by Karen Brooks
Adam scrambled to his knees and I felt his fingers gripping the back of my seat.
“Why not?” he asked, his concern ringing in my ears.
“For a start, Barking Abbey is over on Tower Street and, at this rate”—she gestured to the mass of people and animals—“it’ll be nightfall before you’re on, never mind off, the bridge and wandering through a strange city. The hospital is worse—it’s over past Ludgate, out the other side. The gates will be shut before you even get there. As for the Stilliard . . .” She cocked her head and studied me again. “I’m not sure how they’ll receive a woman and young ’un, let alone a woman with child. I know, I know, your husband was one of them . . . but this is men we’re talking about. You’ll not find female company in the Hanse—not in London.”
I’d not thought of that. My hand rested upon my belly and a long sigh escaped, ending with a grimace as pain shot along my back and legs.
“What about somewhere closer?” ventured Adam, noting my discomfort. “Not too far from the bridge.”
Goodwife Alyson gestured toward the press before us. “The gates’ll close soon, but it’ll still be dark before the bridge is crossed. The streets of London are no place to be once night falls.”
I twisted toward Adam, who looked at me and shrugged. Betje snuggled into my side, lifting her face, and staring with her one glorious eye, as if she were trying to relay something. I smiled with what I hoped was reassurance and swung to the goodwife, still intending to deny her invitation.
Goodwife Alyson was gazing at Betje as if mesmerized . . . A hand at her side broke the spell and she slapped it away hard. I jumped as an urchin bolted under the legs of a mercer’s horse and skidded in mud, his burning fingers in his mouth.
“You little bastard,” shouted the goodwife, feeling for her purse with one hand, the other forming a fist that she shook at his retreating back. Turning, she clamped a hand over her lips and stared in wide-eyed horror at us. “My humblest apologies for the language, mistress, Miss Betje dear, Master Barfoot. I don’t know what came over me.”
A strange noise erupted. Goodwife Alyson started, but not as much as I did. The sounds continued; a type of musical bubbling. It took me a moment to understand it was Betje and she was laughing. Her eye sparkled and the contorted mouth pulled, revealing her teeth.
I gave a gurgle of sheer joy and, holding the reins in one hand, pulled Betje to me. I couldn’t credit what I was seeing, what I was hearing, let alone feeling. Joy. Happiness. I tossed my head back and laughter flowed. Adam joined in and so, after a moment, did the goodwife. With my free arm, I dragged Goodwife Alyson closer, dropping a light kiss upon her plump cheek.
“Thank you, goodwife, oh, thank you. You don’t know how much I’ve missed that sound.” I planted another kiss upon her brow before pushing aside Betje’s hood and depositing the most gentle of all on her shiny scalp. I glanced at Adam, whose face was still crinkled, and then at the crowded road ahead. He shook his head in delighted disbelief before understanding my look and deepening his smile.
“We would be most glad to accept your kind invitation, Goodwife Alyson,” I said. “Most glad indeed.”
Goodwife Alyson beamed at us. “May God bless you, bless all of us.” She didn’t conceal her pleasure. “I really do most humbly apologize for my outburst. Mind you, if I’d a groat every time I forgot my manners, then I’d have rooms in old John of Gaunt’s Savoy. Well, I would if it wasn’t in ruins, as God is my witness, I would.”
Adopting a businesslike manner, she directed me toward a lane over which the top stories of houses tilted like old women gossiping, calling out in a penetrating voice for space so I could maneuver through the traffic. In that rather narrow roadway, men loitered in doorways, tankards in their hands, sleeves rolled up to reveal dirty forearms, and caps perched on lank hair. They began to follow us with hard eyes and the growing pains in my back and legs were forgotten. Adam picked up the ale-stick and unlatched his dagger. Goodwife Alyson appeared oblivious to their attentions, but the potential menace of these men was too great for me to ignore. Betje gave a little whimper and withdrew beneath her hood. Goodwife Alyson pointed toward another road leading back toward the river.
“Take that.”
A courier dashed by on a small mare, the hooves flinging mud against the cart, scattering the men, who quickly regrouped. “Heed them not, my dears,” said Goodwife Alyson in a booming voice. “They wouldn’t dare harm me. Or you for that matter. They know to whom they’d have to answer if they did.”
