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rainbowfic2012-07-26 03:56 pm
bookrose) wrote in rainbowfic2012-07-26 03:56 pm
Entry tags:
Anne Arrives in Londinium
Name: Rose
Story: Anne Martinal
Color: Scarlet 2, 3; Ruby 2
Supplies and Styles: none
Word Count:3,135
Rating: PG-13
Summary:
Warning: Sexual content, but nothing graphic
<lj-cut>
Londinium.
It was the greatest city in Albion--no doubt about that. The greatest, and the most wretched. Here King Espereth danced with her courtiers amid rooms draped in cloth of gold, and the high houses of the proud aristocracy ignored the dying beggars on their doorsteps. The river was crowded with vessels of all kinds: barges overloaded with merchandise, fishing boats coming in from the sea, ships of trade and war flying slowly past with full white sails. Here the streets were so filthy that it was forbidden by city law to kill kites or ravens, since they ate the debris. Here a criminal could escape the law simply by crossing the street into another sheriff's territory. Here the mortality rate of the slums was so high that everyone who made it to male years had fifteen wives. Here the white spires of the Church of God's Redemption towered over the massed roofs and smoking chimneys, and the playhouses ran up flags to attract the masses in their thousands. Here printers ran out idolatrous tracts and hawkers sold incendiary chapbooks. Here Symbolists held illegal services in cellars and attics. Here assassins crept, thieves crawled, courtiers made their murderous plots.
It was to this seething mass of conspiracy and greed, wretchedness and hope, that Anne, knowing nothing, had arrived.
***
Her first trial came at the city gate.
"What do you mean, I must pay to get in?" she demanded.
The guard sniggered. "Someone's got to pay for the upkeep of this place," she sneered. "And we don't want the riffraff getting in." She gestured behind Anne to indicate the squalid suburbs that surrounded the city walls. "So pay up, lovely, or clear off!"
Fuming, Anne shoved the shilling piece into the guard's hand and was waved through. It wasn't so much the money as the principle, she reflected, though she supposed it made sense when she thought of the expense of maintaining a city this large. Still, after a journey like she'd just had, it seemed almost too much to have to pay to finally get into the city.
Cheer up, she told herself. You finally made it! With your things!
She looked around. It was as busy as market day at Stratford just within Londinium's walls. Everywhere there were hordes of people: ragged beggars with hands stretched out; the steaming mass of a laundry where red-handed women shouted at each other over the din; peasants with their produce whipping tired oxen on; an Anti-Symbolist church ringing its bells as the faithful filed in. Overhead the plaster walls of the houses leaned in, nearly blocking the sky. Anne dodged a crowd of geese being driven by a girl and nearly toppled over into an evil-smelling ditch. The stench was unbelievable.
Anne realized she was standing there gaping, and decided that she must keep moving. It wouldn't do to present a target for footpads, footpads who probably wouldn't let her go with just a kiss. Anne blushed as she remembered the robber, and forced herself to shake it off. It was nothing, she told herself. She was probably never even going to see the robber again, and good riddance.
Then, as though summoned by an evil charm, the robber herself appeared.
The ox cart in front of the tavern suddenly moved forward, revealing none other than the robber herself, leaning against the tavern wall and swigging from a ceramic bottle. Anne gaped.
It was the robber all right, right down to the tan coat and broad-brimmed hat. The only things that had changed were that the handkerchief was gone, reavealing her lovely face, and she had let her hair down under the hat. It cascaded down her shoulders in a lovely, blue-black mass, untethered and untamed.
As Anne watched, the robber turned to look at her.
Mabye she won't se me, Anne thought wildly, but it was a fruitless hope: a wide, white grin had already spread over the robber's face.
"Stratford Girl!" she called, stepping away from the tavern wall and waving vigorously.
Immediately, Anne turned and began walking rapidly through the crowd, paying no attention to where she was going. She just had to escape the robber.
It was useless, of course. The robber was much faster than she was. Within seconds, a hard hand had descended on her shoulder.
Anne wheeled around. "Let go of me!"
The robber froze, hands held out with pacification. "Apologies." She lowered her hands. "I didn't mean to startle you."
