by Jason Vail
“What do you mean Stephen’s been kidnapped?” Ida demanded as she strode across the hall from the kitchen in the rear of the house.
Gilbert wrung his hands together. “I’m afraid it’s true. We need to talk.”
Gilbert told her the story on the way to and from a stable in Fish Street, where the fish market took place, to put up the horses.
Ida hugged her cloak about her shoulders against the cold as Gilbert finished while they stood in the twilight outside the Church of Saint Nicholas Olave across a lane from the brothel. But it wasn’t the cold of the evening but the cold of her heart she sought protection from.
“He’s in the city gaol?” she asked.
“As I said, that’s what I was led to believe.”
“By a cook in a tavern. And you believed him?”
“I don’t see any reason why not to. Where else would city bailiffs take a prisoner?”
Ida paced back and forth before the church door. “We will have to be certain. Where is this gaol?”
“I don’t know.”
Ida shot him a hard look that plainly said he should have done more. “We’ll have to find it, then. Maggie or one of the girls will know where it is.”
“Can you ask without giving away our interest?”
“Leave that to me,” Ida said grimly. The dimple on her chin appeared as she pressed her lips together.
“And if we find him there?”
“Then we’ll have to find a way to get him out.”
Chapter 9
The sun had barely risen before Ida and Gilbert were on their way.
They stopped at a cookhouse in Fish Street, where Ida bought a fresh loaf of good rye bread still hot from the oven and some dried apples. At a butcher shop a bit further on, she bought a large sausage that the butcher bragged had been seasoned with pepper. She verified the claim about the pepper by smelling the sausage, since the stuff was rare and costly; the assertions of merchants could not always be trusted. All of it went into a basket, covered with a cloth.
Ida’s informant had told her the main city gaol lay at Newgate, and that seemed most likely where Stephen had been taken. But when she and Gilbert presented themselves at Newgate, one of the wardens informed them he had no Stephen Attebrook as a prisoner.
“You could try Ludgate,” the warden said, hooking a thumb toward the west. “But that’s for crown prisoners. You say your fellow is charged with being a royalist spy?”
“That is the accusation,” Ida said.
“Then I’d look for him at one of the sheriff’s prisons. “There’s one beside the guildhall, which is not far from Crepelgate. It’s closer, so I’d try that one first.”
“I don’t know London,” Ida said. “I have no idea where the guildhall might be.”
“It’s not hard to find,” the warden said with the air of a man who was often asked to give directions; London was a sprawling and confusing place and outsiders easily got lost. “Take Wodestreet. It’s on the left just after Saint Peter’s. Keep going. You can’t miss it.”
This seemed simple enough, but Ida and Gilbert reached the north wall at the end of Wodestreet without seeing anything that looked like a guildhall. An inquiry of a skinner, who was working in front of his house to remove the skin of a fox, sent them back the way they came, and advised them to be on the lookout for a tavern under the sign of a golden boar; turn left there and follow the lane through to the end.
When they reached the end of the lane, there was no mistaking the guildhall. A garden lay before it planted with apple and cherry trees. The building itself was large, square and tall, whitewashed and clean, with a red-tiled roof.
The gaol was behind the guildhall at the edge of a yard. From the front, it looked like any other house. What distinguished it was behind the house stretched walls nine feet high.
Not knowing what else to do, Gilbert knocked on the door to the house.
A stout woman with thick forearms covered in flour answered the door. Gilbert stepped back, removed his hat and said politely, “Good day to you, mistress. Lady Ida here,” he indicated Ida with her basket, “wishes to see one of the prisoners. She has brought him sustenance.”
“Lady Ida, is it?” the woman said, eyes narrowing taking in Ida’s gown, which was the same one she wore when she rode away from Windsor. “And who would this prisoner be?”
“Sir Stephen Attebrook.”
“Why does she want to see him?”
“She is his niece. And as I said, she’s brought sustenance. To lighten the burden, you may have to feed him.”
The woman “hmphed!” and said, “Wait here.”
She shut the door.
After a time, the door opened again. A stooped man with hollow cheeks covered with grey stubble looked down upon them.
“You want to see one of our guests, eh?” the stooped man said.
“Yes, sir, if that wouldn’t be too much trouble,” Gilbert said.
“It’s always trouble.” The gaoler’s lips worked and one hand clutched the edge of the door as if he was considering slamming it in their faces. Then he eyed the basket, which was emitting pleasant odors of fresh bread. He licked his lips. “Well, I suppose I can spare a moment.”
The gaoler held out his hand.
“How much for your trouble?” Gilbert asked hastily, taking the hint.
“A penny will do,” the gaoler said.
Ida almost protested. A penny was a full day’s wage for an ordinary man and so was quite a lot of money. But she held her tongue.
Gilbert surrendered the penny, and the gaoler came down the steps followed by a large man with a squashed nose who carried a club. The gaoler and his companion led them around the side of the house, where a door pierced the wall. The gaoler unlocked the lock securing it and led them into a confined space.
“What is this place?” Ida asked.
“Ah, it’s the exercise yard,” the gaoler said. “Now I’ll have a look in that basket.”
