The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(55)

What hit Coby first was the smell, a thick smoky mix of roast hog, beer, sweaty bodies and of course the mud of Smithfield, permeated by generations'-worth of cow dung and urine. After that came the noise: the clamour of voices, beating of drums, the occasional blare of a trumpet.

"What d'you lack, sir?" A pedlar flourished a sample of his wares at her. "A plume for your bonnet, a ribbon for your hair!"

She thought of Betsy, stuck at home whilst Philip ran off to enjoy himself, and was almost tempted to buy a ribbon for the girl. No, that would be a big mistake. Bringing home fairings was the opening sally of many a courtship, and Betsy was already too interested in her for comfort.

They walked up and down the aisles of the fair for what felt like half the day, to no avail. The place swarmed with youths of Philip's height and build, and they were led on several wild goose chases when one or other of them spotted a lad who looked overmuch like him.

"If only he had red hair, or flaxen like mine," Coby sighed, when they paused to get their bearings.

"Then we would mistake him for half the whores of Cheapside," Parrish replied with a laugh. "Come on, let's go back. We could search all day and never find him here."

"We don't have to," Coby said.

She pointed to a skinny boy who was sitting on a barrel picking at a scab on his hand. His nose was red and his eyes swollen as if from weeping. Oliver.

Parrish motioned for her to go around behind the boy. She did so, and tapped him on the shoulder. He looked round, gaped, leapt up – and ran straight into Parrish.

"Going somewhere, Noll?"

Parrish pushed the boy backwards, and Coby caught him by the arms from behind. Parrish drew the cudgel from his belt and pressed its steel-shod tip under the boy's jaw. A few passers-by, the women at least, gave Oliver pitying glances, but most acted as if they saw nothing.

"Where's Philip?" Parrish pressed the tip of the cudgel into the soft flesh under the boy's jaw.

"Dunno, sir–"

The cudgel flashed down and caught the boy on the shin. He yelped and started blubbing again, shivering in Coby's grasp. She frowned at Parrish, but he took no notice.

"Where is Philip?"

"Th-th-the Saracen's Head, sir."

"And you weren't tempted to join him?"

Oliver mumbled something, too quietly to make out.

"What was that?" Parrish asked.

"They… they wouldn't let us in at first, then Pip gave 'em an angel. I said to him, lend me one, but…" He sniffled noisily. "He s-said I had to earn it first."

"Did he now?"

Oliver nodded, lips pressed together to stop them trembling.

"Get off home," Parrish said, more gently.

Coby released him, but before he could take a step the cudgel came up again, not in a blow but a gentle touch under the jaw that nonetheless froze him to the spot.

"Next time, don't sit around waiting for some bawd to come along and cozen you out of your last sixpence. Now get you gone."

They watched him slouch away, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"Was that necessary, sir?"

Parrish shrugged. "Boys needs discipline. If Naismith won't do it…"

He led the way through the crowds to the edge of Smithfield. Beyond the fairground the streets of London stretched in all directions, spilling out of the city walls northwards towards Clerkenwell. They passed the hospital of St Bartholomew towards Aldersgate. Every other building here seemed to be an alehouse or tavern. Craning her neck, Coby soon spotted a carved and painted sign showing the severed head of a swarthy beturbanned warrior, complete with dripping scarlet blood.

Like most taverns of its kind the Saracen's Head doubled as a brothel, the girls circulating amongst the customers until deals were struck and more comfortable accommodation sought. Parrish marched straight through the taproom, Coby trailing in his wake, and up the stairs. The upper floor was divided with lengths of sacking into narrow cubicles with just enough floor space for a mattress. Parrish peered into one after another, ignoring the complaints of the customers so disturbed. Coby stared at the floor, trying to shut out the chorus of grunts and moans. If Master Kuyper ever found out she had been in this place, she would be on psalm-reading duty from now until Christmas.

Parrish gave a cry of triumph. Coby looked away just in time as he seized a curtain and pulled it aside.

"Get your rat's pizzle out of there, Johnson!"

The whore shrieked, and there was a brief scuffle. By the time Coby looked back, the woman was clutching her unlaced bodice to her doughy breasts, and Philip had got to his feet and was tucking himself back into his breeches. When he saw Coby waiting behind Master Parrish, his defiant expression twisted into a sneer of contempt.

"Might have known it was you, Jakes. Always got to lick the pretty boys' arses, haven't you?"

Coby's grip on her cudgel tightened, but Parrish held up his hand.

"I was the one noticed you were gone," Parrish said. "And if you will plot to run off to the fair, perhaps you shouldn't boast to the servants about it."

"That little bitch–"

Parrish snapped the length of maple at the back of the youth's legs, and Philip collapsed to his knees, cursing.

"I see one bruise on that girl," Parrish said softly, lifting Philip's chin with the tip of the cudgel, "one tear in her eyes, and I'll make sure you get to play women's roles for the rest of your miserable life."