"You were apprenticed to a weaver?" Graeham asked. Weaving was women’s work.
"I liked the weaving," Adam said. "And Mistress Hertha, she was all right. Only I didn’t much like that husband of hers."
"Did he beat you?"
"Nay, he...looked at me."
"Looked at you."
"‘Twas the way he looked at me. And once, he walked in on me when I was takin’ me bath. Tried to help me wash up— that’s what he called it. I splashed soapy water in his eyes, but that only made him mad. So I told him me pa was a bear of a man and would come to London and wring his neck if he didn’t leave me be. So he left me be. For a time."
Graeham steeled himself; he’d come this far. "What happened?"
Adam ate the last of the pine nut candy with a melancholy expression. "The yellow plague came to Laystoke. Killed me whole family."
Graeham groped for words. "All of them? Everyone?"
"Me mum, me pa, me six brothers and sisters and most of me kin. ‘Cept for me uncle Oswin, ‘cause he’s too mean to die."
Graeham closed his eyes briefly. "I’m sorry."
"They’re in heaven now. They’re at peace."
"Yes, of course. Still, I’m sorry. What became of you?"
"Mistress Hertha’s husband, well, he figured he could have his way with me now that me pa wasn’t around to stop him."
Graeham’s fist clenched.
"But I wasn’t about to wait around and let it happen."
"So you ran away."
"Aye."
"And now you’re living on the streets."
Adam shrugged.
"And sleeping...where? Stables, alleys, doorways?"
"‘Tisn’t too bad now that it’s getting warm—and I’m small, so folks don’t notice me."
"Why don’t you throw yourself on the mercy of one of the almshouses?" Graeham asked.
"Bad people go to the almshouses. I don’t like to be where they are."
There’s lots of bad men in London, Adam had said once. You’ve got to keep your wits about you.
"‘Twas clever of you to dress like a boy," Graeham said.
Adam—or whatever her name really was—stilled in the act of licking honey off her delicate but grimy fingers.
"As you say, most of the bad men are after the girls."
The child wiped her hands on her braies. "How’d you know?"
"‘Twasn’t any one thing. You really make a very convincing boy."
"Thank you."
"What’s your name?" Graeham asked. "Your real name."
"Alice."
"What a lovely name."
Alice smiled prettily—too prettily, for she suddenly looked every bit the little girl she was, despite her woolen cap and the film of dirt on her face. Sooner or later, some "bad man" would notice that pretty smile and figure it out. Graeham didn’t like to think what would happen then.
"You ought not to be living on the streets the way you do," Graeham said. "Especially being a girl and all."
A movement from the salle caught his eye. Joanna was bringing the stein of ale he always liked around this time of day. He wondered how she would feel about taking in yet another stray. Alice could sleep on a pallet in the salle, or possibly even in the solar, if Joanna didn’t mind.
"I mustn’t let her see me," Alice said. "She might recog¬nize me tomorrow morning if she happens to notice me while I’m following her."
"Don’t worry about that," Graeham said, much less concerned now with keeping tabs on Joanna than with making sure little Alice didn’t spend another night on the streets.
"There’s someone I want you to meet," he told Joanna as she entered the storeroom.
"Who?" She looked around, mystified.
Graeham turned toward the alley window. Alice was gone.
***
SQUATTING ON A limb of the big tree overhanging Joanna Chapman’s kitchen hut and shielded from view behind a screen of newly sprouted leaves, Alice of Laystoke watched the back door open. Mistress Chapman emerged wearing a shapeless brown kirtle, her hair veiled, a marketing basket over her arm.
Finally! Alice had been waiting in this tree since dawn, eager to earn those four pennies Graeham Fox had paid her yesterday, one of which she’d spent last night on a ham pasty and a sweet wafer, her best meal since leaving Mistress Hertha’s. Shortly after she’d climbed up here, the serjant had limped out on his crutch wearing naught but a pair of baggy linen underdrawers, which he’d started untying even before the privy door swung closed behind him. Mistress Joanna had come out in her wrapper for the same purpose a while later, fetching a bucket of well water on her way back inside.
