by C. S. Quinn
Bells rang a constant alarm. But louder was the roar of destruction, screams and jeers. Rioters were smashing their way into a glass-fronted shop. Inside, the owner and his two sons were brandishing cudgels, trying to fight them off, but it was a losing business.
The front of the King’s Head tavern had been completely destroyed. Rioters were robbing patrons, whilst staff switched between fighting back and ferrying terrified drinkers into the wine cellars.
People were racing away, wide-eyed. Some carried their own possessions. Others were bearing ill-gotten gains from shops and warehouses.
In the middle of the road, a huge carriage lay on its side, giant wheels turning, flames rising from its gutted innards. Children were darting back and forth from the blaze, ripping away what remained of the silk curtains and gilded carvings.
Charlie took Lily’s arm and steered her into a rank-smelling doorway. She recoiled, covering her mouth.
‘What’s that smell?’ she managed.
‘The worst of human nature,’ said Charlie. ‘Gin, filth and black despair.’
At first glance, the Gin House was little more than a boarded-up building with a black hole for a doorway. But as they stepped inside, the stomach-turning smell of alcohol fumes was almost enough to choke on. The shop’s furniture was a wooden table, behind which bubbled a strangely shaped alcohol still. A woman was topping it up with a bucket of Thames water. She completed the task, then poked at the fire beneath. The still gave an ominous belch and a foul-smelling steam rose from the top.
The only other decoration besides the still was a large and complicated-looking tally of debts scrawled on the wall in chalk, with symbols taking the place of names.
‘The morning after the night before,’ murmured Charlie, taking in the slumbering inebriates.
Dawn was breaking, and the first chinks of light could be seen through the boarded-up window. A woman in a woollen dress was slumped forward, a widening patch of urine soaking into the earth floor. Elsewhere, ragged people sat silently or slept, gin pipes clutched in their hands. A pregnant woman was feeding sips of gin to a feral-looking toddler.
Lily froze. ‘That’s wild-eyed Jack,’ she hissed, nodding towards a man in a tricorn hat snoring face down on the floor. ‘He’s a pirate. A bad one,’ she added. Her eyes moved to another drinker with a sawn-off manacle still attached to his wrist. ‘This isn’t a good place, Charlie,’ she said, swallowing.
‘They probably won’t wake up,’ he reassured her. ‘It’s only first light.’
The owner of the shop turned to them, assessing them with slow eyes. Every red and purple vein on her ancient face was broken, and her grossly round belly and wasted limbs gave the appearance of an apple propped on toothpicks. She was roughly covered by a dress that had been cheaply risqué a long time ago but was now a filth-stiffened assortment of hanging rags. She wore her drunkenness in the same way as her clothing: long-established and layered, with a hint of monstrosity buried beneath.
‘Gin.’ It was a command rather than a question. She’d used a collection of black felt dots to hide the ulcers on her face, and they danced as she spoke.
Charlie slid her two pennies, trying not to follow the bouncing patches, and she filled two little cups.
‘We drink to Ironsides in ’ere,’ she added, filling her own significantly larger cup, raising it and fixing them with a challenging gaze. ‘He wouldn’t have let London rot in ruins after a fire.’
‘To Cromwell,’ said Charlie, raising and upending his cup.
The woman seemed to relax slightly. ‘King promised to rebuild St Paul’s,’ she said. ‘We ain’t sin it. But I’m blowed if Lady Castlemaine doesn’t ’ave a fine new house, grander than any cathedral, so I’ve heard.’ She cast another suspicious assessment over them both. ‘Not seen yers round ’ere before.’
‘I grew up in the north of the city,’ said Charlie.
‘Orphan, eh?’ opined the old woman. ‘We get lots of ’em. Gotta drown yer sorrows, don’t yer? Feels right sorry for yers. I’d rather me old dead mother, God rest ’er wicked cruel old soul, above them nuns.’ She gave a dramatic shudder.
‘Did a new girl come to you today?’ asked Charlie. ‘With money for gin?’
The facial patches jiggled alarmingly. ‘What makes you think we trade in that kind of business?’ she demanded.
But Charlie noticed her eyes made a slow-motion flicker towards the ceiling of the grimy shop.
