by Barbara Kyle
“He knows nothing.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“If he did he would bargain. He saw your purse.”
Isabel grudgingly accepted this. “I’m going to ask some of the prisoners. There’s one over there who—” She stopped, seeing a man approach her. He was short and slight, and wore yellow hose on skinny legs that showed under a once-fine russet doublet. A broad yellow feather arched out of his stained yellow cap. Hope fluttered in Isabel’s breast. Had this man overheard her inquiry, and was he coming forward with information? Just then, the mercenary stepped between her and the man, to speak to Isabel. The man raised his arm and tapped the mercenary’s back.
The mercenary spun around in a motion of pure instinct, grabbed two fistfuls of the man’s doublet at his throat and almost lifted him off the floor. On tiptoes, the man stared in helpless terror, the feather atop his head quivering. The mercenary’s action had been swift, and in the next moment he seemed to realize his error. He set down his victim. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir!” the man stuttered in fear, backing away. “I want nothing!” He turned, scurried through the ward, and disappeared. The buzzing conversations in the room had quieted. Several people were looking with suspicion at the mercenary.
“He might have known something,” Isabel groaned in frustration. “He might have seen my father.”
The mercenary shrugged, an apparent apology.
“Well, go after him,” she whispered.
When he hesitated she said, “I’ll do better alone than with you terrorizing everyone into silence. Now, go after him. Let me manage these inquiries in a civilized way.”
The mercenary’s frown was deep. But he strode away.
Isabel turned, and the big-bellied man in the corner caught her eye. He made his courtly bow again and beckoned her over. Isabel smiled with hope. Definitely, she would do better here without the mercenary.
But the man only wanted to invite her to his room to share his dinner. He knew nothing about her father. Neither did anyone else in the ward to whom she spoke. She walked back out to the Painted Ground where gentlemen were strolling under the bare trees, and questioned a dozen people there, including two of the turnkeys. But no one had seen nor heard of Richard Thornleigh.
She was turning disconsolately toward another prospect, a man leaning against a wall reading, when she felt fingers brush her wrist. The hand that took hers was small and soft. Isabel turned in surprise to see the dirty, golden-haired girl from the wedding.
“I can help you,” the girl whispered to her. She was shorter than Isabel and stood on tiptoes to speak in her ear. Isabel saw that her cloth shoes were torn and soaked with mud. “I can take you to him,” the girl said.
Isabel’s breath caught in her throat. “To my father?”
“Yes. To Master Thornleigh. Such a nice gentleman.” The girl smiled sympathetically. She had small white teeth. Her eyes were soft with understanding. “I know how it feels to be torn away from loved ones,” she said. “Come with me.”
16
Bartholomew Fai
The golden-haired girl led Isabel by the hand out of the Painted Ground. They crossed the yard where the wedding party was still going strong, though the wedding table was a litter of crumbs, bones, and spilled ale. But jugs were still being passed around and the music had become more raucous, and the dancing more abandoned.
The girl led Isabel to a small door in the prison wall. She knocked softly. The door was opened by a man holding a mug of ale. The girl nodded to him, then led Isabel past him and into the room, a storeroom crammed with sacks and barrels.
“A turnkey?” Isabel whispered, looking back at the man. She was beginning to recognize the beefy, bored-looking officials.
“Aye, m’lady,” the girl said as she beckoned Isabel to an open door at the other side of the storeroom. She winked. “He does me a favor every now and then.”
“I shall reward you well for this,” Isabel said. “I am very grateful.”
The girl beamed. “That is good of you, m’lady. Thank you.”
They were going down a narrow stone staircase. It was dimly lit and cold, and the rank smell brought back to Isabel all the foulness of the Hole at Colchester jail. “Have they put my father in the commons?” she asked anxiously as they descended.
“Aye, m’lady, in the tuppenny ward. A bad mix-up. But you can set it straight with the jailer now, can’t you?”
“But how is he? Is he all right?”
“He’s fine, m’lady. A little sad. He speaks of you. He misses you.”
