Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

Fleet turned to me, his eyes glittering with excitement. ‘It’s a riot, Tom!’ He picked up an abandoned club and twirled it in his hand. ‘God bless the Reverend Andrew Woodburn! An achievement at last!’ A prisoner staggered past him, bleeding heavily from a cut above his eye. Jakes led him to the shelter of the Court porch before fighting his way back to us.

A wild clamour rose from the other side of the wall. The riot was spreading. I heard a voice cry out above the rest. ‘One and all! One and all against the Butcher!’ Captain Anderson.

I stared about me in panic. I knew how to defend myself but I was still weak from the battering inflicted upon me the night before. I had just enough sense to pluck the short blade from my side and stand firm while Fleet cleared a path with his club and Jakes shielded us from behind. By the time we reached the entrance to Belle Isle the trusties were winning the fight on the Master’s Side, and Acton was preparing his men to venture through the wall and deal with the rest. The trusties would win, I knew that much from my brief stint on the Common Side. What they lacked in numbers they made up for in strength. Easy enough to fight ten or twenty poxy skeletons when your own belly’s full of mutton and good ale.

We collided with Chapman on the stairs. Fleet grabbed him and pressed him against the wall. ‘Where’s Woodburn?’

Chapman jerked his chin to the next landing, and Trim’s room, before clattering out to join the fight. We ran up to the next floor and burst through the door.

Woodburn was lying on the bed I had slept on just a few hours before, recovering from my own injuries. Trim had stripped off the chaplain’s shirt and was holding a cloth to his left shoulder to staunch the bleeding, Woodburn’s fat chest juddering with each painful breath. A bowl lay on the floor beside them, full of discarded, bloody rags.

Kitty was at the stove boiling water. Fleet crossed over to her and she looked up, her face softening with relief to see him. She slid a long, vicious dagger from her apron pocket. It had been wiped clean but there were still a few dark smears of blood upon the blade. She handed it to Fleet, who ran his fingers along the steel.

‘That’s a soldier’s blade,’ Jakes said, pulling it from Fleet’s hand and taking it to the window to examine more closely. Fleet rubbed the dried flakes of blood from his fingers.

‘Trim found it by the altar,’ Kitty said. ‘Dropped in the fight. We didn’t see anyone go by on the stairs.’

Fleet nodded, and squeezed her hand before hopping eagerly to the bed to inspect Woodburn’s wounded shoulder. I might have missed that quiet, private gesture before, but now I knew their history I understood it at once. Fleet was not Kitty’s guardian or teacher; it was more equable and more important than that. They were fellow mourners – and both understood, profoundly, what the other had lost. A different, better life.

‘What happened?’ Fleet asked the chaplain, from the foot of the bed.

Woodburn’s eyes flickered open. Seeing Fleet, he groaned and shut them again.

‘He was stabbed,’ Trim said, twisting round to face us. His shirt was stained with Woodburn’s blood.

‘No, indeed?’ Fleet muttered. He rapped Woodburn’s foot. ‘Who was it attacked you, sir? Did you get a fair look at him?’

Woodburn moaned and shuddered. ‘I was praying… the chapel…’ He winced, fingers grasping the bed linen.

Trim murmured something reassuring and put a cup to Woodburn’s lips. ‘Someone stole up behind him.’

‘Will he live?’ I asked quietly.

Trim rocked his hand back and forth. ‘It’s not deep, but it may fester. I’ve sent for Stephen Siddall – he’s the best apothecary in the Borough.’ He stood up and rubbed his forehead wearily. ‘How can this have happened?’ he asked the room. He dabbed a wet cloth to the blood stains on his shirt. ‘Why would anyone want to hurt Mr Woodburn?’

‘Perhaps they heard one of his sermons…?’ Fleet murmured.

Jakes had been standing at the window, watching the riot die down, but now he spun round in one fluid movement and without any warning punched Fleet once, very hard, in the face. Fleet’s legs crumpled beneath him and he fell to the floor.

‘Blasphemous dog!’ Jakes cursed, sucking the blood from his knuckle. And before I could react he pulled the half-stunned Fleet to his feet and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of laundry.

‘ Bâtard! ’ Kitty cried, grabbing a poker from the hearth and smacking Jakes across the back and legs with vicious swipes.

Trim ran over and tried to wrestle the poker from her fist while Fleet – who seemed quite content to be carried down the stairs on Jakes’ shoulder – shot her a look of affectionate pride. The four of them bundled down the stairs together and I found myself alone with Mr Woodburn. He was barely conscious now. The wound on his shoulder was still oozing blood, but the worst of the flow had stopped. Trim was right, it wasn’t deep, but it was precise and most definitely a stab wound, not the light slash of a blade. An inch lower and the point would have pierced his heart.

I perched carefully on the edge of the bed, watching the chaplain’s chest rise and fall fitfully. Was this how God rewarded an honest servant? Woodburn had dedicated his life to the poor debtors in this miserable place. He had done everything he could to save their souls and now here he lay, cut down cruelly for his efforts.

I glanced down and was startled to see Woodburn was in fact perfectly awake, his gaze resting upon my face. I picked up the cup and brought it to his lips. He drank gratefully, but then a look of abject horror flooded his face. ‘Ohh!’ he groaned. ‘Oh Lord, have mercy.’ He pointed to the corner of the room, where one of Trim’s coats was hanging over a chair. ‘Oh, forgive me, forgive me!’ he cried in a cracked voice, his eyes filled with terror. ‘Do you not see him, sir? Oh, God!’

‘Mr Woodburn,’ I said, shaking him softly. ‘There is no one there.’

‘I should have stopped him. Oh God, have mercy on my soul.’ He cried out again then collapsed against the pillow. The wound in his chest had begun to bleed more freely.

‘Stopped who? Mr Woodburn?’ I could hear footsteps, someone running up the stairs, moments away. ‘Stopped who?’ I leaned closer and whispered in his ear. ‘Gilbourne?’

He didn’t answer, and for a moment I thought he hadn’t heard. But then he reached out and gripped my wrist. ‘I thought I could save him.’

Trim bustled into the room, followed by Siddall, the apothecary, carrying a large leather bag in the crook of his arm. He hurried over to his patient.

I moved aside, too stunned to say a word. Trim touched my arm. ‘You’ve turned pale,’ he said. ‘Must be the blood. Why don’t you rest? I’ll join you for a drink later.’ He gestured over to the bed, where Mr Siddall was examining Woodburn’s shoulder. ‘I think we’ve earned ourselves a debauch, don’t you?’

Down in Belle Isle, Fleet was settled comfortably by the fire smoking a pipe, a pot of coffee in easy reach. The left side of his jaw was red and swollen from Jakes’ punch, but apart from that he was the very picture of contentment. In truth I had never seen him so cheerful – the chaos of the riot and the puzzle of Woodburn’s stabbing were like two whores arriving at once on Christmas Day; the only problem being he wasn’t sure which one to fondle first.

Kitty was lying on my bed reading a book, her copper hair unpinned and flowing loose about her shoulders. She had not heard me enter and her eyes were cast down upon the page, so that she looked half-asleep. Her lips were curved into the softest smile and there was something so sweet and restful about her in that moment that I had the sudden desire to lie down at her side, my chest against her back, my arm about her waist, my face buried in that warm mass of curls.