Jamestown (The Keepers of the Ring) (22 page)

“Mayhap.” Fallon answered. He leaned against the cool stone of the building behind him and closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down. Rowtag had taught him how to run for hours in the woods without tiring, but had he been away from the woods so long that he could not longer accomplish the trick?

“All right, we’ll try to find the king,” Fallon answered, leaning forward to peer around the corner again. “Where does he live, Brody?”

Brody giggled. “Know you naught of our king? His Majesty James, King of England, Wales, and Scotland lives anywhere he chooses. There’s Richmond Palace, and the Tower of London, York Place, Hampton Court—”

Fallon growled and grabbed Brody’s arm, jerking the boy forward as he moved down the street. “All right, we’ll ask someone,” he snapped, moving into the stream of pedestrian traffic. “Surely the people of London know where their king is.”

Twenty-four hours later, they’d been laughed at, scorned, and pushed aside more times than Fallon cared to remember. Brody’s stomach howled audibly for food, and Fallon felt a sense of foreboding descend over him with a shiver. He had planned to be back at the school long before this, but as the sun set last night they’d had no success and no way to slip into the Academy undetected. Fallon elected to keep searching, for their escape would prove to be useless unless they discovered some news about John Smith, and he did not want to be caned again without gaining something for his pain.

So last night they’d slept in the decrepit doorway of an abandoned building near the river. In the darkness Fallon had lain face down upon the cool stones of the street and surrendered to sleep, but through the daze of weariness he felt something brush against his cheek. He opened his eyes to see a sag-bellied rat twitching its nervous whiskers in his direction. He shouted and swatted the rodent away, then sat upright on his tortured flesh for the rest of the night and tried to rest.
Dear God
, he prayed, a wry smile crossing his face despite his discomfort,
have I blundered into a folly of my own making? Was it your will that I remain at the school to wait for John Smith? For ‘tis of certain that I must see him if I am to find Noshi and Gilda again. So why don’t you provide the miracle we seek? ‘Twould be better to meet John Smith now rather than endure this much longer . . .

He and Brody greeted the morning sun gladly and continued their quest, asking each man and woman they met for news of the King’s court or of John Smith, but the search had proved fruitless.

Hiding behind dull clouds as gray as the buildings and streets of London, the sun abandoned the afternoon sky. Fallon looked about the ancient city and slumped into morose musings. If London had been a forest, he would not be afraid, but the city was a dismal, perverse place, nothing like the woods he knew how to handle.

A haze of smoke hung perpetually over this urban wilderness, fed by fresh gray streams from the rough chimneys of every house. He and Brody roamed among buildings of one and two-stories, tired structures of timber and stone where merchants of every ilk plied their trades. Entire streets had been given over to the stalls and shops of merchants, and wooden signs hung outside and swung nosily to and fro in an effort to advertise whatever goods were sold inside.

Masses of people streamed all over the city. Fallon noticed that buildings at the intersections of London streets had been reinforced with posts and heavily curtained to grant the inhabitants some measure of privacy. At one time or another the full tide of human existence seemed to cross the boys’ path. In that single afternoon Fallon saw deformities, beauty, drunkenness, cruelty, filth, and opulence he could never have imagined. Stunned by the mix of excess and poverty, he watched with incredulous eyes as cattle and sheep on their way to market splashed the fine silk gowns of ladies, and brazen pickpockets plucked purses from the velvet doublets of wealthy men.

Yet amid the wealth and the sheer wonder of its vast population, the city reeked of stench, sewage, and squalor. Rubbish was causally left in the streets to be picked up by rakers who lazily patrolled the gutters, and at any moment an upper window might open while a maid emptied the family’s chamber pots onto the streets below. Such emptyings were
greeted with curses and jeers from gentry and common man alike, and finely dressed men and women moved through the city’s avenues with lace handkerchiefs pressed firmly to their noses.

