The Secret of the Rose

by Sarah L. Thomson

Robin was old enough to hire out as an apprentice. And I…well, I could at the very worst find a servant’s place. My lip curled a little at the thought of brushing clothes and scrubbing floors. But I would do it, if need be. If it was the only way to help our father.

  Robin let out his breath at my words. “Aye, Father will know.” He was frightened, too, I realized. I should not have spoken so sharply to him. “Which way, then?” he asked.

  A very good question. The street had narrowed so that the upper stories of the houses almost blocked out what little light there was. We’d left the crowds behind. Except for a pig rooting through the garbage that filled the gutter, Robin and I were alone.

  I looked ahead, trying to see Ludgate or the old city wall, but did not succeed. Robin smirked. “Thou dost not know the way?”

  “Well, at Ludgate we can ask again.” But surely we should have reached the gate by now. I began to wonder if we’d gone the wrong way.

  “Art lost, then?”

  I turned, my heart giving a sudden painful jolt under my ribs. There behind us was the apprentice who’d given us directions. Now his smile was broader and there was another man with him, one eye drooping in a squint that gave him an evil leer.

  I took a step backward. “No, I thank you. All’s well.”

  “I told thee to turn at the surgeon’s. Didst not attend?”

  “No, you told us—” I faltered, looking at those pale eyes. “Robin, run,” I whispered.

  But I’d left it too late. Even as I spun around to flee, his hand grasped my arm and yanked, and I fell sprawling to the muddy street. I heard Robin cry out, with rage or maybe pain, I couldn’t tell. The hand on my arm pulled me up, but I could not find my balance to resist as he dragged me, stumbling, half falling, into a gap between two houses.

  He threw me down on my back and was kneeling beside me, one hand pinning my shoulder to the ground, the other fumbling at my skirts. Behind him I could see that the man with the squint had hold of Robin, one hand over his mouth, the other twisting an arm cruelly behind his back. “Why all this fuss, then?” the apprentice panted, his cheeks flushed red. His hot, damp breath in my face was sour, with a smell of stale wine, and his pale eyes were at once clouded and shining, like thick, murky glass. “Why dost wander the streets alone, speaking to men, shameless, if thou dost not want—”

  He stopped. My skirts were above my knees, his hand groping up my bare leg. “What’s this?” A slow grin spread over his face. “There’s more here—” His hand closed around the heavy purse that hung from my girdle and wrenched it free.

  “No!” I shrieked. Shock and terror had stolen my tongue until that moment, but that he should take my money—our money—money I needed, if I were ever to help my father—was enough to move me to action.

  I thrashed against his hand, kicking wildly. He was still staring at the purse he now held, astonished at its weight. One of my feet caught him in the ribs, and the other, more by luck than by planning, squarely between his legs. He doubled over, clutching himself and letting out a short, startled moan. I scrambled to my feet just as the man holding Robin let him go and darted forward to seize the purse from his companion’s unresisting fingers.

  “Run!” I shouted to Robin.

  In fact, I do not think they chased us. The man with the squint may have been satisfied with what he’d already gained; the man I had kicked was not likely to chase anything. But at the time I did not think of that, or even look behind me to see if anyone was following. I only ran blindly, around corners, down more narrow side streets, through squares and alleys, ducking and pushing through crowds, hardly noticing whether Robin was with me. I felt as if those pale eyes were just behind me, that rough hand reaching out for me, that mocking voice in my ear. Art lost, then?

  When at last I had to stop for want of breath, we were in another narrow, winding street; I had no notion which one. But it was fairly full of people, even in the gathering darkness. It seemed safe.

  My knees wouldn’t hold me. I sat down abruptly by the side of the road, not caring how filthy the ground was or what would become of my already stained skirts.

  Robin crouched beside me. His skinny face was pinched with remorse. “Rosalind? Art hurt? I am sorry, I could not….”

