by C. S. Quinn
‘The guards are not prepared for attack,’ said Bolly. ‘If everyone charged, we could make it in. Likely boys would be killed. But Barebones would give his life for us. He’s been like a father to me. So long as you’re truly certain he’s inside . . .’
‘Imagine my father’s face,’ interrupted Repent, gloating, ‘when I break him free. He’ll never be able to scold me again.’ He held up the little sword. ‘Charge!’ he bellowed. ‘Take the gaol! We’ll tear it down with our bare hands!’
The apprentices began to mill uncertainly. None took up the command. ‘A prison break is treason,’ muttered one, eyeing the guards. They were looking at the mass of boys now, curious. One pointed and began to unhitch his sword.
Repent reddened. He cupped his hands and bellowed into the crowd. ‘When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then a gentleman?’
A deathly silence settled on the apprentices. It was an old Republican cry, from the civil war. Repent had just shouted treason. Bolly watched a few boys from the wealthier apprenticeships exchange glances and shoulder their tools to leave.
Then, from the scrubland of homeless Londoners, an old man took up the chant. A few more of the dispossessed were taking notice now, standing up, joining in. From nowhere, a full-bloodied battle song rose up. People began cheering the apprentices.
The richer-placed apprentices had changed their minds about leaving now and were grinning at the approbation.
‘Them high-ups don’t care about us!’ called a scrawny woman. ‘A pox on the King and his whores! They lock us up for speaking our minds!’ She spat on the ground.
The gesture had an electric effect on the encampment. Half-starved people began hurling stones at the prison.
Sensing his moment, Repent raised his sword. ‘Charge!’ he bellowed.
The prison guards were uncertain now. It seemed like a baying pack of devils was headed for them. A thick-limbed guard with ox-like shoulders raised his sword.
One small apprentice broke clear of his fellows and ran directly towards him. The guard’s expression recalibrated to battle ready. He swung his sword with the deadly intent of a soldier. As the apprentice closed, the guard swung, his sword sinking deep into the other man’s skull. The apprentice fell.
There was a deathly hush. Then the people charged again. On and on they came, ragged, starving, furious. With nothing to lose.
In moments the unfortunate guard was besieged by apprentices, striking, gouging and bringing down cudgels. Despite his size, he was no match for the numbers and as his mighty frame was felled other guards came racing to his aid.
But now the mob had tasted blood. They attacked as one wild feral thing. Like rats pouring from a burning building, they threw themselves against the half-open door and pounded into the prison.
Behind the walls was an open yard, spotted with prison buildings.
The attackers began smashing at doors and looting sacks of food. Prisoners surged free, overwhelming the guards.
‘He’s not here,’ said Bolly, watching as the last prisoner escaped the day lockup. ‘Barebones wasn’t taken to Finsbury.’
But Repent wasn’t listening. He was watching the chaos, a wide grin on his pockmarked face. ‘Look what I did, Bolly,’ he grinned. ‘Wait until Barebones hears. We’re going to be the boys who took down the King.’
‘We should try the Clink,’ said Bolly.
Repent looked at the marauding boys, assessing. ‘We can do it without Praise-God Barebones,’ he said. ‘’E’s like a big dark cloud, always bringin’ me down. I see the way ’e looks at me. I know what ’e’s thinkin’. Why didn’t you die instead of her?’ He glanced at Bolly. ‘No more rules, Bolly. No more preaching. The Merry Monarch, isn’t that what they say? I think it’s time we joined his party.’
‘You don’t mean Covent Garden?’ Bolly’s expression was caught between horror and excitement. ‘Those are the King’s whores. They’ll hang us for traitors.’
‘They’ll ’ave to catch us first,’ grinned Repent, nodding to the mass of people behind him. ‘I say we go to Covent Garden,’ he said, ‘and find ourselves some actresses.’
Chapter 56
Charlie and Lily burst out of the Gin House without pausing for breath. They ran from the mouldering streets of the stews and into the smarter lawyer’s district of Temple Bar. The grand wooden arch of the famous city approach was thick with lawyers in their colourful coats and messengers racing back and forth bearing papers. A cluster of alehouses, where younger and less well-off lawyers could rent rooms, buzzed with life. An elderly lawyer shuffled past them, swaying slightly from the effects of a liquid lunch.
