London in Chains (13 page)

Wildman merely nodded to Lucy; when he spoke, it was to his protégé. ‘There you are, Jamie! That's the press.'

‘Who's the wench?' asked Hudson. His voice was a hoarse growl.

‘The niece of a Southwark mercer, one of our company,' replied Wildman. ‘She was helping Will Browne the bookseller, but he's in Newgate, and she found the work too heavy, as I told you.'

Irritation gave Lucy her voice back. ‘I am
in charge
of the press, Captain Wildman!'

Wildman merely smiled. Hudson came over and touched the bed of the press with his good hand. ‘How does it work?'

Wildman regarded the press a moment. ‘I think you slide that bit in and out, and pull that handle to lower the screw.'

‘Out of the way, puss,' Hudson ordered Lucy.

‘Nay,' she said, suddenly hot with rage. She had asked for
help
, not a master! ‘If you've not worked a press before, you're to listen to instruction before I give you leave to touch it!'

He turned his gargoyle face towards her, fixed her with a single bloodshot eye and gave her a horrible twisted leer. ‘Oho! You'll give me leave to touch, will you, puss?'

‘Nay, then!' she said, glaring back at him. ‘If you will not heed instruction, you can take yourself off – and if you won't go, I will! For I'll not be called
wench
and
puss
at my own press – and much joy may you have, trying to set type and stitch with that
claw
!'

The leer vanished and the gargoyle head lowered, like that of a bull about to charge. ‘Peace, peace!' cried Wildman, alarmed now. ‘There's no call for that!'

‘Yes, there is!' cried Lucy, rounding on him. ‘If your swill-bowl friend heaves too hard on that handle, he'll crack the block, and then we'll have no press; and if my uncle – a godly man! – heard him speak so lewdly, he'd forbid my coming here ever again, and we'd have no one to set type! There's
every
call for me to protest: you could end printing here this month and more, all for want of more courtesy than would fit a
sty
!'

Wildman was flustered. ‘He meant no harm.'

‘And you, what did
you
mean?' she demanded furiously. ‘You did not see fit even to tell him my
name
, let alone make it plain that
I
was given charge! You are more to blame than he is!'

‘I had forgot your name,' admitted Wildman, ‘and I thought Will Browne had charge. I beg your pardon, Mistress . . .?'

‘Lucy Wentnor,' she said coldly. ‘Captain Wildman, I
was
given charge of the press, whether you recollect it or not, and your friend should heed me because it is
not
so simple a matter as the pulling of a handle!'

‘You say if I pull too hard, I will crack . . . what?' asked Hudson. The scarred face was turned towards her again, but the expression on the good half now seemed to be earnest and intent.

Lucy touched the block that contained the great wooden screw. ‘Too much pressure and this could crack – or even if it holds, you might damage the type, which is set
here
, see?
I
was told to take care, and how likely am I to strain it, compared to a great ox like you? This press has its quirks, too, of placing and working, which one must have regard to, or else damage it or what it prints.'

He stared uneasily at the press, and she saw that she'd won. Her anger faded and, as it did, her hands started to tremble. Anger always brought back the memories – and here she was, in a barn, with two soldiers. She refused to look at them, refused to think about the past. Instead, she caught hold of the press-bed and hauled it out from under the screw. She lifted the canvas-and-blanket covering and peeled the latest sheet off the forme.

‘It's our
Declaration
!' cried Wildman as he saw it.

It was indeed a
Declaration of the Army
– one of several that had emanated from Saffron Walden of late and more moderate than most of them. Wildman plucked it from Lucy's hands and looked it over with a smile; Lucy took it back before he could smear the ink. ‘We mean to sell it throughout London, so that the citizens will not be deceived as to the justice of the Army's desires.' She was pleased to find that her voice was briskly confident, with no hint of a tremor. She hung the paper up to dry, then came back to the press and gazed across it at Hudson. ‘So what will it be, Mr Hudson? Will you take instruction from me, or will you go? For I'll not hand the mastery to one that knows less of printing than I do!'