Anne had a number of sharp retorts to this, but it seemed impolitic to voice them. She contented herself with a glare, and stepped away.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded.
"I live here," the robber said serenely.
"And do your robbing in the country?"
"Best way to do it," the robber said. "Strike outside of town and then run back to the city and hide. They'll never catch me that way."
Disgusted, Anne tried to brush past her back to the street, but the robber grabbed her arm. "Don't go."
Anne yanked her arm out of the robber's grip. "Don't touch me."
"Well, aren't we feeling unfriendly?" the robber snickered. "You weren't so cold the last time we met!"
"You forced me!"
"I did not. I gave you the clear and not unreasonable choice of keeping your things or giving them up. Is it my fault that you chose to keep them?"
"You stole everyone else's. And you raped the driver. Don't pretend you didn't."
The robber inclined her magnificent head. Despite everything, Anne could not take her eyes off her. She really was the loveliest woman she'd ever seen. It was horribly unjust that such beauty was wasted on a criminal.
"I don't want anything to do with you," she said, her voice not nearly as convinced as she wanted it to be.
The robber cocked a grin at her. "That, lovely, only shows how much you do want it!"
"No, I don't," Anne said, more determinedly, and tried to step past the robber again.
She blocked Anne's way. "Well, I do."
Anne went very still. They were in a narrow side alley, she noticed suddenly, off the main street. She had to play for time, she decided; screaming probably wouldn't be a good idea.
"Why me?" she managed at last.
"Because you're pretty," the robber said easily. "And a good kisser. And, really, I could use a personal secretary."
"What for?" Anne demanded scornfully. "I hardly think robbers need to sign their names very often!"
"I'm glad you mentioned names," the robber said. "Mine's Moll. Moll Davis. Pleased to meet you." She tried to lean in to embrace Anne, who shied away.
"Don't be like that," said Moll. "I don't mean you any harm, you know."
"What guarantee do I have of that?" Anne demanded.
"Well," said Moll reasonably. "I would have done it by now, wouldn't I? And I know you won't hurt me, Anne."
This was the first time she'd used Anne's name. "Oh, won't I?" she asked. "I have your name now. I could go to the guard and tell them you're a thief!"
"And I," said Moll, grinning widely, "could tell them you're a Symbolist."
Anne couldn't help it; her hand shot out of its own accord to clasp the Symbol sewn into her sleeve. Moll laughed, that dark, rich, mocking laughter, there in the alleyway.
"I am not a Symbolist," Anne said weakly,knowing it was no use; she'd just betrayed herself completely.
"You are, and you'll hang for it," said Moll gaily. "I felt it on your wrist, you know, when we were together. You think an accomplished thief like myself wouldn't recognize the profile of God the Traveler? You were wearing it for protection, weren't you, you idolatrous heathen?"
"What are you going to do?" Anne whispered. Her mouth felt very dry.
"Nothing--so long as you keep your mouth shut." Moll held out her hand. "And come have supper with me."
"Is this how you usually deal with lovers?" Anne demanded. "Threaten them into stepping out with you?"
"Oh, come now, I'm not threatening you," Moll said. "I'm just proposing that we have supper together. I know a nice place. You must be hungry. And I don't mind eating with a Symbolist."
"Perhaps I mind eating with a robber. How do I know you're not going to get me drunk and steal all my money and possessions?"
Moll gave an elaborate sigh. "I wish you'd just trust me, Anne. If I'd wanted to lift from you, I would have done it before the gate guard extorted that shilling from you!"
Anne couldn't help it: she laughed, briefly and incredulously. Moll's grin grew wider.
"See? I knew that laugh was somewhere. Now, come on. The day grows old, and I'd like get us good seats."
***
The Talking Parrot did indeed have a talking parrot, as Moll helpfully pointed out when they entered. Anne jumped back as the monstrous blue-and-yellow bird screeched, "Good evening!" in her ear, but Moll merely laughed and yanked on the parrot's chain. The bird slipped and grabbed for its railing, screaming.
