Luke hesitated beside the building across from the woman’s tenement. The purse of coins sang to him. If he kept the money he could leave London. The thought of it gave him a thrill of hope. But as he contemplated the idea of being on his own, he remembered stories of forest spirits and devils lurking behind cairns and scary creatures that could eat him for dinner. He realized he was not so brave.
With a sigh, Luke resigned himself to doing the monk’s bidding. He crept forward toward the stone stoop, careful to look down to the dead end of the alley where it was the most dark and dangerous. No one was around and the door to the tenement remained closed. Luke tiptoed to the step and gently laid the purse of coins on the ground beside it. Still facing the door, he walked backwards, mindful not to snap a twig or disturb a single fallen leaf. He listened, staring at the rent as if that would help him to hear. No sound stirred within.
On all counts, he believed he had successfully completed his task. He turned to make away, but had only taken a single step when, suddenly, the door banged open and a monster flew out after him.
Luke ran for his life, for surely, he thought, he was going to lose it. He’d never seen such a brute. It was taller than a tree, and Luke was certain it was bigger than one. It silently trundled down the stoop and gave chase, its eyes bulging and as vibrant green as scum on a pond.
Instructed never to lead anyone back to the old tannery, Luke turned up a short lane and headed for St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Paul’s Walk would be crowded. It would be difficult to find him among the people, and he could hide behind the massive columns lining the way. But before he disappeared into the cavernous nave, Luke stole one last look over his shoulder. To his horror, his pursuer had gained on him. Luke bit his lip and dove into the popular hall.
To the men of station, the men wearing their scholarly gowns and chains of office, nothing was as important as news mongering, be it truth or simple fancy. Practically any amount of mayhem could be tolerated at Paul’s Walk so long as it didn’t disrupt their cherished discourse. But Luke made such a commotion that conversations paused and attendants turned to watch him run frantically through the apse, upending stalls and crashing into people.
The learned men sighed. When would the commoners stop using Paul’s Walk for their frivolous scuffles?
Luke was too frantic to stop running and find a place to hide in the great nave. He exited the other end, just as his stalker began navigating the havoc he’d left in his wake. Not only the annoyed men of station, but booksellers whose businesses had been toppled took issue with the causative agent. They blocked and admonished the hulking figure. They let him know they were none too pleased. And as the men of station delayed his pursuit, the goliath’s frustration began to mount.
The men soon realized they had angered someone who should not have been provoked. His neck and face pinked and he wrawled like a bear, lashing out in frustration. Perhaps the soonest way back to normal was letting him through. Stands could be righted, books picked up, conversations resumed. The educated men of Paul’s Walk stepped aside and let him pass. They pointed the way out.
Along the edge of the courtyard where priests delivered their sermons in the high pulpit at Paul’s Cross, little Luke hid behind a bushy laurel and gasped for breath. His lungs heaved. He peeped between the branches to gauge whether it was safe to return to the tannery.
Next time, Luke would insist someone else deliver the money to the lady. Besides, it was time for someone else to take a turn. Why did he always have to do it?
When Luke’s breathing calmed, he quickly grew bored crouching behind the bush. Only men in scholarly gowns and parishioners walked past. After a few minutes of watching, the threat appeared over. He popped his head up and looked around. He saw no sign of the giant.
Luke’s belly grumbled, reminding him of a bowl of soup awaiting him. If he got there in time, he’d get an extra slice of bread for a job well-done. With nary another thought, the boy skipped down the walk and made for the tannery.
He kept to the shadow cast by St. Paul’s, that ever-present shade, and speculated about what kind of soup he would get. Mayhap one made from the drippings of the monk’s roast chicken.
Luke envisioned the steam tickling his nose and anticipated the contentment of a full stomach. He stepped up his pace and began whistling. A perfectly straight stick lay in his path and he picked it up and ran it along the iron posts surrounding the small graveyard he passed. Its rattle so engaged that he didn’t hear the ponderous steps approaching from behind. From the corner of his mind came a warning that he was not yet in the clear. He dropped the stick and listened. A glimpse over his shoulder confirmed his worst fear.
