by Sam Burnell
“I think,” said the soldier eyeing Master Drew, “that I’ve been wasting my time. Do you know this… good lady.”
“I do,” Richard was now wrapping the russet cloth around his arm in a makeshift sleeve. “Trimmed maybe with a cream lace. Master Drew, do you sell lace?”
“We do, it’s upstairs,” the shop owner replied, not really knowing what else to say.
“Good, you can show me,” Richard pitched the brown bale onto the top of the pile of Lizbet’s purchases, pushed his arm through Master Drew’s, and started to steer him towards the stairs.
“Sir,” the soldier protested, halting Richard’s exit, “does this mean you can vouch for the lady?”
“Sir,” Richard sounded offended. “Surely you can tell I’d vouch for no lady.” His eyes raked the soldiers body from top to bottom before coming to rest again on his face, a slight invitation playing on his lips. “However, if you’d care to join me and Master Drew…” The Soldier didn’t move. Richard released Master Drew took a step towards him.
That was enough for the soldier. “I’ll bid you good day,” he said, hastily retreating to the door.
Richard winked at Lizbet. “So little time and so many soldiers.” Then returning his attention to Master Drew. “Right, Sir, lace. Show me lace.”
Lizbet sat still and watched, open mouthed, as Richard ascended the steps in the middle of the shop. She listened to him talking with Master Drew for five minutes before he found what he was looking for, exclaiming loudly, “It is, as you say, Sir, as delicate as a petal and as soft as snow. I’ll take it.”
Richard descended the steps with the shopkeeper following carrying the lace.
“Shall we have them delivered, Sir?” Drew said, laying the purchases down on a counter top.
“No need,” Richard was now distracted by yet more gilt cloth. “I’ll settle the account now and have everything collected later. Can you recommend a tailor Master Drew?”
Drew smiled; this was going to add up to a good days sales. “I can indeed; Master Jessop next door, there’s no better tailor in London. Shall I have your cloth delivered there?”
“Indeed, please send it to Master Jessop, and…” he waved a hand absently in Lizbet’s direction, “will come and make an appointment. And don’t put the blue in that the hideous creature chose, mark me,” Richard called over.
“No, Sir,” Drew agreed, giving Lizbet a sideways glance.
Settling the account Richard made for the door then stopped abruptly. “Master Drew, I’d rather not have an audience follow me down the street,” He waved a hand at the crowd that was still peering through the windows.
“Aye, I’m sure you would rather not, if you’d be so kind as to follow me we have another way out; leads on to the next street and if you take a right and then another right it’ll bring you back to the top of the lane.” They left, quietly avoiding the stares of the onlookers and quickly made their way back to the rooms over the inn.
“What was all that about?” Lizbet demanded, hands on her hips as the door closed behind them.
“All what?” Richard’s voice once more bore its usual edge.
“That soldier fled from you. You looked like you were about to have him on the floor of the shop.” Lizbet was confused.
Richard smiled, “And who do you think they’ll be talking about?”
“A bloody sodomite with a loud mouth who likes soldier boys.” Lizbet catching his eye laughed. “You had me, for a moment you did.”
Jack didn’t want to be measured and the tailor, quite frightened didn’t want to measure him either. In the end the process was completed in icy silence after Richard pointed out that if he did not relent he’d be walking the streets of London naked for the remainder of his days.
†
Richard opened the door to Jack’s room and, for the first time in over a week, met his brother’s focused steady stare and smiled. Richard had seen his brother little. Lucy’s remedies had rendered him mostly insensible and he preferred to leave his care to Lizbet. Today was different. The crystal blue eyes that held his own were clear, steady and sentient. Jack was propped up in bed but he was very much awake. The voice was also unmistakably Jack’s, even if its tone was a little quieted by illness and roughened by a throat reddened and painful with coughing.
Jack’s smile, though, was warm and like some conspiratorial schoolboy, Richard found himself returning it, saying, “God, it’s so good to see you looking better Jack.”
