C
HAPTER
21
As clouds swept over the Queen Moon, a man pointed his bow toward the quarantined
Cristofur
and, shoving himself free of the quay, heaved on his oars. With the clouds came wind, and the sea chopped at the hull, sloshing vile water on his fine leather boots. His cape was beginning to smell like wet dog, but he pushed away his distaste and concentrated on getting to the ship without swamping the foundering curricle.
His struggle caught the eye of the Rat Man floating in the shadow of the
Cristofur,
attracted there by the scent of vermin. The windfall he’d experienced when the ship first came to port had not lasted, but he was ever hopeful and always curious.
He noted the fine quality of the man’s clothing, watched the plume in the man’s cap become sodden and lose its bounce. He wondered why such a man did not hire someone to row for him. A storm brewed in the west, and the Rat Man lifted his nose and parted his lips to taste the weather on his tongue. It would not be long before the torrent was upon them. Why would this man take such a chance?
The
Cristofur
lowed and bobbed in the water, pulled at her cable and anchor like a restless colt. The few mates passed a flagon of gin on deck and sang bawdy sea shanties to pass the time. At least it kept the vermin away, or if not, the gin dulled their notice.
A lamp burned in the captain’s quarters, where he and the first mate had taken refuge, drinking Spanish port. The door had been shut tight to keep out the stench emanating from the sleeping quarters, while the portholes were ajar as they preferred the reek of the Thames by comparison.
The man grunted and cursed as he rowed toward the
Cristofur
. His skiff dipped and shimmied in the choppy drink. Water breached the sides, soaking the man and weighing down the curricle, making it even more unwieldy.
The wraith chuckled at the man’s perseverance. The only thing that could possess such a man to be out on a night like this was money. Though sometimes love could. But mostly money.
When the man neared the starboard side of the
Cristofur,
he called up to the drunken crew to put over a ladder. Finally, one of them stumbled forward and with some effort flung the brittle heap of rope over the side so that it hung tangled and twisted, completely useless. The man had to again yell for help. One by one the drunken mates appeared, some sneering, others taunting the merchant to figure it out for himself.
After a fair amount of bellowing from both parties, the rope ladder was righted and the man tied off his skiff and began to climb.
The Rat Man picked some gristle from between his pointed teeth and maneuvered beneath the captain’s quarters, watching for the man’s arrival. At a knock, the first mate released the hasp and allowed the man to enter. Setting formalities aside, the guest shrugged off his sodden cape, and the captain offered him drink as they discussed business. Numbers and tallies bored the specter, and he scanned the water for a snack before the man shifted the conversation more to his interest. The man reached inside his doublet, removed a leather purse, and plunked it in the center of the table. The ship’s lamp swung like a pendulum over it, illuminating first the captain’s face, the purse, and then the man.
“I would wish this to be filled with our sovereign’s coin, but methinks it is not.”
“I regret disappointing you. It contains rat poison.”
“There are hardly any left to kill,” said the captain, throwing back another drink. “Most swam for land when they smelled it. Only the fattest and laziest have stayed. They are locked away where they can dine undisturbed.”
“My interest is to see the
Cristofur
off-loaded. You’ve a crew to pay, and I’ve an owner eager to deal. It pleases him not to see his goods waylaid.”
“Indeed,” said the captain. “It is not good business to pay a duty, then wait so long before collecting his profit. But we have the matter of a customs officer. Upon his inspection, we did not make a favorable impression.”
“The poison should act swiftly enough. Bait the bodies and be done with it. We must get the
Cristofur
out of quarantine.”
The captain leveled his gaze on the man. “I might remind you, there is the not so small matter of spreading contagion. We may well poison every last rat on board, but customs and medical protocol will require us to stay moored until the threat is over.” His face bore a cynical but calm expression. The sea had hardened the captain. He was slow to register emotion and laid a matter of import out as stoically as giving an order. “Or until every last one of us is dead and gnawed to the bone.”