Luke ran straight for the tannery. It was a matter of survival and he’d gladly take thirty lashes compared to being eaten alive.
He dove down an alley that served as a public latrine, a dark and putrid place between buildings with no windows on either side. Luke slopped to the end and turned the corner onto the lane. He could smell the acrid taint of the building nearby. Only a quick dash and he would be safe. He’d pound on the door and they’d let him in.
But perhaps it is when one is so close to success that one takes the least care.
Refuge within his sights, Luke burst into the lane and sprinted to the tannery door. He gave the signal knock. Four quick raps, a pause, followed by another four quick raps.
But when the door opened, the monk’s brows pulled together in a scowl. He scratched his head. Did he imagine hearing the requisite knock? No one was there.
***
The door closed behind Roy the Robber and he met the clienteles’ stares at the Dim Dragon Inn. Mackney waved his curbing hook, hailing him over.
Bianca made room for Roy, watching as he leisurely navigated between tables, greeting some patrons, and shaking his head in answer to others. The somber look on his face did not change and Bianca sensed his news was not good. He greeted everyone before sitting down, giving her a nod, but his eyes avoided hers when she returned the greeting in kind.
Word had circulated that Roy had left to learn more about the recent report regarding the king’s army. Soon, half the customers of the Dim Dragon had gathered around their table. Cammy hurriedly delivered the ales in her order then stood behind Bianca to listen.
The group impatiently watched Roy shake out his wet cap and set it on the table in front of him. Mackney, unable to wait any longer, spoke. “Pray thee, quench your thirst, Roy. Partake of my ale and enlighten us.”
Roy helped himself to Mackney’s tankard, drinking long while a dozen eyes watched with anticipation. He finished the ale and wiped his mouth on his wrist.
“I found a boatswain,” he said. “The fellow was securing the ship to the bollards at Romeland. He said they had returned from Eyemouth where they heard tell what had happened. They brought a few men home from the conflict in Ancrum Moor.”
“A few? How many be a few?” asked Cammy.
Roy did not know.
“Did ye ask?” Cammy’s frustration began to mount. When she got a shake of the head from Roy she persisted. “Where is Ancrum Moor? Be it near Edinburgh?”
“It is a large heath near Jedburgh—south of Edinburgh on the borderland.”
“Let him tell the story!” exclaimed a patron, keen to hear the tale.
Roy the Robber wiped his nose on his sleeve. “February began favorably. The king’s army was boosted in numbers with Spaniard mercenaries and others. They had over fifteen hundred English Borderers and assured reivers--though truth be, the reivers are an untrustworthy lot.”
“But they swear allegiance to the crown,” said another serving wench who’d come over to listen.
Roy snorted. “Ye think it matters to those lawless rebels?”
“How do ye know those numbers?” asked a patron from the far end of the table.
“I am telling ye what the boatswain said and that is all. I have no cause to disbelieve him.
I saw with my own eyes the men on board that ship. They were subdued. Demoralized and tired.”
“Can we go there?” asked Cammy eagerly. “Mayhap Roger…” she leaned down and spoke into Bianca’s ear. “Mayhap John!”
Roy the Robber scowled. People were loudly speculating and drawing their own conclusions. He held up his hands to silence them. “If ye want to dither on then do so. But if ye want to hear the gist of it then let me speak!”
The patrons murmured. They nudged each other to quiet.
Roy continued, “The army had just taken Melrose and their abbey and left them in ruins. This came after a long bout of plundering Scottish villages south of Edinburgh. They’d done what Henry wanted. They brought the Scotch to their knees.” He looked up at Cammy. “Have you a meat pie for my trouble?”
The serving wench, loathe to miss a single word, looked irritated.
Bianca put a hand on Cammy’s. “I will tell you what you miss.”
