The Coins of Fate #2
At the back of the room the curtains parted, and the moneylender, Brian de Hause, stepped through, a distinguished man in a brown velvet doublet resplendent with brass buttons and black leather Spanish boots.
A fine silver chain hung about his neck, and from the band of his russet-colored copotain hat, a pheasant feather stood on salute.
Moll dipped a nervous curtsey. “I’ve only three farthings, sir, barely enough for bread,” she croaked, her throat suddenly dry. Next week, she’d likely have even less—unless she found more gold-gilled mushrooms.
The moneylender cocked a cool brow and laced his hands behind his back. “Moll is it?”
Apprehensive, Moll curtseyed again.
The man’s sharp gaze dropped to her collarbone. His steely eyes hardened.
‘Twas instinct that made Moll take a step back, then she recalled the yellowed, fading bruises that dotted her neck—Thomas’s handiwork from the week before. She’d long since abandoned hiding the bruises. Truly, it wasn’t worth the effort when they never had the chance to fade away.
A muscle twitched on the moneylender’s jaw, then he strode past her and opened the door. “Go, Moll,” he said with a terse nod. “Buy bread, but eat it first and take your time returning home, will you? I’ve men to round up, to beat your husband’s worthless hide.”
Moll stared at him, stunned, and then loath to tempt her luck, bolted out the door before he could change his mind.
Several streets over, she stopped to catch her breath. ‘Twas tempting to laugh from pure joy at the thought of Thomas suffering a beating, but ‘twas a beating she couldn’t allow, no matter how sorely her heart wished. ‘Twas she who would pay the price, once he’d recovered.
Reluctantly, she picked up her skirts and ran down the street. She’d buy the bread later. She had Thomas to warn.
Moll barreled around the corner of the pewter smithy, but she didn’t see the half-bent old woman until they went down in a tangle of arms and legs.
Moll sucked in a breath as a sharp jab of pain lanced through her ankle. There would be no running home to warn Thomas now. Lord help her, she’d be lucky if she could limp.
“Ach, have a care, lass,” a gravelly voice complained.
Moll glanced at the old woman half-sprawled in the street. ‘Twas Bertha, an aged, withered crone she’d befriended, months ago.
Horrified, Moll scrambled to her knees. “Bertha, forgive me. Are you hurt?”
She held out a helping hand, but as her fingers brushed the woman’s skin, a spark crackled between them.
Moll jerked back, surprised.
Bertha’s rheumy eyes took on an uncanny glow. “Ach, Moll, dinna fret over me, lass. I’m as right as rain,” she cackled as her cold, bony fingers closed over Moll’s wrist. “Stay a moment, will ye? Let the men close the streets. We canna have ye on the wrong side now, can we?”
“Pardon?” Moll lifted puzzled brows and squinted in both directions. The streets were empty. There wasn’t a man in sight. “Whatever are you speaking of, Bertha? There’s no one here.”
A flurry of wind blew the curls back from her cheek and brought a fresh whiff of smoke to her nostrils. She frowned. The rain had stopped. There would be little to stop a fire spreading, now.
Bertha patted her arm. “’Tis no matter, lass.
” Her lips split into a conspiratorial grin and she added, “Never will ye suffer that man’s touch again, lass, and soon?
Aye, soon ye’ll know a real man’s love. ‘Twill be love at first sight for the both of ye, though neither of ye’ll know it at first, ye fools. Aye, ‘tis a force ye canna halt.”
Love? At first sight? Moll smothered a laugh, but then, she’d always thought the old woman mad.
“Come, Bertha, let’s stand, shall we?” Biting back the pain, she struggled to her feet and again, held out her hand.
Bertha’s bony fingers lashed out to close over Moll’s ankle.
“Ouch,” Moll choked as pain stabbed her to the bone.
Mumbling, the old woman let her go, and then leapt spryly to her feet.
She grinned, her face splitting into a thousand wrinkles.
“Aye, ‘tis I who have helped ye, lass. Ye can leave now. The children await. Have no fear, take them all. Aye, the more the merrier. ‘Twill only melt his heart all the faster, aye? He thinks he’s a lone wolf. Pah!” With a hearty laugh, she shooed Moll off as one might a dog, and then without a backward glance, shuffled around the corner of the pewter smithy.
Moll arched a curious brow. The old woman had always stood on the precipice of madness. Clearly, she’d now ventured over the edge. With a shrug, Moll picked up her basket and eyed the mushrooms that had rolled out onto the street. The delicate gills had been crushed. They were useless now.
Grimly, she collected the silk and velvet scraps and with her basket packed, rose unsteadily to her feet.
