by S. J. Parris
The yard of the Unicorn was as busy as the Saracen’s Head had been. I dismounted, casting my eyes around for the dark-skinned boy among the delivery men and serving girls. A gangly youth with an unfortunate skin condition approached, a rope halter in his hands.
‘Help you, sir?’
‘Thank you, I was just looking…’ I scanned the yard; there must have been a dozen boys at work, though none the right one. ‘For a boy.’
The young man pressed a finger to his lips. ‘You ask for that inside,’ he said in a low voice, nodding to the white-fronted inn. ‘You’re a bit early though, mate – everyone’s still abed. Getting their beauty sleep.’ He gave me a leery wink. ‘Just arrived in London, is it? I’m sure they can accommodate you – the food’s good enough while you wait. Want me to look after this old girl for you?’ He slapped the mare on the side of her neck; she barely bothered to look at him.
‘How much?’
‘Two pence for the day.’
I hesitated, uncertain about entering the Unicorn. Ballard took a room here, and was evidently on good terms with the women who ran the place; someone of my appearance would attract curiosity, and he was bound to hear of my visit. It would be hard to explain that away without arousing suspicion that Father Prado was spying on him. I was reaching into my doublet for spare coins – I knew better than to carry a purse at my belt in Southwark – when a slight figure emerged from the back of the building balancing a wooden pail of water in each hand. I stepped forward for a better look; at the same time, the child raised his head, his dark eyes met mine, recognition and panic flared in the same instant, he dropped the buckets and raced to the far end of the yard, where he began scrambling up the boundary wall.
I thrust the mare’s harness into the youth’s hand. ‘Pay you when I return,’ I shouted over my shoulder, following the boy. He was nimble and light, and had disappeared before I could find the first foothold, but determination drove me on; ignoring the cries from the yard, I shinned over the wall and dropped into a filthy alley in time to see the boy Joe whisk around the corner at the end. I raced after him, skidding on muddy ground, brown water and God knows what else spattering my boots and my hose as I chased him along the next street, down another alley, over a fence at the end, across a yard piled high with broken furniture and cartwheels, over the wall at the other side and into a lane between tenements where the stink of human waste made me gag so hard I struggled to catch my breath. The child Joe was fleet and agile as a cat, but I was not prepared to let the one chance of finding a possible witness slip through my fingers. At the end of the foul lane, the boy disappeared without a backward glance as if he had melted through the fence.
When I reached the place where he had vanished, I saw that there was a loose plank covered by an old piece of sailcloth, the gap narrow and low enough for a child Joe’s size but not for a grown man, even a Neapolitan. I looked up at the fence. It was eight feet high at least, with nails studded along the top to deter anyone thinking of climbing over. I glanced behind me; this was not an alley to be trapped in. No one had followed us, though I couldn’t escape the sensation that there were suspicious eyes behind the broken and empty windows of the tenements on either side. I took a deep breath, crouched and sprang upwards, catching the top of the fence between nails, hauling myself up with only the strength in my arms as I scrabbled for footholds, to the point where I could drag myself over. The nails tore at my clothes and skin, but I clenched my teeth against the pain as I dropped to the other side, landing clumsily on my hands and knees in the dirt of a yard behind a brick building with shuttered windows. Though small, this yard was cared for: swept clean, the midden heap in one corner enclosed behind boards, and the three sides lined with an array of earthenware pots planted with a variety of unusual herbs. I brushed myself down as best I could and squatted to examine the leaves of a plant I thought I recognised from the time I spent as a youth assisting the infirmarian at San Domenico Maggiore. Solomon’s seal; I had not thought it grew in England, nor expected to find anyone who knew how to use it. When I turned my attention to the other shrubs – the child Joe almost forgotten – I saw that they held similar surprises; this was a medicinal herb garden, no question, and a sophisticated one, planted by someone who had travelled outside this damp island.
‘Don’t move. Put your hands on your head and turn around slowly.’
