The Crimson Ribbon by Katherine Clements Read Free Book Online Page A

digging into soft flesh. ‘They’ll shoot me for deserting . . . I should never have told you. Do you understand? Promise me . . .’
    Siddal turns in his seat, disturbed by the movement, and Joseph releases his grip. I nod, rubbing my arm where the bruise will colour. Siddal smirks.
    I understand better than Joseph knows. The name ‘Witch’ will follow me to London if I do not hold my tongue. My own life depends upon my secrecy. I’m suddenly glad that I did not share the truth with him. I see it clear now: I must tell no one, trust no one. I must lock my secrets inside so they cannot be used to hurt me. I turn away from him and do not speak another word until we near London.
    My first glimpse of the great city comes just as the sun begins to wane. I’m starting to wonder if we will arrive in darkness when, cresting a hill, Siddal calls out, ‘London ahead!’
    Before us, the land flattens, low hills rolling away into a valley. And there in the distance is a grey smudge of buildings, haloed by a puddle of smoke.
    ‘An hour or two more,’ Siddal says, giving the horse’s rump a rap with his switch.
    Soon there are houses alongside the road. These are different from the Fenland homes I am used to, where hamlets are grouped around a well, or common land, and huddle together, centred on themselves, villagers protected by a circle of timber and stone. Here the buildings skirt the track, as if the road is the lifeblood of their world. Kitchen gardens and small farmsteads fill the country; pigs and goats live in roadside pens.
    Inns and alehouses pepper the route. We stop at one to water the horse and are instantly surrounded by pedlars selling beer, maslin bread and pottage. They seem to come from nowhere, like rats to scraps, ragged, with haunted eyes and shabby clothes. They press around the cart until Siddal, fearing for his goods, swipes them away with his whip.
    Twilight is falling and the road is become a steady stream of carriages and carts and men on horseback. We can see the city proper now, glimpses of great buildings and spires each time we reach higher ground. And so many chimneys, spewing dark smoke skywards.
    At last we reach the city gatehouse. Stretching away on either side is a great ditch, some yards across. It puts me in mind of the earthworks that criss-cross the Fens, built by the adventurers who came to drain the land. I wonder what city men want with such excavations. Beyond the ditch the city defences rise bleak and grey, pointed with iron spikes, like rotten teeth. Siddal, all puffed up with his knowledge, tells me that the works are only a few years old, put up by the people in the early days of war to protect themselves from the King’s army, after Parliament had routed him at Turnham Green. Already they look as though they have stood for decades, crumbled in places and shored up with wattle and timbers. I gape at his stories of the city’s women and children clawing the mud with bare hands, shouldering great stones, making their homes safe from their king. Joseph sits, grim and unspeaking, as Siddal weaves his tales.
    The road is barred here with a chain. I hold my breath while a soldier peers at Siddal’s papers, and at my pass, before nodding us on. Siddal is to take his cart to a merchant who lives near the Royal Exchange. From there, he tells me, it will be easy to find St Paul’s.
    When at last we reach Cornhill, Siddal, pretending a gentleman at the end, helps me climb down from the cart.
    ‘Well, now,’ he puffs, eyes glittering, ‘I have made my end of the bargain. You are arrived.’ He nods and glances about, as if expecting thieves and pickpockets to appear like wraiths and spirit away his fee.
    Joseph is by my side, nudging me. ‘Two crown for Master Siddal, Ruth.’ I count the coin from my purse into Siddal’s damp palm. Siddal nods at Joseph in thanks.
    ‘There is Cheapside,’ he says, pointing to a broad street that leads away to the west. ‘And yonder is St