Jack pushed down on one elbow and painfully hoisted himself up on the pillows. “Christ.” Jack looked down at his bandaged, bruised and grazed body, and grinned, “How bad did I look before, then?”
“You cheated the Devil, Jack. Shift your feet over,” Richard sat down on the end of the bed, his back against the wall.
There was much to say; too much. The silence between them was not awkward or tinged with any kind of anticipation or need, it was a simple one borne of pure relief. Jack closed his eyes and rested his head back. He could sense his brother’s presence, hear his breathing, feel the weight of him on the bed resting against his feet. It was enough. Richard, his eye’s closed sat quietly, propped against the wall, his head forward, fallen locks obscuring his face from view, his thoughts his own.
Outside the coldest month of winter held London in an icy caress and both men listened to the uneven sound of her dull kisses as the rain met the shutters. The light noise ran on, a background to their thoughts, if they had any. Jack, breathing deeply, felt as if his lungs were able to fill freely with air for the first time in months. The choking pressure in his chest restricting his breathing had gone and Jack let out a long and easy breath.
Both men heard the noise at the same time: Lizbet’s step on the stairs up to the rooms. Jack opened his eyes and Richard raised his head and met his brother’s steady gaze. But it was Jack who broke the silence first, smiling he quietly said, “save me from that scold.”
“How would you have me do that?” Richard replied.
“Stay a while,” Jack requested, a serious tone to his voice. “Tell me what happened?” He closed his eyes again. “How are you here? Jamie said you were dead, then I heard your voice, I couldn’t see you, just hear you, I thought maybe I was dying.”
Richard considered his reply for a few moments. “Jamie thought I was going to die as well, but I didn’t and neither did you. It seems we shall both endure, despite both of us having received the last rites.”
Jack paled and looked seriously at Richard. “I was that bad?”
“I did say both of us. Thanks for the concern,” Richard said sarcastically.
“So when I left Burton, where were you?” Jack was just starting to realise that a chain of events, all starting with Richard’s death and leading to the cells in Marshalsea, might have all been wrongly founded.
Richard detected the note in Jack’s voice; he couldn’t tell if it was anger or disbelief; his brother though, was entitled to both emotions. “I didn’t know where I was. Like you I was fastened to a bed and stripped of my senses, I couldn’t have helped you and I am sorry for that.”
“There was no fault, I know you could not have helped me,” Jack’s hands tightened on the blanket. “So, how did you find me?”
“I didn’t know where you’d gone and I needed to come to London anyway. I made the fortuitous decision to visit our father. He told me you had visited and there I found Catherine. The lass had seen them bring Corracha and your belongings to the house. They told her that the owner had gone to Marshalsea. You are lucky she had the nerve to go, Jack - she took money and it was enough to get you a room and food; otherwise I am sure we would not be talking now.” Richard told him how they had got him from Marshalsea.
Jack listened quietly, then, when Richard had finished shaking his head, “Christ I owe her a debt. I’d heard her voice while I was ill and wondered how she’d come to be here.”
“We both owe her a debt,” Richard corrected, “I’ve found her a safe
place in a large household. If I can help her I will.” Then to Jack, “Was Marshalsea bad?”
Jack’s face went white again. “Richard, it was terrible, I felt as if I had been delivered to Hell. I shall never in my life say I feel cold again, for that was cold the likes of which no-one should face.”
Richard reached a hand out and put it on Jack’s shoulder. “Well I have something to finish in London and then I’ll take you somewhere warmer. Until then, little brother, stop in here and get well.”
Jack smiled: it was what he wanted to hear. Despite everything, his brother was keeping him, at his side.
“I’ll not let you down,” he managed hoarsely.
“I know you won’t,” Richard changed the subject, “Anyway how do you like Lizbet?”
“Where on earth did you find her?” Jack asked, settling back against the piled pillows.
“You needed tending and I thought you’d like her,” Richard smiled simply, adding, “I think she likes you.”
