by Toni Mount
‘So what about this wretch, Hamo? Are we going to look elsewhere for him, Bailiff?’ Adam asked.
‘I shall ask Mistress Alder to take us to the place,’ I offered. ‘And…’
‘Oh, no, Seb. I want naught more to do with her,’ Thaddeus said, thumping his fist upon the board to confirm it. ‘I’m going nowhere that witch directs. Next you know, she’ll turn us into rats and toads to dwell in those damned tunnels ’til the end of our days. No! I forbid you asking her anything.’
‘I swear that she be naught of the kind…’
‘And you haven’t answered my question either. If she’s harmless, why did we all get sick but recover once we escaped from her evil labyrinth? I’ve never felt so like to die any moment. I couldn’t catch my breath and neither could you, so don’t deny it.’
‘I admit, I felt the same, Thaddeus, and cannot explain it. Mayhap, the air was tainted but why should that be Mistress Alder’s doing? Foul airs occur without human cause: when the tide goes out, the river oozes its own vile miasmas and we do not blame elderly women for that, do we? Who can tell what horrors lay deeper within those tunnels, giving off some horrid distemper.’
‘But I couldn’t smell anything but damp and mould. This wasn’t foul airs. An enchantment was sapping my strength, moment by moment.’
‘I agree with Thaddeus,’ Adam said. ‘Something unseen was trying to kill us and if that’s not witchery, I know not what else it can be.’
‘Adam? Are you meaning that you also believe Ralf’s woman to be a witch?’
‘Well… I don’t know, do I? Ralf hasn’t come to any harm with her… unless… what of his bent back? Did she lay a curse upon him too?’
‘Oh, what a mazy pair you be!’ I threw my napkin upon the table, drained my cup and left the bench. ‘I ne’er heard such silly childish ramblings and superstitious nonsense from two grown men I accounted rational and sensible. You speak as witless fools. Will you be blaming the untimely storm upon imps and hobgoblins and Adam’s wet breeches on a warlock’s wiles?’
‘Nay, I blame you for that, Seb.’ Adam was grinning but I had heard enough.
‘Come, Gawain, let us depart this house of madmen. I have better things to do than hear a good woman slandered and accused of malicious deeds and infamy.’
I left the inn to walk home, through the rain, but I was wet already and it fell softly now the worst of the storm was passed. My return from the Green Dragon by the Minories meant that Crooked Lane was not upon my way. Nonetheless, I went there, to Mistress Alder’s house, afore my courage failed me; whilst anger yet overrode Adam’s and Thaddeus’ pervasive superstitions in my head.
The washerwoman greeted me at her door. Her welcoming smile became a look of concern at sight of my half-drowned appearance.
‘Come you in, Master Foxley, come you in straight. Let me fetch you towels. Whatever brings you here in such weather? St Mary be praised, I fetched my dry linen in before the heavens shed their heavy burden. Here. Dry yourself, master.’ She gave me two lengths of pristine linen and I set about stemming the small flood of water from my person.
Unfortunately, Gawain did what a wet dog be wont to do: he shook himself from nose to tail with utmost vigour, showering all about – notwithstanding a neatly folded pile of spotless laundry.
‘My heartfelt apologies, Mistress Alder,’ I said, dragging Gawain further from any other clean items he might despoil. ‘I fear my dog has undone your hard work. How may I make amends?’
‘’Tis but rainwater. It’ll dry and little harm done. Now, what you need, master, is a cup of my mead. Take off your cap and jerkin and I’ll put them to dry. Then you can tell me why you’ve come.’
The clothes I could remove were hung to dry but, for decency’s sake, I could not sit naked, so my hose and shirt had to dry whilst I wore them. But the mead was warming and my situation not so bad. Over the rim of my cup, I observed the woman as she worked, cutting bread and smearing it with honey. Her warts were undeniable but beneath them, her face was amiable, her mouth a kindly curve, her eyes bright. There was no hint of malice there. Adam and Thaddeus were sorely mistaken. Besides, had she not thanked St Mary for saving her linen from the rain, if not from Gawain’s unfortunate ministrations. For a certainty, a witch would not let a saint’s name slip from her tongue but choke upon it.
