The Poison Maiden

Chapter 5

Shortly before the Angelus, Demontaigu and I made our way down to King’s Steps, fighting through the throng, searching for a barge. The abbot’s bailiffs were out in force, placing a liar in the stocks with a whetstone around his neck and burning another through the gristle of his left ear for some petty theft. They became distracted, and yelled at two butter-women involved in a shouting match over who should sell their goods where. Next to these, mourners hoisted up a parish coffin draped in a black and gold pall on which the absolution was pinned. They sang the ‘Dirige’ as they waited for a funeral barge to take them further downriver to Timberhithe. Grooms and ostlers revelled in spreading the chaos as they brought horses of every description down to water. Traders bawled, ‘Ten finches for a penny’, or ‘A slice of roast pork for eightpence’. The greatest crush was around the palace stewards, who, helped by the Widows of Christ in their tawny mantles, were distributing lady loaves and lady meat, the remains of the previous evening’s banquet. I recalled my promise to the Keeper of the Dead at St Margaret’s, and shouldered my way through, showing Isabella’s seal and that of Gaveston to the chief steward. I told him what I wanted done, then rejoined a bewildered-looking Demontaigu at the top of King’s Steps.

No royal barge was available, so we shared one with a garrulous parson taking a portable altar fashioned out of jasper and set in a wooden frame to All Harrows by the Tower. We were joined by a relic seller cradling a fosser of blue and black velvet which, he breathlessly informed us, contained the relics of St John Chrysostom and other Eastern fathers. He was shouted to silence by a merchant dressed in a splendid coat of blue and white damask edged with velvet and lined with green buckram, who boarded the barge as if he owned it. Conversation with Demontaigu was impossible. I sat in the bobbing barge watching a group of beggars at the top of the steps with their long T-shaped crutches chanting the ‘Salve Regina’, the words floating melodiously across the water. At the time, little did I know how that hymn had been used to conceal a great secret. Gusts of fiery smoke belched from a nearby forge. In front of us rocked a pardon barge fastened securely to a hook in the quayside wall. On board a zealous friar waited to hear the confessions of all comers beneath a crucifix on a pole, whilst in the stern a blessed candle glowed in a lantern horn to drive away the demons.

At last our barge pulled off. The day, if I recall correctly, was fair, the clouds breaking, the sun strengthening. The river ran full and fast, busy with craft of every description; after all, winter was spent, spring was here, and soon it would be the great feast of the Resurrection. Demontaigu sat shrouded in a military cloak. He was well armed in a light mailed hauberk and a war belt from which hung sword, dagger and small arbalest with a pouch of bolts. He had insisted that I change into a smock that hung down just above my stout low-heeled leather boots. I understood that his meeting at the Chapel of the Hanged might be dangerous.

The noise and chatter on board the barge was stilled by the booming Angelus bells from the city. The parson obligingly recited: ‘The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary. .’ whilst the merchant and the relic seller kept up their argument about sacred bones in a harsh whisper. I was more concerned with a thin-faced, scrawny-haired man who had joined the barge just before it left. I wondered if he was a spy. I did not like the insolent look in his close-set eyes as he scrutinised me. I whispered to Demontaigu where we were going. He nodded, more preoccupied with his own meeting later that day.

We disembarked at Queenshithe and were immediately swamped by a sea of colour, noise and smells as we fought our way through the crowds up towards Thames Street and into Fish Lane. On the quayside and along the alleyways leading to it, hawkers, hucksters, chapmen, free fruiterers and pedlars sold tarts, fresh skinned eels, meat pies of every description, mousetraps, bird cages, shoehorns and lanterns. Tipplers with their upturned casks offered stoups of beer to passers-by. Water bearers staggered along with ladles and buckets of ‘pure spring water’. Stalls in crooked lanes, built for wheelbarrows rather than carts, forced the crowds to pause. These were entertained by the apprentice boys from the nearby clothiers who imported fabrics from Paris, Hainault, and Cambrai. These envoys shouted how their masters had hangings, coverlets, canopies and testers for sale as well as precious canvas from Ostia. Other enterprising traders held up boards advertising linen thread, amber and bone beads, silk garters, brass rings and beaver hats, paxes, kissing boxes, pepper mills and girdles of every kind. One taverner had organised a six-boy choir to advertise the fresh oysters available in his comfortable oyster room. The song they chanted was well known:

‘They are all alive and very fine

So if you like them come and dine

I’ll find you bread and butter too

And you can have them open for a stew.’

