by Jason Vail
Everything about London seemed both marvelous and frighteningly strange to Ida, and the riverfront, which she had never seen before, was no exception. The receding tide exposed broad mudflats that on close inspection were a prairie of rubbish: bits of lumber, the remains of sunken boats, and such. Gangs of small boys were prowling about with sacks, salvaging things from the mud. Occasionally, when a boy found something he would announce his discovery with a whoop. A fight broke out over one such discovery between rival gangs who pummeled each other with their fists, gobs of mud and what had to be stones, for the latter missiles drew blood from one boy. The victors scampered up to the shore, bearing their prize.
Ida was delighted to see the river filled with ships and boats, since she had heard that London was the busiest port in England. The big ships mostly were moored to posts in the river, and only one of them was moving, a cog being towed by two rowboats through the drawbridge in the middle of London Bridge about five-hundred yards downstream.
The bridge itself was a marvel of whitewashed stone and blazingly white and black timber houses rearing high upon a span that seemed impossibly far from shore to shore. She could see people moving over the bridge in the gaps and many waiting for a drawbridge in the center of the span to lower and allow them passage.
She noticed that Stephen kept scanning the river, watching the many rowboats going up and down and to and fro. He was growing restless and she wondered if that was because none of the boats seemed to be coming here.
“Are we in the wrong place?” she asked.
Stephen glanced at the people around the fire. “They aren’t waiting for fish to jump out of the river to them. There should be a boat along soon.”
Stephen’s head began to nod. His eyes closed and he leaned back against a post. “Wake me when a boat comes.”
Ida took this order seriously, since she was anxious to get away. Despite the fascination the city held for her; she would have enjoyed it more if she was safe, but she felt like a fly about to be swatted.
Nonetheless, she found herself struggling to stay awake. She had not got much sleep because of the terror of the gaol break and the flight through the city. Fatigue caught up with her now. She swore that she would fight against it; that she would close her eyes for just a moment to rest them . . . .
Ida awoke sometime later. She sat up, appalled that she had fallen asleep. She looked about. The sun was lower, and the mudflats had grown in expanse. The people about the fire were gone, and the fire had burned down to almost nothing.
But a boat was putting into shore almost directly in front of her, a single oarsman struggling with the oars.
Ida shook Stephen. “Wake up. Our boat is here.”
“Oh, what?” Stephen said groggily, rubbing his face. He looked unusually pale, which made the black stubble of his beard and his eyebrows stand out all the more, the bruises on his face and the scab on his forehead as well.
Ida held out a hand and helped Stephen to his feet.
They started toward the boat, which had grounded on the mudflats, waving and calling to the boatman.
“You there!” a voice shouted from their right. “Hold!”
Ida’s heart leapt at the sound. She glanced for the source of the voice — six men altogether — and felt Stephen grip her arm hard.
“Keep going,” he said. “Pretend you didn’t hear them.”
“Is it the watch?” Ida asked, frightened.
“Yes.”
They stumbled through the mud toward the boat, the muck clutching at their feet, making progress slow.
“You there!” the voice repeated. “I said stop! We must have a look at you!”
“A look at you!” Ida gasped. “What does he mean?”
Stephen touched the scab on his forehead. “Perhaps they’re looking for a man who’s had his head broken open.” He gave her a push. “Run!”
Ida ran through the muck as well as she could, which is to say there was a lot of stumbling involved, but fortunately, no falling down.
She looked back just before she reached the boat to see Stephen some distance behind her, but with three men on his heels.
“You, the boat!” one of the more distant watchmen shouted. “Remain there if you want to keep your license!”
The ferryman waved, indicated that he intended to obey.
Ida reached the boat and clutched the saxboard, her chest heaving.
“Can you not away?” she cried to the ferryman.
“And lose my license?” the ferryman said. “Not a chance.”
Ida heaved with all her might against the side of the boat. It stuck in the mud for a moment, but since there was only a single man in it, she managed to push the boat far enough that it floated.
She climbed into the boat and drew her dagger. She pointed it at the ferryman and said, “Get ready to start rowing.”
“Not a chance.” The ferryman crossed his arms.
“You pretend that I’m threatening your life and you do it,” Ida panted. “And when we get across, we’ll give you enough money for a dozen passengers.”
The ferryman considered this proposition for a blink of an eye. He put his hands on the oars and shouted, “She means to kill me! Help!”
Ida dared to look back and saw three of the watch catch up with Stephen. He halted, stepped aside and clouted one of the watchmen on the head. The man fell into the mud. A second watchman swung a club at Stephen’s head, which he parried with an outstretched arm and then drove a fist into the man’s mouth; that one went over backward, landing with a splash. The third watchman swung crosswise at Stephen’s body. He tried stepping back to avoid the blow, but the mud caught his feet and he fell on his back. The watchman raised the club two-handed to strike a great downward blow. Stephen kicked him in the groin. The watchman doubled over as Stephen got to his feet and stumbled the last few steps into the river, where he flung his satchel into the boat and clutched the side as it bobbed away from shore.