Its noise was hardly audible over the din of the tavern: everywhere the shouts and calls and raised voices of hungry, inebriated people. It was the sort of place one would expect to find someone like Moll, Anne thought, instinctively drawing closer to her protector. Loud, dirty, crowded full of thieves and sailors on shore leave, hardly any men amongst them except for a few hoary old examples lounging at the bar, who seemed as disreputable as the women.
Anne must have made some noise indicative of her nervousness, because Moll turned back with a reassuring grin. "Don't worry, lovely," she said. "They wouldn't dare harm a friend of mine here."
And indeed Moll did seem popular: the moment she stepped out into the uncertain light of the rush torches, there was a thunderously enthusiastic cry of, "Moll!" Tankards were raised and invitations to sit issued, but Moll waved them all aside.
"I'm here with a friend," she said, indicating Anne. Anne's face heated as lewd catcalls sounded.
"Don't wear her out, Moll darling!" shouted a woman with a scar across her face.
"Looks a bit virtuous for you, doesn't she?"
"You wouldn't know virtue if it hit you across your ugly face, Scar-Faced Nell," Moll retorted, and the tavern rocked with laughter, even from Nell. "Sit down, Anne dear," Moll said. "I swear, the food's better than the company in this place."
Anne sat down in a booth nervously, and Moll slid in beside her. A slatternly waitress appeared.
"What are you having?" she asked.
Moll ordered supper in the confident tones of someone who had been there many times before. Anne nervously did the same.
"So she comes back with our food?" she asked, mainly to distract herself, but also because she was curious.
"That's the way it works," Moll nodded. "Don't you have places like this in Stratford?"
"Of course not. We've only got two cookshops, and you have to order your meal at the bar."
"The management doesn't really trust customers at the bar here," Moll said. "Too many fights! And too much lifting."
Anne raised an eyebrow. "And by 'lifting,' you mean stealing?"
"Of course. The management knows us customers. But the food is wonderful, I assure you. And, look." She nodded at the center of the room. "They have a play too."
Anne turned eagerly to look at the raised stage in the middle of the tavern. It was a mime show, with the actors not bothering to try and shout above the ambient noise, and it seemed to be a bawdy comedy about a man with too many lascivious wives. The man was, to Anne's slight surprise, actually played by a male actor, who cowered as his "wives" all leaped about him in salacious eagerness. One of the actresses caressed him on the arm, and Anne looked away, stomach suddenly tightening.
Moll raised an eyebrow. "Something wrong, Stratford Girl?"
At that point the waitress came back, with wine and bread and stew obviously lifted from a simmering pot. It did taste good, Anne thought as she ate, especially on an empty stomach.
Moll nudged her. "Well?"
"Nothing's wrong," Anne said quickly.
Moll waited. Anne swallowed down her bread.
"Oh, all right," she said, looking down. "I was reminded of my husband. And his first wife."
"Ah." Moll took a swig of wine. Anne thought of the bottle she'd finished this afternoon and wondered just how much this woman could drink. "Neglected you, did he, poor girl?"
"Very much." Anne nodded. "We were married for five years. And I saw him so seldom that not a single child came of it. Not even one pregnancy!" She tore angrily at her bread.
"Bastard," Moll said. "And I suppose he was all over his first wife?"
Anne made a disgusted noise. "And his second. It was only me he didn't care for."
"Ah, well, men are like that," Moll said. "One reason why I've never married."
"I've never understood why men are allowed more than one wife and women aren't," Anne said resentfully.
"Women don't have wives, lovely. At least, not in Londinium. I don't know about Stratford--"
"No, we don't have wives in Stratford either." Anne had to smile. "But you know what I mean. Why can't women have more than one husband?"
"Because there's fewer men than women, dear. Everyone knows that. How many people die before they reach male years? Men have got to have many wives or we'll have a bunch of women running around loose."
"Like you?"
Moll tore off a chunk of bread and grinned, strong and fierce. "No man would have me, lovely. I'm like Frankish wine: a bit too strong for them."
Anne laughed. "Well, perhaps you are wise. I certainly would have been better off if I'd never married." She focused on the floor show. It was amusing, she thought, though she was rather disappointed that the actors had no lines.
