“I think you’re in the wrong place, my lady,” he said before weaving across the street toward the gate into St. Anthony’s. I glanced at Martha, and even she looked nervous at her surroundings. Steeling ourselves for the worst, we stepped into the alehouse.
The smell of the place struck me like a fist in the stomach. The rooms reeked of sweat, spoiled ale, and rotting food. We found ourselves in a short hallway, with doorways leading to four large rooms where the patrons did their drinking. A narrow staircase led to a second floor where, I had to imagine, even less savory business went on. In their drunken revels, nobody seemed to notice that we’d entered. Despite the fact that night would not fall for several hours, the alehouse’s interior was dim, as filth-covered windows kept out most of the daylight. Rough tables and stools lay scattered around the drinking rooms, which resonated with the rough laughter of drunken soldiers. Mixed in with the soldiers were a handful of tired-looking whores, perhaps the only city residents profiting from the siege.
“How will we find Penrose?” I muttered once my stomach had settled.
Martha and I peered through the first doorway we came to, but nobody inside appeared old enough to be our apothecary. The second room contained only soldiers and whores, but in the third we spied a likely candidate. A man who clearly was not a soldier sat on a bench, slumped against the wall with a flagon in front of him. He was in his forties, and while his clothes were filthy, their quality marked him as a man of some means.
“That’s probably him,” I said, and Martha and I started across the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a soldier rise to his feet and advance toward us, followed by four of his compatriots. Martha let out a frightened gasp and took a step back. The soldier leading the group was a young man wearing the rank of sergeant. He ignored me entirely, staring instead at Martha. He had one hand on his sword, the other on the handle of his dagger. Even in the dim light of the alehouse, I could see the anger in his eyes, and I realized that they were the same color blue as Martha’s. The resemblance and Martha’s reaction told me that this could only be her brother, Tom. My heart began to race, for I also knew that if even half of what Martha had said about him was true, we had just walked into very deep trouble.
The man crossed the room in a few purposeful strides and stopped when his face was just a few inches from Martha’s. He looked down at her with a cruel smile on his face.
“Hello, Martha,” he said, and I felt my stomach lurch. His accent echoed Martha’s, confirming my guess as to his identity. “If I judged you by your clothes, I would ask what a respectable maid like you is doing in such a disreputable establishment. But I know far too much about you to think of you as respectable.” Martha stared back at him, trying to remain impassive, but I could see a flicker of fear in her eyes. Tom Hawkins glanced at me. “I don’t imagine your mistress here knows as much as I do … shall I tell of our most recent adventure?” The soldiers formed a circle around us—now we could not simply back out of the room. I looked again at the stripes on Tom’s shoulders and realized how we might escape the alehouse with our lives.
“Sergeant!” I said in as sharp a voice as I could muster. Even as I spoke, I realized that my hands had begun to shake, so I gripped my apron to stop them before Tom noticed. I could only pray that my voice did not betray my fear, for once I challenged Tom’s authority over his men, there would be no going back. “I am a gentlewoman of this city, and this is my maidservant. We have come here by the command of the Lord Mayor. I don’t know who you think my servant is, but you are mistaken. You will step back.” He looked at me, surprised but not yet angry. By the expression on his face, I think he welcomed the prospect of shaming a gentlewoman. Before he could speak, I turned to his soldiers and picked out the youngest. “Private! Summon your lieutenant immediately.” He looked to Tom for direction, but I stepped between them, looking the private in the eye. “Private, do you make a habit of disobeying your superiors?”
“No, m-my lady,” he stammered.
“I thought not. Go now.” I turned on my heel to face Tom, hoping that the boy would obey. “Sergeant, while we await your lieutenant, why don’t you explain to me, and to your soldiers, what exactly you mean by meddling with a gentlewoman on the Lord Mayor’s business.”
Tom and I locked eyes, and I saw his surprise and anger at losing control of the situation. He may have expected trouble from Martha, but certainly not from a gentlewoman so far out of her element. What authority could I have in an alehouse filled with soldiers, drunkards, and whores? A look of rage flashed across his face, and I saw the knuckles whiten as he gripped his dagger. My breath stopped as I wondered if I might meet a bloody end on the ale-soaked floor of the Black Swan. To my surprise, he regained his composure without drawing his dagger or even raising his hand. He may have been of the meaner sort, but he knew when he had been beaten. He recognized that no good could come from assaulting a gentlewoman in public, so he retreated.