“I think you’ll find it’s your money she likes,” Jack yawned and lay back, closing his eyes. “This tiredness just won’t leave me.”
Richard waited patiently and watched quietly until Jack was again asleep. His skin at last had some colour and the bruises were fading. The sores and rent skin under the bandages were healing well. Richard hoped the man who would come back to him would be the Jack he’d known. Jack wasn’t the only one to have endured the savage trial of loss.
After nearly two weeks in close company with Lizbet, Richard had grudgingly admitted that the woman had indeed a sharp wit and even sharper senses. She had run away when she was twelve, escaping from a father who beat her and a mother who made her work until she dropped. Her parents had a laundry business and made black soap; their eleven children were their unwilling slaves. Lizbet, never one to miss an opportunity, had already taken over Richard’s laundry work. That had caused quite an argument. Bessy Todd, the street laundress, more than a little upset at the loss of a customer, had taken it as a personal slur that Richard’s washing was now in the hands of a whore. Bessy had come up to him in the taproom and informed him in detail of the personal illnesses he was likely to contract now that he had let a whore handle his linen. The laundress was curtly told that he had let them handle a lot more than his shirts in the past and so far he had lived to talk about it, so he was willing to take the risk.
When she had changed her dress for a simple servant’s one, Lizbet had also stopped painting her face. London whore’s marked their trade on their faces in the most unnatural fashion and the eyes that were watching him now were thankfully no longer outlined with smudged charcoal.
Lizbet glanced quickly at him over the cards - if she hoped to catch the other player unawares she was sadly mistaken; steel grey eyes and an impassive gaze met her own. Lizbet huffed audibly. Her hand was good: four cards, including a six of clubs, a seven of clubs and an ace of hearts. Not the highest hand you could get in Primero, but not far away. There were two pennies on the table: it was a difficult call. Previous experience warned her not to underestimate the other player. She peeked quickly, back from the hand to the other player and met again the cold enquiring eyes.
“Well," Lizbet smiling laid her cards down one at a time. “A six, a seven, both clubs and,” she paused for effect, “an ace of hearts.”
The other player gave her the slightest of nods, then laid his cards down quickly, neatly and next to hers.
“God’s bones!” Lizbet exclaimed loudly. Four cards, all different suits and all following on stared at her. “Primero again. If you were playing in the taproom downstairs, I swear one the lads would have slipped a knife between your ribs by now.”
“And you really think they could manage that?” Richard slid the pennies towards him with the edge of the cards.
“Nah, probably not now, they'll all be too drunk by this hour,” Lizbet conceded.
Richard reunited the deck. “Another?” He enquired.
“Aye, I’ll deal if you don't mind.” Lizbet reached over and claimed the deck from his hands.
“You’re as gracious at losing as Jack is,” Richard remarked.
He didn't often speak of Jack. Lizbet looked up from her card-shuffling. “I'd wager he’s easy to read.”
“That's a bet you would win,” Richard agreed. “Jack thinks he plays well and it comes as a continual surprise to him that he keeps on losing.”
“Does he ever beat you?” Lizbet started to deal the cards out on the table between them.
“Not often.” Richard collected his cards, “Unless I want him to.”
There was a scream from the other room; Lizbet jumped. “Lord, here we go, don't you dare look at them while I'm gone,” she warned, “If I lose I’ll know you took a peak.”
“I'll go,” Richard started to rise from his chair.
“No, please, you let me go,” Lizbet was on her way already. “He'd be shamed if you went, it’s not so bad if I go.”
There was much sense in her words and Richard dropped back into his seat to wait. He was thankful for her compassion. This was good work for her and Lizbet was trying her best to impress. Sleeping on the floor outside Jack’s room had meant she had given up the room she shared with the other girls. Now she had regular pay with no fee to pay for her nightly roof; she fervently hoped it would continue.
“I didn't look,” Richard assured her when Lizbet returned.
