The Brothers of Glastonbury (24 page)

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I awoke not at all refreshed and with a headache nagging at the back of my eyes. For a moment I was unsure of my surroundings, then memory flooded back. I got up and opened the shutters, expecting to see brilliant sunshine, but the sky was overcast. Clouds had gathered during the night. The eastern horizon, above the Tor and a town just stirring into life, showed a long, ominous streak of crimson, heralding the arrival of unsettled weather. ‘Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight; red in the morning, shepherd’s warning,’ went the old rhyme, and was, in my experience, usually proved to be right. The storm of yesterday had not been a single summer downpour but the harbinger of more to come. Autumn and winter were indeed on their way, and I longed more than ever to solve this mystery and go home.

I descended the stairs, let myself out of the front door and went round to the pump at the side of the house. Here I stripped and began to wash, shielded from the gaze of people already passing up and down the High Street by the wall of Dorabella’s empty stable. The air struck chill and I finished my ablutions as quickly as possible, the contrast reminding me sharply of that morning three days earlier when Mark Gildersleeve and I had bathed here together. That, in its turn, jogged my memory regarding the events of the preceding night, when, leaning from the bedchamber window, I had thought I saw someone moving in the shadows. I recalled how Mark had forbidden me to accompany him when he went to investigate, and also how, the next morning, he had scuffed over the ground in order to erase what he declared to be nothing more than his own footprints. He had explained that he wanted to save the women any anxiety which such marks might have aroused, had they got up and gone to the pump before him. At the time I had considered it a sufficiently unconvincing explanation to be, as is so often the case, true, and in consequence had relegated the incident to the back of my mind.

Now, however, I wondered about it. All at once I felt that I had been reprehensibly foolish in not pursuing the matter. I should have ignored my host’s instructions and crept down after him. Had I done so, should I have discovered him talking to someone? And if so, to whom, and what about?

It could, of course, have been a friend, wanting to know why Mark had not been seen of late at one of his usual haunts in the town, one of the brothels which, as I recalled from my novice days – although not, I hasten to add, from any first-hand knowledge – were grouped about Cock Lane …

I stood staring before me, lost in thought. Then, having scoured my teeth with my willow bark, I went back through this inconvenient house and crossed the garden to the kitchen, where the tireless Lydia was already boiling water for my daily shave.

‘Lyddie,’ I said, taking my razor out of my pouch and laying it on the table, ‘the night you were ill, the night you went out to the privy and met Mark returning from one of his excursions…’

She poured hot water into a wooden bowl. ‘What about it?’ she asked without looking up.

‘You told me – at least I think you told me – that when you first saw Mark he was locking the stable.’

She nodded, pushing the bowl towards me. ‘That’s right. Why?’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘Yes. Does it matter?’

‘I don’t know. I think it might. Rob and John said that Mark visited the local whore-houses, so that must be what he told them – they wouldn’t make it up.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘So why would Mark need Dorabella to go only as far as Cock Lane? A man on horseback attracts more attention than one on foot.’

She sat down on the stool opposite mine and propped her elbows on the table. ‘That’s true,’ she admitted. ‘I hadn’t really thought about it. And practically everybody in the town knows Dorabella. Tying her up outside one of those places would have told everyone who saw her that he was inside.’

‘Him … or his brother.’

Lydia shook her head decisively. ‘No. No one would have thought of Master Peter. He was a pious gentleman. Mark was always the more unruly of the two, especially when they were younger. According to Dame Joan he was jealous of his brother because he said his parents favoured Peter over himself. And the Mistress also says that after the Master died and left the business and his second-best bed to Peter, Mark grew even more disgruntled. He didn’t show it, I must admit, but she’s his mother and she should know.’

Carefully I began to remove the fine, blond fuzz of hair from my chin and upper lip. ‘All the same,’ I grunted, ‘I find it difficult to believe that even Mark cares so little for his reputation as a respected burgess of this town that he is foolhardy enough to ride Dorabella, and so advertize his presence in the local brothels, when it would make more sense for him to walk.’

‘It does seem strange now you mention it.’ Lydia screwed up her nose in puzzlement. ‘Why are you asking all these questions?’

