The Lost Boys of London

by Mary Lawrence

  “This ‘offer’ is a habit of yours?” asked Bianca.

  “I…I intend to seek my fortune there, and I am a generous man. The woman’s husband has gone to war and truth be, she can ill afford taking care of her brood. The boy is of good age. If he can benefit his family, then he should.”

  “And what did Meg say?” asked Bianca.

  “Tssk. She did not take an interest.” He gave a smirking laugh. “She would rather have the boy filch at market and risk him losing a finger than give him up to earn money through honest means.”

  Bianca tipped her head. “Honest means? What would prevent you from keeping the boy’s wages for yourself?”

  “I would never do such a thing!”

  “Yet you expect Meg to agree to this with only your word as assurance?”

  Trinion glowered at Bianca. “Are you questioning my honor?”

  “You say that you have made this offer to other women?” asked Bianca, ignoring his question.

  Trinion studied her a moment before responding. “Of what do you accuse me?”

  Patch was anxious to have his say, and interrupted. “There have been a number of boys gone missing. Unfortunately, they turn up dangling from churches.”

  “That has nothing to do with me,” said Trinion.

  “But methinks ye have something to do with Fisk being gone,” said Patch.

  “Oh, nay! Not on my life! I have no hand in that!”

  “But you told Fisk’s mother that you knew who had him,” said Bianca. “And you told her you could negotiate his return.”

  Trinion avoided her eyes. His mind flitted back to the day he’d brought Meg the lock of Fisk’s hair. He had been so sure she’d be convinced. He would have pocketed the money and been on his way days ago. But he hadn’t expected her response. Meg threw the lock of hair at him and called him a scoundrel. “Do ye think me so remiss that I would not know my own son’s hair?” she had shrieked. “Ye snipped a lock from your own head, ye slugwitted cullion! A ten-year-old doesn’t have gray hair!” She then cursed him with a savagery that left no room for misunderstanding. She liked him not, and his scheme had failed.

  Trinion glanced from Bianca to Patch and back again. He needed to put an end to this ruse.

  “Truthfully, I do not know where Fisk is.”

  Bianca and Patch stared at him.

  “Why woulds ye tell his mother otherwise and raise her hopes?” said Patch. “Ye makes a mockery of motherhood.”

  “Did you expect to profit from his disappearance?” asked Bianca.

  Geve Trinion did not answer.

  “Ye are a shameless conniver,” said Patch. “I should haul ye in for being despicable.”

  “When I first approached her, my intent was to save the boy from starving,” said the now contrite Trinion.

  Patch stepped directly in front of the man, inches from his face. “Do ye think we be daft? Ye have as much care as a rat in a store of grain. Ye can’t save yer arse by continuing to lie.”

  Trinion had no more spleen for manipulation or for a weasel-eyed constable insulting him. “Who are you to enter into this matter?” he said, glaring at Patch. “Ye should mind your own ward and stay out of personal affairs. That boy is my son!” The two locked eyes.

  Bianca shook her head. Another exceptional child born to a loathsome parent.

  “I do have care,” Geve Trinion insisted.

  “Ye are a sorry excuse for a father,” said Patch, disgusted.

  Trinion’s eyes ran over Patch in his handsome doublet. “Ye have done well of it, I see. What would ye do if ye didn’t keep the law for the ward? How would ye earn your keep? You have some position and a nice doublet. But what about a man who hasn’t any luck? What is there for a man like me?” he complained.

  “Well,” said Patch. “For cert I wouldn’t be exploiting me son, no matters how desperate I was or however much I didn’t like ‘im.”

  “’Twas not about the boy. I would like him fine if I knew ‘im. But Meg kept me away. She never gave a twig’s snap for me. I tried with her years ago. Besides,” he said, feeling the heat of their judgment. “It ain’t for cert that Fisk is mine. Meg said he is, but she be a woman who could not content herself with only one man. She had her beauty then, and didn’t she know it. Enough to make a man distraught. Got her in mounds of trouble it did. But I say this now and there is no shame in saying it, one less child to feed would be helpful to her.”

