St. Martin’s Le Grand, London, and the banks of the River Thames
The Year of Our Lord 1396
In the twentieth year of the reign of Richard II
A month later, we still hadn’t found anyone suitable to escort the girls to Southwark and watch over them. In the meantime, they continued to work where they could in London, avoiding not just overzealous constables and bailiffs, but also the wrath of other maudlyns and their pimps. Milda and I put aside spinning and weaving and took to accompanying the girls. It didn’t stop them or us getting abused, bitten, scratched, shoved to the ground, and kicked occasionally, but it did prevent the violence escalating—and not just because the other whores were up for a fight. My girls, bless ’em, were prepared to defend themselves. Milda and I carried big sticks. They worked as both a deterrent and defense, that is, when you knew the attack was coming. There were days we returned with swollen eyes, sore ribs and grazed knuckles. We all lost some hair, ripped from our scalps. Yolande even lost two teeth after being punched.
On the ides of November, after seeing Wace safe with his tutor and Lowdy to the nunnery where she was newly apprenticed to the apothecary, Sister Cecilia, Leda, Rose, Yolande, Milda, and I decided to venture further afield, out toward Moorgate. A fair was being held that not only attracted locals, but travelers as well. There should be enough customers to satisfy even the lustiest of whores and the most demanding of pimps. Drew remained, looking after the house and spinning to ensure we had enough of the thread we intended to sell at the little stall we’d leased in the Cheap. We had to keep up appearances, after all.
We were heading up Coleman Street, mingling with the crowds going to the fair, when I was knocked to the ground. By the time I found my feet, I’d not only lost my stick, but couldn’t find the girls or Milda. Heartsick, I searched for them, pulling on shoulders, pushing men, women, and even children aside. I tripped on a barrow, brushed aside the pleading hands of a beggar woman, all the while shouting for Milda, Leda, Yolande, and Rose. Heads turned, but not the faces I wanted to see.
I paused at the sign of the crocodile, an apothecary’s shop, trying to get my bearings. My knees had been hurt in the fall, my damned pride as well. Though I stood on tiptoe, there was no sign of the girls, or where they’d gone. How was I supposed to find them among so many people? Had they been snatched? Who’d take them? Why? Where? I turned back in the direction I’d come, my eyes narrowing.
Of course! I plunged into the crowd, forcing my way against the tide of flesh. I ducked into the first alleyway, Trystrams. It was quieter here, gloomy with shadows. It was then I heard a scream, followed by shouting.
“Leda!” I picked up my skirts and ran, leaping over a foul-smelling ditch, dashing past a bundle of rags tucked against a door that stirred as I flew by.
Around the corner, trapped in a doorway were Leda, Yolande, and Rose. Leda had a swollen, torn lip, and a cut beneath one half-closed eye. Yolande’s cap was missing, her hair had come undone, and her shift was torn. Rose had a swelling on the side of her face and blood trickling out one ear. Milda was nowhere to be seen. Surrounding them were Ordric and his men. As I reached them, Ordric drew back his fist and punched Leda in the stomach.
She doubled over, gagging and retching. Rose and Yolande went to help, but Ordric thrust a knife in their direction. The other two men laughed.
Fury ignited within me. “How dare you,” I bellowed.
Ordric spun around, his wicked dagger aloft. Upon seeing who it was, and that I was alone, he began to smirk. His men leered.
I marched toward him. “You sorry excuse for a hound’s prick, you shriveled piece of monkey turd, human excrement dressed in a knave’s coat. Leave my girls alone.”
“So, the Whore of Honey Lane dares to show her face after I told her what I’d do if she set up shop again. Worse, she brings my missus—”
“I ain’t your wife, Ordric, and you know it.” Leda spat blood.
“Shut up, bitch.” He lashed out, the back of his hand striking her so hard, she stumbled. Rose caught her.
“You leave her alone, leave us all alone, or else—” I kept one wary eye on the knife.
“Or else what?” muttered one of the other men and sniggered.
That was it. “Don’t you speak to me, you hedge-born, flea-bitten bastards. You should be ashamed of yourselves, doing the bidding of this levereter whose sole purpose is to harm women. Why? Because he’s afraid. And you know what that means?” Without thinking, I stepped right up to the first man and pushed my face into his.
“Nay, mistress,” he squeaked.
“You are too.” I slapped him hard across the cheek.
“Oy,” said the other. I turned and struck him. By God, my palm burned worse than hellfire, but I didn’t let them see that. A demon possessed me, a female demon with horns, sharp teeth, giant nugs, and cruel fingers.
