Roberta Gellis (2 page)

* * * *

Magdalene was not the only person who had come to the conclusion that a new whore must be found for the Old Priory Guesthouse. Sir Bellamy had been in too much of a fury when he left to think of anything, but by the time he had made his way across the bridge to London, weaving around tradesmen’s stalls, dodging chapmen selling wares from packs on their backs, and avoiding customers, who kept stopping suddenly right in front of him to examine some item that attracted them, Bell’s first fine rage had worn off.

The press of merchants, the nearly desperate enthusiasm with which all cried their wares, the devices they used to attract customers’ attention, all reminded Bell of Magdalene’s statement of need. He knew, in fact, how much rent she paid on the large stone house that had once been the guesthouse for a very strict order of nuns, so strict that they would not permit any man except the priest into their priory. The order had withered away, and the priory of St. Mary Overy with its church had been taken over by monks who were far less rigid. They had built a fine new guesthouse within the grounds and allowed the old guesthouse to fall back into the bishop of Winchester’s hands.

The house was not suitable for many purposes, divided into many small cells except for the large front room, but it was too good to pull down or use for cheap storage. So when an offer was made to rent it for use as a bathhouse (which it was understood would be a whorehouse also) for which it was admirably arranged, that offer was accepted. It was, after all, only one of many such places the church owned.

Having got that far in his thoughts,
Bell recalled that many, many whores worked out of houses
paying rent to his master, the bishop of Winchester. Since it was his business to deal with secular problems for the bishop, and most stews had or caused problems, he was well known to all the whoremasters and whoremistresses. Surely among all the women who plied their trade in those houses, he could find one who had not sunk to the very bottom, who was still young and attractive and able to be weaned from the worst ways.

Bell stopped abruptly, causing a man behind him to curse him as roundly as he had previously cursed the erratic progress of people in front of him. If he could bring Magdalene a new recruit and she would return to her practice of never taking a client herself, then he would know she was sincere about not wanting to be a whore.

He suddenly felt much lighter, smiled at the colorful chaos on the bridge, and started to turn around to go back to Southwark and start looking for an appropriate girl only to bump into an oncoming stranger. The check removed the smile from his face, but it was neither the physical contact nor the delay that made his well-shaped lips thin to grimness. He was appalled that he had been ready to put aside—no, worse, had
forgotten—
his duty because of a…whore. Yes, she was! She called herself a whore, and who should know better.

He stood rigid, causing several more people to shout curses at him, then started on his way again, his jaw set. Maybe he would look for a new woman for her, maybe he would not, but he had first to deal with a tradesman who had taken the bishop’s money and not delivered the goods.

In a hurry now, he pushed past a man hawking candles, another thrusting
a tray of hot pies at him, and almost banged into a plank set on two barrels and draped with strips of embroidered cloth. A single glance told him these were nothing compared with Magdalene’s fine work, and he muttered several obscenities under his breath as he passed the obstacle and started down the slope that led off the bridge because it seemed he could not shut her out of his thoughts for two moments together.

He turned right at the bottom into Thames Street. That might have been a dangerous route for a man as well dressed as Bell, because all kinds of ill-doers bred among the docks and cheap drinking houses that catered to the sailors. However, the long sword and long knife with their well-worn hilts that hung at his broad leather belt gave warning that he would not be easy prey, and he passed without even a catcall flung after him.

Bell was not unaware of the danger but preferred it to making his way up Fish Street where he was too likely to be splashed with filthy water from the gutter or spattered with offal flung from stalls by busy fishmongers. A short walk past a narrow, nameless alley brought him to a wider street with a fresher smell. Lime Street did not, of course, provide shops only for dealers in limes but for many grocers with diverse but better-smelling stock than fish. Turning left into Lime, Bell passed another nameless alley, which separated the yards of the dwellings and warehouses on Thames Street from those attached to the grander houses of the merchants who had businesses in the East Chepe.

A right turn took him past a pepperer’s shop and a large, double counter displaying staples. Before the open door to the next shop was a long trestle, invitingly heaped with bolts of cloth and hanks of yarn, a mercer. Beyond that was a closed door and a narrow, heavily barred goldsmith’s window. Bell stopped by the mercer’s counter.

