The Lost Boys of London

by Mary Lawrence

  Meg sniffed and gave Bianca an irritated look. Bianca wondered why the woman was so terse with her. After all, she had Fisk’s best interests in mind, and wished to work with her to find him.

  Bianca decided to ignore the woman’s pettish humor. “Have you learned anything that might help me in our search?” she asked.

  Meg was momentarily distracted by her toddler standing with her arms raised, demanding to be held. She hoisted the child onto her hip.

  “I was told he was being held for ransom,” she said.

  “Ransom?” exclaimed Bianca. “How did you learn of this?”

  “A fellow came by. He said he knew where Fisk was and for five crown he would return him to me.”

  Bianca stared in surprise. “Who was this person?”

  Fisk’s mother shrugged. “He is a scoundrel of the worst kind.”

  “You do not know his name or where to find him?”

  “He knows where to find me.”

  This was a surprising turn of affairs. Bianca wondered if the other victims had been put for ransom. “Do you have the money for Fisk’s return?”

  “Do I look as though I do?” She glared at Bianca. “Besides, I do not trust the skate to be telling me the truth. For all I know, he learned that Fisk had gone missing and is looking to take advantage of me.”

  “Did he say who had Fisk? Did he give any hint to where he might be?”

  “Nay. He said that he expected they would sell my boy if I didn’t come up with the money.”

  Bianca’s stomach turned. The thought of Fisk enduring such a harrowing experience petrified her. Boys could be sold for any number of reasons, and none of them good.

  “Sell him?” she repeated. She could barely get the wind to ask, “For what purpose?”

  Fisk’s mother replied, “I was told for a man’s perverted pleasure.”

  Bianca closed her eyes. It took her a moment to respond, and when she did, she spoke in anguish. “We cannot let this happen.”

  “And how do ye plan to stop it? I don’t have the money,” said Fisk’s mother in exasperation. “But, as I said, the rogue might have heard my son had gone missing and is playing me for the money. I told ‘im to bring me a lock of Fisk’s hair or a piece of his clothing to prove what he said is true. He hain’t done that.” She wiped her nose on the back of her hand and pushed the hair out of her toddler’s eyes. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  At least the man hadn’t threatened to hang Fisk if he didn’t get his money, thought Bianca. “And this man hasn’t been back since?” she asked.

  “Nay. Like I said, I told ‘im not to trouble me unless he can prove he knows where my boy is.”

  “Did Fisk ever tell you he was approached by a man to come work for him?” In truth Bianca was at a loss. Either Fisk’s mother didn’t know who this fellow supposedly collecting ransom was, or she didn’t want to say. She could ask Patch to intervene, perhaps post someone to keep an eye on the place. If this “rogue” showed up again, then he could be followed.

  Fisk’s mother shook her head. “Nay, he never told me that.”

  Bianca thought it very much like him not to mention such an offer to his mother. Fisk had taken on the responsibility to help his family and he would not say anything to worry her. But if there was a way for Fisk to have come home by now, he would have done so. He would not have wanted his mother or siblings to wonder after him.

  It gave her all the more reason to find this Brother Ewan. Whether he was the infamous Deft Drigger that Patch’s prisoner suggested, she did not know.

  Chapter 20

  Ancrum, Scotland

  It would be wrong to think that a Scot would let his family’s tombs be desecrated without a fight. While Sir Euce boasted of his land acquisitions, the man from whom he’d taken the land quietly amassed an army with the help of a former rival, the Earl of Arran. There was no shortage of volunteers. They came from Fife and the borderlands. They brought their bows, their arquebuses, and their pikes. One quarter of them were mounted. Though they lacked the number of their enemy’s forces, their determination made up for their lack of men.

  After Melrose Abbey, the king’s army, lazy with plunder, retired south towards Jedburgh. They set up camp near the village of Ancrum.

  John had removed his jack and was repairing a loose plate when he caught sight of Glann McDonogh returning from the latrine. His friend looked as pale as frost on a shepherd’s purse. He waved him over.

