C
HAPTER
40
The pain Bianca had suffered dangling from manacles in the Clink was minor by comparison. She thought the crate must be filled with sand it was so heavy and immobile. She lay helplessly beneath it, pinned against the cold, damp floor.
She had tried to avoid the falling crate, but its mammoth size had prevented her from completely clearing it. She landed face-down—her legs trapped beneath, her back exposed. If the crate had hit her head, her skull would have cracked like a walnut. She pressed her forearms and palms into the floor and tried to pull herself free, but it was useless. She no longer felt her legs. They had gone numb.
She lifted her forehead, feeling a sharp pain course down her neck, and looked around.
Destroyed crates and their contents lay scattered about. Spices streamed from battered containers like sand from an hourglass. Bolts of cloth had unrolled, forming long banners of silk that draped down the sides of her makeshift wall. She had hoped to buy time and create a barrier by pushing over the crates. She feared she had succeeded at neither.
As she peered up at the iridescent fabrics, she realized that day must be dawning. From whatever cracks or openings there might be in the warehouse, she could see muted hues of color, not just the gray and blue shadows of night. And with day came the chance that someone might hear her cries for help.
She screamed. Surely someone would be passing by. She screamed loud enough to rattle the chains at Newgate, then fell silent and listened.
No one called back. No one pounded the warehouse door in answer. Silence—nothing but the maddening quiet of the most hushed moments before day.
Then a low, unearthly squabble insinuated the calm. It grew in intensity. Rasping. Hissing.
Bianca slowly turned her head. Lining the top of the crates was a legion of rats. Bianca gasped. Their teeth glinted in the faint light, and their hungry eyes stared down at her. If they jumped, they would land on her head.
She pushed against the heavy crate and screamed with every ounce of breath she had. A public hanging was preferable to being eaten alive by rats. Bianca had wanted to prove her innocence in Jolyn’s murder and find some measure of justice for her dead friend. How could such good intentions end so badly?
She squirmed helplessly beneath the crate. The thought of being torn apart by hundreds of rats kept her struggling, even though she knew it was useless. Soon they would fight over her flesh. And there was nothing she could do.
A thud sounded beside her.
She held her breath.
A second thud. She dared not turn her head to look.
Panic screamed up her spine, and she waved her arms wildly, hoping to scare the vermin. For a moment, it seemed to work.
They retreated.
If she could just keep shouting until someone heard her. She kept screaming and flailing, willing herself to keep moving. But if no one came to her aid, eventually the rats would overwhelm her. Eventually, she would suffer the same fate as the corpses in the back.
She regretted having taken John for granted. If she had not been so confident and had listened to his suggestions, she might not have found herself lying on a warehouse floor, fending off a torrent of rats. If she had let him help her instead of erecting a wall of resistance, had kept him close instead of dismissing him, she might be sitting in Boisvert’s shop enjoying a glass of French wine right now.
Despite her arms trembling with fatigue, Bianca willed herself to keep waving them. She managed well enough at first. Then, each wave grew increasingly difficult, as if she were lifting bricks instead of her arms. Finally, no amount of self-imposed will or desire could keep them going. They simply would not cooperate. Her arms collapsed, limp and completely spent.
And the rats came.
They dropped onto her back and landed beside her.
One.
Then, another.
They skittered down her spine, pulled her hair, and nosed under it. They nipped the back of her neck, tugged her ear . . . She dragged her arms to cover her head, but not before glimpsing a dozen more rappelling down bolts of fabric and falling like rain.
Exhaustion dulled her senses. She drifted in and out of consciousness, and thankfully, her mind wandered to a more peaceful place.
She didn’t notice the squabble in front of her.
Translucent bubbles appeared in her mind, marbled with the colors of the rainbow. They rose from the bottoms of flasks, growing, then bursting at the surface.
Solutions.
Her solutions. Her tonics, her medicinals. They bubbled and churned, popped softly as she looked down a row of flasks lined atop tripods, stretching to infinity.
Then, from an opaque distance, grew the sound of human voices. Shouting voices.
Was she dead? She no longer felt the rats’ horrible teeth. She no longer heard their hiss. She must be dead. So is this what it felt like? No more pain, no more torment? Her mind went a hundred directions all at once. Then, a sudden clash of metal on metal roused her and she opened her eyes. Bold colored silks still hung about. She raised her head and looked around.