She set the bread and honey before me and bade me eat. I had eaten sufficient at the inn but it would be discourteous to refuse her hospitality.
‘So, how may I help you, good master?’
‘Much as you did afore, mistress.’ I chewed and swallowed, sipping mead to wash down the bread. ‘Bailiff Turner, my cousin, Adam, and I attempted to find Hamo’s forge, following your instructions. We did not find it.’
‘You went in those terrible tunnels? Just three of you? Did I not tell you to take an army?’
‘Indeed, you did but since we failed to find him, we were not endangered, not by man, leastwise. However, we all three fell most unwell. We could hardly draw breath enough to escape the darkness. Our torches were dying also.’
‘Are you certain you were in the right place? I know there’s evil in there but Hamo’s never suffered so.’
‘Nay, mistress, I be quite uncertain of it. That be my reason for coming to you again. Would you be able to show me the place, forwhy I fear we went astray somehow in following your directions.’
‘Never! What if that glary bear is there? I dare not take the risk, master, even for your sake, though I owe you for your goodness to Ralf.’
‘You owe me naught, mistress. Ralf works well and more than repays me for having given him employment. But, mayhap, if you cannot show me the right entrance, in person – a reluctance I fully comprehend – you might describe it more precisely for me? You told me it was off Cutpurse Yard, in a passage called Furnace Alley.’
‘Aye, so it is. Did you find the hovel that hides the way in?’
‘We did. Or rather we found timber palings…’
‘Nay. It was once a house, now fallen down, but more than a few planks. Are you sure you was in Cutpurse Yard and followed down Furnace Alley?’
‘Well, there was none to ask the name of the place.’
‘Did you go by way of Edwin’s Alehouse next to the wheelwright’s yard and see the ol’ granary? It isn’t used now ’cos thieves kept helping theirselves and the sacks o’ grain got damp but you can still see the hoist for lifting the heavy loads. It sticks out like a broken arm above the door at the head of the steps, though they was wood and mostly rotted away. The granary’s in Cutpurse Yard and the alleyway leads off in the opposite corner, half hid by an elder bush. You can’t miss it.’
‘I fear that we did. I recall neither alehouse, wheelwright, nor granary.’
‘Then you was in the wrong place. No wonder you never found him or his forge. Will you try again?’
‘In truth, mistress, I know not. None of us be eager to return to those malignant tunnels.’
‘Aye, ’tis probably for the best if you don’t. I wouldn’t want Ralf to lose a second master, ’specially one as good and kindly as you, Master Foxley.’
‘’Tis generous of you to say, mistress. Now, if I may have my jerkin and cap, I will thank you right heartily for the refreshment and the directions and be upon my way.’
‘They won’t be dry as yet.’
‘No matter. I shall be missed at home as it grows late.’
Saturday, the twenty-sixth day of June
The Foxley House
I had lain abed last night, Gawain snoring at my feet, weighing in the balance the pros and cons of venturing into the tunnels once more. Would either Adam or Thaddeus accompany me, if I dared? Should I even consider going alone? What would I do if Hamo was there? I had no right to arrest any man. What was I thinking? Me versus that huge mountain of strength? Was I quite mad?
By first l
ight, I was dressed and ready to return to that sordid part of London. I had determined my task to find the forge - no more than that. I would confront no man but simply discover and confirm the place, according to Mistress Alder’s more exact description, and then inform Thaddeus. He could decide what to do after.
I wrote a note and left it upon the kitchen board, informing the household that I had business to conduct and would be returned for dinner. I went out, armed with an unlit torch, flint, steel and charcloth but naught else. Gawain accompanied me but whether he would have courage sufficient to enter the tunnel, who could say?
Towards certain tunnels beneath the
Tower of London
The morn was fresh and clear after yesterday’s rain. The sun was yet unrisen but the eastern sky was enrobed golden with promise. The swallows were already swooping above St Paul’s and a few early folk set to their daily chores. The proprietor of the Sun in Splendour tavern was washing down his step and hailed me as I passed.