Bells clanged. People shouted. Carts creaked. Dogs barked. People fought and swore. Shops and tavern signs, all garish in their colours, creaked dangerously above our heads, proclaiming: ‘The Hare’, ‘The Honey Pot’, ‘The Saracen’, ‘The Bell at Night’. The air reeked of every stench, perfume and odour possible: sweaty clothes, smoke, dung, pitch, oil, cooking smells, as well as the sweet soapy perfumes of the rich in their satins and furs. Great lords and their retainers, in half-armour or costly clothes, rode by on powerful destriers, while beggars, almost as bare as when they were born, crouched in every cranny available and whined for alms. Bailiffs and beadles eager for trouble swaggered about looking for custom; their chosen prey, the foists, pickpockets, rogues and vagabonds, moved swiftly away like a shoal of fish from hunting pike. No one dared accost us. Demontaigu had thrown back his cloak; the sight of his sword and dagger were protection enough. At All Hallows Bread Street, we had to pause for a while. A red-faced, perspiring beadle informed us how two outlaws had been seen and put to the horn. They had apparently taken sanctuary in the tower of a nearby church and were loosing arrows whenever they wished. One man had already been killed. The delay wasn’t for long. A group of city bailiffs, wearing the blue and mustard livery of the Corporation, stormed the tower. As we passed the church’s great preaching cross in God’s Acre, both outlaws were being summarily hanged from the beams of the lychgate. They were still gasping and struggling against the ropes as we went by.

At last we entered the trading thoroughfare of Cheapside with its great water conduit, the Tun, which was, and still is, used as a prison, with huge cages placed on its roof. On that particular day, a group of screaming doxies and their pimps caught touting for business beyond Cock Lane were being forced up into the cages for the rest of the day. In the stocks beneath, ale-conners and beadles were locking up a number of ale-masters who’d sold their drink in measures shortened by a thick coating of tar at the bottom of the jug. A beadle busily proclaimed their crimes and invited all passers-by to empty brimming buckets of horse urine over the miscreants’ heads. For the rest along that great thoroughfare it was trade as usual, in everything from silver jugs to green wax, rabbits from Hampshire to precious stuff brought across the mountains of Tartary. The broad stalls under their rippling striped awnings stood in front of the lofty mansions and stately houses of merchants with their pink and white plaster, gleaming black timbers and ornately gilded gables. I paused and stared round in wonderment. Ignoring Demontaigu’s puzzled look, I turned as if fascinated by two jongleurs and a tumbler practising their arts to a group of gawping boys. I quickly surveyed the crowds, searching for ‘Close Eyes’, the man who’d been on the barge with us, yet I could glimpse no one. We went up Milk Street towards St Andrew’s Jewry and along a needle-thin alleyway, the houses jutting out above us. On a corner of this lay the Secret of Solomon.

The tavern stood in its grounds behind a grey ragstone wall entered by an ornamental wooden gatehouse with a chamber above boasting mullioned glass; this gave the hostelry the impression of being a wealthy manor house. The old porter waved us into a slightly sloping, broad cobbled bailey. Stables stretched along three sides; on the fourth, facing us, was the magnificent tavern. In honey-coloured Cotswold stone, it rose three storeys high with a black-and-white-painted wooden gallery around the top one. The roof was of gleaming red tile, whilst the front of the building boasted windows of coloured glass above wide steps sweeping up to a grandiose front door. On either side of this hung broad painted signs showing the great King Solomon seated at table pondering some mystery. You can still go there today. The tavern is not as magnificent as it used to be, but any who have survived my tale will tell you about the great mystery from the spring of 1308. Inside, the taproom was as spacious as a lord’s hall, with its raftered ceiling. Yawning hearths were built into the side walls, each with a flue and stack. The floor was of polished dark planks coated with crushed herbs; none of the foul, soggy rushes of dirty alehouses. Tables stood in the window embrasures overlooking the herb and flower gardens, whilst the great common table stretched at least five yards across the centre of the room. A welcoming place. The whitewashed walls were covered with crude yet vivid paintings on stretched linen over wooden backing, all depicting scenes from the life of Solomon. Other notices proclaimed the price of food:

A man came out of the kitchen, from which white steam curled, wafting the most delicious smells. He wiped his hands on his leather apron and waved us to a window seat, offering ‘hot sheep’s feet, enriched with pepper and saffron sauce’ as the delicacy of the day.