No rats. But she saw their eyes glowing red from behind broken bits of crate and refuse, waiting.
Bianca craned her head and saw Wynders standing atop the crates with his rapier drawn. His blade slashed the air as he parried forward and back. Boards loosened and tumbled down, clattering and just missing her.
Then she heard a familiar voice.
John.
Wynders skidded down the wall and landed beside her, sending down a shower of planks. His arm blocked some of the boards, but his rapier was ill suited for the falling debris.
Bianca covered her head and cried out.
“Bianca?” John’s voice echoed off the walls. “Are you there?”
“John!”
Wynders eyed Bianca pinned beneath the crate. “Your lady is in a bit of a position, lad. Mind you, not a good one. You might want to help her. She appears somewhat heavily burdened.” He paused, waiting for effect. “The only thing standing between the two of you . . . is me.” Wynders withdrew a kerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. He tucked it back into his doublet with a gentlemanly flourish. “I will gladly move, but you must give me my ring. If you refuse, I see no use in prolonging this girl’s agony. Whether she perishes beneath a crate, is eaten or hanged, it matters not to me.”
Bianca recognized Meddybemps’s voice but could not decipher it. She arched her back and rested on her forearms, listening.
The rats’ eyes glinted in the dim light.
“Do not dawdle, lad. I’m not the only one losing patience,” called Wynders, seeing the rats poke their sharp noses forward.
“John,” yelled Bianca, exasperated.
“I shall give you leave, Wynders, if you throw me your sword.”
“Give me the ring and I will throw you my sword,” said Wynders. “We will both get what we want.”
“John, do it!”
But all that transpired was a confounding silence. The rats began a low, ominous hiss, and Bianca’s hope turned to despair. They inched forward, no longer threatened by clattering wood and scuffle.
Bianca took a breath to scream, but stopped at the sound of someone scaling the mound of broken crates. She craned her head to see John appear at the top of the heap, his face soaked with sweat. He stepped to the edge and peered down. He held no weapon, no plank or bludgeon. His arms hung at his sides, strong from years of hauling buckets of molten metal.
His eyes met Bianca’s, and she knew he would not fail her.
They had practically grown up together. And from the familiarity that comes with knowing someone for that long, through awkward stages of life and foolish behavior, she knew he would not forsake her. In spite of all their differences, they had remained each other’s single strongest influence, a steadfast presence.
Bianca looked on John with renewed hope and a smatter of humility. He would save her—a not so small undertaking.
“Such a lot of fuss for something so small,” said John, reaching into his trouser pocket. He withdrew the ring and held it up, the gold glinting in the weak morning light. “How could this lump of metal move a person to murder? Is its value worth more than a life?”
“Toss me the ring and you shall have leave of your lady.”
But John went on. “The design carved in its face is your family crest, isn’t it, Wynders? And in that crest lies your reputation. Am I right?”
“I haven’t the patience to listen to you pontificate. And neither does your lady.”
“But this ring holds secrets. Secrets someone uses against you.”
“It does not serve you to speculate.”
“So who is keeping your secrets? Mrs. Beldam?”
“Lad, look on your lady.” Wynders gestured to Bianca lying under the crate. “I imagine her legs have lost their feeling by now.”
“So, tell me,” John continued, much to Bianca’s annoyance, “who deserves this ring? The man who keeps secrets to preserve his honor and family’s reputation or the woman whose daughter’s ruin is her most lucrative secret?”
“I haven’t time for philosophic discussion. Nor does your lady.”
Bianca didn’t care if she was playing into Wynders’s plan. She screamed at John to help her.
“Throw me your sword, Wynders, and the ring is yours.”
“My sword and free passage.”
John thought. “Aye, that.”
“And what proof do I have that your word is true?” Wynders cocked his head.
“By my honor,” said John, “as mine is unvarnished.”
Wynders smirked. “You are young, lad. Even silver tarnishes with time.” He gave over his sword, throwing it to the top of the heap, where it landed at John’s feet.
John bent to grab the weapon and tested its weight in his hand. “As I promised, Wynders,” he said. “Your ring.” He brought the gold ring to his lips and kissed it. “A more cursed bauble I have never seen.” John tossed it to Wynders, and it fell in an arc of glimmering gold.
Wynders leapt to snatch it out of the air, but it sailed beyond his reach. The band landed behind Bianca, and he scuttled after it, scrambling over debris as it hit the ground and rolled beneath a crate. Wynders dropped to his knees and reached under the container.