I dipped my razor in the water again and began scraping the other side of my face. ‘I was just wondering…’

‘What?’

‘Oh, nothing. It may not be important.’

Unlike Cicely, Lydia never demanded to be admitted to confidences which might be none of her concern. She kept secrets herself and accepted others’ right to do so. Now, she simply got up and began to attend to the breakfast.

This proved to be a meal of long pauses and few words. The two apprentices were content to eat their food in silence, while Cicely, after one swift glance at me from beneath lowered lashes, addressed herself solely to Dame Joan and Lydia. The older woman, however, was preoccupied with her forthcoming visit to the scrivener, and judging by the soundless opening and closing of her lips, was busy composing her letter to her brother. She roused herself eventually to instruct Rob and John to be off about the business of discovering a carter bound for London, and to inform her the moment that they found one.

No one inquired as to my intended movements until, just as Lydia was in the process of clearing the table, Gilbert Honeyman arrived from his hostelry further down the street. His genial presence was like a breath of fresh air in a musty room and cheered us all considerably. He refused all offers of food and drink, having breakfasted, he said, extremely well off soused herring, broiled venison and medallions of mutton. This being far superior fare to the bacon collops and oat cakes served up by Lydia, I felt very envious of him and immediately my stomach began rumbling with dissatisfaction.

Dame Joan acquainted the Bee Master with her intention of sending for her brother, a plan at once applauded by him as the wisest action she could take, praise which brought the faintest flush of colour to her drawn cheeks. She asked Master Honeyman to go with her to the scrivener’s, but was denied his company by Cicely’s belligerent claim that she was the most proper person to help compose a missive to William Armstrong.

‘He’s my father, after all. I know better than Master Honeyman what you should write to him.’

Dame Joan sighed, recognizing that Cicely was in one of her intractable moods and, if not allowed her own way, would be quite capable of making trouble. She was obviously too tired and too depressed to argue, and therefore apologized to Gilbert with a half-smile and a vague flutter of her hands. Master Honeyman acknowledged her dilemma with an understanding nod, directing a disapproving glance at Cicely’s departing back, then seized my elbow and piloted me into the garden, leaving Lydia to collect and wash the dirty dishes.

‘If that girl were mine,’ he began menacingly, ‘I’d…’ But then he laughed and shook his head. ‘Who am I to talk? I can’t even manage my own Rowena. Now!’ He squeezed my arm. ‘What have you been up to since I saw you yesterday?’

I regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before asking, ‘I wonder if you’d care to accompany
me
instead of Dame Joan?’

‘I might,’ he answered cautiously. ‘Where are you going?’

I grinned. ‘I’m paying a visit to all the whore-houses in the town. So what do you say? Will you come with me?’

Chapter Seventeen

There was a moment’s pause before Gilbert Honeyman gave a somewhat uncertain laugh.

‘I daresay you have a reason, lad, for visiting these places – apart, that is, from the usual one.’

‘I do.’

‘And will that reason help to find these two young men who are missing? Will it assist Dame Gildersleeve?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I replied honestly, ‘but it might move us one step further on in this inquiry.’

He sucked his teeth for another two or three seconds, then clapped me on the back, a prurient curiosity seeming to have overcome his natural reluctance. ‘Very well! I’ll come with you, provided that I don’t have to enter any of those dens of vice.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘I’m a respected citizen and I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about me.’

‘I promise that you needn’t do more than wait for me outside. Now, if you’re willing, we’ll be off.’

Cock Lane was a narrow twisting street well away from the main thoroughfares of the town, dark because the overhanging eaves of the houses met almost in the middle. The central drain was piled high with refuse, including the rotting carcass of a sheep, and rats ran openly in and out of doorways. The muckrakers, who had been busy in the High Street when we quit the shop, had not yet reached this far, and by the look of things were not too punctilious at any time in their duties hereabouts.