  McDonogh shambled towards John and dropped himself on the ground next to him. He immediately laid back and closed his eyes.

  “You look poor, my friend. What ails you?”

  “The flux.” He threw his arm over his eyes.

  “Be it bloody?”

  “Nay, it be much.”

  John dug into his sack, rooting around the bottom to pull out a stoppered jar. He opened it and took out a pinch of something waxy. “Here, take this with a drink of ale. It may do you well.”

  McDonogh didn’t bother sitting up, but reached out his open palm. “Is it poison? I hope it be.”

  “It is my wife’s concoction. She insisted I take some of her medicinals.”

  “She be a witch?”

  “Nay,” said John. “She be a white witch.” It was easier to call her that than explain Bianca’s deviant obsession.

  “If it should work, then I shall name my first born after her.”

  “And if you have a son?”

  McDonogh propped himself on an elbow and smiled. “I shall call him…a miracle. There is little chance a maid will submit to me long enough to sire a child.”

  “You are not so ugly that there isn’t a woman who would have you.”

  Glann motioned for John’s flask of ale and washed down his medicine.

  “Assuredly you are not such the licentious villain as yonder Roger,” said John, tipping his chin at the repugnant archer slapping knees with his like-minded cohorts.

  John took umbrage with Roger. He’d seen the swasher infected with the remorseless fever born from pillaging and laying waste to a village and its people. Not only did he revel in the destruction but Roger had taken pleasure with maids and mothers alike. Odious behavior was expected—indeed, it was encouraged—but John only kept his sights on the enemy in front of him. Not his enemy’s women.

  McDonogh looked over at the archers, and unfortunately made eye contact with one of them. Their jesting aside, they saw fit to take issue with the lowly billman and sallied over. Glann moaned and laid his head back, dreading the impending confrontation.

  Roger spoke first. “Did I hear my name?” he asked.

  “If your name be villain,” answered John.

  Roger’s cohorts let out a long, sarky whistle. Glann moaned a second time and remained lying on the ground.

  Roger scooped up a handful of mud and packed it into a ball. “What say you, Irishman?”

  Glann shook his head. “I say nothing of use.” He remained supine with his eyes closed, wishing the archer and his band to go away.

  “Nothing of use? Yet your friend, here, calls me villain.”

  “Let him be,” said John. “He has the camp runs, and if you linger you might catch his bad air and infect yourself.”

  “It takes a stinking billman to sit with a stinking Irishman,” said Roger and his friends tittered.

  John returned to mending his jack. He worked on stitching a plate in place and kept his tongue. Bianca would have been proud.

  But Roger edged for a rise. “Stand up and call me villain…drudge.” He was tossing the clod of mud in the air and catching it while keeping his eyes on John.

  John continued to repair his jack. He would have continued to ignore Roger if the cullion hadn’t called him a “yellow-livered wally”. With a long exhalation, John put aside his stitching and slowly stood. McDonogh sat up and struggled to stand—he was not about to leave John to face Roger alone. But John didn’t wait for h
elp. He took a step toward Roger while McDonogh still tried to steady himself.

  A humorless smile spread across Roger’s face as he waited for John to respond.

  “Villain!” shouted McDonogh, trying to push his friend out of the way and get in front of him.

  Roger’s eyes shifted to the Irishman. He glanced back at John, and, in one smooth move, he advanced on McDonogh to seize his collar. He pulled the Irishman forward and stuffed the Irishman’s mouth with the mud ball.

  McDonogh spat out the dirt and sputtered, “Ye reeking rot of a…”

  But John delivered a punch to Roger’s gut, and McDonogh’s curse was drowned by Roger’s gasps for air. The band of rogues came to their leader’s defense. They grabbed hold of John’s arms and pulled them behind his back, exposing him for Roger to punch.

  It took a moment, but Roger straightened. His breath was still heavy. “Well, John Grunt,” he managed. “It seems ye need to be reminded of your rank.” He looked at McDonogh, whose face was smeared with the remnants of mud. The Irishman had moved in front of his friend again in an attempt to take the blow. “Step aside, Irish. Ye look unfit to handle what I am about to deliver.”