‘We’re looking for an old dress,’ said Charlie. ‘Green and gold, with leaves sewn on.’
He saw an unmistakable mark of recognition flash in her deeply drunk eyes.
‘Mebbes we sin it, mebbes we ain’t,’ said the landlady, leaning back and crossing her arms across her chest. ‘Wha’s it worth?’ She slurred this last part, leaning forward and bathing him in gin fumes.
Charlie resisted the urge to recoil and knew better than to indicate the location of his purse in a place like this. ‘A shilling,’ he said carefully. ‘For what you know.’
The landlady narrowed her piggy eyes. Charlie realised the shot of gin was hitting her hard.
‘’Oo d’ya think you are?’ she said, lurching to a sudden nonsensical fury. ‘We don’t ’elp your lot in ’ere for money,’ she added obscurely, waving her hand at some unseen posse. ‘Fuck off, the lot of yers.’
‘Whatcha doin’ bringin’ ’er kind in ’ere?’ A gravelly voice rang up from the bodies at their feet. Then a bulky woman heaved herself upright and addressed Lily. ‘Thought we burned all your lot during the war and good riddance.’ She glared at Lily, taking in the toffee-coloured skin, dark eyes and thick swathe of gypsy charms dangling from her neck, then shoved her hard.
Lily jolted back, catching herself on the gin table. Her face clouded with rage and her stance shifted. Recognising the threat, her burly attacker balled her scarred fists.
A few closed eyes on the shop floor had blinked awake now, enjoying the prospect of some entertainment. The woman had the muscular arms of a laundry worker and the broken nose of a fighter.
‘Peace.’ Charlie tried to step between them.
‘Oh ho!’ jeered the landlady. ‘She must fight fer ’erself in ’ere. Ain’t that right, Joanie? No men-folk.’ The landlady grinned. ‘Looks like we got ourselves some sport,’ she said, gleefully noting Lily’s furious expression. ‘Thas my price for this dress. Your gypsy to fight our Joan.’
Chapter 53
The parliament men exchanged glances. The King kept looking at the door.
‘Your Majesty,’ said one. ‘Might we begin?’
‘One moment.’ The King held up a ringed finger and moved close to Amesbury. ‘Where is she?’ he whispered. ‘I commanded her to be present.’ Charles lowered his voice angrily. ‘The last thing I need,’ he decided, ‘is another faithless, difficult woman.’
‘Very good.’ Amesbury nodded, drawing the King to the side. ‘There’s a new actress. Italian. I understand she will be whoever you wish for a thousand pounds a year. Loyal. Obedient. Beautiful.’
There was a strange shriek from outside. Amesbury looked up sharply, assessing. The parliament men followed his gaze.
Charles waved his hand. ‘Do it then,’ he decided. ‘No more of this “I demand nothing of you”. Let us pay a fair price for a fair service. I’m not a young man of fifteen any longer, Amesbury. I haven’t the energy for these capricious ladies.’
The shrieking sound came again. Louder this time. Then a series of barks.
‘What in God’s name is that noise?’ The King moved towards the window, frowning. It took him a moment to realise what he was seeing. Then his face opened in a wide smile.
Lynette was on the grass with two of the royal children. She knelt on all fours pretending to be a dog, chasing them about the green. They were running away, shrieking with delight. Lynette caught one of them by the leg and he went down, hysterical with laughter.
Amesbury moved to the King’s side. ‘Should I call the nursemaid?’ he aske
d, watching the King’s face.
On the grass, Lynette had opened the shirt of three-year-old George, Duke of Northumberland, and was gnawing on his bare pink belly.
‘No.’ Charles bowed to the men, as the boy’s happy squeals drifted through the window. ‘Gentlemen. Might you indulge me for one moment? I’m going to see my children.’
They nodded uncertainly.
The King walked alone from the room and onto the green. He stood for a moment, watching, a smile on his face.
A harassed-looking nursemaid burst from the palace, saw the King and stopped mid-run with an awkward curtsey. ‘Your Majesty.’ She faltered, glancing from him to the children.
The King looked up genially.
‘They got out of their lessons,’ she managed. ‘I’ll return them immediately.’
‘Allow me,’ he said. ‘You go back to the nursery.’
The nursemaid retreated, curtseying.