  He was sorry. My little brother, four years younger, was sorry he could not save me from two grown men, each easily twice his size. A sob came from somewhere near my heart. How could Robin protect me? He was only a boy. He should be swimming in the river back home, or planning ways to disrupt Master Crabbe’s lessons in Latin grammar, or running races with the friends who wouldn’t talk to him now that they knew the truth of what he was. He should not be trying to save me from men who wanted—who wanted—

  And now our money was gone. The friends we’d hoped to find had been taken. We were lost in London. Robin could not keep me safe, and neither could Father. No one would help us.

  Wooden cartwheels and horse’s hooves passed us by. Feet in buckled shoes or high boots or wooden clogs walked indifferently along. No doubt their owners saw worse things every day than a bedraggled girl crying by the roadside and her brother patting her shoulder in awkward comfort.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AUGUST 1592

  But after a time I had to be done crying at last, and dry my face on my sleeve, and take stock of myself. Robin and I were sitting in a dark and dirty street, in front of a small draper’s shop, the shutters now closed tightly for the night. My shoulder ached, and I was sore and stiff on hip and elbow where I’d landed on the cobblestones, but other than that I was not hurt. I brushed helplessly at the muddy patches on my skirts, to no effect. I would just have to be filthy until I found a way to be clean again.

  “Rosalind?” Robin was still peering at me anxiously. “Art hurt? That man?”

  “Do not speak of it.”

  “But he—”

  “Do not speak of it!” Although I had stopped crying, my voice still frayed around the edges, and sympathy from my pest of a little brother was likely to start the tears again. I did not want to talk about the man with the pale gray eyes; I did not want to think about him. Frantically I cast about for something else to occupy my thoughts. “Thy sack, Robin,” I demanded. “Where is it?”

  “I—” Robin looked down, as if startled, at his empty hands.

  “Didst drop it?”

  “Thou didst as well!”

  I realized he was right; my sack was gone also. In it had been the few things I’d managed to save from home—an ivory comb, my scissors, a packet of needles and thread, a coral necklace, a warm winter cloak with a fur-lined hood. Well, it would be some little time before I’d be needing that, at least.

  “’Twas not my fault,” Robin said, a little angrily.

  “No,” I agreed with a sigh. “Never mind it. Art hurt? Thine arm?”

  “No.” He rubbed at his arm gingerly. “’Tis nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Dost still have the purse I gave thee?”

  Robin’s eyes widened with eagerness. “Yes! I have it here!”

  “Do not take it out!” Robin’s hand dropped away from his belt, where our second purse hung, hidden inside his loose breeches. It did not hold much, not nearly as much as the one I had carried. But I’d thought it wise to give him a few shillings in case we were separated. I was not even sure it would be enough for a night at the cheapest inn. But it would keep us from begging for a day or two.

  Tears welled up again, and I tipped my head back and squeezed my eyes shut tight to keep them from overflowing.

  Robin tugged at my arm. “Rosalind?”

  “Leave me be,” I whispered. We’d lost our home, we’d lost our friends, and now we’d lost our money, too. We’d hardly anything left.

  “Rosalind!” Robin insisted.

  Annoyance with my brother was such a comforting, familiar emotion. I turned to him, opening my eyes again. “What is’t! Why must thou—”

  He pointed over my shoulder.

  Behind me, the dr
aper whose shop we were sitting in front of waved a broom. “Be off!” he commanded. “Or I’ll call the watch on you. Vagabonds, idle, wretched—”

  Robin was on his feet, and I jumped up, too, and clutched at his shoulder, pulling him away before the angry shopkeeper could have the law on us. Safely around the corner, I stopped, hesitating, and looked back. The man did not seem to have followed, satisfied with having swept us away from his shop like trash into the gutter.

  “Where will we go?” Robin asked me.

  Must I always decide? I looked around helplessly.

  “We’ve no money for an inn.”

  As if I did not know it. But where, in this terrible city, could we find a safe place for the night, somewhere we would not be turned out by a shopkeeper or householder, somewhere the law would not take us in for vagabonds, to be flogged and branded and sent on our way, as if we had anywhere to go?

