The path along the bank led to High Bridge and the trio turned and entered the lower town through Briggate, horses at a slow walk, and made their way past Saltergate and Baxtergate towards Stonebow, the principal gate into the city. Once through its impressive arch, they bore east until they came to Butwerk, a poor suburb of Lincoln situated across the expanse of the Werkdyke, a huge ditch into which most of the filth from the surrounding area was thrown. Here, in Butwerk, were the stewes where the harlots of Lincoln lived and offered their charms for sale.
Ernulf led the way to Whore’s Alley, the main street of the district. The buildings, like those in most of Lincoln, were of three stories, but these were more cheaply built and the top floors sloped inwards towards each other across the street, so close in some places that they seemed in imminent danger of collapse. Most of the casement shutters were closed, even though the day was well advanced, and the walls of the buildings were shabby, cracked in places and buttressed by timber that was warped and split. Except for a couple of bedraggled cats, there was no sign of life, just a sour smell from the rubbish overflowing the open drain that ran down the middle of the street.
“Who holds the fee for these properties?” Bascot asked Ernulf. “I have not seen any of Butwerk listed among the Haye lands.”
“There were a couple in the days of Sir Richard,” Ernulf answered, “but when her father died, Lady Nicolaa got rid of them.” The serjeant smiled. “He was a rare lecher, Sir Richard, although he didn’t have need to come to such whores as live here. But Lady Nicolaa didn’t want to have rents earned by prostitutes in her coffers, so she sold off all the properties here when she came into her inheritance.”
He looked up the street to where it ended in a wall that had been built to contain the area. “Most of the houses belong to whatever stewe-keeper lives in ’em. Bought with money loaned by the Jews, of course. Usual arrangement, you know, the Jews loan the money for the purchase, then whoever has borrowed it pays it back, plus interest. Most of ’em manage to keep going and make a profit. The Jews are happy to have the property as surety for their silver and are satisfied if they only get the interest each year. But if trade slacks off and a stewe-holder can’t pay the interest then he has to sell and pay the Jew his money. Not too many have to do that, though. Whoring can be profitable if the girls are toothsome.”
As he finished speaking, they turned into Whore’s Alley and Ernulf stopped his mount at the first door. He and Bascot slid down from their saddles and gave the reins of the horses to Gianni to hold. The serjeant banged on the wood in front of him, saying as he did so, “Probably all still asleep. I expect trade will be brisk tonight and they’ll need to have taken some rest. There’ll be customers aplenty once the daylight is gone.”
His knocking finally brought a response. The door in front of them was pulled open, but just a cautious crack. Behind it was a shabbily attired individual with a face that closely resembled a ferret. His dark dirty hair fell down cheeks shadowed with week-old stubble, and his few remaining teeth were black with rot. Eyes sliding nervously from Ernulf to the Templar and back again, he asked, with a feeble attempt at heartiness, “What are you doing here, serjeant? Come to sample one of my beauties, have you?”
“Not likely, Verlain. I don’t need a dose of the pox at my age.”
“My wenches are all clean,” the stewe-keeper protested. “You know they are. The bailiff inspects them every week, just as he’s supposed to. I keeps the king’s ordinances, I do. And the town’s as well. No victuals or ale on the premises, no woman kept against her will, and I don’t charge any of the girls’ more than four pence for her room. If that’s why you’re here, then…”
Ernulf stopped the man, whose voice had dropped into a whine. “If you’re such a saint, Verlain, how is it the city bailiff tells me he has to fine you regularly for breaking the very ordinances you’ve just told me you keep?”
“Only once or twice, serjeant, only once or twice, when bad times was on me and I had need to pay my money to the Jew. I wouldn’t have broken the injunctions otherwise, I swear.” The stewe-keeper’s voice now had a grovelling tinge. “If you’ve come to check up on me, you must know that with the fair on…”
Again Ernulf stopped him. “That you’ve got more wenches in your house than you’re supposed to have and that I might just find a pot or two of ale about the place. Well, if you have and if I do, then I might just let the bailiff know about it. Unless, of course, you answer my questions, and any Sir Bascot has to ask you.”
Bowing, and unctuously assuring them of his willingness to comply with any wishes they might have, the stewe-keeper let his visitors into the premises, and they walked across an entryway lit only by the light of a guttering rush lamp and into a large room. Pushed against the walls were a number of stools and, in the farthest corner, stood a plain wooden table with a scarred and stained surface. On it were some empty tumblers and an unstoppered jack of ale.
Ernulf raised an eyebrow as he looked at the forbidden liquor and Verlain hastily assured him it was only for his own and the harlots’ consumption. The serjeant nodded, then said, “Your women, all asleep, are they?”
“Upstairs, resting,” the stewe-keeper confirmed.
“Well, wake ’em up and tell ’em to get down here. We want to ask if they know of any doxy from round here that’s disappeared in the last couple of days, and to look at some clothes and see if they recognise them.”
“Is this about that whore found murdered in the alehouse, serjeant?” Verlain asked. “It weren’t no girl of mine, that I promise you. I don’t have to wake ’em up for you to ask ’em. I can vouch for their answer.”
“Can you?” Ernulf said sarcastically. “Well, unless I hear their answers myself-and without you prompting their replies-I might think as how you know more about that murder than you’re telling. And if I think that, then I might consider that maybe I should drag you by the heels and hand you over to one of Sheriff Camville’s men and let him ask the questions.”
No more threat was needed. The stewe-keeper almost ran from the room in his haste to acquiesce with Ernulf’s request. Within moments half a dozen sleepy-eyed harlots were standing in the room before them. They were in varying stages of undress, ranging in age from young to old. Some had a jaded prettiness, but most looked haggard and, without exception, wore an expression of irritation at being disturbed from their rest. Once the bawds heard the reason for which they had been summoned, however, they all willingly examined the clothing and listened carefully to Ernulf’s description of the girl who had worn it. But even so, none could remember any girl of their acquaintance that was missing nor, they claimed, had they ever before seen the clothes held out for their inspection. Bascot did not interrupt Ernulf as the serjeant spoke to them, merely watched the women’s reactions closely. As far as he could tell, none of them seemed to be lying and when Ernulf looked at him to see if he wished to ask anything further, Bascot shook his head.
As they left the stewe, the keeper’s voice rasped grat-ingly in their ears as he wished them good fortune with their quest and, with obvious relief, shut the door behind them.
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.