  In spite of his wobbliness, Glann McDonogh took a defiant stance. “Ye have to strike me first,” he dared.

  With a weary smile, the archer shoved McDonogh aside, which was not so difficult given the Irishman’s feeble health. He drew back his fist and landed a punch to John’s ribs.

  The crack could be heard ten feet away.

  John doubled over, and Roger’s rogues held him for a second blow.

  Which Roger gladly delivered.

  But billmen take issue when one of their kind suffers at the hands of an archer. The unspoken resentment that festered between the two ranks instantly rekindled. Even though a billman’s duty was to protect the archers, it didn’t preclude reminding an arrogant man of superior rank that he should appreciate his billmen every once in a while.

  Roger saw, too late, the hulking pikemen who descended upon him. They tackled his legs and brought him down like a felled tree. Once on the ground, they took turns kicking him until he could do nothing but curl into a ball. Nor did his coterie of scum-hearted routers fare any better.

  The stifled rancor of the lowly soldiers erupted in an impressive tangle of gut punching and wrestling. Pikemen piled on, getting their chance to even the playing field before eventually getting pulled off by men of more stolid nature. Ultimately, the latter prevailed and the more impetuous pikemen were restrained. Luckily, no other archers entered into the fracas. Instead, they watched with interest from a distance away. Apparently Roger had few allies.

  In the end, John suffered a cracked rib. Every breath sent a sharp pain through his chest.

  Roger’s torso and legs bloomed in a panoply of purple bruises. And, of course his most vulnerable organ was suitably and irreparably bruised—his pride.

  Meanwhile, as the sun began to sink in the west, a small contingent of Scottish horsemen appeared near Peniel Heugh Hill. The English watchmen saw them ride northwest and alerted Sir Eure and Sir Layton. The two officers, fat with plunder and confidence, decided to pursue them. It should not take long to subdue this small militia of the Earl’s forces and deliver them a final, crippling blow.

  A call to arms was sent through the camp at Ancrum Moor.

  Cracked rib and flux be damned, John and McDonogh prepared to fight.

  ***

  Before Bianca returned to Gull Hole, she made one last visit within in London. The mention of Jane Clewes as the first to report the second victim’s body was worth a talk with the woman. Bianca remembered how insistent she’d been that Father Rhys hear her son’s confession.

  She took a narrow path between two residences that ended on Knightrider and following the curving road to St. Mary Magdalen’s saw a young girl near the entrance of the church. She sold tied bunches of dried mint and rue from a basket. The herbs were much sought after this time of year to freshen well-worn rush mats and discourage biting fleas. Bianca had plenty of each, but gave the girl a penny for a bunch of rue anyway.

  Inside, she did not find Father Rhys. The churchwarden told her he was not expected in until later.

  “Then I wonder if you could tell me about Jane Clewes?” she asked.

  “Jane Clewes?” said the churchwarden. “She has only recently come to St. Mary Magdalen’s. I believe she is widowed, but in truth I do not know.”

  “The young man she was with,” said Bianca. “He is her son?”

  “She is his guardian. She denies he is her son. But the circumstances there, I do not know. She does her best by him. Defends him against any perceived slight upon his person, either spoken or insinuated. She keeps to herself. I’ve never seen her mingle or enter into gossip. Jane Clewes is a very pious woman.”

  “Where did she live before coming here?”

  The churchwarden shook his head. “As I said, she keeps her counsel. I do not know.”

  “Might you know where she keeps house, sir?”

  “Is your intention to visit her?” asked the churchwarden.

  Bianca nodded. “Aye.”

  “Then, I doubt that you will be successful. She is quite distrustful. But she lives in a tenement off Knightrider, on Sermon Lane or thereabouts.”

  ***

  A soft drizzle greeted Bianca when she exited the church and walked to Sermon Lane. She pulled her scarf over her head to warm her ears. She didn’t know how she would find Jane Clewes given the vague description by the churchwarden. She would probably have to ask neighbors. However, luck favored her and, as she neared the corner of Sermon Lane, she noticed a woman at a window on the end building. Bianca slowed and recognized her distinctive profile. It was Jane Clewes.

