The Lost Boys of London

by Mary Lawrence

  “Nay,” she said. “Nothing gave me pause. Except of course, seeing a boy’s life ended so grievously.”

  “It is a great sadness. I am certain you can sympathize with his mother.”

  Jane Clewes did not respond.

  It was in that odd silence, that Bianca heard a strange scratching. She looked across the room and thought it came from behind a wall, but then she located the sound near the center of the room, under the floor. Jane Clewes started coughing.

  “What is that noise?” asked Bianca.

  “My hearing is failing me. I did not hear anything.”

  “It sounds as if something is under your floor.”

  “Well,” said Jane, tossing off Bianca’s concern. “This is not such a fine place.” She went to the center of the room and stomped the floor. “I have sent for a ratcatcher.”

  “You can scarce afford their fees. I can do it for you.”

  Jane Clewes looked horrified. “Nay, I think not!”

  “I have done it before,” assured Bianca. She refrained from mentioning any details.

  Clewes crossed the room and opened the door. “The rain has lessened I think.” It was still raining heavily. “My problem will be taken care of shortly. Huet shall soon return. You should not be here. He gets confused about young women. Now, I ask that you take your leave.” She held the door for Bianca, giving her no choice.

  ***

  The weather was too poor to spend any time outside, so Bianca hailed a wherry to take her back to Southwark. As she waited for it to draw alongside the stairs, a rat slinked past, disappearing between some barrels on the docks where merchant vessels unloaded. Bianca wondered over Jane’s peculiar situation. Was it vermin under her floor or something else? And what did Jane fear Huet might do if he saw her there?

  Bianca stepped on board and sat beneath a tarpaulin, tolerating the smell of its tar coating for some protection against the rain. In the distance a new ship arrived in port, a galleon, and she wondered from where it had come. She wondered if someday John might return on a similar one.

  Arriving at the stairs in Southwark she hitched up her kirtle—the roads being even muddier than in London--and ran all the way home to Gull Hole. There she found Hobs curled in a tight ball on a blanket, sleeping away the day and now the evening, his ambition to hunt in the cold and wet replaced by a desire to stay warm. She hung up her cloak and scarf, shed her soaked stockings and changed into dry.

  The activity woke Hobs and he blinked at her, as if he’d just been subjected to a blinding beam of sunlight. “Here be the slugabed of Gull Hole,” said Bianca smiling at her favorite feline. She opened the firebox of her calcinatory furnace and cleared out the ashes to lay a fire. In her haste to leave with Brian Bindle, she’d neglected to bring in sticks to dry. It would be useless to try to start a fire using the wet wood. However, her failure was to the Dim Dragon’s advantage, and the opportunity to warm up with a steaming bowl of barley stew was added motivation. She wiped her hands on her apron and remembered the rag she’d found on Bennet’s Hill. She pulled it out and gave it a sniff, given pause by such an unusual smell. It was something she’d never encountered.

  It was not floral, but its scent was sweet. What other substance could yield such a smell? Honey? Nay. Bianca shook her head. Wine? Doubtful that. Puzzled, she tossed the rag on her pallet to think about later.

  Before she left, she shaved some cheese for her immortal cat, even though there was the possibility that he could never starve. But she loved Hobs enough not to subject him to a wretched night foraging for mice in the rain.

  “Stay home, little friend,” she advised. Then, shaking the rain from her cloak, she threw it on again. She secured the shutters tight and grabbed John’s flatcap to keep her head dry.

  Despite the wet night and the sinister dark, Bianca looked forward to seeing Cammy. If her friend had time, she would discuss some of her findings with her. She appreciated Cammy’s level sensibilities—though to be honest, Cammy’s infatuation with Roger was hard for Bianca to understand. Her friend had no assurance from Roger that one day they would marry, yet she remained as loyal to him as if she had been spoken for.

  The maid from the country was strong and knowledgeable about farm animals, but men who grew up in London were a different breed. Bianca hoped, for her friend’s sake, that Roger would return and ask for Cammy’s hand, even though John cared for him not, and truth be, she found the fellow a bit too proud to be trusted.