‘Edmund Lascelles?’ I demanded.

The man babbled the rest of the day’s menu, scratched his balding head and pointed to a narrow staircase in the far corner.

‘Second gallery, fourth chamber, under the sign of the ram. He is probably still asleep. The maid couldn’t wake him.’

We thanked the taverner and went up the staircase on to the dark gallery. Five chambers stood there; above each of the oaken doors was a carved astrological sign. We stopped beneath that of the ram and knocked hard, pushing down on the handle. No answer, no sound, nothing but the creak of wood and the faint noises of the tavern. Mystery has its own perfume or smell; perhaps it’s the passing of the years: that juddering of the belly, the slight quickening of the heart. Pax-Bread wouldn’t answer. Why? Demontaigu, who’d acted almost like a dream-walker since we’d left Westminster, now stirred himself, hammering at the door and rattling the handle. I felt the wood; the door hung solid. I crouched down and ran my hand along the gap between wood and floor; the door was at least three inches thick. We returned to the taproom. Mine Host was not alarmed by my news, more eager to return to his smoke-filled kitchen. I produced Isabella’s seal. The tavern master smiled as if he was a mainour: a thief caught red-handed. He stood staring around at his few customers: a lick-penny trader with his tray of cheap laces, caps, pin cases, rosaries and chains; a limner man and his white-muzzled grey-hound; two carters and an old woman with her pet duck. I remember them all quite vividly. I was still most vigilant for Close Eyes from the barge.

‘There won’t be many customers yet,’ mine host muttered.

‘Do you have another key?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘Yes, yes.’ Mine Host hurried away. He went into the kitchen, came out and, ignoring us, went straight up the stairs by himself. We heard a crashing, faint oaths, then he returned.

‘I cannot!’ He shook his head. ‘Master Lascelles must have drawn across the bolts, but come. .’

He led us through the kitchen, past tables swimming in blood, chopped vegetables, pieces of gristle and meat, and out into the broad gardens. Few flowers yet blossomed there. The air was rich from the compost that coated the soil. The garden could be entered by a wicket gate at either side. Mine Host hurried to one of these, put his fingers to his lips and whistled. He was joined by three of his ostlers. A brief conversation ensued, then one of them crossed the garden and returned with a long siege ladder, a pole with rungs on either side. This was laid securely against the brickwork under the fourth window and one of the ostlers, encouraged by my promise of a reward, climbed gingerly up. He pulled at the shutter; it wouldn’t open, so he shouted down for further guidance. Mine Host breathed in deeply and closed his eyes.

‘May Michael and all his angels help us,’ he whispered. ‘You see, mistress, the door is locked and bolted — it would take a battering ram to clear it of its hinges. Sometimes this does happen. We have had travellers, particularly pilgrims, die on us and we have to gain entry from outside. The shutters cover a window that is broad, beyond it a leather curtain to keep out draughts.’ He shouted at the ostler to come down. He did so, nimble as a squirrel. Mine Host returned to the kitchens and brought back a long, thin cutting knife. He gave careful instructions to the ostler, who went back up the ladder, wedged the knife between the shutters, prised open the bar beyond and, with a yell of triumph, pulled back the wooden slats and climbed in.

A short while later he leaned his head out.

‘Nothing!’ he yelled. ‘Nothing at all, come and see.’

We hurried back inside and up the staircase. By the time we reached the chamber, the door was flung open. We went in. The chamber looked unoccupied; the key still hung in the inside lock. I glanced around. A large room, neatly furnished, with a bed, chests, coffers, an aumbry, table and stool. I walked across to the lavarium. The water looked clean, the napkin unruffled. I sat on the bed and studied every inch of that room: the polished wooden floor with its thin turkey rugs of dark blue, the clothes pegs on the wall either side of the door. Mine Host was equally bemused. He sat down on the stool and stared around.

‘It is as if he was never here,’ he whispered. ‘And yet. .’

‘And yet what?’ I asked.

