Authors: Bruce Holsinger
Katherine put a hand to her breast. “He just left us, Countess. An appointment at Fulham.” She straightened her skirts and retook her seat, the other ladies doing the same; a subtle insult.
Joan’s lips tightened. “Tell the duke my patience wears thin. I shall return to Wickhambreaux tomorrow.”
“I will tell him, Countess,” said Swynford.
Turning to leave, the countess looked at me. She sucked in her cheeks. “John Gower.”
I bowed deeply. “Your servant, Countess.”
She regarded me closely. “I’ve gazed into your mirror, Gower.”
“My lady?”
“I have read your great work, the
Mirour de l’Omme
.”
My cheeks flushed. “You surprise me, Countess.”
“Why is that?”
“I would not expect such a humble work to make its way to so noble a reader as yourself.” Nor its writer’s name to be remembered.
She waved a hand. “Rot, Gower. The breeding of Death and Sin, the bastard births of Hypocrisy and her sisters—why, you could be describing the household of Lancaster!”
Swynford gasped, staring in hatred at her lover’s sister-in-law.
The countess gestured with her chin and turned away. Chaucer’s book forgotten, my head swimming with the rare flattery, I followed her through the gauze curtains and out onto the small terrace.
“I am too hard on Lancaster, you know,” she said as we circled. “It was a unique humiliation for a man like Gaunt, to bounce his king on his knee.” She walked along the parapet, pausing to pick dead leaves out of a pot. “Though it has to be said that there are not many so powerful yet so willing to sacrifice their ambition. You would agree?”
“The Duke of Lancaster’s modesty is universally admired, my lady.”
She spun on me, eyes darkened. “Watch yourself, Gower. The ears of Westminster are as plentiful as scales on a herring.”
“Yes, Countess,” I said, chastened.
She stared at the lines of barges plying the Thames in the distance. “My son has many enemies. Enemies who openly question his legitimacy.”
She paused with the ruffle of curtains. In the open doorway to the upper gallery stood Swynford, the gauze draped across a bare shoulder. One of her sons had wandered to the terraces, it seemed, his gaze now following a bird. Gaunt’s youngest child, a girl they had perversely named Joan, she held by the hand. Seven and counting, some Gaunt’s, others her late husband’s—the entangled promises of a future none could yet foresee.
Swynford, after an amused glance between the countess and me, whisked her children away. The countess watched the curtains flutter in their wake.
“Be inventive with your next work, John Gower,” she murmured as the curtains stilled. “To see my son stand before Parliament, with his slutting uncle at his side? A spectacle worthy of the mysteries.” With that she left me.
In the distance the river was a plane of drifting pieces. Barges, wherries, a raft of sawed logs soon to be swallowed by the city below. To my weakening eyes they appeared as so many living forces, moving against one another in ways I could then only dimly understand: an enigma in motion, like Swynford’s foreign deck of cards. I stared at the water with a growing unease, thinking of a dead girl and a missing book, wondering what strange burden Chaucer had laid on my shoulders.
Cornhull, Ward of Broad Street
P
lease put it on my tally, Master Talbot.” Millicent Fonteyn nodded at the spicerer, willing him to wrap her purchases before his wife came to the shopfront. Between them sat four equal measures of prunes, almonds, currants, and dates. “Oh, and a measure of the apricots,” she said, unable to stop herself.
George Lawler reached for the jar, shook his head as he tonged them out. He twined the lot together. “Last time, Mistress Fonteyn.”
“You’re kind, Master Lawler. We’ll settle after Easter, if that suits. Now—”
“Oh, that suits us fine, m’lady, just fine.” Jane Lawler pushed through the alley door. She was a spindly woman, with dark brows set close and a small nose she fingered at will. “Fine to settle after Michaelmas, fine to settle after All Saints, and, by Loy’s bones, it’ll be fine to settle after Easter. Why, it’s only coin, isn’t that right, Georgie? And if we lose it all, why, we’ll get the Worshipful Company of Grocers to provide out of the common money, aye?”
Lawler sheepishly handed Millicent the bundle.
“Why, that’s it, George!” his wife went on. “Let’s pack up some raisins for her ladyship. Saffron, too, cypress root, nutmeg—why, let’s crate it all for the virtuous madam and have done with our livelihood.”