The man masked his aversion by straightening his spine and adjusting his ruff. “I shall not let it come to that. Time is not the only way to end a quarantine.”
The captain snorted and shot a glance at the first mate.
“Once the rats are dead, what shall we do with the bodies? We cannot make them disappear. We cannot dispose of them into the Thames. My crew would take issue with that. Besides, the customs officer is quite aware of the corpses.”
“And you assume the customs officer cannot be bought?”
The captain raised his drink to their guest. “I apologize, my good sir. I did not realize we were in such capable hands.”
The man suppressed a slight smile and finished off his quaff. “Await the arrival of a dory where you may burn the bodies apart from your ship.”
“The crew will like it not,” said the captain.
“I need the
Cristofur
out of quarantine.”
“Sailors are superstitious,” said the captain, “and that is blasphemous, sir.”
The man waved his hand dismissively. “It is more scurrilous to let them rot on board. When a sailor longs to feel the earth under his feet, a small fire can be easily overlooked.”
The captain appreciated this man’s cocksure attitude. Perhaps he would not regret this voyage after all. “Very good. We shall await the dory and a pile of oiled rags. And may I implore you to be quick on it. My crew grows restless, and I do not doubt they could scheme to make a float of my corpse and sail me safely to port.”
The first drop of rain landed on the Rat Man’s nose as he drifted beneath the captain’s windows. A flash of lightning scorched the sky. The man watched the captain evenly and did not glance at the heavens and its warning. The Rat Man deemed the man an even greater fool than he had first thought.
The crew hooted at the gathering sky, and their calls were soon drowned by a rumble of thunder. The captain looked out the porthole. “If there is nothing further, I suggest you not delay.” He smiled sardonically. “Unless you care to spend a night on board the
Cristofur
.”
Disguising his haste, the man stood and bowed, offered formalities, and departed the cabin. He got halfway up the stairs before realizing he had forgotten his cape, returning to the cabin, and snatching it off the chair. The captain waited until the first mate had bolted the door, then opened another bottle of port.
The Rat Man floated beyond the stern, listening to the crew mock the man shambling down the ladder. The clouds flickered from another streak of lightning, startling the man so that he missed a rung and slid down the rope in his attempt to hurry. His palms burned as the rope cut into them, and his desire to be done with the
Cristofur
distracted him from testing the bottom rungs. His foot reached down, and he applied his full weight, only to find the rung and the one below it sliced in half. He fell, tumbling into the curricle, narrowly missing a swim in the Thames, and landed in a heap, staring up at the sky and the jeering crew slinging insults.
His head throbbing, he righted himself and fumbled with the bowline, releasing himself from the
Cristofur
and, he hoped, further indignation.
He had only cleared the ship’s bow when the rain began to hammer. The crew dispersed, leaving the fate of the ship’s agent to the unkind river and temperamental sky.
Despite hauling on the oars and generating his own heat, the man was chilled to the bone by the rain soaking through his already sodden wool cape. The wind whipped and howled, and the Thames lashed at his meager curricle, battling its inept captain for control. He knew he could not stop rowing, for the waves would capsize his little boat if they hit broadside. So he mustered his strength and resolve and entered into the match, knowing full well that if he did not succeed, drowning would be his consolation prize.
The Rat Man rode his mistress Thames like a seasoned lover. His posture erect, his black cape blowing and battered, he stood in his wherry as if all around him were calm. He feared no death or soaking chill, for he was beyond all that. Instead, he watched the struggle, amused at the monumental pitch of tempest—both human and non.
And who should be the victor? He’d place his bets on nature. In the end—she always won.
C
HAPTER
22
It had not gone well. Instead of luring him back into her arms, Pandy had driven him further away. Damn Jolyn anyway. If Mrs. Beldam hadn’t taken her in, she might well have been the next Mrs. Wynders. She had thought, with Jolyn gone, he would have no further cause to reject her. Hadn’t she indulged him like no other? Men—how short their memory.