The survival skills that would have served Fallon well in the woods were utterly useless here. “All trails lead to water” was a natural law of the forest, but though all streets did eventually turn to the Thames, so did the slow-moving gutters. When Fallon first saw the river, he nearly gagged from the stench and sight of it. Along its banks the river was scummy with a greenish-brown detritus of waterlogged trash, pieces of lumber, bits of floating food and cast-off fish heads.

Closing his mind to the corruption around him, Fallon paused outside a storefront where he and Brody contemplated a steaming loaf of bread displayed in the open window. Fallon’s mouth watered at the sight and scent of food, but he was distracted when a woman passed by with her dark-haired daughter at her side. The little girl turned and stared at Fallon with the unabashed curiosity of a child, and Fallon felt his heart turn over the way it always had when Gilda had looked at him in trust and love.

What had happened to Gilda? Had Opechancanough’s threats become reality; was she a Powhatan in her heart and soul? Or mayhap she was like Fallon, living lost in a foreign wilderness and knowing she would never fit in, not if she remained a lifetime . . .

A carriage pestered a loud crowd of pedestrians and pressed them against the bakery storefront as it passed, and Fallon felt his temper flare as a score of people thrust themselves against him. How could anyone live in such a place?

When the carriage had moved away and the crowd abated, Fallon thrust his hands tightly inside his folded arms and turned away from the distracting sight of food. “We need a new direction,” he told Brody. “We’ve been wandering around like a couple of blind opossums—”

“I’m hungry,” Brody whined, casting a surreptitious glance toward the bread.

“Don’t think about it,” Fallon answered, frowning. “The sooner we find John Smith, the sooner we can return to the school. Now, if we approach the problem from a different perspective—”

“The minister!” Brody said, snapping his fingers. “Sure, and why didn’t I think of it before? They feed the poor every afternoon about this time. If we find a church—”

Fallon’s mind blew open. “A church,” he repeated, turning toward Brody. “In sooth, y’are on the right track. A board of ministers runs the school, right? If we just explain why we need to talk to John Smith, surely they will help us find him. And at the very least,” Fallon’s smile twisted guiltily, “they can give us supper.”

“What if they want to send us back?” Brody asked, raising an eyebrow. “With no help, and no dinner either?”

Fallon shrugged. “If they put us in a cart, we’ll just jump out. If they make us walk, we’ll run away. ‘Twill work, I tell you.”

“At this hour I’ll go anywhere if there’s a meal waiting,” Brody said, nodding in agreement. “Let’s go.”

Fallon stepped into the open alley of the street and lifted his eyes to the horizon. Not far away, the spire of a church loomed against the paling sky. “We’ll go there,” Fallon said, pointing toward the steeple.

seventeen

D
elbert Crompton’s hand trembled with repressed anger as he sealed the letter with his ring. The two boys had been gone for more than a day, and never,
never
had a boy willingly left the Royal Academy for Homeless Orphans so close to apprenticeship. ‘Twas an insult to the dignity of the school, a slap in the face of the headmaster himself, for if the boys were discovered they might lead some soft-hearted silly to believe that something was greatly amiss at Crompton’s school.

He had learned of Fallon Bailie’s and Brody McRyan’s absence shortly after dinner the day before, and he waited until dark before saying aught to anyone. But he knew the other boys would ogle those two empty beds the way Eve eyed the forbidden fruit, and he wanted the boys found and returned before the idea of running away sparked ideas in any other young minds. Why should they want to escape, anyway? At the Academy they had food, education, and a warm bed. He did not work them as hard as some schoolmasters did, and his discipline was not unduly severe. His pleasure lay not in humiliating his boys, but in selling them, for his dutiful, efficient charges brought a great price from men interested in young, sturdy, unambitious servants who would work without complaint.

‘Twas that thought that galled him most of all, for Fallon Bailie was ripe for indenture and should have been sold into service weeks ago. He had fostered Bailie for more than three years, enduring the boy’s silent pride and unreasonable dignity with tolerably good humor, and now ‘twas time to be repaid for that mental and physical effort. But just when the fatted lamb was ready for the slaughter, he had the temerity to run off and take a shearling with him!