“Now, row, for your life depends on it,” Ida snarled as menacingly as she could, dismayed at her voice’s squeaking quality. Murderer’s voices should be low and growly, not so high-pitched as hers. She shook the knife at the ferryman for emphasis to make up for it.
The ferryman’s mouth twitched as if he was about to laugh. But he shouted “Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!”
He dug the oars into the river for a mighty stroke.
“Southwark, if you please, my good man,” Ida said, settling on a thwart.
“Of course,” the ferryman grunted with the strain of a stroke. “My pleasure.”
“At least the river got some of that mud off,” Ida said as Stephen crawled dripping over the saxboard.
“Do you have any idea how filthy the Thames is?” he asked, narrow eyed. He brushed off a turd that had found a perch on a shoulder.
“No, but I do now.”
Chapter 11
The innkeeper at the Abbot of Waverly’s Inn in Southwark refused to allow Stephen inside until he had stripped off his filthy clothes and washed thoroughly. Although people were inured to stinky smells, there were limits, especially in confined spaces and around food.
The shedding of clothes was easy enough, although it meant standing naked in the cold; at least he was in a barn and not in the yard in full view of anyone at the inn who cared to watch. Washing could be torture in any weather, for often one had only cold water and a cloth. However, the innkeeper provided tepid water lightly heated over the cooking fires, which reduced the torment.
Stephen left his filthy clothes in a pile and dipped a washcloth in the basin he’d been provided. He hastily washed himself, the gritty lye soap abrading his skin.
Ida entered the barn while he was working toward his ankles.
Stephen dodged behind a post, which did not do much to conceal his nakedness.
“Not done yet?” Ida asked, turning her back. “Hurry or you’ll miss supper.”
“Ah, yes,” Stephen said, edging from behin
d his post. “Thanks.”
He finished with the washcloth and toweled off, shivering and teeth chattering.
Ida giggled at the chatter. “I never heard such noise! It’s a miracle you don’t break a tooth!”
“M-m-my teeth are tough enough,” Stephen said. He pulled on his spare shirt and his braises.
Ida saw this out of the corner of her eye. Since the shirt fell halfway to Stephen’s knees, she was spared being inflicted with a view of Stephen’s private parts. She watched him retrieve his spare stockings and lift a foot to put them on.
This caused her to turn about and push Stephen onto a nearby stool. “Idiot, your feet are still filthy.”
Stephen glanced down at his feet, particularly the left one, which was missing from the arch forward. He glanced at Ida for her reaction, expecting revulsion, because she’d never seen it before. She didn’t seem to notice.
Ida dipped the washcloth in the basin, squeezed it out, and handed it to Stephen. “Do you know what to do?”
“I think I can figure it out.” Stephen washed one foot, and drew on the stocking for that leg. He washed the other foot and finished with the stocking, followed by his boots
“Now that’s better,” Ida said, hands on her hips. “Warm now?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“Let’s get you inside, where there’s a fire,” Ida said.
She picked up his filthy clothes, which she held at arm’s length. She carried them into the yard where she dumped them into an iron cauldron with other clothes.
“Did it hurt much, when you lost your foot?” Ida asked as they reached the inn’s door.
“I didn’t feel a thing at the time,” Stephen said.
“So, you’re going to rule out the boys at the Red Candle,” Gilbert said as a servant cleared away the debris of their supper: goose in a mushroom and mint sauce, with a hint of mustard.
“A moment,” Gilbert said to the servant before Stephen could reply, hastening to dip bread in the remaining sauce on the wooden trencher. “This is quite good, you know. I shall have to consult the cook for the recipe. Our guests will like it. And Edith will be glad I brought back something other than bruises and saddle sores.”
“I am glad to see that the fare is up to your high standards,” Stephen grumbled, staring into the fire blazing in a fireplace so large that two men could have lain down in it head to foot and not touched the sides. The fire put out a delicious warmth so that he was beginning to recover from his bath. “We never want to disappoint.”
“And yet so often you do,” Gilbert sighed. “Whenever we take our journeys,” he added for Ida’s benefit, “our sad lot is nothing but suffering, sleeping in damp fields, and inferior food. Edith seems to think that we have such fun on these outings. She is so wrong.”
“I don’t think she really wants to know what you get up to,” Ida said. “Breaking people out of gaols! You are such a man of danger, Gilbert.”
“Hush, hush,” Gilbert said, alarmed. “Someone might overhear! It is the talk of the city, after all.”
“About the Red Candle,” Ida said, taking up the thread Gilbert had cast down. “What do you think, Stephen? Are they your killers?”
“You said that they had stolen this cross, Giles paid them, and their business was done,” Stephen said.
“That’s what Dot said.” Ida wiped her small mouth with her napkin and laid it on the table, where a servant scooped it up with her vacant trencher.
“We don’t even know for certain that this client of theirs was, in fact, Giles,” Gilbert said.
“Maybe you want to go back to nail down this detail, although I am satisfied with the mention of a stolen cross,” Stephen said.
“There is that,” Gilbert said“But if the client was Giles, Dot would never confess they killed him after a falling out. And falling out with thieves is rather a common thing.” He leaned over toward Ida. “I keep no company with thieves, so it’s only what I’ve heard.”
