Authors: Bruce Holsinger
He stepped down onto the Fulham quay. “Now you know why a man in my position would be anxious to root out this book before the thirteenth prophecy becomes known, let alone realized. My friar, Brother Thomas back there, has heard only whisperings of its content, but apparently it implicates someone quite close to the king. Who that might be we don’t yet know, though one can guess. So you see it hardly matters whether the
De Mortibus
is a genuine work of prophecy or a clever forgery. If word of the last prophecy were to get out . . .” He looked at me.
“Yes, my lord.” A missing book, a girl murdered in the Moorfields, and now this. “The thirteenth prophecy, then, concerns—”
“The death of King Richard. Still a boy, really, but with all the world on his shoulders.” He gazed across to the far bank. “Whatever Chaucer is paying you to find this book, I will give you double if you bring it to me instead, Gower. Triple.” With that the bishop of London turned from me, walked up the embankment, and was gone.
Cutter Lane, Southwark
H
ook out the belly, knot up the guts, snip out the anus—all that was fine, but Gerald still had trouble with the hiding. How to keep it one piece when it wants to split apart at the shoulders, that was the thing. As Grimes liked to remind him, a split hide wasn’t worth half a whole,
and you’ll get the hole, boy, get it right through your pate ’f you split another vellum on me
.
This time it worked. Gerald grunted happily as he felt the spine, pared to the haunch, begin to loosen against the gored skin. Spines had their own smell, too, that chalky air of fresh bone. He pulled it free. Hard part of this calf was done. He felt his arms loosen, the knife working its magic as he sliced and split with the ease of a stronger, bigger man.
Gerald loved butchery, felt he was born to cut up these beasts. Only bad part was Grimes. His master was inside now, prattling with that priest. He’d first shown up two weeks ago. This was his third visit. Gerald could hear them all the way from the cutting floor, their voices raised in an argument of some kind. Same as last time.
The priest’s comings and goings were putting Grimes in a bad state, even worse than usual. More blows to the cheek, more boxes to the ear, more threats of worse to come. Part of him knew his brother was right—well, his sister—his broster, his sither, whichever way in God’s name Edgar-Eleanor was swerving these days, it was true that Grimes’s shop wasn’t a safe place for a boy Gerald’s age. Better to be back in London, with its laws. But what could
he
do about it? What could Edgar do, for that matter—let alone Eleanor? He shook his head, trying to put it all out of his mind and concentrate on the carcass swinging in his face.
Tom Nayler came in, wiping his hands. “I’m off, then,” he said, tossing his chin in the direction of the high street. “Got a coney to slit up the market. This’ll wait, yeah?”
“Suit yourself,” Gerald said, wondering who the lucky girl was this time. Tom had a way with the daughters of oystermongers and maudlyns. “I’ll finish this one up. Not a lot left.”
Tom ambled off. Gerald sliced and cut contentedly for a while longer. Flanks, legs, heart, with the offal for the dogs. The master’s shop had grown quiet, though he hadn’t seen the priest leave. He stepped off the floor and glanced up the alley. Tom Nayler was long gone. After a look in the other direction he wiped his blade, set it down on a board, and stared at the shop, his thoughts churning.
What was it with Grimes and this priest? Wasn’t a parson of the parish, that was sure. Gerald knew the local parson, just like he’d known the parson at St. Nicholas Shambles in his younger days. No, this one wasn’t a Southwark man. Not even a Londoner. A northerner, maybe. Or a Welshman. Talked with a gummy twang, like his words were tangled up in brambles and couldn’t get out.
The only window on this side of the shop was shuttered, as usual when important visitors came to talk to Grimes. The butcher liked to keep his inquisitive apprentices at bay. Taking his time, Gerald walked over to the shop, found the right spot, and pressed his ear to the gap between the boards. More than once he’d saved his hide this way, catching snatches of the master’s complaints about his apprentices and correcting himself accordingly.
He heard the priest, speaking low. At first none of it made sense. A lot of talk about how Grimes had to listen, had to do this and that, think about his future. Then, a stream of verse. “Listen to it, Nathan Grimes. It’s you this prophecy is talking about, you and your cutters over here.
‘By bank of a bishop shall butchers abide,
/
To nest, by God’s name, with knives in hand,
/
Then springen in service at spiritus sung.
’ Butchers, Nathan. Butchers bearing knives. They’re to be the blood of it, and you the heart.”
Grand words. But what did they mean? Gerald heard Grimes clear his throat. “Lots of butchers in London, Father, over in the Shambles and such. There’s nothing in the verse to say it’s to be a Southwark meater, is there?”
“Not exactly, no,” said the priest slowly. “But ‘bank of a bishop’? And later it reads ‘In palace of prelate with pearls all appointed.’ That’s Winchester’s palace, my son, you know it as well as I. And who’s the closest master butcher to Winchester’s palace? Nathan Grimes, that’s who.”
“Nathan Grimes,” said the butcher, tasting his name.
“That’s right. ‘By kingmaker’s cunning a king to unking.’ Do you see?”
“Well—”
“It’s plain as the shining sun, Nathan Grimes. Look in the glass. You’re to be the kingmaker, sure as I’m standing here.”