After that, all had been quiet for some time. Alice had watched the rising sun illuminate the thatched roofs of West Cheap and majestic St. Paul’s cathedral on Ludgate Hill...and waited. Now her waiting was over. Mistress Joanna was walking away from the house and down the alley toward Milk Street, her stride swift and purposeful.
Alice waited until her quarry was almost out of sight, then swung off the branch and dropped to the ground. Hearing her name hissed, she turned. At first she didn’t see anyone, but then she noticed movement in the small, deep rear window of the house. It was Graeham Fox, gesturing her to come to him.
"I can’t," she whispered back, pointing toward Mistress Joanna, walking rapidly down the alley. "I’ll lose her."
Alice darted into the alley just in time to see the shop lady turn left onto Milk Street at the end. She glanced in Alice’s direction just as she disappeared from view; Alice hoped she hadn’t noticed her, but even if she had, she wouldn’t take much note of one scruffy little girl —boy. She must remember that she was a boy now, and act the part. No more being careless. Not all men were good, like Serjant Fox.
At the end of the alley, Alice peeked around a tall stone wall that separated the alley from a fancy blue and red house. Mistress Joanna opened the front gate and walked through it. A moment later, Alice heard a knocking, followed by muffled voices and a door opening and closing.
The Church of St. Mary Magdalene stood directly across from the blue and red house. Alice ran across the street and into the deep, arched doorway of the small stone church. Crouching in the concealing shadows, she trained her gaze on the fancy house, unnerved by the carvings that surrounded her in the entryway—a saintly figure being accosted by beasts with snarling, wolflike heads. She stuck her tongue out at them, then concentrated on ignoring them.
The waiting was the worst part of it, she decided, growing fidgety as time crawled by. Following someone wasn’t that hard; sitting and doing nothing was excruciating.
She bolted to her feet when the front door opened and Mistress Joanna appeared, glancing around as she passed through the gate; Alice pressed herself further into the shadows. The shop lady retraced her steps, turning right onto Milk Street and then again around the high stone wall, disappearing into the alley.
When she was out of sight, Alice dashed across the street and into the alley—only to come face-to-face with Mistress Joanna glaring down at her, hands on hips, her basket looped over her arm. "Why are you following me?"
Alice squealed and spun around. Her legs pumped wildly, but she didn’t go anywhere; the shop lady had her by the back of her shirt.
"Not so fast, young man. I want to know why you’ve been following me."
"Let me go! I didn’t do nothin’."
"Ah, but you did. And I want to know why."
Whatever you do, don’t let her see you. Alice hadn’t been careful enough; she’d been caught. The serjant would be disappointed in her. He might even want his fourpence back.
"Let me go!" Alice swatted at the shop lady’s hand, but she held tight on to the shirt. The child kicked, as hard as she could.
That did it. Mistress Joanna cried out as Alice’s foot connected with her leg. Her grip loosened on the shirt.
Alice turned to run.
Hands grabbed at her. Her cap was yanked off; she felt her braids spring
out.
"What the devil...? Wait!"
Alice sprinted into Milk Street, but her progress was aborted by arms wrapping around her and lifting her off the ground.
"Not so fast," Mistress Joanna said as she carried Alice, kicking and flailing, back into the alley. "We need to have a conversation, you and I."
Alice struggled mightily, but the shop lady had her in an iron grip. She carried her calmly up the alley, saying, "Serjant Fox told me there was a little girl named Alice running about dressed as a boy. That would be you, I assume."
"Let me go!" Alice geared up her nerve to say a bad word. "You bitch! Let me go!"
"I think not."
Alice looked up as they crossed the croft to Mistress Joanna’s back door. She looked toward the little rear window, dreading what she would see. Sure enough, Graeham Fox was there, watching her being lugged like a sack of turnips toward the back door.
