A Love Most Dangerous (33 page)

Mrs Scrump smiled. 'That looks better on you than it
ever did on my Katie.'

I breakfasted on a lump of brown bread which was hard
and unrelenting in its determination not to be swallowed. It tasted of linen
but I forced it down. I had just finished when the door was flung open and a
young man stepped into the house.

'You've found your way back then,' said Mrs Scrump.
'Where have you been?'

The man did not answer for his eyes had lit upon me.

'Who is this, dear mother?' he asked, pacing round me
as though I were an exotic beast or work of art.

He was about thirty years old, tall and muscular, with
broad shoulders and narrow waist. He had a pleasant look, not handsome exactly,
but not ugly either. It was an interesting face, with high cheek-bones and
crooked mouth. His eyes flashed as though they saw excitement everywhere.

'This is Alice Petherton,' Mrs Scrump answered. 'And
you can keep your dirty eyes off her. She's a lady.'

The young man blew me a kiss and bowed low to the
floor.

'Pray, dear mama,' he said, 'what is such a beautiful
creature doing in the confines of the Scrump hovel?'

'She's a guest,' said Mrs Scrump. She bustled up to
the man and glared at him. 'She's my guest, so mind your manners.'

He smiled and it thawed any pretence of anger in Mrs
Scrump.

'I am charmed to meet you, Alice Petherton,' he said,
turning back to me. 'I am Walter Scrump, fifth of that name in my own family if
you count the babes who pre-deceased me. But I like my friends to call me Art.'

'It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Scrump,' I said.

'Art, please.'

'It's a pleasure to meet you, Walter Scrump.'

He laughed at my words but I saw the amusement falter
as if he were not sure how to take me.

'Why aren't you on the river?' his mother asked. 'Your
father's been gone three hours since.'

'Alas, I was detained.'

'By some whore?'

'By a young lady, yes. In fact she's the wife of the
Reverend Turnbull.'

'You wicked thing. Sleeping with the wife of a vicar.
You'll burn in hell.'

'She's very pretty,' Art said, as if that were
explanation enough. 'And Turnball's a dreadfully fat and boring man. He smells
of urine.'

Mrs Scrump pushed a piece of bread into her son's
hand. 'I don't suppose you've eaten this morning.'

'Not food,' he answered with a complacent smile.

'You filthy beast,' she said, whacking him on the head
with her dish-cloth. 'Get out of my sight and bring me back some money or
there'll be no more food for you.'

He blew her a kiss, cast a sidelong look at me, and
ducked out of the door.

'He's a rascal,' she said, shaking her head. 'Always
has been. We spoilt him, you see, being as he was the only boy to live beyond
five years. Even sent him to a school-master for two years. He learnt to read
and write.'

'Well that explains it,' I said. 'He's very gallant.
It must be due to all that reading.'

I meant it to be sarcastic but Mrs Scrump took it as a
compliment and beamed with pleasure.

'He is that, my dear. Gallant and charming. He quite
bewitches all the young ladies and not just the young wives of boring vicars.'
She started back towards her kitchen and then paused and looked at me.

'Don't get too familiar with Art, miss, if you take my
advice. He's a good boy deep down but he can't restrain himself where a pretty
face is concerned. And you've got the prettiest face he's ever seen. Mark my
words, he'll make a bee-line for you. He'll turn his charm on you like a a cat
that wants its supper. And neither me nor his father will be able to stop him.
That will be down to you.'

'I'll bear that in mind, Mrs Scrump,' I said. 'Thank
you for the warning.'

She sighed. 'Not that I think it will do any good,'
she said. 'He's a heart-winner and a heart-breaker that son of mine. There's no
woman I know of could resist him.'

'I think I'll be able to,' I said.

Mrs Scrump looked dubious and blew her nose on the
cloth.

I glanced outside. 'I think I'll go out for a walk,' I
said. 'I'll go down to the river.'

She shook her head and slipped into the kitchen,
returning with a little filleting knife.

'Take this,' she said. 'You probably won't need to use
it but take it just in case. Sight of it should keep any villains at bay; just
wave it in front of their noses. They'll get the message.'

I took the knife and placed it carefully inside my
purse.

'And don't be out all day,' she said. 'Things get
lively round here towards evening. It's not a time for a young lady to be out
on her own.'

'I'll bear that in mind,' I said. 'And thank you for
the knife.'

She touched my arm just as I was about to leave.

'So you won't be wanting your dinner today then?' she
asked. There was a hopeful tone to her voice.

'Not today,' I said. 'But I'm quite happy to be
charged for it.'

'As you wish, miss, as you wish.'

'And do call me Alice,' I said. 'I would much prefer
that.'

'As you wish, Miss Alice, as you wish. You can call me
Margery when we're on our own. But not in front of the menfolk.'

I nodded and stifled a smile.

I stepped out into the noisome lane and immediately
recoiled. If I thought that my nostrils had grown accustomed to the stink I had
deluded myself. The butchers' carts had passed by in their hordes and the whole
lane was drenched in animal parts that no one had any use for. There were
intestines, hearts, lungs, diseased livers, gangrenous tumours, broken hoofs,
yellowing tongues and every snout imaginable. It was like a charnel house.

The heat of the day had made the stench fouler and
more cloying. I held my hand against my nose and breathed through my mouth as I
hurried through the lane. I wanted to run at full speed but I dare not; it was
vital to watch where I was putting my feet. Even so I stepped into a slew of
intestines and slid along the lane for a moment. I only just righted myself
from falling into a load of mashed up brains. I was glad to leave Offal Pudding Lane behind and reach the comparative cleanliness of the road which ran beside the
river.