Then Lynette saw him and paused in the act of chasing four-year-old Charlotte, Duchess of Lichfield. The little girl raced behind a hedge and ducked out of sight.
‘’Ow long you bin standin’ there?’ Lynette demanded, grinning. ‘I should charge you for peeping.’
‘You were supposed to be at my side,’ he reminded her. ‘I asked you. I commanded you.’
‘Did you now?’ She ran her hand through her red hair. ‘Thought I told you I don’t care much for being commanded.’
He moved towards her. ‘They’re in there,’ he said. ‘The men who killed my father.’ He dropped his voice. ‘I needed you.’
She shook her curled hair, moving closer. ‘No, you didn’t,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘You are king.’
He stood for a moment, taking in her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. ‘Don’t go back to the Birdcage,’ he heard himself say. ‘Join the King’s Company. Act on the Drury Lane stage. Become a licensed player.’
Lynette took his hands. ‘Charles,’ she said, ‘it isn’t me.’ She squeezed his fingers. ‘I can’t even read. Most ’a what I act is straight from my head. ’Ow would I learn me lines in time?’
‘The Birdcage is dangerous,’ tried Charles. ‘The apprentices might attack.’
‘All the more reason for the show to go on, I reckon.’
‘You are so stubborn,’ he sighed, shaking his head with a smile.
Charlotte’s face popped up from behind the hedge. ‘I’m here!’ she shouted hopefully at Lynette. ‘Come find me!’
Lynette smiled, gave his hands a final squeeze, then turned and ran towards the hedge. ‘I have every faith in you,’ she called over her shoulder as she fled. ‘You’ve run this whole country with a hangover. Means you can do anythin’, I reckon.’
Chapter 54
The Gin House landlady smiled in a way that sent her three wobbling chins vanishing into her fat neck and stood back delightedly.
Lily looked at Charlie.
‘Looks like we gots some ent-ter-tain-ment,’ said the landlady, raising her voice as she laboured with the long word. ‘Gypsy fight.’
‘No one is fighting anyone,’ said Charlie, trying to quell the rising atmosphere of excitement in the Gin House. His eyes sought the board on the wall tallying debts. He matched the thick-set woman to her symbol – a closed fist. A few surreptitious bets were being chalked by it, all against Lily.
Lily pushed Charlie out of the way. ‘I can defend myself against a gin-soaked old hag,’ she muttered, flexing her knife hand.
The fat landlady glanced to the ladder leading upstairs in a way that convinced Charlie the dress was in her attic room.
‘Tell me first of the dress . . .’ Charlie began, directing his request to the landlady.
From nowhere, Joan swung a meaty punch with surprising accuracy for a drunk. Lily swerved, and the other woman fell full-force into the table, sending a great crack along its centre.
‘The dress!’ Lily hissed, as Joan collected herself.
A few people were getting to their feet now. Charlie could sense the atmosphere turning ugly. All eyes were on Lily.
Charlie hesitated, then ran and climbed the ladder. He glanced down to see Lily was circling the cracked table, evading the larger woman.
He emerged into an attic room with a low sloping roof and a strong smell of unwashed sheets. In the gloom he could make out two makeshift beds, partitioned by curtains.
To the sound of legs and skirts flurrying below, Charlie’s eyes settled on a collection of dog-eared dresses strung over a thick piece of cord at the top of the stairs. He fell on them, searching. His heart sank. It wasn’t here. He’d been so sure the thief was on her way to the Gin House. And the landlady’s expression seemed to confirm she’d bought the dress.
A sudden movement stopped him. One of the mattresses he’d assumed empty was occupied.
‘You gotta clear it with the landlady to lie up ’ere,’ said a sleepy female voice. ‘I pays ’er for the bed. Tell ’er Clancy gave a full penny, and she ain’t woked up yet.’
In the dark, Charlie could make out that Clancy had a certain prettiness, but her long nose, lank brown hair and prominent teeth leant her a weasel-like quality.
Her eyes were young and wary. They settled on his hands, still holding the dresses. ‘Whatcha doin’ with them dresses?’ she asked, taking a sudden step forward. When she saw his face, she gave a start. ‘You’re the thief taker,’ she said. ‘I knows you.’
