The Lost Boys of London

by Mary Lawrence

  The roads remained muddy, the tacky, thick plodge that ruined shoes and hems of kirtles. A few months before, Bianca had purchased a pair of wooden pattens that lifted her a few inches, but they provided no purchase in the slippery slur. The fripperer had told her the previous owner was a fishwife who wore them to market so she could be lifted above the fish heads and tails that littered her stall. Unfortunately, the woman had recently met her demise choking on a perch bone and her husband had no need for the petite pair of lifts.

  Turning down Ivy Lane, Bianca wished to visit Fisk’s mother to see if he had come home. No one answered her knock. Waiting another moment, putting her ear to the door to listen for movement, proved fruitless. No neighbor peeped out a window to offer an explanation or suggestion, so Bianca continued on to Westcheap Market. For all she knew, mayhap Fisk had returned.

  She arrived well into the selling day. The better weather had brought out more customers, and already there were gaping spaces where vendors had sold all their wares and had packed their carts and left. Bianca surveyed the several butchers. She decided a methodical approach was best, and started at one end of the market.

  Bianca approached the first butcher, a man with a decidedly broad nose and snaggle tooth. She waited until he finished filling a basket for a servant maid.

  “Good day, sir,” she said, dipping in a slight curtsy. “I’m asking after the young boy found at St. Mary Magdalen’s two days back. I heard he may have frequented the market.”

  The butcher’s eyes flicked over her while he cleaned a bloody blade on his apron.

  “I can’t be sure if the lad was one and the same,” he said, laying the knife on the cart. “Not without seeing the body.” An array of cuts of pork and beef were spread before him. Bianca caught a whiff of slightly rancid meat and took a step to the side.

  “Know you his name?” she asked.

  “Nay,” he said. “I only knew the boy by sight.” He kicked a dog who roamed too close.

  “What did he look like?”

  “He looked no different from any other waif trying to get on.” The butcher wiped his hands. “He had dark hair. Was quick on his feet. The lad could run faster than a greased piglet.”

  “The victim had dark hair,” confirmed Bianca. “It would be helpful if you would view the body. It might stir your memory.”

  “I think not,” said the butcher. “Like I said, I only knew him by sight. I do not know his name.” “What else can you remember?”

  “Methinks he was part of a group of boys who frequent Paul’s Walk. They work in pairs, sometimes a group. They be clever. One of the boys makes a distraction, runs into someone, or runs through the apse hollering, his voice carrying to the rafters, making a commotion like his arse is on fire. Disrupting the polite gentlemen’s discourse.” He gave a quick mocking smile. “I grant ye, there are plenty of filching boys, but when this group appears in market ye might as well loose wild dogs for all the havoc they cause. He used to come with one other boy, but since the hanging, I haven’t seen either of them.” The butcher scratched his stubbly chin and his snaggle tooth protruded between his closed lips. “Then too, they do not dare.”

  “Why do you believe that?”

  “Me, the cord vendor, and the woman selling apples watch out for one another. If we suspect boys will make trouble, we let them know we be watching. If they try to steal and we catch them, we make sure they understand that they are not welcome.” His words hung in the air, as rank as the meat on his cart.

  “How do you…convince them?”

  The butcher moved to the side of his stall and tightened the rope securing his awning. “We take them to the constable,” he said without looking at her.

  “Constable Berwick?”

  “He be the ward lawman,” answered the butcher.

  “These groups of stealing boys,” said Bianca. “You say they are common?”

  “Aye.”

  “Think you that they are organized by an adult?”

  “It would surprise me not. Some people are too lazy to earn their own way, but they have no qualms manipulating others to do their work for them. The streets run rampant with those who exploit others.”

  “Have you heard tell of someone called the Deft Drigger?”

  The butcher snorted. “Ah, a fellow christened the king of all thieves?” He rubbed one side of an eye. “There is the Deft Drigger, the Sly Snatcher, the Cunning Cutpurse…shall I go on?”

