Innogen

Argument I. Unlawful.

I KNOW HIM.

I haven’t seen him before.

But I know him.

I scurry south past Bedlam, racing the March sun that sets beyond London’s murk. Arrive after dark, and Bishopsgate passage will extract a cost for a woman in rags, a license I would rather not give. Nor do I wish to steal in shadow.

The air itself exhales impending death. Elizabeth will leave no clear successor, and the bear of war now shaking its chain will spring free once again.

Saddled by the weight of these musings, I fail to sense his approach.

I look left, with eyes only.

He laughs silently, mirthlessly.

Tall, lank hair, gray stubble where a beard should sit, black tunic. I grasp no more as I amend stride into trot, haste into urgency.

I carom off walkers funneling toward the arch amid shouts of “Have a care” and “You, there.” Bishopsgate passage teems with pickpurses and beggars, each a Charon demanding pennies for crossing. I hold one arm tight to my side, shielding my few pence, with the other hand grasp my shawl, and cross in a posture born of long practice. The traverse is ten crowded paces, beyond which crouches a crammed and narrow city whose dusky cellars and fetid alleyways may offer concealment.

Bodies swirl about me, some inbound to urban lodgings, others, the better dressed among them, seeking to leave.

Ahead a gap forms in the swarm. Perhaps an unusually malodorous heap of dung breaks the crowd’s rush, or a dying horse, or a lifeless person.

Impossibly now ahead of me, he waits within the breach, passersby avoiding him.

His eyes could be my father’s, brown flecked with gold, shielded by a heavy brow. His visage has little skin to spare, yet deep folds scribe lines from his nose to thin and bloodless lips. However, no contours crease his forehead. Some people forever smile, others frown, and such constant practice forms their faces. His bears no sign, though he must be nearing forty.

He wears neither ruff nor collar, just a suit of inky black, a velvet tunic over linen sleeves. The garment hangs uncinched at the waist, suggesting a blade may lie beneath, though his cold stare alone would send cutpurses to ply their trade elsewhere.

“Come.” His voice is low, raspy and cold. He points to a lane that winds and twists toward Leadenhall, spawning half a dozen alleys too narrow for horses, ways best avoided by a woman.

I would ask his name, yet I know he will not answer, not where others might hear.

One moment we are face to face in the parted crowd, the next he is a taloned hawk grasping my left wrist. “Come.”

My back against crude brick, we stand in a passage not wide enough for two men to pass hip to hip.

I stare level at the top of his chest, unable to meet the eyes of the man who seeks my death.

His hand on my shoulder weighs the world, and I am no Atlas to carry it.

“I am Nicholas Jones.”

That name strikes terror, as he is well aware.

Still holding my wrist, he pushes his body against mine, not in lust but in dominance: As I am woman, I am nothing. I have no husband. No father. No position in the city but that beneath a man, though I have earned my own way these past dozen years, lived by my wits, had no lovers but those whom I chose.

If he wants me, he will take me.

And then he will burn me.

The alley is dark, the sun now a mere fume of memory, though even at midsummer’s noon little light would leak its way to the mud and filth in which we stand. I reach for the darkness, to make it darker still, to escape into shadow.

I slide my hand within his grasp, but he grips tighter. He pulls my trembling body from the passage into the unsightly lane leading back to Bishopsgate Street. Passersby avoid us, first two women, then a rag-shrouded man, gazing neither at us nor away. They will no more look upon Nicholas the gentleman than they will the body slumped in the doorway. They would not dare look upon Nicholas the hunter, whose word has condemned a dozen or more whom he considers unlawful. And they will not look upon me, upon little Innogen in coarse jute and stained wool, assured by sideways glance my life has no bearing on theirs.

As we near the walking-boards lining Bishopsgate Street, a young man passes the lane-mouth, stops, and stares at us, at the well-dressed gentleman dragging an unwilling yet unresisting woman. The youth is tall, soft-cheeked, unbearded, with dark hair brushed back from his forehead to disappear under a flat woolen cap. He wears a maroon cloak over a loose-fitting gray ruffed shirt, both of quality construction, but fashioned some ten years ago and worn daily in all weather.