Clancy was nowhere to be seen.
‘She knows we’re looking for her,’ said Charlie, ‘and she’s fast.’ He sensed the opportunity had slipped away. ‘It would take days to find her,’ he said. ‘We don’t have time.’
He looked at the sun. It was morning on Maundy Thursday. He tried not to let hopelessness overwhelm him.
‘Maybe this will help,’ said Lily. She opened her curled fist to reveal the handful of silken leaves, torn free from Clancy’s dress.
Charlie looked at them.
‘Cheaply made,’ Lily observed, letting the clutch of leaves and ribbons flutter in her hands. ‘Woven to look like silk from a distance.’
Charlie took the leaves, thinking. ‘A dress to summon the Lord and Lady,’ he said. ‘That’s what was in the confession Maria found.’
‘So it calls to them?’ suggested Lily. ‘There are spells to summon fairy folk using clothing. Perhaps a piece could serve as well as the whole,’ she added, nodding to the torn fabric.
‘We’re missing something,’ said Charlie. ‘A Royalist arrived at Damaris Page’s house, wearing this dress.’
‘Safe-passage networks often use disguises,’ said Lily with a shrug. ‘Damaris said so herself.’
‘So what’s the link?’ pressed Charlie. ‘How does this dress lead to a lord and lady?’
Lily returned her attention to the torn fabric leaves, with their green-and-gold stitching. ‘Single stitch,’ said Lily, nodding. She peeled one open to show Charlie. ‘See here? Running stitch. No dressmaker would do that. You’d stitch a backstitch double, even triple. A good dress is made to last. This wasn’t,’ she said. ‘English ribbons, not French.’ She held up the ribbon ends. ‘And only a little melted pewter to finish. The ribbon ends of a quality dress are usually sealed in silver and stamped with a crest.’
‘Which means?’ asked Charlie.
‘Perhaps made for a cheap whorehouse . . .’ began Lily slowly. She gasped suddenly. ‘Charlie, that’s it! This is a costume. It’s a theatre costume!’
‘But there were no theatres during the Republic,’ said Charlie. ‘Only illicit performances held in brothels.’
And then it struck him in a rush. ‘Lily!’ exclaimed Charlie. ‘What if the Lord and Lady weren’t hiding walled up somewhere or alone or on the run? What if they were hiding in plain sight? Unnoticed amongst a group of people?’
‘A theatre company!’ breathed Lily. ‘It would be a perfect place to hide. But I thought the companies were all disbanded.’
‘Most were,’ said Charlie, ‘but one kept playing. The King’s Company went underground. Their actors performed in places like the Gilded Lock and the Golden Apple.’
‘They were risking their lives,’ said Lily. ‘Acting in the name of the King.’
‘The royals have always protected the theatres,’ said Charlie. ‘What’s the betting the King’s Company were a vital component of the Royalist safe-passage networks?’
Lily was nodding slowly. ‘Ready access to all kinds of disguises,’ she said. ‘Actors change their voices, their appearances.’
‘And wouldn’t that be a good way to hide two recognisable nobles?’ said Charlie. ‘Acting in different costumes, in a theatre troupe. Always on the move. Anyone who acted as part of the King’s Company during the war might be able to give us vital information.’
‘But we have no way of finding those actors,’ Lily pointed out. ‘The city is in turmoil. The riots are clearing out the official theatres and the actors are going to be in hiding.’
‘Maybe we can’t get to the actors,’ said Charlie, ‘but I know a scenery painter. And he’s painted for theatres since anyone can remember. Man named Dawson. Well, that’s one of the names he goes by.’
‘Are you talking about Strange Ol’ George?’ asked Lily. ‘The mad Royalist?’
‘Everyone who works for the theatre is a Royalist,’ said Charlie evasively.
‘How do you even know a man like that?’ asked Lily.
‘I helped him once,’ said Charlie. ‘Recovered his paints.’
‘I thought he was a kind of vagabond.’
Charlie hesitated. ‘Dawson made a home for himself in the ashes. The rubble around Lud Gate. He is a strange man,’ Charlie conceded with a shrug. ‘He’s built a kind of stronghold.’
