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I gathered up the remainder of my wares from the wall where I had spread them, pushed them inside my pack along with my clean hose and shirt and shaving gear and indicated to my benefactress that she should proceed without further delay. She led me along Cornhill grain market, past the rows of bread carts whose owners drove them in daily from Stratford-atte-Bowe – and whose loaves, or so my companion informed me, were the same price but a full two ounces heavier than those of the London bakers – and past the Tun upon Cornhill, which flowed with sweet-smelling water, piped in from the Tyburn. On top of this was an iron cage where prostitutes and rioters were incarcerated each night by the Watch for drunken and disorderly behaviour; and set on a wooden platform close at hand were the stocks and pillory, both of which were fully occupied by several sorry-looking knaves, the butt and target of every passerby.

From Cornhill, we passed into Ald Gate Street, where stood the church of Saint Andrew Undershaft, the great maypole towering above it, and so into the shadow of Holy Trinity Priory, the largest and most imposing monastery in the city. South of it, just inside the gate, was the Saracen’s Head. This was teeming with visitors, as the landlord’s wife had warned me, and as we crossed the courtyard I could see that the stables were equally full, every stall occupied.

‘Wait here,’ the woman said, ushering me inside the ale-room, ‘while I seek out my husband. I must make sure he hasn’t let the space while I’ve been gone.’

I stood obediently just inside the door, watching the drinkers who crowded the tables. The great majority of them wore livery and it was easy to recognize the tavern’s regular customers in their drab, everyday tunics and hose, huddled together round two of the benches, muttering resentfully to one another and eyeing the intruders with sullen looks.

The goodwife reappeared at my elbow and instructed me to accompany her to the kitchens. ‘Bring your pack. You’ll need it to stake your place. I’m afraid you won’t have much room, a big fellow like you, but you’ll have to make the best of it. And my husband insists on payment in advance for however long you think you’ll be stopping.’

The heat in the kitchen was intense and I had to dodge the pot-boys and scullions, the maids and the cooks who, sweating profusely, were chopping and basting, boiling and roasting as they strove to prepare the evening supper. For the most part they ignored my presence, merely cursing me liberally when I got in their way. Around all four walls, in between the barrels of food and water, I saw items of personal apparel, which marked the sleeping territory of the night’s lodgers.

My hostess pointed to a space flanked on one side by a barrel of what smelled suspiciously like salted herring and a table where one of the cooks was busy rolling out pastry. ‘There,’ she said. ‘And you can fetch clean straw from the stables before you bed down. Now, note your place and then be off with you, out from under my people’s feet. I don’t want to see you in here again until just before curfew.’

I was loath to leave anything of value, like my pack or my jerkin, so I removed my hood and dropped it on the flagstones. Then I paid my shot for a couple of nights, determined to have found something better by the end of forty-eight hours, and took myself back to the ale-room.

Someone on the other side of the kitchen was snoring so loudly that the whole room seemed to shake with the noise. Added to this, there was an overpowering smell of stale breath and sweating feet, plus the stench of brine and herring. The straw on which I lay had quickly proved to be flea-ridden and all my twitching and scratching failed to deter the little wretches from finding me to be a tasty supper. After two hours I had not managed to sleep a wink, tossing and turning to the great irritation of my nearest neighbour, an itinerant pieman, who had been lured to the capital in the hope of making money before returning to his native Norfolk.

‘But there’s too many other folk as’ve had the same idea,’ he had grumbled as we settled ourselves down for the night. ‘I haven’t made above half what I’d’ve made if I’d stayed at home. Well, good-night, chapman. Pleasant dreams.’

Now, however, close on midnight and woken more than once by my restlessness, his tone was not so conciliatory. ‘For God’s sake, can’t you stop shifting about so?’ he demanded in a sibilant whisper. ‘If you can’t sleep, go outside awhile and walk around.’

‘I shall disturb others if I pace up and down the courtyard,’ I whispered back.

‘I mean right outside. It’ll be cool under the Priory walls. I know, because I was forced to it myself the night before last. I admit that that fellow’s snoring takes some getting used to.’

‘But the courtyard door will be locked,’ I objected.

He raised a hand, ghostly in the darkness, and pointed to the wall. ‘The key’s up there. That big one hanging on a nail beside the bread oven.’ He snuggled down again amongst his straw. ‘And don’t come back until you’re feeling sleepy.’

I rose softly to my feet, pulled on my hose, boots, tunic and jerkin with as little disturbance to my neighbours as possible, reached down the key and let myself out through the kitchen door into the deserted courtyard. A horse shifted and snorted somewhere within the stables and a faint light burned in one of the upstairs rooms, but otherwise all was dark and quiet. Clouds rode high and thin above the huddled roof-tops and there was a hint of rain in the air. The dampness clung about my face.

The outer door was in the north wall and the wards of the lock slid back silently as I turned the key. Once in the street, I was facing the southern boundary of the Priory on the opposite side of the highway. There was no sign of movement from the gatehouse to my right. The guards were no doubt wiling away a long and tedious watch with a game of dice or fivestones. I relocked the courtyard gate from the outside and crossed the road to a patch of grass and bushes, hemmed in on two sides by the Priory outbuildings and on the third by the stretch of city wall running north of Ald Gate. Here I settled myself down, keeping the Saracen’s Head within my line of vision in case, by some highly improbable chance, entrance might be demanded to its courtyard in the middle of the night.

The air was cool and fragrant after the fetid atmosphere of the overcrowded kitchen and the heady scent of honeysuckle wafted from the Priory gardens, teasing my nostrils. I drew back into the deep shadow of a hawthorn bush, clasping my arms about my knees and relishing the blessed silence. An owl hooted suddenly, close at hand, making me jump, but then everything was quiet once more.

The owl hooted again, louder and more insistently. This time something about the cry made me freeze into stillness, every muscle tense with expectation. I was not disappointed. After a few seconds a man padded stealthily into view, coming towards the Ald Gate from the direction of Leadenhall and the city. He paused, glancing around, plainly in the expectation of meeting someone. There was a familiarity about the stocky figure, although I could only see his outline, but it took me a moment or two before I realized what it was. His right arm was visible only to the elbow and lay close in against his side. So would a man appear if he had his forearm in a sling.

Chapter Five

The owl’s call was repeated a third time, and on this occasion evoked a response. A second man moved cautiously out of the shadows surrounding the gatehouse and raised a hand in salutation. I wondered if he had seen me, minutes earlier, crossing the road; but as he neither attempted to flush me out nor made any reference that I could hear to my existence, I presumed that he must have been waiting some way down the lane which ran behind the Saracen’s Head and its neighbouring houses.