  “Then, the name is not unique to a particular man?”

  “A scoundrel by any name is but the same.”

  “Perchance, do you know where these bands of thieving boys might live?”

  “They live on the streets. They sleep in abandoned warehouses and under empty street stalls. You’ll find them in the shadow of St. Paul’s or in graveyards next to tombs quiet as the night sky.”

  “But, surely the man called the Deft Drigger or the Sly Snatcher would have his own quarters.”

  “I do not know, nor do I care. It is not for me to find these men. But a man who uses others for his personal gain would not sleep slumped against the conduit at Charing Cross.”

  Bianca lost patience with the butcher’s vague answers and, with a mind for talking with the cord vendor and apple seller, Bianca asked the man to point them out.

  The butcher stretched his neck looking for the apple seller. “There she be,” he said, pointing to a woman wearing a russet brown waistcoat and bird turd green flatcap. A basket hung from her crooked elbow. “Goodwife Beatrice. Derdwin was late to market and took a spot on the far side. She can show you.”

  Bianca picked her way toward the woman strolling through buyers calling out her wares. Her voice had a warm flavor like mulled cider, unusual given that most vendors screeched like a rusty hinge.

  “Goodwife Beatrice,” called Bianca, waving at her. She caught up to the woman and the smell of apples lured her into buying one. “The butcher said you might know about the cutpurses at market. He said you and the cord vendor keep an eye on them.”

  “Ha!” said the woman taking hold of Bianca’s arm. “Let us speak over there where I can hear you.” She guided her to a less congested area. “What is this about cutpurses?”

  “Do you know about the boy who was found at St. Mary Magdalen’s?”

  “I heard a boy was hanged there.”

  “The butcher said he’d seen him here at market. There is mention that he belonged to a group of organized boys. Specifically, a band run by a fellow called the Deft Drigger. Have you heard tell of them?”

  “I walk this place nearly every day. For cert I recognize many faces. I might even know the names of a few. But the boy found hanged—I do not know him.”

  “Had you seen him here? The butcher told me that he noticed when the boy was gone.”

  “The boys who come through are a changeable lot. I don’t know how he can distinguish which one suddenly does not come around.” The woman made a face like the butcher was daft. “Methinks that after an absence, then one might remember when once again one sees.” The woman clarified. “You remember when you are reminded.”

  “Methinks the boy has not been buried,” said Bianca. “Might you take a look at him?”

  The woman reared away from Bianca and crossed herself. “Nay. That is a dark undertaking. The souls of the murdered look to haunt the innocent living. Ye’ll not get me in there.”

  “Then, did you notice where these boys run to?”

  “Well!” said Goodwife Beatrice. “You might ask Derdwin. He makes it his sport to chase them.”

  Bianca followed Goodwife Beatrice across the market to a barrow next to a fellow selling rabbit pelts. The fur trader enjoyed a steady business, whilst the cord vendor entertained one customer, finally convincing her to buy a lengthy hemp rope to hang her laundry.

  “Derdwin,” said Goodwife Beatrice. “The wench wants to know where the cutpurses go when you give them chase.”

 
The cord vendor stood a full head taller than most. He was a large man and Bianca likened him to the King (whom she’d glimpsed once on procession) in matters of size. She had a difficult time imagining him chasing young boys and having any success at catching them. He returned her stare, visibly unimpressed.

  Bianca introduced herself. “The constable would like to know where these dens of thieving boys be.”

  “Constable Berwick?”

  “Constable Patch, sir.”

  “Who be Patch?” The vendor asked.

  “He is assisting Berwick in the matter.” She forgave herself this small untruth.

  Derdwin exchanged looks with Goodwife Beatrice, and Bianca supposed they passed some sort of unspoken message.

  “I’ve run them as far as the alleys off Old Change, I have. The area has plenty of derelict buildings. Also near Paternoster Row.”

