by Karen Brooks
“Once again, Master Fynk, you have the cock by the comb and the neck does warble and warble without using the sense contained therein.” She tapped her temple twice.
Master Fynk turned the color of beet. The other men shifted from foot to foot.
Undaunted, Alyson continued. “You’ve been listening to tales whispered by a twisted tongue and, if I’m not mistaken, exchanged over a pillow instead of a table, hey? Where was it? The Cardinal’s Hatte is your preferred haunt, is it not? Did some wench whisper in your ear? Tempt or taunt you to action? Or could you not perform one duty so sought to try another?”
Drawing back his hand fast, Master Fynk struck her hard across the face. With a small cry, she fell upon me, then rolled onto the floor, her hand covering her cheek. I leaped out of bed and knelt beside her, and gingerly helped her sit up.
“It’s all right, Anna. I’ve been hit by better.” She flexed her jaw, staring brazenly at Master Fynk. “And harder.” She spat a bloody gobbet into the rushes.
“You will show me the respect I’m due as an officer of the bishop and king,” said Master Fynk slowly. “I don’t have to answer to the likes of you, goodwife, but you have to answer to me. So, tell me, how do you explain the presence of this one, hey? You know the laws. Pregnant whores are forbidden.” Grabbing my shoulder, he hauled me away from Alyson and threw me on the bed.
“Nay, Adam. Don’t!” I cried.
Adam stopped mid-stride.
Master Fynk laughed. “Nay, Adam.” His imitation was perfect. “You’d do well to listen to her. She’s wiser than her years allow. Is she yours?” Before Adam could respond, he continued, his cold eyes sweeping the room, taking in the crackling fire, the drying sheet folded on the chest, the chairs and stools arranged near the window and hearth. The basket of darning, the flickering candles. The shutters rattled in the wind and I felt the frigid fingers of the day.
Master Fynk strode to the window and flung the shutters wide. I took the chance to straighten my tunic and assist Alyson to her feet.
“Watch this one,” she whispered. “He be dangerous. Vengeful and treacherous.”
I knew the kind too well. I shot Adam a look to remain where he was. The other men stayed mute and, while two appeared uneasy with the proceedings and one gave Alyson continual apologetic glances, the shortest of the men, the escheator, from the insignia on his surcoat, was clearly enjoying the spectacle.
Gazing down upon the river, Master Fynk stood with his back to us. “A whore with child isn’t allowed beneath this roof.” He flung the words over his shoulder. “Yet, like so many other rules, Goodwife Alyson”—his voice had a singsong quality—“you choose to flout this one and believe you’re exempt. For that you’ll pay.”
Indignation flooded me. “I’m no whore, sir,” I exclaimed. Alyson released a sigh. I ignored her. “My name is Anna de Winter from Dover. I’m a respectable woman. A brewster.”
He spun around. “A brewster, are we? Respectable?” He laughed. “You have an odd understanding of what constitutes respectability.” He rubbed his hands together. “I don’t care what you are, Mistress de Winter, or what you claim to be. You could be the wife of Satan’s brother.” He looked me up and down slowly and doubt flickered across his mien. “You’re pregnant?”
Lifting my chin and smoothing the tunic over my belly, I waited for his eyes to finish their journey and meet mine. “Nay, sir, I’m not.”
Adam cleared his throat, intending, I knew, to support my claim. I dreaded what he would do or say to protect my name, drawing attention upon himself from this man who wanted nothing more than a confrontation. I continued hastily. “I recently gave birth, aye. But I do not live here. I’m not a slattern, I’m—”
“A dear cousin who has recently lost her husband, you buffoons.” Alyson sat wearily on the edge of the bed. “Can you not see?” She waved an arm toward me. “Quality shouts from the roots of her shining hair and those fine green eyes. Look at her hands. Have they seen a day’s work?” Brewing hadn’t ruined my hands yet, but they no longer possessed the creamy uniformity they once had.
Alyson went on, her voice dull, resigned, and all the more convincing because of that. “I brought her back here with me after I visited St. Thomas à Becket’s shrine.” She crossed herself and bowed her head. “The grief of losing dear—” She stared at her lap.