‘Master Lascelles arrived late yesterday afternoon. He stabled his horse in a yard not far from here. He left his saddle there but brought his saddlebags, belt and cloak. He seemed personable enough. He paid half a mark, hired this chamber and went upstairs. A little later he came down, sat at the common table, broke his hunger on bread, cheese and ham with a pot of ale, then returned to his room.’ He lifted a hand, walked to the door and shouted a name.

I heard a pattering on the gallery outside. A tousle-haired boy clad in smoke-stained rags, his coal-spotted face shining with oil, came hurtling into the chamber. He stopped abruptly and gazed around.

‘This is Spit Boy,’ Mine Host announced, ‘also our messenger.’ He winked at me. ‘Spit Boy knows every corner and runnel in the ward, aye and beyond!’ He chattered at the boy in the patois of the slums. Spit Boy, arms rigid either side of him, replied in a sing-song voice.

Demontaigu, who had been studying the door, moved silently across to inspect the window embrasure deep in the wall and the shutters now flung wide open. He hoisted himself up and looked out. Mine Host gestured at Spit Boy to remain quiet and turned back to me.

‘Master Lascelles came here,’ he declared. ‘He hired this chamber and brought in his saddlebags and war belt. He came down to eat but also hired Spit Boy to deliver a message to Sister Alvena.’ Mine Host now mumbled so quickly that I had to ask him to repeat it.

‘The Domus Iucundarum — the House of Pleasures,’ he whispered as if everyone in the neighbourhood were eavesdropping. ‘It is a brothel, a rather exclusive one, to the north of Lothbury not far from All Hallows in the Walls, between Walbrook stream and the Austin Friars.’

‘And?’ I asked.

‘Spit Boy simply took a message to Sister Alvena and returned. He informed Master Lascelles that Sister Alvena would meet him after the Compline bell.’ Mine Host touched his lips. ‘I saw him leave all hooded and gowned like a friar, a very expensive gown if I remember, lined with costly ermine. His cloak was open, he was armed with sword and dagger and he carried his saddlebags. He said very little to me or Spit Boy. About three hours later he returned. I certainly remember that cowl and hood. By then the taproom was very busy. He shouted greetings and went up the stairs.’ Mine Host shook his head in wonderment. ‘He couldn’t have fled.’ He waved towards the window. ‘That’s broad enough but it’s a long jump to the garden below. The shutters were closed, the door locked and bolted from the inside. Nevertheless, he is gone and taken everything with him.’

‘Do you know where he stabled his horse?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know where he came from?’

Mine Host shook his head. ‘Or where he was going,’ he added mournfully.

‘And the chambers either side?’

‘Empty, mistress! Once Lent is finished, business will grow brisk.’

‘Did you notice anything? Untoward strangers, unexplained mishaps?’

Again the shake of the head. ‘Mistress, I saw him arrive back from his pleasures.’ The taverner got to his feet. ‘After that, nothing, a true mystery. Perhaps a ghost, a visitation from some demon?’

I could already see the story forming, one he’d sell to his many customers.

‘I have business to attend to.’ He snapped his fingers at Spit Boy and both strode out of the chamber. He came hurrying back.

‘If you wish to eat, I can serve a delicious beef broth with freshly baked maslin bread.’

I accepted, and Mine Host left, closing the door gently behind him. Demontaigu and I inspected every inch of that room. To all intents and purposes no one had stayed there. The squat candle had burnt, but everything else was undisturbed: the bed, the lavarium, the chests and coffers. The door, as I thought, was thick and heavy, its lock and bolts undisturbed. The window deep in the wall, about two feet across and the same in length, was shielded by a leather draught-catcher. The shutters beyond were fixed in a wooden frame, their hinges of the stoutest leather. The shutter on the right held a bar; this would swing down to rest in an iron clasp on the left one. A small gap peeped between the shutters, broad enough to insert a blade. I recalled Mine Host’s words about gaining access to a chamber where a guest had died. I peered through the window; there was no ledge below or on either side. The drop was sheer, precipitous, whilst the windows to the chambers on the right and left were a considerable distance away. No one could have gained access by any ledge or foothold. So what had happened to Pax-Bread and his belongings? I sat on the edge of the bed, Demontaigu on a stool. He questioned me about Pax-Bread and why he was so important.

