Meddybemps dropped onto a stool and rubbed his eyes. “That would be difficult since I plan to accompany you.” He peered up at John. “And since I intend to partake in this madness, I have no intention of standing behind bars.” Meddybemps scanned the room. “John, Bianca is the daughter of an alchemist. And while she denounces his maniacal methods, she is still curious enough to consider them.” His gaze settled on the shelves of crockery, and his face brightened. “If I know Bianca,” he said, standing, “and I believe that I do, she will have a stash of ingredients that delight the smattering of alchemist blood that I am sure courses through her veins. She cannot deny that from which she is wrought.”
John gazed around the room. “What would she have of any value?” He pointed to the row of dissected vermin. “Rats?” he asked, cynically. “Or this maze of copper tubing? How about this stack of crockery?” He pulled a human skull off the wall and held it up. “I’m sure a guard from the Clink would want this.”
Meddybemps ignored John and started going through the jars on the shelves, lifting lids and peering inside. “Puffers love metals. Surely you know the theory behind their obsessive search? The philosopher’s stone and such?”
“Of course I know something about it. I am a silversmith’s apprentice and in love with an alchemist’s daughter.” John sniffed that Meddybemps should think him thick.
Meddybemps pulled out a box and lifted its lid, then put it back on the shelf. “I also gave her a bag of coins from selling her balms at market. Mayhaps we shall find it.”
Resignedly, John followed suit and started looking through the paraphernalia on the abutting wall, an area mostly blocked with discarded cucurbits and stills. Probably she had pinched them from her father’s room of alchemy when he was unawares. After examining every bowl of desiccated plant parts, he started pulling down plugged bottles of a selection of powders, the labels for which fluttered to the floor. He hoped Bianca would remember what they were when and if she ever returned.
Meddybemps chattered to himself, and John ignored his rhymes and patters flowing as easily as ale at the Dim Dragon Inn. Between the two of them, they exhausted every piece of crockery and had nothing but raw noses to show for it.
John stepped down from a stool and sat. “Nothing. Not even her stash of coins.” He watched Meddybemps continue the search, undeterred. “Truly, Meddybemps, don’t you think if she had anything of value, we would have found it by now?”
Meddybemps hopped off the chest he’d been standing on. “Bianca is not so easy to figure. She is at once predictable and confounding.” With hands on hips, he gazed about the room, puzzled. “I am certain she would not be entirely without something.” He rubbed his temple in thought. “Did you see any stone chips or rocks?”
“Nothing of merit.” John’s patience was wearing thin. “Meddy, I’ll not spend another minute searching through her belongings. She’s sitting in the Clink, and I’ll not abandon her there.” He stood, roused by his own words. If he had to rescue her by himself, he would.
Meddybemps scratched under his red beret, his eyes rolling like goose eggs. “Hey non,” he said after a moment, as if the most wondrous idea had sprouted in his head. He turned and looked down at the chest he had been shoving about and standing on. “What’s this?” He crouched and tried to open the hasp, but a rusted padlock held it closed.
“You know anything about locks?” he said.
“Only how to spring them,” mumbled John.
“So obvious as to be ignored . . .” Meddybemps hefted the wooden chest to the table and studied its hinges. “If we pry these off, perhaps we can lift the lid.”
John grumbled. “She wouldn’t stash valuables in that decrepit old box.”
Meddybemps searched the shelves for an iron rod or bar that he could shim beneath the hinges. With a yelp of triumph, he found a metal stirring spoon with a sturdy handle and wedged it under the hinge. A solid yank later, he had prized the rusty device from the wood and was searching through the contents. “What say you?” Meddybemps lifted a pouch of silver for John to admire. “Enough for a bribe, I’d say.”
John snatched the pouch from the streetseller and stuffed it in his breeches.
“And who knows Bianca better than anyone?” gibed Meddybemps as John headed for the door with a grudging scowl.
They hoped that with nightfall the turnkey might be more easily plied by crooked method. The prison was as Meddybemps presumed, a wholly corrupt system, and what was one more illicit deal among many?