“Joseph,” I inserted swiftly, silently begging my father’s forgiveness.
“Joseph, may God assoil him”—she crossed herself again and the men did as well—“and our terrible journey through driven snow, amid thieves and cutthroats, hastened the arrival of her babes.” There were exclamations. “Aye . . . not one, but two.” She lifted her head. “Did your information extend to that, Master Fynk? Ask Father Kenton if you doubt. That’s right, twins were born beneath this roof you’re so ready to curse and fine. If that’s not God blessing us, I don’t know what is.”
“God does not bless the likes of you, Goodwife Alyson.” Master Fynk leaned on the sill, unaffected by the cold that stole the warmth from the room. “But He would bless a grieving widow.” Turning and standing erect, Master Fynk seemed to reconsider me. A dark look crossed his features.
“When were they born?”
“Over a month ago,” I answered.
“Are they baptized?”
“Aye, they’re baptized,” said Alyson wearily. “And she’s been churched as well. Good God, Lewis, can’t you accept that your assumptions are wrong this time and leave it be?” She raised her chin, willing him to concede. I held my breath. Flames crackled and a log split. There was a shout from the road and the squeal of pigs. Master Fynk said nothing, only returned Alyson’s look with a baleful one of his own.
Slapping her thighs, Alyson finally stood. “I understand you’ve to keep a check on what happens round here, but I’m telling you God’s truth when I say I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“This time,” said Master Fynk.
“Aye.” She tidied her laces, her lips twitching. “This time.”
I coughed. Adam grabbed the poker and stabbed the fire a few times. My, but Alyson was bold. And she seemed to have Master Fynk’s measure. Instead of being inflamed by her words, he appeared about to accept them.
“This is accurate?” Master Fynk turned to Adam.
How Adam managed to compose himself to answer was a mystery. “As God is my witness, Master Bailiff.”
Adam offered neither respect nor insult.
“If she be no whore, then who might you be?” Master Fynk looked from Adam to me and back again.
“This is my steward, Master Barfoot.” I knew what occupied the thoughts of Master Fynk and the other men. If I had a steward in my employ then I was a woman of substance and couldn’t possibly be the whore they first believed me to be.
“You not be on the poll tax,” said the escheator sharply, lifting his many chins.
“That’s because he’s not from here. He arrived when his mistress did, Tom Shankle.” Alyson shook her head. “He’s not been counted yet. Once he is, and if he is still beneath my roof, he’ll pay your outrageous sums. In the meantime, he’s a guest, like his mistress.”
The distant sound of laughter and voices carried. Harry and Betje. She must have run to the front to welcome Harry back from an errand. Master Fynk leaned down and watched a while. No one spoke. I felt the tension that had gripped me since the men first entered start to subside. Alyson winked at me.
“If you be no whore, mistress,” said Master Fynk, spinning on one heel, no mean feat among the thick rushes, “and if God blessed you with two children, then how come your other get”—his head jerked toward the window—“looks like the sins of Gomorrah are rendered in her flesh?”
It was a full moment before I understood that he referred to Betje.
“Master Fynk!” Alyson’s words bristled with anger. The other men flinched.
“You must take that back, sir,” said Adam, and in two paces was standing before the bailiff. The o
ther men grabbed Adam’s arms, jerking them behind his back. Struggling, he let fly a string of curses and Master Fynk’s long fingers dropped to the sword that dangled from a belt.
“Stop,” I shouted. “All of you. Now.” The room danced in my vision for a moment. Ignoring the strange feeling, I stepped past the three men and paused only before Master Fynk. Alyson tugged the men’s arms, forcing them to release Adam, which they did begrudgingly after a nod from their master.
Meeting Master Fynk’s cold gaze I knew whom I regarded. Here was a man filled to the brim with his own sense of righteousness. It was his moral compass that provided direction to the world. Offense and insult didn’t exist when wielded in the name of justice. Cruelty was a means to a lawful end, nothing more.