John slid down the pile and landed in front of Bianca. Meddybemps followed more gingerly, picking his way down the unstable boards.
“I’ll lift the container, and you pull her out,” said John when Meddybemps reached the bottom.
John studied the crate from different angles; then, just as he braced himself against it, Wynders unleashed a torrent of expletives. John and Meddybemps paid him no mind as they concentrated on freeing Bianca. As John leaned his shoulder into the crate and tipped it backward, the streetseller grabbed under her arms and dragged her clear. Freed at last, Bianca sat back against Meddybemps’s shins and examined her wounds, pulling her torn kirtle above her ankles. Her stockings were torn and soaked with blood, but despite the gash and scrapes, thankfully, no bones protruded.
“Let’s try to stand you,” said John.
“I can barely feel my legs.”
Meddybemps and John grasped her waist and carefully brought her to her feet. Her legs trembled like twigs ready to snap. She had no strength and very little control.
“You’ll get your strength back. For now, though, you’ll have to let me carry you.”
Bianca welcomed John gathering her in his arms and, for the first time in days, felt as if she would be fine.
Then, they heard Wynders.
The ship’s agent had caught his sleeve beneath the crate and was tugging and cursing in frustration, clutching his ring. He hated ripping his new velvet doublet. It had cost him two quid and two months of waiting to have it tailored with pleats to accentuate his muscular forearms. His curses rang through the warehouse.
John noted how light Bianca was. The week had taken its toll on her—she felt no heavier than a child. He began to scale the pile of debris and was pleased when she wrapped her arms about his neck and rested her head against his chest.
Meddybemps scampered up the mound and found the sturdiest footholds, pointing them out to John. “We’re nearly there. I’ll be glad to be rid of this place.” He scrambled to the top and waited for John and Bianca to join him. “The Thames will never smell so sweet,” he said, noting the rats’ curious eyes, watching.
Just as John and Bianca reached Meddybemps, a terrible scream filled the cavernous warehouse, echoing off its walls.
Wynders had freed his sleeve, but not before the rats had moved in. He kicked and stumbled, screeching for help while vermin attacked his legs and bit into his meaty thighs. Within seconds, the rats swarmed Wynders and covered him like angry bees. His face disappeared beneath a mass of fur and biting teeth. He was drowning in a sea of vermin.
Meddybemps turned away and started down the other side.
John felt somewhat remiss ignoring Wynders’s pleas for help, but he was not about to abandon Bianca—not now, not after all she’d been through—and so he clasped her closer and grimly followed the streetseller.
Once they reached the ground, they hurried to the front of the warehouse, weaving through the walls of crates in their haste to be done with Wynders and the Chudderly Shipping warehouse.
Meddybemps threw himself against the door before flinging it open. “I’ll be spending the rest of the day at the Dim Dragon Inn, drowning meself in a few pottle pots of their best swill,” he said, over his shoulder. “Methinks that’s the only way to forget the smell of this awful place.”
But when he took a step into the lane, he was denied his breath of open air.
C
HAPTER
41
“We meet again,” said Constable Patch.
Meddybemps drew up, surprised to be standing face-to-face with the ineffectual plod.
Still carrying Bianca, John squeezed past the two of them.
“Well, this is promising,” said Patch, tugging his chin hairs. “Seems to me I’ve found a murdereress escaped from the Clink
and
the warehouse supposedly harboring unspeakable, ghastly horrors. What did that playwright say? ‘Persistence begets fortune’? Indeed. It does seem that way, does it not? And I am nothing if not persistent.”
Meddybemps and John exchanged looks. They could run, but John wouldn’t get far toting Bianca.
“This is the warehouse I spoke of,” said Bianca, releasing her hold from John’s neck and attempting to stand. Her legs shook, and she clutched John’s arm for support. “Robert Wynders is inside. Perhaps you might wish to speak with him.”
“Ah! Most certainly. But first, I must deal with the likes of ye. I would be remiss to let a criminal walk the streets before due process.”
“That is hardly a concern. Bianca can hardly stand, much less walk the streets,” said Meddybemps.
Constable Patch observed Bianca standing as if her legs were made of splinters. He’d seen criminals fake all sorts of maladies to avoid arrest. He eyed her suspiciously.