  Something caught my eye. “There,” I said, pointing, and pulled Robin across the street with me. “Look, perhaps here.”

  It could hardly even be called an alley, only a gap between two buildings, two feet wide at most and black as midnight. I hesitated, but then I heard a deep voice call out from around the corner, “Nine o’clock! Nine o’clock and all’s well!”

  The watch! Terror-stricken, I pushed Robin into the tiny passage and shoved my way in after him. Nine o’clock was the time all decent citizens should be safely at home. We could not afford to be seen on the streets so late.

  We stumbled forward, brushing the walls with our shoulders. Robin stopped, and I bumped into him.

  “A dead end,” he whispered.

  “Then we’ll stay here,” I whispered back. As good a place as any. I sat down with my back against a wall. Robin settled beside me.

  “Rosalind?” he said after a few minutes.

  “Aye.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  How could he think of his stomach? Mine roiled and twisted like a knot of snakes.

  “In the morning, Robin. I’ll find thee some bread in the morning.”

  After a time Robin’s slow, deep breathing told me that he slept. I shifted to put my arm around his shoulders, and without waking he turned and nestled into me so that his head rested on my lap. His warmth was a comfort against the damp chill of the stone wall at my back.

  I was at least as tired as he was; we’d walked so far that day, eager to reach London. Then there had been that panicked run through the streets. And we’d not eaten since noon. I’d thought there would be food for us at the Eastfields. I’d thought there would be safety.

  My eyes drifted shut, then snapped open again with a prickle of fear.

  I’d crawled into this alley like a wounded animal going to earth in a cave, but there were still sounds from the city outside drifting into our dark refuge—laughter, a snatch of drunken song, a belated cart thumping its wooden wheels along the cobblestones. Who could be abroad so late and what were they doing? At any moment, I felt, something could invade our hiding place—the watch, an apprentice with strange, pale eyes. Or the men who’d arrested the Eastfields, somehow hunting us down…

  How had the Eastfields been betrayed? Had they been known as friends of our father? Or had he—I flinched from the thought, but it would not be denied—had he spoken their names to an interrogator in prison? He would not willingly have betrayed them, but the queen’s agents had ways of forcing a man’s tongue. He may have had no choice.

  Just as he’d had no choice the night he’d allowed Sheriff Chapman, along with the men he had pressed into service, into our house.

  None of them had seen me. Before my father had stepped away from the door, I’d retreated silently into the garden, where Robin had been dawdling, throwing stones at the crows. He and I had slipped out the back gate and had hidden near the river.

  What was happening in our house was as present to my mind as if I’d been there watching. Huddled silent in the bushes with my brother, crushing sprigs of rosemary in my hands, I imagined men I’d known since childhood tearing the covers off the beds, dumping out chests, raking through the ashes in the fireplace. Was it Hugh Forrester, the father of Robin’s friend Hal, who pried up the loose board near the hearth and found the silver chalice and patten hidden underneath? Was it Adam Chandler, who’d given me sweet plums and gingerbread when I was a little girl, who discovered the hidden closet upstairs, built alongside the chimney, just large enough to hold a man?

  It had been empty, thankfully. That was the only touch of mercy about the whole business. The chalice and the patten to hold the wine and bread of the Mass were enough to prove that we were Catholics, but the empty closet did not prove that we harbored priests.

  We had done so, of course. Ten that I could remember. Each had stayed with us a few days in secret and then moved on to other towns to say Mass and hear confession and lift the weight of sin from faithful souls. All those things that the laws of England now made crimes, and those who did them traitors. Traitors whose heads could be set over London Bridge.

  Robin and I had stayed hidden until dark had truly fallen. Then we’d dared to creep out and make our way back into our own house.

  It would have been too dangerous to light a candle. We’d groped over furniture that had been overturned or shoved into unfamiliar places. My hands were shaking as I tried to gather up the few things I could tell, by their feel, might be useful or valuable. Father kept his strong-box safely hidden in his bedroom and the key, of course, was with him. But an axe did the work as well. The crack as the metal blade bit deep into the wood made my heart leap up into my mouth as I knelt, stuffing handfuls of clinking coins into my purse. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. I told Robin we could risk no more time. We must go.