Both men looked at her, and she could see them thinking,
Insolent wench!
She crossed her arms and stared back at them implacably.

Hudson stirred, grimaced and conceded: ‘I'll take instruction.' Wildman gave him a look of sympathy, slapped him on the shoulder and departed.

In fact, there was not a lot of instructing to be done. The latest
Declaration
was short, and all of the typesetting had already been done: printing was a matter of inking the forme and working the press. Still, there were all the usual adjustments to forme and paper, the normal tightening of bolts and greasing of slides, so Lucy was satisfied that Hudson knew her supervision was needed. The soldier was easily strong enough to manage the press, though Lucy noticed that he was careful with his maimed hand, pushing and pulling with the palm, not the fingers.

She'd secretly hoped that Ned would turn up to tell her she was welcome to come to The Whalebone for dinner, but there was no sign of him. At about two o'clock she gave up and took out the bread and butter she'd packed at home – she was wary of taking meat or cheese without Agnes's goodwill. ‘Do you have aught to eat, Mr Hudson?' she asked, looking up at the big man.

He shook his head.

She hesitated. ‘You're free to go and buy yourself some food. There's a baker's at the corner of Coleman Street and London Wall.'

‘I've no money,' Hudson said hoarsely.

She sighed, grimaced and offered him half her bread and butter. He didn't take it, only stood gazing down at her, scarred face unreadable.

‘Take it!' she ordered. ‘I can't eat with you grokkling me like a hungry dog!'

He took it and sat down on the dirty floor of the barn. She sat down opposite at a safe distance and nibbled at the bread.

‘You're not from London,' he said suddenly.

‘Nay,' she agreed. ‘I'm from Hinckley in Leicestershire.'

He nodded, took a bite of the bread and butter and chewed it thoughtfully. The scarred side of his face moved stiffly, but at least he didn't dribble. ‘I hail from Lincolnshire myself.'

‘Aye?'

‘Not been back, though, since . . .' He waved his maimed hand at his scarred face.

Lucy hesitated again: she didn't really want to know more about this brute, but she felt she ought to, since they were working together. ‘What happened? Captain Wildman said you were wounded at Naseby, but . . .'

‘Pistol misfired.' He held his bad hand out in front of him and went on, ‘This was the worst hurt. I was 'prenticed to be a blacksmith, but that's work that needs two hands. Now I'm glad to heave a press for sixpence a day.'

‘I used to work in my da's dairy,' Lucy told him. ‘Then soldiers stole all our cows, and there was nothing for me to do. I'm glad to find work that pays sixpence, too, Mr Hudson, but then I never earned tuppence at home.'

He fixed her with that single eye. After a moment he snorted. ‘Bold child, aren't you?'

‘No more
child
than you, I thank you!'

‘Nor yet a
wench
or a
puss
,' he replied with a lop-sided smile. ‘You are
in charge
here, after all.'

She was silent a moment, angry again. It was
funny
, was it, for her to say that? ‘Aye,' she said, ‘and like to stay that way, since I'll not spend all
my
earnings on drink!' She got to her feet and went back to the press.

He got up, too, glowering again. ‘What do you mean by that?'

‘Oh? You got that stink on you by sleeping in a distillery and a privy by turns, did you?'

‘A man that's hurt needs something to dull the pain!'

‘While a
woman
that's hurt is expected to mend and mind the children, too!' She put the rest of her bread and butter in her mouth, dusted off her hands and began inking again.

They worked in silence for the rest of the afternoon. At last Lucy signalled that it was time to stop. She cleaned up, then gathered up the small stack of sheets she'd managed to print the previous day, which were now dry. ‘We'll take these to The Whalebone Tavern,' she told Hudson. Since Browne's arrest, Ned had been selling the products of the press among his customers.

‘Will they pay us there?' was the soldier's response.

She hesitated: she'd been taking her tuppence from Ned but she wasn't sure how things would work now. ‘Probably not,' she admitted. ‘We'll need to see Mr Chidley.'

