The King's Daughter (26 page)

“No trouble at all,” the woman said officiously as she opened the door. “This way, mistress.”

Out they went again to the yard and pushed their way through the merrymakers. Isabel caught sight of the plump, middle-aged bride and her boyish groom happily chatting with their guests. Among the dirty inmate guests was a sprinkling of well-heeled London citizens. It was an odd social stew. The merchant-class bride was pouring ale for a ragged but pretty, golden-haired prisoner girl of no more than fifteen who was slapping away the roving hands of a jowled gentleman in fine green velvet. The girl caught Isabel’s eye and made a long-suffering face, as if instinctively recognizing a sister, a fellow martyr to the lecher’s ways.

“This way,” the jailer said, claiming back Isabel’s attention.

They turned into a covered walk between two low prison outbuildings and emerged into another yard, one far different from that which held the wedding party. This was spacious and cobbled. Two of the walls were painted in an elaborately colored pastoral mural, and there were trees, winter-bare but lofty. Under the trees, comfortably dressed men and women, along with the ever-present turnkeys, were strolling and enjoying the pale sunshine.

“Are these your charges, too?” Isabel asked, uncertain.

“They are. Mr. Leveland, my late husband, made certain that the Painted Ground—that’s what we call this yard—was a pleasant place for the gentlemen to take exercise. He told me on his deathbed, Mr. Leveland did, ‘Do well unto your gentlemen, Dorothy, and your gentlemen will do well unto you.’ “ She was leading them through the yard toward the far wing of the building. “That was ten years ago, and I’m happy to say I’ve stuck to my husband’s advice. If your father is with us, I warrant you’ll not hear a complaining word from him about his stay.”

Isabel could not help being intrigued. “Your husband bequeathed you the keepership?”

“Aye, he did. It’s been in his family for—oh, nigh on five hundred years, and never once out of a Leveland’s hands.” She added proudly, “My son will have it once he’s grown.”

She opened the door to the masters’ wing. The turnkey posted there bowed to her. Isabel and Carlos followed her inside. The wing, the jailer explained, was divided into two wards, one for gentlemen debtors and one for gentlemen felons. They went to the latter.

The ward was spacious, more like a hall, well lit by windows and cozy with cushioned chairs and tables. Around its perimeter were well-appointed private chambers. As they passed some of these where the doors stood open, Isabel glanced inside hoping to catch a glimpse of her father. In one, she saw a child tossing a skein of wool for a kitten. In another, a bright fire crackled in the hearth before which a man and a woman sat at a table, eating. It was clear that some prisoners had their families living with them.

Several vendors, too, were carrying on trade in the ward room itself. A cobbler was fitting a gentleman for a pair of shoes. A stout lady was purchasing firewood from a stooped old man with a basket of faggots. Men stood talking in twos and threes, and as Isabel passed them she caught snippets of conversation that were undeniably businesslike in nature. One prisoner discussed a house sale with his agent, anxious about the rebellion. Another asked questions of his visiting partner about the fate of an overdue ship’s cargo of alum. Another, apparently a tailor, was perusing his apprentice’s display of worsted samples and giving instructions on the fabric’s sale. Isabel had not known that prisoners were allowed such freedom to conduct their business affairs, and said as much to Mistress Leveland.

“They must, in order to pay me,” the jailer pointed out reasonably. She walked purposefully on. Isabel followed, snatching looks into this room and that. A big-bellied gentleman bowed gallantly to her. The woman buying firewood gave her a long, appraising look. They had almost come to the end of the ward when the mercenary said, “Stop.”

Isabel and the jailer looked back at him in surprise.

He lowered his head to speak in Isabel’s ear. “She is useless,” he said. “She does not know if he is here. But some of these hagglers might. They come and go. We should ask them.”

The jailer’s face hardened. “May I suggest, mistress, that you send your manservant to the taproom while we continue our tour?”

“I will stay,” the mercenary said.

“Thank you,” Isabel said quickly to the jailer, “but I’ll keep him by me.” She glowered at him. “He’ll stay quiet.”

The jailer shrugged. “As you wish. Now, if you’ll just come along to the Tower Chambers—”

“Mistress Leveland!” an out-of-breath boy cried, running up behind them. “Master Tipton says you’re to come quick!”

“Why, what’s amiss?”

