London

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Silversleeves glanced around. “These old hags? I can have them any time. I came here for fresh meat.” He grinned. “Tell you what. Soon as she’s done, tell her customer he can have one of the others for free to follow. I’ll pay. Then you give her to me. How’s that?”

  But again, after a moment’s pause, the brothelkeeper shook his head.

  If the brothelkeeper had not hesitated for that instant, if his eyes had not momentarily flicked towards Isobel again, Silversleeves would probably have admitted defeat. But he noticed, and at once a look of cunning came across his face.

  “What’s the game?” he cried. “What are you hiding, brothelkeeper? Are you trying to cheat me?” Whatever Silversleeves might be, he was also sharp. He moved over to the brazier where the brothelkeeper was standing. The pimples made tiny shadows on his face in the charcoal’s glowing light. “I could make things awkward for you,” he said quietly to him. Gently he took the fellow’s beard and gave it a little tug. “I could mention your small party next week.”

  The party was being held for a group of burgesses up for the Parliament. Girls would be supplied, of course. It was illegal, but the brothelkeeper had forgotten Silversleeves knew about it. “I don’t want trouble,” he muttered.

  “Of course you don’t, and nor do I,” the other replied. “So are you going to let me have this girl or not?”

  The brothelkeeper shrugged. He couldn’t see why this girl, now that she’d started well enough, shouldn’t work like any other. “She isn’t a virgin any more,” he remarked, in case this was going to cause any further problem. “She had a customer this afternoon.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Who, by the way?”

  The brothelkeeper hesitated, but decided not to risk any more trouble from this devious fellow. “Bull the Merchant,” he unwillingly replied.

  “Really?” Silversleeves chuckled. “The old dog. Now go and get her, will you? There’s a good fellow.”

  The brothelkeeper turned.

  “She’s sick.” Isobel Dogget was standing. Her harsh voice rang out angrily. “Leave her alone, pimple face.”

  Silversleeves stared. “What’s the matter with her? And don’t call me names,” he added, “or the bishop will fine you.”

  “Go to hell. I’m telling you she’s sick.”

  “Bull too rough with her?” he mocked.

  “Never you mind. You’re not getting your hands on her. Leave her alone,” she shouted, to the brothelkeeper this time.

  But now that worthy man had had enough.

  “No. You fetch her down,” he told the girl, while Dionysius laughed.

  Joan and Margery Dogget were alone in the little attic room when Isobel came up. By the lamplight, Joan was trying on a striped shift of Margery’s that she would have to wear for the ordeal tomorrow. It was far too long, and the Dogget girl had just cut it and roughly hemmed it to her satisfaction.

  “You’ll do us all proud,” she said with a laugh. And then to Isobel, as she appeared: “Maybe we’ll all find husbands at the gallows.”

  When Isobel told her the problem below, however, she cursed and poor Joan went very pale. “I can’t do it,” Joan said, “not after all this.”

  “And wait till you see him,” Isobel added ruefully.

  “We’ve got to think of something,” Margery said.

  The two sisters sat down together on her mattress on the floor, with their chins resting on their hands. For what seemed like an age to Joan, they sat there in silence. But then they began to mutter. A little later, there was a pair of hoarse laughs. Then more muttering. Then they looked up cheerfully.

  “We’ve got a plan,” said either Isobel or Margery. And they told her what it was.

  “We promise she’ll come,” the sisters said, as they sat one each side of Dionysius upon a bench. And when he looked suspicious: “I swear to God,” said one. “She’s coming,” said the other.

  “What we need”, said Margery, “is food.” “And wine,” said Isobel. “Let’s sup,” they cried.

  At this the brothelkeeper frowned. The stew-houses were not supposed to sell food and drink since this encroached on the tavern-keepers. But Silversleeves was smiling now. He jingled some new-minted coins in his pouch.

  “I haven’t eaten since morning,” he said. “I need a full belly for wenching.”

  Reluctantly the brothelkeeper went off and reappeared with a flagon of wine, bread, and the information that his wife would shortly bring them a bowl of beef.