I told him succinctly what the king and Gaveston had said earlier that day. Demontaigu heard me out. He asked me to repeat precisely Edward’s words about the Templars and the possibility that the French were bartering for their total destruction. He was deeply disturbed. He’d been quiet ever since we left Westminster. I held my peace as a servant brought the food and ale, but once she’d gone, I gently teased him about why he looked so worried. He explained how we were to meet the Templars, at least those who still remained in London, later that day and how Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales, because the king was besieged in Westminster, were free to cast their net far and wide.

‘As for the possibility that Edward might agree to the destruction of the Temple in return for Philip’s support of Gaveston. .’ Demontaigu, visibly agitated, put down the lump of bread he was eating. He looked so woebegone, I regretted telling him.

‘Friend?’ I knelt beside him. ‘You are deeply worried?’

Demontaigu opened his mouth to speak, but shook his head and took a mouthful of ale.

‘I am,’ he confessed wearily, ‘cut to the heart. Mathilde, you’ve simply described how dangerous it has all become. I also received bad news this morning. Five of our brothers have been taken up and placed in Newgate. One is an old man well past his sixtieth summer. There is talk amongst the brethren,’ he mused, ‘that we should withdraw into the northern shires, even seek sanctuary with Bruce in Scotland.’

I caught my breath. He stroked my hair gently.

‘I will stay here, Mathilde. Tonight I might advise the rest that they should go, but this business: Pax-Bread, or Lascelles. . He comes here, then disappears out of a locked room, a man with his baggage, no trace of him!’ Demontaigu sighed and got to his feet. ‘Mathilde, we’ve spent enough time here. Let me surprise you.’ He smiled. ‘Have you ever visited a brothel?’

‘Just Philip of France’s court,’ I retorted.

‘Ah well.’ Demontaigu walked to the door. ‘This will not be so wicked.’

We left the chamber and went down to the taproom. I instructed Mine Host that if he discovered anything new he should let me, Mathilde de Clairebon, know as soon as possible. I would lavishly reward both him and Spit Boy for any information sent to the Palace of Westminster. He assured me he would and we left.

A strange journey. I was still intrigued about what had happened to Pax-Bread, as well as concerned about what Demontaigu had told me. In many ways the conclusion he and his colleagues had reached was logical. If Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales were given a free hand in London and elsewhere, the only place of refuge was amongst Edward’s enemies in Scotland. Yet I had to steel myself to the present dangers. The day was drawing on. Most people had retired to the alehouses and cook shops for a potage of vegetables, peas and cabbage washed down with cheap ale. Because of the terrors that were to occur later that day, I remember certain glimpses, vivid memories: the various colours of people’s clothes, black and white, blue and white, red and mustard; a fop wearing a quilted jacket and hose with a strange contrast of tint throughout like something glimpsed in a dream. I was on guard for danger, the sudden movement, a dagger in a hand. I kept my eyes on clothes rather than faces and I realised how people’s wealth and status were determined by the girdle around their waist, be it wool, leather, linen, garnished with copper, iron, steel or, in the case of the very rich, gold or silver. Other memories come floating back. A butcher was slaughtering a pig because it had been found wandering where it shouldn’t have been. Two dogs darted in, eager to lap the blood, only to be driven off with kicks and blows. On the corner of Wood Street, bailiffs were putting five bakers into the stocks for selling underweight loaves; across the lane, a prostitute lifted her skirt and called raucously at a group of gallants swaggering by. A friar was also trying to seek the young men’s attention by attacking the way they dressed.

‘Ye proud gallants, cold and heartless,’ he thundered, ‘with your high caps witless, and your short gowns frithless, are bringing this land to great heaviness.’

He kept repeating the refrain so the words, like the tune of a carol, dinned in my own memory, as did the friar’s sombre warning how in hell, ‘those who dress lavishly will be tormented by demons dressed in the same apparel they flaunted during life’.

On occasion Demontaigu would stop. We were not taking the direct route to Lothbury but going along those narrow lanes towards Cripplegate. Demontaigu would pause and enter the taprooms of various taverns — the Roebuck, the Spread Eagle, the Whirl, the Jackanapes — where comrades of his order were sheltering, disguised as beggars, tinkers, chapmen or, on occasion, even as lepers or Bedlamites. Outside the Glowing Worm, I was approached by a herb wife who offered me some parsley and thyme. I shook my head and smiled, but she drew closer. She was not so much interested in selling herbs as in seeking my attention for a narrow-faced man sheltering in a doorway further down the street: in truth a pimp and his whore seeking fresh flesh for their trade. Demontaigu came out of the tavern, took one look at the woman, glanced down the street and drove both off with curses.