The voice was a woman’s, her English heavily inflected with a foreign accent. I cursed myself for allowing my attention to wander. I did as I was told and found myself facing a figure as striking as any from the tales of the Greeks. She was tall, with skin the colour of teak and a mass of black curls that hung down her back, tied up in a red scarf; her hands and the front of her dress were splashed with fresh blood as though she had come straight from a battlefield, her eyes flashed like obsidian and she held a crossbow at her shoulder, primed and pointed at my face.
‘Get out.’ She jerked her head at the back fence. ‘Same way you came. Do it fast and I won’t need to put this through your eye.’
‘Is this your garden?’
‘Yes. So get out of it.’
‘You have a fine collection of plants,’ I said, aiming to sound unthreatening.
‘I know. Don’t make me tell you a third time.’
‘A good number of these are poisonous.’
A flicker of something crossed her face; perhaps she was impressed that I recognised them. ‘I know that too. I’m serious – if you don’t move, I’ll send you out of here with a bolt through your knee, at the very least. There’s not a plant in this garden will save your leg if I do.’
‘There is, actually,’ I said, pointing. ‘You have yarrow there, otherwise known as soldier’s wort – most effective in staunching blood from wounds. Achilles himself was said to carry it into battle.’
I thought I saw the twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth. She lowered the crossbow an inch.
‘Very good, so you know plants. That is not a reason not to kill you. I don’t have time for this.’ She darted a quick glance back towards the house, as if afraid of leaving it for too long.
‘Look, I mean no harm. I just want to see Joe. Is he your son?’
Her face hardened and she raised the weapon again. ‘Last warning.’
‘I can pay you.’ I lowered a hand to my doublet; on the instant she stepped forward, eyes blazing, and spat on the ground.
‘He is not for sale. You people disgust me. I see you anywhere near him, I’ll cut off your miserable pizzle with a kitchen knife.’
‘Is that what happened to the last person who asked to speak to him?’ I nodded to the blood covering her hands.
‘You don’t want to find out.’
‘I need to ask him a question. That’s all.’
She muttered something guttural under her breath and spat again, but I had met enough Moors in Naples to have picked up a little useful Arabic and I understood the gist of it.
‘My mother would be very upset by that suggestion,’ I said. Her eyes widened in surprise – she had clearly not expected to be understood – but before she could speak, the silence was broken by a cry from the building behind her; a howl of pain so intense it sounded ripped from the guts, barely human. The woman started, cast me a look of contempt, and lowered the weapon.
‘Just get out,’ she said, and ran into the house. After a moment’s hesitation, I followed her.
Inside I found a large room lit by tallow candles, and in the centre a table where a girl lay emitting those animal howls, smock around her waist over a domed belly and her knees pointing to the ceiling, blood pouring out of her to collect in a basin on the floor, already overflowing. The boy Joe, in his shirtsleeves, was valiantly trying to staunch the flow with strips of cloth, but the rupture was too severe. The dark-haired woman barked out a series of commands in Arabic, squeezing the girl’s hand before taking the drenched cloth from Joe and pressing it hard between her legs. The cries grew weaker, though no less heart-rending.
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‘It won’t stop, Mama,’ the boy said, panic in his voice.
‘Bring me a fresh bowl of hot water. And get the opium.’
‘Which first?’
‘I’ll get the water,’ I said. I could see a pot of it boiling over a well-stoked fire in the hearth. ‘She’s haemorrhaging, you need to stop it quickly. Pressure on the wound should do it, though if she is bleeding internally—’
The dark-haired woman snapped around, her face clouded briefly with fury, then she appeared to revise the situation.
‘Are you a physician?’ she asked.
‘No. But I have worked in an infirmary.’
‘You know plants. Can you administer tincture of opium?’
‘I’ve seen it done.’
‘Fine.’ She took a key on a silver chain from around her neck and passed it to the child. ‘Joe will get some for you. Give her a dose that will send her into a good sleep, but not permanently. Shut your mouth, Joe, and show the man.’
