The Burgundian’s Tale

Sixteen

‘One 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.’

I thought for a moment the lad was going to burst into tears. He did indeed sniff and wipe his nose in his fingers, but continued to stare at me more defiantly than ever.

‘So?’ I prompted. ‘You could still be helping William Morgan in the garden, living with your sister.’

‘Half-sister,’ he corrected.

‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘Nell’s your half-sister. But it doesn’t alter anything. It still doesn’t explain why you’re here.’

An expression of fear flitted momentarily across his face. ‘You ain’t told Nell where t’ find me, ’ave you? Tell me you ain’t! ’Ow did you find me, by the way?’

‘I haven’t seen Nell since discovering your whereabouts,’ I assured him. ‘And as to how I found you, one of the women at the Needlers Lane workshop thought she recognized you when she was walking to Holborn through Faitour Lane.’

His fear turned to puzzlement. ‘Why would you be talking about me to one of Master Broderer’s workers? And what’s it all got to do with Fulk?’

So I took a deep breath and started at the beginning, working my way through what had happened so far until today, when Nell had mentioned his disappearance. There were, of course, things that I didn’t tell him. I also had to cope with a certain amount of initial – and natural – scepticism on his part concerning my past and present involvement with the King’s younger brother; but I managed to convince him in the end. Unfortunately, I didn’t foresee, although I should have done, that this would make him even more wary of me.

He clammed up, refusing to offer any reason for his change of living beyond saying that he had grown tired of gardening for a pittance, and being bullied by William Morgan. A boy he met had told him there was good money to be made as a whore, and had offered to find him a place in this brothel, where he had been ever since.

‘You came here,’ I hazarded, ‘because it’s close to the St Clair house in the Strand.’ I saw his sudden flush of colour and knew I had guessed aright. ‘Do you ever go back there in the dead of night to climb the wall to sit in the garden?’

‘No I fuckin’ don’t!’ he exploded with such venom that I jumped in surprise. ‘I came ’ere for safety. Someone in that house was tryin’ to kill me! Safety! Same as I told that there Fulk, or whatever he was called. They look after me ’ere.’

I was beginning to feel like Theseus in the labyrinth, but without his ball of thread.

‘Master Quantrell asked you the same question? How did he know where to find you? Nell doesn’t know where you are.’

Young Roger shrugged. ‘Just chance. ’E came ’ere looking for pleasure and, when we finished, we got talking. ’E found out I was Nell’s half-brother. Then ’e come back once or twice more. ’E wasn’t really a sodomite. Just did it now and then, I reckon, for the thrill of it. Doin’ something ’e shouldn’t. ’E was that sort. But ’e did like asking questions.’

‘What about?’

‘Well … ’Bout the garden, mainly. What sort o’ things we planted. Did Mistress St Clair and the rest take much interest in it.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothin’ more.’

‘Is that all?’

‘More or less. I did ask ’im once why ’e wanted to know about the garden. I said I thought he must’ve heard the story ’bout the old Savoy Palace that used t’ be in the Strand.’

‘What story is that?’ I queried. I found I wasn’t sweating as much as when I had first entered the room. I was growing accustomed to the stench and finding it less offensive than before.

Young Roger, too, grew easier in his manner as he became used to my presence, and convinced that I posed no threat.

‘You ain’t a Londoner,’ he said, nodding sagely. ‘Though I s’pose I’d guessed that already by the funny way you talk.’ I raised my eyebrows, but otherwise ignored this slur on my West Country burr. ‘Everyone in London,’ he went on, ‘knows the story that there’s treasure buried somewhere in the Strand.’

‘Treasure? What sort of treasure?’ I was intrigued.

‘Usual kind. Money, jewels, gold.’

‘Why? How is it supposed to have got there? And whereabouts?’

My final question made him laugh, showing stumps of blackened teeth. ‘If anyone knew whereabouts,’ he answered, carefully mimicking my tone, ‘some greedy sod would’ve found it by now, wouldn’t ’e? As to ’ow it got there, well! When that Wat Tyler ’n’ John Ball ’n’ Jack Straw ’n’ their howling mob sacked London and burned down the Savoy Palace all them years ago, Wat Tyler ’n’ John Ball gave orders that no one was to loot the place on pain o’ being strung up from the nearest tree. What they was doin’, they said, was for the King and liberty and so on, and not for making themselves rich.’ The boy curled his lip. ‘Well, I mean to say! Askin’ a bit too much of any man, ain’t it? John o’ Gaunt was the richest man in the country after the King. The Savoy was stuffed with treasures. Bound to ’ave been! More ’n flesh ’n’ blood could resist. The story reckons there was looting, and plenty of it, and a good few managed to get away with it. But a group of men got caught, an’ one o’ Wat Tyler’s captains ordered ’em to be hanged there and then, without trial nor nothin’, an’ the very people who’d been lootin’ themselves performed the deed.

‘But there’d been a fourth man in the group who managed to slip away unnoticed to where they’d piled up their loot. An’ while the others were hangin’ his three comrades, he buried it all, meaning to come back for it later. But later was no good. ’E was recognized and fingered as being one o’ the group and strung up, as well. The treasure ’e’d buried was never found, and still ’asn’t been found to this day. They reckon it’s still there, somewhere. Probably in somebody’s garden.’ He grinned. ‘Or maybe under one of the ’ouses. More ’n one owner’s had his cellar floor dug up, so they say.’

I thought this over. ‘But those three houses at the end of the Strand,’ I pointed out, ‘are considered to have been a part of the original palace; therefore, if this tale were true, the treasure – if it exists at all – is unlikely to be buried underneath them … Do you believe this story?’ I asked the boy.

