Chapter 13 #3
“Pay attention, Bryght,” said Elf, pausing in a restless pacing to face him.
“I decided that I wanted Fort to make love to me. I chased him and insisted on it. He gave me a number of opportunities to change my mind. And when we did it”—she cursed the heat in her cheeks—“he made it very, very good for me. If I’d been able to be honest about who I was, I would have no regrets at all.
I don’t see why I should be denied all experience, all adventure, just because I’m a woman! ”
“You should get your experience in marriage,” Bryght pointed out.
“As you did, I suppose.”
“It’s not the same. You could be pregnant.”
“And you could have caught the pox!”
“I was careful.”
“Since there doesn’t seem to be any way to be careful about pregnancy—”
“Actually, there are a few.”
“What?” Elf stared between her brothers. “Do you mean to tell me there are things a woman can do so as not to conceive a child, and I don’t know about them?”
“What use would they be?” Bryght demanded. “They’re whores’ tricks!”
Elf picked up a large, valuable Chinese vase and hurled it onto the floor. “The world needs changing.”
“Probably,” said Rothgar, amused. “At the moment, however, we need to make sure that some murderous traitors are dealt with without damage to our family’s reputation.
I don’t entirely trust Grenville. I’m for Court.
Bryght, you go with Roberts to see to the Stone of Scone and any malefactors who turn up there. I assume Portia is not with you?”
“No,” said Bryght, still staring at Elf as if she’d grown horns. “I left her at Candleford. Travel wearies her these days.”
“Elf,” said Rothgar, “you should rest.”
“I’m going with Bryght.”
“Why?”
“Because,” said Elf, “this is my adventure, and I want to see it to the end. Have Tressia ready for me.” She then swept up to her room calling for someone to clean up debris, and a maid, any maid, to help her into her habit.
Rage carried her up the stairs, but in her room, exhaustion and misery sank her limp into a chair. Oh God, oh God, it had all gone too fast for her to keep up.
And what of the future? It was one thing to face her brothers so boldly—even if she had been shaking inside.
It was another to face the whole world. What if Fort carried out his threat to spread the story of their wickedness?
She’d never be able to show her face in public, and even if her brothers didn’t kill him, they’d want to.
Every day.
Surely, on calm reflection, he wouldn’t do it.
She just hoped he didn’t spread the word before he had time for calm reflection!
She looked at her bed, so smooth and inviting, tempted to slip between the sheets and into sleep, to let others take care of everything. But that was the coward’s way out. She intended to see this through to the end.
Even before the maid came, she had stripped to her shift, and stood ready to don corset, petticoat, and her finest gray riding habit with the silver-braided jacket.
Since nothing quick could be done with her powdered hair, she just crowned it with the habit’s gray tricorne hat, jaunty plume flowing behind. In the mirror, with boots and whip, she looked the image of a proper lady. But pale. She hastily added some rouge to cheeks and lips.
Lud. Now she looked like a doxy.
Ah, plague take it. Telling herself she didn’t care what anyone thought, she swept downstairs.
“The tides are right,” said Bryght, still looking at her strangely. “We’re taking the boat. Roberts says your prison was in Wapping, down in the port. He thinks Alderman Parson’s Stairs should be close enough.”
“Very well,” said Elf. “Let’s be off.”
They rode down to the river, the servants jogging alongside, and found Rothgar’s barge awaiting them, eight sturdy liveried boatmen already at their benches.
Once everyone was settled in the covered portion, the boat shot off into the river traffic, speeding downriver on the tides toward the Port of London.
The curtains all around the covered area were rolled up, giving a view of the lively activity on the river. Commanded to make all speed, the boatmen rammed their vessel through narrow gaps, exchanging searing abuse with others of their sort.
Elf didn’t know whether to giggle or swoon. This certainly wasn’t the grand manner of travel the barge was accustomed to, but she suspected the boatmen were enjoying every moment.
Glancing at her brother, she saw his lips turn up in a smile of pure enjoyment. He caught her look and they shared a smile both of excitement and camaraderie. Suddenly, he held out his hand and she placed hers in it, tears threatening, especially when he gave her hand a friendly squeeze.
She really did have the best brothers in the world, though she suspected her twin was storing up a long and pointed lecture for her.
Then she looked ahead to see the almost solid barrier of London Bridge hurtling toward them.
Most of the houses that had lined it since medieval times had recently been torn down, but the bridge itself was untouched.
The nineteen broad stone arches were supported on wide rock starlings with only narrow passages beneath each.