Mackney piped up. He had Scottish blood in him, but he was a loyal Englishman, having come to London as a lad. “And this be the army led by the Earl of Hertford?”
“In truth I do not know,” replied Roy. “They are all one and of the same. The Earl of Hertford commands the forces but there are commanders under him. They treat every village with the same cruelty as Dunbar.” Roy shook his head.
“And what of Dunbar?” asked a patron.
“It was an act of savagery, that. They struck at night while families slept, burning houses to the ground. Raping women and killing those who tried to escape.”
Bianca winced. Even though she promised she would tell Cammy everything, the girl did not need to know the wicked details.
“But the Scots fought on,” said Roy. “They hid behind rocks and knolls. They picked off the English one by one.”
“Oh, aye,” said Smythe who had remained quiet until now. “They be a feisty lot and there be no rules of war that they follow.”
“’Tis because there are so few Scots by comparison,” said Mackney. “What chance have they against the might of the English army?”
Cammy returned from the kitchen with a pork pie and ale. “What have I missed?”
Bianca shrugged. “Nothing of mention.”
Roy took a hungry bite of pie and washed it down with another long drink.
“So, the men felt invincible and they headed south toward Jedburgh to camp on the Ancrum Moor. But on Peniel Heugh Hill they spied a Scottish cavalry and they took chase after them.
“Oh, why could they not let them be?” asked Cammy. “I fear to hear what happens next.”
Roy the Robber broke off some crust and pushed his cheek out with his tongue. His hesitation unnerved Bianca. She felt her neck tighten as she waited for him to continue.
“The king’s army did not know that the Scottish army lay in wait, out of sight, over the hill.” Roy took another drink of ale.
Cammy dug her fingers into Bianca’s shoulders.
“There be two battles. Both with the same result. One force of two thousand spearmen, hagbutters, and archers started shooting at the cavalry but the wind blew the smoke back into their eyes, blinding them. The cavalry had led them into a trap. The horsemen disappeared over the hill where the Scottish army lay in wait. The Scots crested the hill with the English below them. The Scots rode down into them, pushing the vanguard back. The smoke was so thick the vanguard could not see and they retreated into their line where there was much confusion. And the line collapsed.”
“How many Scots were there?” asked Cammy.
“They think there was twenty-five hundred Scots, including Border Reivers. Plus, the Scots had cannons.”
“And we did not?” exclaimed Mackney.
“They were in pursuit. Cannons can’t be toted about so easily.”
Smythe sucked in his breath. “Ye cannot trust these Scots. These Reivers. How will there ever be peace in that land?”
“Indeed, when it looked like a rout, the assureds tore off their red crosses and fought for the other side.
“Treason!” a patron shouted.
“Eight hundred Englishmen died,” said Roy.
Jaws dropped. The disaffection of the Reivers was often talked about. Their treachery was legendary. But to hear that it may have resulted in the slaughter of so many Englishmen boiled the blood of every Englishman and iced the blood of the Englishwomen in the Dim Dragon Inn.
“The army broke and scattered through the countryside.” Roy’s eyes scanned the bewildered faces, still stunned.
“A hostile countryside,” said Mackney. His words sat heavily in the air.
No one said a word. No one moved. Eyes blinked. People stared.
“Did the Scots take prisoners?” Cammy asked in a small voice.
“Aye, they did. The boatswain said a thousand men were captured.”
More silence.
“It was a rout,” concluded Smythe.
“Where is the army now?” Cammy wanted answers. “Are they coming home?”
Roy could not say. “Good wench, I have no more information.”
“Surely, the king can send ships to bring them home,” said Bianca.
“If the laggards knew where the ships would be. And then, it would depend on whether they could stay alive long enough to get to them,” said Roy.
Bianca’s heart sank. The odds were against John. Even if he had survived the battle at Ancrum Moor and had avoided capture, how could he possibly get home? What if he was injured? She had no idea where this moor was, or how close it was to the border. And then, even if John was able to cross into England he would still be in danger. It was a long walk home.