  We’d walked all that night, slept the next day in a hedge, and reached the Eyres the following morning. They had fed and comforted us as best they could and sent us on our way, nearly two weary weeks of walking to reach London and the Eastfields and a new place to call home.

  The city had grown silent. No more late revelers or tradesmen’s carts hurrying home. The sound of running feet made my heart thump, but they passed our cavelike alley without even slowing down.

  I remembered my father, in the sunlit garden, making me repeat my lesson in flight and refuge. The Masons, the Eyres, the Eastfields. Then he’d reached out and suddenly taken me in his arms, all but crushing me.

  “God keep thee safe, Rosalind,” he’d whispered into my hair. “And thy brother. God watch over thee.”

  But there was no such thing as safety. And now the money that I had meant to help my father—to pay the fees for his food and drink and for a private cell and a bed, to keep the irons off his feet and hands—that money was gone.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” I whispered. “I did my best. I truly did.”

  The emptiness of waiting for an answer that could not come made me weep again for a while.

  But at last my body’s exhaustion had its say and I could not keep my eyes open any longer, despite the fear that crept in and curled next to me, so that the three of us slept huddled together, my brother and myself and my dread of what might be waiting for us in the dark.

  When I woke in the morning, Robin was gone.

  I found myself lying on my side, my head resting on one arm. I sat up with a panicked gasp. It was late, the sun well risen, the bright morning light finding its way even into this narrow passage. How could I have slept so long? And where was Robin? How would I face my father if something had happened to my brother?

  Then there was a patter of feet on the cobblestones and Robin appeared, slipping around the mouth of the tiny alley. He grinned to see me awake. In one hand he held a loaf of brown bread.

  “Robin!” I all but shrieked, forgetting that the owners of the houses on either side might hear and be less than pleased to find two vagabonds on their property. “Where hast been? Do not leave me like that. I thought—”

  Robin’s smile vanished, and he sat down beside me with a
thump, ripping a chunk of bread off the loaf. “I told thee I was hungry,” he muttered around a bite.

  I found that I was, too. I reached over and tore off a piece of the bread for myself—coarse and brown and burnt on the bottom, but still fresh and warm. After swallowing several bites, I felt I could forgive Robin for the fright he’d dealt me.

  “’Tis good,” I said, and he looked a bit mollified. “How much didst pay for it?” I made up my mind I would not scold him even if he’d been cheated.

  “Little.”

  “No, how much? We must be careful of our money.”

  Robin slid a sidelong glance at me, and I lowered the last bite of bread from my mouth. “Robin?”

  “He had so much, Rosalind,” Robin said in a wheedling tone. “Dozens of loaves all laid out. He’ll hardly notice the loss. And he was fat, he could not run—”

  “Thou stolst this?”

  “But it was—”

  “Robert Archer!” I was on my feet, furious. “Stealing! Hast no pride? Hast no sense? What if the baker had caught thee?”

  Robin stood up as well, his cheeks flushing red. “But we needed—”

  “I care not! Robin, for shame. What will our father say when he hears of this? That he has a thief for a son?”

  Robin opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again and stared at the ground, a crust of the stolen bread still gripped in his fist.

  “Come,” I insisted, and seized him by the arm, pulling him after me out into the street. I made him show me the baker’s store, and would have marched him up to the counter to apologize. But then I hesitated.

  And if the baker would not be satisfied with an apology and payment? If he seized Robin and handed him over to the law? We could not risk it.

  “Give me a penny,” I whispered in his ear. Shamefaced, he dug into his purse and handed me a silver coin. “And stay out of sight,” I told him, and made my way up to the baker’s window. As I waited for my turn, I looked on loaves and rolls, tarts and gingerbread, and had a moment’s sympathy for Robin as the smells of yeast and flour and honey and ginger wafted up to my nose.