‘You don’t happen to know what became of him?’ I asked, continuing to watch, fascinated now, as one of the women eased herself beneath the sewing frame and began stitching the blue threads from the cope’s other side.
‘Undercouching,’ Dame Broderer informed me briefly before answering my question. ‘He disappeared about two years ago. Just vanished overnight. No one knew why and nobody seemed to care. Certainly Judith made no move to find him.’
‘Who was his father – do you have any idea?’
There was a short but quite audible silence. I was still watching the embroidress, but after a second or two, I turned my head to look enquiringly at Martha Broderer.
She gave me a limpid smile, but her eyes just failed to meet mine.
‘Who can say? The boy might have been anyone’s. Does it matter?’
I didn’t answer directly. ‘Your son remembers this young Roger as a heftier child than Nell. Is that your recollection, too?’
Again, there was a certain hesitation. Martha Broderer gave a little laugh. ‘Almost everyone is heftier than Nell,’ she prevaricated.
‘Roger was a solid lad, Mother,’ Lionel protested. ‘You know he was. Now I come to think of it, he reminded me very much of what I was like as a child.’
Dame Broderer made no comment, but replaced her spectacles on the bridge of her nose and turned her attention back to the Bishop’s cope. She took a huge medallion of azure velvet from a neighbouring table and placed it carefully in the centre of the garment.
‘We’ll embroider this with cloth of gold and silver thread,’ she decided. ‘It will be the centre-piece when His Grace turns his back to the congregation.’
The woman who had been undercouching heaved herself up from beneath the frame and gave it as her opinion that a smaller medallion of white velvet, sewn into the centre of the blue and embroidered, in its turn, with golden thread, would be even more eye-catching. Martha Broderer said tartly that she thought it might be overdoing things, but then, on reflection, and given the vanity of the Bishop, perhaps not.
The third woman, who had so far said nothing, suddenly addressed me. ‘You were asking about the boy who used to work in Judith St Clair’s garden. Nell Jessop’s half-brother.’ I nodded. ‘Well, you know, I thought I saw him the other day when I was going to visit my sister, in Holborn. I was walking up Faitour Lane. I can’t be certain, but it looked like him, only a little older.’
‘Faitour Lane?’ Dame Broderer asked sharply. ‘What would he be doing there?’
The woman flushed uncomfortably, glancing askance at Lionel and me. ‘He … He was coming out of one of the whorehouses,’ she said.
‘O
ne of the whorehouses?’ Lionel repeated, his tone a mixture of shock and envy. ‘How old did you say this boy is now?’
‘Twelve,’ Dame Broderer answered, frowning. ‘But I don’t think Cicely meant what you’re thinking, Lal. I think it was something far worse.’ And she raised her eyebrows at the woman she had named.
Cicely made no answer, but pulled down the corners of her mouth. Her companion gave a little gasp, though she didn’t falter in her couching. The lines of blue silk continued to grow into a soft, cushioned background for another white saltire cross.
There was an uncomfortable silence; then Lionel said, ‘You’re surely not implying …?’
His mother nodded. ‘That’s right. I take Cicely to mean that young Roger is not availing himself of women’s services, but is offering them, himself. The vice of the Greeks, Lal, is what we’re talking about.’
‘If the Church found out …’
Martha Broderer snorted with laughter and turned to me.
‘Although, by my calculations,’ she explained, ‘Lionel is some thirty years old, you’ll find him innocent for his age, as an unmarried man living at home with his mother naturally tends to be. My dear boy,’ she went on, once more addressing her son, ‘you can believe me when I tell you that brothels of both sexes are owned by some of the most eminent and outwardly respectable churchmen in the land. The great sin in their eyes is not sodomy, but being found out. Being caught in the act. Getting the whorehouse shut down and losing them – the landlords – money. Then, of course, the poor souls so taken can expect no mercy from Mother Church.’
Lionel did redden slightly at his parent’s derision, but seemed to bear her no ill will for it, merely grinning a little sheepishly and hunching his shoulders. She smiled back at him, her whole face alight with affection. I had been right in my estimation of these two: they understood one another.
I looked at the woman, Cicely. ‘Can you remember,’ I asked, ‘whereabouts in Faitour Lane this particular brothel is located?’
She blinked reproachfully.
