The Lost Boys of London

by Mary Lawrence

  In the quiet of her thoughts and in the hushed lull of contemplation, Bianca rolled onto her back and let sadness consume her. Too many ales did not help. She gave over to sorrow and her tears flowed.

  Finally her sobs turned to snuffles and she blew her nose and wiped her tears. She sat, quietly staring at a trickle of water coursing down the wall. The roof over her head needed repair. One of these days she would scramble on top of it and patch the leaks. As she listened to the rain and wind continue to beat against her little home, her mind emptied of everything except for the sound of weather. That, and a faint sound of life beside her.

  Bianca turned and stared down at the black tiger. Was he purring? “Hobs?”

  The cat made the effort to lift his head and gave a short mew.

  Bianca stroked his fur. “Hobs! What happened?” She rubbed his back as if the act of doing so would reinvigorate him. “I thought you were dying.”

  The tallow spewed a smoky stream in their direction, and Bianca waved away the smelly haze, then moved the chamberstick. When she turned around, Hobs was sitting.

  “God’s blood, Hobs! One moment you could have passed for dead and the next…”

  He blinked at her, then yawned.

  Bianca grinned. “Come, you slyboots. Let me give you some dinner.” She pulled a blanket around her shoulders and in the dim light cracked the egg she’d stolen from the neighbor.

  Outside, the rain literally caught its second wind and pelted the door and shutters. Her door had never been plumb and water soon streamed down the inside and pooled on the floor. There was nothing Bianca could do to stop the leaking. No amount of straw stuffed in the crack would prevent the wet from getting in again. With a sigh, she remembered Boisvert’s quarters in Aldersgate; and even though she had not liked living there, she did appreciate its better construction. Looking back, she regretted not letting John find them a better place to live. Why had she always resisted his wanting to improve their lives? What was she leery of?

  She decided she must be more willing to please her husband. She needed to trust that his eagerness for their mutual comfort might actually be…a desirable quality. Another gust of wind blew open a shutter and it clattered against the wall, startling her. Hobs, having devoured every drop of egg, sprang from the table and ran behind the stove.

  “Hobs, it’s only the wind.” She pulled the shutter closed and lashed it with a length of rope, but it continued to rattle, and Bianca knew she would have difficulty sleeping with the banging. With a sigh of resignation, she moved a pail under the window to catch the drips. “It will have to do for now.”

  ***

  Constable Patch had waited for this moment.

  He found out the name of the nobleman who had berated Constable Berwick from Castle Baynard ward, and with a carefully rehearsed plea for help (or rather, a carefully rehearsed complaint regarding Berwick’s indifference), Patch succeeded in making his counterpart look incompetent. After explaining the dire circumstances of two boys whose deaths had been as good as ignored and whose identities still remained unknown, the nobleman sought assistance from the Lord Mayor’s aldermen.

  “Most lawmen would have made an effort to find the culprit, but I don’t sees that Berwick has lifted a single finger, exceptin’ to pour more wine,” he told Sir Edward Craven. “It is his sworn duty to puts an end to such terrible crimes when they occur in one’s ward. He’s refused my help and has refused my good faith efforts to advise him.” Patch went on to explain that he had personally solved no fewer than four murders and had risen through the ranks to the position he now held in Bread Ward. His expertise was indisputable.

  The point taken, Sir Craven duly noted Patch’s achievements and relayed his concerns to the appropriate alderman. Apparently, said alderman had spoken to Constable Berwick, and had made an impression, for now the ineffectual Berwick stood eyeball to chin with his rival from across the way.

  “Patch,” said Berwick, forgoing wishing him a good day, or evening, or anything. His ruddy complexion seemed even worse than the last time Patch saw him. His face appeared nearly purple.

  “Berwick,” returned Constable Patch in a measured tone, which was difficult for him to manage. He could hardly wait to hear what the rotten cur had to say.

  “I’ve heard tell that you have been critical of my handling in the recent deaths.”

