The Lost Boys of London

by Mary Lawrence

  An unenthusiastic murmur recited in unison, “Thirty blows that wound cleanse away evil; beatings make clean the innermost parts.”

  When they had finished, the man nodded in approval. “What is your name, boy?” he asked of the newcomer.

  “I am Thomas.”

  “Thomas, you shall come to know your God by our works. What I do, I do in the name of Our Lord, for Him, so that you will be welcomed into His kingdom.”

  The man rose from his chair and went to a tall ledge and retrieved a carved wood stick with leather strips attached. At the sight of the implement, the boys’ eyes grew round and there was a collective intake of breath.

  “Luke.”

  The child trembled.

  “You do not want to end like the boy at St. Mary Magdalen’s Church.”

  “Nay, sir,” Luke vehemently confirmed.

  He addressed the group, “Each of you must do penance with a chaste heart.” He looked at Luke. “Remove your jerkin and smock.”

  The child closed his eyes a long second, then did as he was told. He handed his clothing to the new boy and began shivering.

  “Turn around, boy.”

  With tears already streaming down his cheeks, Luke faced the coterie of cutpurses.

  Then came the sickening sound of whip to skin. Luke cried out and reaped a second, ferocious blow for his outburst.

  Thomas stood open mouthed, stunned, too scared to move. He snuck a glance at the other boys who were staring at the ground in front of their feet. No one came to Luke’s rescue. No one questioned the monk’s harsh handling.

  Halfway through the beating, the lashes lost their crisp violence, but continued until thirty strokes had been delivered. When finished, the man dropped into his chair and bowed his head. His lips moved as if he was talking to himself.

  Luke, having braced himself against the sting and impact, remained standing throughout the ordeal. He had difficulty straightening, but took his clothes from Thomas without meeting his eye. The boys parted to let him through.

  Feeling as if he were to blame for Luke’s punishment, it was with some relief for Thomas when his master spoke.

  “Thomas,” said the man, finally looking up. “Dress Luke’s wounds and give him drink.”

  Chapter 9

  While some boys watched vendors and streetsellers for the chance to steal, some watched others for the chance to roll an iron hoop off a broken barrel. A ruckus of shouts and heads bobbing past his window drew Huet from Jane Clewes’s rent. He followed the noisy boys down the lane and around the corner, delighting in their sport.

  As best as he could tell, the object was to keep the hoop rolling. They chased after, whacking it with a flattened plank of wood to keep it spinning. Huet watched as the ring gathered speed down a smooth stretch of road and became excited when it got away from them and headed straight for a water bearer.

  The unsuspecting woman labored under the weight of her yoke and jugs. Even if she knew she was headed for disaster, there was not enough time for her to change course. Huet understood this and thrilled to see what would happen next.

  One valiant dark-haired boy ran after the hoop, his arms flailing as he tried to control the added momentum from the pitch of the road. The other boys stopped in their steps, anticipating an impending collision.

  At the last second, the woman realized her misfortune, and her only reaction was to try turning away from the iron ring. The boy ran up just as the hoop hit her side, upsetting a jug of water, which spilled in the lane.

  The force caused her to slip and she landed on her side, both jugs toppling over. She cursed after the boy and the wasted effort of toting two heavy jugs.

  Aware that he was the cause of the woman’s distress, the dark-haired boy had not the courage to own his part in the mess. He recovered his hoop and ran back up the hill in pursuit of his friends who had stayed long enough to get an eyeful and then abandon him.

  Torn between watching the woman curse and following the mischievous boys, Huet chose the more merry of the choices and with a hopeful smile loped after the ragamuffins in pursuit of their next adventure.

  Huet found them one street over, laughing and imitating the woman. The dark-haired boy who had gone after the ring stood a little to the side, a half smile on his face, watching.

  “I think we should go back and help her,” he said.

  “Aws. Ye know how heavy them jugs be?” noted one of the imps.

  “That is why we should help her. No doubt she filled them from the conduit at Charing Cross. It’s a trek.”