He places his hand on the rapier at his hip. “I charge you, stay.”

“Do not interfere in the Queen’s business, boy.”

Any man of sense would quail at Nicholas’s imperious manner.

But sense and the youth seem strangers to each other. “The Queen?” He whips his head to make show of looking for her, while his right hand eases his weapon half clear of its scabbard. “I see no Queen. Her Majesty lies abed, and soon will be lying in her grave.”

“You shall be heaven-bound before our Queen.” Nicholas reaches to draw his own blade, to school the impertinent man-child.

But as I could not liberate myself because his fingers enclosed my wrist, he cannot free his own, for now my other hand grasps his.

“Leave off,” and he pulls violently, pivoting in an attempt to fling me free. But hours of kneading dough each day have made my wrists the equal of a man’s, and he can no more slough my grip than a ferret can shed his skin.

“Release her.” The youth has stepped into the lane and seeks to command one of the most fearful men in England, a man who performs deeds even Richard Topcliffe shies from.

“Damn you,” and Nicholas shoves me hard against the brick. He has released his talons, and now we are bound only by my own two strong hands.

It is a crime against the law for one such as me to strike a gentleman. It is a crime against Her Majesty to strike Nicholas Jones.

And to kick him?

He would have me burned for being as I am, so indeed I show him whom I can be. With my foot I strike the back of his knee while freeing his wrist. He buckles and sprawls facedown in the shit and mire of Baker’s Lane.

I doubt any baker in the lane will rescue me, nor do I see such a savior. I dodge out of the lane into the spate of Bishopsgate Street, fleeing my pursuer. He is fast, but fear gives me Mercury’s feet, and I fly – running, not airborne – into the twists and alleyways, past St. Mary Axe and into Bury Street and Creechurch, yet I cannot gain on the pounding footsteps. A right into Myter Street, and I stumble on some stick of wood dropped on the ground. My ankle bends, and I fall headlong into a passerby, a workingman of indeterminate age.

As I cry out and disentangle myself, strong fingers clasp my arms. If my hands gain power from working dough, his must work iron, so firmly do they lock my shoulders.

I kick out, and those arms lift me straight up. “Shh, shh” in my ear. The voice is not that of Nicholas.

I crane my neck and catch sight of the youth’s burgundy cloak.

“Put me down.” I don’t know if he can understand my words, so huffed am I from running.

“As you wish, my lady.” Breathing easily, he lowers, steadies, and releases me.

The man into whom I ran headlong eyes us both. If he is a cutpurse or pickpocket or strongarm, he must weigh the chance of reward against the pain of a fight against someone half a foot taller, dressed as a gentleman and perhaps carrying a gentle’s blade, plus whatever blows his harridan might inflict. He has no way to know I’m useless in a scuffle. My rescuer clearly is not. The man scurries away.

The youth examines me with green eyes, emeralds set in an unlined face. His smile reveals even, white teeth not yet overtaken by the decay of age. He bows, half grace, half charade. “My lady.”

“Don’t mock me.” I glare at him, wishing I might wither him with a glance, but his open countenance defeats my efforts. I settle for holding back a smile. “I am no lady.” I wipe my hand across the clothes, barely better than rags, that loosely wrap my body. “As you can see plain.”

“I see no plain, only beauty.” He turns my words on themselves.

“I pity you, to have an old man’s failing sight at such a young age.” I cast a wary eye along the street. The youth’s size and strength may be assurance against ruffians. Those assets might prove of less use should Nicholas, forewarned, encounter us again.

“Are you saying I have wasted my rescue on anyone but a beautiful damsel?”

I snort, unable to help myself. “Damsel? Poetry of the worst sort. No honest man would use that word.”

“But damsel,” and he grins broadly, “I am no honest man.” He holds my gaze for a few heartbeats. “Even the most upright of men would be swayed by your beauty.”