  “Deaths?” said Patch. “I call them murders.” He leaned back in his chair. “Mayhap it is a difference in opinion.”

  Berwick’s expression was unmoved. Patch wondered what was going through the fellow’s mind. Obviously, the man had been spoken to, maybe even chastised for his anemic response in the matter.

  “The aldermen have requested that guards be posted at every parish church in Castle Baynard ward. They fear an epidemic of sorts.”

  “Epidemic?” inquired Patch.

  “A scourge of murders.”

  “Ah.” Patch had informed Sir Craven that the bodies were found one week apart, and if the perpetrator was following a pattern, they might expect a third victim within days. “Is a third death inevitable?” asked Patch. He had only been speculating by suggesting it to the nobleman. He now wondered if Berwick or the aldermen were privy to news that he had not yet learned.

  “If inevitable, then it must be preventable. At least that is how the council views the situation.”

  “And how long do they propose to continue this watch?”

  “Until the murderer is caught.”

  Patch pulled his scraggly chin hair. “Methinks posting men will discourage a murder. It will not work in catching a perpetrator. He will see the guards and leave.”

  “That may be the aldermen’s intent.”

  “But thens, the murderer might go somewheres else.” The closest ward being his own, thought Patch with a rill of alarm.

  Berwick’s mouth turned up in a wry smile. “Tut-tut, Patch. What was once my blemish might soon become yours.”

  Patch tugged on his doublet. “What are ye proposing?” he asked.

  Berwick picked up the quill on Patch’s desk. He rubbed its nib between his thumb and forefinger while contemplating his peer. “I am here because I value my position in Castle Baynard. I need more men to post at the churches. I do not presume to know whether St. Mary Magdalen or St. Benet will be the scene of another unfortunate crime, but I must take precautions so neither will become the site of another murder.”

  Constable Patch had never heard the man sound so reasonable. Apparently, he was experiencing Berwick in a rare moment of sobriety.

  “The murderer might take aim at St. Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe, since it is the last remaining church in the ward,” said Berwick, pointing the feather at him. “I want you to send men there. I’ve run out of men. I want more.”

  “There is St. Paul’s,” reminded Patch.

  Berwick dismissed his suggestion. “It is prohibitively large and always occupied. A murderer would find it too risky.”

  “Ye say that like ye know the man,” said Patch, eyeing Berwick.

  “I will pretend ye did not say that,” said Berwick unruffled.

  “It is a matter of being thorough,” responded Patch. “Why takes the chance?” He was surprised how cooperative he managed to sound. If he had been Berwick, he would have thought himself a right chummy fellow. Very accommodating, indeed.

  “Do ye have the men to post at St. Andrew’s?”

  “I can find them,” said Patch.

  “Then I shall expect you and your men one night after the morrow. I will tell them where they need to stand guard.” He tossed the quill on Patch’s desk.

  Patch didn’t like that Berwick was directing him rather than it being the other way around. The fellow needed a lesson in humility. Berwick had better show more deference if he expected his full cooperation.

  Constable Berwick turned to leave, his request delivered.

  “Berwick,” said Constable Patch. “Why do ye ask me for
helps in this? Why nots ask another constable in another ward?”

  Berwick faced him, an arch look on his face. “Because if this plan does not work, if there is another murder, I can blame you.”

  Chapter 23

  Ancrum Moor

  Because John had suffered a cracked rib, he was not in Sir Layton’s vanguard sent in pursuit of the sighted Scottish cavalry. He was still expected to wield his pike under Sir Euce’s command--as long as a man was breathing, he was expected to fight. He would be in the larger of the two divisions with the spears in the center. The archers took one flank and the arquebusiers took the other.

  While Layton and his men chased the Scots over a plateau and marshy landscape, John fell into line beside his friend, Glann McDonogh—still stricken with the flux—and, together with the remaining army, Euce marched them forward.