“The girl you see down there”—I pointed to the street below—“is my sister, sir.” I didn’t raise my voice, though it was my greatest wish to raise it and have it echo through his every waking moment. I wanted to lift my hand and strike his face until the flesh there was bloodied and jagged. Yet I did neither, for such emotions were wasted on this man.
We both gripped the sill and stared down at Betje, who, unaware of our scrutiny, was walking beside Harry, who was leading a chestnut mare. She was without a cap, which scratched her healing scalp, and the wind lifted the remnants of her hair. From our viewpoint above her, the pink flesh and scars were apparent. Beside me, Master Fynk remained silent, his breathing deep and steady. The dark linen of his surcoat and the fur that lined his cape smelled of woodsmoke and damp days.
Harry threw the animal’s halter to Betje and she caught it, giggling with delight that her good hand managed to hold fast. My heart contracted into a knot.
“A man of God, a monk, cast her into flames,” I said quietly. “Not because she was sinful, but to hide his own crimes. Thus God allowed her to live so all who set eyes on her could be reminded of the evil men can do, and that God’s justice will prevail.”
Considering my words and the weight with which they were delivered, Master Fynk slowly tilted his head. “That is how you judge the story, is it, mistress? I wonder how this bedeviled monk would?”
I gave a hollow laugh. “We’ll never know, Master Fynk, because he burned to death in the same fire that seared my sister. One might say that God judged him and decided that hell was to be his abode.”
Oh God. Alyson was right; this man was not to be trifled with. There was something about him, a deadly patience, a distorted view of the world, of women, perhaps. It would not matter what we said, or what we did. We were already guilty. Our crime was to exist and he would see us punished for it.
Master Fynk flashed his stained teeth. “Or judged your sister and delivered the same verdict, only this”—his arm described an arc—“is to be her hell.”
Only as long as the evil you embody dwells here . . .
Alyson stamped her foot. “That’s outrageous.”
Master Fynk spun around. “The only thing that’s outrageous here is your capacity to escape justice.”
With one last look at Betje, who disappeared around the side of the bathhouse, I drew the shutters closed and remained by the window, my eyes adjusting to the dimness. I longed to run downstairs and hold Betje in my arms and celebrate her life and soul. I remained mute. I wanted Master Fynk gone before I said something I’d regret.
Alyson was right: How dare he.
“Despite what you may believe, Master Fynk,” said Alyson, her intonation conciliatory, as if she understood a flag of truce must be raised, “I genuinely follow the laws, unlike some who rely on friends in high places and the exchange of coin to replace obedience.” With that last sally, she strolled to the door and called for Juliana. “It’s time to leave, gentlemen, Master Fynk. You’ll not find whores or devil spawn in this room. Even I may wear the apron.” She gestured to the one tied over her tunic. Whores were forbidden from donning a garment that denoted domesticity and family. “So can my cousin. Here be only a woman of good birth who calls none other than those at the Stilliard friends.”
A fleeting glimmer crossed Master Fynk’s face. Assessing me anew while his companions murmured and moved toward the door, he frowned. “Hmm . . . de Winter. It’s not a name I’m likely to forget.”
Promising he’d be watching The Swanne, and me in particular, Master Fynk and his men finally left. I sank back onto the bed and stared at Alyson and Adam in disbelief.
“I cannot credit that just happened. That they would enter without a by-your-leave, and not only strike you, dear Alyson, but deliver such . . . such insults, say so many terrible things.”
Touching her cheek, which still bore the impress of Master Fynk’s hand, Alyson sat down. “That’s because you’re a lady and unaccustomed to such abuse.” She wiped her hand across her brow. “For the likes of me and the girls, most men—and especially ones like Fynk—have no such compunction. You heard him—we’re whores, we beggar God’s will. We deserve no courtesies, only affront, fists, and cock.”
“But . . . but . . . the king allows your business, you pay taxes to the bishop, no less—” said Adam.
“Allows? Turns a blind eye more like. But taxes, aye. We pay and more than our fair share.” Alyson shrugged. “But I am a woman on my own running a business. You know what that’s like, Anna, better than most.”
I nodded gravely.