There was no hurry to rush home now. She might as well buy the bread and eat it as the moneylender suggested.
With the way her ankle throbbed, she’d be fortunate to return home before the midnight hour.
With a sigh, she turned toward Baker Street, hobbling at first, but then, to her astonishment, moving quicker with each step as the pain in her ankle faded.
At the end of the street, she paused, puzzled.
Had she misjudged the injury? She scowled.
Surely, she had. ‘Twasn’t as if Bertha had healed her in any fashion.
She rolled her eyes at the thought and turned once again toward home when she spied a dark column of smoke rising from behind the building to her left.
A door slammed behind her as several men joined her in the street, pointing to the smoke in concern.
Moll saw him first, a bald man charging down the street straight at her.
“Plague,” he gasped. “They’re blocking the streets. Run.”
Moll stood, stunned. Had she heard correctly? Had he said…plague?
Then, about her, chaos erupted. Screams rent the air.
A tide of people swelled down the street with clouds of smoke curling at their heels.
They pushed and shoved her every which way.
She pushed back, screaming and striking out lest she be trampled.
Before harm befell her, hands suddenly grabbed her from behind and yanked her into the safety of an alley, scarce shoulder-width.
Moll collapsed against a rough brick wall to catch her breath as the crowd stampeded past.
Drawing herself upright, Moll turned to face her rescuers.
To her surprise, the gangly, wide-eyed twins, George and Francis, stared back at her, their freckled faces smudged with soot.
“We’ve got to leave, Moll. Now,” George urged, his hazel eyes wide with concern.
“’Tis too late for Thomas,” Francis inserted quickly. Though identical to his brother, his crooked nose—a victim of one too many a fistfight—stood as a testament to the fact his temper ran much hotter.
“’Tis the plague,” George continued hoarsely. “Thomas came down with it this morning.”
“He’s dead now,” Francis added and pointed.
Moll drew an unsteady breath and followed the line of his finger. At first, she could only see dense, dark clouds of smoke. Then a blast of wind lifted the smoke like a curtain and offered her a glimpse of the street beyond.
‘Twas Threadneedle Street. Had she come this far in the crowd? How long had they caught her up? ‘Twas surprising, but then, the realization of what she saw focused her thoughts.
The tailor shop burned. Flames danced on the rooftop and licked through the broken windows.
As she watched, the top floor collapsed and the thread-and-spool sign above the door fell to the ground in a shower of sparks.
Then, just as quickly as the clouds of smoke had lifted, they dropped again and blocked her view.
She turned away. She’d seen enough.
“We can’t stay,” George hissed. He stepped forward.
“Wait.” Francis pulled him back by the collar. “Look.”
A group of heavily armed men appeared at the end of the street, striding in their direction, the fire’s orange glow glinting on their swords and the barrels of their muskets.
Behind them, trundled several horse-drawn carts filled with boards.
Moll knew what it meant. They all did. The men were there to blockade the plague’s spread.
They would nail boards over windows and doors to seal the plague and its victims—real and perceived—inside.
“This way.” Francis jerked his head over his shoulder.
The narrow space between the buildings only grew smaller at the opposite end, but by turning sideways, they managed to squeeze through and emerged onto the street behind.
“’Tis clear here, still,” Francis announced in a hoarse whisper.
“Then, let’s make haste.” Moll pointed toward the Thames. “We can—”
“No, Moll,” Francis grabbed her wrist. “This way. We can’t leave without them, Moll.”
“Them?” Moll knit her brows, puzzled, as he pulled her to a nearby cellar door.
“Here.” He caught hold of the rusted iron ring and yanked open the door to point into the yawing darkness.
Moll peered over his shoulder into the gloom. At first, she saw nothing, but then her eyes adjusted. Children. Young and scared.
“They can’t go home now,” George hissed from behind.
She didn’t need to ask why. With the musket-carrying men caging people like birds and the fire ravaging the streets, whether their parents truly had the plague or not didn’t matter. Lord help her, but what had they done to deserve such a scourge?
The children blinked.
Moll nodded. There was little time to waste and nothing to do but move forward. Briskly, she clapped her hands. “Out, poppets. Let’s give wings to our feet, shall we?”
The children didn’t hesitate. She counted them as they hopped out of the cellar like frightened rabbits. Four in all. A girl of perhaps nine, and three boys, two near the same age of perhaps seven, and the smallest child of probably two or three.
Gently, Moll took the youngest by the hand and moved out onto the street, surveying her surroundings. Smoke and shouting men surrounded her on three sides, now. Again, there was only the one choice.
“This way,” she said.