Staring at the silhouette of London against the darkening sky, Pandy refused to spend the evening agonizing or listening to Kara’s carping. If she could not have
his
attentions, then she would have the attentions of many.
She brushed her hair a hundred strokes—a shame to cover it with a rough linen coif, but until she was out the door she had to abide by the rules of Barke House and accept convention. Her lips and cheeks she stained with a squashed currant, and she laced her stays snug at the ribs and less so above.
To Kara’s prying she said nothing, and before she left, she informed her bedmate not to expect her until late or perhaps not until morning.
Now she sat at the Dim Dragon Inn, entertaining a tankard of ale and half a dozen men. Unfortunately, the ale was more interesting than they, and she stared fondly into her drink while the men stared fondly at her. But she remained unmoved.
Her mood spiraled in an ever-quickening whorl. The one man she wanted did not want her. She wished he could see her now, surrounded by fawning and attentive men so keen to impress her.
But it was for one thing only and she knew that. None of them had the tempered manner of Wynders or the finer dress to go with it. There were all manner of charlatans and scalawags—a moneylender who preyed on yeomen and countryfolk new to town; a jackman practiced in forging licenses for sellers and beggars; a distracted dice cog and a card cheat, their eyes scanning the customers for gullible marks. And, most reprehensible of all, a lawyer.
The Dim Dragon Inn was suffering from a dearth of women this night, especially ones with front teeth. Pandy should have been heartened by the attentions of so many, and she had to admit it was better than being ignored. Still, she sighed.
Pandy took a sip of ale as the lawyer tried to impress her with his latest land acquisition and sale. The land, near Horsleydown, was most probably a bog. He had managed to plagiarize a deed and sell it to a land baron who sold it to a construction-minded gentleman who planned to build another bear-baiting venue in the obliging Southwark. Good moneys could be had by owning such a place, and the recent success of the Bear Garden brought out the money lust and fool in everyone. The man gloated about his deal, which failed to impress Pandy as she noted his doublet was soiled and smelled fusty, and he kept slapping the table when her eyes wandered. She hoped for a savior, or a distraction, someone at least worthy of her notice. It did not occur to her that the pickings might be marginally better across the bridge. So she sat with her eyes glazing over and her desire for attention waning.
Pandy had never had an easy way of it. She was contentious and outspoken, though with Robert Wynders she had been more subdued and agreeable. Not only had she seen him as a man of money and influence who could rescue her from her surroundings, but she truly loved him also. But when Jolyn arrived, he had lavished his attentions on her and promised the girl what Pandy believed was rightfully hers. In the end, though, Jolyn had gotten what she deserved.
“Pandy, what say you to a stroll along the Thames?” asked the moneylender, leaning in. His broad grin she construed as a leer. That, combined with a yellow tinge to the whites of his eyes, did little to convince her that this might be a good idea.
“I think not,” she replied and settled her gaze on the door, which happened to swing open at that moment. A clatter of thunder accompanied the bang of wood against wall, drawing everyone’s attention. Pandy was glad for the distraction.
Henley the muckraker stood on the threshold, his blocky body nearly filling the entrance. His dark eyes and darker countenance exuded weight and gave import to his arrival. He glowered at the denizens of the Dim Dragon, as if holding each patron accountable for some personal insult perpetrated against him. Obviously he was not well loved, and no one called out a greeting or an offer to join them.
Pandy was immediately intrigued. She’d never spoken to him, though she knew Mrs. Beldam had sought his help.
Henley slammed the door shut, and as men settled back to their ales and business, Pandy continued to stare at the dashing young rogue. Her stare did not escape his notice.
He strode over, removed his cap, and asked if he might sit. To the other men’s chagrin, Pandy waved the clutch of clodpolls gone and welcomed the newcomer. He lowered himself opposite and ordered up an ale and bowl of stew.