“We aren’t going to shoot the bridge, are we?”
“You wanted adventure,” said Bryght. “Hold on!”
His eyes might be shining with anticipation, but Elf saw all the servants turn pale, and a few start to say their last prayers.
People regularly drowned trying to shoot London Bridge, and the wise disembarked from their boats and crossed the barrier on foot, leaving their watermen to take their chances as professionals should.
Their speed seemed horrendous, and the gap they were aiming for impossibly narrow. With the oars, it was impossible. Surely they must crash into the stone starling—
She screamed and hunched down, even as oars fended them off and into the maelstrom. But by then the water’s roar deafened her even to her own voice.
Into the dark roar.
Boat jars against stone.
Tossing wildly.
Bryght seizing her.
Clinging together as the boat spins . . .
Out into sunlight and wild water.
Boat tipping, twirling.
Oars digging.
Boatmen shouting.
Noise receding.
Water calming.
Laughter.
Everyone—boatmen, servants, and nobles—burst into wild laughter at the sheer joy of being alive.
Then the men settled to their oars, speeding them on down to Parson’s Stairs.
Elf became aware that one side of her habit was drenched. “I have made one discovery,” she said, pulling the clinging material away from her arm. “Adventure and vanity do not go hand in hand.”
“Ah,” said Bryght, removing his coat to wring out his sleeve, “but there is something so damnably attractive about a person living life to the full.”
“Is there?”
He smiled at her. “For someone of the same inclination. I have this strange suspicion that you are not, after all, like our sister Hilda. She seems content with a dull husband and bucolic placidity.”
“You’ve been buried in the country for months.”
“With Portia. Who is never dull.”
They were slowing, heading toward the busy wharves that lined the river here, the boatmen cleverly avoiding sand banks and shoals. The stairs ahead must be Parson’s.
“One way or another,” said Elf, “I doubt I’ll end up with a dull, bucolic husband like Hilda’s. Do you have your pistols with you?”
“Of course.”
“Then I hope they didn’t get wet. Give me one, please.”
“Why?”
“I would just prefer to be armed.”
With a sigh, he signed to a servant who clutched an oilcloth package. Unwrapped, it revealed a gleaming pistol case. Bryght opened it to take out two handsome guns.
“Oh, Gemini!” Elf exclaimed. “I never returned Fort’s pistol. He doubtless will have me transported—”
“You can explain that later.” Bryght handed her one gun. “It’s loaded and primed, so be careful. And don’t shoot anyone unnecessarily.”
“I’m the gentle lady here, am I not?”
“I think the reason we don’t give women guns is that they are dangerous enough without them.”
“Ah, that reminds me of another complaint I have—”
“I quiver. For now, let’s hope this Murray and the stone are here. If he’s taking ship, they might be trying to catch the last of the tide.”
The boat had to wait a moment for a wherry to discharge its passengers, but then it nudged up against the stairs, and Bryght handed Elf out. The scene appeared completely normal.
Not peaceful, no, in the middle of the bustling wharves, but with no sense of alarm.
Alderman Parson’s Stairs were squeezed in between wharves loaded down with goods coming and going to the great sailing vessels out in the river. Jostling watermen abused one another with cheerful insults interspersed with social comments such as “How’s the missus?”
Watching a crane handle a huge cask, Elf could easily have been distracted, but Bryght said, “Roberts, where’s this tavern?”
“This way, milord.” Roberts led them away from the river and into a warren of streets that Elf thought familiar.
All such streets probably looked the same, however, lined with narrow houses, doors and windows open to let in fresh air. Grubby children stopped to stare at the strange party passing among them. Aproned women came to the doors, perhaps to protect their young, perhaps just out of curiosity.
Elf expected some begging, but then she realized this was no slum. These people were quite prosperous in their way, their menfolk all working down at the thriving port.
Then they turned a corner and found themselves in the small wasteland created by a fire.
It was not deserted, for a few people rummaged through the already picked-over ruins.
The ramshackle tavern stood to one side, walls still standing, and roof mostly intact, but windows completely gone.
Clearly, even before disaster it had been a mean place.
Elf couldn’t reconcile it with an interlude which had been, at times, positively romantic. Perhaps darkness was a blessing after all.
Bryght ordered his party to spread out and surround the building, adding a command to Elf to stay with him. Even as they approached the ruin, Elf noted curious children and even a few adults hovering nearby. She prayed no shots were fired, that no more innocents were injured in this affair.