Gilbert Honeyman held his nose and picked his way fastidiously through the litter. For my own part I was less cautious, but my boots were stout and had survived worse conditions than those at present prevailing underfoot. I noted that there was only one house where a rail outside provided for the tethering of horses, and I made directly for it. Two girls, wearing striped hoods to indicate their calling, were leaning from the upstairs window, both amply proportioned and in a state of undress. One was quite pretty, but the other had a pronounced squint which marred looks already rendered plainer than necessary by several layers of white lead paste.

‘Can I come in?’ I called up to them. ‘Is the house open yet?’

The girls exchanged glances then burst into raucous laughter. ‘You’re a bit early, my dear, aren’t you?’ Squinteyes giggled. ‘Your goodwife have a headache last night, did she?’

I waited for the hilarity subsequent upon this sally to subside before telling them, ‘I’d like a word or two with your Madam.’

There was further merriment. ‘She doesn’t do anything, my old acker,’ the prettier one said, using a local term of endearment, ‘except take the money.’

Her companion nodded, her smile vanishing. ‘Ay, she’s good at that, but not so generous when it comes to sharing it out.’ She focused her good eye on me, while the other seemed to stare off into space. ‘But come in, all the same. Nice-looking fellow like you won’t have any difficulty fixing himself up with a partner, early though it might be, and half of us not yet awake.’

I didn’t argue with them but went inside, leaving an uncomfortable Gilbert Honeyman hovering in the shadows, trying to render himself as inconspicuous as possible.

He breathed a huge sigh of relief when I reappeared after only a couple of minutes. ‘Can we go now?’

‘Not yet, but I promise to be as swift as I can.’

By the time I had called at every house in the alley, however, Gilbert had withdrawn from the vicinity of Cock Lane and awaited me in a neighbouring street. Here he had located another tavern which he deemed worthy of his attention, after a conversation with the landlord concerning the method of brewing and the contents of the latter’s various ales.

‘Come in! Come in!’ In the dark interior, he guided me to a table where two pots of ale were already set out – ‘and paid for,’ Gilbert assured me – indicating the settle alongside it. ‘Sit down, lad, and drink up.’

He raised his beaker and gave me the old Saxon form of cheer, still often heard in western parts:
‘Was heil!’

‘Drink heil!’
I responded, but absently, my mind on other things.

‘Tell me then!’ he ordered once he had quenched his initial thirst. ‘Did you find out what you were hoping to, or have you been wasting your time and mine?’

‘No,’ I answered, setting my beaker down on the table and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘I made a discovery.’

‘Go on!’ he urged, as I hesitated. ‘Explain to me why were you so anxious to visit the town brothels.’

I had told him most of the facts relating to Mark and Peter Gildersleeve the previous day, but, because I had then thought it unnecessary, I had mentioned nothing of Lydia’s encounter with Mark on the night she was taken ill, nor of Rob and John’s explanation of these nocturnal expeditions. I was therefore obliged to do so now.

Gilbert Honeyman was much shocked. ‘That poor creature!’ he exclaimed, referring to Dame Joan. He shook his head despondently. ‘But it only goes to show that even the best of women can breed a wayward son.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ I agreed. ‘But whatever Mark Gildersleeve has been up to, it isn’t whoring. Not one of the madams in Cock Lane could recollect ever seeing him, nor entertaining him, in her establishment. And he’s a familiar enough face in the town to be recognized by all of them.’

Gilbert frowned. ‘So what does that mean?’

‘It means I was right when I thought it unlikely that Mark would ride his horse, especially one so well known as Dorabella, on such an errand. First of all, it would let every passer-by know of his presence, and secondly, the animal could be stolen under cover of darkness; both of which reasons add up to taking an unnecessary risk when there was a safer alternative.’

Gilbert looked relieved. ‘Then you’ll be able to inform Dame Joan that her fears regarding her younger son’s conduct are unfounded. That at least must be of some comfort to her.’

‘Must it?’ I regarded him straitly. ‘Why, if it wasn’t true, did Mark tell the two apprentices that he had been whoring when he hadn’t? And where in fact
was
he during those nights when he was absent from home?’

‘Ah!’ Gilbert Honeyman grimaced. ‘I’m growing old. My wits aren’t as sharp as they used to be.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘So? What’s your explanation?’