‘I am sorry,’ he apologised. ‘But that was my last visit. Come.’

We went up Gutter Lane, past Bakewell Hall into Lothbury and across the Great Common dotted here and there with stately houses, their towered roofs and occasional glass-filled windows glinting above high stone curtain-walls. Demontaigu took direction from a chapman who smiled at his enquiry but pointed to a track-way winding through a thick copse of trees.

‘The path to pleasure,’ he joked, then pointed at me. ‘But why go there with a merry handful so close?’

Demontaigu laughed. I blushed. We made our way down across the wasteland, the soil and grass slippery underfoot. A group of boys with their lurchers appeared, eager to raise a hare; the shouting and barking dinned our ears as we entered the silent copse, to be greeted by strange cooking smells. A group of Moon People sheltered in the trees; they were busy baking in hot ash small birds, skinned hedgehog and squirrel, which a dark-faced woman offered us for a penny a piece. The smell was foul. I gave her a coin but refused the food, pinching my nostrils even as Demontaigu teased me how he’d eaten such fare when fighting in France. The woman, apparently a bawdy basket, followed us along the path shouting in a language I could not understand. A man slipped out of the trees carrying a club, approaching us as if we’d insulted the woman. Demontaigu half drew his sword and both the bawdy basket and her protector promptly disappeared. At last the trees thinned. The track-way branched on to a lane leading up to a red-brick wall with a smartly painted blue gate boasting a black cross above the grille high in the wood. Demontaigu asked for Isabella and Gaveston’s seals. He approached the gate and pulled hard on the chain hanging from the bell-cote. The grille opened. Demontaigu held up the seals.

‘The king’s business,’ he shouted as loud as any herald, and the bolts were drawn. Demontaigu beckoned me closer as the gates swung open. A young woman dressed like a novice nun in black from head to toe, an ivory-coloured wimple framing her lovely face, gestured at us to come in. I noticed how the white ruffs at her neck and wrists offset the bleakness; I also glimpsed the carmine-coloured nails as well as the bright red pointed shoes peeping out from beneath the black kirtle. She smiled gracefully, sketched a curtsy and led us up the well-swept path. Only then did I notice the two men, pug-nosed and aggressive, sheltering behind the gate, which they now swung shut.

A flowery arbour trellis shrouded the path with plants climbing up across the top; on either side of this lawns, herb banks and flowerbeds budded under the spring sun. At the end of the path, steps led up to a metal-studded black door with grilles and eyelets, like that of a convent. Our guide pulled at the brightly polished copper bell. The door swung open and she invited us into a rather stark parlour with cushioned stools, benches and tables. The walls were a brilliant white, with linen paintings stretched over wooden board fastened to the plaster, each showed a young woman busy about some household task. Demontaigu studied one of these, grinned and sat down on the bench beside me. The Novice, as I now thought of her, stood smiling demurely down at us. She moved from the door as a more mature woman, harsh-faced, dressed in a similar fashion to the Novice, swept into the room. She glanced in surprise at me, but shrugged and, rounding on Demontaigu, spoke quickly in Norman French, demanding to examine the seals. She did so carefully before sweeping out of the chamber, beckoning the Novice to join her. Demontaigu whispered, lips almost touching my ear, ‘In hoc loco muri oculos auresque habent — in this place the walls have eyes as well as ears’. He rose, tapped one of the paintings and came and stood over me. ‘Alvena is here,’ he whispered.

A short while later there was a knock on the door and a young lady entered. She was dressed like the Novice, though her gown was dark green, the wimple blood red. She had skin as white as a water lily, brows as black as jet, an impish face with laughing eyes, snub nose and full lips. She offered us Leche Lumbard and dates in spiced wine, but we refused.

‘Then what can I do for you?’ she asked mischievously. ‘The hour is early. We sisters usually rest and begin our service after Vespers.’ She looked questioningly at me.

‘Not here,’ I murmured, moving to the door.

The young woman shrugged, pulled a face and brushed past me, going back down the passageway. I heard the mutter of conversation. Alvena started to come back. A voice called. She returned; more conversation, then she appeared out of the gloom, slightly flushed, eyes more wary.

‘Mother Superior says we may sit in the garden.’