“It’s that clerk you sacked. He’s weeping and wailing, and he’s barged into your chamber and smashed a stool! And he’s crying out that he hopes Wyatt comes to London and burns down the Fleet! And now he’s tearing pages from your ledgers! Master Tipton cannot get him to stop!”

“Run and fetch the bailiff, lad. I’m on my way.” The boy dashed on. “Mistress Thornleigh,” the jailer said, “forgive me if I leave you for a bit. An emergency, as you see. But do take your time with your search. We’ll settle accounts later in my chamber.” She hurried off the way the boy had come.

The mercenary, unconcerned by the jailer’s crisis, was watching the stooped firewood vendor across the ward. He started toward him.

“No,” Isabel said, stopping him. “I’ll do it.” She approached the old man. “Pardon me, sir,” she said, “I am looking for a gentleman prisoner. His name is Richard Thornleigh. Do you know him?”

The man’s gnarled hands were gathering up the basket handles of his surplus firewood. “And if I do?”

“Perhaps if I describe—”

“Gray hair and one blind eye,” the mercenary broke in. “Tell what you know of him, and I will not tell your last customer that you stole back half her wood.”

The old man blanched. “One eye? I’ve seen no such person,” he mumbled, and hurried away.

“That was stupid,” Isabel said. “You only frightened him off.”

“He knows nothing.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“If he did he would bargain. He saw your purse.”

Isabel grudgingly accepted this. “I’m going to ask some of the prisoners. There’s one over there who—” She stopped, seeing a man approach her. He was short and slight, and wore yellow hose on skinny legs that showed under a once-fine russet doublet. A broad yellow feather arched out of his stained yellow cap. Hope fluttered in Isabel’s breast. Had this man overheard her inquiry, and was he coming forward with information? Just then, the mercenary stepped between her and the man, to speak to Isabel. The man raised his arm and tapped the mercenary’s back.

The mercenary spun around in a motion of pure instinct, grabbed two fistfuls of the man’s doublet at his throat and almost lifted him off the floor. On tiptoes, the man stared in helpless terror, the feather atop his head quivering. The mercenary’s action had been swift, and in the next moment he seemed to realize his error. He set down his victim. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Nothing, sir!” the man stuttered in fear, backing away. “I want nothing!” He turned, scurried through the ward, and disappeared. The buzzing conversations in the room had quieted. Several people were looking with suspicion at the mercenary.

“He might have known something,” Isabel groaned in frustration. “He might have seen my father.”

The mercenary shrugged, an apparent apology.

“Well, go after him,” she whispered.

When he hesitated she said, “I’ll do better alone than with you terrorizing everyone into silence. Now, go after him. Let me manage these inquiries in a civilized way.”

The mercenary’s frown was deep. But he strode away.

Isabel turned, and the big-bellied man in the corner caught her eye. He made his courtly bow again and beckoned her over. Isabel smiled with hope. Definitely, she would do better here without the mercenary.

But the man only wanted to invite her to his room to share his dinner. He knew nothing about her father. Neither did anyone else in the ward to whom she spoke. She walked back out to the Painted Ground where gentlemen were strolling under the bare trees, and questioned a dozen people there, including two of the turnkeys. But no one had seen nor heard of Richard Thornleigh.

She was turning disconsolately toward another prospect, a man leaning against a wall reading, when she felt fingers brush her wrist. The hand that took hers was small and soft. Isabel turned in surprise to see the dirty, golden-haired girl from the wedding.

“I can help you,” the girl whispered to her. She was shorter than Isabel and stood on tiptoes to speak in her ear. Isabel saw that her cloth shoes were torn and soaked with mud. “I can take you to him,” the girl said.

Isabel’s breath caught in her throat. “To my father?”

“Yes. To Master Thornleigh. Such a nice gentleman.” The girl smiled sympathetically. She had small white teeth. Her eyes were soft with understanding. “I know how it feels to be torn away from loved ones,” she said. “Come with me.”

16
Bartholomew Fai

T
he golden-haired girl led Isabel by the hand out of the Painted Ground. They crossed the yard where the wedding party was still going strong, though the wedding table was a litter of crumbs, bones, and spilled ale. But jugs were still being passed around and the music had become more raucous, and the dancing more abandoned.