“A pretty new goose for the gander, is it, Goody Alyson?” asked a man with a straggly beard upon his chin and very little hair on his head. The other men laughed.
“Or is it a gander you be delivering for your geese?” asked a rather portly man with a wave of white hair, gesturing to Adam.
“I be a gander and like most, ready for a good plucking,” said another, thrusting his hips suggestively, and they laughed even harder.
“Be gone with you, Master Black, or I’ll make sure your wife knows where you hide your giblets on occasion. You too, Master Cooper.”
Their hilarity quickly died and we pressed on.
Adam chuckled quietly, sheathed his dagger, and laid the ale-stick on the floor of the cart once more. “Seems you’ve a reputation, Goodwife Alyson,” he said.
“Aye, that I do. You’ll learn what sort and how far it extends soon enough.” She began to hum a tune. “What happened back there has little to do with me or how I’m regarded. Expose a man’s weakness or threaten his desire and he’s softer than eel jelly.”
Adam snorted and I grinned.
“Turn right here.” She pointed to a wide street. “We’re not far away . . .”
We rode beside the river, the wind whipping across the water, jerking Betje’s hood from her head. Once again, she gave a burble of laughter and, with a smile that I swear reached to my very toes, I tugged the hood playfully back in place. Rickety wooden jetties propped over the water every few yards, some with punts, wherries, and barges beside them depositing passengers, all men, many of whom wore doublets of velvet, damask, and silk and parti-colored hose; some had fur-lined cloaks or hoods of marten and sable, and appeared very fashionable to my country eyes. Whitewashed buildings squatted on the left, rising to two and three stories. Some displayed a bushel indicating their status as alehouses or taverns, and I began to think of the barrels stored on the tray of the cart and offering some of the contents of one to the goodwife as payment. Smells of cooking wafted over us as we passed places with bold signs swinging in the wind, proclaiming names accompanied by painted symbols. There was the Cardinal’s Hatte, the Crane, the Crosse and Keyes, all of which had wide-open doors and windows with seats upon which boldly dressed women lounged. A few were abroad, their mantles trailing in the dirt.
Goodwife Alyson shook her head. “Look at that. A perfectly good piece of clothing ruined in no time because the owners here refuse to take responsibility for keeping their frontages clean.” She tut-tutted through a tight smile, waving greetings to those who hailed her.
It wasn’t until we passed a sign with what appeared to be a poorly bird on it that Goodwife Alyson ordered me to halt.
“This is it,” she said and pointed to a large white house, three stories, with pretty mullioned windows and a red door. Painted upon the sign in dark letters was a white bird with a ridiculously long neck. Underneath was written “The Swanne.”
“You live here?” My brows arched. “An inn?”
“I don’t just live here, I own it, and it’s not an inn. It’s a bathhouse. I bought it from a Flemish woman about five years ago, after my last husband, Jenkin, may God assoil him, passed away.”
A young boy appeared. “Ah, here’s Harry. Give him the reins, Mistress de Winter. He’s a marvel with horses. He’ll take Shelby around to the mews and ensure he’s fed and watered. I’m guessing Master Barfoot might like to accompany him?” At my discreet nod, Adam grunted. “Harry’ll look to the cart a
nd your belongings as well. Once the horse is stabled, he’ll show you where to come, Master Barfoot. As for you, Mistress de Winter, if you and your sister’ll follow me . . .”
No sooner had Goodwife Alyson jumped down than Harry, doffing his cap to Adam and then me, scrambled onto the seat and held out his hands for the reins. “Here, mistress, I’m Harry. Give ’em to me. I’ll look after this old beauty. What’s he called? Shelby, weren’t it?”
Before I could respond, the boy caught sight of Betje, who’d emerged from the cover of my side.
“Gawd Almighty,” said Harry, crossing himself. “What happened to you?” Betje took one look at him and with a strangled sound, tried to bury herself in the mantle.
My heart lurched. Angry words pressed against my tongue.
“Harry Frowyk!” cried Goodwife Alyson, and struck the lad sharply upon his legs. He howled in protest. “Watch your mouth. How many times have I told you?” She lifted her arm to land another blow.