We made ourselves comfortable on a stone bench outside. For a short while Alvena chattered about the flowers, how she looked forward to summer and how lovely it was to sit here especially in the evening and watch the sunset.

‘Pax-Bread?’ I declared. ‘Edmund Lascelles? He came here last night, didn’t he? He visited you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied, eyes rounding in surprise. ‘I don’t know if I can help.’

‘Mistress,’ I retorted, turning to face her squarely, ‘you can answer our questions either here or in the gatehouse at Westminster. We know Edmund Lascelles sent Spit Boy here to arrange an assignment with you after Vespers. He came here?’

‘Yes, yes, he did.’

‘Tell me — and please, mistress, the truth, or it’s the gatehouse and much rougher questioning. We mean you no harm,’ I insisted. I took two silver coins from my purse. ‘These are yours. I assure you, we mean no harm.’

Alvena’s demeanour changed, her face hard, no more pretence. She pocketed the coins and stared across the grass as if fascinated by a thrush jabbing at the soil.

‘I am originally from Poitou,’ she declared. ‘I came here four years ago. Master Lascelles met me in Cock Lane where I was doing service in a boarding house. He offered better: this place under the care and protection of Mother Superior. Our guests are, how can I put it, carefully selected? Not everyone is allowed through that gate. Edmund is kind and gentle. He is also a superb pastry cook. He often delighted us as much as we delighted him.’ She laughed softly. ‘Then he had to return to France. Occasionally he returned to London. He would always visit me, bring me some present. Last night he did the same but this time there was no present. Edmund was usually cheerful, a merry soul, but yesterday he was silent and withdrawn. It took some time for him to relax, a few cups of wine, some soft music. I asked him what the matter was. He just shook his head and said he was on king’s business and that he was frightened. I must admit, mistress,’ she glanced sharply at me, ‘he was so fearful that even I became cautious, especially when he said he felt as if he was followed to this house. I asked him by whom. He just shook his head and we fell to our games. Afterwards I pressed him: what was his business? Why was he so frightened? He told me he was staying at the Secret of Solomon and that he would return this evening.’ She glanced at me. ‘He won’t, will he?’

‘No, mistress, he will not, because he cannot. He seems to have disappeared.’ I quickly told her what we’d found at the tavern.

Alvena swallowed hard. ‘This is not my business.’ She made to rise but I pressed her back. ‘Did he say anything,’ I insisted, ‘anything at all?’ Alvena stared down at her hands, soft and white, the nails neatly pared and painted. She moved in a gust of fragrant perfume, her hand pushing back the ruffle at her neck to scratch the sweat. The woman was fearful, wondering whether to speak or not.

‘What danger could you be in, mistress?’ I asked.

‘Danger?’ She laughed sharply. ‘No danger, not for me anyway!’ She murmured, ‘Edmund said something rather strange. After I pressed him about his worry, he declared that great danger lurked at Westminster. How old Jean might be as mad as a March hare but he had the truth of it and he sang the right hymn. I asked him what he meant. By then Edmund was deep in his cups, more interested in his pleasures. Of course,’ she shrugged, ‘I encouraged him in that.’ She rose to her feet and turned to face us. ‘I owe a great deal to Edmund. If something has happened to him, then I shall weep. I shall be sorry. I shall light a candle. Remember him in my prayers.’ She stood swaying gently, studying our faces carefully. ‘Do you think ill of me, mistress?’

I shook my head. ‘Each soul has its path,’ I replied. ‘Only God knows the truth.’

‘You have kind eyes, and you, sir,’ she looked at Demontaigu, ‘are you a priest?’

I realised how sharp this young woman was.

‘What I am,’ Demontaigu smiled, ‘only God knows. Do you have anything else to tell us, mistress?’

She shook her head, made to go, but came back and crouched before us, one hand resting on Demontaigu’s knee. ‘Go with God,’ she whispered. ‘You have been kind, so I shall give you clear warning. You talk of danger. There is no danger for me here, but,’ she gestured with her head, ‘beyond that gate our porters have seen three men sheltering in the trees.’

‘Moon People?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘No, no.’ She shook her head again. ‘Not Moon People. These are well armed, hooded and visored. Monsieur,’ Alvena rose, smiled at Demontaigu and touched me gently on the cheek, ‘mademoiselle, take care.’