Mistress Joanna carried her into the house, down a hallway, and through a leather-curtained doorway into the little storeroom-turned-bedchamber. Serjant Fox was sitting on the edge of his cot, his expression doleful. "Good morrow, Alice."
"I’m sorry, serjant," Alice said as Mistress Joanna plunked her on her feet and gave her back her cap. "She saw me. I can give you three of your pennies back, but I spent the fourth."
"Your pennies?" said Mistress Joanna.
Graeham Fox closed his eyes briefly. Realizing what she had done, Alice felt her stomach constrict in a knot of remorse. She pulled her cap back on, shoving her braids beneath it.
The shop lady walked up to Serjant Fox. "Your pennies, serjant?"
He lifted his crutch and pulled himself to his feet. "Mistress..."
"I take it you paid this child to follow me."
He sighed.
"I might have known."
"I needed to know where you’ve really been going every morning," he said. "And don’t tell me you’ve been marketing, because you hardly ever bring anything back."
"She went to the red and blue house!" Alice offered, thinking he might let her keep the money he’d paid her if she gave him the information he’d been seeking.
The serjant smiled slowly. "I thought that might be it."
Mistress Joanna gave Alice a look before returning her attention to Graeham Fox. "You are sorely trying my patience, serjant." She wasn’t acting angry, but how could she not be?
Alice swallowed hard. They were both mad at her now—and at each other, as well. She’d mucked things up badly. Digging the three remaining pennies out of her purse, she held them out to the serjant. "Here. I got caught, so..."
"Keep them," he said. "I don’t want them back."
Somehow that made her feel even worse. She returned the money to her purse and edged toward the doorway.
"You could have simply asked me where I was going," said Mistress Joanna.
"Would you have told me the truth?"
Unseen by the shop lady and the serjant, Alice pulled the leather curtain aside.
"That’s not the point."
"Mistress..."
"I’m going to continue my visits to Ada le Fever, but don’t think for a moment I’m doing it for you, serjant. And don’t expect me to spy for you or report back to you, because I won’t."
"I understand," he said, with a hint of smugness. "But I also know that you’ve got far too much honor and compassion to keep quiet if you suspect any wrongdoing on the part of Rolf le Fever. You’d report to me rather than let any harm come to his wife."
Alice slipped through the curtain, raced up the hall and out the back door. It banged behind her.
"Alice!" Graeham Fox called from inside.
She heard Mistress Joanna say, "I’ll go after her," but she knew she had too much of a head start to be caught—not by a woman.
"Alice!" the serjant yelled through the window. "Come back! Please!"
But Alice knew, as she sprinted away, that she would never go back there, ever again. She’d caused enough trouble for those people. No use sticking around to cause more.
Chapter 18
* * *
"THANK YOU FOR seeing me, Brother Prior," said Joanna early that evening as she was ushered into the office of Simon of Cricklade, Prior of Holy Trinity.
"Not at all." Brother Simon circled his desk and gestured Joanna into one of two high-backed chairs facing each other in a corner of his office. He sat in the other, adjusting his black, cowled habit so that it lay smooth over his lap. "When I was told it was Graeham Fox who had sent you, I knew I had to see you. I haven’t seen the boy since he left here eleven years ago...although I don’t suppose he’s a boy any longer."
Brother Simon’s office, austere yet strangely elegant, suited him perfectly. The prior was old, very old, with snowy hair beneath his skullcap and translucent, softly fissured skin. Yet, despite a slight palsy in his head and hands, his movements were smooth and graceful, his back straight, his gaze astute—and kind, which served to put Joanna at ease even though she’d never set foot in a monastery before, much less had an audience with its chief administrator.
The prior turned to the young monk who’d escorted Joanna into his office and said, "Spiced wine, if you please, Brother Luke."
Brother Luke nodded and retreated from the chamber, closing the door softly behind him. The prior sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. "I’m sorry Graeham couldn’t come himself. A broken leg, you say?"
"Aye, the work of robbers."
Brother Simon shook his head. "This can be an unkind city."
"He asked me to convey his best wishes, and that he’s planning to visit you before he returns to Beauvais next month."