“I’ve seen ye before,” said Pandy, running a finger around the rim of her drink. She watched him unbutton his jerkin and settle. “At Cross Bones, at Jolyn’s burial, talking to Mrs. Beldam of Barke House.”
He neither confirmed nor denied it. Instead he watched her ambiguous eyes and waited for her to continue. He wondered if she was the sort to meddle—like that girl who had confronted him that afternoon. This was the second time today he’d been sought out by one nearly his own age, and both had been attractive. He wanted to think it was his enviably good looks, but his instinct warned otherwise.
“I live at Barke House.”
The wench returned with his ale and bowl of stew and set it down before him.
“So . . . ye know Mrs. Beldam.” Pandy saw a glimmer of recognition as he stirred his stew and blew on it.
“I know her,” said Henley. He waited to see why she wanted to know.
“But I’ve never seen ye at Barke House.”
“I’ve no reason to go.”
Pandy cocked her head. “But ye know Mrs. Beldam.” Her smile was sweet and without guile.
Henley’s gaze traveled the length of her neck and beyond. This girl was certainly lovely, and he didn’t want to put her off in case he might have a chance with her later.
“We’ve had dealings, aye.”
Pandy took a sip from her pottle pot and watched him through her long lashes. “So, what is it ye do?” Men were braggarts, and a sure way to engage one was to give him the opportunity to spout about himself.
“I trade what I can,” he answered simply.
“Ye rake muck?”
Henley was loath to admit it—especially to a girl as lovely as this. “I might find something on the flats, but I’m capable of other things.”
“Like what?” Pandy teased.
Henley’s brow lifted. “We could leave here now, and I could show ye.”
A thrill ran down her spine. She’d caught his intent, and it wasn’t about business. “I hardly know ye.” Not that she cared.
“We could change that.”
Pandy took another sip to hide her smile. She was not inclined to take up with the first man who dared her, but as she ran her eyes across his broad chest, she liked what she saw. He might not be charming, but he had other qualities that made up for it. “You’re bein’ cagey,” she said.
“Beth,” he yelled, lifting his arm into the air, “bring this lass another ale.”
Pandy tipped her head and grinned slyly. “I know what ye are about,” she said.
This girl knew how to play the game. This time he let his gaze linger on the white curves of her skin disappearing into a russet velvet bodice. For the time being, this would be more enjoyable than slogging through muck. He would enjoy this sport.
“So, ye lived with Jolyn,” he said when Pandy was settled in with her pottle pot.
Pandy took a long swill of drink. She sensed her judgment falter, but she was content for the moment, warm from the hearth, and the ale tasted better than the first two she’d been served. But maybe her tongue was just numb and everything seemed better. She nodded and glanced away.
“I knew her befores Barke House,” he continued. “Knew her when she was a street urchin like the rest of us. Then, one day, she disappears from the flats. Seems she has taken a room at your Barke House. No one knew where she’d gone.”
Pandy looked around, bored, but Henley went on, curious and enjoying the audience. “So’s how’d she come by Barke House anyways?”
“Don’t know,” answered Pandy. She drummed her fingers on the table while continuing to glance around the tavern. Eventually, her eyes resettled on Henley, who was looking at her expectantly. She took another sip. “Mrs. Beldam took her in. I only knows they met at market and she offered Jolyn a place to stay.”
“How’d you come by Barke House?”
“A girl told me abouts it.” Her brow furrowed as if she were suddenly realizing something. The drink could no longer mask her contentious side. “What do ye care? I can think of more interestin’ things to talks ’bout.” She hoped this cove wasn’t as thick as she was beginning to think.
Henley finished his stew and wiped his bowl with the end of his bread. “She had a ring.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“I was wonderin’ if ye’d seen it.”
