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

Paul’s. Now, if you’d lend a hand in the unloading of my goods. Such is the extra danger I have put myself under to bring you here, I expect you can spare a minute or two . . .’ This last he addresses to Joseph, who begins unlacing the ropes that fasten the barrels.
    For a short while I work at the knots and watch as they fling back the canvas and begin to sort the bundles. As they turn their attention to the work, I take my chance. Grabbing my satchel, I dart across the street and into the dark stretch before the shop fronts. I pick my way quickly through the gloom, keeping to the shadows, towards Cheapside. As I reach the turning I glance back and see that Joseph is looking about him. I press myself into a doorway, hidden by the heavy wooden frame. From there I watch as he circles the cart, then ducks to peer beneath. He calls out, ‘Ruth . . . Ruth!’
    Siddal comes out of the shop and laughs. He slaps Joseph on the back, saying something I cannot hear. Again Joseph calls my name, louder this time, and people in the street turn and stare. In the neighbouring house an upstairs casement is flung open and a pale female face peers from within.
    Siddal leads Joseph back to the cart to begin the unloading. Joseph doffs his hat to another man, who must be the merchant. He takes up a bundle of skins to carry inside. All the time he looks about for me, cursing under his breath. Siddal and the other man go inside, and Joseph follows. As he passes the threshold, he turns back to search for me one last time. Instead of the frown he has worn all day, the furrows in his brow speak of disappointment, as though, believing himself unobserved, his true feelings are written there.
    For the briefest moment, doubt flickers, and I think perhaps I should go to him, but he does not linger: he disappears into the darkness of the house.
    I slip from my hiding place and hurry into Cheapside. This is the last I shall see of Joseph Oakes. I feel none of the relief I had expected, but oddly desolate and alone. I pay the feeling no heed – I am becoming used to it.
    Cheapside is the broadest street I have ever seen, wide enough for carriages to pass each other twice over, wide enough for shopkeepers to set up trestles before their doors and sell their wares on the street.
    Although night is falling, there are still people abroad and I’m thankful for the gentle mill of bodies outside the taverns as I move away from the Exchange and set off to find St Paul’s Cathedral. According to the instructions that Old Bess gave me, it is from here that I will find my way.
    On Cheapside the houses are built up three or more floors, each level leaning further out over the street than the last. I keep to the side beneath the overhang. Looking up makes me feel giddy. There are fine, large buildings in Ely, but not so many and not so large as these.
    The ground is soft beneath my feet. My nose tells me it is covered with muck. Timbers have been laid out in places to make byways over the stinking drains that run from side-streets into the main thoroughfare. Glimpses of those side-streets show them to be dank, unwholesome places, almost closed overhead by the tunnel of houses. I have the feeling that I might fall into one, as if into a badger set, burrowed into the roots of a tree.
    There seems to be no sky here, only a low grey blanket draped over the houses, firewood and hot coals smoked up through the chimneys – and there are so many chimneys – choking the moon and the stars.
    Further along, a gang of lads laze on the steps of a stone monument. They are drinking and singing in slurred cacophony. One clambers to his feet and dances an unsteady jig across my path, making his friends cheer and hoot, but I pass them by.
    Soon the road opens into a wide courtyard. St Paul’s Cathedral sits in the centre, a huge hulking building of soot-stained stone. Here there are no tall houses but instead row upon row of timbered shacks, all built up against the