  “That is a large area to search.” Bianca knew how twisty and dark those alleys could be. How one rent abutted another and doors opened on alleys, providing quick exits for fleeing criminals. “You cannot be more specific?”

  Derdwin shrugged.

  “I was told that the victim at St. Mary Magdalen’s may have been part of the Deft Drigger’s band of boys.”

  His forehead creased from one side to the other in a scowl. “Pah, Deft Drigger,” he muttered. “I would say look to the back alleys near St. Paul’s I would,” he said. “And say it, I did.”

  “You’ve seen this fellow?”

  “The Deft Drigger? I have not seen him. I’ve heard tell of him, though. If I ever got me hands on the cullion I’d squeeze ‘im ‘til his pips squeak. But methinks he works his boys near the cathedral.”

  “Do you know if he is a monk? If he might call himself Brother Ewan?”

  The cord vendor said firmly, “I’ll say no more, because I know no more. I said it, and that is what I said.” He grabbed a nettle stalk from a pile behind his barrow and vigorously began separating the pith from the stem, stabbing his knife into its spongy tissue with a viciousness undeserved by a humble plant.

  ***

  Bianca left Westcheap Market and wandered down Paternoster Row. She had no idea where to look for this supposed Deft Drigger, or Brother Ewan if they were indeed one and the same. Then again, she thought about the drunk Malloy, and reminded herself she was acting on information given by a drunkard.

  She surveyed the shop fronts, and noticed the owner she’d spoken with in his establishment talking to a customer. As far as she could tell, there were no young boys milling about or even walking up the lane. Perhaps she might discover a group of cutpurses if she strolled the neighborhood around St. Paul’s and meandered down its popular walk. After all, she was familiar with a thief’s method and she knew what to look for.

  Near the front of the cathedral’s entrance, she spied two boys listlessly sitting on the stone steps and she slowed to observe them. Neither seemed lively enough or even interested in doing anything other than sit with their caps extended, begging for pennies. It is a sad predicament to be dependent on the pity and charity of others, thought Bianca.

  Where once the charity of parish churches might offer help for the disadvantaged, now they could barely maintain their buildings. The King had wrung every groat from every parish and every citizen to fund his senseless wars. All the more reason to cease the subjugation of Scotland. “We cannot even take care of our own,” muttered Bianca.

  She walked up to the boys and dropped a penny in each of their caps, asking if they’d heard about the boy at St. Mary Magdalen’s. The boys had heard, and wary looks spread across their faces. Bianca assured them that she was only trying to find the boy’s mother, and might they know his name? Both claimed ignorance, and Bianca asked if they’d heard of Brother Ewan. Bianca saw no flicker of recognition on either of their faces. The two gave the impression of staying clear of thievery, relying instead on their plaintive looks for help.

  She trudged on to visit Paul’s Walk, when a man stepped in front of her and waved a broadside in her face. The print was too close to her nose to read, and before she could object, the fellow launched an explanation that tumbled from his mouth with such speed that she could do nothing but stand there, dumbstruck, and wait for the man to run out of breath.

  Bianca had no interest in learning every word to the most popular bawdy song in London, but she could not get away from him. When she went left, he did the same. And a fake to the right, then a quick dodge was matched expertly.

  “Leave me be!” said Bianca, exasperated. “I do not want it!”

  “But think on the next time ye hear the laddies sing. Do you want to be sitting by like a mouse? This is a delightful ditty,” and the man began to croon. “As I was a-walking down a London street, a pretty little oyster girl I chanced for to meet. I lifted up her skirt and boldly I did peep, just to see if she'd got any oysters…”

  Bianca nearly slapped him as much for his failure to take no for an answer as for his impertinence. The fellow tilted his head back and boisterously sang, “O oysters, O oysters…”

  Bianca took the opportunity and got well away.

