Free London in Chains by Gillian Bradshaw Page A

managed to rinse her shift that evening. By candlelight it looked as though most of the stains had come out. In the morning, however, daylight showed the marks had merely faded from black to grey. The shift was damp, too: it had not had enough time to dry. She put it on anyway – she didn’t want to ruin both shifts – wrapped herself up in a thick shawl, and set off for The Whalebone Tavern, shivering and scowling.
    Ned Trebet was in the yard of The Whalebone, helping to unload a dray. He glanced at Lucy, glanced again, then set down his barrel of beer and came over. ‘What’s amiss?’ he asked with concern.
    â€˜Naught,’ she said sharply.
    â€˜Your face is as pinched as a mildewed apple! Come, what’s the matter?’
    â€˜It’s only that I got ink on my shift,’ she said, showing him the sleeve, ‘and I cannot get it out again.’
    â€˜Is that all!’ he said in relief. ‘You cannot shift it, you mean! Ha, ha, ha!’ He laughed with great gusto, then, at her look, stopped abruptly. He touched her sleeve. ‘Here, that’s damp! Why did you put on a damp shift? You must have others; your uncle’s no pauper!’
    â€˜What, and spoil another one? I’ll not be using less ink today than I did Saturday!’
    â€˜You’ll catch cold!’
    â€˜I have this.’ She waved the end of the shawl. ‘I’ll be warm enough.’
    â€˜Nay, it’s a chilly day! I’ll speak to our girls here, see if one of them can lend you—’
    â€˜Nay!’
    He stopped, surprised by her vehemence. She looked him in the eye: she had no intention of changing her shift anywhere he might spy on her. ‘I thank you, but there’s no need.’
    He frowned, surprised and hurt. ‘What ails you? You treat me as though I were a rogue out to cozen you, when I’ve never treated you with aught but kindness!’
    Her face flushed: it was true. ‘I’m sorry.’
    He continued to frown at her.
    â€˜It’s only that I’m . . . that London is such a fearful place and so full of strangers.’
    His expression softened. ‘You’ve not been here a month, have you? I had forgotten. You’re from . . . from somewhere up north.’ He waved a hand vaguely towards Moorgate.
    â€˜Hinckley, in Leicestershire.’
    â€˜Aye, and your father has a dairy farm, freehold. Will told me. Aye, I suppose London is a fearful place, to one not used to it, and perhaps you think your uncle’s seditious friends must be desperate men, hey?’
    She risked meeting his eyes and managed a small smile. ‘Are you not?’
    â€˜No more than your uncle. These are uncommon times, mistress, and many ordinary men are desperate.’
    She considered that a moment, then responded honestly, ‘Aye. It was a cruel war.’
    â€˜God knows it!’ replied Trebet, with feeling. ‘My brother and I fought at Newbury. I brought him home after, but he died of his wound anyway.’
    She looked at him with sudden understanding. So, like Thomas, he fought now to make the sacrifice worthwhile. The phrase throwing good money after bad came to her mind, but she put it aside. How could anyone who’d lost a son or a brother not want their death to count for something?
    â€˜You were in the London militia?’ she asked instead, then bit her lip: of course he had been in the militia. The service was required of freeholders.
    â€˜The trained bands, aye. I’m a sergeant.’ He said it proudly. ‘My regiment trains at Moorfields once a month, but since the Army was new-modelled we’ve not been called upon.’ He paused, looking at her, then said, ‘Are you sure you’ll not borrow a dry shift? I’ve three serving-women here who might lend one.’
    â€˜Nay,’ she said, but more gently this time. ‘I might smut it with more ink, which would ill return their