Millicent, shamefaced, turned to leave, Mistress Lawler tagging her heels. “After Easter, she says. After Easter!”
Millicent was on the street.
“As if the Resurrection of our Lord’ll be enough to put a single farthing in her graspy little palm.” Millicent took a sharp right out of the shop, her shoulders stooped with humiliation. “You walk ’neath this eave to pay your debt, Millicent Fonteyn, nor never walk ’neath it again, nor any grocer’s eave of Cornhull!”
Londoners turned their heads, cruel questions in their glances. Millicent kicked through a cluster of hens by the well before St. Benet Fink, fluff and feathers scattering with her haste. She stopped on Broad Street, calming herself with her back on the rough wood of a horsepost. The damp air settled around her, drawing the moisture from her skin. By the time she pushed herself off the post her dress was soaked through, with dark stains at her middle and beneath her arms.
Millicent’s house fronted the longest row of tailors’ shops in London. For two years now the Cornhull house had been hers, the annual lease financed by Sir Humphrey’s lust and largesse, and the dwelling had matched her aspirations in every detail: a keyed door, two floors, a glazed window at the front. She loved the walk along West Cheap and through the Poultry, her back to St. Paul’s as she strolled along the widest street in London, with its double gutters and raked pavers. A singlewoman without profession, kept by a wealthy man for his weekly dalliances. There were far worse fates for the elder daughter of a Southwark maudlyn.
Or so she had once thought. Two pounds five was the happy sum she had possessed on the day of Sir Humphrey ap-Roger’s death. Now it was nearly gone, with no provision made in the knight’s will for her keep. His homely widow had got every penny of his fortune and every hand’s width of his lands, leaving nothing to keep the woman he had truly loved free of penury. Millicent picked a spiced apricot out of the grocer’s package, chewing but not tasting it as she approached her home. She removed the chained key from her neck.
“Why,
there
you are.”
Millicent tilted her forehead against the door, sighed, then put on her best smile as she turned. Denise Haveryng, proprietress of her own late husband’s thriving shop and a boastful freewoman of the city, wandered over with a tray of flans. “Dame Haveryng.”
“You’ve been to Lawler’s, I see.” She inspected the opened package in Millicent’s hands, clearly disapproving of the indulgence. The weeds on this widow were dark only in color: gauze sleeves flounced at her wrists, a belted sash with a leather buckle that almost glistened at her waist, and the damask lappet on her brow beneath a short-coned hat would not have looked out of place on an earl’s wife.
Millicent, though not hungry, reached for a flancake.
“You’ve had visitors,” Dame Haveryng began. “Three of them.”
“Ah?” Millicent opened her door. Denise herded her inside.
“Been like the Whitsunday procession. First there was Master Pratt, third time this month.”
The house’s owner, clerk to the merchant taylors’ guild, after her for weeks over the lease.
“Very well.” Millicent removed her hood, once a subtle latticed affair trimmed in silk, now fading and patched.
“And Jacob. To see about back wages, the poor dear.”
Millicent winced at the reminder. Even her former servants were her creditors now. “And the third?”
“Your sister.”
Millicent froze.
“Takes after you, though dresses a bit downward from your station.” Denise paused in her glee. “Wasn’t aware you
had
a sister, dear.”
“We—we are not close.” Their last meeting, nearly two years before, had been a chance encounter on the wharfage, Agnes waiting to board a common wherry, Millicent and Sir Humphrey passing by to hire a private barge. They had exchanged quick smiles; Millicent remembered Agnes’s hand jumping from her side, though she had settled for a furtive nod before turning away.
Ignoring the flan tray Millicent pushed Denise from her house and shut the door. Out back she took the stairs two at a time. The door to the rear bedchamber was ajar. She entered to see her sister huddled against the wall, clutching a bolster, wrapped in a coverlet.
“What are you doing in my house, Agnes?”
Her sister looked dreadful, her skin ashen, her hair a tangled mess. Her eyes would not meet Millicent’s until she had walked over to the bed and sat, the old straw pallet giving beneath her weight. Agnes looked up at her sister, her eyes darkened with sleeplessness and, Millicent thought, fear. “I’d nowhere else to go, Mil.”