The staircase ended in a narrow corridor, dark and damp. They moved along it. Isabel held her sleeve to her nose against the overwhelming stench. When they reached the ward, the sight made her stop and almost gag. The room was crammed with emaciated men. There was no window, and only one flickering rushlight on the wall. All the prisoners lay on the bare stone floor, some curled up like worms, shivering, and some lying flat on their backs, too exhausted from the coughs that racked them to even curl up for warmth. Not all were manacled, but those that were looked pitiful, with iron cuffs or iron collars connected to chains that were bolted to the floor. Their wrists and necks were black with scabbed blood where the iron had scraped their flesh raw. A foot-wide open sewer ran in under one wall. It cut a channel through the room and gurgled toward a drain beneath the opposite wall. Isabel stood still. Never had she seen such a cesspit of misery.
“Not here, m’lady,” the girl said, tugging Isabel’s sleeve. “This is Bartholomew Fair.”
Isabel blinked. “What?”
“That’s what we call the beggars’ ward.” The girl pointed to a murky far entrance. “We’re going there. Down by the taproom.”
Isabel hurried to follow the girl, shamelessly relieved that this was not their destination. As she stepped around bodies, hands reached out and thin voices implored pennies and bread. A hand grabbed the hem of her skirt, but with a grip too weak to hold on. “Aren’t they fed?” Isabel asked in horror.
“Only what you’d throw to a dog,” the girl said. “They pay nothing, so they get nothing. Except what friends bring in. Friends outside is important in jail, m’lady.”
They reached the far entrance, and Isabel let out her pent-up breath. They continued down a corridor lined with pillars. It seemed empty. “Are there no turnkeys down here?”
The girl shrugged. “No need in Bartholomew Fair. The prisoners back there can hardly get up, let alone get out. Oh, some go wandering in the yard, or begging at the grate, but at night the turnkeys lock them back in again. Like the rest of us.”
As they walked, Isabel saw a shadow scuttle by behind a pillar. The shadow was an odd shape, like a fat man with two heads, one head crested like a bird. At the corridor’s far end she saw a room with benches and kegs—presumably the taproom. The spill of its candlelight was the only light in the corridor. The taproom appeared deserted.
The girl smiled, nodding in that direction. “No trade in the jailer’s ale today,” she said, taking Isabel’s hand again. “Not with free drink and vittles up above, eh m’lady?”
They had come to a junction with another corridor. “Tuppenny ward’s this way,” the girl said. But as they turned the corner, the two-headed shadow emerged in front of them from between two pillars, halting them. It turned out to be a short man flanked by a pale youth. The man wore a yellow-feathered cap. Isabel recognized him—the man from the masters’ ward who had run in fear from the mercenary. He stood before Isabel, the youth pressing near him. The girl let go of Isabel’s hand and stepped back. The man scowled at the girl. “Where’s the fellow?” he asked.
“What fellow?” The girl sounded annoyed.
“Dolt! I told you there was a big brute with her.” The man was anxiously peering up the corridor.
“Well he’s not with her now, is he?” the girl said huffily. “Dolt yourself.”
“Mind your tongue, hussy!”
“Bastard! If
that’s all the thanks I get, I’ll just take her right on back!”
“Now, now, easy does it, Nan,” the man said soothingly.
“Where’s my father?” Isabel asked, fear welling in her throat.
“In hell,” the man growled.
She gasped. “You’ve killed him?”
“Not I. Never saw the codger in my life.” He spoke casually, busily eyeing her from head to foot.
“But … this girl knows his name, and—”
“Well you’re blabbing it everywhere, ain’t you?” the girl said, a sneer replacing her former friendliness.
Isabel tasted the bitterness of self-disgust. She’d been so easily gulled. With a pang of panic she looked up and down the corridor. It was utterly empty. Everyone who could walk was at the wedding feast.
The man turned his head and called, “Albert.”
A huge, filthy man with a curly black beard stepped out of the shadows. The man with the feather jerked his head toward Isabel in a silent command to this giant. Isabel hesitated for a heartbeat, then spun around to run. The giant, Albert, snatched her arm. He wrenched her backward and pinned her arm behind her. Pain like fire shot through her shoulder. She screamed for help. His grimy hand clamped over her mouth. She sucked desperate breaths through her nose.
