18

January 21, 1543

On any given Sunday, once the eight o’clock bell of St. Mary-le-Bow rings to signal the evening curfew and the city gates are locked, all good Christian households bar their doors and remain indoors till morning. In the house in Watling Street we were at our evening prayers when, just after nine, a thunderous pounding disturbed our peace.

This was such an unusual occurrence that for a moment nobody knew quite what to do. At that hour, especially on the Sabbath, only the night watchmen were supposed to be out and about.

“Elizabeth.” Mother Anne’s thoughts went first to her daughter, wed a year and more by then and expecting a child. She stumbled to her feet and would have run downstairs to answer the door if Father had not caught her arm.

“Fetch a cudgel,” he ordered one of his apprentices. “The rest of you stay where you are while I discover who is making such a racket.” The pounding had resumed, louder and more frantic.

Why Father was so alarmed, I did not know, but his reaction infected the rest of us. Bridget and Muriel clung to each other. I stood alone, heart racing, scarce daring to breathe. When Pocket touched his cold nose to my hand I almost leapt out of my skin. Trembling, I cuddled him close against my bosom, but my eyes remained glued to the top of the stairwell down which Father had disappeared.

Voices reached us, faintly, from below. There were no shouts. No sounds to indicate the cudgel had been employed. After a moment, I heard the door close. The bar that secured it thudded into place. Then two sets of footsteps began to ascend the stairs. Expecting only Father and Peter the apprentice to emerge, I gasped when I recognized Jack Harington’s familiar form. He wore a heavy cloak against the cold of the winter night and his face was flushed—as if he had been arguing or running . . . or both.

His gaze flew straight to me, but he addressed Mother Anne first, as was only proper, apologizing for intruding upon us at such a late hour.

“Explain yourself then, Master Harington. Why have you come?”

Edith bustled forward to relieve Jack of his cloak. Mother Anne sent Ticey to fetch a hot posset to ward off a chill. Jack scarce seemed to notice either kindness. “I came to warn you,” he said. “You must shutter all your windows and keep indoors tonight.”

“I have already given orders to my apprentices,” Father interrupted. As if on cue, the outside shutters swung closed over the glass window that looked down on Watling Street. Father himself fastened the inside latches.

At last I found my voice. “What is happening? Are we in danger?”

“Sit, lad,” Father said, steering Jack toward his own Glastonbury chair. “You owe us the whole story, at the least. And the reason why you chose to warn this household in particular,” he added, although his quick glance in my direction suggested that he already knew the answer to that question.

“The Earl of Surrey and some of his friends are headed this way, high-flown with drink and looking to break windows and a few heads. They are armed with stonebows for that purpose.”

“What is a stonebow?” Bridget wanted to know. She’d disentangled herself from Muriel to plant herself on a cushion just to the left of Jack’s chair, forcing me to sit farther away from him. Mother Anne had already claimed the stool to his right.

“It is a crossbow that only shoots stones, far less deadly than one with arrows but capable of doing much damage all the same.”

“What set them off?” Father asked. “Surrey is hotheaded, this I know. But what cause has he to rampage through the streets of London? And why should he target my house? I’ve done nothing to annoy him.”

“I doubt he even knows where you live, but he’s beyond caring who he hurts.” Jack took a sip of the posset Ticey had brought, a soothing blend of chamomile and other herbs, and bowed his head. “I was one of his company at the start, drinking with them in the earl’s lodgings in St. Lawrence Lane. He has rooms in Millicent Arundell’s house and she and her husband keep him well supplied with food and drink.”

Father frowned. “St. Lawrence Lane? Why, that is some distance from here.”

“No place is far distant from any other in London,” Jack countered, “especially at night when the streets are empty. Before I left them, they had already made their way from St. Lawrence Lane through the open passage known as Duke Street and into Milk Street, where they ran amok, breaking all of the windows in Sir Richard Gresham’s house.”

Even I knew that name. Sir Richard, a former Lord Mayor of London, was a very wealthy man, although not much loved.

“We have nothing to do with Sir Richard.” The words burst out of me, so affronted was I that anyone should lump Father together with that avaricious moneylender.