“Not to our mother’s?”
“Said I’d made my choice, now I’m on my own, like I wanted it.”
“Why do you need anyone’s help?”
“ ‘Though faun escape the falcon’s claws and crochet cut its snare, when father, son, and ghost we sing, of city’s blade beware.’ ”
“Are you sick, Ag? You’re talking no sense.”
“She gave it me before she died. That’s what she yelled.”
“Our mother has died?”
“ ‘
Doovay leebro
,’ he said to her. ‘
Doovay leebro
,’ like he was singing.”
“Who was singing? Is our mother dead, Agnes?”
She shook her head. “Not Bess Waller. That poor girl by the fire. Man with the hammer killed her.”
“Man? What man?”
Over the next while, as Millicent sat with her sister and calmed her down, Agnes haltingly told her all that had happened: her assignation in the Moorfields with the abbot of Bethlem, the holy man’s departure after a short swyve, the silence as she dressed, then the crash of shrubbery before the beautiful girl burst into the small circle of firelight. “She tried to talk, to tell me something, I could see it, but the poor thing was out a’ breath, and the man was just behind her. So she shoved me her bundle and pushed me into the hawthorn and put a finger over her lips. Then he was there.” Finally the girl’s death: the exchange of words in two tongues, the fall of the hammer, the killer’s silent departure from the clearing.
Millicent listened with a growing disbelief, torn between sympathy for Agnes’s plight and fury at her sister for bringing this darkness into her home. When Agnes had finished she stood and staggered over to a large chest, one of the last household items Millicent had to sell. She reached down behind it and withdrew a rectangular object wrapped in a heavily embroidered cloth. She looked down at the bundle for a long moment, then handed it to Millicent.
“I suspect he’ll be wanting it back.”
St. Laurence Lane, Ward of Cheap
J
oan Rugg slapped the constable’s wrist. “Not so pinchy there!” she cackled. The constable gave the bawd a hard shake as he led her toward the beadle’s shop, where two men bearing heavy sticks stood to the sides of the door. Joan goosed them in the ribs. “Valued jakes of the ward, these ones,” she teased. “My best regulars.” The men traded denials.
Eleanor Rykener entered the shop behind them, a heady mix of ash and smelt in the air. An image of St. Dunstan hung over the door out to the smithy in back, while wooden shelves at various heights displayed the goldsmith’s newest wares. Gleaming plate, necklaces with inlaid gemstones, silver spoons laid out on silk. On the facing side were objects brought in for repair: a bishop’s crozier, a set of clasps, embossed cabinet panels, a rich man’s wine jug. That jug alone would buy my cock and arse for a year, Eleanor mused. Joan, she could see, was having similar thoughts about the rings.
Two apprentices tooled a brace of gold plates. For a while, as the constables shuffled their feet, the maudlyns sat and listened to the
tap tap tap,
the rough joining of common tools and precious metal, until the guildsman came in from the back. Eleanor looked up and into the nose of Richard Bickle, beadle of Cheap Ward and richest goldsmith north of Cheapside. The eyes and ears of the ward, a man who knew everything about anyone worth knowing anything about. Past master of the city’s guild, Bickle was wrapped in a gown of red wool trimmed in sable, his lean face atop a neck chafed by a recent shave. “Ladies.”
“Master Bickle,” said Joan.
“Let’s cut through the elegances.” Bickle’s voice was clipped, severe. He rubbed his palms. “Two of your unspotted virgins been seen, Joan, heading into the Moorfields, coming out all spooked. Now we got a dead lady found not a hundred yards from where they come out the moor.”
Eleanor toed at a gap in the rushes.
“Hope you’ll see it as we do, Joan. Girl’s killed in one ward, possible witnesses whoring it up in another. City politics be a tricky business.” He spread a paternal smile. “But no need to take this to the Guildhall, yeah? Avoid complications. Wouldn’t want to shut down Gropecunt Lane again, send you and the Blessed Sisters of St. Pox down Southwark way for trimming your hoods in budge.”
“Course not,” said Joan, wagging her head. “Who’s the dead girl?”
Bickle shrugged. “Not for the likes of us to know. Some intimate connection to mustard, is all I’m told.”
“French girl, then?”