When they arrived at The Whalebone, the serving-woman Nancy greeted Lucy with some embarrassment, then called for Ned. He came up from the cellar with a morose expression that became a pleased smile when he saw Lucy.

‘Lucy!' he exclaimed. ‘I began to fear I'd not see you today. Why did you fail us at dinner-time?'

‘I . . . I wasn't sure I had your leave to come,' said Lucy. She could feel her face growing warm.

‘Of course you have!' Ned said. ‘The press may have moved, but I hope we are still friends! Will you come tomorrow?'

‘Aye!' she said, smiling stupidly. ‘I'd be glad of it.'

Hudson was watching Ned closely. ‘Is this invitation only to Mistress Wentnor, or is it to all who work the press?'

Ned gave him a curious stare.

‘This is Mr James Hudson,' Lucy explained, ‘whom Captain Wildman found to help with the press. Mr Hudson, this is Mr Trebet, the keeper of The Whalebone.'

Ned held out his hand to Hudson with a smile. ‘I'll gladly offer refreshment to those who work our press, and any friend of Captain Wildman is welcome at The Whalebone. What was it, a pistol misfiring?'

‘Aye,' said Hudson, taken aback. He did not take the offered hand, but he held up his own damaged one in a sort of apologetic wave.

‘I saw the like at Newbury.'

‘You were with the London trained bands?' asked Hudson, his tone suddenly much less surly. ‘That was a brave stand!'

Ned smiled. ‘Captain Wildman said you fought at Naseby. In what regiment, pray?'

The two men began to talk about the war. Lucy listened to them in surprise at first but, as the talk moved to flanking attacks and musketry, quickly grew bored. When Ned offered Hudson a drink, she said that she must see Mr Chidley. Ned was barely willing to divert his attention long enough to tell her the address.

The Chidleys lived nearby, in Soaper Lane, so she was not gone long. When she returned, however, Ned was back at his work and Hudson was in the tavern's common room, talking war with half a dozen others. Lucy had to rap on the table to get his attention. The whole drinking party looked up at her with appreciative leers.

‘Your wages,' she said curtly. She set down sixpence. ‘I expect to see you tomorrow, Mr Hudson,
sober
and presentable!' She stalked out.

Chidley had, in fact, entrusted her with the whole fourteen shillings, along with an account book. ‘If you've run a dairy, this should be no trouble to you,' he told her, ‘but if you need advice, I am at your disposal.' She could have paid Hudson a week's wages, but she suspected that if she did, she wouldn't see him the following day. As it was, she was uneasy about leaving him in a tavern with money in his purse.

When she arrived at the barn the following morning, she was fully expecting him not to show up before noon. She made her now-routine tour, assuring herself that all the dark corners were empty. When she came into the hayloft, however, there was a rustle, and then a man's head and shoulders emerged suddenly from a pile of stale straw. Memory seized her by the throat: she screamed, bolted for the ladder and leapt from it only halfway down. She staggered, then fled out of the door.

She glanced back before she reached the street. The barn stood peacefully in its muddy field under a cloudy sky, its door wide open so that she could see the white flutter of paper within. No one was coming after her. She stopped, breathing hard, pressing her trembling hands together. She did not know what to do. She should not leave the barn unlocked and open, panting out its secret – but she couldn't possibly go back.

A figure appeared in the doorway, and she belatedly recognized James Hudson. She had run away from her own assistant! Shame and self-disgust turned her stomach: how could she ever hold her own against him now? Still she couldn't bring herself to go back, though, and the two of them stared at one another for a long time, Hudson in the doorway, Lucy sixty paces away in the track that led to the street. At last Hudson shambled forward. She knew he was going to laugh at her, and then . . . she wasn't sure, but she didn't think she could work with him. It had been hard enough working
alone
in the
barn
: to work with this monster leering and jeering at her would be impossible.

‘I beg your pardon,' he said quietly. ‘I fear I startled you cruelly.'

It was so different from what she expected that she could only stare blankly.

‘I lay in the barn to save rent-money,' he informed her. ‘I thought it might serve, too, to keep out thieves.'