Crompton cursed under his breath and pulled another sheet of parchment from his desk. The boys would turn up soon, for they were but pampered children who did not know the ways of the street. And even in a city of two hundred thousand people, a tattooed boy with flaming red hair could not stay lost for long. “And when y’are found, my dear Fallon Bailie,” Crompton muttered under his breath as he dipped his pen into the inkwell, “I’ll sell you to the smarmiest, most back-breaking master I can find in all of London.”

The smell of steaming meat pies assailed the boys before they reached the church, and Fallon put out a hand to stop Brody. “Breathe that air,” he said, the delightful aroma making his knees weak with hunger. “Master Crompton hath never served aught like that at our table.”

“‘Twould be easy enough to get one,” Brody replied, his eyes skimming toward the shop from which the delicious smells came. “We’ll go in. You talk to the master, and while you’ve taken his attention to some far corner of the store, I’ll snitch us a pie.”

Fallon gave him a quick, denying glance. “We’ll not steal our supper.”

“But ‘twould be easy! I’ve heard some of the other boys talk about how easy ‘tis is to lift whatever a body needs. The shop keepers are too busy to call for the magistrate, and we’re fast, we are, and we’d be away before he could catch us—”

“We will not steal. ‘Tis against the laws of God and Ocanahonan. I’d starve first.”

Brody opened his mouth as if he would protest again, but then fell silent under Fallon’s unrelenting gaze. “All right then, let’s get to the church,” he said, snatching one last glimpse of the golden brown pies in the shop window. “But let’s hurry. I’m perishing with hunger, I am.”

The ancient church of St. Bartholomew the Great surrounded Fallon and Brody in gray silence as they passed through the oak doors that separated the church from the bustling street. Brody walked forward impatiently, searching for a clergymen, but Fallon stood back and lifted his eyes to the vaulted ceiling overhead. He had never been inside a cathedral, only the rustic chapel at Ocanahonan and the simple chantry at the academy. The sheer majesty of St. Bartholomew’s stole his breath.

The wooden soles of Brody’s shoes clacked in the silence as he moved away, but Fallon felt himself rooted to the spot where he stood. It seemed strange that men would erect such a building to honor God, for the Almighty’s works were most clearly seen in the blue of sky and the breath of the breeze, but Fallon could not deny that the sheer height and design of the building forced him to lift his eyes to heaven and contemplate the inspired genius of the church’s designer.

“‘Tis an imposing building, is it not?” a voice interrupted at his elbow.

Fallon jerked his head toward the sound, and saw a dark-robed man standing before him. The man wore a pleasant smile, but kept his hands corked firmly in the wide sleeves of his robe. “I am sorry if I startled you,” the man said, a loose thatch of hair falling across his forehead. “I am Father Michael, the vicar here at St. Bartholomew’s.”

“‘Tis a marvelous church,” Fallon answered, lifting his eyes to the ceiling again.

“Yea, but you did not come here to examine our building,” the clergyman said, amusement lurking in his eyes. “St. Bartholomew’s is an old church out of fashion at the moment, and not many come here at all unless they have some specific mission in mind. Y’are—” he glanced quickly at the functional dark blue breeches and doublet Fallon wore, “y’are a student?”

“Yea,” Fallon answered. His cheeks burned as he confessed the truth. “My friend and I have run away from school because we are seeking Captain John Smith. I know he’s in London, and I must see him, but we’ve been searching for two days and I have no idea where to find him. Perchance you, reverend, have some idea of where we should look?”

“First we will take care of your body,” the clergyman said, taking Fallon’s elbow and propelling him down an aisle. “Y’are hungry, are you not?”

“Yea,” Fallon confessed. “Terribly.”

“And tired, no doubt. I will take you to Mistress Fairweather, who will feed you, give you a basin in which to wash, and a place to rest while I make inquiries. And then we shall see about finding your Captain Smith.”