  As she neared the popular boozing ken, Bianca could hear the boisterous whobub of its clientele seeping through the mud-spattered exterior walls. She hauled open the door and stood a moment locating a trestle where she might sit. There was the usual coterie of regulars planted about the room, and always a goodly number of new customers trying out the fare either through recommendation or coincidence; more often, thought Bianca, probably the latter.

  Across the room sat Mackney and Smythe, the motley pair of thieves, and Bianca decided to join them until Cammy was free.

  “A good night, Bianca Goddard,” said Mackney when she settled in next to them.

  “A good night for a barley stew and the company of friends,” said Bianca. She removed her flatcap and shook out the droplets of rain on the floor.

  “Aye, that,” said Smythe. He had finished a trencher of said stew, and Bianca wondered how the gangly thief could eat so much and still remain as thin as the Dim Dragon’s ale on a Saturday night.

  “Word is,” said Mackney, “a ship is in port from the borderlands. There is news of a recent rout near Jedburgh.” He looked down into his ale and said in a quiet voice, “It is not in the King’s favor.”

  Bianca suddenly lost her appetite. “What do you know?”

  “Roy the Robber has gone to see what he can learn. He’s been away for some time now.”

  “No doubt waylaid by opportunity,” said Smythe with a snide lift of his eyebrow. “Roy can never do just one task without first doing two others.”

  “Mean you, finding a gull to nip and foist?” Bianca referred to Roy’s sneaky tactic of pretending to faint; when someone (usually from away who didn’t know any better) came to help, Roy would slice the strings of the man’s purse and run off with it.

  “He can’t stop himself,” said Smythe. “He keeps a running tally.”

  Bianca caught Cammy’s attention and the wench made her way over, toting several empty tankards. “Did they tell you a ship has come in?” she asked Bianca.

  “I saw a galleon when I came back from London. Do we know for sure that it sailed from the borderlands?”

  “Aye,” said Cammy. From the serious look on her face, Bianca knew her friend was worried.

  “Well, it will do us no good to fret until we learn what has happened. Roy shall return soon enough. Mayhap he will have solid news.”

  “Last week they said the war might be over, and I had hopes for Roger’s return.”

  “As did I for John,” said Bianca trying to allay her friend’s fears, “but we shall know soon enough. This may only be a rumor, and you know how unreliable the first reports are.”

  The serving wench looked away, and it appeared she was trying to keep from crying.

  “Can you bring me a bowl of barley stew?” asked Bianca. She hoped her friend might benefit from her personal adage that keeping busy was the best remedy for keeping brave.

  “Aye, and an ale as well?” asked Cammy.

  As Cammy moved away, Mackney and Smythe watched the backside of her before turning their attention to Bianca. “She puts too much faith in this Roger fellow,” said Mackney.

  “She has pinned her heart on him,” said Bianca.

  The portly curber did his best to turn Bianca’s thoughts to matters not so troubling. “Did you hear, praytell, about the monkey that got loose at Westcheap market the other day?”

  “A monkey?” asked Bianca. Such sights were rare, especially this time of year.

  Sm
ythe started laughing, a chittery kind of laugh in which his teeth tapped together. He insisted on telling the story, and elbowed his partner, who yowled from its bony sharpness.

  “It were a tawny Moor who had the beast tied with a rope round its neck. He was walking it through the market for a show at one by the clock next to the conduit. It would cost a penny to see. But a lady with too many questions beset him, and, unbeknownst to either of them, the monkey worked the knot at its neck and slipped away. A moment later they heard an ear-cracking scream. The monkey had jumped on a vendor’s back and stole her basket of walnuts. The thing ran like a demon--jumping stall to stall, upsetting turnips and plums, upending barrows, climbing to a roof and running along its eave, all the while screeching like a madman! The entire market was in an uproar. I’ve never seen such confusion. And all of it from a creature no bigger than a cat.” Smythe began laughing again in that strange way he had, and Bianca found the sight of him more amusing than imagining the turmoil from the monkey.

