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Sunday June 13, 1688
John Francis Hale stood stock still, listening to the church bells strike midnight in the distance. The previous two hours, he had called the time to all within hearing, assuring them also that all was well. But with midnight came the time for silence, the longest part of his nightly patrol. Despite this admonition for quiet, once the bells fell silent, he began softly whistling a sea ballad as he set off walking again.
With his halberd propped against his shoulder, lantern swinging from the same wrist holding the deadly blade aslant, he liked to let the good people of Fleet Street know of his presence and be comforted by it. The whistled tunes also had the effect of announcing his approach to the not-good people who passed his way, something that left him entirely pleased. London's reprobates knew well that a quick theft was not to be had anywhere on Fleet Street under cover of night. At least not on the nights he patrolled.
He met so many lads out on his night watchmen duties, not truly ne'er-do-wells, just God's children taken astray by drink or petty rebellion. Constable Woolsey, God bless him, sneered at every one of them, but not John. He did what he could to get the overdrinkers home to their missus and the whoremongers to seek mischief elsewhere.
There was but one type of man John Hale could not abide--the purveyors of flesh. The very sight of a pimp standing guard outside a bawdy house set his lip to curling. They were the very worst of men, devoid of any spirit of mercy. Devils, every one of them. His disdain for them well known, most of London's procurers made a point not to cross paths with John. But it seemed now, in the first minutes of the Lord's day, one of them had decided to show his face.
There, walking toward him in the street bold as brass, was a foreign man, his skin dark and features proclaiming him to be from the East. His bald head shone in the moonlight, as he had apparently discarded his periwig at some point. Two ladies walked along with him and even if all three had not been skittering in the manner of suspect individuals, John would have noticed them immediately in their outlandish attire. One of the ladies in particular, John had to squint to be assured she was dressed at all.
"Halt there!" he shouted, doing his best imitation of his father's gravelly voice. "What business do you have to walk abroad at this hour?"
All three froze mid-step, the lady closest to him, dark of hair and dressed only in a shift and buskin boots, opened her mouth as if to respond, but the foreign man beat her to it.
"Mind your business, young man," he snapped, holding up a finger as if chastising a schoolboy.
A deep flush rushed like a tide up John’s neck and onto his face, setting his ears aflame and narrowing his eyes. "I am about the King's business, sir!" John snapped, ripping the halberd from his shoulder and pointing it toward the man, causing both ladies to gasp and step back. "And I will have you in the stocks by morning, you filthy-"
"Good friend, please be still!" The dark-haired woman thrust herself between the point of his Halberd and the foreign man's chest. "I am Mary Storm recently of Philadelphia, daughter of merchant Melvin Storm. This man," she gestured at the villain behind her. "...is Paul Canaan, a good Christian and indentured to my family. Given our terrible state, I understand your assumptions, but we are not immoral women. If you'd rouse the groundskeeper of St. Mary Abchurch, he will remember me. And Mister Harry Martins of the Red Hawk Tavern knew my father. He will tell you."
John's mouth tightened as he mulled the woman's words. Of all the pleas he had heard from harlots, this one was most unusual. To begin with, the woman was not from London, most certainly. And using an inn keeper as a character reference was new as well. He had never been to the Red Hawk himself, but it was an establishment of quality, not known for harboring immorality.
She looked so sincere, but that was no promise her story was true. Her very real desperation could well be from fear of what her villainous panderer would do once he dismissed them. With his halberd extended, the lantern shone on their faces, allowing John to see them more clearly. All three towered above him, their faces each pinched with an intermingling of fear and readiness to do battle.
They were all injured in some way. The silent, tawny-haired beauty had an angry red welt above her eye and was dressed in an odd and scandalous confection--material stretched like black paint over her legs and torso, sparing no detail from sight, even in the dark. Miss Storm had visible welts on her neck and favored her right arm. The man too was injured, with scratches and welts on his face and head, a bloody bandage on his hand.
If the lady spoke the truth, then the man was a servant, so John directed his next question at her. "You say you are a guest of Harry Martins, madam?"
"Yes," she said, nodding at him vigorously.
"So you know also his son, Robert?"
At that, she paused, looking down briefly with her brows knit together. "I only met Charles, the young man who tends the tavern. My father made no mention of him being related to Harry."