‘Charlie, you’re not suggesting we go into the ruins?’ demanded Lily. ‘It’s dangerous around there. Like . . . another world. Robbers and thieves prowl around the rubble.’
‘We must be a little careful, is all,’ acknowledged Charlie. ‘But if we find Dawson, he could tell us where the Lord and Lady hid all those years ago.’
Chapter 57
Clancy was weaving a little, fresh from a breakfast of gin, feet striking the filthy mud track uncertainly. She leaned against a urine-soaked wall, eyes drooping. The street was strangely empty, but there was a background noise nearby. Like a crowd roaring. But that wasn’t possible. They were too close to Covent Garden and everyone knew the apprentices never attacked the King’s whores.
She closed her eyes. Perhaps she’d slept a little; she wasn’t certain. Then a man in merchant’s dress was walking past. She lurched towards him and took his arm.
‘What business?’ she asked, voice high and false. ‘A penny for the best fuck in Temple.’ She accidentally slurred her words.
The man looked at her with an expression of pity and disgust and shrugged off her arm. ‘Get off the streets, you foolish girl,’ he snapped. ‘The apprentices are near.’
Clancy watched him go, considering her dress. The men who raided Damaris Page’s house had been looking for a dress. And now a thief taker had come for her. She knew it was valuable. She just had to find the right buyer.
Clancy brushed the green-and-gold leaves. She just wanted to rest, in a nice warm tavern, with a big mug of ale. But for that she needed money.
She began walking towards the hum of the crowd. All she had to do was find Praise-God Barebones and sell him her stolen dress.
But as Clancy turned the corner, the swell of people took her by surprise. It was a great surging hulk of a crowd, rolling along the street. They marched under a Republican banner, waving flags and makeshift weapons.
‘Blow me,’ muttered Clancy. ‘It’s an army.’
She hesitated, some buried instinct suggesting she run. Then she identified a familiar weapon. A stubby iron sword waving towards the front.
Praise-God Barebones’s sword. She commended herself on recognising it and made for him, a plan formulating. A few blue-aproned boys pushed and spat at her as she shouldered her way through, but she hardly noticed.
When she reached the short iron sword, her brain took a long time to connect what she saw. The dark blade was tied with fluttering ribbons. Women’s garters, she realised.
By the time she realised it wasn’t Praise-God Barebones holding the weapon, someone was pointing at her. A tall skinny boy with scabbed legs and pockmarks shaped like a beard. He wore a suit that looked to have been looted.
Clancy turned to run. The boy gave chase. She made it into a side alley, but he was fast. Or perhaps she had got slower. All she knew was he caught her easily in a few strides, tripping her so she fell in a tangle of skirts.
‘Where are you going?’ he taunted, pinning her to the ground.
She struggled, twisting under his grip, but he was too strong.
‘My name is Repent,’ he said. ‘I’m delivering justice hereabouts. Some of my boys noticed you wore a very special dress. You bin hiding the evil ones.’
Clancy had stopped struggling now. Her head turned helplessly, looking for anyone who might come to her aid. But the street was empty.
‘No one is coming to your aid,’ he said. ‘Tell me where they are.’
‘I don’t know nothing about no evil ones,’ said Clancy, terrified. ‘Let me go.’
‘First,’ he said, ‘you must tell me where you got this dress.’
‘I din’ steal it,’ she said. ‘I only found it.’
‘Where?’
Clancy thought of Viola, working at Mrs Jenks’s house, and closed her mouth tight shut. Repent took out a rusty knife, the blade laced with dried blood. A guttural shriek came from Clancy. She bucked and twisted, but Repent held her firm.
‘I mean to complete my father’s mission,’ he said. ‘I’ll be sending the fairy king and queen back to hell. And any whore who stands in my way will be marked for what she is.’
Clancy plumbed her mind for something to save herself. ‘There’s someone else looking for this dress,’ she whispered. ‘A thief taker.’
‘Who?’
Clancy was breathing hard. ‘His name is Charlie Tuesday. He’s with a girl. She’s dressed a bit whorish, but I think she’s something else. Actress, maybe. I watched them for a bit, when they thought I’d fled. They said somethin’ about the King’s Company.’