"Divorced, are you?"
"What?" Anne jerked her attention back to her dining companion. "Oh--yes. Yes I am."
"Well, perhaps you are wise after all!" They both laughed at this. "Tell me more about Stratford," Moll said, pushing Anne's tankard to her.
Moll kept the conversation going skillfully, routinely hailing the waitress for more wine, keeping Anne's tankard topped up. Anne, under the insidious influence of wine and food, told her all about her family and her life in Stratford, her dreadful job as a teacher of horrible students, and her fateful decision, after the divorce, to move to Londinium.
"And here I am," she said dreamily, watching the mime show. "Eating supper with a woman who robbed me on the road and is threatening to get me hanged." The actor executed a handstand that showed that she didn't have a petticoat on. The audience whooped and cheered.
"I didn't rob you, remember? I only kissed you." Moll eyed Anne's tankard, which was almost empty, and switched it with her own, which was almost full.
Anne lifted it absently and drank. "I like that play over there," she said, nodding to it. "I remember when the players came through Stratford. That was one of the best days of my life." She swallowed down more wine.
"Really? I'll have to take you to a playhouse later, then." Judging that the time was about right, Moll rang the bell for the bartender, who came to collect the fee. "Thanks, Jane."
"A playhouse?" Anne focused fuzzily on Moll. "That would be lovely."
"I'm sure it will be. Get your things, dear: we're going home."
"But I don't have a home," Anne protested. "Not here. I don't have anywhere to stay."
"You're staying with me, remember?" Moll said as she hoisted Anne's satchel over her own shoulder and pulled Anne out of the booth.
"Oh...right." Anne squinted as Moll led her out of the tavern. "Am I?"
"Of course you are."
Outside, night had fallen. The city was pitch black except for the group of light-girls huddled outside of the tavern. Moll hailed one of them and tossed her a coin to light their way home.
To Anne, the journey seemed like a mad, twisting maze of narrow streets and slippery mud puddles; it was only Moll's guiding arm that stopped her from collapsing in the street. If only Mother could see me now, she thought. And: What was IN that wine?
At last they reached a tall, diamond-paned house that leaned over the street. Moll sent away the light-girl and escorted Anne up a rickety, narrow flight of backstairs, up and up through the shadows and dust, until they reached the second floor, and Moll's room.
Moll sat her down and bustled around lighting the lamp and throwing aside Anne's satchel. Anne squinted at the room revealed. It was surprisingly large and cozy, with curtains covering the windows and a large, comfortable-looking bed with a velvet cover. That bed reminded Anne of just how much she wanted to sleep. But when had she agreed to stay with Moll?
"You're not planning to sell me to slavers or something, are you?" she asked anxiously.
Moll, busy locking the door, chuckled. "No, darling, not when I've finally gotten you back with me." She turned back from the door and went to pull Anne out of the chair and to the washbasin. "Come on, Stratford Girl, you should wash some of that travel dust off you."
With Moll's help, Anne washed off the dirt of traveling from her face and arms and hands. The cold water helped sober her up a bit, too.
"This is a bad idea," she moaned. "A very bad idea."
Moll pulled her gently from the washbasin. "What's a bad idea, sparrow?"
"This." Anne gestured around. "Your room. Staying with you."
"Don't be silly." Moll drew Anne toward her and leaned in for another kiss.
The room seemed to tilt around Anne. She resisted for only a moment before leaning in with an eager moan, desperate for more that red mouth. Around her, Moll's hair flowed like a net, like jet-black water.
Moll was the one to raise her head, panting slightly, eyes bright. "There," she said roughly. "I knew you wanted it."
Anne hesitated; but the upsets of the day, the excitement of arrival and five years of deprivation were too much. She seized the other woman with sudden desperation, burying her hands in Moll's hair, wrapping it around her wrists as she kissed the robber and backed her into her bed.
Thus it was that Anne, only just arrived in Londinium, found a place to stay, a friend to help her, and became a robber's doxy.
Story: Anne Martinal
Color: Scarlet 2, 3; Ruby 2
Supplies and Styles: none
Word Count:3,135
Rating: PG-13
Summary:
Warning: Sexual content, but nothing graphic
<lj-cut>
Londinium.