John nodded, allowing himself a light smile in gratitude that this lovely lady had been truthful. "A test is all, Miss. Mister Martins has no sons." Returning his halberd to his shoulder with a nod of apology, he then asked, "What has happened to you, madam?"
The tawny-haired girl crossed her arms over her chest and stepped back, seeming to retreat from the question. Who was she, Miss Storm's sister? A maidservant?
"We have been mistreated most foully, Friend," said Miss Storm, stepping closer to him. "My father was killed yesterday on Thames Street and, then, while my good sister and I searched for my brother, we were robbed by brigands who pretended to help us!" Her voice caught with emotion and Miss Storm too crossed her arms, looking down in shame. "Had Mr. Canaan not arrived when he did..."
"Your father was the one who met his demise under the carriage?" he asked kindly, having been told of the accident by Constable Woolsey at the beginning of his shift.
"The same," she said. "I have not yet found my brother. I fear trouble has found him."
John knew not what to say. Whoever kept the King's peace on Thames Street during daylight hours had much to answer for, as the place teemed with thieves and brigands. It offered no surprise that such lovely ladies, bereft of their men, had been targeted for villainy.
"I regret to have added to your burden, Miss Storm," he said sincerely. "And to you, Miss..." he looked at the tawny-haired one, waiting expectantly for her name.
"Meghan," she said softly, not looking up at him.
At her sister's word, Miss Storm's eyes widened in what looked like anger and her jaw flexed. But as quickly as the change flashed over her lovely face, it was gone.
"Mrs. Storm," she said. "My brother's wife. We are both most eager to find him."
Ah, that explained it. He wondered if they were gentry. Impossible to tell with the colonial accent and the lack of clothing. Proper clothing anyway.
Sweeping his hand at the empty street, John beckoned them to follow him. "It may be he has returned to the inn. I shall escort you there."
"Not necessary," snapped the man, his tone having lost none of its edge.
"It would seem it is necessary, Mister Canaan," Miss Storm said, her voice soft and soothing as she laid a fingertip on the man's forearm. "We are quite a sight and I fear we are not the only ones who walk abroad at this late hour. Let us give thanks to Mister..."
Now it was her turn to look at him in expectation, her gaze making his heart quicken just a beat.
"John Francis Hale, Miss. At your service."
She smiled at him, the warmth in her eyes draining all tension from his body. "You have our gratitude, Friend John."
***
It was a mere ten-minute walk to the Red Hawk Inn and Monica cursed their bad luck for running into a night watchman when they'd been so close. Of course she knew it was a possibility a local would hassle them because of their appearance, but for some reason, she hadn't expected a night watchman.
When she'd been standing in the middle of Thames Street, looking down at Dr. Storm's bloody, broken body, there hadn't been a constable in sight. No magistrate, no watchman, no nothing. Nobody had anything to say about a man dying in the middle of a busy street. But two girls and a guy minding their own business... that was what brought the law down on them.
However, it wasn't the injustice of English law enforcement that filled her with irritation as she walked just a step behind John, the well-meaning night watchman. It was Shannan.
That crazy bitch actually just said her name was Meghan! Syed obviously hadn’t been exaggerating when he said she’d been brainwashed.
Ever since they'd come back from 2114, Shannan had barely spoken to her, clinging to Syed like a kicked puppy.
"She was put through a very well-crafted brain-washing program, one that has worked on people far older and stronger than she. It will take some time before she's right again. I know it's hard, but we're not safe just yet. Help me to help her. Be kind."
Syed's words to her had been very clear and, in the moment, he had knocked some sense into her. Shannan had likely been assaulted by that horrible creep, Julio, the same jackass who'd broken Monica's arm, the pain of which pulsed with every step she took. It was a constant, unceasing reminder of what she'd done for her friend, only to have it spat back in her face.
She hadn't dared try to catch Syed's eye when Shannan said her name was Megan, but when they got back to the inn, it would be discussed. They had two weeks to wait before Alfredo would attempt to murder John Churchill. Two weeks to find a way to stop him and set the timeline right. She didn't see how that could happen if Shannan couldn't get a hold of herself.
“Here we are, Miss,” said the night watchman, lifting his lantern higher to illuminate the washed-out sign above the door: The Red Hawk Inn.
The lantern hanging above the tavern’s door had been snuffed out, as it was Sunday. If it were early on a Saturday morning, the fires would still be burning and there would be a man or two enjoying a pint at the bar. But on Sunday, the lantern was out and the streets were quiet.
