Lucy’s age, or a little older. A gentlewoman, likely enough. If Lucy didn’t know better, she would have thought the woman was nervous.
Master Aubrey shrugged. “Oh, well, authors send them to me. Their names are on them, of course. Roger L’Estrange writes a lot for us, of course. Sometimes we get anonymous pieces, slipped through a slot in the door. Don’t always use those tales, of course. No telling from whence they came. I like to know who I’m getting in bed with.”
“Except for the one Lucy found, in the leather bag. The funny love poem,” Lachlin said. “All kinds of odd stuff in that bag, isn’t that so, Lucy?”
“I suppose,” Lucy said, giving Lach a hard look. She didn’t want to give out any details, to keep thieves from trying to claim the more valuable items.
“Alright, enough of that,” Master Aubrey said. “I’m sorry, ladies and gents, it’s time for us to get back to work.” On the way back in, he said to Lucy, “Nice job, lass. Why don’t you head over to the Golden Lion. Or maybe the Bell.” He rubbed his hands together. “We’ll see how murder fares there.”
3
Her pack now full of pamphlets and broadsides, Lucy headed down Fleet toward the Strand. Master Aubrey had told her that she wouldn’t miss the Golden Lion, housed as it was in the midst of some elegant noblemen’s homes. As she walked, she looked about curiously. One of the more refined areas of London, with very few shops, it was certainly not a place she’d visited very often.
Thankfully, she spied the tavern and started toward it. Filling her pewter cup with water from a nearby well, she watched a few men and women walk into the tavern with a picture of a lion above the door. No time to lose. Lucy quickly relieved her parched throat, and scurried over to the tavern, positioning herself just left of the hanging sign.
She found her heart was beating quickly. Taking a deep breath, Lucy read the title of the pamphlet that she had helped Master Aubrey put together. “From the Charred Remains,” she croaked. “A London miscellany of warnings, poems, and astrological predictions.” A few curious looks from passersby, but no one stopped to listen. This was much harder than she had thought it would be. Setting down her pack, she hopped atop the low stone wall in front of the inn and called again. “A most unnatural death!” Ah! Good. A few passersby stopped this time. “A body found in a barrel, a knife through his heart,” she half-sang, half-shouted through cupped hands, “his corpse having survived the fiery inferno that did engulf London this September 1666.”
Within the hour, Lucy had sold most of the pamphlets. As Master Aubrey had warned her to do, she slipped the coins out of sight to lessen the attention of pickpockets. Her feet were aching from standing on the hard stone walk for so long, and her throat, still scratchy from inhaling the smoke at the Fire site, was feeling worse. Sipping water from her little cup did not seem to help. Grimacing, she decided to go inside, which appeared decent enough. She took an unoccupied table, in the corner, but still toward the front of the establishment, where respectable ladies might be found.
Lucy ordered some warm mead from the tavern keeper, thinking the honey would soothe her throat. As she waited, she slipped her feet from her pointed leather shoes to rub some life back into them. A moment later a serving lass banged a steaming mug of mead down in front of her, not bothering to wipe up the drops that spilled out. Gratefully, she took a sip. Nearby, some men were pulling apart a bit of roasted pig; the smell of pork and apples made her think of Master Hargrave, as that was one of his favorite dishes. Sighing, she hoped it would not be folly to leave the comforts and security of the magistrate’s home. Feeling quite sorry for herself, she closed her eyes.
“Excuse me.” Someone touched her arm.
Lucy’s eyes flew open. A woman, just
Master Aubrey shrugged. “Oh, well, authors send them to me. Their names are on them, of course. Roger L’Estrange writes a lot for us, of course. Sometimes we get anonymous pieces, slipped through a slot in the door. Don’t always use those tales, of course. No telling from whence they came. I like to know who I’m getting in bed with.”
“Except for the one Lucy found, in the leather bag. The funny love poem,” Lachlin said. “All kinds of odd stuff in that bag, isn’t that so, Lucy?”
“I suppose,” Lucy said, giving Lach a hard look. She didn’t want to give out any details, to keep thieves from trying to claim the more valuable items.
“Alright, enough of that,” Master Aubrey said. “I’m sorry, ladies and gents, it’s time for us to get back to work.” On the way back in, he said to Lucy, “Nice job, lass. Why don’t you head over to the Golden Lion. Or maybe the Bell.” He rubbed his hands together. “We’ll see how murder fares there.”
3
Her pack now full of pamphlets and broadsides, Lucy headed down Fleet toward the Strand. Master Aubrey had told her that she wouldn’t miss the Golden Lion, housed as it was in the midst of some elegant noblemen’s homes. As she walked, she looked about curiously. One of the more refined areas of London, with very few shops, it was certainly not a place she’d visited very often.
Thankfully, she spied the tavern and started toward it. Filling her pewter cup with water from a nearby well, she watched a few men and women walk into the tavern with a picture of a lion above the door. No time to lose. Lucy quickly relieved her parched throat, and scurried over to the tavern, positioning herself just left of the hanging sign.
She found her heart was beating quickly. Taking a deep breath, Lucy read the title of the pamphlet that she had helped Master Aubrey put together. “From the Charred Remains,” she croaked. “A London miscellany of warnings, poems, and astrological predictions.” A few curious looks from passersby, but no one stopped to listen. This was much harder than she had thought it would be. Setting down her pack, she hopped atop the low stone wall in front of the inn and called again. “A most unnatural death!” Ah! Good. A few passersby stopped this time. “A body found in a barrel, a knife through his heart,” she half-sang, half-shouted through cupped hands, “his corpse having survived the fiery inferno that did engulf London this September 1666.”
Within the hour, Lucy had sold most of the pamphlets. As Master Aubrey had warned her to do, she slipped the coins out of sight to lessen the attention of pickpockets. Her feet were aching from standing on the hard stone walk for so long, and her throat, still scratchy from inhaling the smoke at the Fire site, was feeling worse. Sipping water from her little cup did not seem to help. Grimacing, she decided to go inside, which appeared decent enough. She took an unoccupied table, in the corner, but still toward the front of the establishment, where respectable ladies might be found.
Lucy ordered some warm mead from the tavern keeper, thinking the honey would soothe her throat. As she waited, she slipped her feet from her pointed leather shoes to rub some life back into them. A moment later a serving lass banged a steaming mug of mead down in front of her, not bothering to wipe up the drops that spilled out. Gratefully, she took a sip. Nearby, some men were pulling apart a bit of roasted pig; the smell of pork and apples made her think of Master Hargrave, as that was one of his favorite dishes. Sighing, she hoped it would not be folly to leave the comforts and security of the magistrate’s home. Feeling quite sorry for herself, she closed her eyes.
“Excuse me.” Someone touched her arm.
Lucy’s eyes flew open. A woman, just
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