"I’d like that."
"The reason I came here," she said, "is to ask for your help in locating a child."
"A child. One of my boys?"
"Nay, ‘tis a girl—though she dresses like a boy for safety. She’s orphaned and homeless. Her name is Alice, but she goes by Adam."
A soft knock sounded at the door. "Come," said Brother Simon. The young monk entered with a tray of warm spiced wine in a ewer, which he poured into wooden goblets before taking his leave.
"I hope you don’t mind," said the prior as he handed a goblet to Joanna. "I like my wine heated even in the summer. Old men need all the warmth they can get."
"I don’t mind at all." Joanna lifted the goblet to breathe in the exotic blend of cinnamon and cloves and good red wine.
Brother Simon took a pensive sip. "I’m afraid I don’t quite see how I can be of help in this matter, mistress. We’re a very insular community here. If you need assistance in searching the city for the child, you’re best off notifying the ward patrol to keep an eye out for her."
"I did," she said, "before I came here. But she’s a slippery little thing, and she looks like a thousand other ragged young boys. The reason I came to you is that she sometimes sleeps in the stables here."
The prior’s eyes lit with amusement. "Yes, the brothers tell me they often come across waifs asleep in the empty stalls. I’ve ordered them to be undisturbed."
"If they find a child of about nine or ten in a ragged red cap, Serjant Fox and I would very much appreciate being informed. And if you could manage to detain her..."
"I don’t think that should be a problem."
"You might be surprised," Joanna said, but she felt a rush of relief at his easy cooperation. "I live on Wood Street, the first house after the alley near the corner of Newgate."
The prior took another sip, eyeing her over the rim of his goblet. "And were does Serjant Fox live?"
"With me." A wave of heat consumed Joanna’s face. "That is, he’s renting my storeroom. While his leg heals. He sleeps there."
Brother Simon nodded, almost smiling; Joanna knew he suspected that their relationship wasn’t innocent. "I find it hard to think of Graeham Fox as a soldier. I spent fourteen years trying to prepare that boy for a career in the Church. He was bright enough, certainly, one of the cleverest boys we’ve ever had
here. Always poring over books in our library."
"He still reads a great deal."
The prior nodded sagely. "‘Tis a favorite pastime of people who enjoy solitude—or have simply grown accustomed to it. Graeham was never one to rely on others, for companionship or for any other reason—most unusual in a place like this, where the boys tend to run in packs. Not Graeham. If he needed something done, he did it himself. If he was bored, he found ways to amuse himself." A spark lit his eyes. "There’s a door in the city wall within our property—did you know that?"
"Nay." The only openings in the wall that Joanna knew of were the seven well-guarded gates.
"It’s close to one end of the boys’ dorter. The justiciar lets us keep it—on condition we lock it at night— because it provides access to a field we maintain outside the wall. Graeham somehow found a way to unlock it. On hot summer nights he would often steal out of the dorter when everyone else was sleeping and use that door to get out of the city. Then he’d walk the mile or so to Smithfield and go swimming in the horsepool. ‘Twas the type of thing a group of boys might do for a lark, except that Graeham did it regularly, and all alone."
"He told me about the horsepool," Joanna said. "I don’t think he realizes you knew about it."
"He who lives long sees much," the old man chuckled. "There is little that’s happened at Holy Trinity over the half century I’ve been here that has escaped my notice, mistress."
"You said you tried to prepare Graeham for a career in the Church. Are you disappointed he didn’t become a cleric?"
"Actually, I’d always hoped he would take monastic vows, but I would have been content if he’d entered minor orders. At one time, he intended to, but..." He shrugged and set his goblet down. "I should have known he’d find another path. He never felt a sense of belonging at Holy Trinity. The other boys respected him, but they never quite accepted him as one of their own. I think it was because he’d grown up here and had no other home. They didn’t quite know what to make of him. I know many of them suspected he was in a position of privilege, granted special favors, that sort of thing—entirely untrue, of course, but the rumors did their damage."
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