  “Drink up, girls,” Dionysius said cheerfully.

  “We’ll make a night of it,” they agreed. They filled his beaker.

  The brothelkeeper’s wife soon appeared with a large bowl which she set on the table in front of them. It smelt good. Silversleeves dipped his nose over it and inhaled with pleasure. He began to eat.

  There was still no sign of the girl, but he was not concerned. Perhaps she was, in fact, with a client and finishing off. Perhaps she had been sleeping. He did not care. He was not a man of too many niceties. If the sisters swore she would arrive, he did not think they would dare cheat him now.

  Unless. As they filled his beaker of wine it did occur to him that, since they had been so determined to protect this new virgin from him, they might be trying to drink him under the table. He smiled to himself. Whatever his faults might be, a weak head for drink was not one of them. He could drink this flagon and another. But he’d still have the girl. He finished the bowl of beef. They brought him a huge apple tart. That, too, he could manage. But before he did, he sent Margery off to find the girl.

  “I’ve waited enough,” he told her, as Isobel poured more wine.

  When Margery returned a little while later she was smiling. “She’s coming,” she promised, and poured them all some wine. After further time had passed, however, and another beaker had been poured, a little too quickly, Silversleeves was beginning to become suspicious and angry. “Damn you,” he muttered. “I’ll fetch her myself.”

  And then she came. And he gasped.

  Her hair was hanging loose. Her small feet were encased in sandals. She wore a nightgown of bright red silk that almost exposed her small breasts and which had a long slit up one side, through which her pale, slightly plump leg appeared. It was Isobel’s best gown. The girl was not wearing anything else. Even the brothelkeeper could not suppress a little intake of breath, and his wife gave the girl a thoughtful look. She smiled at Silversleeves, walked boldly over to him, sat calmly on his knee, looked at the food on the table, and announced: “I’m hungry.”

  And now Silversleeves relaxed. The girl was his. A tasty dish indeed. He beamed at the brothelkeeper’s wife. “More food,” he cried, “and wine.”

  As the evening wore on, Dionysius realized that he had never been happier in his life. This girl was the first fresh, clean woman he had ever had. She was certainly going to be his. She was sitting in his lap and her arm was round his neck. She even appeared to like him. His habitual, aggressive good humour began to give way to a kind of bonhomie, “I’m sorry to make you wait,” the girl had said, “but we have all night.” Indeed they had. He was so happy now that he was even content to wait. The room seemed bathed in a warm and pleasant glow. And when, a little later, she whispered – “If you want to know, I’m still a little nervous” – he had actually been touched, and patted her knee. “No hurry,” he said, and even sang a song.

  Then they had all sung songs, and drunk some more, and her head nestled comfortably on his shoulder and even his own, hard head had been spinning a little when, some time in the night – he had not kept track of the time – he noticed a rattling of the shutters. He looked up, past the contented faces around him.

  “What was that?”

  “Wind,” the landlord said, then made a face. “East wind.” As though to confirm the fact the shutter rattled again.

  Dionysius got up; the girl seemed half asleep. He swayed a little, but grinned. “Time to go upstairs,” he said. The girl stumbled beside him as he
made for the door. For some reason, the Dogget girls were coming too.

  The cold hit him like a hard blow as he stepped outside. During the hours he had been inside, a great, stark, November night had moved from the cold North Sea, across the flatlands of East Anglia and up the Thames Estuary to London. Coming from the close, smoky room by the roasting brazier, having drunk more than even he realized, it hit him so hard that he reeled. He blinked. The lantern by the entrance had gone out. His head swam. He shook it in an effort to clear his brain and felt for the wall that would lead him to the stairs.

  But even then, though he could scarcely see her red nightgown, he held Joan by the wrist. “Come on, my pretty one,” he heard his own voice, strangely, cry. “This way to paradise.” He began to ascend the staircase.

  Why did everything seem so crazy? Pitch darkness. The moaning wind. The staircase that creaked and swayed. The entire Dog’s Head, it seemed to Dionysius, was moving about in an unaccountable way. Perhaps the brothel, sign, staircase and all, was about to take wing and spiral over Bankside into the black sky. He fought down the swaying sensation.