“It’s all right, goodwife,” I said. “Please.”
Goodwife Alyson lowered her arm.
“This is something to which we’ll have to grow accustomed—the curiosity of strangers. I would rather answer—Harry, isn’t it?”—I offered him a sympathetic smile as he rubbed his leg—“as truthfully as I can, than to have rumor and gossip attend us.” Cautioning Adam to remain still, I turned my full attention to the boy, pushing back my hood, letting him see my face, and my earnestness.
Harry’s eyes widened and his mouth began working.
“My sister”—I touched Betje’s arm—“is called Betje. As you can see, she was badly burned in a fire. She’s still very sick and needs a great deal of care. She also needs friends, as do I. I hope I can rely on you, Harry, to be gentle with her and show some understanding. To be our friend?”
Harry tore his eyes from me and looked at Betje. Slowly, Betje crawled from the cocoon of wool, her good eye studying him.
“It ain’t so bad once you get used to it, I guess.” He cleared his throat and scratched his head with his cap. “You have a nice eye,” he said.
It took all my concentration not to let my lips twitch. Adam made a noise of exasperation. For a moment I thought Goodwife Alyson was going to leap onto the cart and box his ears.
“Aye, I’ll be your friend, Betty,” said Harry finally. “And yours too, mistress, master. You can count on me.” With that, he sidled over and took the reins, waiting until, with tight-lipped slowness, I dismounted from the cart and lifted Betje into my arms. Adam clambered over from the back to sit beside him.
Harry ably drove the cart down the side street and through a gate. At the last moment, Adam looked over his shoulder, but by then he was too far away for me to see his expression, but I knew he was anxious.
In the doorway of The Swanne, a crowd of women gathered. Ranging in age from about fourteen into their thirties, they were cleanly attired, their tunics low cut, tightly fitted, and their hair unbound. They all stared agog at me and Betje. I drew her closer. Their looks were not hostile, but neither were they welcoming. A blush began to creep up my cheeks and my eyes narrowed. These women were not decently attired, not by Elmham Lenn standards at least. I glanced up and down the street, taking in the signs, the other loitering women, the expensively dressed men, the horses tethered in specially ordered yards, the punts arriving at the jetties.
“God bid you welcome to The Swanne, Mistress de Winter, Betty,” said Goodwife Alyson with a flourish of her hand, adopting Harry’s name for my sister.
“What exactly is a bathhouse, Goodwife Alyson?” I asked, spinning to face her.
The women chose that moment to run down the steps, surrounding the goodwife, asking questions, touching her arms, shoulders, one even held her briefly and shyly before releasing her. Their voices were excited, warm, happy.
“The good Lord answered my prayers, he brought you back to us safely.”
“We’ve missed you, Goody Alyson.”
“There’s so much to tell.”
“The Bishop of Winchester is threatening to raise the rents.”
“Praise Mother Mary you’re home.”
“Lord James Ashwood visited me three times last week.”
“Who’s this you’ve brought?”
“Another sister for the family?”
Introductions were made, names spilling from lips. I tried to acknowledge everyone, but their names blurred. Curtsies were bobbed, there were nods, some whispers behind pale hands. Not one set of eyes failed to lodge upon my belly before flickering away.
I transferred Betje onto my other hip, offering her the protection of my mantle.
“Ladies, let’s get inside and have us some wine and supper. I can talk to you better once I’m fed and my guests are as well.” I cast her a grateful look. Tiredness was beginning to wash over me and a peculiar heaviness that I attributed to carrying Betje gripped my stomach. A wave of dizziness threatened to undo me.
“Juliana,” said Goodwife Alyson. A girl of about fifteen with sandy-colored hair and a dusting of freckles across her nose stepped forward. “Can you make sure there’s hot water and fresh sheets in the Lily Room?”
“Oh, but—” Juliana’s hazel eyes slid toward me. “That’s book—”
“I said, the Lily Room. That’s to be Mistress de Winter’s and the little miss’s while they’re with us, is that understood?”