  Mackney laughed, too. “And then the little demon, with the basket of walnuts in the crook of its arm, jumped from one building to the next, all the way down the row with the tawny moor most sorry and running alongside beneath. Finally, it reached a tree and the tawny moor tried coaxing it down. All the merchants gathered round, demanding payment for the damage it had caused.”

  “Such a quivering sack of bones,” said Smythe, taking a swig of ale.

  “But the monkey sat in the tree and bared its not so small teeth at the crowd,” said Mackney. “No one could get him down. There was much shouting.”

  “It must have been a sight,” said Bianca.

  “Oh, it was!” said Mackney. He continued the story--“The monkey took issue with everyone shouting at his master, and aimed a walnut at Tuck the turnip farmer. Hits him on the crown! The monkey found great sport in that. He hit one person after another. Walnuts showered down and the sellers went antic picking up the walnuts and throwing them back at the monkey.”

  Bianca grinned. “Praytell, how did it end?”

  “Why, the silly beast ran out of walnuts. When it realized it had no more, it threw down the basket. Then it climbed up the tree and jumped to a roof, scrambled to the peak and disappeared over the top. They be looking for it still.”

  “There is a monkey on the loose in London?”

  Mackney and Smythe both smiled.

  “God’s tooth. That should give some a fright.”

  “Indeed,” the thieving pair chimed. “Everyone is lashing shut their windows tonight.”

  Cammy arrived with Bianca’s stew and ale and joined them at the table.

  “Alewife Frye is letting me take time to eat,” she said tearing off a hunk of bread then dipping it in a bowl she had brought for herself.

  The weary maid had barely finished her stew before they felt a draft on the back of their necks. A whoosh of air threatened to extinguish the tallows in the wall sconces. They turned to see who’d opened the tavern door. Roy the Robber had returned.

  Chapter 21

  Geve Trinion tucked his knife back in his waistband and examined the lock of hair in good light. He ran a finger over it. This should be proof enough for Meg. After all, it was what she asked for. He tied the lock with a strand of undyed wool, wrapped it carefully in thin cloth, and placed it in his pouch. He would have to be mindful when removing coins so as not to ruin the fragile bundle. He didn’t want it to fall apart before she’d seen it.

  The day seemed interminably long with all the stops he had to make. His list of visits was made up of old women, spinsters looking for income to eke out their meager existence. They all wished to be complimented on their skeins, as if their self-worth depended on the quality of their spinning. He wearied of throwing them crumbs of praise and watching them peck at the bits like sparrows out his door.

  He told himself that he didn’t have long to wait. He would get his money and then he could start a new life. Leave London, with all its filth and the insidious reach of its truculent king, behind. He could almost smell the green scent of freshly scythed hay and the faint hint of smoke drifting across a field from a cozy hearth in a warm stone cottage. Perhaps the world was not so wretched if he could still dream such notions.

  When at last he stepped up to Meg’s door, he took a moment to smooth down his hair and straighten his cap. He adjusted his codpiece to calm an “itch” he had there. Truth be, he still found her attractive.

  “It is you,” she said upon answering the door. His heart sank. There were many ways those three little words could be said, and she had voiced them in a not so welcoming way. His hopes for amorous comport dashed, his mood turned black.

  He pushed his way into her rent. Her brood with their puling mouths fell instantly silent, eyes all agog, staring slack-jawed at his person. He looked round at them. Where was the pretty fair-haired one? He could have growled like Gorgeous George at the bear garden and sent them scattering. But he refrained from being needlessly dramatic.

  “I’ve brought proof,” he said over Meg’s protests to get out. “It is what you wanted.”

  Meg’s face turned pale. She searched his face.

  The corner of Trinion’s mouth turned up. His eyes dropped to her bosom and crept around its shapely contour. He thought back to a time long ago, and his mind could have lingered there if not for a sudden sharp sting planted on his cheek.