“If I had beauty, it’s not you I’d be swaying.” Though I must confess I consider the possibility of exactly that. Few men can be called beautiful, but I would not hesitate to spend the word on him. He has that rare face that will grow ever more desirable as he ages. Too, he has demonstrated ample strength, though vigor in a chase does not foretell vigor after the catching.

“Even if you were a fiend, I’d have rescued you from that man.”

He strikes closer than he can imagine. Once again I assure myself that Nicholas Jones isn’t lurking. “And now, sir, you seek recompense.” Which the better part of me knows I will not offer willingly.

“Not recompense, but a fair maid’s company.” Once again he bows, not quite so low, nor quite so self-mocking.

“A maid in Myter Street?” I point to the row of entryways shut stern against approaching night. “If there is a fair maid here, she’s secured behind locked doors.”

I fear I have placed the youth in grave danger. What he calls rescue may prove only short-lived respite, now that Topcliffe’s hound has my scent in his nose. “I don’t need a man to rescue me.” Mostly.

Though twenty minutes ago, I welcomed his interference, at least until I recognized that he might have risked less by handling a barrel of gunpowder than in thwarting Nicholas Jones for even a few minutes.

And in the same way I sensed Jones in Spitalfields – and should have been aware sooner, had my perceptions not been dulled by haste – Jones might sniff out my own presence. He knows we can’t have gotten far. The longer we linger, the more likely he’ll locate us, and the more certain the youth will share my fate. By repute, Jones is not the forgiving sort. “You should be on your way.”

“You as well.” He looks about, though little rewards a gentleman’s eye. “I know The Mitre Tavern. I’ve spent many a night there, and many coins as well. But not Myter Street.”

“The Mitre.” I nod. “It is near—” Near where I work, The Surcote, where the tavernkeeper gives me a small chamber as partial payment, without even seeking my bed as further compensation. Sharing information as to my daily whereabouts might prove unwise.

Nicholas Jones by repute has only one friend, the rack. With that friend he wrests information from all who cross his path.

What the youth doesn’t know, he cannot tell.

And so I finish my sentence differently than I’d first intended. “It is near Temple Church, and I’d better by getting back to my own chamber.”

“May I walk with you? It’s not safe to be about alone here.” With a glance he takes in the narrow street. Perhaps, if he’s wise, he looks about for the narrow man as well.

“And so you seek my protection?”

Even with the clue of my smile, the youth requires a few heartbeats to puzzle out my jest.

“Though she be but little, she is fierce.” His tone makes clear he’s quoting someone, or something. “I am George Right.” He adds another flourish.

“And I am Innogen Wrong.” I spit the last word. I tire of his game, and of his dull beauty. With darkness stealing the last remaining glow from the sky, I long for the safety of my monk’s cell beneath The Surcote.

“No, Wright with a double-U.” His face clouds again. “My apologies. Wright, as in one who makes. A wainwright. Or a playwright.”

“W-R-I-G-H-T. You think I can’t read?”

He flushes.

I have embarrassed him, even shamed him.

Not undeservedly, however. He has mistaken me, underestimated me out of ignorance, a slight I have suffered many times.

My encounter with Nicholas Jones has raised my ire to where my mouth, as it so often does, outraces my good sense. “You see a poor woman, in rags, and think her mind as inferior as her dress.” Perhaps one woman in three can read. One in five, maybe only one in ten can write as well. I worked hard to learn. “I can write in a fine hand, and I bake the best bread in London. Even brew ale.” And do that of which no woman may boast, and live. Thinking such reminds me to control my anger, and amend my wrath to humor. “I quaff it as well.”

But amusement has fled with the last of the daylight.

We part with mannered politesse. He turns west, and though my path lies that way as well, I choose the east. Alert to danger, prepared to weave into the shadows, I circle alone back to Leadenhall, and to The Surcote, and then to my bed.

Elizabeth Regina mortua est. Even as I whisper to myself, I doubt the words are right. I have little Latin, but English seems insufficient to carry the weight of her passing.

