Pettigrew had visited on London Bridge were packing up, and Parker would’ve felt happier to have Peter Jack or Harry with him, to follow if the cart went one way and the man Pettigrew had spoken to another.
He’d wanted to take some control, instead of being flotsam on a raging tide, and his decision to come here, rather than wander the streets where he’d lost the assassin the afternoon before, had served him well.
The pile of furniture and trunks being loaded into the cart was growing. If he’d come half an hour later, he might have missed them.
He watched the house from a sheltered corner of a stall selling pies. The pie seller had urged him to stand awhile out of the wind, and it was a good place to loiter.
He lifted the meat pie to his mouth and took a bite, and rich flavor, lamb cooked with wine and rosemary, spilled onto his tongue.
“I will be back to buy more,” he said, his mouth half full, and the stallholder grinned.
“This is a good spot for you,” Parker commented casually as the man wrapped up six pies for another customer. He pointed to the houses on the north side of the bridge. “Those who live nearby buy from you often, I have no doubt.”
The stallholder snorted. “Some do. Some don’t.”
“Who would not?” He kept his tone mildly curious.
“The Englishmen do, that’s true.” The pie seller tied the bundle of pies with string. “The foreigners, though, they ain’t used to our cooking.”
“There are a lot of foreigners living on the bridge?” Parker watched heat flare in the seller’s eyes.
“One’s more than there should be, you ask me. I’ve been trying to rent rooms in a house here for years. Years. If I could live nearer my stall, or have a little shop instead of a stall, it would be much easier—but the rents they want.” He shook his head. “Then some wealthy foreigners come and move in.”
“And don’t buy your pies, on top of it.” Parker’s voice was dry.
The stallholder nodded. “Aye. Insult to injury.”
“But I’m curious; where do these foreigners come from?”
“The ones across there, the ones leaving.” The stallholder pointed at the cart. “From the Low Countries.”
“Ah.” Parker swallowed the last of his pie. “Merchants?”
The stallholder shrugged. “Cloth. Some say ’tis very fine.”
Parker let his gaze wander to the house again. “Well, perhaps a few rooms in the house will be available to you, as they seem to be taking everything with them.”
The pie seller twisted his mouth in an expression that said he wouldn’t hold his breath.
Parker turned away and began to walk slowly past the other stalls, allowing himself to be jostled by the traffic, his eyes never leaving the cart.
What had Norfolk wanted from here, that he had sent Pettigrew to get for him? And what had put the fright into his informer?
He tensed as a couple approached the cart, skirted around it, and stepped up to the door.
The man guarding the cart called out to them and the woman turned to respond, lifting the hood of her cloak and speaking in a foreign tongue.
Parker’s mouth dropped open, and he closed it with a snap.
It was Susanna.
“ W ho are you?” The man beside the cart switched to Flemish.
“Susanna Horenbout, of Ghent, sir. I heard a friend of my father’s might be living here, and I came to inquire.”
The man’s fists uncurled, but when he looked at Harry, his eyes were hard.
“And him?” He jerked his head in Harry’s direction.
“My page. It is very dangerous in this city, no? Not like Ghent.”
“True enough.” He looked around him sourly. “Not that I’m from Ghent, but anywhere in the Low Countries would show well next to this cesspit.”
“I see that you are leaving. Are you going back home?”
He nodded, curt and suddenly silent.
Susanna felt Harry fidget beside her. She wasn’t moving fast enough for him. “Could you tell me who lives here? I am not sure I have come to the right place.” She smiled at
He’d wanted to take some control, instead of being flotsam on a raging tide, and his decision to come here, rather than wander the streets where he’d lost the assassin the afternoon before, had served him well.
The pile of furniture and trunks being loaded into the cart was growing. If he’d come half an hour later, he might have missed them.
He watched the house from a sheltered corner of a stall selling pies. The pie seller had urged him to stand awhile out of the wind, and it was a good place to loiter.
He lifted the meat pie to his mouth and took a bite, and rich flavor, lamb cooked with wine and rosemary, spilled onto his tongue.
“I will be back to buy more,” he said, his mouth half full, and the stallholder grinned.
“This is a good spot for you,” Parker commented casually as the man wrapped up six pies for another customer. He pointed to the houses on the north side of the bridge. “Those who live nearby buy from you often, I have no doubt.”
The stallholder snorted. “Some do. Some don’t.”
“Who would not?” He kept his tone mildly curious.
“The Englishmen do, that’s true.” The pie seller tied the bundle of pies with string. “The foreigners, though, they ain’t used to our cooking.”
“There are a lot of foreigners living on the bridge?” Parker watched heat flare in the seller’s eyes.
“One’s more than there should be, you ask me. I’ve been trying to rent rooms in a house here for years. Years. If I could live nearer my stall, or have a little shop instead of a stall, it would be much easier—but the rents they want.” He shook his head. “Then some wealthy foreigners come and move in.”
“And don’t buy your pies, on top of it.” Parker’s voice was dry.
The stallholder nodded. “Aye. Insult to injury.”
“But I’m curious; where do these foreigners come from?”
“The ones across there, the ones leaving.” The stallholder pointed at the cart. “From the Low Countries.”
“Ah.” Parker swallowed the last of his pie. “Merchants?”
The stallholder shrugged. “Cloth. Some say ’tis very fine.”
Parker let his gaze wander to the house again. “Well, perhaps a few rooms in the house will be available to you, as they seem to be taking everything with them.”
The pie seller twisted his mouth in an expression that said he wouldn’t hold his breath.
Parker turned away and began to walk slowly past the other stalls, allowing himself to be jostled by the traffic, his eyes never leaving the cart.
What had Norfolk wanted from here, that he had sent Pettigrew to get for him? And what had put the fright into his informer?
He tensed as a couple approached the cart, skirted around it, and stepped up to the door.
The man guarding the cart called out to them and the woman turned to respond, lifting the hood of her cloak and speaking in a foreign tongue.
Parker’s mouth dropped open, and he closed it with a snap.
It was Susanna.
“ W ho are you?” The man beside the cart switched to Flemish.
“Susanna Horenbout, of Ghent, sir. I heard a friend of my father’s might be living here, and I came to inquire.”
The man’s fists uncurled, but when he looked at Harry, his eyes were hard.
“And him?” He jerked his head in Harry’s direction.
“My page. It is very dangerous in this city, no? Not like Ghent.”
“True enough.” He looked around him sourly. “Not that I’m from Ghent, but anywhere in the Low Countries would show well next to this cesspit.”
“I see that you are leaving. Are you going back home?”
He nodded, curt and suddenly silent.
Susanna felt Harry fidget beside her. She wasn’t moving fast enough for him. “Could you tell me who lives here? I am not sure I have come to the right place.” She smiled at
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