“William Dockett?” he asked the man at the counter.

To his surprise, the young man’s eyes widened and then filled with tears. “He is dead, sir, this six months.” Then he swallowed and added, “Can I help you?”

“My business would be with your new master, then,” Bell said, relaxing the severity of his tone. “Would you tell him that the bishop of Winchester’s man has come to talk about an order that was paid for but never delivered.”

He kept all threat from voice and manner. It seemed there was adequate excuse for the delayed delivery. If Docket had died after the order was made and paid for, there might well have been confusion. He was thus surprised again when the journeyman looked rather frightened and, instead of calling into the shop for his master, began a rambling defense of being sure all goods had been shipped as ordered.

“Then you had better carefully examine your deliverymen because the goods did
not
arrive, either at the bishop of Winchester’s London residence or at Winchester. Now, why do you not call your new master? I have with me the original order and the tally stick showing
payment. We can examine these and your master’s records together and see when this order was made up, by whom, who carried it….”

“I cannot leave the stall now, good sir,” the journeyman said, his voice quavering a little. “And I am not sure that my master is within. Perhaps you could come back at some later time—”

“I will come back with the sheriff in a quarter of a candlemark,” Bell said, his voice rising. “I have more important things to do than to return over and over to suit the convenience of a merchant who is months late in fulfilling—”

“Now just a moment!”

The voice was loud and angry. Bell’s hand dropped to his sword hilt, but he did not begin to draw. The new arrival was unarmed and dressed in a long gown that was not meant for action. In addition, he had seen that the man’s glance flicked to the threat and dismissed it, instead fixing on his clothes. As the merchant took in Bell’s short, emerald green overtunic, lavishly embroidered around the neck and hem with Magdalene’s most fanciful work, the rich brown chausses with cross-garters to match the tunic, and elegant knee-high leather boots, his expression grew more and more bland.

When he spoke again, having also absorbed the excellent quality not only of Bell’s outer garments but even of his lemon-yellow undertunic and fine white linen shirt, his voice and words were far more civil. And, when he heard Bell’s complaint, he invited him in at once and waved him ahead toward the left side of the shop where a steep flight of stairs went up to a second story. Two doors opened at right angles to each other on the small landing. He opened the door facing the stairs to show an office full of boxes of parchments and tally sticks. Toward the back, where a window gave good light, was a table with a stool behind it and two in front.

As he selected one box from a neat pile to the left of the table, he introduced himself as Lintun Mercer, who had taken over William Dockett’s business when he had died, very suddenly, the previous November. He quickly found the order, of which Bell had a copy, and then the other half of the tally stick Bell also carried, which proved payment had been made. He frowned then and bit his lip, but then shrugged and drew a deep breath.

Bell was agreeably surprised when, instead of beginning an argument about the difference in price at the time of the order and now or trying to shift the blame, Master Mercer acknowledged that the order had been made, paid for, and not delivered. He apologized profusely, excusing himself by mentioning the grief and confusion caused by William Dockett’s sudden and unexpected death. Then he offered to deliver the bolts of cloth to the Southwark house within the week or to Winchester within a month.

Without the smallest hesitation, Bell accepted the apology and settled for delivery to the Southwark house. Carts constantly travelled between Winchester and Southwark on the bishop’s business, and he felt the merchant should be rewarded by saving the cost of cartage for his quick offer of restitution. Bell had expected an extended argument about whose fault the loss of the cloth had been and had expected to be occupied at least until dinnertime before he obtained an admission of culpability from the merchant. He was delighted at the quick solution that allowed him almost a whole free day.

He wondered briefly whether he should mention the obvious unease of the young journeyman over the undelivered order. Could it have been diverted from its rightful goal rather than never leaving Dockett’s shop? But there could be other causes than theft for the journeyman’s behavior, and Bell was reluctant to get him into trouble.