“I believe you,” Lizbet retrieved her cards, but her mood was sombre.
“Here.” Richard poured her a drink from the flagon on the table. “I can read your face now and I know this isn't easy.”
Lizbet met his gaze, “What happened that could frighten a man so much?”
“I don't know,” admitted Richard. “I honestly don't know and I am afraid to ask.”
“I can guess from his wrists he’s been in gaol, that’s the only place you get marks on you like that…”
Richard’s hard stare stopped her words.
“It’s not my business, sorry Master, I shouldn’t have said that.” Lizbet cursed herself, she’d already been on the wrong side of his temper too many times and she didn’t want to be there again.
“Just keep your counsel,” Richard warned.
“I will.” Feeling needing to change the subject she murmured, “He’ll be well again soon, I'm sure of it.” Lizbet paused momentarily before continuing, “the fevers only been gone a few days and he's not much strength back yet. Lucy says he'll need quite a bit of tending.”
“I can still read you,” Richard smiled. “I’ll be needing you for a few more weeks, don't you worry.”
Lizbet's smile widened. “Thank you, sir.” She discarded a four of clubs and drew another from the top of the pack. Then she loosed the cards, letting them fall onto the table. “Maybe I should learn when I'm beat and not let you take another penny from me.”
“Maybe indeed.” Richard folded his cards and put them back on the top of the pack.
Lizbet stood. “I’ll bid you a good night. Is there anything I can get for you before I go?”
Richard didn't look up from the table. “Some peace perhaps.”
Lizbet misunderstood his remark. “I'm sure he'll be quiet now. I gave him some of that drink Lucy left and he'll sleep like a babe, have no worry.”
“I wasn’t thinking about him,” Richard replied.
Five minutes later Lizbet was back and set a steaming cup before him. “It’s nothing bad,” she assured him, suddenly more than a little nervous at her presumptuousness. “Just feverfew, honey and chamomile.”
He didn’t say anything. Later, when he’d left to go to his own room, Lizbet saw the cup on the table was empty and smiled.
†
Jack awoke; for a moment he didn’t know where he was.
“Oh God,” he whimpered while running his hands through his hair as he sat on the edge of the bed. His mind began to order itself; he knew where he was, he was safe. The candle he always asked Lizbet to leave
to burn had blown out. In the wintery gloom from the window, he spotted the wax stick and the tinder box next to it. Jack took a long breath and steadied himself. Lizbet would have left the fire set, he just needed to light it.
Standing on shaking legs, he reached for the tinderbox and slid the lid open. Inside he found the sharp flint and cold steel by touch, as well as the soft cloth he needed to catch the spark. Jack was sure there were shavings in a box near the fire. The steel slid over the fingers of his left hand so he could strike it with the flint in his right. The first stroke connected and the shower of orange sparks lit the table for a moment while they lived, however none caught on the cloth and the darkness resumed. Jack swallowed hard, fighting to focus on the task. Again a strike and a shower of vivid brief pinpricks of light. Now his hands shook so badly he missed the steel with the flint and felt it cut the backs of his fingers. He knew he didn’t have long and tried again. It was too late: the trembling hands would not obey him. The final agony came when he dropped the flint somewhere on the dark floor. The shadowy presence in the corner near the firewood laughed.
“Have mercy, please, no1” Jack begged, the laughter increasing, ringing maliciously in his ears.
Lizbet flung the door open, her eyes wide when she did not find her charge in the bed. She thought he’d fallen and went to his aid where he lay on his side on the floor. His knees caught by his arms and his head bent down, curled tight as kitten in the cold.
“Jack, Jack, tell me what’s happened.” Placing her hands on him, she felt tremors running through his body. “Oh no, it’s the fever come back.”
Lizbet was alone and she stood no chance of getting Jack back in bed, so she brought the bed to Jack. Pillowed and blanketed, he nestled on the floor. Soon the fire was lit and the room glowed with the orange from the flames.