Ida did not want to give it over, but the gaoler’s hand, held out to her, beckoned insistently.
The gaoler flung the linen towel into the dirt and peered into the basket, avarice in his eyes. He broke the loaf in half, probed within each half with a finger, then put one of the halves under his arm and returned the remaining one to the basket. Ida seethed.
The gaoler did not stop there. He cut up the sausage into bits and kept half of it, too. He bit off a fragment of sausage and chewed with an open mouth, revealing a wide expanse of gums that hardly seemed up to the task. Yet somehow, he managed it.
“This is quite good,” the gaoler said with a grin. “Will you be coming again?” He tossed a hunk of sausage to the man with the club, who ate it without comment.
“Tomorrow,” Ida said, suppressing the urge to hit the gaoler over the head with the basket.
“Ah, I would be pleased if you brought some more of this excellent sausage.”
“If the butcher still has it, I will be pleased to,” she said.
“Thank you,” the gaoler said. “Now, this way.”
He stepped to another door in the far wall across from the one through which they had entered. This one was also locked, and after a bit of fumbling, during which the gaoler dropped the half loaf and several pieces of sausage, he finally got the door open.
Beyond the door was another enclosed space, though smaller than the exercise yard. There were two doors to the right and two to the left, which Ida guessed opened into cells where the prisoners were kept, since faces could be seen peering through the bars of the windows in each door. It was a drab and horrible place that looked full of pain. The stench of human waste was overpowering and so foul that she wanted to mask her face with the hem of her cloak.
“Stay here,” the gaoler said while the man with the club positioned himself in front of the entrance way.
The gaoler unlocked the far door on the right. “Attebrook!” he shouted into the darkness within, “you’ve a visitor! All the rest of you!
Remain where you are!”
Stephen stumbled out into the wan December light. Ida suppressed a gasp at his appearance. He had a big cut on his forehead that had scabbed over, but the tracks the blood it had let out still streaked his face and there were large spots of it on his coat. His forehead held bruises as well, as did his cheeks. His upper lip was split on the left side.
“Hello, Ida,” Stephen said. “You really shouldn’t have come.”
“I brought you something to eat,” Ida said. “I thought you might be hungry. You have such an abominable appetite.” She raised the basket.
The gaoler waved her forward.
“That is good of you,” Stephen said, examining the contents, which he then removed.
“I hope you still have enough teeth left to enjoy it,” Ida said.
The man with the cudgel laughed.
“All there, although a couple are loose,” Stephen grinned.
“Don’t bite down too hard, then, if you don’t want them to fall out,” Ida said.
“I’ll be careful.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Ida said. “Should we find you a lawyer?”
“I think that would be a good idea,” Stephen said.
“Enough!” the gaoler commanded. “Back in your cell!”
Stephen eyed the man with the cudgel as if measuring whether he could take him. But he made no such attempt.
“Tomorrow, then, Ida,” he said.
She nodded, and said to the gaoler, “Shall we go?”
“Are you sure about this?” Gilbert asked, voice heavy with concern.
They were across Thames Street from the entrance to the Red Candle. They had been here for some time while Ida worked up her nerve to go in. Several men had come and gone, all striding quickly like men going about their business rather than men seeking a simple mug of wine or ale in the afternoon. However, the street was crowded with traffic, so they did not stand out and no one had paid Ida or Gilbert any mind.
Ida’s heart pounded as if it was a wild bird beating its wings to escape the cage of her chest and fly away. She felt faint, nauseous and sweaty. The fact was, she was terrified. She couldn’t force herself to take even a single step toward those stone stairs leading into the earth. She thought about the kind of men in there, hard, violent men who would not hesitate a wink about harshly using a young girl like her. And she knew well how that was. She had lived a sheltered life until six months ago hard, violent men had kidnapped her and sold her to be a slave, used by a pitiless lord as an object for his pleasure, a vessel for his brutal passion.
Until Stephen had come for her.
“It has to be done, doesn’t it?” she said.
“I could go,” Gilbert offered for the tenth time.
Ida put on a face which she hoped made her look stern and determined, although she was grateful for Gilbert’s willingness to protect her, but he could not do that now and he knew it. “They’ll remember you. They’ll give you nothing but a beating and turn you over to the bailiffs. You know that.”
Gilbert nodded bleakly.
“It’s too dangerous,” Gilbert said. “There has to be another way.”
“Do you know of any place that has what we need?”
“No.” Gilbert shook his head.
“And neither did Maggie. It has to be the Red Candle, or nothing. And Stephen rots in gaol. People die in gaols, you know. Especially in winter.”
She smoothed the folds of the plain, brown gown she had changed back into at the brothel with its soiled apron so as not to look out of place on the street. A linen wrap covered her blonde hair and a worn linen cap sat on top of that so that she seemed much like any common young woman in the city. Or she hoped so.
“You better get out of sight,” Ida said.
She took a deep breath, fingered the dagger she carried in a pocket of the gown, and started across the street.
