Chapter 7

The Wayfarer’s Inn

Clare found a ledge under a three-story mud-and-brick building where there was refuge from the downpour. How pathetic she must appear. Soaked in her clothing, her long black hair matted against her face, carrying a drenched bag that contained all of her possessions.

What had she done? Clare had never seen so many people gathered in one place, yet she knew none of them. How obvious was it that she was alone and vulnerable with no place to go?

People passed by, shapeless, faceless, bumping into her, voices shouting, running to get out of the rain. Yet what made her most uncomfortable was how many souls went by without acknowledging her existence. Clare was used to greeting everyone she locked gazes with in her small town, but doing so here seemed both discouraged and dangerous.

Across the street, somewhat obscured by the pounding of the rain, two men leaned against a brick wall, feasting on her with their glares.

She felt a tug on her arm and Clare swung around. A boy of about twelve years stood dry beneath an umbrella. His face was ruddy and he was adorned in a tattered dress suit and top hat, which in its glory days might have been worn by a governor’s son.

“Lodging, miss?”

She nodded mutely.

His face brightened. “Knew so. Always spot ’em miles away. He has a nose on him they say. Master Redmond is me name. But you can call me Pence. All my friends do. You know why it ’tis? They say he’ll do anything for a pence. Well. Look at me being ungentlemanly.”

The boy handed Clare the umbrella and grabbed the pack from her arms. First stumbling when the burden transferred to him, he gave it a lunge, and though bent over, he steadied it firmly.

“Follow me, miss. Keep your eyes on Pence as he wouldn’t want to lose you in the crowd and the rain.” He started to walk and waved her to follow. “Come now. Finest lodging for guests you’ll find. Did you come from far?”

Clare started to answer but didn’t get a chance.

“First time to Cork? That’s certain. The farmies like yourself, miss. You all stand out like flies swimming in a pitcher of milk, you do. Not meaning any offense. Just pointing it out to you. The farmies only used to come for market, they did. But now it’s off to the harbor to the big ships and far places. Best harbor in the world in Cork right here. At least they tell me so. Someday Pence will go. Who knows where?”

Surprised at how difficult it was to keep up with him, despite the fact he was carrying the bag, Clare focused on the task. Ever more amazing was his ability to turn his head and hold a conversation while leading them at a swift pace.

They weaved through streets and alleys that grew darker and more run-down as they pressed forward. As he took her deeper into the bowels of the city, she grew worried, especially as faces peering through doorways and windows seemed more sinister and discontent.

When she would ask him how close they were, his response was always the same. “Just around the corner, miss. Keep lively.”

And then he would burrow farther through alleyways, rattling on at a shout about the history of the city, favorite places to eat, marketplaces to negotiate the best bargains, and he even described the architecture of certain buildings, explaining in some cases how he would have designed them much differently. Neither the burden of the bag he was carrying or the pounding of the rain dampened his step or mood.

Just when she was about to dig in her heels and insist she wouldn’t go a step farther, Clare’s young guide turned to her. “Here we are, miss. Told you it’s a beauty.”

Down the alleyway where it curved to darkness, a sign that read Wayfarer’s Inn flapped in the wind and rain. They arrived at the entranceway to the building, its outside walls blackened in sections by what once appeared to be flames.

Sitting on a stool in the archway, just deep enough to be out of the reach of the rain, was a man with a pockmarked face and a bulbous nose.

Pence removed the bag from his shoulder and placed it gingerly on one of the few dry spots on the floor. Rattling tin buckets lined the hallway ahead as they caught the heavy dripping from the ceiling. “Here you are, Mr. Evans. The lady has come to enjoy your hospitality.”

The man was cleaning his fingernails with a knife, and he barely acknowledged his guest. “Are you staying for just the night?”

“Yes.” Clare thought she smelled urine coming from inside. “Most certainly.”

“Then it’s five pence. In full. Up front.”

Clare grimaced. The hallway was damp and dark, and she didn’t know how much worse it would get once she got inside. But she was deathly tired, it was pouring outside, and she had no fight left in her.

“Very well.” She opened the canvas bag and probed her hand blindly past clothes, books, and food until she came to the leather purse her mother had given her many years ago. She pulled it out, and after fumbling through the change, she pulled out five pennies.

Pence reached out to receive them from her, but the proprietor slapped his hand away and scowled at him. “Where’s your manners, lad?”

His coarse fingers snatched the coins from Clare’s palm and he inspected them closely, even biting one with his teeth. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he put them in his vest pocket and reached behind for a ring of keys hanging off of a rusted nail on the wall. He unfastened one from the metal loop and handed it to Pence. “Number 12.”

The boy reached down and lifted Clare’s sack again. “Follow me, miss.” They headed down the lantern-lit hallway, being careful not to trip over any of the buckets. They passed by numbered doors on each side, and Clare could tell by how closely they were nestled to one another that the room would be tiny.

When they got to the end of hallway, Pence was careful again to set Clare’s sack on a dry spot on the floor, which was not an easy task. He grabbed a lantern from a hook on the wall and used it to illuminate the keyhole. He turned the key, and the door opened reluctantly with a squeak.

As she followed behind Pence through the door, Clare was pleased to see that although it was barely furnished with only a bed and a table, its floors seemed to be free of moisture and the chamber pot appeared to be mostly empty.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Pence stood almost at attention.

“No. That should be all. Oh yes, of course.” She opened her purse and withdrew a copper coin and handed it to the boy.

“Obliged.” He tipped his hat, bowed, and turned to go.

Clare thought of something, which seemed futile but perhaps worth trying in light of the boy’s knowledge of the city. “Pence. There is something else. I’m hoping to rejoin my brother and his friend here in town. My brother’s name is Seamus Hanley. He is tall with black hair. His friend Pierce is a stocky redhead. How would one go about finding them?”

Pence brightened. “You just did, miss. Seamus and Pierce, you say? If they are travelers like you, they are as good as found. Pence knows all of the places and the people to ask. They say Pence has a nose, you know.”

Clare wasn’t hopeful, but she found his confidence charming nonetheless. She reached back into her purse. “Here is another penny for your troubles. And if you find them for me, I’ll have four more for you.”

His mouth opened in surprise but then straightened, as if he didn’t want her to think she was overpaying. He flipped the coin she gave him in the air and caught it deftly. “Five pence. Consider it done.” With that, he put his hat back on his head and spun, the tails of his coat lifting up.

The door closed behind him and the lantern went with him, leaving her in darkness. She probed her way to the door, and by the time she found the handle and opened it, he was gone from the hallway as well. Too tired to protest, she retreated back inside and lay down on the bed, fearful to know the condition of the linen.

For Clare, who had shared a bed with her siblings her entire life, this lonely room offered a touch of luxury. And before she could enjoy her independence, her eyes closed and she was gone. Her dreams replayed the past week’s events to her, albeit in raw and distorted fashion. Rather than the pictures of tranquil retreat she usually enjoyed in her sleep, these were fraught with worry and hopelessness.

She woke sometime later with a start, her face flushed and her body sweaty.

Clare was not alone.