  “God’s blood, wench!” He raised his hand to return the favor, then stopped himself. He was running afield of his purpose. Let her husband beat her, he thought; it was not his place. But her husband was busy stabbing his way through France. He almost reconsidered. “Do you want to see proof, or not?”

  Meg’s angry brow changed to worry. Her eyes searched his face. “Aye,” she said, softly. “Show me.”

  Geve Trinion removed the sack of wool and reached to uncinch the pouch dangling from his belt. It was empty from paying out coins to the spinners, except for the lock of hair. He removed the sample from his purse, and, before he could even present it to her, she snatched it out of his hand.

  Meg turned away to unwrap the thin square of linen. Such a lovely curve to her neck, he thought as it bent to examine the lock of hair. Her own splendid mane remained covered beneath a loosely tied headrail. He was so close he could have whipped it off her head and watched her silky, custard-colored hair tumble out. He could have swept her up and forced his lips on hers. She would eventually relent to his wiles. Aye, he could have taken her, right there with her pathetic spawn watching. It would suit him to do so, and it would serve her right for all of her doubting and disrespect.

  But he didn’t.

  To his dismay, her shoulders began to shake. Aw. She was crying. He’d seen before how a woman could be so overcome with grief that they were rendered speechless. Then the wails of despair would come pouring forth. He reached out a hand to comfort her. He would let her weep into his shoulder. Oh, it would have made his deceit even more believable.

  But, at the last second, he drew back his hand as if it had gotten too close to a flame. Instead, he appealed to her maternal instincts to convince her to part with her money for Fisk’s safe return.

  “Meg, Meg,” he began. “This is the proof that you wanted. I placed myself in great danger to secure it. The heartless cur has agreed to part with Fisk. But it comes with a price. Fear not—Fisk is safe. At least for now. Your money together with mine will be enough to secure his safe return. Do this, and bring your boy home. Never will you be apart from him again.” He paused, waiting for her to speak, then added, “Unless, of course, you decide it so.”

  But Geve Trinion would be rudely reminded that a woman could be full of surprises.

  ***

  Little Luke was so distracted that he never heard the shouts of a drayman hollering to move lest be trod upon. One moment he was walking, and the next he was sitting on his bum. He blinked up at the fellow who had seized his arm and yanked him aside.

  �
��You nearly ended under a horse’s hoof,” said a fellow with a red cap and queer-looking eyes. One peeper focused on him and the other looked over his shoulder so that Luke turned around to see who else he was talking to. No one was there. He turned back, and the man held a coy smile on his face. “You must be more watchful,” he warned, and he leaned into his cart festooned with swinging talismans and clacking bottles.

  The boy got to his feet and brushed himself off. He looked about him as if surprised to see where he was. He didn’t like running this errand for his master. The lane where he was supposed to leave this purse of coins was unnaturally dark even on the brightest day--but he hadn’t seen one of those for weeks it seemed. He wondered if the clouds had swallowed the sun, and would he ever see it again?

  Luke glopped through a woefully thick patch of mud that nearly sucked the shoe off his foot, then crossed to the other side of the lane where the road looked less gluey. The monk’s words kept rattling around in his head. He made it very clear that he and God would be most angry if Luke did not follow through. Luke knew first-hand the pain of the monk’s wrath, and could only imagine what God’s would be like.

  The faint glow of a candle shone through the window of the tenement on Sermon Lane. Luke slowed and approached cautiously, looking to see if the woman was watching out the window. Last week he had seen her sitting there, staring, her sharp nose sloping down to nearly touch her chin. She might have been a kindhearted woman for all he knew, but since he didn’t know he associated her unattractive profile with a nasty temperament.

  This time Luke did not see her by the window. He cautiously crossed the road once he was past its line of sight and circled back. He pulled out the purse of coins, their heavy weight a comfort in his hand. Part of him longed to take the coins and never return. But where would he go? He had no family that he wished to stay with--his uncle was meaner than the monk, if that was even possible.