  And then the two women. The Dogget girls.

  Two, pale, flapping shapes, like ghosts, calling to him, pulling him with their hands. One, seizing him by the arm, on the first landing, crying: “Come with me. Sleep with me, lover.” Twice, three times she had tugged at him, and he felt the coarse cloth of her pale dress pressing against him until he managed to throw her aside. Then it had been the other as soon as he had entered the passageway on the second storey, her arms suddenly found his neck, dragging him past the little stair to the attic and somehow, he scarcely knew how, managing to pull him into a room, even while he still held little Joan, and murmuring incoherent words of love and lust to him. “Take me. Oh take me any way you want me.” He had to wrestle with her, and knock her down before he could break free. There had been voices, bangs, footsteps and then, silence.

  Then at last, still holding on to Joan in the darkness, he stumbled back to the narrow stairs to the attic, pushed her up ahead of him, and, shaking his head to remain conscious, he followed her up.

  It was pitch dark in the little room up in the gable. For a moment he thought he was going to faint. But he heard her, on the mattress in the middle of the floor and moved towards the sound until he tripped on the mattress and fell.

  For a moment he had lain there, wondering if he could move. God knows, he wondered, if I can do anything now. He groped and felt her leg, under the soft silk of the nightrobe.

  “Let’s wait until morning,” he heard Joan say; and, for fully a minute, his head was swimming so much that he thought that might be best. But then, with a grunt, he half-smiled.

  “Oh no. You’re not getting out of it now,” he muttered. He put his hand down. Yes, he smiled, he could. And with a sleepy grunt, and a groping hand for preamble, he levered himself up and in drunken triumph, pressed home his advantage quickly in mounting excitement and then, with another grunt of satisfaction, that turned into a long sigh, rolled over and fell asleep. It was done.

  A few moments later, the door softly opened and closed.

  When he awoke the next morning, it was just in time to see her flitting out of the room. She turned and smiled, briefly at him as she went.

  The little crowd that had gathered outside Newgate was in a cheerful mood. The hanging of five thieves, even if they lacked notoriety, was still an event. It was a fact hard to deny that the majority of mankind like to watch a hanging. With the concourse of great folk gathering in Westminster for the Parliament, it promised to be a pleasant day of amusement.

  The studded door of the prison house beside the gateway was still closed, but already the tumbrel was there. It was a funny little cart, quite low, with two spoked wheels and only a single horse to pull it. Around it ran boarded sides which the condemned men standing in the cart could hold on to. This way, as it made its slow progress the short distance to Smithfield and the hanging trees, the crowd could get a good look at them. The tumbrel from Newgate often made a little detour through the streets to give amusement.

  William Bull gazed round the crowd. Immediately opposite the door he saw a group of people with sad, strangely concave faces. These, he guessed, must be the family of Martin Fleming. Near them he saw some short, solemn-looking craftsmen with large round heads that seemed too big for their stocky bodies. These must be members of Joan’s family. The day was fine; the wind had ceased, but it was chilly.

  Over on the right, standing alone but with a good view of the proceedings, was a tall figure in black. This must be the Lombard, come to see justice done. Or vengeance. Bull stamped his feet and pulled his cloak tighter about him.

  The studded door of the prison was opening. The crowd muttered expectantly. Some figures began to emerge. First came one of the king’s justices, a knight, who would supervise the proceedings; next one of the city sheriffs. Both strode to their horses, which grooms were holding for them. Out came a bailiff; then another. And at last, the prisoners.

  Of the five men, four were poor craftsmen and one, by the look of him, a vagrant. The craftsmen all wore shirts, jerkins and woollen hose or leggings. The vagrant had bare legs and what seemed like a patchwork of rags covered his body. The five all had their hands free, but they were manacled around one ankle and attached to a chain. Silently they climbed up into the tumbrel, followed by the bailiffs. One or two voices in the crowd called out words of recognition and encouragement. “Be brave, John.” “You’ll be all right, lad.” “Well done.” Martin Fleming was the third man.

