The Stocks

I sighed, wriggling my wrists around inside my upright wooden handcuffs once more. Some pathetic little faith in the ultimate goodness of the universe kept me moving every five minutes, hoping against hope that the stocks I was in would magically spring open and I would be able to perform another randomly miraculous escape. Lord knew I had a reputation to uphold.

I was the best thief this side of the Channel, woman or no.

Next to me was my trusty partner-in-crime, a Spaniard I knew only as Sanchez. The dark-skinned woman next to me had been by my side for years, supporting me as I first became popular with the thieves of London, then with the thieves of England, and finally as I was named heir by the most powerful Thief Lord in all the Isles. Sanchez had saved my life hundreds of times and we’d worked together for ages, yet it never occurred to me to ask her name.

She was simply Sanchez.

And I was Stephanie Snyder, the only daughter of a couple Dutch immigrants, though the English population knew me as Clever Steph. Apparently, I could cut a ten pound purse from the Duke of York and he wouldn’t know what’d hit him until he reached his home.

Or so they said. Who was I to say I’d never met the Duke of York in my life? The people were content to think I was daring enough to take on Charles Stuart, and I was content to let them think so.

With a sigh, I wriggled my wrists yet again and turned to look at Sanchez, a deep frown etched in my features. I saw she had a similar expression.

“And you call yourself a thief,” I said disgustedly, crinkling my nose. “You couldn’t even manage to nab the keys off one of our guards.” Trusty indeed…

“Says the typhus-ridden fool who got us nicked,” growled Sanchez, her teeth bared. I narrowed my eyes. She broke the cardinal rule, the rule everyone adheres to when they’re friends with a Dutchman.

Never insinuate we have a disease of any kind, even if we do.

I stuck my chin in the air, looking down my nose at her as best I could. My voice took on that noble tone I saved for special occasions (usually when people called me typhus-ridden) and arched an eyebrow.

“I can’t help the fact that you’re an incapable piece of flesh who’d rather sleep with a herd of horses than an attractive man.” I smiled cockily at my comeback. Nothing like a reference to bestiality to get her in a fix. “You were supposed to be watching my back yet, when I turned around, I came face to face with Charles Root and his band of Dogs. Excellent job, Sanchez. Well done.” Everyone in London knew Charles Root was the Provost in all but name. The real Provost was some crippled old man and Root had gracefully slid into place as his ‘temporary’ steward.

If there’s one thing I’d learned about the English, it was that ‘temporary’ generally meant ‘permanent’.

"Yes, well, at least my idea of an attractive man doesn't look like the backside of a horse. Besides, it's a bit hard to watch your back when I can’t differentiate between it and your arse." I raised both my eyebrows.

“Why, my dear Spanish friend, I had no idea you knew what differentiate meant. In any event, blaming each other is getting us nowhere.” I grinned and decided to use the age-old mention of, “What we need is a plan.” Sanchez grinned at me, our previous banter forgotten.

“Si.” She smiled and locked her eyes on mine, obviously expecting me to elaborate on said plain. There was nothing but silence for a moment as we stared at each other, her look expecting and mine blank.

“What, you think I’ve actually come up with something?” I demanded after a moment, my expression one of revolt. “We just got put in the stocks, for Christ’s sake! I’ve got other things on my mind! You’re the smart one. You think of something!” Sanchez's eyes flashed and I suddenly felt as though she were going to insult me in a foreign language.

"Tu bastardo! ¡Su madre era un su del padre eperlano hamstar y de bayas del saúco!" With a glare, her insults ceased and she huffed. My blank stare relayed I had no idea what she'd said. "All right," Sanchez growled, "here's the plan: I lay on the accent, seduce one of the guards, get him to unlock my stocks, kick you in your worthless Dutch arse on my way out the door, and then I come and laugh at your execution in a couple weeks. Is that satisfactory, Senora Puta?" I smiled sweetly at my counterpart.

