to one thing? Before long, Bianca had distracted herself long enough to fall back asleep, and when she woke in the morning the dream had been forgotten.

  ***

  Doing as her mother bid, Anna answered the insistent knock at the door. She hoped to find Fisk on the other side of it, but then why would he bother knocking? He could just come inside. Whatever the reason for his being gone, she expected him to embellish the tale and skew it to his advantage to avoid a beating--which he roundly deserved for being gone so long and making everyone worry. However, the visitor on the other side was not her brother.

  “Anna, who is it?” asked her mother coming to see.

  The girl shrank from the door, leaving it ajar. The man took advantage and forced himself into their rent.

  “Oh. ‘Tis ye again,” said her mother in a voice that had dropped from the more cheerful tone of her question.

  Anna retreated behind her mother’s skirts.

  “A good day, Meg,” said the visitor, a man Anna instinctively disliked.

  He received a not so kind retort. “Why are ye here?” Then, assuming the fellow had no honest purpose for his visit and was probably complicit, she demanded, “Where be Fisk? What have ye done with him?”

  The man scoffed, disparaging the notion. “Meg, why do you accuse me? If he were with me, would I be coming ‘round? I’d be gone to the west country. Do favor me with more sense than that.”

  “Yet ye show no surprise that he is missing.”

  “I show no surprise because I know where he is.”

  “Where? Where is my boy?” She took a step forward.

  “He is safe for now. But I cannot say if that will change.”

  “What? Oh, ye scoundrel. I will not play your game. Ye are cruel to tease me so. Out with it! Be forthcoming, or I shall have no reason to believe ye!”

  The man shook his head somberly. “If I said and ye sought others to help rescue him, it would put his life in danger. Neither of us wants that. But, I do regret to say, that if ye desire him home, it will cost you.”

  “Ye be a cunning knave, Geve Trinion. Such flip flap. Ye think to take me boy and wring money out of me purse.”

  “Meg, I am not the heartless cullion ye make me to be. I come here because I haven’t got the money to see him home myself."

  “See him home? Well now. That has changed. Before ye wanted ‘im for yeself.” She got into his face and pinned him with a dagger eye. “Are ye sayin’ he be held for ransom?”

  Geve Trinion nodded.

  Anna saw her mother’s mouth fall open. From across the room little Janeth began to wail. Anna went to her little sister and tried to shush her so she could hear what her mother had to say.

  “By who?” her mother asked.

  “Good Meg, alas, I am sworn to silence. But there be a fellow with whom I can negotiate for his safe return. Unfortunately, I only have partial moneys,” he held up his purse and shook the coins. “More is required.”

  “God’s blood. It is a poor world when a mother must pay for her son’s life. It is unthinkable!”

  “It is sad that it has come to this. But if we do not give the man what he wants, we may never see Fisk again.”

  “How do I know ye are not scheming with this person to get my money?”

  “Because, if I should succeed in bringing him home, then by rights, ye should be indebted to me.” The man licked his lips as if he was slavering over a juicy roast beef.

  Meg stood her ground, defiant. “I do not need your help,” she said. “Fisk will come home.”

  The man shrugged. “Ye may be naïve in thinking so.”

  She read his face then turned away from him. Anna held her little sister, balancing the girl on her hip while worrying that her mother would do nothing to save Fisk.

  Finally, her mother spoke. “What is the cost?”

  “Five crown.”

  “Five crown!”

  “We speak of the boy’s life, Meg.”

  Anna knew her mother could be hard on Fisk, but surely she was not so heartless as to do nothing. The family depended on him. Especially with Father being gone. She searched her mother’s face, hoping for a pinprick of care to show itself.

  “Bring me proof
that ye know where he is.”

  The man pressed his lips together. “It would be impossible. I am not so clever as to sneak in and steal his shoe.”

  “But ye say ye know where he is. Surely if this rogue expects payment then he would part with a lock of Fisk’s hair.”

  “It is not so simple.”

  “What, say ye? If what ye tell me is true, the man will agree.”

  “Nay, I think not!” said the man, refusing explanation.

  “Ye are surely lying.” Anna’s mother placed her hand square on the fellow’s chest and pushed him backwards toward the doorway. She had nearly succeeded in pushing him out when he grabbed the doorjamb, preventing her from shutting the door.

  “Truth be,” said the man. “The money is to pay a fellow who will risk his life to rescue Fisk.”

  “What? And ye cannot find it in yerself to do so on yer own?” She gave him a shove in disgust. “I rue the day I ever met ye, ye white-livered, coward. Get out!”

  “Do not dismiss me,” Trinion implored. “I cannot promise that Fisk won’t be sold…or worse.”

  “What? Sold?”

  “Meg, must I tell you the sordid details? There are those with an unsavory appetite for young boys with which to take their pleasure.”

  “It is a treasonous offense!”

  “Oh yay, it is. And those who participate are surely more evil than the devil.”

  Anna felt a stab of terror. She watched this man, the way his eyes slid over to look at her and then moved back to her mother. She saw the fingers twitch on the hand that hung by his side.

  “Then ye must find a way,” said her mother. “Tell whoever has Fisk that I will not part with a penny until ye prove to me that ye speak the truth. Tell him I must have this because ye is a reprehensible liar and I do not believe ye. And even then, Geve Trinion, I could call the constable and have him tend to the matter.” She pushed his chest and he stumbled out the door. “I see no cause to believe you. Away. I will have no more of ye.”

  ***

  Bianca had wagered that the weather would be better than yesterday for being outside and going into London. The day remained overcast and cold but gone was the persistent cloud spittle, so in that sense, she had been right. She rose to finish more remedy for Meddybemps and set the bottles aside on shelves until the streetseller’s next visit.