  It is a sorry disadvantage for a man to enter battle suffering illness or injury. But John and Glann were of sturdy stuff; they had learned to scrap for their lives, placing themselves at a greater value than did the commanders or men of higher rank. They would not be left behind to nurse their wounds or to perish on their pallet. Let them scrabble until their last dying breath, for that is what a soldier did. In the months since he had left London, John had internalized this code of honor. It had replaced some, but not all, of the resentment he held toward the higher-ranking archers. Defending his honor to the death was not just a quaint adage to voice or to follow, but instead it had become a guiding principle instilling itself into John’s every fiber.

  Be that as it may, both John and Glann were not as able as they had been an hour before.

  They followed their vanguard and marched west into a brilliant setting sun, squishing across fields muddy with days of rain.

  “We keep apace of each other, but not so well with the line,” said John, recognizing that he and McDonogh were both lagging behind.

  “Wot, I hope neither of us will see the bottom of our brother’s feet.”

  “Forsooth, we are fading to the back. The archers will be none too pleased.”

  “It cannot be helped,” cried McDonogh. “Neither of us are well.”

  “Methinks this battle will be about staying alive,” said John. “I can barely raise my pike.”

  “There be no apologizing or complaining,” said McDonogh. “Doing either is a wasted effort. Keep God in your heart and all will be right.” They took a few more steps--then McDonogh stopped and laid a hand on John’s arm. His face turned a bilious green.

  “Irish, speak to me!” John stood with his friend and let others go around them.

  McDonogh doubled over and puked.

  “You can’t keep on,” said John. “You may not die by the sword, but this flux will surely level you.”

  McDonogh leaned on his pole and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He reeked of human sick and shit.

  “You can’t carry on like this,” repeated John. He looked down the line at the hundreds of men pushing forward. For a moment he wondered what difference two men could make in this sea of soldiers? They barely had the strength to defend themselves, much less attack the enemy. If he had to, John could fight with the stabbing pain in his chest. The frenzy of battle made a man forget everything except getting out alive. But as John looked at his friend, he was sorry that Glann was at a sore disadvantage.

  “I have to carry on, John. I have no choice in the matter.”

  “You could fade to the back,” said John. “Let others go before you.”

  “The archers will shoot me in the back.” Determined not to hold anyone up elst be trampled himself, McDonogh shambled forward. “Go,” he admonished John, waving him on. “I cannot keep up. I won’t be the reason for both of us getting killed.”

  John knew he had to keep moving. “It is not dishonorable to save yourself,” he said, hoping his friend would take his words to heart. There was no time to advise and no time for fare wells. The archers kept moving forward, and as he looked back at the rank slogging towards them, he saw Roger, recovered from their fight and wearing his war face.

  John turned away and pulled McDonogh about so as not to make eye contact with the rake, but it was too late.

  “Get back to your rank,” said Roger, and he shoved John into Glann.

  John swung about and pulled his dagger from its sheath. He pointed the blade at Roger’s face.

  “Get back to yours,” John threatened. He could ill afford another scuffle with the archer.

  But neither did the archer want another tangle with John.

  Instead, Roger smirked and pushed his thumb between his first and second finger, giving John an obscene “fig of Spain” as he marched past.

  “I would so enjoy seeing his unblinking eyes staring up at the sky,” said Glann.

  The words had barely left his mouth before the loud crack of hagbutters began firing.

  “It has begun!” shouted John.

  “Go!” cried McDonogh, waving his friend forward. “Faoi fhothain a chéile mairfide mairfidh muid!”

  “Can you not tame your tongue?” shouted John, primed with emotion. “It may be my next life before I learn yours!”

  “Under the shelter of each other, we will survive!”

  John hoped it to be true. There was scant little he could do for Glann, and in the scrabble of sweat and shouts, the two men became separated. The unrelenting advance of soldiers swept John forward, carrying him to his fate and deciding it for him.