"Very much so, except for the kicking-Snyder-in-the-ass part, the reference to my being a whore, and the bit about my execution.” After screwing my face up in thought, I snapped my fingers, the proverbial torch lit on my head (we had no idea what light-bulbs were back then so you understand my torch reference). “This is what we’ll do, Sanchez. Next time someone comes past, we ask them to get us a can of lard!”

“And what’re we going to do with the lard, Snyder? Cook up some bacon for our own Last Supper?!” I couldn’t help but frown at that.

“For being a thief, you’re really not that bright. No, I’m going to lather your hand up with it, you’re going to dislocate your thumb, and then you’ll slip out! After that bit’s done, you’ll use your free hand, do the same with the other, find some keys, and unlock me! Then we’ll make our miraculous escape and go down in history for being the only thieves to ever escape the stocks! You’ll forever be known as Slippery Sanchez and all the people of England will be afeared of your wily ways!” My face was alight with excitement as I relayed the plan to my partner; clearly, this was the product of pure genius. “Well? What do you think?”

"I think that afterwards, I’ll refer to you as Snyder the Dilatory Dutchman, an incompetent excuse for a thief who was freed by the Sanchez the Slippery Spaniard.” Sanchez grinned at me as I frowned, though I tactfully held my tongue. “One question, though: who’s getting us the lard? Everyone who walks by either throws something or laughs, if not both.”

“Well, my dear Spanjolen, if you’ll look to the north of us, there are two noblemen shopping at that bazaar that I, for my part, know to be intellectually challenged. They can’t write, they can’t read, and they certainly can’t make the distinction between their ass and elbow. I think that, if it’s done properly, we should be able dupe them into getting us some lard rather spectacularly.”

“And how’re we to get our heads out?”

“Sanchez, we’re thieves. We pick locks for a living. Once our hands are free, we’ll pick the locks and be on our merry way.”

“That’s a stretch if I ever heard of one.”

“Don’t think of it as a stretch. Think of it as trying different avenues of escape to file away in our twisted little minds.” I flashed a huge grin at Sanchez and immediately started to usher over the two noblemen. They came toward us at a leisurely pace, each grinning stupidly, the one on the left stroking the slight beard he’d begun to grow. Neither was out of their twenties; the one to the right was Theophilus Howard, Earl of Suffolk while his friend was William Cecil, the Earl of Salisbury. Thankfully, neither recognized me from any of the events we’d attended.

“Good gentlemen,” I began, easily masking my Dutch accent with that of an Englishwoman, “how art the pair of you faring this glorious morning?” Suffolk scoffed at us, his smile turning into a sneer.

“Better than you, I might imagine,” he responded in his nasally voice. Biting back my natural ability to insult everyone, I continued to smile, playing out my part of a stupid commoner.

“Yes, I fear you are right, Lord Suffolk, and that is exactly why my unworthy counterpart and I have beleaguered your most wondrous selves to trouble you with a call for help.”

“Beleaguered, eh?” Salisbury asked, his eyes narrowed in distrust. Attempting to be discreet, he leaned over to Suffolk and asked, “Is beleaguered good or bad for us?”

“I’m not exactly sure.” Turning back to me, Suffolk put his nose even higher in the air (the man was rivaling the Himalayas) and used his best I’m-a-filthy-rich-nobleman voice.

“And how is this beleaguering to be accomplished?” he asked, trying for all the world to sound important.

I had to stifle a giggle.

He’d managed to not only make an ass out of himself already, but he’d used ‘beleaguered’ in the wrong context.

And they had the nerves to call themselves educated.

"Well, sirs, it seems my friend and I are in need of some lard..." With an obliging smile, I explained why the lard was needed (something about Sanchez catching my typhus, which caused her hands to itch) and what we would be willing to pay for it. It didn’t take much to convince the pair of them; as idiots, they were more trusting than most, and Sanchez soon had her hands on (actually, they were in) some lard.

Stupid of them, really, for Suffolk and Salisbury to trust a thief.

Needless to say, Sanchez and I were freed that day. Suffolk and Salisbury didn’t stand a chance against our (or rather my) superior intellect and methods of escape.

And their purse strings didn’t stand a chance against Slippery Sanchez’s Spanjolen blade.