  She had not gone far when another chapman offered her his latest edition. He was considerably more mannered and accepted her refusal to buy his broadside, a rhymed account of the eight laws of villainy, including an illustrated example of each. But a few steps past she came to a halt. A thought occurred to her. She turned and looked at the man. He wore a plain fig-brown doublet with no defining trim, and his sturdy build, neither thin nor stocky, was evident in the way his hose clung to his calves and defined them. His chin ended in a pointy beard that divided the small ruffle on his smock collar. She had seen him before, frequenting this area around the cathedral.

  “Do you have others?” she asked, walking back to him.

  The man removed a satchel containing an array of printed material. He ticked off the titles of several rhymed compositions, while thumbing through his offerings.

  “Are you…Clement Naylor?” she asked, seeing the name on some of the printed material.

  “Aye,” he said, and he continued making suggestions from his selection.

  A pamphlet caught her eye, and she stopped him before he skipped over it to read the titles of more broadsides. She reached in and withdrew it.

  “What is this one about?” She read aloud the title and looked up for an explanation.

  The chapman hesitated, but lowered his voice confidentially. “It is a defense written to the king.”

  “By Robert Barnes. Was he not burned at the stake for heresy?”

  “Aye,” said Naylor. “It happened a few years ago. But there was a time when the king found his words useful. He used to preach at Paul’s Cross. His sermons always drew a crowd. Unfortunately, when the king’s chief minister fell from favor, so did Barnes.”

  “You speak of Thomas Cromwell’s demise?”

  The printer nodded.

  “Two others burned with him,” Bianca recalled. “All three maintained their innocence.”

  “They never received a trial,” said Naylor.

  “They took their sentence bravely. I remember people talking about it,” said Bianca. “And three Papists were hanged, drawn, and quartered for treason at the same time.” She flipped through the pamphlet and scanned a page, then handed it back. “Mind you not draw attention circulating this. The king might have your hands cut off.”

  The printer stuffed the pamphlet back into his satchel. “The king was once sympathetic to these ideas, when it served him to do so. Good wife, I only seek to remind.”

  “I think there is much that our king wishes to forget.”

  The printer did not argue. He gave a quick smile in acknowledgement. “I wish to remind the people.”

  “You might profit more from bawdy broadsides,” said Bianca, turning her back on the oyster man, shielding herself from his blatant glare. “That fellow makes good coin from it.”

  �
��We live in dangerous times. I believe matters of our immortal soul are more important than frivolous revel.”

  “I think you brave to sell this chapbook.”

  “I believe in what I do.”

  “Sir, can I find you here most days?”

  “I have several commitments on my time. But I often sell my works here. The gentlemen who frequent Paul’s Walk are men of some money and education. They wish to be informed or else they would come through.”

  “Perhaps you have noticed the boys who disrupt Paul’s Walk to pick purses?”

  “They arrive in drifts and waves.”

  “I am looking for someone called the Deft Drigger. He may be organizing these bands of young cutpurses.”

  “Search the alleys off Old Change. I’ve seen them run through. There is a fellow there who lives in an old tannery. He may have something to do with it.”

  “And the name--the Deft Drigger? Does it sound true to you?”

  “As true as day,” said Naylor.

  Chapter 15

  Melrose, Scotland

  They camped on the south side of a ridge and waited for nightfall. Sheep had been slaughtered to feed the men. John finished his portions then spent his time near a fire, packing his shoes with the fluffy seeds from bulrush. The leather suffered from being constantly damp, and since there was no time to let them dry, he made do with the absorbent plant that he collected from riverbanks.

  “They say Sir Eure is especially keen to march on Melrose,” said Glann McDonogh, joining his friend. The pikeman laid his weapon beside him.

  “Has Melrose not already suffered from our Lord Lieutenant’s hand? Praytell, why should we return? What makes it special?” asked John.

  “Ah,” said McDonogh, glad to inform. “Because the heart of Robert the Bruce is buried there.”

  “Who is this Robert the Bruce?”