Later, as he walked quickly toward the bridge and the stews of Southwark, Bell asked himself whether he had wished to save the journeyman or to avoid spending the time talking about the subject. A twinge of guilt assailed him, but he told himself that if the young man had taken advantage of the chaos following William Dockett’s sudden death, it was not the kind of situation that was likely to be repeated. Likely, too, he had been so frightened by the discovery that the cloth had gone astray that any temptation to help himself again would be cured. And, finally, Bell thought, his duty was to protect the bishop, not to worry about merchants who were too trusting. The ten bolts of fustian would be delivered. He had fulfilled his duty.

Unfortunately, finding a new woman for Magdalene was not so easily accomplished. He managed to visit four stews before hunger drove him to a cookshop, where he sat scowling at the food and thinking how much better he would have enjoyed dining at the Old Priory Guesthouse. He was still not willing to yield to the necessity that Magdalene should take men to her bed, but he had to admit that not one of the raddled, broken, filthy, foul-mouthed creatures he had seen could possibly be presented to the clients of the Old Priory Guesthouse.

Nonetheless, he continued his search through the afternoon, telling himself that there must be one, at least one, who was new enough to the trade to be salvaged. He had repeated that to himself for perhaps the tenth time when he opened the door to a place he knew too well. At least five times in the past half year he had been sent to wrench from the whoremaster rent he had not paid, to seek for stolen items, to investigate complaints about women beaten or not paid, and once to question the whores and the whoremaster about a body pulled from the river (just across the road) who someone swore had been seen entering that place.

Taking a deep breath, Bell stepped into what he always thought must look like the entrance to hell. It was dark and the air was hot and moist from the constant splashing out and refilling of the two huge tubs, the token baths. Someone was always screaming, sometimes with laughter and sometimes with pain, and the sound echoed off the water and the slimy ceiling, while along the walls and in the corners, dark figures humped and squirmed, moaning with lust (or, for the whores, groaning with boredom).

The whoremaster was not at his usual place, half athwart the door where he could trip or seize any customer who had not paid. Bell had just opened his mouth to shout for him when a door to one of the back rooms slammed open and a woman’s voice, rich and musical despite the fact that it was loud enough to override all other sounds, began to revile some spluttering male in language that opened Bell’s eyes but in an accent that was purer than that of his own mother or sisters.

There was the sound of a slap followed by a male howl of pain, and a woman darted between the two tubs and then turned to stand at bay, having picked up a heavy, long-handled metal ladle, which she gripped with grim determination to defend herself. The man who followed her, gasping and limping, was the whoremaster himself. Bell grinned, guessing he had tried to sample the merchandise without offering to pay.

The whore backed away toward Bell; the whoremaster followed, waving his fists and angling around to drive the woman into a space where she could be trapped. The movement brought her hair and then her face into the light of a dirt-smeared window, and Bell drew a deep breath.

“That’s enough!” Bell roared as the whoremaster gestured to two men emerging from the shadows and the whore raised the ladle, but with a sob of terror.

“Who the hell—” the whoremaster began, turning his head just enough to see Bell, whereupon he uttered an obscenity and waved off his bully boys. He had tried once to have Bell overpowered and gained nothing but two crippled servants, a visit from the sheriff, and a huge fine. “I paid my rent,” he snarled. “You got no right to interfere—”

“The bishop has a right to do anything he wants,” Bell snapped, “including to put you out of this place, so do not tell me what I have and have not a right to do. Who is this woman? I have not seen her before.”

“They come and go. Who? She says her name’s Diot.”

“Come here, Diot,” Bell said, gesturing her toward a place where the light would fall more fully on her.

She hesitated a moment, then lowered the ladle and came. Bell drew another deep breath. She was not as beautiful as Magdalene; her mouth was wider and its shape not so perfect, her nose broader, not so fine and delicate, but her eyes were a clear green, large and well lashed, and her hair, even though now it was dirty and stringy, when clean would be the rich color of oak leaves in the autumn. She was wearing little more than filthy rags and sported a number of dark bruises that showed through rents in the fabric, but the skin would be very white, Bell thought, once the grime was gone. He took a farthing from his purse and put it in her hand. Without a word, she turned and led him back into the room from which she had erupted.