My namesake grimaced. ‘Naw! There are tales like this un by the dozen about almost every part o’ London. The streets are paved with gold, we tell strangers. Just dig a bit an’ you’ll find it. Meantime, buy my nice new shiny spade. Or, better still, this old un that’s cost me nothing, ’cause it belonged to my great-great-grandfather.’

A cynic at twelve years old! My heart warmed to him in spite of his unprepossessing appearance and smell.

‘And what did Fulk Quantrell say when you asked him if he believed this story?’

‘Said ’e hadn’t ’eard it. What was it about? So I told ’im, like I’ve just told you.’

‘Did you believe him?’

Young Roger, who, until now, had been perched on the empty frame of the bed, shifted and slid down the curve of the mattress to sit cross-legged on the floor.

‘Well … that’s the funny thing. When ’e said ’e’d never ’eard the tale, yes, I did believe ’im. But later that visit, just as ’e was going, ’e laughed and said something like, “There’s plenty of treasure buried in the Strand if you know where to look for it. I’ve been hopin’ you’d tell me where it can be found. But seems like you don’t know.” Then ’e laughed again and added, “But I don’t really need it. I can make my fortune without.” ’E went away and that was the last time I saw ’im. Next thing I ’eard, he was dead. Been found murdered in Faitour Lane.’ After a pause, Roger asked eagerly, ‘Anythin’ else you want t’ know?’ He glanced at the coins in his hand and jingled them suggestively.

‘I’m not a rich man,’ I protested. Nevertheless, I dipped into my purse and doled out a couple more groats. ‘You haven’t yet explained exactly why you ran away from Mistress St Clair’s. What made you think someone was trying to kill you? And who do you think it was?’

‘I don’t know who it was,’ was the disappointing response. ‘But I do know that I had some very peculiar accidents in that house.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, once, I was by myself at the bottom of the garden, plantin’ some cress seeds along the water’s edge, like Paulina Graygoss told me. I ’ad me back to the ’ouse and wasn’t thinkin’ about nothing but what I was doing, when suddenly, I toppled into the river. I swear to you, chapman, that someone pushed me, but when I came to the surface, there was no one in sight. Everyone swore they was somewhere else at the time and said I must’ve slipped. But I didn’t. I know I didn’t. Somebody pushed me in. Luckily, I can swim like a fish. Then, another time, I’d to go down the cellar to bring up some o’ the master’s favourite wine. I’d a candle, o’ course, but I still didn’t see the wooden ball on the third or fourth step from the top. I went crashing to the bottom and was lucky not t’ break me fuckin’ neck. As it was, I was laid up the best part of a month.’

‘What sort of a ball?’ I queried.

‘A child’s ball. A painted thing Mistress Alcina used to play with when she was a child, or so Paulina Graygoss said. Said, too, she thought it was put away with all the other old toys in a chest in Alcina’s bedchamber, but that someone must’ve got it out, though goodness knows why. That’s what Paulina said. And there was the time I was terrible sick after eating me dinner. It was mutton stew, and no one else was ill. I reckon somethin’ ’ad been added to me bowl when I wasn’t lookin’.’

‘Whom did you suspect? Mistress Graygoss?’

‘Any of the women. Not Nell, but everyone else. They were all in and out the kitchen that day, I remember. The master and mistress were ’avin’ Master and Mistress Jolliffe and Master Brandon to supper, ’s I recall, and were out to impress. Mistress Alcina was quite sweet on Brandon Jolliffe in them days, though I ’ear she ain’t so much now. Wanted Master Quantrell. We ’ad a laugh about that, we did. But, as I say, all the women were in ’n’ out o’ the kitchen at some time or another that morning. And William Morgan. Any of ’em could’ve put somethin’ in me stew without me seeing.’

I was a little doubtful about this last instance; and in the first, whatever Roger thought, he could have slipped. But the incident with the child’s ball certainly appeared more sinister.

‘Did anything else happen after that?’ I asked.

He gave a scornful snort. ‘I didn’t wait t’ find out. I ran away and came ’ere, where I’ve been ever since. What’s more, I’m goin’ to stay ’ere. Now, mind! Don’t you go tellin’ anyone in that house you’ve seen me. Not even Nell.’

‘She’s worried about you. She’d like to know that you’re alive and well.’

‘Daresay,’ he replied unfeelingly, ‘but she ain’t one for holding her tongue. Never could keep a secret, couldn’t Nell.’

‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘I promise to say nothing. But I can’t answer for Lionel Broderer and his mother. Or for the other women. They must all have heard what was said.’ I didn’t add that once I had established my interest in young Roger Jessop, he had at once become a more interesting subject for discussion, and, doubtless, was even now a general topic of conversation in the embroidery workshop.

Roger was dismissive. ‘None of ’em knows me well enough t’ care what I’m up to. They got other things to talk about.’

I didn’t like to disillusion him, and, after all, he might be right. It did cross my mind that I ought to use any means in my power to wean him away from his present existence, and that to frighten him into running again might not be such a bad idea. But I didn’t. The smell and the close confines of the room were beginning to make me feel queasy once again, and my one thought was rapidly becoming of escape.

I tossed the lad two more coins, mumbled my farewells and left, stumbling along the fetid passageway and staggering thankfully into the less noisome air of Faitour Lane. I walked back to the Strand and down the alleyway between the St Clairs’ and Martin Threadgold’s houses to the river’s edge, where I paused for a moment, breathing in the cleaner river smells and staring out across the Thames, a streak of silver studded with the russet and blue, crimson and emerald of hundreds of barges.

‘Ah! Master Chapman!’ said a voice. ‘Do you have any news for me yet concerning the death of my nephew?’

I jumped guiltily and turned to find myself looking over the wall, into the stern, questioning features of Judith St Clair.