Like everyone else in the house, she was blind drunk, Charlie realised. The smell of gin rolled off her. Charlie glanced down and suddenly saw it. She was wearing the dress he had been searching for. A gown of green-gold leaves, gossamer thin, old.
He moved slowly towards her. ‘I can pay you . . .’ he started to say.
There was a bolt of movement from the bed and suddenly the girl pushed past him.
‘Wait!’ shouted Charlie.
Charlie moved fast, but he’d misjudged her speed. Clancy was down the little ladder in moments. He jumped down just in time to see her joining the sodden drunks.
His eyes sought out Lily and found her. She had Joan pinned against the far wall, knife against her throat.
‘You ain’t allowed to use no knives,’ managed the fat woman. ‘It’s not in the rules.’
‘I’m a gypsy, remember?’ hissed Lily. ‘We don’t have rules.’
The bigger woman swallowed, eyes tracking down to the cold metal.
The sleeping drunks were wide awake now, keen to join the affray. A card sharper was taking bets on the women, shuffling his pack to number the odds.
Clancy was elbowing her way out.
‘Lily!’ Charlie shouted. ‘Stop her! The dress!’
Lily made a grab at Clancy. Her hand got a hold on the dress, but Clancy tore free, leaving Lily clutching a handful of silk leaves.
Lily’s sparring partner took advantage of her distraction and landed a punch in her kidneys. Lily gasped, the wind knocked out of her.
‘He’s a thief taker!’ shouted Clancy, as she raced for the door.
‘I knew you was trouble!’ The landlady was pointing at Charlie, roaring in outrage. ‘A curse on thief takers!’
Every unfriendly eye now turned to Charlie. A few men began moving towards him. He twisted to see Lily had slipped free of Joan. Two knives were pinning the larger woman against the bar by her skirts.
‘I’ve four knives left,’ said Lily, eyeing the crowd near the door. ‘It’s not enough,’ she added as the motley drinkers began closing in.
Charlie grabbed the pack of cards from the card sharp and flipped them arcing in the air. Whilst heads automatically followed the display, Charlie drove his fist into the stomach of the man closest to him.
‘Throw your knives towards the door!’ he shouted to Lily, as the man doubled over.
Lily flung a volley of blades. They stuck into the wooden door frame in a perfect square.
The crowd parted, and Lily and Charlie raced for the door.
Chapter 55
Repent looked
up at Finsbury Gaol. Barebones’s arrest had scattered the apprentices. But Bolly had managed to regroup many of the frightened boys. He’d even recruited some of the wealthier apprentices on their way to Finsbury, Repent noted jealously. Farriers and leatherworkers, with their fancy tools.
Repent twirled his father’s short iron sword inexpertly, strutting in front of the prison. The apprentices looked at him differently, he thought, now he carried a weapon.
‘They’re in there,’ said Repent, nodding. ‘My father. Our boys.’
Bordering the prison was a wide patch of scrubland.
‘Look at all the people without homes,’ said Bolly, eyeing the mass of refugees from the Great Fire. ‘The King said he would rebuild.’
‘Aye,’ said Repent. ‘We all know where the money went. Look at the fine new theatre.’
The dispossessed Londoners were starving, ragged and pitiful. A few empty flour sacks were all that remained of a food delivery from months ago.
‘He forgot about them,’ said Bolly.
Repent frowned. ‘We are not women, Bolly,’ he said. ‘Save your soft heart for the whores. We must be men if we are to break my father free from prison.’
The apprentices were still swelling in number. They bore pitchforks, sticks and pikes.
‘You’re certain Barebones was taken to Finsbury?’ asked Bolly, looking doubtfully at the prison. ‘The guards don’t look as though they’ve arrested any men recently.’
‘My father meant me to lead you,’ said Repent self-importantly. ‘I carry his sword. A soldier does not question his commander.’ Repent pointed the sword, enjoying himself. ‘New offenders are taken to the Meet House,’ he said, trying to affect Barebones’s gravelly authority. ‘The guards won’t have had time to allocate them to a different building yet. We strike now,’ he added, pounding a fist into the palm of his hand in what he hoped was a warlike gesture.
He was looking at the entrance of the prison. It was a thick wall bearing two large wooden doors, one of which stood slightly ajar.
‘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 . . .’