Bianca continued. “You didn’t believe me when I told you this warehouse is teeming with rats. Now that you are here, I should think you would want to see.”
“Mayhaps. But first, methinks I should deliver ye back to the Clink.” Patch reached for her arm.
John was not about to let Constable Patch haul her away again. This time, Patch was alone. He could easily dispense with the pigeon-hearted constable and make their escape. He handed Bianca over to Meddybemps, then shoved Patch backward and rounded his hands into fists.
Patch snickered. “Look there, I’m only doing me duty. No needs to go off half-cocked.” He smiled congenially, but when John’s expression remained unmoved, the smile slid from his face. He eyed the three of them, then without warning lunged for Bianca.
John struck him in the chin and sent him sprawling. “You’ll not take her again, Constable.”
Patch sat up and tested his jaw to find it still working. “That did little to help your cause. I can arrest ye for assault of a public official.”
“You must fight me first.” John hovered over Patch, wheeling his fists, ready to pound him at the least provocation.
Threats and jaw punching might have ensued if they had not been interrupted by a scream so unnerving, so desperate, so blood-numbingly awful, that all of them stopped and turned to look at the warehouse.
“It is Wynders, as I said.”
Constable Patch was skeptical. For all he knew, she could have bound the man within or enlisted him in a scheme to draw him in. “What did ye do to the man?” he asked, watching Bianca’s face.
“I did nothing but try to escape. He brought this on himself.”
Another scream beckoned, and Constable Patch got to his feet. The scream was too genuine to be faked. “A man is in trouble, and we must help him.” He looked round at the three and saw their lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll not have ye trick me. While I am inside, ye will make your escapes.”
“Then we will go with you,” offered Bianca.
“Speak for yourself, Bianca,” said Meddybemps, aghast. “I’ll not willingly go back inside. I can stand guard out here.”
“We all go in,” said Constable Patch, drawing his blade. “Exceptions ye,” he said, grandiosely pointing the tip at Meddybemps, “since I have no quarrels with ye—for now.”
Bianca saw her chance for redemption and was not about to let the moment pass. She attempted to lead the way, but barely staggered a few steps before her knees began to buckle.
“You cannot walk,” said John, lifting her in his arms and ignoring her protests. The two headed back in the warehouse.
When Constable Patch stepped through the door, he was overcome by the smell, but he masked his revulsion and followed behind the pair.
John wound a path through walls of broken crates and fallen debris. He stepped on piles of splintered wood, testing his foothold before placing his full weight and moving on. A glimpse over his shoulder revealed the constable’s face screwed in disgust and one hand pinching his nose closed.
“Shall we keep going?” John asked, turning round to face him.
“Of course,” said Patch, quickly assuming a fearless pose. But as John turned back to continue their course, Patch covered his mouth and stifled an involuntary retch.
Perhaps the girl was telling the truth. A fouler smell he’d never known. He’d have rather sat in the bottom of a privy hole than this. But he must know if what she said was true, and in spite of his hesitancy he would see this through.
John stopped at the top of a heap and set Bianca beside him. She leaned against John, and Constable Patch observed him turn away and gag while she looked on, as if mesmerized.
He drew up beside them and followed her gaze to what lay below. He could barely look on it.
Below was a heaving mass of fur and teeth, ripping and tearing Robert Wynders’s flesh. With clothing and doublet shredded, his bare arm reached out, imploringly, but was then covered in more rats. He writhed beneath the throng; his legs kicked, his boots the last protection against their determined chewing. One gnawed through the leather, tugged it off, exposing his meaty calf. Wynders screamed as his muscle was stripped from the bone.
Constable Patch turned away to steel himself. The man was in trouble, but he could not muster the nerve to save him.
Wynders’s pleas grew muffled, and his cries became less frequent, fading into nothing but the sound of fighting, feeding rats.
“He’s lost too much blood,” said Bianca. “There’s nothing to do for him.”
Constable Patch readily agreed, relieved not to intervene. He started back down the pile of rubble, more concerned that the rats might still be hungry than that he was leaving a man to suffer a painful and ignoble death. John and Bianca followed. They reached the warehouse entrance and silently exited, closing the door and securing it. London still had not fully woken; a lone rooster crowed in the distance. The gray-blue shadows had not yet given way to the fullness of day.
Meddybemps did not ask what happened. He could see their bewildered expressions and color as pale as birch.