Chapter Five #3
Before she could reply, a massive silhouette suddenly formed behind William, an enormous shape of blackness emerging from the shadow of the White Tower.
It was ominous, growing larger by the moment, hovering behind the knight like a malevolent phantom.
William suddenly jerked as something smacked him sharply on the head and he collapsed in a heap at her feet.
Avalyn gasped with surprise, watching Brogan’s face materialize from the darkness.
“Brogan,” she hissed. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to hear most of the conversation,” he stepped over William’s supine form. “He was going to take you back to your apartment.”
Avalyn bent down over William, making sure he wasn’t too badly hurt. There wasn’t even any blood. Brogan had clobbered him just hard enough to knock him out, but not hard enough to truly injure him. Satisfied that William wasn’t dying, she stood up and faced the enormous soldier.
“I am not certain it was necessary to strike him, but I suppose it cannot be helped now,” she said, studying his strong face. “We should probably go before he awakens.”
Brogan smiled at her, his dimples deep. He truly had no idea that hitting William on the head had been a bad thing; to him, it was nothing out of the ordinary. “It will be a pleasure, my lady,” he said, extending his arm to her.
Avalyn returned his smile, but it was of the ironic sort. He saw nothing wrong with what he did. “Can we at least pull William out of the way so that no one will accidentally run over him?”
Without hesitation, Brogan reached down, grasped Inglesbatch under the armpits, and dragged him over to the wall of the White Tower. He propped him upright against the cold stone, turning to Avalyn to seek her approval.
“Is this good?”
Nodding her head, and passing another glance at William’s still form, she motioned for Brogan to join her. He reached out a hand to her and she took it, the two of them quickly moving across the compound.
Certain areas of London did not sleep. Brogan knew those areas well since he, too, did not sleep.
He could function for days on just a few hours rest, the curse of the dedicated soldier.
While his mother’s shop was off to the east of the Tower, the area that Avalyn wanted to visit was to the south and east. As he took her from the entrance near the Middle Tower, they were along the wharf that lined the Thames.
It was a cool night, the moon glistening brightly above as Brogan put his arm around her shoulders and led her over the bridge crossing the Thames.
It was the exact bridge where they had first met.
But he did not linger on those memories, only of the woman clutched against his big body.
They hadn’t said a word to each other, perhaps fearful that ears would hear and curiosity would force prying eyes.
Neither of them wished to be discovered, increasingly concerned that their surreptitious meeting would be discovered and ended.
Once they were over the bridge, however, Avalyn felt brave enough to speak.
“I’m told the theater is on Thurlow Street,” she said. “A steward at the Tower told me that we should follow East Street to Thurlow.”
Brogan already knew the area. It was a warren of pubs he had spent time in and brothels he had not.
He’d noticed the poorly-built theater in passing, but never gave it a thought.
He wasn’t particularly comfortable taking Avalyn into the rough and lawless neighborhood, or into a leaning building, but he would not deny her wish to see an entertainment.
He was so looking forward to it that he would have taken her into Hell itself had she wished it.
“I know where it is,” he said, pulling her more tightly against him as they entered the dank, dirty streets of the Walworth borough. There were a few people out and about, mostly women of questionable reputation. He could tell by just looking at them.
Light and noise spilled out of the pubs along the avenue.
A few people milled around outside, passing curious looks at Brogan and Avalyn as they passed by.
Avalyn returned the looks; having spent most of her time around kings and nobles, it was rare that she came this close to the rabble that populated the meat of the cities.
They were poorly clad, dirty people. Avalyn wasn’t ignorant about how the general population of England lived; still, it was somewhat discomforting to see them in their stark existence.
She had so much, and these people had so little. It was a sad reality.
There were a few children huddling against the doorway of the pub, hoping to glean a little warmth from the stale air wafting outside.
It was another sad reality of the city, the orphans that roamed the streets.
Her natural compassion ached for the street urchins and, more than once in the past, she had wished she could help them.
She wasn’t beyond giving alms at mass. But her life was the life of a de Neville, swept up in politics and greed.
No de Neville gave particular thought to the less fortunate.
It was just the way of things. She passed a little girl on the street, no more than three or four years of age, and the little girl smiled brightly at her.
Against her better judgment, Avalyn’s forward progression came to a halt as she gazed down at the blond-haired child. Her blue eyes were enormous pools of fear, hunger, and oddly enough, hope. Brogan came to a halt when Avalyn did, noting the object of her focus.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Avalyn said softly. “What are you doing out so late? Where is your Mummy?”
The little girl blinked her impossibly big blue eyes. “No Mummy.”
Avalyn’s eyebrows lifted. “No Mummy? Where do you live?”