  “Tell me how it benefits Meg to take her last few coins? Do you seek revenge for her lack of interest in you?” Bianca’s voice rose. She could not let this losel go without a word. “You sought to lure her with false promise. You told her you knew where Fisk was.” She’d met morally reprehensible men before, but she found this one especially difficult not to slap. “You saw this as an opportunity to profit.”

  Geve Trinion looked down at the ground.

  “For shame,” admonished Patch.

  Chapter 27

  It was as if she’d been thrown down a well. Bianca lay at the bottom of a black, sullen disappointment that she was no closer to finding Fisk than when she first learned of his disappearance. Geve Trinion proved to be nothing more than an opportunist, a scoundrel willing to capitalize on his old lover’s misfortune. She was sorry she had spent precious time uncovering his deceit, and sorrier still that he had turned out to be Fisk’s natural father. She hoped that if she ever did find Fisk that the two would never chance to meet.

  If she ever did find Fisk…

  With every passing day it seemed more unlikely. He had been gone nearly a fortnight. Too long for a child to leave home in the hopes of returning better appreciated.

  Bianca’s anxiety mounted. With no new leads to follow, she spent her time rehashing what had happened and what had been said in her search for Fisk. Nothing pieced together.

  Finally, with one day left before another possible murder, Bianca woke in the night, her heart pounding in her chest. It beat so forcefully that her entire body shook. Perspiration dampened her smock and she sat bolt upright, trying to catch her breath. She pressed her hands against her chest for fear her heart might crack her ribs and beat its way out. Panicking exacerbated the problem, but she could no longer prevent her growing trepidation. For all she knew, she had lost John and now Fisk. There was no evasion of that pain. There was only the realization of her intense grief and her attempt to accept it.

  Bianca stared at the shutters, closed against the night. One hinge had pulled away from the window trim, letting in a splinter of moonlight. The beam splayed across the floor and the covers of her bed, highlighting the uneven textures of strewn rushes and a lumpy blanket. She searched for Hobs and saw him nestled in a pile of dirty clothes on her chest. He had abandoned her to turn restlessly in bed by herself.

  The latter part of the night was spent gazing up at the rafters. Nearly sleepless, she rose early the next day. She had decided she would go to St. Paul’s and spend the day in Castle Baynard ward. She might visit Fisk’s mother and find Constable Patch to see if plans had been made to post watches at the parish churches.

  Hobs remained peacefully sleeping, content and warm on the chest. She dropped her woolen kirtle over her head and tugged at the apron he was laying upon, urging him to move.

  “Hobs,” she said. “Come now. I need this.” But as she attempted to pull the apron out from under him, the cat offered no resistance—his body was completely limp.

  “Hobs!” Bianca swept him up and held him close against her. She stroked his face and whispered in his ear. “I cannot bear it. Why you?”

  She sat on the bed with him in her lap, petting his lifeless body. Whatever malady had caused his previous episode had now returned in full strength. Remorse, that bittersweet pain of regret, settled in her hollow gut, making her feel utterly alone.

  Normally, Bianca would not connect unfortunate events with a spate of bad luck. Nor did she believe life’s inexplicable mishaps were a p
redictor of more misery to come. But her broody state of mind prevented her from considering a reasonable explanation. Life, or rather death, seemed to demand her attention.

  She cradled the black tiger in her arms, rocking him, and cried. His presence had always comforted her; he had always reminded her of life’s simple joys when one can love. In some way, taking care of him had given her purpose beyond making medicines. He had given her a reason to hope that life might return to some semblance of normalcy when John returned to her side.

  But the only certainty in life was death. And while Bianca had clung to Hob’s possible immortality, she realized that there was really no everlasting life in the sense of breathing and being. Death was our ultimate immortality.