“Looks like to the coroner,” said Bickle. “Some fancy lady taken to the Moorfields, brained in the prime of life, left for the crows. Sad story, but not ours.”
“Right right.” Joan fingered her chin. “And why they pulling your poor knob into this mess, Master Bickle?”
“Pressure from above and beside: the alderman, getting it from the mayor, getting it from the bishop, getting it from the—ah, St. Tom only knows. I do as I’m told.”
Joan turned to Eleanor. “What about it, El? Tell the little man what he needs to know.”
Bickle bristled at
little man,
but held his peace. He turned to Eleanor. “Good then. Firstwise, what were you doing out on the Moorfields that time of day? Bell of five, was it?”
“Thereabouts,” said Eleanor, in no hurry to help.
“What brought you to the moor? Strange place for a pair of mauds to go a-wandering.”
She shrugged. “Sometimes the men like it, that little shed out there near Bethlem. They can be—free with themselves.”
“Lets them scream for the teat, like the hungry babes they be,” Joan put in helpfully.
Bickle’s scowl softened. “Haven’t changed a bit, Joan Rugg.” She gave him a girlish grin. He turned back to Eleanor. “So you were heading out that way with some jakes, you and—”
“Mary Potts,” said Joan.
“You and this Mary Potts, right, taking some fellows out there, was it?”
Eleanor shook her head. “We were looking for somebody.”
“Looking for somebody. And who were you looking for?”
Eleanor said nothing.
“And who were you looking for, then?”
“Tell him, Eleanor,” said Joan, her voice hardening. “You tell him or I will myself, girl.”
Eleanor hesitated, feeling protective of Agnes.
He edged closer. “This isn’t only about a murder, now. This young lady went and stole something from the very Duke of Lancaster before she got herself killed. A book, is what it was. A
valuable
book. And from what I seem to be hearing from your pretty little mouth, could be your
somebody
went and stole it from
her,
yeah? Went and stole it from that girl, then killed her, yeah?” Bickle grasped her chin and turned her face to his. There was a plug of mint in his lip, his breath strangely pleasant, though his hands smelled of metal.
Eleanor tried to shake her head. “I know less than nothing about the Duke of Lancaster, nor about some old book.”
“Could be, could be,” said Bickle. “But I suspect your
somebody
might.”
“I—I couldn’t say naught about that, Master Bickle.”
“You couldn’t say naught.” He leaned in. “A dead lady’s one thing,
Edgar.
” He spat her man name in a tone that terrified her, then gripped her forearm. “French lady of means dead on the Moorfields, you got the whole city asking questions: constables, subconstables, beadles and aldermen, the coroner and his deputy, all the way up to the king’s household wants to know.” His grip tightened. “But a dead maudlyn? Who’ll give half a mind to that, hmm?” His gaze swept her face. She saw the flicker of revulsion. “Dead swerver like you, floating in the Walbrook with the cats?”
Swerver.
And that’s what I am, like it or not. A man in body, a woman in soul. One day a
he,
the next a
she,
a stiff cock for some, a tight arse for others. Provided they could pay, Eleanor would do all and be all for her loyal jakes, and she had plenty who liked taking it and giving it every which way. Sometimes as a man, sometimes as a woman, sometimes as both at once, though that could get complicated. Why, just last week there was this gongfarmer, big-muscled and hairy as you could like, but get him in the stall and he starts to whinny like a gelding. Or a mare, more like, wants to take—
“Speak to the man, El,” said Joan Rugg. “You speak, or I will.”
As Eleanor sat on the goldsmith’s bench, her own life threatened over the death of a stranger, she felt her fear turn slowly to resentment, then to anger. She knew it wasn’t Agnes who killed that girl on the Moorfields. Yet who’s Agnes Fonteyn to leave such a mess for Joan’s mauds to clean up behind her? A book, the beadle says. A
valuable
book, stolen from Lancaster. And now Agnes has it. What’s that whore doing with a book? Worse, she’s keeping it to herself, after all I’ve done for her these years, the coin and bed we’ve shared, now here
I
am on a beadle’s bench, getting
this
?
Eleanor’s lips were inches from Bickle’s ear. “Agnes,” she said. “Her name is Agnes Fonteyn.” And Eleanor Rykener, she did not add, will find her first.