It was the greatest city in Albion--no doubt about that. The greatest, and the most wretched. Here King Espereth danced with her courtiers amid rooms draped in cloth of gold, and the high houses of the proud aristocracy ignored the dying beggars on their doorsteps. The river was crowded with vessels of all kinds: barges overloaded with merchandise, fishing boats coming in from the sea, ships of trade and war flying slowly past with full white sails. Here the streets were so filthy that it was forbidden by city law to kill kites or ravens, since they ate the debris. Here a criminal could escape the law simply by crossing the street into another sheriff's territory. Here the mortality rate of the slums was so high that everyone who made it to male years had fifteen wives. Here the white spires of the Church of God's Redemption towered over the massed roofs and smoking chimneys, and the playhouses ran up flags to attract the masses in their thousands. Here printers ran out idolatrous tracts and hawkers sold incendiary chapbooks. Here Symbolists held illegal services in cellars and attics. Here assassins crept, thieves crawled, courtiers made their murderous plots.
It was to this seething mass of conspiracy and greed, wretchedness and hope, that Anne, knowing nothing, had arrived.
***
Her first trial came at the city gate.
"What do you mean, I must pay to get in?" she demanded.
The guard sniggered. "Someone's got to pay for the upkeep of this place," she sneered. "And we don't want the riffraff getting in." She gestured behind Anne to indicate the squalid suburbs that surrounded the city walls. "So pay up, lovely, or clear off!"
Fuming, Anne shoved the shilling piece into the guard's hand and was waved through. It wasn't so much the money as the principle, she reflected, though she supposed it made sense when she thought of the expense of maintaining a city this large. Still, after a journey like she'd just had, it seemed almost too much to have to pay to finally get into the city.
Cheer up, she told herself. You finally made it! With your things!
She looked around. It was as busy as market day at Stratford just within Londinium's walls. Everywhere there were hordes of people: ragged beggars with hands stretched out; the steaming mass of a laundry where red-handed women shouted at each other over the din; peasants with their produce whipping tired oxen on; an Anti-Symbolist church ringing its bells as the faithful filed in. Overhead the plaster walls of the houses leaned in, nearly blocking the sky. Anne dodged a crowd of geese being driven by a girl and nearly toppled over into an evil-smelling ditch. The stench was unbelievable.
Anne realized she was standing there gaping, and decided that she must keep moving. It wouldn't do to present a target for footpads, footpads who probably wouldn't let her go with just a kiss. Anne blushed as she remembered the robber, and forced herself to shake it off. It was nothing, she told herself. She was probably never even going to see the robber again, and good riddance.
Then, as though summoned by an evil charm, the robber herself appeared.
The ox cart in front of the tavern suddenly moved forward, revealing none other than the robber herself, leaning against the tavern wall and swigging from a ceramic bottle. Anne gaped.
It was the robber all right, right down to the tan coat and broad-brimmed hat. The only things that had changed were that the handkerchief was gone, reavealing her lovely face, and she had let her hair down under the hat. It cascaded down her shoulders in a lovely, blue-black mass, untethered and untamed.
As Anne watched, the robber turned to look at her.
Mabye she won't se me, Anne thought wildly, but it was a fruitless hope: a wide, white grin had already spread over the robber's face.
"Stratford Girl!" she called, stepping away from the tavern wall and waving vigorously.
Immediately, Anne turned and began walking rapidly through the crowd, paying no attention to where she was going. She just had to escape the robber.
It was useless, of course. The robber was much faster than she was. Within seconds, a hard hand had descended on her shoulder.
Anne wheeled around. "Let go of me!"
The robber froze, hands held out with pacification. "Apologies." She lowered her hands. "I didn't mean to startle you."
Anne had a number of sharp retorts to this, but it seemed impolitic to voice them. She contented herself with a glare, and stepped away.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded.
"I live here," the robber said serenely.
"And do your robbing in the country?"
"Best way to do it," the robber said. "Strike outside of town and then run back to the city and hide. They'll never catch me that way."