My walk towards my destination was unimpeded by housewives a-marketing, or tradesmen vying for my custom. Thus I made swift progress – mayhap, swifter than I should have liked. It surprised me how easily I found an alehouse and a wheelwright’s yard next door. How had we not seen them previously? The alehouse door was yet shut but the wheelwright was preparing for the day. I called out to him and he raised a calloused hand in acknowledgement but spoke not.
A few paces farther and a gap betwixt buildings opened into a court of sorts and there I espied the broken beam of a hoist protruding high above. I had come to the abandoned granary. Mistress Alder had told me true. Across the yard, an elder bush sprouted, lush amid the barren timbers of ramshackle tenements and tumbledown shacks. It seemed to grow from naught but was laden with creamy platters of flowers, struggling valiantly towards the light. Beside it, I turned along a narrow passageway. It looked well-trodden of late, wheel-ruts in the mud indicating a hand cart or barrow had come this way more than once.
At the end of the passage known as Furnace Alley – as I now had no doubt it was – stood the hovel, as described. Its door was but a memory, the remains of its rotted leather hinges hanging as ragged scraps from the jamb. All was dark inside… and silent. But the smell of burnt charcoal and smoke was obvious enough. I had found Hamo’s forge. And there was a definite coppery tang also. Unsurprising, I suppose, in a place where metals are worked.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I could make out a doorway opposite. I kindled my torch in readiness to enter the Stygian darkness, screwing up my courage.
‘Coming?’ I whispered to Gawain, wondering whether he would venture or no. I had, of necessity, to hold the torch in both hands as I trembled momentarily. I breathed deep and both hands and flame steadied. ‘Come, Gawain. ’Tis not so bad as you fear.’
As I feared.
Except that it was. And worse.
A few yards in, the tunnel turned to the right and I could feel a source of great heat close at hand. The forge was in use, or recently so. I must have a care. Yet I could neither see nor even sense any movement. Perhaps I should leave now. If Hamo was absent but about to return…
At first, I thought the sound was my own heart pounding in my ears. Or Gawain. But then it came again: a moan, a gasping breath.
I eased forward, raising the torch.
‘Is s…’ I cleared my throat. ‘Is someone there?’
No answer came. Then a groan.
‘Who be there?’ I took another step, squinting into the gloom. Then I saw it: a glint of something bright in the corner. Another rasping breath accompanied the clink of metal, followed by a glittering cascade in the light of my torch, a tumbling rush of metal and an agonised groan.
I had found Hamo the Smith in his own fiery lair ’neath a heap of coin.
Thinking there had been some awful mishap, I moved closer to see. I gasped. This was no mishap. No accident. The poor brute was slumped upon the floor, covered in blood, unable to move. The reason why? His right hand was raised above his head, fixed to a wooden workbench by a large nail, hammered through it. I turned away, sickened by the appalling sight.
‘Help… me.’
I swallowed down the bile that rose in my throat and went to him.
‘Get… it out,’ he pleaded.
I looked about. Tools, unfamiliar to me, lay strewn around, haphazard. I chose something that looked to be for gripping and put my torch in a sconce on the wall. Then, applying all my strength, I attempted to pull out the nail. He screamed. I was too inept with the tools of another man’s trade. Nausea threatened again as I felt and heard iron scraping upon flesh and bone.
‘I be that sorry but…’
‘Pull it out… damn ye.’
I tried again. This time, the nail came free and I stumbled back as he cried aloud.
He lay sprawled, nursing his wounded hand. I knelt beside him.
‘I shall fetch aid for you. The wheelwright be nigh at hand. He will help.’
‘T’ late…’
I would get up to leave but he grabbed my arm with his good hand, pulling me down.
‘Don’t… go.’
‘Who did this to you?’
At first, I feared he would not answer. His breathing rattled; his eyelids fluttered. He was correct: it was too late. Hamo was dying.
‘Who did this to you?’ I repeated. ‘You shall have justice, if you tell me.’
‘Bastards… baldsers…’
‘Who? Say again.’