She was queen when I was born. She was queen when my father was born. She was queen when Rowland Abery, owner of The Surcote Tavern, was born.

She is queen no longer. Word is that she hoped to rule forever, if not here then in heaven. But heaven has no need of a queen. Nor hell. Nor the void, the unknown, the whatever-is-to-come.

She is queen no longer, and even amid my fear of turmoil, I breathe a sigh of relief. The last vestige of Topcliffe’s power is gone, and with it, the charter of Nicholas Jones, hunter.

What else will happen is as unknown as the queen’s new abode.

In the tavern this dreary Thursday afternoon, their tongues unbound by Rowland’s strong ale, most talk of James. James of Scotland. Protestant son of Catholic Mary. Some argue that as Mary’s son he is a recusant, a secret Catholic. Others note that as the king of Protestant Scotland, he will hold the papists at arm’s length. I cannot say which, because he doesn’t keep the likes of me informed of his innermost thoughts. I do have knowledge he is an author, though he knows nothing of his subject. Ruler, though he knows nothing of his new subjects either. Promoter of the divine right of kings. Bad poet. Patron of the arts. Something for everyone.

I care only that Nicholas Jones falls out of favor. When that happens, if that happens, I am safe. Or as safe as any poor woman in London, which is of course not safe at all. Theft, rape, murder, unwilling marriage, all may strike at any moment. But most are done quickly.

Maybe not marriage. That portends a slower demise, which I also hope to escape.

As dusk falls, The Surcote crowds grow beyond the usual, with the talk of accession and the mourning of Good Bess. Most days I am only baker and brewer, but tonight Rowland presses me into serving. I will acquire a few additional pennies in exchange for ale-doused clothes, pinchmarks on my bum, and the mauling of my tits.

I need the pennies against the day my lodgings at The Surcote are discovered. Nicholas is a porcupine, quills poised to pierce those who disturb him. And though the passing of his queen will have plucked at least some of those spines, they may, with time and politics, grow back.

Rowland hands me the clean cotton bodice of a server. “See that you wash it tomorrow.” He points to my chest. “Have you no shirt that….” At a loss for language that will not redden his face, he cups his hands, fingers spread wide.

I push his fingers closer together, smile. “More like this.” But he’s right. Those useless mounds of flesh, in my case, are larger than most, and the more I show, the more tonight’s patrons will drink, and the more they will squeeze, and the more both Rowland and I shall earn.

I have a single scoop-neck blouse, white no longer, that I can wear beneath Rowland’s bodice. Ten minutes later I am the not-so-proper serving wench.

My rescuer of two nights past shares a small table with four other men, all discoursing loudly among themselves.

I nod and smile as I pass. We parted, George and I, as neither friends nor enemies, and Rowland and I need his custom and his coin.

I trust congenial company and well-crafted drink have drawn him to The Surcote, rather than an opportunity to toy further with me. Either way, his beauty will warrant a more fitting woman than a baker pretending to serving-woman.

Later, I set a new pot of ale and a small loaf on their table. Bending over to position the pot among the tankards, I feel arms around my middle, and then I am hauled back into someone’s lap. His hands release my waist only to grab on higher.

“Ho. We come from one globe, but here tonight we have two.” He shakes them to ensure no one mistakes his meaning.

“These globes, sir, belong to me.” I pry at his hands, force them free. “And they are not for sharing.” I remain both repulsed by and inured to this male behavior. I tolerate in silence what I cannot afford to defy.

“But then they’re wasted. And what a waste, that no man is wasted by them.” He reaches around my middle, not large but not as small as I wish either, and his arms meet easily. “And what a waist here as well.”

The man next to him claps him on the shoulder. “Alas, poor Will, caught between the globe and the curtain.” He points with one finger toward my private parts.

The men at the table join in laughter, at my expense, since I don’t understand their jest.

The man called Will turns to the man sitting to his left. “Do you imagine, Dick, that the timbers we carried that night would support these globes?”