Disgusted, Anne tried to brush past her back to the street, but the robber grabbed her arm. "Don't go."
Anne yanked her arm out of the robber's grip. "Don't touch me."
"Well, aren't we feeling unfriendly?" the robber snickered. "You weren't so cold the last time we met!"
"You forced me!"
"I did not. I gave you the clear and not unreasonable choice of keeping your things or giving them up. Is it my fault that you chose to keep them?"
"You stole everyone else's. And you raped the driver. Don't pretend you didn't."
The robber inclined her magnificent head. Despite everything, Anne could not take her eyes off her. She really was the loveliest woman she'd ever seen. It was horribly unjust that such beauty was wasted on a criminal.
"I don't want anything to do with you," she said, her voice not nearly as convinced as she wanted it to be.
The robber cocked a grin at her. "That, lovely, only shows how much you do want it!"
"No, I don't," Anne said, more determinedly, and tried to step past the robber again.
She blocked Anne's way. "Well, I do."
Anne went very still. They were in a narrow side alley, she noticed suddenly, off the main street. She had to play for time, she decided; screaming probably wouldn't be a good idea.
"Why me?" she managed at last.
"Because you're pretty," the robber said easily. "And a good kisser. And, really, I could use a personal secretary."
"What for?" Anne demanded scornfully. "I hardly think robbers need to sign their names very often!"
"I'm glad you mentioned names," the robber said. "Mine's Moll. Moll Davis. Pleased to meet you." She tried to lean in to embrace Anne, who shied away.
"Don't be like that," said Moll. "I don't mean you any harm, you know."
"What guarantee do I have of that?" Anne demanded.
"Well," said Moll reasonably. "I would have done it by now, wouldn't I? And I know you won't hurt me, Anne."
This was the first time she'd used Anne's name. "Oh, won't I?" she asked. "I have your name now. I could go to the guard and tell them you're a thief!"
"And I," said Moll, grinning widely, "could tell them you're a Symbolist."
Anne couldn't help it; her hand shot out of its own accord to clasp the Symbol sewn into her sleeve. Moll laughed, that dark, rich, mocking laughter, there in the alleyway.
"I am not a Symbolist," Anne said weakly,knowing it was no use; she'd just betrayed herself completely.
"You are, and you'll hang for it," said Moll gaily. "I felt it on your wrist, you know, when we were together. You think an accomplished thief like myself wouldn't recognize the profile of God the Traveler? You were wearing it for protection, weren't you, you idolatrous heathen?"
"What are you going to do?" Anne whispered. Her mouth felt very dry.
"Nothing--so long as you keep your mouth shut." Moll held out her hand. "And come have supper with me."
"Is this how you usually deal with lovers?" Anne demanded. "Threaten them into stepping out with you?"
"Oh, come now, I'm not threatening you," Moll said. "I'm just proposing that we have supper together. I know a nice place. You must be hungry. And I don't mind eating with a Symbolist."
"Perhaps I mind eating with a robber. How do I know you're not going to get me drunk and steal all my money and possessions?"
Moll gave an elaborate sigh. "I wish you'd just trust me, Anne. If I'd wanted to lift from you, I would have done it before the gate guard extorted that shilling from you!"
Anne couldn't help it: she laughed, briefly and incredulously. Moll's grin grew wider.
"See? I knew that laugh was somewhere. Now, come on. The day grows old, and I'd like get us good seats."
***
The Talking Parrot did indeed have a talking parrot, as Moll helpfully pointed out when they entered. Anne jumped back as the monstrous blue-and-yellow bird screeched, "Good evening!" in her ear, but Moll merely laughed and yanked on the parrot's chain. The bird slipped and grabbed for its railing, screaming.
Its noise was hardly audible over the din of the tavern: everywhere the shouts and calls and raised voices of hungry, inebriated people. It was the sort of place one would expect to find someone like Moll, Anne thought, instinctively drawing closer to her protector. Loud, dirty, crowded full of thieves and sailors on shore leave, hardly any men amongst them except for a few hoary old examples lounging at the bar, who seemed as disreputable as the women.
