She awoke to a rough hand on her thigh.
“Whatcha got in the purse, honey?”
Disoriented and confused, the girl wiped her eyes. She was in the gutter beneath the Tradesmen’s Arch. Her hair a filthy tangle of leaves and twigs, her dress a tattered rag. She clutched a tiny purse to her chest, the drawstring tied around her neck. To most passing by, she might appear as a bundle of trash discarded on the side of the road, or a pile of cloth and twigs absently left behind by the street sweepers. Still, there were those who were interested even in piles of trash.
The first thing she saw when her eyes could focus was the dark, haggard face and gaping mouth of a man crouching over her. She squealed and tried to crawl away. A hand grabbed her by the hair. Strong arms forced her down, pinning her wrists to her sides.
She felt his hot breath on her face and it smelled of liquor and smoke. He tore the tiny purse from her fingers and pulled it from around her neck.
“No!” She wrenched a hand free and reached out for it. “I need that.”
“So do I.” The man cackled slapping her hand aside. Feeling the weight of coins in the bag, he smiled and stuffed the small pouch in his breast pocket.
“No!” she protested.
He sat on her, pinning her to the ground, and ran his fingers down her face, along her lips, stopping at her neck. Slowly they circled her throat and he gave a little squeeze. She gasped, struggling to breathe. He pressed his lips hard against hers, so hard she could tell he was missing teeth. The rough stubble of his whiskers scratched her chin and cheeks.
“Shush,” he whispered. “Were only get’n started. You need ta save your strength.” He lifted off, pushing himself up to his knees, and reached for the buttons of his britches.
She struggled, clawing at him, kicking. He pinned her arms under his knees and her feet found only air. She screamed. The man replied by slapping her hard across the face. The shock left her stunned, staring blindly while he returned to work on his buttons. The pain did not hit her yet, not fully. It was there welling up, fire hot on her cheek. Through watering eyes, she saw him on top of her as if viewing the scene from a distance. Individual sounds were lost replaced by a dull hum. She saw his cracked, peeling lips moving, his throat muscles shifting, long gangly chords, but never heard the words. She freed one arm, but it was captured and stuffed back down out of sight once more.
Behind him, she could see two figures approaching. Somewhere inside her, a thread of hope came alive and she managed a weak whisper, “Help me.”
The foremost man drew a massive sword and holding it by the blade, swung the pommel. Her attacker fell sprawling across the gutter.
The man with the sword knelt down beside her. He was merely an outline against the charcoal sky, a phantom in the dark.
“May I be of assistance, milady,” she heard his voice—a nice voice. His hand found hers and he pulled her to her feet.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Hadrian Blackwater.”
She stared at him. “Really?” She managed, refusing to let go of his hands. Before she realized it, she began to cry.
“What’d you do to her?” the other man asked coming up behind them.
“I—I don’t know.”
“Are you squeezing her hand too hard? Let her go.”
“I’m not holding her. She’s holding me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Her voice quivered. “I just never thought I would ever find you.”
“Oh, okay. Well, you did.” He smiled at her. “And this fellow here is Royce Melborn.”
She gasped and threw her arms around the smaller man’s neck, hugging him tight and crying even harder. Royce stood awkward and stiff while Hadrian peeled her off.
“So I get the impression you’re glad to see us, that’s good,” Hadrian told her. “Now, who are you?”
“I’m Thrace Wood of Dahlgren Village.” She was smiling. She could not help herself. “I have been looking for you for a very long time.”
She staggered.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m a little dizzy.”
“When was the last time you had anything to eat?”
Thrace stood thinking, her eyes shifting back and forth trying to remember.
“Never mind,” Hadrian turned to Royce, “This was once your city. Any ideas where we can get help for a young woman in the middle of the night?”
“It’s a shame we aren’t in Medford. Gwen would be great for this sort of thing.”
“Well, isn’t there a brothel here? After all we’re in the trade capital of the world. Don’t tell me they don’t sell that.”
“Yeah, there’s a nice one on South Street.”
“Okay, Thrace, is it? Come with us, we’ll see if we can get you cleaned up and perhaps a bit of food in you.”
“Wait.” She knelt down beside the unconscious man and pulled her purse from his pocket.
“Is he dead?” She asked.
“Doubt it. Didn’t hit him that hard.”
Rising, she felt light-headed and darkness crept in from the edges of her vision. She hovered a moment like a drunk, began to sway and finally collapsed. She woke only briefly and felt arms gently lifting her. Through a dull buzzing she heard the sound of a chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” she heard one of them say.
“This is the first time I suspect anyone has ever visited a whore house and brought his own woman.”
Chapter 2: Thrace
Shines up purty as a new copper piece, that one does,” Clarisse noted as the three looked through the doorway at Thrace waiting in the parlor. Clarisse was a large rotund woman with rosy cheeks and short pudgy fingers that had a habit of playing with the pleats of her skirt. She and the other women of the Bawdy Bottom Brothel had done wonders with the girl. Thrace was clothed in a new dress. It was cheap and simple, a brown linen kirtle over a white smock with a starched brown bodice, but still decidedly more fetching than the rag she had worn. She hardly resembled the ragamuffin they met the night before. In addition to giving her a bed to sleep in, the women scrubbed, combed, and fed her. Even her lips and eyes were painted and the results were stunning. She was a young beauty with startling blue eyes and golden hair.
“Poor girl was in awful shape when you dropped her off. Where’d you find her?” Clarisse asked.
“Under the Tradesmen’s Arch,” Hadrian replied.