“The kingmaker,” Grimes repeated.
“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been at the center of such great events,” said the priest, lowering his voice. “You were on the bridge with Wat Tyler, Nathan. You walked right behind him. And I saw you myself on Blackheath, standing at Ball’s feet. You could have taken out King Richard at Mile End, with a cleaver or a long knife.”
Gerald felt a chill, finally understanding the priest’s cryptic talk. It had been four years since the Rising, when the commons of Essex and Kent, infuriated by the poll taxes and the harshness of their levy, had flooded London by the thousands, burning buildings, beheading bishops and treasurers and chancellors, imprisoning the young King Richard himself in the Tower and nearly executing him at Smithfield.
The butchers of London and Southwark had marched along with the rest, and Gerald could still remember the exuberance on the streets as word spread of John Ball’s sermon on Blackheath.
When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?
Words of hope, and a promise of a better life for England’s poor. Though things were now much the way they had been before the Rising, its wounds were still fresh, the city and the realm braced with suspicion of the commons. You could still see it on the faces of the beadles and aldermen, in the tense stance of lords and ladies as they rode through the streets, trading hostile glances with clusters of workers breaking stone or lame beggars idling by the gates.
Now, it seemed, the talk of treason was back. That priest in with Grimes, he was trying to convince the master butcher to raise arms again, and this time have a real go at the king. He thought of the priest’s verses.
By bank of a bishop shall butchers abide.
Not
one
butcher, not just Nathan Grimes alone, but
butchers
. So what did that mean for him, Gerald Rykener?
The scrape of a bench. Gerald turned his head so his eye was against the gap. The priest rose and clapped Grimes on the back. “This is fate, my son. It’s prophecy, as sure as the Apocalypse itself. God sees our futures and our glories in ways we mortals cannot, Nathan. This is yours. Embrace it, my son!”
Grimes sat there, staring at the far wall of his shop, kneading his swarthy chin. Gerald watched him, almost seeing the muddled thoughts in his master’s brain, like a rocker churning cream. Then the butcher looked up at the priest, a gleam in his eye. He stood, inhaled deeply, and nodded.
“I’m in, Father.” His nod strengthened as his certainty swelled. The priest stepped in and embraced him.
Gerald felt his stomach heave. He turned away, his eyes cast at the ground as he trudged back to the kill shed. He leaned against the rough board wall, pondering what he’d heard.
The butchers of Southwark. A new Rising. Knives and cleavers and axes and a crowd of meaters, massing over the bridge, intent on killing the very king of England. To what end? He shook his head, the answer as clear as his memory. A rain of arrows, the swish of a garrison’s swords, and it would all be over. A slaughter in the streets, the blood of the poor running between the pavers. Just like last time.
And who would the hangman come for first, once the king’s men discovered who sparked this certain treason? Gerald looked up, the fear clenching at his middle so he could hardly stand straight. Nathan Grimes, that’s who—and his two apprentices, all of them about as safe as the butchered veal calf hanging there before him.
Broad Street, Ward of Broad Street
A
rock, hitting the streetside shutters. Millicent did her best to ignore it but then another struck the wood, throwing a hollow
crack
into the back room where she lay with Agnes. She glanced at her sister, who was still asleep, then threw off the covers and walked to the front room, pushed open a shutter, and leaned out. On the lane stood a young woman in a faded wool dress, hands planted on her narrow hips.
“What is it?” Millicent called down.
She looked up, her hand angled against the sun, tendrils of dark hair circling a moonish face beneath her hood. “Millicent Fonteyn?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Eleanor Rykener. Searching out your sister. She about?”
Millicent willed herself not to look over her shoulder. “Agnes hasn’t been up Cornhull in five seasons.”
“That right?”
“What do you want with her?”
Eleanor lowered her voice. “Beadle of Cripplegate’s been asking questions, and she’s been gone for a while now.” Millicent said nothing. “Tell her I been by. I’m worried for the poor thing.”
Millicent was about to reply when Denise Haveryng came out of her shop, making clear she’d been listening to the exchange.
“Saw her last at the wharfs, if I remember,” said Millicent quickly, trying to end the conversation before Denise opened her mouth.
“That right?” said Eleanor.
Denise loudly cleared her throat. “Though you might check up Gropecunt Lane or Rose Alley over the bridge,” she called out. “Those be more her haunts. Millicent’s as well, I imagine, before too long.” She looked up at the window with a sweet smile, as if expecting Millicent to thank her for saying nothing about Agnes’s presence in her house.
Millicent slammed the shutter, jammed her palms against her eyes, and leaned back against the sill, cursing her sister and her own penury for the tenth time in as many days. Ever since Agnes showed up in her bed with that damned book, Millicent had felt frozen, unable to make a decision about anything, even what food to purchase with her few remaining pennies. Nor was Agnes any use, huddled up as she was, afraid to set foot on Cornhull, let alone return to Gropecunt Lane and earn her skincoin.
They’ll be after me,
she had sworn up and down. C
onstables, sheriffs, the man who killed that girl. Don’t make me leave, Mil. Let’s stay here. I feel safe here, Mil.