The child was staring at me, his face rigid with alarm. He darted to a wooden cupboard against the back wall, unlocked it, and pressed a dark green bottle into my hand.
‘It’s not about the horse,’ I mouthed to him, when his mother’s back was turned.
‘She has not expelled the whole of the afterbirth,’ the Arabic woman said briskly. ‘I’ll have to get it out. Without that tincture, the pain might kill her. It might anyway.’
‘But she’ll die if you don’t try,’ I said. ‘Have you tried massaging the abdomen?’
She cut me a quick, impatient look. ‘Yes, I had thought of that. I was trying it when you trespassed in my yard. Stop telling me my job and give her the medicine, fast.’ She took out a long, curved metal implement and plunged it into the bowl of boiling water that the boy held out. I would have been curious to watch the operation – at San Domenico, we had only ever worked on male patients, for obvious reasons – but there was no time to stand around. I poured a measure of the tincture into a cup and gently pulled the girl’s hair back from her face so that she could swallow it. At the sight, I jumped back, and could not help a gasp: half her nose was missing, leaving a gaping hole and scarred flesh.
The midwife glanced up. ‘What, you never saw the French pox before?’ she said, with a note of scorn. ‘That’s why the baby…’ She left the sentence unfinished, only gestured beneath the table. The light did not reach into the shadows there; I could make out a basin full of blood, the pale shape of tiny, twisted limbs within, unmoving.
‘Dear God.’ I could not think of anything more useful to say.
‘What women suffer, eh? Now hold her steady until it takes effect.’
I did as I was told. Joe brought a fresh supply of cloths and hot water, and massaged the girl’s stomach when his mother instructed him; I made myself useful carrying bowls of blood to the yard, where I tipped them on to the midden heap, to be filled again faster than they could be emptied. The business took perhaps half an hour, but eventually the girl’s bleeding slowed and she lay inert on the table, her skin white as marble, the rise and fall of her chest so shallow as to be barely noticeable, but still breathing, against all odds.
After the three of us had washed our hands we pulled up stools and sat, watching the patient, blood-spattered and exhausted like three survivors of a violent skirmish. Only the crackle of the fire and the soft scrape of the girl’s breathing broke the silence.
‘Will she live?’ I asked, after a few minutes.
The woman shrugged. ‘For now. Not that she has much to live for. Poor child, perhaps it would be a kindness if she didn’t wake.’ She reached up and pulled the scarf from her hair, wiped her forehead with it, combed the wild curls back from her face with her long fingers and tied it again.
She was very beautiful, I realised; about my age or perhaps older, her skin smooth and clear over high cheekbones and a strong jaw. But it was her hands that intrigued me. When she had first washed the blood away, I had thought she had some kind of skin disease, but now I could see that her hands and forearms were decorated with elaborate tracery and patterns in what looked like red-brown ink.
‘What is that?’
She gave a weary smile. ‘Henna. You’ve never seen it?’ She held out her hands, palms down, for me to take a closer look. ‘How do you know my language and not know this? It’s something women do for special occasions, where I come from.’ She twisted her mouth. ‘I suppose I should thank you for your help, but I know men well enough to think you’ll expect something in return.’
‘I want only to ask Joe some questions,’ I said, folding my hands between my knees. ‘But I’m glad I had the chance to assist you. I have never seen such a procedure.’
‘But you knew to massage the stomach. How?’
‘My mother was a midwife. In—’ I stopped myself; I had been about to say Nola, my birthplace. I must remember not to give anything of myself away. ‘Is she a Winchester goose?’ I nodded to the girl on the table. She clicked her tongue at the phrase.
‘She’s a street whore, call her what she is. Unlicensed. I’d wager she got the pox before she even arrived in London. Picked it up on the road or whatever village she ran from. Sixteen at most, I’d guess. I’ve seen plenty die younger.’
‘You care for the street women? Is there a living in that?’
‘I attend to the girls at one of the licensed houses, that’s how I put food on the table. The madam values my skills. No male doctor could do what I do, or would care to. I treat their complaints, keep them clean and fit to work. Clear up any unwanted consequences.’