“I won’t be spoke to like that,” the girl sniffed at the other man, still peeved. “Not when I brung her. Not when I do the job while he does nothing and still gets half,” she said with a jerk of her chin toward the silent youth.
The man with the feather smiled. “Now, now, there’s no need to fuss, Nan. You know he only shares what’s mine. And you’ve done good, you have. You’re a good girl.”
The girl folded her arms across her chest and belligerently declared, “I want her boots.”
“And you shall have them, Nan,” the man with the feather said. Then his tone became steely. “But the purse and the finery’s for me. Albert,” he commanded.
Albert’s grip on Isabel tightened. The man with the feather—clearly the leader—yanked off her cloak, balled it up, and set it aside. He pulled a long knife from a sheath in his sleeve, sliced the strings that held the purse at her waist, and stuffed the purse into his breeches. Then he reached for her necklace.
“The boots,” the girl insisted.
“All right!” the leader snapped. He nodded to Albert. Albert pushed Isabel to the floor on her back. She kicked and struggled and again she screamed for help. He stomped a boot on her chest to silence her. She gasped at the pain. As he rested more of his weight on his foot, grinding her down, her ribs seemed to crack. Every feeble breath was torture. She could make no sound.
The girl tugged off Isabel’s ankle boots, then yanked down her stockings. The leader was at work trying to unfasten Isabel’s necklace, cursing its stubborn clasp. He tried to pry it away with the tip of his knife, but it was an unwieldy tool for such small work and he nicked her skin several times. Finally, he prised the clasp free. He stood, smiling, and turned to the silent youth. Passing the knife to him to free his hands, he lovingly draped the necklace around the youth’s throat.
The girl was shoving her foot into a boot and squealing with delight at the fit. The leader crouched and began to twist the ring off Isabel’s finger. Though Albert’s foot still incapacitated her she wrenched back her hand and squirmed. Annoyed, the leader sat back on his heels. “You’ll lie still,” he told her simply, “or you’ll lie dead. Choice is yours.”
Isabel lay still.
Once the ring was off, the leader fingered her skirt thoughtfully. “You know, Nan, this is fine stuff. No call to waste it.” He looked up at the youth and said, “Fetch the satchel for all this gear, there’s a good lad.” The young man turned and left. The leader said, “Albert, move aside.”
The giant’s foot lifted. The leader began to unlace Isabel’s bodice. But now she was free to fight him. She clawed his face. He recoiled, touching the red welts she’d made on his cheek, and looked at her as if offended. Then, stiffening his hand, he struck her face. The force of the blow knocked her head to one side. She blinked at the stinging pain. Again, he started to unlace her. She grabbed his wrist and dug her teeth into his hand. He yowled. He struck her again, more viciously. She tasted blood and saw purple fire behind her eyes. But her hands flailed at him, though blindly. “Enough larking about,” the leader growled. “Albert, turn her off.”
Isabel felt the giant’s huge hands clamp around her throat. The thick thumbs pressed her windpipe. She choked with pain, with terror. Her vision darkened. She was going to die. She kicked wildly and clawed at the massive forearms, but she knew she was going to die.
She heard a scrape of metal. “Stand away,” a man’s voice said.
The choking grip lifted from Isabel’s throat and she gasped air. Tears of pain still blurred her vision but she knew that the man’s form standing behind her tormentors was the mercenary. And the glinting metal in his hand was his sword. “Let her up,” he said.
Albert and the leader and the girl shuffled back a few steps, their hands raised defensively before the sword. Isabel stumbled to her feet, her bruised chest still heaving with gasps. She lifted her head just in time to see the youth come up behind the mercenary, the long knife between his raised hands. The knife plunged. Isabel cried, “Behind you!”
The mercenary spun around. The plunging knife, meant for his back, slashed across his left shoulder, gashing through his coat. But the wound did not stop his turn—one fluid motion that ended in a lunge. His sword rammed into the youth’s chest with a dull crunch. The mercenary yanked back the blade. The youth clutched his chest, his eyes wide. Blood seeped through his fingers. He collapsed.