‘Venisens…’
‘Venison? Butchers? Do you mean butchers did this to you? Why would they?’
‘Venison,’ he repeated. Then he released his hold on my arm and fell limp. Whoever had done this to him, he could not tell of it now.
I stumbled outside, into sweet cool air, shuddering and retching. The sensation of iron pulling through flesh, scraping bone… I heaved again. Gawain whimpered; licked my hand.
‘’Fear not, lad. I be fine.’
It was not true. Bracing myself against a wall, I got to my feet, unsteady and weak at the knees. Much like yesterday, in some other of the tunnels. Nay. Not so. Rather, the feel of iron in flesh, grating on bone… I could not free myself of that. Looking down, I saw to my dismay the state of my attire. In the gloom, I had not realised but I must have knelt in a pool of blood. Flies were summoned to my hose as apprentices to a dinner bell, swarming, black upon crimson that had once been pale grey kersey. I surely stank like a slaughterhouse. How could I now dare to walk the city streets, clad like a butcher – or a murderer?
I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, willing my senses to cease reeling and the earth ’neath my feet to stand firm.
Gawain was barking.
‘He’s here! I’ve found him.’ Strong arms held me as I lay in the mud. ‘Seb! Seb. Wake up, damn it. Speak to me. Where are you hurt? You witless fool, why did you come here alone? Are you knifed?’
‘Nay. Not my blood.’ I pointed with a wavering finger. ‘In there, Adam. Hamo… I found him dying.’
‘Someone fetch water or ale to revive him,’ my cousin called out.
Faces gathered around, looking down upon me. I could not think how they came to be here: all familiar yet unexpected.
‘How did you find me?’ I asked.
‘Consulted the old witch. How else?’
‘She be no such…’
‘I know. I know. At least she told us true this time. As soon as I read your note, I guessed what you intended. I gathered a band of doughty fellows, all capable in a fight. Then we asked the old woman. And here we are. That’s the story, in short. How long have you lain here?’
‘I know not. It was barely dawn when I found this place but then… I cannot think on it, Adam…’
‘Take time. Gather your wits. Ah! Ale. Just what you need.’
Of all the f
olk, the one who brought me ale was most surprising: John Rykener. Of course, he could brawl as well as any man, as my cousin knew to his cost. That he should concern himself to come to my aid… He held the cup to my lips and I drank gratefully.
‘Good thing the alehouse is now open,’ he said. ‘We’ll all need a cup when this is done. What say you, Adam?’
‘Aye, and Seb can pay the reckoning.’
Rykener laughed that strangely high womanly laugh of his. Over his shoulder, I caught sight of others, milling about, waiting. Stephen Appleyard – strong and trusty. Jonathan Caldicott – my less than trustworthy neighbour but keen enough in a brawl. Bennett Hepton – how did he come to be here? And – could I be mistaken? My brother Jude leaned nonchalantly against the yard wall, inspecting his fingers and admiring his boots. I could well imagine he would have much to say later, concerning the trouble I had caused him; any inconvenience to others accounting for naught.
‘The bailiff? Is Thaddeus with you?’ I asked Adam when I had drunk some of the ale.
‘Jack’s gone to fetch him and the constables. Guildhall was out of our way. I didn’t dare waste a moment. In truth, I thought we’d find you dead by Hamo’s hand.’
Hamo’s hand. My belly churned.
‘Seb? You’ve turned waxen pale again. Don’t you swoon away a second time. I’m not carrying you home. Finish your ale; it’ll steady you.’
‘I cannot get it out of my head… what I saw.’ Aye, and the rest of that grisly experience. ‘Have you ventured within?’
Adam nodded.
‘I’ve seen.’
‘’Tis as with the others, is it not? Hartnell and Guy Linton… the same.’
‘Don’t concern yourself now. No doubt Thaddeus will require your story in full when you’ve recovered.’
I saw in my cousin’s eyes, the way he could not face me right squarely but looked askance, he knew something but would not speak of it. What was it that he knew? Was this death different in some way? The accursed nail was the same… I covered my mouth with my hands and squeezed my eyes closed. I must not give in to it…