  Bianca sat, giving no thought to time. She kissed Hobs and thanked him for his love. She thanked him for sharing his life with her. Eventually, she cried out her tears. She supposed she must have been sitting there for half the morning. She heard the soft clucking of hens outside her rent and her mind began moving past her grief. The pain was still there, it would always be there, but she could not let it color what needed to be done. She wiped her face and laid Hobs’s body back on the chest. There would be time to bury him later.

  “Blessed be, my sweet friend,” she whispered, smoothing the fur between his ears and kissed his head.

  She straightened and took a long breath. She would dress and ride a wherry to London. She would find Constable Patch and urge him to set up guards at St. Paul’s and every parish church in Castle Baynard ward. If she had to walk the circumference of St. Andrew’s, she would do it.

  As she busied her thoughts with what to do, her mind crawled out of its haze and she noticed that next to Hobs was the stained cloth she had found on the street by St. Benet’s.

  “God’s blood,” she said, picking it up, then looking at the cat.

  She raised the grimy rag to her nose and smelled its peculiar scent—a smell like no other.

  She had meant to try to find out what that smell was, but had forgotten about it. With all the other worries crowding her mind, this may have been something critical staring her in the face. She took another whiff of the cloth, bunching it up to her nose and taking a deep breath.

  Its effects were immediate. Her vision began tilting and she became dizzy. She tried steadying herself and stumbled backward onto the bed.

  Overhead, the beams circled like carrots being stirred in soup. Bianca spread her arms on either side, hoping to make the whirling stop, and groaned with nausea. She closed her eyes, waiting for her head to clear.

  “God’s tooth! What is that?”

  In some ways the rag’s sweet smell reminded her of her father’s room of alchemy. Its scent was sweet, but it had an overtone of a more acrid creation. Its unique odor completely eluded her. She had never encountered it before.

  After some time, the spinning stopped. Bianca cautiously opened her eyes and blinked up at the ceiling. It looked as solid as before. Still wary, she propped herself on her elbows and looked around. All was still. The effects were gone, she was none the worse.

  She picked up the rag and held it out like a dead mouse. “I don’t know what you are, but you’re coming with me.” She folded the filthy rag inside a clean cloth and stuffed it in her pocket.

  ***

  Borderlands Scotland

  As night fell over his shoulder, John put as much distance as he could between himself and the battlefield at Ancrum Moor. The slash of swords and the groans of dying men began to fade, though he could not help but relive the distressing sounds whenever he thought of it. With the cover of dark he decided to trek south toward the border of England, where he hoped he might find refuge. But for now he was in hostile land.

  He didn’t know the terrain with its monadhs and streams, nor did he know if and when he would cross the border. He reckoned he might be a solid day’s walk if he followed the River Tweed. But even if he were to head south, the northern reach of the kingdom was as rough and duplicitous as its neighbor. He could head southeast toward the sea, towards a port, but there was no assurance that he would find an English ship there. And if he didn’t, how would he survive until one arrived…if one arrived?

  He stood still to get his bearings. He sighted the setting sun and distant hills and corrected his course, trudging on.

  The battle had been a slaughter.

  The Scots had lain in wait. The King’s army began to scatter. The men realized the futility of fighting and abandoned their injured comrades. Everywhere John had looked, men were being captured. He held no illusions that they would be spared in prison. They would suffer misery commensurate with the torment that they had been guilty of inflicting on the Scotch. John would rather die than be taken prisoner.

  Ahead, an outcrop of ledge offered protection and a place to catch his breath. He loped towards it to lean against its lichen-covered stone, glad for the chance to rest out of sight. A man on a moor cannot escape notice, and he’d been fortunate so far. He’d not taken a straight path south, but veered east, away from the battlefield. He slid down the face of the rock and sat. His jagged breathing sounded loud in his ears, and in this rare moment of rest every breath inflicted a stabbing pain, reminding him of his injury and his folly fighting the rattlepated Roger just before the battle.