  Another lad piped up, “People are always getting knocked over. It could have been anyone who’d made her spill.”

  The boy protesting the weight of water jugs grabbed the ring and shooed him away. “If ye be so concerned, then go help her. Ye can be the kindly neighbor. But don’t be surprised if she curses ye instead.” With a dismissive toss of his head he set the ring to rolling and the hellions instantly forgot the incident to follow after.

  The dark-haired boy watched them go, then looked back as if trying to decide what to do. He noticed Huet standing in the middle of the road staring at him. “What do ye want?”

  Huet didn’t respond. He just stood there. He watched the clutch of boys disappear around a corner.

  The boy frowned, scrunching up his eyes with distrust. “Ye thinking of following them?” he asked. He tipped his head sideways like an inquisitive dog. “Methinks ye is too old to run with the likes of them!”

  Huet blinked at the rascal who had just rejected him. His gaze dropped to the ground. The cruel sting of disappointment made his gut begin to churn, urging him to lash out. He resisted its rebuke, but it gnawed and scolded him.

  He looked up, ready to lunge for the dark-haired boy.

  But his questioner had already gone.

  ***

  Fisk ran to the end of the road looking for his band of friends, and, not seeing them in the crowded streets, abandoned them to listen to his guilty conscience. It sat on his shoulder and boxed his ear to the point where he circled back to find the water bearer whose load he had caused to spill.

  She was nowhere in sight.

  Relieved of an unpleasant hour refilling and toting water jugs, he instead trekked beyond Newgate to Smithfield where he collected arrowheads and sold them back to an arrowsmith on Bowyer Row. With coin in hand, he bought himself a roasted chestnut which he gobbled. Afterwards he felt remorseful having indulged, so he spent the remainder on bread for his mother. His adventures over for the day, he headed home.

  At the head of Ivy Lane, Fisk slowed when he saw his mother talking with a tall, coarse-looking man outside their rent. His jerkin was worn and soiled. His beard was in need of a trim. Fisk had never seen the fellow before. His instincts told him to slip into the shadows and listen.

  “Think on what your husband would say if he knew the truth.”

  “And shall you sail to France to tell him? Take yourself and your threats elsewhere. I’ve no time for this.” Fisk’s mother started to close the door but the man planted himself firmly on the threshold.

  “The war is over. He shall soon return,” he said.

  “The skirmish in France will continue,” said Fisk’s mother. “Mayhap you hear the news from Scotland and think it is of France that they speak. I will not listen to hearsay, nor should you. Not until I see him with my own eyes will I believe the fighting is over. The French are as stubborn as our king. My husband is not coming home anytime soon.”

  “All the more reason for you to consider my offer.” He rocked back on his heels in a superior stance. “What man abandons his wife to feed four mouths with nothing but her wits to keep them alive?”

  Her voice rose. “He did not abandon me. He did as much as he could. Children grow and they eat more.”

  “Two hands to work, one mouth to feed. Send him to me. I will make more and you shall receive his wages.”

  “I will not. You h
ad better leave.”

  “Fool woman. Do ye not trust me?”

  “Ha! I trusted ye ten years ago and then ye left me to mend the damage.”

  “I was a reckless man. But that is in the past. I have come to make amends.”

  “Ye have come to take advantage. Now, get away. I’ll hear no more of it.”

  The man’s tone became threatening. “Ye will regret this,” he warned.

  But Fisk’s mother had heard enough. She gave him a forceful shove and slammed the door in his face.

  The man cursed and beat on the door.

  If Fisk were older he’d demand the fellow to leave. If the man refused, he would have punched his face and sent him running instead. But the man dropped his arms to his side and stood a moment. He stepped back and studied the front of the building. Fortunately, the shutters were lashed from the inside so there was no easy entry for the man to exploit.

  Fisk watched the cozen from his cover of shadow, and saw the man’s dark eyes and the weary circles under them. What had this man done ten years ago that had made his mother so bitter? And what did he mean ‘two hands to work, one mouth to feed’? The man had long limbs and a narrow chest, reminiscent of his own gangly physique. It was difficult to tell, but the man’s hair looked black. As black as his own.

