London in Chains (32 page)

Mary got up, came round the table to him and kissed him.

Lucy found it strangely comforting to squeeze into bed with the children that night. It was like being a child herself again, snuggling up with her little brothers on a cold night, knowing that her mother and father were asleep in the next room and all was safe. Long after the children were asleep, though, she lay awake, thinking of Thomas's body lying in the cold wet earth and imagining Jamie shackled in some rough guardroom, defrauded of liberty by the Army he had trusted.

Thirteen

The following morning Lucy walked the short distance over to The Whalebone. The two people most likely to know what had happened to Jamie were Ned Trebet and John Wildman: Ned was always at his tavern, and Wildman stabled his horse there when he was in London.

The yard of the tavern was quiet for once, and in the main room there were only a handful of customers sleepily drinking their morning draught. Ned was sitting at one of the tables with his own breakfast, with Nancy Shorby and Rafe the cook; he had his feet propped up on the opposite bench but he took them off and sat up when he saw Lucy.

‘Lucy!' he exclaimed and came over. ‘I–I am most heartily sorry for your loss.'

Her eyes stung at the reminder. ‘Thank you.'

He hesitated uncertainly. ‘Have you broke your fast yet? Sit down, then, and have a draught and a morsel!'

Lucy sat down and allowed herself to be served with a half pint of small beer and a slice of fresh maslin bread. She was aware, as she nibbled it, that Nancy was frowning: there was no chore at hand to divert Ned's attention.

‘Ned,' she began; at the same time Ned asked, ‘What will you do?'

‘The Overtons have kindly offered me lodging,' Lucy told him. ‘And Mr Browne says he can find me piecework bookbinding, which will, I hope, pay my keep until I can find proper work again.'

‘What?' asked Ned, startled. ‘I thought—' He broke off uncomfortably. Lucy gave him a questioning look, and he went on, ‘Well, I thought that perhaps you'd come here to bid me farewell – that you were going back to Leicestershire.'

‘That I will never do of my own will,' Lucy said firmly. ‘Ned, Mr Overton—'

‘Why must you depend on the Overtons?' Ned asked in confusion. ‘Has something befallen your aunt and your other kin in London?'

‘God forbid! They are well, but they would only keep me until my Leicestershire kin come fetch me – and, as I said, I've no wish to go back. Mary Overton was given my place at
The Moderate
and, conscientious as she is, she had no wish to see me suffer because of her good fortune. I hope I may find another place soon. Last night Mr Overton—'

‘What do you want of me?' Ned asked unhappily.

Lucy stopped, surprised. Ned flushed, and she suddenly understood that he thought she'd come to plead for help – for marriage if he'd offer it; for money and protection if he wouldn't.

He hadn't come to Thomas's funeral. She'd scarcely thought about that at the time, but now the omission had a stark significance. He'd been afraid she'd cling – and if she had, he would have pushed her off.

‘I thought you might know what has become of Jamie Hudson!' she said bluntly, choking back her anger. ‘Last night Mr Overton was telling me of the rendezvous at Ware – have you heard yet what happened there?'

Ned floundered at this unexpected turn of the conversation. Then his face darkened. ‘Aye. John Wildman came in late last night and told us of it. As foul a piece of treachery as ever I heard!'

‘Is Major Wildman
here
?' Lucy asked hopefully.

‘Nay, he's at his cousin's house. But he told the tale when he stabled his horse. He
did
say what had happened to Jamie, too! He's been arrested; Major Wildman said he
should
have been safe, but when one of his friends was arrested, he protested, and so he was arrested as well.'

‘Do you know where he is?'

Ned shook his head. ‘That's yet to learn.' He frowned. ‘You came to ask about
Jamie
?'

‘He's your friend and mine, Ned! Shouldn't I care that he's in prison?'

‘I–I . . .' stammered Ned. ‘Aye. It's only – well, Lucy, I thought you might want help. With your uncle dead.'

‘Nay,' she said coldly. ‘I'd not come here for
that
.'

