The Alehouse Murders

Eleven

Through a chink in the shutter of an upper storey casement, a stewe-keeper in a house at the far end of Whore’s Alley watched Ernulf and Bascot as they knocked at each door on the street in turn. The watcher was a man of middle years, with thin straggly hair that had once been yellow and was now stained by dirt and time to the colour of greasy pewter. He had a face much like a loaf of unbaked bread, soft and lumpy, but his eyes were sharp and almost as black as currants. His name was Bernard, but because when he was younger he had been called Le Brun on account of the darkness of his eyes, Bernard had been corrupted into Brunner and it was as such that he was known.

He waited nervously as the serjeant and the Templar made their slow progress down the street. He knew that they would soon arrive at his own door and he waited with indecision, uncertain as to whether to take refuge in flight over the wall or to stay and do as he had promised Wat the day before the alekeeper had been found dead. Brunner had never thought matters would come to such a pass. Wat had merely told him there was a goodly pile of silver to be had if he gave the alekeeper one of his harlot’s old gowns and was to tell anyone, if asked, that the girl who would be wearing it was known to him as a prostitute.

Never had he thought that murder would be involved. Nor had Wat apparently, since he had not foreseen his own death. The alekeeper had hinted that the money would be forthcoming from someone of high birth and Brunner had assumed that the whole charade was designed to compromise some girl who was, perhaps, dunning a young lord to marry her. It wouldn’t be the first time hot blood had led to rash promises which were later regretted. During his time as a stewe-holder he had seen more than one young buck get heartsick over a fresh little doxy. A few beddings were usually all that was needed to make the ardour disappear.

When Brunner had heard of Wat’s death, and that there had also been a dead female dressed as a harlot along with him, he had felt the sharp taste of dread rise on the back of his tongue. To dispel it he had reminded himself that only Wat had known of Brunner’s involvement and, if any enquiries were made, he could simply deny knowledge of the dead woman or her dress. The gown had only been an old shabby one, after all, belonging to a harlot that had died the year before. That thought had comforted him until yesterday night when, after all his wenches were tucked up in their rooms with customers, he had found a scrap of parchment lying on the bed in his room. Brunner couldn’t read, but it wasn’t necessary to be literate to understand the drawings that had been limned on the paper. In black ink two prostrate figures had been sketched, one with a broken head and the other with a knife stuck in his heart. It was easy to identify the man with the crushed skull for he had a huge belly just like Wat and a barrel of ale had been pictured standing beside him. The other, blood pouring from the wound in its chest, had black eyes inked in, just like his own. He knew it for a warning that he must keep to the story Wat had told him to tell and, if he didn’t, he would be as dead as the alekeeper now was. The sour taste of fear had quickly returned.

Brunner had slept not at all, but had lain tossing on his pallet until dawn. He had been up and drinking a cup of wine to steady his nerves as, one by one, the customers his women had been entertaining had left. Then he had heard of a priest being stabbed and his fear intensified. Anyone who would try to kill a priest would think nothing of murdering a lowly stewe-keeper. And now the very thing he had been dreading was about to take place. He was about to be questioned by someone in authority. Thinking furiously he began to pace, then he left his room and ran up the stairs to the landing above. Along the narrow passageway dirty leather curtains hung, shielding the entry to a number of small closets, each one only big enough for a pallet and stool, where the doxies carried on their trade. He went to the curtain at the farthest end and pulled it aside. On a straw mattress lay a young girl. She was buxom and fresh faced, with long blond hair loose and spread on her pillow. She was not asleep, however, even though her eyes were closed, for her hands were pressed hard against her mouth to stifle the sobs that were shaking her.

Brunner went inside and grabbed her by the arm. “Up, you. Now. I want you downstairs.”

She pulled away from him, but there was no way to escape. He stood at the door and watched her as she crouched against the wall. “I want to leave,” she snivelled. “ ’Tis against the ordinances for you to keep me here against my will. You said you wanted me for a servant, not to be a harlot. If you don’t let me go, I’ll find the bailiff and tell him.”

Brunner leaned over her and gave her a sharp kick in the belly. She doubled up and began to moan. “You knew what it was all about when you came here, my girl. Don’t pretend the innocent with me. Not so keen now you find that you have to lay with whoever wants to pay for you instead of being able to pick and choose your customers, are you? Well, you say one word to the bloody bailiff and I’ll fix you up so no man, not even an old and ugly one, will ever want you to pleasure him again. Now get up and go downstairs, before I take a paddle to your bare arse.”

He flung the leather curtain aside and strode out into the passage. The girl rose and crept after him, her hands to her stomach where he had kicked her. She followed Brunner downstairs and into his room, and he shut the door behind her. Then, with more threats of physical injury, he primed her in what she was to say when Ernulf and the Templar arrived.