Chapter 22
Bianca had one too many ales with Cammy. The two spent the next hour apart from the rest of the clientele, discussing Roy’s story. Goodwife Frye saw the look on Cammy’s face after Roy finished and knew the wench would be useless serving any more customers. The goodwife was wise like that, and sympathetic to the fears of a young woman’s heart. She had not forgotten what it was to love a man and to be hopeful for him.
The two friends came to no conclusion, no recourse. After all, what could they do? They were left to carry out what women were destined for since time immemorial--to wonder and to worry.
With the assurance that the two would always comfort one another no matter what the future held, Bianca walked home to Gull Hole. It was so late and rainy that the lanes were empty of ne’er do wells. Even miscreants had the sense to stay dry on such a night.
Too many ales kindled Bianca’s raw emotions, thoughts that were better left suppressed. The good part, if there was any, was that she did not mind walking in the pouring rain. As she passed her neighbor’s coop of hens she reached through a slat and pulled out an egg. The ale had dulled her conscience and she figured he owed her at least that for as many times as she’d had to kick one of his chickens out of her rent. She fiddled a bit with her padlock, and once inside her room of Medicinals and Physickes lit a tallow.
She thought it too late to start a fire in her stove, so Bianca opted instead to strip herself of her wet clothing and bury herself beneath her covers until morning. Normally, her return would have woken Hobs, who was sleeping on the bed, and he would have at least roused long enough to greet her and expect his belly to be rubbed. But the black tiger didn’t budge, even with Bianca kicking and rustling around to get warm and comfortable.
She leaned over to blow out the flame when she caught sight of him. She sat up and put her hand on his side. His chest barely moved. He barely breathed.
“Hobs,” she said, shaking him gently. She repeated his name and shook him more vigorously. In that brief moment it occurred to her that maybe her immortal cat was not ageless after all. Maybe the elixir of immortality was no better than any other medicine. Perhaps her old mentor, Ferris Stannum, had not discovered the elusive philosopher’s stone. Without having to put her beloved cat to the test, the feline had r
esolved the question for her.
Bianca’s heart fell. Having Hobs underfoot, her little ‘house spirit’, had been an inconvenience that never truly irritated her. The cat was just reminding her that he was there, and no matter what she might have found so absorbing at any given time, it wasn’t nearly as important as he.
“Oh Hobs,” she said, stroking his side. Perhaps her repeated petting might stir him. Though he was just a cat she never felt completely alone as long as he was around. She breathed into his ear calling his name, trying to rouse and urge him back from whatever “world” he was in.
Now with John being gone and learning the news from Roy the Robber, she felt a painful vacuum in her life.
What if John never came home? Bianca contemplated whether she would continue to live in this derelict room with only her herbs and a cache of supplies and instruments to keep her company. Would she grow old here? Would people continue wanting her concoctions? Or would she be that odd, rumored woman--more interested in plants, and chemistries than the desire to keep a comfortable home? A woman eventually forgotten in time. For what woman can claim her place beside men of similar inclination and not be denounced for it?
Was all this for naught?
Meddybemps would have cautioned her against entertaining such thoughts. Aye, she had too much spleen, she could not deny it. Therein festered those melancholic, uneasy feelings. The black bile that normally coursed through her veins multiplied two-fold. But in the silence of her room, in the pitiless and expansive night, she could not help herself. Moreover, she did not want to.
If left on her own, how would she fare with no one to love? Without John to challenge and tease her? Without John…
Her morale spiraled and she added another thought to the mix. What if something happened to Meddybemps? What if he could no longer sell her medicinals? What if he died?
The two of them had been careful around one another since the incident of her father’s stolen lapis mortem. Rebuilding her faith and trust in the streetseller had come in fits and starts. So too, had she distanced herself from her mother. The deception and lies had shaken Bianca more than either of them would ever fully know.
The Lost Boys of London Page 19