Ida had never been in a tavern before; young ladies of her station rarely frequented such places, even in Ludlow. Her only experience with public houses was the Broken Shield Inn, which was sedate and gentile as such places went. So, the interior of the Red Candle came as a shock. It stank of rot; the straw underfoot, so far as she could see it in the light of the two oil lamps illuminating the place, was churned up to mush and decomposing. The tables looked knocked together by someone who needed lessons in carpentry, and they were battered and worn. Someone had tipped over one of the benches and no one had bothered to set it upright.
There were two men at a table on the other side of the chamber, hunched over mugs, their faces bright from the light of the lamp in the center of the table. They were big hard men, with stony faces, and they looked Ida over with the same expression a cat regarded a mouse it had trapped in a corner. Ida took several deep breaths hoping this would slow down her heart; it did not have any noticeable effect.
The prospect of stepping in the rotting straw was more repulsive than having to step into ankle deep mud; at least mud washed off with water, while the rot could permeate the leather and might be impossible to get out.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t just remain in the doorway. She shut the door and advanced across the chamber to the two men at the table.
One of them rose to face her.
“Well, what’s a little girl like you doing here?” he asked. “You got something to sell?”
Ida thought he believed her to be a whore. She shook her head. “No, I’m looking for Dot. Is she here?”
“Dot? What you want with Dot?”
The man who had spoken advanced on her. Ida gave ground until her back struck the bar separating the taps from the rest of the house. The man put his arm on the bar beside Ida and leaned close. His breath smelled of sour ale, onion and tooth rot. Close up, she saw he was over forty; his nose was lined with spidery red and blue veins.
“I need to talk to her,” Ida said, as firmly and calmly as she could manage. Don’t show fear, a voice said in her head. That will make things worse.
“You a friend of hers?” The man said this as though he did not believe it was true.
“I have business with her,” Ida said.
His head and that foul-smelling mouth drew closer. He smiled, maliciously, like a predator, the smile reshaping into the beginning of a kiss.
Last summer, after Ida had been kidnapped by slavers, Stephen taught her how to use a dagger. As much as you may depend on others for protection, you know better than anyone that the time may come when they aren’t there and you have to rely on yourself, he had said Left foot forward, left hand up before you. Dagger at your right hip. Don’t extend the weapon until you mean to stab the man. Otherwise, he may take it from you. And when you attack, commit yourself fully to it. Drive the blade home without reservation, twice to the body and then once overhand to the neck. The other thing he had said, which had made her want to recoil with horror, was, Keep stabbing until he goes down.
These thoughts ran through her mind as she drew the dagger from her pocket and put her left hand on the man’s chest. She didn’t want to stab him, but if he didn’t back up, she would do it.
As the brute pressed closer, she shoved him as hard as she could with her free hand. It felt as though she was shoving at a post, but to her astonishment, the man lurched a half step backward.
The man saw the dagger at Ida’s right hip, her left hand before her. For a moment, Ida thought she would have to act, that he would not believe she was serious or that she might be a threat.
But he withdrew his hand, took one step back and regarded Ida appraisingly. He clearly had seen people stand with knives like this and understood what it meant and what his chances were even if she was a mere woman and slender as a sapling. A smaller person can defeat a larger one if he is determined enough, Stephen had said. And having a knife makes a big difference.
“Business, eh?” the man said. “You’ll find her in the back garden, taking her ease. So to speak.”
He backed to the table and sat down.
&nbs
p; The other man pointed toward a door at the rear. “You can get there that way.”
Ida edged to the door and glanced inside. It was a storeroom jammed with sacks, boxes and barrels that smelled musty and thick with dust, but there did not seem to be anyone lurking within to leap out in ambush as she passed through. A stairway climbed to a back door at the rear of the storeroom.
Still, there was the possibility the men in the tavern might follow and attempt to overpower her. She slammed the door and ran to the stairs, heart pumping at the thought the back door might be locked and she would be trapped.
To her great relief, the back door opened, and she climbed to the garden, glad to be out of the fetid cave that was the tavern.
There was no one in the back garden. Ida even checked behind the woodpile, which towered higher than her head. As she came back around it, however, there was a woman holding up her skirts and marching from the direction of the privy.
“Are you Dot?” Ida asked.
“I could be,” Dot said. She gave Ida the up-and-down, assessing the clean and generally well-tailored gown Maggie had procured: it marked her as someone with a bit of money, though not a lot. “Why?”
“I need your help.”
Dot scoffed. “Help you? How?”
“I need to learn how to pick locks.”
“You want to know how to pick locks, eh?” Dot asked.
They had taken seats on a grey bench that swayed a bit as they sat down, but fortunately did not collapse. Ida was grateful for the bench, even as she doubted it would hold up, because its availability meant she didn’t have to go back into the tavern and face the stench and the stares of those men.
“Whatever for?” Dot continued, with amusement.
On close inspection, Ida saw that Dot was a rather pretty girl with full, rosy cheeks and a small agile mouth. Dot was only a few years older that Ida, too, no more than nineteen or twenty. But she already had lines about her eyes from care and perhaps too much of an affection for wine.
Ida looked down at her hands folded in her lap. “I need to get in a certain room.”