At least until the watchman pounded on the door.
“His Majesty’s Watch!” John called after letting loose a second volley of three knocks.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Syed shift from foot to foot, obviously nervous about no one coming to the door. But she wasn’t.
She was more nervous about what Harry would have to say after the night watchman left.
The sound of heavy footsteps came from the other side of the door, the lock slinging to the side, then the creak of the hinges as the door opened, revealing… not Harry.
“We are closed on Sundays, sir,” the young man said warily, his glance flicking from the watchman, to Monica, and back to the watchman.
“My regrets, young master. But I have found these good people on the street in quite a state and they say they are guests of your Mr. Martins. Is that so?”
The watchman stepped to the side, sweeping his arm out at her, Syed, and Shannan.
A flash of recognition lit up the man’s face as he looked at her, but it didn’t make Monica feel any better.
Opening the door wider, Charles, the bartender she had met exactly once, stepped out of the doorway and said, "It's Miss Storm isn't it?"
She smiled lightly, her eyebrows raising to assure him she would explain everything. "It is."
Charles let out a sigh that bordered on a growl, crossing his arms over his chest. "Mister Martins was in quite the froth to find you missing. And without your dress, madam! We feared you'd been accosted by a brigand. Come inside, I say. That is,” he paused and looked back at the watchman, “Assuming you have no further business with them?”
The watchman shook his head, causing his lantern to clink against the halberd. “None at all. Sorry again to rouse you at this hour.”
Charles smiled warmly, “A barman’s day ends long after midnight, sir. Can I offer you anything for your trouble?"
“Nothing at all. I must return to my duties.”
"Thank you again, Friend Hale,” Monica said, hoping he didn’t notice how she slipped in and out of her Quaker-style speech. It was insufferable using thee and thou and Dr. Storm had snapped at her lapses.
It was the last thing he did before he stepped out in front of the carriage, actually.
“Goodnight, Miss Storm. And Mrs. Storm.” John Hale raised his hat at them and left, allowing Charles to close the door. And lock it.
Several of the lamps inside the tavern were still lit, showing Charles had indeed been working when the knock on the door sounded. Monica had only talked to him long enough to ask where Harry was when she’d come back here with Dr. Storm’s body. But the way he looked at her now, you’d think they were old friends being reunited.
"Girl, I don’t even want to know what kinda nonsense you got yourself into,” he said, speaking in his California uptalk. “But from one queen to another, I hope you have a good story to tell Harry cuz he. is. pissed." Charles clapped his hands together for each of the last three words. “And who is this in the yoga pants?”
In the light, Monica was finally able to take in Shannan and how horrible she looked. She looked utterly haunted and alone.
“This is Shannan,” said Syed, stepping forward and holding out his hand. “And I’m Syed, the man your boss was holding captive in the basement.”
At that, Charles gave a sly smile and shook his hand. “I remember. Who do you think bandaged your head? And speaking of bandages…” he looked back at Monica, and then at Shannan. “It looks like both of you need some patching up. What the hell happened?”
"It’s a long story and, not to be rude, but I think it’s best if I tell Harry first. He’s still not back?”
“Nope, but he told me to send a message to him if and when you guys came back. So I’ll be doing that first thing in the morning.”
She nodded, wanting to ask where Harry was and why he had been gone so long. But she knew he wouldn’t take kindly to being questioned, so she kept her wondering to herself. “I don’t suppose you have a room available? I have nowhere else to go.”
Charles nodded, running his hand over his head. “I do. One bed and a rollaway. But you’re gonna have to pay like everyone else, up front and no, travelers don't get discounts. We have a business to run."
She nodded, fully expecting that she’d have to go through money a lot quicker than she’d anticipated. “I have money upstairs with my dress. But I have to buy clothes tomorrow. Would you consider letting us work to pay for the room? At least part of it?"
"I’ll have to talk to Harry, obviously, but that’ll probably be fine. Plenty of that to do around here. But from the look of that arm, you’re not gonna be chopping wood.”
She smiled, “Probably not, but I'm left handed, so it's all good."
“We’ll see about that when Harry gets back. I’ll try to make myself scarce.” He nodded his head and moved toward the stairs, grabbing a candle on his way. “I’ll show you to your room. You might want to draw straws for who gets the truckle bed. It is not comfortable.”