Alyson continued. “The owners of the other bathhouses resent the favor the girls and their customers show me and will use any chance, including a comely and pregnant stranger, to draw the law to our threshold.” She gave a dry laugh. “Mainly because it keeps it away from them.” Looking every one of her years, she gave a smile that didn’t quite make her eyes. “I knew what I be getting into when I came here. What the authorities don’t like is that they can’t make me something I’m not.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Pliable.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. Adam threw some more wood on the fire. Sparks flew into the room and up the chimney, bright stars that dazzled briefly and expired. Rising, I held my cold hands out to the flames. “How did they know I was here? Why should it matter to them?”
Alyson’s eyes grew dark. Joining me, she stared at the fire. “Apart from extra money, it don’t. Master Fynk likes to remind us every now and again of who and what he is.”
“What’s that?” asked Adam drily.
“Someone who must be obeyed.”
I lifted my face to Adam. Just like the monks of St. Jude’s; just like Abbot Hubbard.
Alyson squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t you worry any more about none of that. I’ve been meaning to say, when you’re ready, I want to talk to you ’bout something, and I don’t mean what I’m going to charge you for board.” At the look on my face, she burst out laughing. “I’m having a jest, my dear. You’re my guest. Indeed, you’re my cousin, aren’t you? It wouldn’t be very charitable of me to be taking coin from family, now would it?”
Before I could answer, she left the room.
“Adam,” I said once the door shut. “How did they know? About me? About the babes?”
Squatting by the fire, Adam lowered his voice. “It was one of the girls, I think. She wasn’t happy we were here, or with the attention you were getting. Saw you as competition; someone who could lure away custom.”
I gave him a look of disbelief. “In my state?”
“Ah, Mistress Anneke, in any state, you be a picture worth framing.”
I smiled. “What would I do without you, Adam Barfoot?”
“Why, you’d be like a one-legged man, mistress, hopping in a great circle,” he said and, using the poker to haul himself upright, proceeded to demonstrate.
He stopped. “And what would I do without you? If you hadn’t called us all to sense and Goody Alyson hadn’t discouraged those men, I’d be on my way to the stocks or worse.” He sat on a stool. “I would have hit him, you know.”
“I know. Me too.”
Though we both laughed, I co
uldn’t help but feel a dart of concern lodge beneath my breastbone. There’d almost been blows. A tussle that could have resulted in Adam’s imprisonment or death. Master Fynk was spoiling for a fight. Confined to the Lily Room, my bedroom, with only my well-being and that of the children to consider, even Betje and Adam hadn’t occupied my thoughts the way they once had. Nor had the future, not really. I’d been dwelling in a madman’s garden, believing the flowers all lush and fragrant when in reality, weeds grew here too. If one woman complained about my presence to the authorities, when I felt so welcome, what was to stop the others doing the same or worse? And what would happen if my real identity was ever discovered, never mind the accusations from Elmham Lenn that I was positive dogged my every step?
Once Adam closed the door behind him, I clambered back onto the bed. Sleep eluded me. Instead, in the shadows that crept across the walls and over the rushes, every vague shape transformed into a threat. A threat that would, if I wasn’t very careful, soon engulf us all.
Forty
The Swanne
Lent to Hocktide
The year of Our Lord 1407 in the eighth year of the reign of Henry IV
Though still cool, the days grew longer and the sun’s warmth caressed the walls and shutters, even through the thick cloud that hovered till at least midday. My health returned with each passing day, and the longing to stand upon my own skills and forge a life for myself was becoming more urgent. Alyson encouraged me to stay, to treat this time as a hiatus and find my feet. Apart from Master Fynk’s visit, life was good at The Swanne. The babes were thriving; Emma and Constance, whose wages were covered by Alyson until such time as I could repay her, were reliable and kind. But it was Harry who proved as good as his word and became the friend Betje so desperately needed. Although Betje was reticent at first, Harry was patient, and soon she spent her days between the stables and my chamber, grooming the customers’ horses, aiding Juliana and the wet nurses as they cared for the twins, or sitting by my side for lessons—something I encouraged Harry to do as well.