There was a silence. Ned looked shocked and hurt rather than relieved.

Lucy relented a little. ‘I would be grateful, though, if you could spread word that I'm looking for work, printing or setting type.'

It didn't seem to help. Ned might have dreaded the prospect of an old semi-sweetheart clinging to him in tears, but the sight of her determined to fend for herself evidently didn't please him either. ‘Aye,' he muttered unhappily, ‘I'll do that.'

Nancy Shorby, who'd listened to all this uneasily, suddenly leaned forward. ‘I'm at a loss to know why you're so set against your kin in Leicestershire.'

Lucy met her eyes. The question had, she was sure, been asked to embarrass her in front of Ned – and yet there suddenly seemed no reason not to answer it honestly. The shame of what had happened no longer had power to crush her. The rape of a Leicestershire dairymaid couldn't blight the life of a London printworker. ‘I'm not set against my kin,' she said firmly. ‘My father, though, hates the sight of me because those villains who stole our cows forced me, and it shamed him. I'll thank you to keep that tale out of the tavern gossip.'

Nancy's jaw dropped. Ned opened his mouth and closed it again: if he had guessed this, he clearly hadn't expected Lucy to speak of it. He gave her a look of shock and, strangely, resentment.

‘I wouldn't have spoken of it,' she told them defensively, ‘only I'd not have people wondering why I'm set against my kin or they against me.' She got to her feet. ‘Thank you, Ned, for the bread and ale! If you learn any news or hear of anyone who needs a typesetter, I'll be grateful to know it. I'm at the Overtons' at present, as I said. God give you health!' She walked off and went back to Coleman Street to find William Browne and the bookbinding work he'd promised her.

The piecework consisted of folding and stitching pages for a collection of sermons. Browne gave her a heavy basket of printed sheets; Lucy worked hard all the first day and only earned tuppence. She told herself that it was the same as she'd done when she first came to London, but even that wasn't true: the wages didn't include dinner. She didn't go hungry, but that was only because she lugged the sheets to the Overtons', did her stitching in their kitchen and ate the midday meal along with the family.

She did what she could to make herself useful. She helped Faith, the eldest Overton child, to keep an eye on the younger two, and she prepared the midday meal and cleared up afterwards. She didn't think, though, that it compensated the Overtons for the inconvenience of having an extra person in their crowded house and she was painfully aware that her earnings barely covered the cost of her food. She'd proudly told Nat Cotman that she didn't want to be a burden to him, but she suspected that instead she was burdening the Overtons, who could afford it less and who had no real obligation to her.

However, when she was offered a well-paid printing job after only two days stitching sermons, she didn't see how she could accept it.

Faith Overton answered a knock on the door, then came to the kitchen and handed Lucy a note:

‘Who gave you this?' Lucy asked in surprise.

The girl shrugged. ‘A man. He didn't tell me his name.'

‘What did he look like?'

‘He was short and dark and ugly,' said Faith disdainfully. ‘But he had a gold earring. In just one ear!'

That sounded like Nedham, all right. If he needed a printer, it was probably because his previous printer had been arrested – that, or decided that the risk of continuing to work on
Mercurius Pragmaticus
was too great. Gilbert Mabbot's men were ransacking the city for
Pragmaticus.
Nedham's newsbook was popular – it sold out more quickly than the
Perfect Diurnall
, despite the fact that, being illegal, it cost twice as much – and its stories embarrassed and offended the government in equal measure. Mabbot's masters were demanding that he shut it down.

Lucy read the note again resentfully. A part of her
wanted
to respond to it:
Pragmaticus
would be much more interesting than sermons and more profitable as well. She had no illusions, though, that it would be safe
.
Printing Leveller pamphlets had been dangerous too, of course, but she'd
believed
in what she was printing. A Royalist newsbook was another matter entirely. She was not quite sure when she'd started to despise the king, but she did, wholeheartedly. He could have given his poor bleeding country a fair peace at any time over the last summer but he had instead clung to his own privileges. Why should she risk her freedom by printing apologies for him?