John was careful to extract just enough silver to entice and convince, while leaving some to pad for any unforeseen glitch in their plan. Neither of them relished being anywhere near the Clink, and the idea of entering it set them ill at ease. They hurried along in silence, each harboring thoughts of what Bianca might suffer if they should fail, but neither one daring to mention it.
The Clink was well known for the brutality of its guards and its unwholesome conditions. One might avoid the rack and wall shackles for a stint at a gristmill. But that was only marginally better as the inmates there were whipped and starved and forced to keep moving until they dropped. Either way, there was no shortage of cruelty at the Clink, and they sorely hoped they could rescue Bianca from any such fate.
When they were within sight of the infamous prison, Meddybemps seized John’s arm and pulled him to a stop. “Let me do the speech making, lad. Your eyes are as wild as a scared rabbit’s. You’ll do best to take a long breath and count to ten first.” Meddybemps tightened his grip. “Go on, now. Do as I say.”
If he looked like a scared rabbit, what did that say for Meddybemps, with those errant eyes skittering around? John sighed, then took a breath, but didn’t feel any better afterward. “Come on now,” John said, exasperated. “We haven’t got all night.”
It appeared the inmates had been shut away for the evening; no one begged at the windows, and the edifice stood black and silent. Meddybemps adjusted the angle of his cap, and they tentatively stepped up to the massive arched entry and looming oak door.
John lifted his fist and knocked.
“Lad, a polite rapping will not do,” said Meddybemps, staring up at the stolid stone façade, imagining the disturbing din of prisoners beyond. “I doubt they heard you.”
John complied, and in a moment a hulk of a turnkey stood before them, clutching a roasted leg of mutton. He chewed openmouthed and peered down at them. John stared up at the chomping, grinding teeth, stupefied. He’d never witnessed mastication so explicit. From grinding flesh and the overproduction of saliva, to the man’s lips, glossy from fat, John followed the life of that one bite to the swallow. Stymied, John took a step back and pushed Meddybemps forward. Meddybemps was unimpressed; he’d seen worse at the Mad Cow near Butcher Row.
“Good night, sir,” he said, sweeping off his cap in a grandiose gesture. “How might you fare this evening?”
“I fare as well this night as any other. What’s your mischief?”
Meddybemps smiled. “Mischief? Sir, do I look as though I would misdemeanor?” Meddybemps glanced at John, well placed behind his back.
“Nay, a stringy lad as you would not hazard here unless it be for purpose. You come for pleasure? I’ve a few bawds worth your coin.”
Meddybemps seized on an idea. “Aye, well. You are a shrewd businessman, I can tell. As well as a worthy sentry.” A little bootlicking never hurt.
“Dispense with the bloat and say you what you mean. I’ve no mind for exchanging pleasantries.”
“I shall not delay, but instead with lightning speed shall I waggle my tongue and say to you what it is that I would say if given more time than this in which to say it . . .” Meddybemps felt a jab to his spine and sputtered, though he regretted having to stoop so low, “We would like to sample the affections of a girl who was taken in this day.”
The turnkey squinted down the acreage of his nose and snorted. “The twos of yous,” he said, scrutinizing them. The corner of his mouth turned up conspiratorially. “At once
?”
Even Meddybemps couldn’t sustain such a notion. “Nay, no,” he answered, shaking his head. “Naw, we are mannerly.” He glanced at John, and though it pained him, said, “First one and then the other. We are not greedy.” He wondered if John might carve out his kidney with the dagger in his boot later.
John was riled. He wouldn’t mind being intimate with Bianca, alone, but the thought of Meddybemps . . . with Bianca . . . Well, even if it was just a ploy to gain entrance, the idea of it made him seethe.
“Well, there is no free pleasure. An’ then I have to take her down.”
John stepped out from behind Meddybemps. “What say you—‘take her down’?”
The turnkey scratched an armpit as he studied John. “Aye. Take her down. An’ after I just gots her up.” He turned his cheek, indicating a long scratch of newly clotted blood. “She’s as mean as a badger.”