‘No, no! Not for myself,’ I added hastily. ‘I need to speak to this boy, not make use of his services.’ My manhood was insulted by even having to clarify this fact.
She blushed and muttered, ‘Of course! Of course!’ by way of an apology, before continuing, ‘About halfway along on the left-hand side if you’re walking north, towards Holborn.’
‘You see, chapman,’ Lionel said proudly, putting an arm around Dame Broderer’s shoulders, ‘my mother
has
been of use to you. I said she would be. She has a prodigious memory.’
‘Nonsense! It’s Cicely who’s been of use,’ his mother disclaimed, trying not to look too pleased at the compliment, and failing. ‘Why do you want to speak to this child?’ she enquired of me. ‘What has he to do with Master Quantrell’s murder?’
‘I have information that Fulk visited a boy in Faitour Lane – whether to make use of his services or for some other reason, I don’t really know – but I have a fancy that this young Roger may be the lad.’
‘Why?’ Lionel wanted to know.
‘Because he has a link with the St Clair household, and Fulk’s murderer could well be among their number.’
‘That is, if it isn’t Lal or me,’ Martha Broderer pointed out with yet another laugh; but this time there was no mirth in it.
I gave her a brief bow and smile, but neither confirmed nor denied her statement. The truth was, I couldn’t; but the first, inchoate seed of an idea, the first, small bud of a solution, was beginning to germinate in my mind. But the tender shoot was nothing like strong enough yet for me to give hope or despair to anyone.
‘I must go,’ I said.
But before I went, I was sufficiently interested to allow Mistress Broderer to conduct me around the workshop and explain all the different processes of embroidery, in order to demonstrate the skill of the men and women under Lionel’s supervision, in which she seemed to take even more pride than he did. When she had finished, I thanked her and would have kissed her hand had she not seized me by the shoulders and kissed me on the mouth for a second time.
‘There!’ she said. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that ever since we met.’ She grinned at my discomfiture and slapped me hard across the backside with a stinging blow that was meant to hurt. ‘Off you go!’ She had an ambivalent attitude towards men. My guess was that she had been badly hurt by one of us at some time or another in her life.
I made my way back through the Lud Gate and across the Fleet River to Faitour Lane. It was fairly quiet at that hour of the morning, most of the beggars – those who were not sick or sleeping off the previous night’s carousal – away at their various posts throughout the city or in Westminster. But the brothels were doing a roaring trade, men’s carnal appetites seeming to know no limit when it came to time of day.
‘’Ullo! You come for that free ride I promised you?’ enquired a voice; and there, standing in the doorway of a house to my left, was the prettiest whore in Christendom, her big, sapphire-blue eyes watching me appraisingly.
‘Er, no,’ I said, and was alarmed to detect a distinct note of regret in my tone. She certainly was beautiful.
‘Pity!’ She gave me a tantalizing smile, but I could tell that she was not as relaxed as she wished to appear. She was alert for any sound that would indicate the proximity of the madame.
‘But perhaps you can help me in another matter,’ I suggested, struck by a sudden thought. ‘Do you remember when I talked to you yesterday, you told me that Fulk Quantrell – the young man who was murdered here two weeks ago – sometimes visited a lad he had his eye on?’ She nodded. ‘Well, did that lad work in Faitour Lane?’
The girl looked anxious. ‘I shouldn’t have told you that.’
‘Where is this particular whorehouse?’ I asked, hoping for confirmation of the woman Cicely’s information.
I got it. The girl sighed, but capitulated. ‘About fifty paces further up on this side of the lane. You … You ain’t about to complain or snitch to the authorities, are you?’
‘Certainly not!’ I was deeply offended by this remark and let it show.
‘Well, you might have to,’ she pointed out, reasonably enough, ‘if the lad you’re on about’s got anything to do with that there Fulk’s death.’
This, of course, was true – she was no fool, this girl – but even so, live and let live has always been my motto. There are ways of doing, and not doing, things so that, wherever possible, they don’t incriminate innocent people.
‘What’s the boy’s name?’ I asked, just to check that we were indeed taking about one and the same person. She was reluctant to tell me, so I asked, ‘Is it Roger Jessop?’
‘Yes.’ Surprise jerked the answer from her. ‘At least, he’s called Roger. I don’t know his other name. We leaves those behind us when we comes to Faitour Lane.’
‘And how shall I recognize this whorehouse?’