There was something very satisfying, though, in the notion of thumbing her nose at Gilbert Mabbot after the shabby way he'd dismissed her.

She struggled with herself, dismayed by how much she was tempted. She told herself firmly that it would be perfectly monstrous to betray the Overtons by taking up Royalism while under their roof and resolved to hand them the note as soon as they returned from work. She expected it would end in the privy.

‘There's no harm in meeting him,' said Richard when he returned to the house a couple of hours later. ‘If you've no liking for his terms, you can simply walk out.'

Lucy was flabbergasted. ‘You –you wouldn't
mind
if I took the place?'

Richard shrugged. ‘It's not my affair, Mistress, but it's like to pay well.' He smiled at her. ‘I confess, that would weigh with
me.
'

‘But he's a
Royalist
!'

‘Of late his main target has been Cromwell.' Richard suddenly grinned. ‘“Crum-Hell”, “the Town Bull of Ely”, “the Nose Almighty!” Nedham's a very witty fellow and his barbs draw blood. It does my heart good to see Cromwell pricked! If he turns on
us
again, you can always resign. Besides . . .'

Lucy tensed, suspecting that Richard was about to say he'd like to be able to call his house his own again. If he was, however, he tactfully changed it. ‘We say that we're in favour of a free and unlicensed press: if that means a free press for ourselves but none for our adversaries, we're nothing but false hypocrites!'

‘Your partner Gilbert Mabbot wouldn't say so,' Lucy pointed out.

‘Gilbert
is
a hypocrite!' Richard replied cheerfully. ‘He believes in the liberty of the press as I do, but the Licensorship was too fine a gift to refuse.' He sighed and admitted, ‘Had I been offered it, I might have accepted it myself. Our Lord threw the money-changers from the Temple, but I've no doubt they crept in again by the backstairs and set up in business once more. I'll never sell our liberties, but still the children must eat. Had Mary been without employment and received that note you hold, I would have advised her to meet with Nedham.'

Lucy looked dubiously at the note. An alternative reason for the invitation had, of course, occurred to her. ‘Why appoint a meeting in a tavern? He knew to leave the note here. Why didn't he come in?'

That brought another grin. ‘Into
my
house, you mean? The house of the Licensor's partner? Nay. An inn is safer, and The Blue Boar is a fine inn for intrigues. A man has ample opportunity to watch who comes and, if he sees someone he'd prefer to avoid, ample opportunity to slip away.' The grin broadened. ‘And any woman pestered by a whoremongering rogue like Nedham would have no difficulty giving him the slip.'

It was a big inn, certainly; a coaching inn, with a large courtyard flanked by galleries. Lucy hesitated in the wicket gate from the street, then told herself it was absurd to think that Nedham would go to so much trouble to seduce a girl he'd met only once months before, and that if that
was
what he had in mind, she would walk out. Her heart was pounding, though, as she walked on: in the back of her mind she could hear her father's outraged voice: ‘She agreed to meet a strange man in a tavern after dark? The whore!'

The main room of The Blue Boar was long, low-ceilinged, poorly lit and full of tobacco smoke: you could have hidden a troop of pikemen in it, let alone a fugitive newsbook editor. Lucy stopped inside the door and looked around helplessly. Several of the men sitting nearby took their pipes out of their mouths with appreciative stares. A serving-man hurried over.

‘I came to meet Mr . . .' she began; then decided it would be better not to name any names. ‘I came to meet a gentleman who offered me work
as a printer
.' She emphasized the final words: she was going to make it absolutely clear that she would have nothing whatever to do with any other suggestions!

‘Aye, he's expecting you,' said the serving-man calmly. He glanced behind her, then, confident that she wasn't being followed, said, ‘This way.'

Nedham was in a cubby-hole of a private room, eating a meat pie and washing it down with a bottle of wine. He beamed when Lucy was shown in. ‘Sweet Mistress Lucy! I feared you'd leave me to pine for you! Here, sit down by me! Harry, another glass!'