‘Like that?’ I indicated the infant corpse under the table. She looked away.
‘Girls like this one I treat because what else can I do – let them die?’
‘I suppose you would be arrested, if it was known?’
She gave a dry laugh, and her eyes flashed in the firelight. ‘Burned before I could open my mouth to defend myself. There are those who call me witch even among the women I tend, for the knowledge I have, and the herbs – but mostly because of this, let’s not pretend.’ She pointed to her dark face. ‘Why – are you planning to report me?’
‘Knowing you have that crossbow behind the door?’ I smiled. ‘Of course not. I have some experience of how the English treat those who look different.’
She made the clicking noise again. ‘But you are a man, and not so unlike them. What are you, Spanish?’ When I did not reply, she curled her lip and nodded, as if she had expected no better. ‘Well, ask the boy what you must. But he is not bound to answer you.’
‘He left her there unguarded,’ Joe blurted, squeakily defensive.
‘Who? Who left her?’
‘Your friend. The tall one.’ He frowned, as if it were a stupid question. ‘She was old anyway, it wasn’t like she was worth much. She’s better off out of her misery.’
‘How can you speak that way about – wait, old?’ I had assumed he was talking of Clara Poole, since that was where my thoughts were bent. Belatedly, I caught up with his meaning. ‘I’m not here about the horse,’ I said.
His mother snapped her head to him.
‘What horse? Damn you, child, what have I told you?’
‘Never mind,’ I cut in quickly. ‘I wanted to ask you about the Cross Bones though.’ I saw a warning glance dart between mother and son. ‘A woman’s body was found there, five days past. I heard a boy saw her before the constables came. Was it you?’
‘Are you from the constables?’ he asked, assessing me with the same sharp, black eyes as his mother.
‘Do I look like a London official?’ I tried to make it sound like a joke, but the woman’s eyes narrowed.
‘Informers come in all shades these days,’ she said. ‘You’re dressed like a gentleman, for all your foreign looks. Or at least, you were.’ I followed her gaze to my clothes, now bloodstained, torn and filthy.
‘I am not from the authorities. My interest is – personal.’ Seeing this drew only more suspicion, I added, ‘
I knew the girl’s family.’
‘You knew her,’ the woman said, slowly and with a degree of incredulity, as if I had claimed the Virgin appeared to me at my close-stool.
‘Look, I am trying to find out what I can about her death. The body was taken away quickly, I understand, and the business hushed up – whoever saw her may have vital information. I will be discreet. I will not pass on who told me, if you know anything.’
Joe looked to his mother for instruction. She pursed her lips. ‘You said you had money to offer? How much?’
‘Depends how much he knows.’
She rattled off a few sentences in Arabic, so fast my limited knowledge could catch only one or two words; the boy shook his head and glanced at me.
‘We will name our price when he has told you all he has to tell,’ she said, folding her arms.
‘That hardly seems fair.’
‘You’re the one who wants the goods. I set the price.’
‘But you would give me what I ask before I hand over payment?’
‘Consider it a gesture of good faith.’ Her lips curved into a half-smile; I acknowledged the compliment and motioned for the boy to go ahead.
Joe looked at the floor between his feet. ‘I go to the Cross Bones some nights. The watchman there is my grandfather Goodchild. I take him hot food and keep watch with him so he can sleep – he’s old now and his legs hurt if he stands too long.’
‘He doesn’t need the family history,’ his mother said. ‘Get to the meat of it.’
‘People come in sometimes, especially in summer. Men and women, you know. They go to it under the trees, we let them be.’ He shifted on his stool and picked at his fingernails. ‘When they’ve gone, I go and look around in the grass. Things fall out their clothes when they’re rolling about, you never know. Or they lose an earring in the tumble, a brooch. If they’re drunk, they might even fall asleep after, so I check if—’ He broke off and a secret smile crept over his face. ‘If they’re all right.’
‘If they have anything worth lifting, you mean.’