Brewer's Tale, The (86 page)

A clatter on the stairs broke it. I looked down, and saw Betje and Harry peering up. A groan escaped me.

Following my gaze, Master Fynk leered. Louder than a town crier, he continued. ‘I'm arresting you for murder.'

There were gasps, denials.

Oh, God and all the angels help me
.

The king was dead.

Amidst tears and protests, shouts and jeers, I was hauled from The Swanne.

THE CLINK, SOUTHWARK

Late June

The year of Our Lord 1408 in the ninth year of the reign of Henry IV

T
hough it was the Southwark sheriff who arrested me, the seriousness of the charge should have warranted my incarceration in London: Newgate at least, but the Tower most likely for a crime against the king's person. I would face the authority and discipline of the King's Bench. Instead, I was neither marched nor rowed across the river to London; I wasn't handed over to the king's men, but rudely paraded through the streets of Southwark and thrown in The Clink.

A crowd followed, mocking and heckling, their numbers increasing with each step until the guards were forced to clear a passage. Barely aware of them, all I could think of was Betje and the twins. Betje's stricken face staring up at mine as she understood the seriousness of the charge. And poor, brave Alyson. That guard was vicious. Her hurts would be significant. I prayed they would care for one another and that when Leander arrived, they would convey the urgency of my situation. Leander would know what to do, how to secure my release from this dreadful place.

The Clink was part of the Bishop of Winchester's liberty, which meant Roland le Bold could hold me until the royal court was ready to deal with the charges. That could take days, weeks … dear God, it could take months …

What he could do to me in that time did not bear thinking about.
I will destroy everything and everyone you love.

Oh God, Leander, help me.

Thrust in a dark stinking cell, I was manacled to the wall and left to sit on urine-soaked straw. If I ever wondered about the origins of the prison's name, the sound of the door clanging shut left no doubt. The sound echoed throughout the vast chambers, final, deadly. Cackles and hoots resounded from cells I could not see, but whose inhabitants had rushed to the bars to study the new arrival. Toothless, dirty women crowed, their lean, scratched arms reaching through the bars. Children younger than Betje, their faces streaked with grime, their eyes lumps of unforgiving coal, took note of my fine tunic, my clean hair, before spitting in my direction. Whores, wretched orphans, thieves, heretics — they were all here. And now I was one of their number. I was the worst kind of villain — a traitor.

Unable to move too far before the chains pulled me back, I sat on the straw. Piercing through my tunic, it clawed my thighs. I tried to flatten some, disturbing the creatures that lurked beneath it: lice, vermin and God knows what else. Three large rats poked their noses through before disappearing. Grey shapes scurried into the corners. The floor was not much better. Slimy, dank and filthy it exuded its own foul odour. A small grated window to my right admitted a faint strip of light and I could hear the sounds of passers-by going about the afternoon's business, unaware of the women trapped below or, more likely, indifferent to their fate.

As the cell slowly darkened, I pondered my own and prayed fervently for a sign, for hope … for a miracle.

Sound carried down the corridors, mostly the wails and derision of the other women. Gruff male voices could also be heard as well as grunts and giggles. Curling against the wall, I tried to block them. Water dripped from somewhere above, at least, I hoped it was water, forcing me to find an alternate place to sit.

What I couldn't comprehend was, if the king was dead, why were the church bells not sounding? Why were there no laments? No crying? Even when King Richard died, there'd been those who'd walked the streets of Elmham Lenn weeping and wailing.

I didn't have to wait long to discover the reason.

The jangle of keys and the dull, heavy steps of the gaoler were accompanied by a lighter tread.

It was difficult to discern who it was until a cresset lamp illuminated his face. Roland le Bold. No longer in his robes of office, he wore a simple surcoat and breeches. This was how I remembered him: not as a man of God. It was Westel Calkin restored to life.

I tried to stand, but was forced to bend slightly because of the shackles on my hands. Ordering the gaoler to leave, Roland waited till his steps faded then moved closer, the lamp held high in one hand, the other pressing a kerchief to his nose.

Ignoring the stench, the dirt, he squatted at my feet, peering into my face. Barely able to determine his features, I focussed on the liquid gleam of his eyes.

‘I warned you, Anneke. I told you what would happen if you revealed our past.'

I shook my head. Tears I didn't know I'd harboured began to stream down my cheeks.

‘Nay, don't deny it,' he said softly, sweetly. ‘I have it on good authority that you've been bleating to everyone. Well, not you, exactly, but your lover. He's been asking questions, paying for answers, visiting people I hoped to forget and inviting them to remember what they should not. And, tell me, how would he know with whom to speak, where to go, if you hadn't told him?'

‘Sir Leander would never —'

‘Oh, come now, Anneke,' his voice was wheedling. ‘Of course you've told him. Whispered your pain across the pillow.' He collected one of my tears on the tip of a finger, holding it towards the lamp and examining it as if it was an exquisite jewel. ‘How could you resist eliciting sympathy from such a one? How could you not appeal to the warrior in him by playing the suffering damsel?' He flicked the tear into the shadows and rose. ‘You're all the same, wanton whores who'll deploy any trickery to get your own way. I cannot blame him. God knows what you've told him, what lusty rewards you've promised, but he is prying and I don't like that, Anneke. You broke our deal and now you will pay, just as I promised.'