  He saw his family, stared at them sadly, rather blankly, but gave no other sign. Nor, in their grief, did they cry out to him. But his eyes wandered over the rest of the crowd as though looking for something.

  An ostler stepped forward, ready to lead the horse. But now, just as he did so, there was a new and excited murmur from the back of the crowd, which began to part. The sheriff glanced irritably towards the commotion, then his face took on a look of surprise. He said something to the king’s justice, who also turned in his saddle to stare. But their surprise was nothing to the look of horror and stupefaction which now appeared on the pale face of Martin Fleming as he gazed at the apparition coming towards him.

  Joan walked slowly but steadily. On her head was a white striped hood, to go with the white striped dress she wore, the humiliating garb of the common prostitute. In each hand, a long, lighted candle, sign of the penitent. Her feet were bare, despite the cold, as she moved towards the tumbrel. Before it, as the king’s justice and the sheriff gazed down at her, she stopped.

  “I am Joan, a whore,” she said in a clear voice that every ear in the crowd could hear. “Will Martin Fleming marry me?” And she looked at the young man, straight in the eye, with a look that said: “Remember. Remember the message. You have nothing to fear.”

  The crowd, stunned, had momentarily fallen silent. Now an excited buzz began. The prisoners gazed at her. The bailiffs and ostler stared at her. And the sheriff and the justice looked at each other.

  “What do we do about this?” the sheriff asked.

  “Damned if I know,” the knight replied. “I’ve always heard of this sort of thing but I never thought I’d see it.”

  “Is she within the law?”

  The knight frowned. “I rather think she is.” He glanced down into the tumbrel at Martin, for whom he had felt rather sorry, then suddenly he grinned. “I’ll be telling this story for years.”

  Now there were voices in the crowd. The knight turned. A stocky little man with a large head had stepped forward. His face was white with agitation, and he was gesticulating wildly.

  “This is my daughter,” he cried. “We’re a respectable family.” There were laughs and catcalls. “She only left home a day ago.” More cries. “It only takes a night,” someone yelled. “She’s a virgin, I swear,” the painter shouted. The crowd erupted with laughter. Joan looked neither to right nor left but only stared at Martin Fleming.


  Her father was right. Bull had not harmed her, and nor had Silversleeves. The plan of the night before had worked perfectly. While Dionysius was wrestling with one of the Dogget sisters in the darkness, the other had run up to the little attic room, slipped on a silk nightdress like the one Joan was wearing, and lain down on the bed, while Joan herself, entering ahead of Silversleeves, had hid under a blanket in the corner where she had stayed, holding her breath, until it was over and he had fallen asleep. It was the Dogget girl the drunken fellow had mounted in the darkness, and in the early hours of that morning, the two sisters had sat downstairs together, rocking with laughter at the joke. “It worked,” they cried. “It worked. What a jape.”

  “We’ll be there to watch you save your boy from hanging,” they had promised Joan at dawn that morning. As yet, however, there had been no sign of them, for the simple reason that, at this moment, the two Dogget sisters were still happily asleep.

  Looking down at Joan and her agitated father, the justice spoke firmly to the craftsman.

  “Either she is, or she isn’t a prostitute,” he said. “I don’t see it makes much difference for how long.” He turned to Joan. “Can you prove you’re a whore?” he mildly enquired.

  She nodded. “At the Dog’s Head on Bankside. Ask the bishop’s bailiff.”

  The justice glanced at the sheriff. “We can put this boy back in the gaol until we’ve checked,” he remarked. “We can always hang him another day, I suppose, if she’s lying.”

  The sheriff nodded. He was rather enjoying the scene.

  Further deliberations were now interrupted by a savage cry. It came from the Lombard, who had just understood what was going on. “No,” he shouted, striding forward. “This girl,” he searched for a word. “No whore. She to marry him anyway. This is play acting. Commedia.” He looked furiously at young Fleming. “He is a thief. He got to hang.”