“Aye, Goody Alyson.” With one last look in my direction, Juliana scampered away. The others followed at a slower pace, laughing and murmuring, arms around each other’s waists. Envy at their sisterhood filled me, and I found myself missing Saskia, Blanche, Iris, and Louisa, but most of all, Betrix. A pang of longing made me catch my breath.
The pain in my lower abdomen grew and spread and I knew it to be sorrow. I shifted Betje again, trying to ease the cramp forming in my thigh. She wriggled and burrowed, making it difficult to hold her.
Unaware of my discomfort, Goodwife Alyson stood back and admired her bathhouse, sighing and running her fingers down her tunic. Church bells began to peal and a herald’s trumpet sounded. Laughter floated out into the street.
“Don’t worry,” said Goodwife Alyson, feeling me stiffen. “They’ll be your friends in no time.”
“Friends? A woman like me doesn’t have friends, Goodwife Alyson. Something I learned, much to my chagrin.”
There was no self-pity in my voice, just acceptance.
“Well, you do now.” Goodwife Alyson faced me, there on Bankside, the setting sun engulfing her in a last blaze as she folded her arms across her large breasts, daring me to disagree with her. “Like it or not, you have me. I’m your friend.”
My eyes became glassy, deep green pools filled with dreams and nightmares. I cleared my throat. “I believe you are, goodwife. And I like it. Very much.” I took a deep breath and gave a shaky smile. “Thank you, again.”
“For what, pray?”
“For this”—I jerked my head at the vista—“for lodging, but mostly for understanding.”
“Ah, Mistress de Winter”—she cocked her head—“mayhap I can call you by that which you’re named?”
“Of course. My name is Anna.” The new name came easily.
“Anna? Good. And you must call me Alyson. One day, soon I hope, you’ll realize it’s not such a big stretch—understanding—not for the likes of me. We are women, are we not? Widows.” She winked. “Attractive, with assets any man would be glad to lay their hands on.” She stuck out her chest and gave her breasts a jiggle, causing my lips to twitch. Betje looked up and regarded her curiously. “We’re also businesswomen—a brewer, I heard you say?”
I nodded.
“We’re a threat. Threats are abolished, cut down, destroyed, lest they rise and do what everyone fears most.”
“What’s that?”
“Instigate change, Anna. I’m guessing you wanted something different from what God ordained and for that you’ve been punished. I don’t need to have endured what you have to kn
ow what that feels like.”
Linking her arm through mine, Alyson began to lead Betje and me toward The Swanne. I paused and put Betje down, waiting till she had found her feet before taking her hand.
“The good news is that here, in The Swanne,” continued Alyson as we strolled, “we welcome change. All kinds.” She paused. “You see, Anna, change might be unwelcome and it might be unexpected, but it doesn’t always have to be adverse-like, does it?”
“I don’t know. In my experience . . .” A sharp pain ripped through my torso. I pulled up short, clutching the area near my heart. The breeze made my skirts snap around my ankles.
Alyson went on. “Ah. Well, I think I do. Imagine, my dear, if, using our combined experiences—me as the owner of a successful bathhouse and you as a brewster—we were to work together? Think what changes we might work. Now, that would be something, wouldn’t it?”
Alyson spun around. “If you disagree, you can simply say so—” Placing her hands on her hips, she eyed me suspiciously. “Are you all right?”
A giant hand had gripped my lower regions and was squeezing them with all its might, iron fingers wringing the last of my strength, my spirit. I could neither breathe nor speak. I stared at Alyson, willing her to understand, to come to my aid. My legs began to tremble, sweat beaded against my brow, my upper lip, trickled between my heavy breasts. Betje clawed at me, whimpering.
“Anna . . . oh God!” Goodwife Alyson ran toward me, concern writ on her features, her arms outstretched.
Before I could utter a word, wetness splashed down my legs and collected on the cobbles. I shook my head in disbelief, a wail escaping as I fell to my knees. Betje collapsed beside me, her fingers laced around my arm.
Alyson dropped by my side. “Oh sweet Lord!” she said.
“What’s happening?” I gasped and doubled over with a loud groan.
Helping me to my feet slowly, Alyson pulled me against her, taking my weight, uncaring that my gown was stained, that I panted and huffed like an overheated dog.