‘I've done nothing wrong.'

‘You always were a fool, Anneke. When are you going to understand, it doesn't matter what you
have
done, it's what people
believe
you have done for which I seek recompense.' He laughed, and his eyes glinted in the flame.

‘I didn't poison the king … I did not.' My nose was running and I was unable to wipe it.

‘Oh, I know that.'

I stared at him in disbelief. ‘Then — then why am I here?' The sob I released became a cough.

‘Because you're responsible for the death of two of my monks. Did Master Fynk not tell you? After a mere sip of their drinks, they fell to the floor, dead. Your ale on their lips and in their throats. They were the only two to try it, Anneke, the only ones.'

‘There was nothing wrong with my ale.'

‘Not when it left The Swanne, perhaps. But by the time it reached the monks' mazers, something terrible had happened to it.'

My eyes widened. ‘You … you …'

Roland laughed again. ‘Perhaps you're not so great a fool.'

Wincing as the flesh on my injured eye pulled, I tried to touch it, only the manacle cutting into my wrist prevented me. Roland began to laugh harder.

‘And, to think, when the king is dead, you'll be blamed for that too. It won't take much for a jury to find you guilty. Already, those summoned to do their duty descend upon the palace, eager to see justice done in my court.'

He reached over, his hand brushing my hair, lifting a tangle from my shoulder.

‘Roland, don't. Please.'

‘I do like it when you plead. Do you remember?'

I recoiled, my hair pulled taut in his grip.

He held the strand, tightening it so pain lanced my scalp. I refused to respond even though it smarted terribly.

Eventually, he tired and released my hair. ‘I should keep you here longer, just for the pleasure of seeing you … like this. Bent, broken, ready to do my whim — if not now, then soon, very soon.' He swung and grabbed the back of my neck, forcing my face into his crutch. I twisted away, shut my eyes, but he pushed harder, thrust his thighs. I couldn't breathe, but I could feel him stiffen. I went limp. Ceased to struggle. I even managed to stop crying. It's not so difficult when rage replaces sorrow.

He flung me away from him with a grunt, and I fell hard upon one knee.

‘Perhaps not.' He turned his back.

‘Wait. At least leave me the light. Some water?'

Without answering, he walked out of the cell and didn't look back. A short time later, the gaoler returned to lock me in.

Engulfed by shadows, the rats became bolder, leaving the corners to stare at me, their eyes gleaming in the faint bands of light from the window. After a time, I no longer saw them. All I saw was Roland le Bold's pale face and colourless eyes; his perfect mouth and perfect teeth locked in an eternal smile that expressed not humour or joy but, like a herald with a trumpet, announced my eternal damnation.

‘Mistress Anna? Anna? Be you there?'

It took an instant to gauge where I was, why the room was so dark, why it smelled so foul. Everything came back to me and I sat up, forgetting the manacles, which pulled so fiercely I cried out.

‘Are you all right?' hissed the voice.

It was coming from the window.

It wasn't so much light, as a lessening of the shadows that enabled me to discern a face pressed against the bars.

‘Harry?'

‘The same, mistress. I've food and drink for you, and blessings and prayers from everyone. And a message from Sir Leander.'

My heart felt too big for my chest. ‘Praise be to God. Give me a moment.' I tried to get as close to the window as possible. Even though he whispered, Harry's voice was unnaturally loud in the dark silence and I feared we'd be heard.

Managing to stand beneath the window, I tried to straighten, but it was impossible. A rat scurried across my feet making me jump.

‘You there, mistress?'

‘Aye, Harry. But I can't stand. Not properly. They have me in chains.'

A series of curses were unleashed. ‘Forgive me, mistress.'

‘You're forgiven, if I had but the strength, I would say the same. Tell me, what message from Sir Leander?'

‘My lord says the first thing I was to tell you was, you're not to lose heart.'

I choked back a sob. ‘Go on.'

‘He says the king still lives and his condition hasn't changed. That's good, mistress, right?'

‘As good as it can be.'

‘He said he knows about the monks, that le Bold, curse the bastard,' Harry spat, ‘be assembling jurors who he's bribed to stand in judgement of you.' My heart sank. ‘But, he, Sir Leander, will do everything in his power to stop this happening. He said to tell you that he's summoned a … whatcha call it? A Corner to come.'

‘Coroner.'

‘That be it. He's also been sending couriers out all night. Doesn't care 'bout curfew or nothing.' Harry paused. ‘Mistress, I'm not s'posed to tell you this, but Sir Leander came here, to The Clink. Demanded to see you. The bastard bishop wouldn't let him. Said it's against the rules. Rules be damned. They let whores into the men's prison and men into the women's. Le Bold makes his own.'

‘That he does, Harry.'

I couldn't help it, I began to weep.

‘Aw, don't cry, mistress, please don't cry.' He placed his arm between the bars and tried to reach me. I raised my hand as far as I could. Our fingertips just touched. ‘Sir Leander will make it right, he will, I knows it. And, if he can't, then I dare the church to take on Goody Alyson.'

‘Is she all right, Harry?'

‘She is sore and marked but this is Goody Alyson we're talking 'bout, course she's all right.'

Funny how even in the darkest times, a smile will still find you.