Anne must have made some noise indicative of her nervousness, because Moll turned back with a reassuring grin. "Don't worry, lovely," she said. "They wouldn't dare harm a friend of mine here."
And indeed Moll did seem popular: the moment she stepped out into the uncertain light of the rush torches, there was a thunderously enthusiastic cry of, "Moll!" Tankards were raised and invitations to sit issued, but Moll waved them all aside.
"I'm here with a friend," she said, indicating Anne. Anne's face heated as lewd catcalls sounded.
"Don't wear her out, Moll darling!" shouted a woman with a scar across her face.
"Looks a bit virtuous for you, doesn't she?"
"You wouldn't know virtue if it hit you across your ugly face, Scar-Faced Nell," Moll retorted, and the tavern rocked with laughter, even from Nell. "Sit down, Anne dear," Moll said. "I swear, the food's better than the company in this place."
Anne sat down in a booth nervously, and Moll slid in beside her. A slatternly waitress appeared.
"What are you having?" she asked.
Moll ordered supper in the confident tones of someone who had been there many times before. Anne nervously did the same.
"So she comes back with our food?" she asked, mainly to distract herself, but also because she was curious.
"That's the way it works," Moll nodded. "Don't you have places like this in Stratford?"
"Of course not. We've only got two cookshops, and you have to order your meal at the bar."
"The management doesn't really trust customers at the bar here," Moll said. "Too many fights! And too much lifting."
Anne raised an eyebrow. "And by 'lifting,' you mean stealing?"
"Of course. The management knows us customers. But the food is wonderful, I assure you. And, look." She nodded at the center of the room. "They have a play too."
Anne turned eagerly to look at the raised stage in the middle of the tavern. It was a mime show, with the actors not bothering to try and shout above the ambient noise, and it seemed to be a bawdy comedy about a man with too many lascivious wives. The man was, to Anne's slight surprise, actually played by a male actor, who cowered as his "wives" all leaped about him in salacious eagerness. One of the actresses caressed him on the arm, and Anne looked away, stomach suddenly tightening.
Moll raised an eyebrow. "Something wrong, Stratford Girl?"
At that point the waitress came back, with wine and bread and stew obviously lifted from a simmering pot. It did taste good, Anne thought as she ate, especially on an empty stomach.
Moll nudged her. "Well?"
"Nothing's wrong," Anne said quickly.
Moll waited. Anne swallowed down her bread.
"Oh, all right," she said, looking down. "I was reminded of my husband. And his first wife."
"Ah." Moll took a swig of wine. Anne thought of the bottle she'd finished this afternoon and wondered just how much this woman could drink. "Neglected you, did he, poor girl?"
"Very much." Anne nodded. "We were married for five years. And I saw him so seldom that not a single child came of it. Not even one pregnancy!" She tore angrily at her bread.
"Bastard," Moll said. "And I suppose he was all over his first wife?"
Anne made a disgusted noise. "And his second. It was only me he didn't care for."
"Ah, well, men are like that," Moll said. "One reason why I've never married."
"I've never understood why men are allowed more than one wife and women aren't," Anne said resentfully.
"Women don't have wives, lovely. At least, not in Londinium. I don't know about Stratford--"
"No, we don't have wives in Stratford either." Anne had to smile. "But you know what I mean. Why can't women have more than one husband?"
"Because there's fewer men than women, dear. Everyone knows that. How many people die before they reach male years? Men have got to have many wives or we'll have a bunch of women running around loose."
"Like you?"
Moll tore off a chunk of bread and grinned, strong and fierce. "No man would have me, lovely. I'm like Frankish wine: a bit too strong for them."
Anne laughed. "Well, perhaps you are wise. I certainly would have been better off if I'd never married." She focused on the floor show. It was amusing, she thought, though she was rather disappointed that the actors had no lines.
"Divorced, are you?"
"What?" Anne jerked her attention back to her dining companion. "Oh--yes. Yes I am."
"Well, perhaps you are wise after all!" They both laughed at this. "Tell me more about Stratford," Moll said, pushing Anne's tankard to her.