John’s heart sank. He could hardly bear the thought of Bianca in manacles suspended on some wall; much less waste another minute dickering with this fellow. He pushed Meddybemps aside and thrust out a hand of silver. “Sir, take this and show me the way.”
The turnkey noted John’s haste and grew thoughtful. He knew that where there was some, there was sure to be more. “That is hardly enough for her worth, or mine.”
John dug into his pouch and offered more filings, to which the gaoler lifted an eyebrow, still unimpressed.
Finally, John emptied the pouch into his palm, shaking out every scrap, crumb, and particle of silver, then tossed the purse on the ground.
This interested the ward. He held out his mammoth hand.
Meddybemps looked on in horror as John conveyed the precious metal into the gaoler’s massive paw. “You fool,” he muttered to John under his breath.
The ward pocketed his swag and grinned. “You have entrance,” he said to John, sweeping his arm in a gesture of welcome. “But,” he said to Meddybemps, poking his chest, preventing him from following, “you shall wait your turn.”
John stood motionless in the gaol’s chill, waiting for the turnkey to take him to Bianca. He stood expectantly, gazing at the man, who tore another bite from his snack of mutton.
“What?” said the ward, irritably.
“Would you lead me to her?”
“I haven’t the time.” He picked a piece of meat from a tooth, then waved the leg past John’s shoulder. “That ways,” he said. “You’ll find her.”
“But you must unlock the cell,” said John.
“The guard below will do that.”
John started down the hall, glancing back to see the gaoler swilling from a wineskin, unconcerned. He thought if he had the means, he could have freed every prisoner along the way without the turnkey even noticing. As it was, those not asleep in their cells called after him, some pleading, some taunting. John tried muffling their disquieting chorus with thoughts of Bianca and forced himself to focus on a rushlight blazing at the end of the corridor. It lit a stone stairwell twisting away into darkness below. He followed the stairs down as they turned ever tighter, like the shell of a snail.
At the bottom, the reek of human sweat and waste hit him like a mallet. He hesitated, girding himself for what might lie ahead, and continued on. The dimly lit corridor hindered his vision, and he called for Bianca, hoping she would hear and perhaps answer. But the only response was a din of moans and appeals from inmates hoping he’d find them a suitable replacement.
He reached the end of the corridor and, not finding Bianca or a guard, retraced his steps. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he peered more carefully into each cell. The thought of Bianca shackled to a wall or beaten unconscious followed his every step. When he came to where he had started, he noticed a second corridor intersecting with the first. He called out for Bianca and received a chorus of replies even more desperate than before, until one voice sang out above the others.
“Bianca, the alchemist’s daughter,” it said.
“Do you know Bianca?” John stopped, listening which direction to go.
“The poison runs thick in her blood, and she’ll end here again, mark my words.”
“Who goes there?”
A madman’s cackle pierced the air. “I go nowhere.”
John turned toward the voice. “What is your name?”
“Simon Slade, am I. Master locksmith and most innocently condemned citizen of this king’s realm.”
His words bounced and echoed, but after a moment, John found Simon Slade hunkered in the center of a dismal cell. A heavy chain shackled his ankle and, from its foul smell, had been eating away at the prisoner’s skin.
“You know Bianca?” asked John.
“I did know. Now I do not.” The man relished this newfound attention. “But I says nothing of what I knew—for nothing.”
“If you are a master locksmith, why haven’t you lost your shackle?”
The man took exception and howled loud and long enough to rattle John’s teeth. “I cannot lose a lock without a pick,” said the prisoner. He turned to speak to the thin air beside him. “This world is filled with asses. Look well on this latest.”
John peered into the dark, not seeing anyone or anything.
Slade faced John and leered at him. “Pox on you, fool. You lost me faith.”
Chagrined, John dug into his jacket for something of worth and withdrew several items. He picked through piddly coin, a key to Boisvert’s shop, an auger bit, and a nail.