They stared in shock, uncertain how to respond.
Before Ordric could react, I knocked the knife from his hand. “As for you, you lily-livered scum-eater, why don’t you go back to the cesspit you crawled from. The only reason you pick on us, and bring extra men—” the word meant something else on my lips, “is because you don’t have the balls to fight us. That’s not a pair of hairy turnips you’re keeping in your breeches, but a hairless queynte, you coward.”
By now, the shouts and insults had attracted a small crowd. Shutters flew open, doors were cracked so eyes could spy what was going on. More spilled from nearby alleys and lanes, congregating behind and beside us. Damn, but they were blocking my intended escape route. I’d no choice but to brazen this out. A pisspot was emptied, the stinking contents narrowly missing the girls. I gestured. They ran to me. I pushed them behind me.
A chant was taken up. “Cowardly queynte, cowardly queynte.” I began to laugh. Ordric’s face grew red, his eyes colder than the Queen’s jewels. He gathered up his knife, his shoulders heaving.
“You stupid old gabbing bitch. Don’t you ever get tired of hearing yourself? You think your words can hurt me?”
“Nay, Ordric. I don’t. You don’t possess the sense to understand them.”
“Then why bother, you pus-filled slut?”
“Because they make me and those who do understand—” I gestured to the crowd, “feel better. They give us a laugh . . . at you.”
There was an appreciative roar. Caught up in the applause, I took a bow, taking my eyes off Ordric. It was enough. With one solid punch, he felled me.
Bright lights flashed as a sharp pain lanced my temple and shot out my right eye. My ears rang. There was a swell of voices, like those you hear when you dunk your head in a basinful of water, deep, distorted, uncanny. Another pain exploded on my side. I opened my eyes as Ordric’s boot descended for a second kick. I threw my arms up over my head.
The boot never connected. I moved my hands in time to see a huge man with enormous shoulders and even larger arms lift Ordric off his feet and, with a mighty bellow, fling him against a wall.
Ordric hit the ground like a tinker’s rag doll. He didn’t move.
Once again, a huge cheer rose and the colossus lumbered toward me, the people parting like the sea before Moses to let him through. Beside him was Milda, her face red and damp with tears. She crouched beside me.
“Oh, Alyson. What’s he done to you?”
The girls brushed off my hair and skirts, gently touching where Ordric had struck, dabbing at the blood. Looming over them, keeping the onlookers at bay, was the giant.
“I’m alright,” I said, sweeping their hands and kerchiefs from my face. “Take more than that streak of dog shit to hurt me,” I lied. “But,” I winced, blinking at the enormous shadow above, “who is it I have to thank for coming to our aid?”
The giant bent over and with astonishing gentleness, helped me rise. “The name’s Stephen atte Place, mistress.” His voice rumbled like a laden cart upon stones. “At your service.”
Forced to tilt my head, he was older than me by a few years, and had the grizzled look of a world-weary sailor: the weathered skin, the callused hands and scars that came with running the rigging. If that wasn’t enough, he wore an earring in one lobe. Not his Grace’s navy then, but a merchant’s ship. Mayhap, even a pirate’s.
The ringing in my ears that oft defeated me commenced again. “What did you say? What’s your name?”
“I said—” He leaned closer. He smelled of salt, sweat, smoke, and wild spices. “My name is Stephen atte Place, and I am at your service.”
I cocked an eyebrow at Milda, looked at the girls, then back at Master atte Place with a wide grin. “Good. You can start immediately.”
* * *
Master Stephen settled in well and was more than happy not only to work under a woman, so to speak, but to protect the girls as they went about their business.
“My mother always said, a man who has to strike a woman is no man at all.”
I liked the sound of Stephen’s mother; a woman of sense who raised a fine fellow. Not even the work we did perturbed him. “If you knew what I’ve seen, mistress, let alone done,” he’d say, a mazer of ale and huge trencher of meat before him as he sat at the kitchen table, Wace, Drew, and the girls drinking in his every word (he was a man of few, so gained an audience when he did speak), “you’d know I’ve no right to judge. That’s for God and Him alone.”
With Stephen escorting the girls to Southwark, finding a biddable innkeeper to allow him to pass the time in his premises, I thought I’d be able to focus more on the spinning and weaving side of the business.
But as Fortuna would have it, something else occurred that caused a great distraction and turned my life upside down again.
It was Geoffrey’s fault. Him and his damn scribbles.