She wasn’t, of course. For someone wanted this book enough to kill for it—and if one man wanted it so badly, surely others did, too. Yet here they were, sitting like harts in a field as the hunters closed around them. Even that Eleanor Rykener had known where to look, and if what she’d just said was true, the authorities in Cheap Ward were now asking after Agnes.
They were in danger. Something had to change. She took a deep breath, and the decision stole demonlike into her mind. She woke Agnes.
“We sell it, Ag.”
“Whah?” Agnes yawned, rubbing her eyes.
“The book. We sell it to the highest payer.”
Agnes shook her head, coming awake. “Having it here in your house’s already a dangerous thing, Mil. Like holding a flaming log. And now you want to sell it, spread the fire when the source be us? Better to toss it in the Thames.”
“Wrong.” She pressed her sister’s hand. “We have to sell it, and sell it soon. It’s the only way out of this hell, Ag. My debt, your life—why, sell it to the right man and we’ll have riches to spare.”
“But who would purchase such a thing, Mil?”
Who indeed? Through the morning hours Millicent thought through every interaction she could recall with members of noble retinues from her years as Sir Humphrey’s consort. Since his death these connections had been entirely broken, for a singlewoman without blood, wealth, or station could hardly seek the company of counts, knights, and ladies and expect to meet anything but disdain. It was not the nobles themselves they would approach, she decided. Rather it was the working members of their households: the armorer to the Baron of Yorkshire, the steward to the Duke of Lancaster, the clerk of wardrobe to the Earl of Oxford. The men with the most intimate access to their lords, and the means to persuade them that this book of prophecies would be a most worthy purchase.
Agnes still looked doubtful. “Suppose they turn us over to the constables or the beadle?”
“They won’t,” Millicent said confidently. “Who’d believe them, claiming some maudlyns are going around London peddling a book of prophecies?”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Agnes. “Though we don’t have to do this, Mil. Our mother, she still might take us in. Even you, even after all these years.”
“A generous soul, that Bess Waller,” Millicent scoffed.
“You’re her daughter too, Mil. Could be she’d give us our old rooms to ply the swyve, let us keep more of what we earn. The Bishop wasn’t so bad, and we’d be together. Our mother’s got, what, another ten years, then the place can be our own.”
Millicent shook her head furiously. “I’m never going back. Never. And you can’t live the life of a maud into your old age. You want to turn out like St. Cath, that withered sheath? This book, this is all we’ve got.”
“Not true, Mil,” Agnes pleaded. “We got these”—she grabbed her breasts—“and this”—palmed her crotch—“and as long as they work we’ll get skincoin. You know that well as I!”
Millicent looked at her sister, her small body still unruined. Agnes had always carried her beauty well. When their mother started selling Millicent’s flesh at fifteen, all those quick, rough lessons in womanhood, Agnes had slipped about the Bishop with a beguiling sense of her own virginal charms that provoked Bess Waller’s eager jakes. “I’ll wait for
her
” was a common refrain, their eyes following Agnes even as their legs followed Millicent.
Only one man had ever openly preferred her to Agnes: Oswald, the prior of St. Mary Overey. Millicent had come as close to loving him as she had any man, even Sir Humphrey. An old Austin canon of forty-eight when she met him, what he wanted most was to run his nose and fingers up her bare sides and along that warm space between her breasts, never get inside her and grunt away his groats like all the others. She remembered the gentle ambitions of his lips and fingers, the firm pleasures of his clerical tongue. He talked to her of his life, his sin, his ambitions for a bishopric that would never come—provoking jests from her about bishops’ pricks and why he’d ever want one in the first place, given how soft they all were.
One morning Prior Oswald asked her what
she
wanted most. She told him: a way out. So he purchased it for her, and gave her the news the last day she saw him.
You shall be a laysister of St. Leonard’s Bromley, my dear Millie. You’ll learn to garden, to embroider, perhaps to read—and you’ll never have to spread your legs for another man (though if the prioress herself demands a ride, you probably shouldn’t refuse).
He had made the arrangements that very week. She never saw him again.
In the years since Oswald’s death, Millicent had come to understand the fragility of it all, and her dependence on the wealth of flawed men for the needful things that had given her life whatever coherence it held. Prior Oswald had lifted her from the life of a maudlyn, buying her a position in a revered religious house. Then Sir Humphrey ap-Roger came along, giving her access to the greatest halls, to say nothing of this house and its furnishings. Yet his wealth, too, had been a passing force in her life.
First her prior, then her knight, and now—who next? Who would step into this frightening void and fill it with apricots, and almonds, and good meats, and a strong tongue, and wine and houses and—? Yet even as she asked herself such hard questions she was filled with guilt at the stir of gluttony and lust and covetousness in her soul. She heard the voice of Prioress Isabel ringing through her mind.
God frowns on extravagance, Millicent. You must temper your desires for worldly things, stamp them underfoot along with the demons who provoke them.
Millicent closed her eyes, vowing to heed Isabel’s warning, the moral charge of the nun’s sobering words. She would live a measured and moderate life, yes she would, just as soon as she could afford it.
She turned on Agnes. “We sell it, or I’ll burn it myself.”