“That this is the house of a merchant may be enough to make it a target. I . . . I did not wish to take any chances with those I . . . with those the king is fond of.”

Jack avoided my eyes by drinking deeply of the posset, but I was not deceived. I was certain I was the reason he had come to warn us. He cared for me. I ducked my own head to hide my smile.

Father and Mother Anne peppered Jack with questions, which he answered as well as he could. I stopped listening when Pocket squirmed to get down and began to whine. I knew that sound. It meant that he needed to go outside.

Without ado, I slipped away from the company and hurried down the narrow back stairs that led, by way of the countinghouse and the kitchen, into our small, walled-in yard. I opened the door just a crack, enough to let the little dog through.

Chilly winter air seeped in, even with the door closed against it, and I wished I’d taken time to put on my fur-lined cloak. Hugging myself for warmth, I waited. Pocket would have to sniff every corner before he settled down to do his business.

When I judged he’d had long enough, I opened the door once again. “Pocket?” I called in a soft voice.

He did not appear, but I heard a faint scrabbling sound from the direction of the warehouse on the opposite side of the yard from the kitchen. My bold hunting dog was after a rat. I opened the door wider, trying to decide if I should go out after him or not. A full moon lit my way but there were ominous shadows everywhere and even though the night was quiet, I had not forgotten Jack’s warning. I took a tentative step forward, again calling Pocket’s name.

A cold gust of wind made my skirts flap and chilled my ankles right through my heavy wool stockings. Behind me, the door slammed shut.

I jumped at the sound, then laughed a little at myself for my foolish fears. But when I tugged on the latch, it would not budge. I tried again, and again nothing happened. Belatedly, I realized that the wind could not have blown the door closed. It opened inward. Someone had deliberately locked me out.

Bridget.

Furious, I flung myself at the thick wooden surface, beating on it with my fists. My fingers already felt half frozen.

With a cry of rage, I kicked the door. That accomplished nothing except to hurt my toes. Everyone was in the hall, even the apprentices and the maids. I could not make enough noise to be heard that far away.

Resting my forehead against the rough wood, I willed myself to be calm and think. I would have to go around to the front of the house and knock on that door, as Jack had done. I called to Pocket. This time he came at once. I gathered him up, taking comfort from his wriggling body and warm tongue.

In spite of the bright moonlight, the small, familiar yard seemed to be filled with obstacles. I knew it was not so very far to the gate in the wall, but I could not see where I was putting my feet. It was so cold that I could barely feel my feet. When hot tears sprang into my eyes and began to flow down my cheeks, I feared they would freeze into long, thin icicles.

I drew in a deep breath, steeling myself to take the first step. I went still as a statue instead. Sound carries well in clear, chill night air. I was certain what I heard was glass breaking. How close were the marauders? Could I count on being recognized as a friend by men high-flown with drink? Tom Clere would be with Surrey. I was sure of that. Perhaps there would be others I had met. But men, as Father had so often warned me when we visited the court, could not be trusted around unprotected females, especially when they were cupshotten.

I was afraid to venture out into Watling Street but, cold as it was, I had to wonder which would be worse—to risk being ravished or to freeze to death in my virgin state. My thoughts whirled, growing more fanciful with every passing moment. Pocket shocked me out of my inaction with that odd half barking and half baying of his. His howl was all the warning I had before the door to the kitchen swung open.

“She’s here,” Jack called. I could hear the relief in his voice, making me wonder how long I’d been standing there in the yard. A moment later, warm arms wrapped around me and he led me back inside.

Father pried me loose to enfold me in an embrace of his own. Then Mother Anne was making much of me, plying me with one of her hot possets, wrapping me in blankets, and finally hustling me off to bed.

To their demands to know how I came to be locked out, I pled ignorance. Let them think the door had blown shut—an accident. My teeth were chattering too badly in any case to explain that I suspected Bridget of deliberately locking me out. Besides, I knew my sister well. If I accused her and was believed and she was punished, she’d only find more devious ways to make my life a misery. I was safe, as was Pocket. And it appeared that Jack’s feelings for me were as strong as mine for him. That was more than enough to make me content. I had no desire to take revenge.