Pandy’s patience was at an end. She was hoping for a little attention, but all he could talk about was Jolyn. She finished her ale and slammed it down on the board. “It’s gettin’ late.” She stood and rewrapped her shawl, clumsily winding it over her shoulders and chest in an effort to be warm for her walk back to Barke House. She hadn’t expected the walls to move about her the way they did. She was starting to step away from the bench when Henley grabbed her wrist.
“Let me see ye home.”
Pandy pulled her arm free, stumbling backward. Her head felt stuffed with wool, muffling the sound of her voice and the noise from the tavern. She wished she hadn’t accepted that third pottle pot. “I can manage.” She weaved between the tables, her unsteadiness drawing plenty of notice. She ignored the crude comments and slapped away groping hands, fighting them off to open the door, then pitched herself into the alley behind the Dim Dragon Inn. She had meant to go out the front.
She stood, swaying and blinking, squinting up the alley one way, then down the other. The back alley was as dark as tar, and the smell from rotting kitchen scraps melded with the musty reek of moldy, piss-saturated wood. Either direction was equally long and squalid, so she took a step, incensing a dog she had not noticed. Its head swung up from whatever it was gnawing, and its bared teeth and growl warned her off.
“I don’ wan’ your rotted meat, ye cur,” she said, still possessing enough good judgment to turn and start up the alley in the opposite direction.
She took advantage of the dark to hike her skirts and leave a deposit of her own. As she crouched with her kirtle gathered in her arms, she felt the first pelts of rain on her face. “Aw, the bloody devil,” she cursed. Nothing was worse than walking home in the rain. She stood, shook down her skirts, and laid a hand on a scummy wall to steady herself. Her head spun like a spindle, and she belched, frowning at the taste of muddy swill they called ale.
Above, the thin slit of sky sparked with lightning, and Pandy could at least see to the end of the alley and the lane it opened onto. What she didn’t see or hear was a figure exiting the Dim Dragon Inn behind her.
Pandy stepped gingerly down the alley, as if she could avoid the mounds of offal, but the effort was wasted. She could have done just as well if she’d closed her eyes. Nothing was going to protect her hem and shoes from the hazards of traveling by foot.
By the time she emerged, the rain had begun in earnest, and she scanned the lane to decide which direction might provide the most cover.
Like a crab, she sidled along the fronts of buildings, wishing the teetering overhangs might offer some protection, but within minutes the slanting rain had soaked through to her skin. She had enough wits left to realize speed instead of cover should be her priority. So she stepped out from the buildings and trod heavily down the lane, glad for the occasional plank to lift her over the deepening muck.
Not only was she miserably cold and wet, but she had not succeeded in drowning her feelings for Wynders by finding someone else as worthy. And, it seemed, she could not escape the memory of Jolyn, which only served to further aggravate her. She cursed the dead girl, shook her fist to the heavens, and spouted a torrent of expletives. Anyone watching would think her lunatic.
But she was in Southwark, and most paid no mind to such a sight as it was as common as fleas on sheep. Except someone
did
take notice.
Pandy’s linen coif stuck to her scalp, and she flung it to the ground, stomping it once for good measure. To the devil with convention and principles. She’d already condemned her soul to hell, so what was one more transgression?
She knew where Wynders lived. She’d followed him once and stood outside, watching his shadow move across the paned window to his wife’s shadow. She’d sacrificed so much to be his. She’d consigned a life to the grave because of him. And all had been for naught. But there was a price to pay for his indiscretion. She’d already paid hers. And she would make sure he knew she was not one to be trifled with.
The cold and wet no longer chilled her. Instead, she burned with anger. Turning north, she set her course for London Bridge and the finer residences of Milk Street beyond. Even though she faced a long, miserable walk, she gave no further thought to it but instead focused on the end result. She would pound on his door and scream until all of London knew. What did she care about being dragged away by a night watch and taken God knew where? The fact that she had been wronged and would avenge her mental anguish was enough to extinguish any thought of better judgment.
But her cause, while understandable, mattered little to the one who crept up behind her.