Page 57 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Thirty-Two

The last week had felt like a year. Will barely recognized himself on the few occasions he saw his reflection—he’d developed the lean look and haunted eyes of a man obsessed. Which was doubtless true—he’d sworn to find Isobel, or die in the attempt. He’d scoured the streets day and night for her, coming home only to change his clothes and collect more coin for bribes—rarely to sleep or eat.

Despite his efforts in combing the city, asking at every tavern or meeting place whether anyone knew Pike, or had seen a young lady in distress, he’d failed to locate either of them. He cherished the hope they were yet in London, for that was where the Marstons’ man of business, Bradshaw, was to be found. No matter what cunning swindle Pike had up his sleeve, he’d still need to deal with the man who held the purse strings.

He prayed this was the case, for if Pike took Isobel out of town, then all hope of finding her would dwindle to nothing.

Will had done everything he could think of. He’d sent Manners to Hertfordshire to question the rogues who’d set upon him on the road. Despite Manners’ persuasive powers of interrogation, neither knew the whereabouts of the man who’d hired them. From the description they willingly gave, it was Flinders who’d dealt with them. A huge disappointment, for if Pike were found, they couldn’t bear witness against him.

A brief spark of hope had flickered in Will’s heart when one of his team of urchin-spies had described a felon known as Goodwife Quill, brought to book for stealing a chicken from a street vendor. Will had rushed to the jail where the wretched woman was being held, only to discover that she’d bribed her way out—shortly after a visit by a well-dressed gentleman. Despite this blow, Will soldiered on, now asking after not only Pike and Isobel but Avice Quill and Flinders as well, in the hope that if one were found, they could lead the way to the others.

Today, he’d been working his way along the river, hoping one of the ferrymen might remember carrying Isobel and her captors, but he was well-nigh exhausted now, and Jennet, too, must be tired of the punishing cobbles of the streets. Though none of the taverns he’d passed looked enticing, he must refresh himself in one of them, and use the opportunity to ask around.

He gestured to a small boy armed with a shovel, who’d been gazing hopefully up at Jennet. Sliding off her back, Will waved a coin in front of the urchin’s nose. “Here’s a groat for you now, and a second one shall be yours when I return to find my horse unmolested, and still in this place.”

The tow-haired child nodded and tucked the coin into the depths of his soiled coat. “Aye, my lord, we’ll be here. On my ma’s grave, I swear it.”

Will ran a hand over his sword hilt as he turned away—money could buy one anything one wanted in the crowded streets edging the docks, but it could also attract unwelcome attention. For good measure, he touched the handle of his bollock dagger, as if to reassure himself it were still there—in case anyone happened to be watching.

He turned his back on the river and surveyed his surroundings. Even a week spent searching the most degraded hellholes of London’s poor had not inured him to the misery and suffering he found in such places. At least down by the Thames the air was a little better—or would be, until the tide went out, revealing the banks of slime and muck on either side of the river.

Choosing the most salubrious of the taverns in view, he marched into the tap-room. It was busy, packed to the gunwales with boatmen, mud-larks and doxies, drinking or gambling away their money, or plying their trade.

Will scanned the gloom for the landlord and approached him. “God give you good day, sir. I seek a thin, reedy gentleman, a bit of a cockscomb, who goes by the name of Master Hubert Pike. He may have been in company with a young gentlewoman, striking to look at, with green eyes and black hair. ’Tis possible they were accompanied by an ugly giant of a man named Flinders, and Goodwife Avice Quill, who is a portly dame of some five-and-thirty summers. If you can lead me to them, my gratitude will be considerable.”

The tapster stared back from narrowed eyes before his face relaxed into a smile. “Mayhap I have, and mayhap I’ve not, but I do see a fellow in want of a cup of ale. Why don’t you sit here and tell me more?”

Will glanced around him. None of the other customers seemed interested in him, and if he sat with his back to the barrels facing outwards, he was less likely to be knocked on the head and robbed. Settling onto a bench, he gratefully accepted the offer of a drink.

“So, you’re on the track of some gutter scum, are you?” The man held Will’s leather jack under the spigot and filled it. “Is there a reward on offer?”

“Not officially. But three of those I mentioned are gallows-bait, and it would stand you in good stead with the authorities if you help find them. And I have access to gold, should I receive information leading to their capture.”

He fished for a shilling and pressed it into the landlord’s hand. “This is for a pitcher or two of ale, and a roast beef dinner for you, if you can help me.”

The landlord grinned. “You’ve bought my time until the moment that pitcher runs dry. I’ll ask around—better the question comes from me than gentry like yourself.” Taking a gigantic swig from the jug he’d just filled, the landlord heaved himself across the room to interrogate his customers.

Gazing out the window, Will listened to the keening of the kites and gulls as they floated on the breeze from the river, looking for scraps. He swilled the dregs of his ale around, then followed the progress of the landlord, his spirits sinking further as each customer, in turn, responded to the question with a shake of the head. The landlord returned to his seat and took another draught of his ale.

“Not a soul has seen them. You could ask every mortal in Christendom if they’d seen your friends, and still not find ’em. If a man in London means to stay hidden, he’ll generally succeed—unless he’s a fool.”

“I don’t know that Pike can remain hidden forever. If the lady I seek is still alive, she can be useful to him, as he can force her to sign certain papers. He’d need to visit a lawyer for that, but I’m having a watch kept on the one most likely.”

He sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. She must still be alive. She had to be, for how could he live without her? If only they hadn’t parted on such bitter terms—he’d give all he had to take back his harsh words.

The landlord leaned forward, subjecting Will to a blast of his rotten breath. “If I had a troublesome relative who I needed to keep alive and easy to persuade, I’d stick ’em in the Bridewell or Bedlam. Folk would sign or seal anything to get out of there, afore they were driven mad.”

Before they were driven mad…

Will’s mug hit the counter with a clunk. What if Pike had no imagination? What if Pike used the same methods as before, drugging Isobel to send her out of her wits? What better place to hide a madwoman than amongst others?

He seized the landlord’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “You have it, sir! That is just what he’ll have done. Can you give me directions from here to the Bethlehem Hospital?”

The directions were duly given, in exchange for another shilling, and Will hastened out of the tavern and stood blinking in the sunlight before calling for his horse.

“We’ve got a little farther to go, old friend, just as far as Bishopsgate,” he announced, patting Jennet’s neck. He dutifully paid the boy who’d looked after her, stepped off the mounting block into the saddle, and turned the mare’s head towards the east.

If he didn’t succeed in finding Isobel this time, despair would tear him apart. And he’d end up consigned to Bedlam himself.