Repent drew back. Of course fairies would choose a theatre to hide in. Why hadn’t his father thought of it already?
Even better, Repent considered, the mob hated the theatres. The King had spent money glorifying his royal playhouse whilst commoners lived in ash. It would be easy to lead his army to the King’s Theatre. The idea of presenting his father with two bloodied fairy corpses swelled in his imagination. Barebones would have to acknowledge his son wasn’t feeble and inept, but brave and strong.
Repent decided his cleverness deserved a celebration. He looked down at Clancy, lying helpless. He lifted his father’s iron sword. ‘See these?’ he said. ‘These are garters. Want to know how I got them?’
Clancy glared at him. ‘You think you can take something from me?’ she slurred. ‘Remember, I am a whore. All you gain is a debt.’
Chapter 58
At the edge of London’s black rubble, Lily had begun sliding off her many rings and putting them in her pocket. The ashy heart of the fire stood before them, the deepest ruins, where black walls and tunnels made a strange new world.
‘At least you’re not at risk of a robbery,’ said Lily, taking in Charlie’s bare feet and battered coat.
‘Don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘Anyone who struck up residence here would sell your skin to a tanner for a groat. This whole place is filled with robbers and footpads.’
‘Footpads?’
‘It’s slum-speak,’ said Charlie. ‘Highwaymen without horses. Rougher, more barbarous and no one lives to write poetry about them.’
‘Sounds like pirates,’ said Lily, lifting her tangle of charms and necklaces over her head, letting her shining dark hair fall back.
‘People inside have lost everything,’ said Charlie. ‘They’re desperate. The King hasn’t any money to rebuild.’
‘There’s always money in London,’ said Lily, dropping her charms into her hanging pocket and drawing it shut. ‘So long as you’re not too wedded to principle.’ She pushed the pocket down the front of her dress. ‘It’s why I’m getting out, just as soon as I get another ship.’
She was staring uneasily into the gloom. Deep in the depths of half walls and collapsed roofs, someone moved.
Charlie was trying to track a path to Lud Gate, where Dawson had made his home. But his usual mental map was failing him. This wasn’t like any London he knew. It was a dark place. An underworld. A city twisted and strange.
‘Come on,’ he said, moving forward int
o the dark. ‘I think it’s this way.’
As soon as they stepped inside, the spongy earth threw up puffs of fine ash. Lily coughed and covered her mouth. Another movement flickered in the depths. Then a scratching sound.
‘I think this way,’ said Charlie, trying to lead them straight. The tangle of devastation made it impossible. They climbed crumbling walls and crawled through low tunnels, hands over their mouths, coughing through soot.
The first signs of human dwelling stopped Charlie in his tracks. There was a battered square of hessian fabric nailed over one of the fallen roofs to make a kind of tent. A few smouldering sticks, a dirty pan and a waft of sewage.
They moved on uneasily as the sad signs of habitation grew more numerous. Broken things, wet clothing, rudimentary attempts to make fences and roofs.
‘Where are all the people?’ said Lily.
‘I don’t know,’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t like it.’
They heard a sudden noise behind them again. Then a stone pinged off a metal pan. Another struck the ashy floor ahead of them and then a third rebounded off a wicker roof.
‘Footpads,’ said Charlie. ‘Run.’
They plunged through the rubble, stones ringing around them now, striking the ground like hailstones. Ahead was a ring of tall spindly brick fronds; skinny remnants of what had once been a large building. They twisted up into the sky like strange fairy turrets, warped metal grids of what had once been windows hanging askew.
‘We’re at Bridewell,’ said Charlie, suddenly recognising the distorted remains, the buckled cell bars. ‘This used to be the old prison.’
Between the spindle towers was a low opening, an old brick doorway, arched at the top.
‘In there,’ said Charlie, pointing. ‘It will protect us from the stones.’
‘Wait,’ said Lily. ‘I know pirates, Charlie. This feels like a flush-attack.’
‘A what?’ A stone struck Charlie’s arm and he flinched.
‘They want to flush us into somewhere with no way out, so they butcher us,’ she said, sweeping her eyes around their immediate locale. ‘Charlie, trust me, this isn’t your city anymore. It’s far more like the wild seas I know.’