‘Told you. Fifty paces from ’ere, or thereabouts. You’ll see a lad at the door, watching out for customers.’
She was right, and also surprisingly accurate in her measurements. I had barely counted out fifty paces when I saw a young boy, some thirteen or fourteen years of age, lounging in the shadowed doorway of a ramshackle house with a crooked chimney. This last was an unusual enough feature in Faitour Lane for it to be a mark of identification in itself, yet my little whore hadn’t mentioned it. I wondered where she had come from and what was her history.
I approached the boy in the doorway.
He eyed me sharply. ‘What d’you want?’ he demanded.
‘I’d like to speak to Roger. Roger Jessop. Is he here?’
The young fellow’s face lost its suspicious look.
‘Friend of Roger, are you? You better come in then. ’E’s busy at the moment, but I shouldn’t think ’e’d be long now.’ The boy gave a raucous laugh. ‘Shouldn’t think ’is present customer’s got a good shag in ’im.’
He moved his emaciated body to allow me access, and I stepped past him into a dark and dirty passageway. The smell of stale, unemptied chamber-pots and their contents made me gag, and I had to turn my head away so that the doorkeeper wouldn’t see me. I had to look as if this sort of place was one of my usual haunts.
While I waited, various men went hurriedly in and out, shielding their faces with raised arms, as though to hide their identity even from one another. Doors opened and shut on glimpses of filthy rooms, and I found myself wondering why a lad who loved gardening would have exchanged it for this twilight existence. What had happened to Roger Jessop to bring him so low?
A door at the far end of the dingy passageway was flung wide, and a man pushed past me, showing the whites of his eyes. He threw a coin to the doorkeeper before dodging into the street, with an anxious glance in both directions.
‘Roger! You got a customer,’ the lookout yelled.
A stocky lad with a thatch of light-brown hair was strolling towards me, and once again something gave my memory a nudge, only to be lost a second later.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Don’t know your face. New to the game, are you? Someone tell you to ask for me?’ He jerked his head. ‘Better come in before you take fright and run.’
He pushed me into the room at the end of the passage and closed the door. It was tiny, with just about enough space for a bed, and stank of sour sweat and other, even more unpleasant, bodily odours. A tattered mattress, the straw stuffing erupting through rents in the filthy ticking, had been pushed on to the floor, presumably during young Roger’s last encounter, and I could see it was alive with fleas and bedbugs. The boy’s arms and neck were covered with bites and sores.
‘Right,’ he said, loosening his points and starting to lower his breeches, ‘What d’you want? Straight up or fancy?’
‘No, no!’ I said hurriedly. ‘I haven’t come for that. I just …’
‘No need to be scared,’ my namesake assured me. ‘You needn’t be afraid anyone here’ll tell on you. Matter of fact, it’s the Bishop of London what owns us.’
‘No, no! You misunderstand.’ I held out my hand to ward him off. ‘I just want to ask you a question or two about Fulk Quantrell.’
‘Who?’
‘Fulk Quantrell – the Burgundian who was murdered in Faitour Lane two weeks past.’
‘Oh, ’im!’ The boy adjusted his clothing and scowled. ‘Friend of ’is, are you? He was another one that just wanted to ask me questions. Paid, mind! Same as if he’d buggered me.’
I nodded and jingled the purse at my belt. ‘I’m perfectly willing to do the same.’
‘Oh … All right, then,’ was the grudging response. ‘As long as you understand and plays fair by me.’ He held out a grime-encrusted hand. ‘Come to think on it, I’ll take the money first. Just in case you tries to cheat.’
I passed over the necessary coins and looked around for somewhere to sit, but there was nowhere except the floor, and I didn’t fancy that. I propped my back against the wall.
‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘I’m waiting for the questions.’
‘Well, to begin with, why in heaven’s sweet name did you leave Mistress St Clair’s house for’ – I made a sweeping gesture of distaste – ‘for this!’
He shrugged, but his eyes were shifty. ‘It’s not a bad life, once you get used to it. I got a roof over me head, food in me belly. Food of a sort,’ he added honestly. ‘Better ’n begging on the streets, at any rate.’
‘Is it?’ I sneered. ‘I’m willing to wager you get as much, if not more, abuse than a beggar, and a lot less money. And what little you do earn is taken off you to be shared amongst your pimp and your landlord, His Grace the noble Bishop of London.’