“Of course,” Ida said, sipping her wine. “And I’m sure you’ll tell me if it’s common for thieves, in such falling outs, to kill their clients.”
“Those who don’t pay,” Gilbert said, with the air of a well-informed man. “What if they saw this cross — which was a fabulous work, I tell you, as I saw it with my own eyes, who’s to say they didn’t up their price? And when Giles refused to meet it —” he drew a finger across his throat, then realizing this was wrong, under the circumstances, added, “Splash!”
“That’s just it,” Stephen said. “Dropping a man into a river with a rock tied to his feet isn’t a London thief’s usual style of murder. Nor is leaving behind all the gold he had on him.”
“Ah, you are an expert on London thieves?” Gilbert murmured. He spoke aside to Ida again: “He spent a dissolute youth here, you know.”
“I heard him confess to that very thing,” she said.
“Did you really?” Gilbert sounded surprised. “Oh, yes, he did, didn’t he. I had forgotten.”
“And my mother spoke of it,” Ida said.
“How could she have heard? Hafton, after all, is far from London,” Gilbert said.
“She has friends at Westminster,” Ida said. “Stephen was often in trouble and embarrassing his master, Ademar de Valence — insolence, getting into fights, gambling in the city, consorting with women of ill repute, that sort of thing. Or so we heard.”
“And we have seen he is on very good terms with brothel keepers,” Gilbert muttered. “You know, Lady Ida, I wonder if it is a good thing for your reputation to remain in his house! You might be fatally compromised!”
“I shall have to take my chances,” Ida said.
“It’s common sense,” Stephen said, ignoring these remarks about his history, which unfortunately were true, and trying to draw the conversation back to the people at the Red Candle. “Why would they resort to something so elaborate? Not to mention difficult to pull off without anybody noticing. A knife in the gut is straightforward and so much easier. London thieves are skilled but they lack imagination and flare.”
Gilbert shrugged in what Stephen took to be a general indication of agreement.
“That means we have to inquire further in Windsor,” Gilbert said. “Although I doubt it will do much good. That field’s been well ploughed by others.”
“We will have to plough it again,” Stephen said. “One good ploughing and perhaps we can give up and go home.”
“A little poorer than when we got here,” Gilbert lamented. “The finder business is not very profitable I’m afraid, my lady.”
“So I am finding out,” Ida said. “Although you seem to live rather well while doing it.” She glanced around the inn, which was well fitted out, with dark wood paneling and even wooden floors, so rare at inns. “Unlike where I was made to spend my evenings.”
“The only problem that remains,” Stephen said to Ida, “is what to do with you.”
“If you are thinking that I should find refuge in another brothel, you are mistaken,” Ida said. “I’ve had enough of brothels. Too much racket in the evenings to get any sleep. And one of the clients thought I was a working girl. It took two of the others to pry him off me. Disgusting man.”
“You didn’t want to use that handy dagger of yours?” Stephen asked.
“It could have made a mess,” Ida said. “And no doubt would have provoked all sorts of questions.”
“You shouldn’t go back to Windsor,” Stephen said. “FitzAllan’s still there and his men might see you.”
“They won’t be looking for a common girl,” she said, waving her hand at her simple gown. “Who would look twice at this?”
“Any young man?” Gilbert said softly.
Ida went on as if he had not spoken, “We can find lodgings for me in some out of the way place, and I will keep my head down. When you are done with this business, we can go home.”
“Just home,” Stephen said. “To Ludlow.”
“Yes,” Ida said.
“You weren’t safe in Ludlow before.”
“Perhaps things will be different this time,” Ida said.
“She’s either optimistic or sorely addled,” Gilbert said.
“I’m leaning toward addled,” Stephen said.
Chapter 12
It was almost sundown when they reached the southern edge of Windsor town on the road from Stanes. A cold wind carrying the scent of rain blew steadily across the road, creating tiny waves in the puddles from the recent snowfall that had melted.
Stephen was glad to get here at last, and he was sure the others felt the same. Ida shivered with each gust of the wind.
He had given a great deal of thought on the road from Southwark about what to do with her once they reached Windsor. He had to find a place where she could remain out of sight until he and Gilbert finished their business here, which he had decided to do straightaway. That is, it was more important to get Ida away from here than to find Giles’ killer. So, he would spend a day making further fruitless inquiries, and then declare to Prince Edward that he had been unable to discover anything. With that, he and the others could vanish into the west country and hopefully be forgotten.
He examined the houses in southern Windsor as they plodded by. Most of them were peasant holdings here at the extremity of Morstreet, surrounded by substantial yards with gardens and a few empty lots between them.
A short distance before Morstreet struck Sheetstreet at a fork, there were two inns across the street from each other. The sign on the one on the left was of a red rooster and the one on the right was of a green man pouring the contents of a keg into a wooden mug.
They dismounted outside the Red Rooster. Gilbert went into the Green Man to ask about rooms while Stephen went into the Red Rooster. Ida held the horses.
Stephen and Gilbert met a short time later in the street.
“Nothing there?” Stephen ask at the concerned expression on Gilbert’s rosy face.