London in Chains by Gillian Bradshaw Page B

back to the tavern at dinner-time. You’ll be in need of a hot dinner, working here!’
    She was relieved: the prospect of The Whalebone at dinner-time would distract her from being alone in a barn – and, what was more, next door to Bedlam. The thought of finding an escaped lunatic terrified her.
    When Ned had gone, she made herself walk right round the barn, checking that it was indeed empty. The place was draughty, damp and, worst of all, dark. The only way to get decent light was to leave the door open, but the spring continued cold and wet, and opening the door meant letting in the wind and rain. The press had been set in the middle of the room, and she strung the drying lines behind and to the side of it, where they wouldn’t be rained on. She put the table and the cases of type against the wall near the door, though, protecting them with spoiled sheets of paper: she would need light for typesetting. She could already tell that that was going to be a miserable job here.
    Setting up took her until noon, by which time it was raining hard. She padlocked the barn, then ran to The Whalebone with her shawl over her head. She entered in a rush, then paused to let her eyes adjust to the dimness. The tavern was dark and low-ceilinged. There was no fire burning on the hearth – it was, after all, May – but the room was crowded enough to feel warm after the cold outside. It smelled of unwashed bodies, dirty wet woollens, beer and stale tobacco. It was about half full; most of the customers were men but, to her relief, there were also a few women. A vaguely familiar older woman in an apron came over to her and asked, ‘What do you lack?’
    â€˜I . . .’ began Lucy, then stopped, unsure how to answer. ‘Is Ned here?’
    The woman looked at her more closely. ‘Oh, it’s you !’ The business-like attention dissolved into a warm smile. ‘Well met at last! I’m Nancy Shorby; I’ve been here since old Mr Trebet’s day. Ned’s fetching beer from the cellar but he’ll be up again in a moment. You come into the kitchen and sit down by the fire!’
    â€˜What’s that?’ called one of the customers. ‘Ned’s sweetheart?’
    â€˜Never you mind if it is!’ replied Nancy and bustled Lucy through another doorway and into the warmth and comparative brightness of a large kitchen. ‘Rafe! Sarah! See who’s here!’ The cook and another serving-maid, their faces familiar but their names previously unknown, turned from their work and came over smiling. The warm welcome made Lucy very uneasy, but she rubbed her ink-stained hands on her apron and smiled and exchanged greetings.
    â€˜We’ve all been agog to meet you,’ the younger serving-maid confessed.
    â€˜But Ned, the scoundrel, kept you all to himself,’ said the cook.
    Lucy smiled weakly and was spared the need to reply by Ned himself, who came up the stairs from the cellar, carrying a barrel. He beamed when he saw Lucy. ‘Here you are!’ he exclaimed. ‘The sight of you is as good as a rest. Nan, get her some dinner. I’ll be back anon!’ He hurried through into the tavern’s common room with the beer.
    He returned while Nancy was ladling out Lucy’s stew. ‘All’s well? Nancy, Rafe and Sarah have made themselves known to you? Fine people, all of them; Nancy’s worked here since I was but a boy.’ He turned to Nancy. ‘Nan, the party in the panelled room want more bread.’
    â€˜I’ll see to it,’ said Nancy and hurried off.
    Ned settled Lucy in a corner of the kitchen, asked about the press, then rushed off to draw more beer. His staff hurried in and out: it seemed that The Whalebone was popular. Rafe, the only one fixed in the kitchen, told her the tavern had eight private rooms and two common ones, and that at least half were full every afternoon. The tavern was thriving, he told her, with a