The leader screamed. He dashed toward the youth, all fear blocked out, his feathered cap slipping sideways with his sudden movement. The mercenary swung up his bloody sword, ready to strike again, but the leader stumbled past him and dropped to his knees to cradle the youth’s head. The mercenary backed up toward Isabel. He felt behind him and grabbed her wrist, his outstretched sword still threatening the giant, Albert. But Albert stood still, apparently unable to move without a command, which the leader was too lost in grief to give. The girl only stared. The mercenary yanked Isabel in the direction of the taproom.
“No,” she said, resisting. She pointed in the opposite direction. “That way! The door I came in by!”
“It is near?”
“Yes!”
He let go her wrist and nodded. At his shoulder she saw blood weeping through the gash in his coat.
She ran back toward the beggars’ ward, pain still searing her chest as though knives were stuck between her ribs. The mercenary pounded after her, looking back now and then, his sword at the ready. But no one was pursuing them. They reached the ward and scrambled over the prostrate bodies. Isabel, barefoot, stumbled over a man’s chain, and in regaining her balance she splashed into the sewer. Its icy sludge reached to her ankle. Its bottom was furred with slime. She groaned with revulsion and ran on, the mercenary behind her. They hurried up the narrow stairs and reached the door to the storeroom. It was closed. Isabel wrenched its handle. It was locked. The mercenary tried to force the handle. It would not budge. Isabel clutched her sides, catching painful breaths, as the mercenary threw his sword shoulder against the door with all his weight. But it was barred fast. He swung around, abandoning the door. “Go back,” he said.
Down the stairs again they went to the beggars’ ward. And stopped. The leader was there with the girl. They were on the far side, looking among the prisoners, craning into nooks, poking around bodies. They knew the storeroom was locked, Isabel realized, so they assumed she and the mercenary were hiding in the ward. The leader turned and saw them. His face was hard with hatred and he had retrieved his long knife. Isabel and the mercenary bolted toward the far corridor again. But the girl, Nan, was nimbly hopping around the sprawled bodies, and the leader was making his own way forward, viciously kicking prisoners’ arms and legs to clear a path.
Isabel and the mercenary had almost reached the corridor when the leader cried out, “A crown for anyone who catches them!”
The bodies at Isabel’s feet sprang to life. A prisoner grappled her waist with both arms. The mercenary’s sword slashed his back. The prisoner yelped and clawed behind him like a man scratching, setting Isabel free. She and the mercenary bolted out into the corridor.
They ran toward the taproom so fast that Isabel hardly felt the rough stone floor scraping her bare feet. They reached the intersection where the young man lay dead, Isabel’s necklace glinting on his throat. The mercenary quickly dragged the body out as an obstacle in their wake. Isabel only had time to snatch up her balled cloak before they ran on. By the time they reached the taproom she was panting.
It was an L-shaped room cluttered with small tables, benches, stools and kegs, and cut up with nooks and crannies, and they had to stop to get their bearings. A few candles guttered on tables. Though the place appeared deserted, Isabel heard dull scuffling and low groans from a nook. She and the mercenary swung around together toward the sound. He strode closer to it, his sword extended. Isabel hurried tohis side. Was some drunkard flopped down beside a way out, perhaps? But she saw only a dark, narrow space and the shadowy forms of a half dozen couples on the floor. They were copulating. Lying in varying states of undress, they were oblivious in their rutting. Isabel caught sight of the green-velveted back of the man she’d seen at the wedding, his buttocks bare below his fine doublet. She turned away. The nook appeared to lead nowhere and she was desperate to find a way out.
She saw one across the room—an open doorway leading into a brick-lined passage. She heard the pounding feet and the shouts of their pursuers coming from the beggars’ ward. It sounded as though enough beggars had been recruited to form a small mob. The prospect terrified Isabel. She started toward the bricked passage, but the mercenary stopped her. He pointed farther down the L-shaped room and said, “That way. It is how I came in.” They started around the corner and Isabel saw the corridor that he was heading for. The way out! Together they ran toward it.