The girl led Isabel to a small door in the prison wall. She knocked softly. The door was opened by a man holding a mug of ale. The girl nodded to him, then led Isabel past him and into the room, a storeroom crammed with sacks and barrels.

“A turnkey?” Isabel whispered, looking back at the man. She was beginning to recognize the beefy, bored-looking officials.

“Aye, m’lady,” the girl said as she beckoned Isabel to an open door at the other side of the storeroom. She winked. “He does me a favor every now and then.”

“I shall reward you well for this,” Isabel said. “I am very grateful.”

The girl beamed. “That is good of you, m’lady. Thank you.”

They were going down a narrow stone staircase. It was dimly lit and cold, and the rank smell brought back to Isabel all the foulness of the Hole at Colchester jail. “Have they put my father in the commons?” she asked anxiously as they descended.

“Aye, m’lady, in the tuppenny ward. A bad mix-up. But you can set it straight with the jailer now, can’t you?”

“But how is he? Is he all right?”

“He’s fine, m’lady. A little sad. He speaks of you. He misses you.”

The staircase ended in a narrow corridor, dark and damp. They moved along it. Isabel held her sleeve to her nose against the overwhelming stench. When they reached the ward, the sight made her stop and almost gag. The room was crammed with emaciated men. There was no window, and only one flickering rushlight on the wall. All the prisoners lay on the bare stone floor, some curled up like worms, shivering, and some lying flat on their backs, too exhausted from the coughs that racked them to even curl up for warmth. Not all were manacled, but those that were looked pitiful, with iron cuffs or iron collars connected to chains that were bolted to the floor. Their wrists and necks were black with scabbed blood where the iron had scraped their flesh raw. A foot-wide open sewer ran in under one wall. It cut a channel through the room and gurgled toward a drain beneath the opposite wall. Isabel stood still. Never had she seen such a cesspit of misery.

“Not here, m’lady,” the girl said, tugging Isabel’s sleeve. “This is Bartholomew Fair.”

Isabel blinked. “What?”

“That’s what we call the beggars’ ward.” The girl pointed to a murky far entrance. “We’re going there. Down by the taproom.”

Isabel hurried to follow the girl, shamelessly relieved that this was not their destination. As she stepped around bodies, hands reached out and thin voices implored pennies and bread. A hand grabbed the hem of her skirt, but with a grip too weak to hold on. “Aren’t they fed?” Isabel asked in horror.

“Only what you’d throw to a dog,” the girl said. “They pay nothing, so they get nothing. Except what friends bring in. Friends outside is important in jail, m’lady.”

They reached the far entrance, and Isabel let out her pent-up breath. They continued down a corridor lined with pillars. It seemed empty. “Are there no turnkeys down here?”

The girl shrugged. “No need in Bartholomew Fair. The prisoners back there can hardly get up, let alone get out. Oh, some go wandering in the yard, or begging at the grate, but at night the turnkeys lock them back in again. Like the rest of us.”

As they walked, Isabel saw a shadow scuttle by behind a pillar. The shadow was an odd shape, like a fat man with two heads, one head crested like a bird. At the corridor’s far end she saw a room with benches and kegs—presumably the taproom. The spill of its candlelight was the only light in the corridor. The taproom appeared deserted.

The girl smiled, nodding in that direction. “No trade in the jailer’s ale today,” she said, taking Isabel’s hand again. “Not with free drink and vittles up above, eh m’lady?”

They had come to a junction with another corridor. “Tuppenny ward’s this way,” the girl said. But as they turned the corner, the two-headed shadow emerged in front of them from between two pillars, halting them. It turned out to be a short man flanked by a pale youth. The man wore a yellow-feathered cap. Isabel recognized him—the man from the masters’ ward who had run in fear from the mercenary. He stood before Isabel, the youth pressing near him. The girl let go of Isabel’s hand and stepped back. The man scowled at the girl. “Where’s the fellow?” he asked.

“What fellow?” The girl sounded annoyed.

“Dolt! I told you there was a big brute with her.” The man was anxiously peering up the corridor.

“Well he’s not with her now, is he?” the girl said huffily. “Dolt yourself.”

“Mind your tongue, hussy!”

“Bastard! If that’s all the thanks I get, I’ll just take her right on back!”

“Now, now, easy does it, Nan,” the man said soothingly.

“Where’s my father?” Isabel asked, fear welling in her throat.