  As Sir Euce’s contingent crested Palace Hill, they were suddenly set upon by their own men in frenzied retreat. The vanguard, unable to see their enemy with the wind blowing smoke from their own arquebuses back into their eyes, rushed at them.

  They slammed into them and in the confusion, no one knew which way to go.

  The sun had been blinding. Men shouted that they were unable to see. Cries went out that it had been a trap. The whole Scottish army was lying in wait.

  But before John or any of Sir Euce’s men could understand what had happened, the Scots tore into the confused mass.

  Swords slashed, pikes stabbed, halberds struck.

  The Scots possessed pikes three feet longer than the English weapons. John forgot the pain in his ribs as he fought for his life. In the ensuing brawl, he killed men who were his own. He knew not if he succeeded in killing a single Scot.

  This time, the archers did not have the advantage of distance, nor did they have the protection of a line of billmen in front of them. John saw them impaled just as easily as billmen, and he stepped on their bodies to leverage his pike into his enemy. But as the Scots advanced and infiltrated, and the men fought hand-to-hand, John abandoned his pike in the skewered body of a dying man, and pulled out his dagger.

  In the throes of battle, there is no time to think. The sounds of sword on metal and the jarring percussion of cannon and arquebus, an unnatural cacophony of death, sifted through John’s brain. And mixed with the sound of weapons came the sound of men in their last throes of disbelief. Incredulous that they were the victim and that this bloody horror is what they yielded.

  The impassioned pleas to God fell on His deaf ears, as did the brutish oaths and grunts and screams. And it occurred to John that an injured and dying horse screamed as loudly as a man.

  Time lengthened, and yet it seemed so short. Every moment felt like his last. The exhaustion consumed him, it swallowed him whole, and still he fought on. At his feet lay the evidence in his fallen brethren that the slaughter they sustained was real.

  As the sun began to set, it became glaringly clear that the day would not be theirs. England would not claim victory. The “assured men”, those Scottish Reivers with red crosses on their sleeves, ripped them off their jackets and joined their Scottish kin in attacking the English. If earlier the confusion was crippling, now it was disastrous.

  John looked about him and saw no line of billmen, no line of defense at all. Men ran, they fought others to get away or to get to t
he back of the field. He heard no orders being given, he saw no men on their mounts. It was stay and be killed, or run and maybe be killed.

  So, John ran.

  Chapter 24

  The next morning, Bianca rose well after the neighbor’s cock had crowed. Her mind had finally let go of her troubles long enough to allow some much-needed sleep. Too many ales and worries had left her head aching. She listlessly set a fire in her calcinatory furnace and made an infusion of peppermint and willow bark to relieve the pounding in her head and parched mouth.

  She sat at her table with her hands cupped around her mug, watching the steam rise then curl and twist before disappearing. Her thoughts drifted to John, and she rehashed Roy the Robber’s news about the rout up north. Part of her reasoned that the news might just be hearsay, and that until the story was confirmed she shouldn’t waste time believing it. Besides, the crewmember might have gotten his facts wrong. Roy said the ship had brought home the wounded, but he didn’t know where they were taken or who was caring for them. It might be a few days more before she learned any additional news about Ancrum Moor. Bianca lifted the drink to her lips and took a sip of the hot brew.

  Then again, the crewmember could very well have been telling Roy the truth.

  Realistically though, she could not be certain that John was involved in the skirmish. She’d received no word since he’d left and, in truth, she had no idea where he was. All she knew was that he had been headed for Scotland. She didn’t know who his commander was--whether it was the Earl of Hertford, or someone under him. Nor did she know whether John actually made it to Scotland. She’d heard plenty of stories about sickness and treachery on board the king’s ships ferrying the men north. The more she considered all the possible ways that a man could die, the more she realized how even making it to the battlefield was in and of itself an accomplishment.

  Bianca finished her tea concoction and resolved to busy herself in matters where she might have some influence on the outcome. Assuming the worst or even trying to figure out what had become of John felt like a useless exercise, and would only make her feel worse. Eventually, she would know.