  To her surprise, Jane quickly opened the door to her knock.

  “A good day to you, Goodwife Clewes,” said Bianca. The woman looked stunned, as if expecting someone else. Bianca introduced herself. “I was at St. Mary Magdalen’s when a boy’s body was discovered there.”

  Jane Clewes ran her eyes up and down Bianca. “What need have you with me?”

  “I was told that you were the first person to come upon the victim at St. Benet’s.”

  “Was I?” Jane Clewes scowled.

  “Father Wells told me. He said you were the first to report it.”

  “Father Wells of St. Benet’s Church?”

  “Aye,” said Bianca.

  Jane Clewes neither confirmed nor denied the assertion. The drizzle that had beset the day turned into a downpour. Bianca pulled her cloak closed at the neck to shed the sudden rain pouring off the roof. The woman grudgingly let Bianca inside.

  “You are kind, goodwife. I have a long walk home.” She glanced around the small rent, noticing a feeble fire twitching in the hearth. “Do you stay warm here?”

  “I manage,” answered Jane. “I make enough to buy a faggot every day.”

  On the bench next to the fire was a pile of wool and a distaff.

  “Ah. Do you spin?”

  “Aye,” said Jane, brightening. “I work with Geve Trinion. He brings me fresh batts twice a week. He used to only come round every Tuesday. But I am quick on it.”

  “The work serves you well,” said Bianca, sensing the woman’s pride. “And a lap of wool keeps you warm while you spin it.”

  Jane Clewes’s face relaxed a bit. Bianca thought the woman might even go so far as to smile. But alas, she did not.

  “You are a parishioner of St. Mary Magdalen’s?”

  “I am.”

  “The area around St. Benet’s is not your neighborhood,” said Bianca.

  “It is not so far afield,” said Jane. “There is no law that says I must stay near home.”

  “Well met. The latest body was reported in the early morning hours.” Bianca tried to sound conversational. “That is an unpleasant time to be out. It being the early chill of a damp morning.”

&nbs
p; Jane’s face tensed. Bianca waited for the woman to answer.

  “When is the weather not chill and damp?” said Jane. “I frequent a baker by the Wardrobe. Be there issue in that?”

  “Nay,” said Bianca, waving away the woman’s concern. “One is free to buy bread wherever one likes. But what unfortunate luck to stumble on such a sight when only a week ago your church was the site of another such murder.”

  “It is by accident that I came upon the second victim.”

  “And did you see anything unusual? Other than the body, of course.”

  “I did not,” answered Jane.

  Bianca glanced around the room and took in its joyless interior. “Where be your son? He is not here?”

  “You stand corrected. I am Huet’s guardian. He is running an errand for me. I expect him soon.”

  “It must be a blessing to have his help. Have you lived here long?” asked Bianca.

  “It has been a few months.”

  “I have met quite a few people coming here from the country,” said Bianca, hoping to prompt Jane to say where she was from without pointedly asking her.

  Jane Clewes crossed the room, favoring one leg with a slight hobble, to toss a few more sticks on the failing fire. “I only just came to London.” She gathered several skeins of wool and put them in a basket next to a bench.

  Bianca gave up trying to induce Jane to talk and asked directly, “Oh. From where?”

  Clewes straightened and placed a hand on her hip. “You haven’t told me anything about yourself.” Clewes walked back to Bianca and stood squarely in front of her. “What is it that you want?” She looked for all the world like she would not say another word until Bianca answered.

  “I forget that people are sometimes interested to know about me. My life is taken up with keeping a home. I am married to a silversmith’s apprentice,” she said. “He’s gone to the border with the King’s army.” She gave a rueful smile. “I’m here because the constable hires me to learn what I can to help him find who murdered those two boys.” Bianca made it sound as though she was not the one investigating these crimes. “So he wanted me to ask if there was anything strange you might have seen or remembered when you discovered the body?”