“You say you are a locksmith. What say you to a pick?” He held up the nail.
Slade’s eyes grew wide, and his hand flew to his mouth, trying to contain his happiness. He moderated his enthusiasm and grew cagey. “I might reconsider.” He took a step toward the bars, then winced. “Bollocks,” he spat. “I needs more than that to spring this friend.” He lifted the cumbersome chain and dropped it.
“Then a bit with which to bite?” John held the auger bit between his thumb and finger for Slade to see.
“Aw now, if you give me both, I tells you all I know.” Slade’s voice turned hopeful, almost giddy.
“I shall gladly hand them over. But you must first tell me what you know of Bianca.”
“How do I know you won’t dupe me?”
“Sir, it is a case of mutual need. For you, the price of freedom has never come so cheap.”
“Do not tease me, lad. It would kill me as sure as murder if you denied me now.”
“Tell me where Bianca is, and I shall not deny you.”
Simon Slade didn’t take long to decide. He leaned forward as far as his ball and chain allowed. “She is no longer here.”
John’s blood drained from his face, and he thought the worst. “What is your meaning, Slade?”
“I simply mean she has been taken away. By one much older than you, and sporting a fine doublet and sheathed sword.”
“Who was it?”
“That . . . I know not.” Slade’s face twitched in the dim light.
“Did she know him? Did she recognize him?”
Slade guffawed as if that was the best jest he’d heard in a long time. He shook his head, then coyly looked on John. “She did not say. But then she couldn’t very well.” His eyes rolled up and away.
“Say what you mean, man!”
Slade’s eyes traveled down to meet John’s. “She was strung up to near senseless. The pain left her speechless.” He scratched his flea-bitten chest. “I’d say she was glad to go with him, come whatever may.” He winked. “Come whatever may . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Was it the constable who took her?”
“Nay. He was well dressed.”
“Not a guard or ward?”
“Nay, not such.”
“Then who? What office?”
“Hmm,” said Slade, considering. John could see him thinking through a catalog of middlemen until he found what he thought appropriate. “Mayhaps a lawyer type. Or mayhaps a merchant.”
It was all John needed to hear. He stretched his arm thro
ugh the bars and tossed the nail and then the auger bit at Slade. The two pieces rolled to a stop near Slade’s feet, and the locksmith stared as if they were manna from heaven. He dove on the treasures and snatched them up as if someone might steal them away.
CHAPTER 37
If Bianca weren’t in such agony, she might have whooped for joy at the sight of the Southwark sky overhead. Being beaten, then shackled to a wall had left her woozy, barely able to keep up with Robert Wynders. Her arms burned in pain, and his yanking and pulling her along didn’t help. She had not expected to see the streets of her neighborhood again, and since the opportunity now presented itself, she struggled to overlook her misery and instead think of how she might escape.
She assumed Wynders had bribed the gaoler for her release. The gaoler had pretended to look the other way as Wynders marched her past and out the massive front door. While she didn’t welcome Wynders’s brutish handling, she didn’t object because she knew this was her chance, maybe her last, and she’d better be ready for it.
Wynders said nothing as they trudged toward her room of Medicinals and Physickes. With darkness came the rotten rain of chamber pots emptied out windows onto the lanes below. So far, they’d been lucky to avoid a bath. While Wynders was averse to stepping in suspicious puddles, he didn’t mind dragging Bianca through them.
At last they stood opposite her front door, and after Wynders found it locked, he threw her against it, demanding entry.
“I haven’t the key,” she said. “Someone else must have locked it after Patch arrested me.”
Wynders brushed her aside and reared back to land a solid kick. He was a brick of a man, and with his first try the wood planks snapped and splintered. He reached through the hole and worked the bolt to a chorus of barking dogs and someone hollering out a window to pipe down.
The door fell open crookedly, and he shoved her inside.
“Where’s a light?” he asked, looking about.
Bianca moved along a wall and stopped under a sconce, unable to lift her arm to point. Perhaps in time she would regain some strength. She couldn’t bear to imagine it if she couldn’t.
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