  He wondered what had become of the arrogant archer. Had he suffered an agonizing death, or had he been fortunate and had a quick one? Then again, Roger might have been taken prisoner. The charging Scots with their long pikes had skewered plenty of men, and John had fought doubly hard to keep from being stabbed. He had not dropped his weapon and run like many of his rank, but had stayed on, trying to keep his wits about him. Through no fault of his own, he was pushed backwards into the line of bowmen, who then panicked to see their protection fall apart before their eyes. With no time or distance to use their bows, the archers tried fending off their foe by using their arrows to jab enemies in the neck.

  John took off a shoe and rubbed his sore foot. Scenes of the battle played before his eyes. He never saw what became of his friend, Glann McDonogh. The Irishman had been at a sore disadvantage with his flux plaguing him so. He should have stayed back with the supply wagons, but John suspected even they had been ruined and their supplies confiscated. No one had escaped the Scots’ furious retribution. With a sigh of regret, he hoped Glann had died quickly. The mercenary would not have survived long in prison in his condition, and he would have hated to shit himself to death.

  John cautiously peeked around the corner of the ledge. As far as he could tell, no one was in sight, so he used the remaining daylight to remove his jack and examine a wound. His left arm had been sliced, and rolling up the sleeve of his blood-soaked smock, he found that the slash still bled. He tore a strip of fabric from the hem of his shirt and wound it around his arm. The applied pressure helped to distract from the sting.

  Soon, night would fall, and John would need to keep moving to assure his safety. If he kept the mountains over his right shoulder and followed the river, eventually he would reach the ocean. Once there, he could follow the coastline south until he found a friendly port. It was his only hope, really. Looking out over the vast, wild terrain, his chances of surviving a walk to London were poor. What roads were there—what thieves preyed on men such as he, ignorant of the terrain and the rules of the road? Either way, he would have to rely on the charity of strangers to shelter and point him in the right direction.

  John closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the ledge, inhaling the smell of damp earth both comforting and disconcerting. Comforting in the sense that now he could rest. Disconcerting in that he was not home in London. He wondered what Bianca was doing. He wondered if she struggled under the responsibility of motherhood, or whether she reveled in the challenge and joy of seeing their son grow. He sat for a time, waiting for night to fall and for the Queen oon to show her luminous face. He would travel by the light of her gibbous smile, enough for him to
see his way. With luck he would be near the ocean by morning.

  ***

  Bianca cut through alleys and gardens on her way to the stairs at Winchester Place. Her first matter of order was to find Constable Patch and see what, if anything, was being planned to thwart another murder. She stood with three other women waiting to take a ferry across and listened to their chatter about Goodwife Hayden’s goat getting loose and eating the flowers off Alewife Bently’s witch hazel.

  “I looks forward to them bloomin’ ever’ year,” said one woman. “I knows then that spring is not so long afar.”

  “I cut the branches and bring it inside. It makes for a smite better smellin’ room,” said another.

  The mention of witch hazel called to mind other uses for the bark and Bianca remembered that her own supply was running low. When she had a chance, she needed to forage for more, but first she needed to get through this day and night.

  As she watched a wherry float towards the stairs, she made out the tell-tale red cap of Meddybemps sitting among the passengers. He caught sight of her as they neared, and rather than disembark and wait for a second boat, he stayed seated and waited for Bianca to board.

  “What brings you to the South Bank?” she asked as she sat down beside him.

  “You, my dove. I haven’t saved a fare, but at least you have saved me the walk to your room.”

  One of the women concerned with Alewife Bently’s witch hazel sat down next to them. She could have chosen a seat by her friends, and Meddybemps tartly pointed this out.

  “I have private words for this lady,” he said, pointedly.

  The woman gave Bianca a snide look. She did not argue, but got to her feet in a great show of inconvenience and moved ahead to share a seat with the other women, whispering so that each of them, in turn, snuck a glance over her shoulder, then shared comments on the inscrutable pair.

  Meddybemps rolled his eyes, which, given their independent orbits, looked freakish. It was good that only Bianca saw the gesture.

  “I’m guessing you don’t need any medicines for market,” she said.