I leaned against a tree and took great gulps of air.
And then it caught me. The wind blew from the west and carried with it the
stench from the waste barges which wallowed on the river. Some were filled with
the offal which had been trundled past the Scrump's house. Others contained
human waste, rotting vegetables, animal hides, dead cats and dogs and even a
broken-backed donkey.

Rats leaped and burrowed in the barges, fat and
bloated and looking fit to burst. Scrawny cats chased after them and chasing
these were huge, malignant dogs: mastiffs, bull-dogs, ill-bred mongrels and
vicious terriers. Scampering amongst them all were tiny children, black with
grunge, searching desperately for the smallest scrap which might have some
passing value.

The noise coming from the barges was enough to knock
you out and if that did not, the stench would do for you. As the barges rocked
in the tide the mound of waste was tossed and turned, rolled and mixed,
becoming ever more slick, ever more vile.

I could not help myself, I gagged and threw up against
a tree. Welcome to London, I thought bitterly.

'You'll get used to it,' a voice said in my ear.

I wheeled round, wiping the vomit from my mouth.
Standing close behind me, hand on hip and grin on face, was Art Scrump.

'You'll get used to the smell,' he continued. 'It's
all part of the tapestry that is London.'

He talks more like a courtier than a courtier, I
thought to myself. Where did he learn such tricks?

'I thought you had gone to work,' I said.

'I have.' He nodded to the river where a boat was tied
up and bobbing in the current. 'But then I saw you and could not help but hurry
over.'

'And see me vomit?'

He shrugged his shoulders. 'The waste barges give off
a mighty stink.' He handed me a kerchief to wipe my mouth. I took it reluctantly,
expecting it to be as filthy as his mother's dish-cloth. It was made of finest
cotton and dyed a deep scarlet.

'It was a gift from a lady friend,' he explained.

He gestured over his shoulder. 'The smell will not get
any better for our lingering here. Why don't we walk a little way along the
river?'

We headed along the river and past the Tower. I could
hear the roar of the lions and hid a shudder at the memory. I need not have
bothered to hide it from Art for he talked non-stop as we walked. Most of his
talk was about himself, given with no sense of embarrassment or propriety. He
spoke of what he did when he was not working, his hordes of friends, the women
who adored him and those he loved in return. He was every bit as vain as the
King.

Not once did he ask me about myself. This rankled at
first but then, as I paid half attention to his prattle, I was glad of it. I
had feared having to answer endless questions about myself in London but I was beginning to realise that most people were only interested in themselves. This was
true to an extent at court, of course. But members of the court were so
terrified of falling out of favour with the King that they paid the minutest
attention to other people and their doings. At least I would be spared this in London.

We walked for over half an hour and I allowed myself
to be guided by my companion. He knew the city and all its by-ways with an easy
assurance and I was surprised to find myself brought by a circuitous route to a
large street filled to overflowing with people.

'This is Eastcheap,' Art said. 'The greatest street
for meat in all the world.'

I could see what he meant. Every shop in the street
was a butchers and the middle of the road was crammed with little carts
overflowing with meat. The clamour was tremendous, with men shouting out their
wares, people haggling and children shouting. The smell of Pudding Lane and the
Thames waste-barges was noisome, the smell in Eastcheap was less so, being of
fresher meat with only the occasional tang where something had rotted but still
been left for sale.

As we sauntered along the street it became clear that
Art's high opinion of himself was not totally unjustified. He was almost as
popular as he claimed, although I noticed that he also attracted more than his
fair number of thoughtful glances and angry scowls from men. Women, on the
other hand, viewed him very differently. Some watched him silently, their eyes
following his walk. Others, more bold, smiled or called out to him. He
acknowledged all as though their interest was his natural right and due. Very
like the King.

One young woman spied us from a doorway, folded her
arms across her chest and marched towards us, eyes burning.

'Who's your friend, Art?' she said in a voice like a
hiss.

'This is Alice Petherton,' he said.

She eyed me up and down as if trying to locate the
best place to punch me. She looked to be about my age and was pretty enough if
it were not for a frown which seemed to be permanently etched upon her face.
Her clothes were tatty and dishevelled and she smelled of ale. I stared back at
her, determined not to give way to such a low creature.

'And this is Betty Dibble,' Art continued. 'My first
love although not my last.'

'Your best though,' she said, without taking her eyes
from my face. 'You know it well enough, Art Scrump and you'll soon be sniffing
round me once again.'

'Pleased to meet you, I'm sure,' I said in a cool
tone.

'Pleased to meet you,' she mimicked. She gave an
exaggerated bow. 'They do breed silver-tongued whores in France.'

'I'm not a whore,' I said. 'Nor am I French.'

'Well you're not from round here,' she said. 'Not with
that voice. A whore from Paris, I reckon you, or from Spain.'

'She's not a whore,' Art said, 'and she's as English
as you are.'

Betty Dibble pulled her arms even tighter across her
chest.

'Well if she wants to scrap she's only to ask. If she
wants two black eyes and cheeks scratched to pieces, that is.'

'I don't think she wants either,' Art said. 'And nor
do you. Here, let's away to the Shambles and we'll drink to friendship.'

Betty glared at me, nodded curtly, and led the way on
shaky legs to a tavern a little way along. The sign swinging from the gable
bore a crudely drawn picture of a dog running away from a butchers with a
string of sausages in its mouth. Or perhaps a string of intestines.

I had never been in a tavern before and I did not much
care for my first sight of the Shambles. It was still the morning but already
half of the customers were drunk out of their minds. Some sat with heads bowed
as if trying to remember something of the utmost importance. Others beamed at
the rest of the room with the fondest of smiles. A handful of men were trying
to sing together, trying and failing because they appeared to be singing
different songs and not a one of them could remember the words. Two men snarled
at each other, one with fist clenched and a dangerous look in his eyes.