  A thought occurred to Fisk that fell into the pit in his stomach.

  He was ten years old.

  This man was so unlike the father who had gone to fight Henry’s war in France. This man was coarse and slippery. The visitor turned and started up the lane in his direction. Fisk decided too late that he should have run. Instead, he crouched behind a barrel and listened to the man’s steps squish in the fetid mud, then stop.

  Chapter 10

  Jane Clewes felt for loose strands of thinning hair and tucked them under her coif with trembling fingers. She set down her reading, a pamphlet she’d purchased near St. Paul’s. She opened her door a crack and stuck her nose out, her pale eyes darting about, checking for passersby. Satisfied that no one was about, she took her trowel and stepped out upon the row of moss-mottled bricks that constructed her stoop.

  She and Huet had the corner rent on a well-traveled lane. The entry was on the side of the building along a narrow path that ended at the back door of a second tenement broadside to their own. This dour rent was all she could afford. For a while she’d earned a little extra with her stitching, but now her shaking hands made it impossible to thread a needle. Instead, she’d recently taken up spinning wool. She was quick at it and had already finished the batts she’d been given.

  Jane kept a wary eye out for inquisitive neighbors while searching for a spot where she could dig a hole, given her limited strength. She found an area partway down the path towards the back residence and knelt to scrape away the layer of rotting leaves to get to the spongy ground beneath.

  They had not lived there long. She wanted to avoid the gossip that would certainly have circulated had she stayed in her previous residence. A woman such as she, living alone, then suddenly and inexplicably accompanied by a young man, had stirred people’s notice. People with their spiteful stares. She feared their questions and had successfully avoided them by moving when she felt the heat of their curiosity warm her face. How would she explain it? She wouldn’t. And her silence would have incited hurtful speculation--the kind she could no longer endure.

  To her way of thinking, she had spent a lifetime paying for her sins, and she saw no need to compound her sorrow now.

  Jane heard voices in the lane and got to her feet, hiding the trowel behind her back. If anyone asked what she was doing she would say she was planting an acorn. Let them think she was mad. Better that than the truth.

  But no one cared. No one even noticed.

  “There,” she said, sizing up the divot she’d dug. She went back inside and returned carrying a squirrel, its limp body draped across the blade of her trowel. Despite her efforts, the hole was not long enough, so she curled the animal into a ball then covered it with the damp, cool soil. Even animals deserved a prayer. She recited a short one, then tamped the ground with her shoe.

  “You’ll not be bothered anymore,” she said. “I warned ye.” She pointed the trowel at the mound of dirt. “I told ye not to bite him. He knows not the nature of beasts.” She clucked her tongue staring down at the little grave, thinking what a shame.

  A gust of wind channeled down the narrow path and the cold seeped through her layers, through her heavy woolen kirtle, and straight to her bones. She hurried back to the tenement and put the trowel on the stoop, needing both hands to release the stubborn latch. The door finally gave. She bent over for the implement--and a small leather pouch caught her eye.

  It lay against the bricks as if purposely placed there to escape the notice of anyone passing by on the lane. It could only be seen from the other side of the stoop. Jane glanced around. No one was near to claim it, so she snatched it up. She cautiously loosened the drawstring and poked her finger inside.

  She gasped. Five crown! She cinched the pouch tight and clenched it in her fist. What she could do with that. She hurried inside and secured the door.

  Never in her life had she found a sum of money. Was it a gift? She glanced up, half expecting to see an angel smiling and applauding her. Or had someone put it there for safe-keeping? Surely if it were the latter, whoever left it would soon be back to collect it. She checked the door again and threw the second bolt. What if they broke down her door and accused her of stealing?

  But how would they know that it was she who had taken it? Her legs shaking, she went to a rickety stool and sat. Someone else could have taken it just as easily, she reasoned.