Moll kept the conversation going skillfully, routinely hailing the waitress for more wine, keeping Anne's tankard topped up. Anne, under the insidious influence of wine and food, told her all about her family and her life in Stratford, her dreadful job as a teacher of horrible students, and her fateful decision, after the divorce, to move to Londinium.
"And here I am," she said dreamily, watching the mime show. "Eating supper with a woman who robbed me on the road and is threatening to get me hanged." The actor executed a handstand that showed that she didn't have a petticoat on. The audience whooped and cheered.
"I didn't rob you, remember? I only kissed you." Moll eyed Anne's tankard, which was almost empty, and switched it with her own, which was almost full.
Anne lifted it absently and drank. "I like that play over there," she said, nodding to it. "I remember when the players came through Stratford. That was one of the best days of my life." She swallowed down more wine.
"Really? I'll have to take you to a playhouse later, then." Judging that the time was about right, Moll rang the bell for the bartender, who came to collect the fee. "Thanks, Jane."
"A playhouse?" Anne focused fuzzily on Moll. "That would be lovely."
"I'm sure it will be. Get your things, dear: we're going home."
"But I don't have a home," Anne protested. "Not here. I don't have anywhere to stay."
"You're staying with me, remember?" Moll said as she hoisted Anne's satchel over her own shoulder and pulled Anne out of the booth.
"Oh...right." Anne squinted as Moll led her out of the tavern. "Am I?"
"Of course you are."
Outside, night had fallen. The city was pitch black except for the group of light-girls huddled outside of the tavern. Moll hailed one of them and tossed her a coin to light their way home.
To Anne, the journey seemed like a mad, twisting maze of narrow streets and slippery mud puddles; it was only Moll's guiding arm that stopped her from collapsing in the street. If only Mother could see me now, she thought. And: What was IN that wine?
At last they reached a tall, diamond-paned house that leaned over the street. Moll sent away the light-girl and escorted Anne up a rickety, narrow flight of backstairs, up and up through the shadows and dust, until they reached the second floor, and Moll's room.
Moll sat her down and bustled around lighting the lamp and throwing aside Anne's satchel. Anne squinted at the room revealed. It was surprisingly large and cozy, with curtains covering the windows and a large, comfortable-looking bed with a velvet cover. That bed reminded Anne of just how much she wanted to sleep. But when had she agreed to stay with Moll?
"You're not planning to sell me to slavers or something, are you?" she asked anxiously.
Moll, busy locking the door, chuckled. "No, darling, not when I've finally gotten you back with me." She turned back from the door and went to pull Anne out of the chair and to the washbasin. "Come on, Stratford Girl, you should wash some of that travel dust off you."
With Moll's help, Anne washed off the dirt of traveling from her face and arms and hands. The cold water helped sober her up a bit, too.
"This is a bad idea," she moaned. "A very bad idea."
Moll pulled her gently from the washbasin. "What's a bad idea, sparrow?"
"This." Anne gestured around. "Your room. Staying with you."
"Don't be silly." Moll drew Anne toward her and leaned in for another kiss.
The room seemed to tilt around Anne. She resisted for only a moment before leaning in with an eager moan, desperate for more that red mouth. Around her, Moll's hair flowed like a net, like jet-black water.
Moll was the one to raise her head, panting slightly, eyes bright. "There," she said roughly. "I knew you wanted it."
Anne hesitated; but the upsets of the day, the excitement of arrival and five years of deprivation were too much. She seized the other woman with sudden desperation, burying her hands in Moll's hair, wrapping it around her wrists as she kissed the robber and backed her into her bed.
Thus it was that Anne, only just arrived in Londinium, found a place to stay, a friend to help her, and became a robber's doxy.
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Please don't warn for any sort of queer content. It's saying that queer people require a warning, whereas straight people don't because they're the norm. Warning for sexual content is correct; warning for it being lesbian isn't. If you have any questions about this policy, please feel free to ask. One of us will get back to you as soon as we see it.
Thanks
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Your descriptions are fabulous, though. Like, amazing. Those first two paragraphs are just, wow.
eta: also, I've been thinking about it, would you maybe mind warning for dubious consent? Thanks in advance!
I don't like Moll either