“Those beams support three thousand.” Dick cups my left breast briefly. “Though adding these two might set them groaning.” He is short, with resonant voice, powerful chest, and rounded face, his carefully trimmed beard an arrowhead below his chin. His hair has the color of copper and the thickness of jewelry wire, winding back from his forehead.

Will removes the man’s hand, shifts me on his lap so that we can see each other. “Oh, mistress, what I would give for you to set me groaning tonight.” The false pleading in his tone sets his companions laughing again, and then quaffing.

Will is perhaps forty, of above-average height, even George’s size, with a thick, dark mane falling below his shoulders, the hairline having receded to the middle of his scalp to leave behind a moon of a forehead. His beard is both short and scruffy, trimmed so as not to touch his mustache. His left ear sports a small polished ring, gold or brass.

I am reminded once again why I dislike serving. I know what to expect from flour. If dough rises before its time, I can punch it with impunity. And scowling at a cask of brewing beer will not cost me coin.

“Sir, you are grown already.” I rub his vast forehead, with only slightly more force than necessary. “Almost to your second childhood.”

The men at the table whistle and shout. “She takes your best and gives it back.”

Will grins, revealing teeth well cared for. He whispers to me, yet loud enough for the others to hear. “You have not yet seen my very best.”

“If you show it to me, I will cut it off and bake it with tomorrow’s bread. Then, sir, you shall say,” and here I make my voice high, as unmanly as possible, “The world truly knows my very best.”

He stares at me, brown eyes wide, and I fear I have overstepped. My temper has gotten the better of me, leaven my words as I might with wit. I do not want them to tell Rowland I’ve been peevish at their table.

But then Will bursts into broad laughter, calling to the others, “If only we could put a woman on the stage. One such as this.”

They cheer in agreement.

He places his fists below his chin. His face takes on the expression of a hound that hasn’t seen its master in a week. “Like a dog, I would beg for more.”

“Like a cur, you will get only scraps.”

Across the table, George winks at me. “As you claimed, no need of rescue.”

I rise from Will’s lap. “And so I stand by my claim.”

When I return to the table with more ale, I set the pot next to George.

He smiles up at me, and I cannot help but return his warmth. His hands didn’t presume on my patience.

Dick calls across to me. “A thousand women a day lose their hearts to that boy.”

I shake my head in mock sadness. “I do not wish to be one more among a thousand. Though no man can take thousands.” I squeeze George’s arm, expecting firmness, yet I am not prepared for how muscled he is beneath his shirt. “Perhaps I am mistaken in this case.”

That draws another shout of approval, punctuated by the stamping of tankards on the table.

Will catches my eye. “George lies with thousands, but lays with no one.”

I try but am unable to unravel his jest. “I fear you have me, sir.”

“I fear I do not have you, though I do want you.” Will smiles, but I can see sadness around his eyes. “If you opt for sport tonight, George in his youthful beauty is the better match.”

“True,” and here I return Will’s smile. “I match wits with you and I am lost.” Despite the liberties he takes, I find pleasure in sparring with a mind so quick.

“You don’t lack for wit, merely knowledge.”

“Grant me the knowledge of your ‘lie’ and ‘lay’.”

“I shall hereby fulfill you.”

“By knowledge only may you fulfill me.”

Another roar from the table even before Dick acts out my meaning, raising a fisted arm and letting it fall limp.

Will places both hands on his heart and makes show of a sad face, then brightens. “We are players, mistress, at the Globe in Southwark. To play is to lie, for we only pretend to be kings and warriors and constables and yes, even queens. And thus George lies many an afternoon.”

George touches my arm, gently, seeking only my attention. “Have you seen an entertainment at the Globe?”

“I did, once.” Two years past, perhaps. “They played, as I recall, Every Man in His Humor.”

“And what did you think?”

“That the next time I had a penny to spare, I would put it to better use.”

At this, Dick shakes his head, but Will rises and enters into a joyous dance in what little space can be found alongside his stool. When he lights, his smile is that of one who has made a bet with the world, and won.