  Jane shook her head. Nay, she must give it to the parish. She’d give it to Father Rhys. That was the gracious way to handle this. Though she desperately needed the funds, she remembered that a heavenly reward must take precedence over an earthly one. She must be charitable. “Faith must be shown by my good deeds,” she declared.

  But what if someone gave it to her? What if someone left it there for her to find? Jane furrowed her brow, thinking. Then she should keep it. But who would be so kind? Who even knew that she was there? She gasped. Someone knew her situation, she had been found out! Her body tensed. She’d been so careful.

  She went to the window and cracked open the shutter, searching the lane. A cat slinked along the building opposite, keeping to the shadows. The bells of St. Andrew’s chimed in the distance. She then went to the window on the side of the more traveled road. No one paid any notice of her.

  Jane turned her back against the window and leaned against it, clutching the bag of coin to her bosom. For the time being, she could hide the purse of money. She would keep it safe. Besides, she didn’t have to decide what to do that very moment. After all, God took seven days to create heaven and earth. She could take her time, too.

  And she would watch. She’d find out who left the purse of coin by her stoop. She’d be ready when they returned.

  ***

  Bianca left the shop on Paternoster Row and sought Meddybemps at Newgate Market close by. If she hurried, she could catch him before he left for the day. Not only did she want to see how her new tincture was selling, but she wanted to find out if he had heard about the boy at St. Mary Magdalen’s.

  She picked out Meddybemps’s ubiquitous red cap in a sea of brown and black toppers, and, when she neared his vending cart, she heard his familiar voice trying to charm a woman into buying one of his talismans.

  The final sale of the day often brought out the poet in him, and he threw propriety to the wind as he pattered—

  “A maid did sleep in her good man’s keep,

  Notta me, notta yew, notta too,

  When at her door, came a knock of four,

  Notta me, notta yew, notta too.

  Open maid and let me in

  Notta me, notta yew, notta too.

  For your true love I hope to win.

&
nbsp; Notta me, notta yew, notta too.

  Oh nay, my man would like it not!

  Notta me, notta yew, notta too.

  He’ll see the soup gone half a pot!

  Notta me, notta yew, notta too.

  Some warmth I need, I speak this true.

  Notta me, notta yew, notta too.

  Look on my feet they are doth blue!

  Notta me, notta yew, notta too.

  The maid obliged and let him in,

  Notta me, notta yew, notta too.

  And half the day they spent in sin.

  Notta me, notta yew, notta too.

  I’ve never ate such lovely stew

  Notta me, notta yew, notta too.

  My feet are warm, no longer blue

  Notta me, notta yew, notta too.

  He wiped his mouth, and bid farewell

  Notta me, notta yew, notta too.

  Her pot still full, but she won’t tell.”

  Meddybemps covered his mouth in a coy pretense at surprise then with a hint of glee grandly bowed before the goodwife. “This one doth suit the apple blush of your cheek, m’lady.” He removed a necklace from his display and laid the locket against his dark sleeve. It had a red rose painted on its surface--a finer item than his usual fare of turtle skulls and iridescent beetles preserved with lacquer.

  The woman swelled from Meddybemps’s attention, and after some flirtatious dickering parted with her coin.

  “Goodwife, none shall wear it better than you. Forsooth, our queen in all her riches, dressed in a hundred emeralds and rubies, does pale by comparison. You shall regret it not.” He then hung the pendant about her neck and stood back to admire her. He pressed a hand to his heart as if she took his breath away. “Exquisite,” said he, “Fare thee well, fine beauty. This charm shall bring you much pleasure.” He watched her leave, waiting for her to look back one last time, and when she did, he blew her a kiss, thus sealing the deal.

  “You are a master of false flattery, sir,” said Bianca, watching his performance.

  “But no one returns the goods, unsatisfied.” Meddybemps’s wayward eye danced. “My method benefits you. Those skeptical of a liquid in a bottle are convinced once I finish wooing them. Though I admit, it is a rare person who does not know about the remedies that I sell. If needed, a little persuasion tips the scales.”