The inn was as busy as ever. Thomas wormed his way in, nudging and inching between drinkers and getting cursed and elbowed in return, until he reached the hatch from which the landlord dispensed his wares. From there, with his back to the wall, he looked around the room in the hope of spotting a head of long fair hair. It was a vain hope. Francis Fayne, by his height and his appearance, would stand out in any crowd, and he was not standing out in this one. Nor was he at the table at the back where they had played hazard. Not that Thomas had really expected to see him. A man who has been party to rape and is known to have consorted with a traitor does not disappear only to reappear at one of his old haunts. But, his fellow soldiers having been no help at all, Thomas had to start somewhere, and the Crown was as good a place as any.
Taking a wooden tankard of ale from the landlord, he edged back into the middle of the room where he joined a circle of drinkers, none of whom he recognized. ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he offered, raising his tankard. ‘Permit me to introduce myself. Thomas Hill, newly arrived in Oxford, and in need of advice from wiser heads.’
‘Master Hill,’ replied one of them, ‘welcome to an overcrowded Oxford. What brings you here?’
Thomas was ready for this, and used the answer that he had agreed with Abraham. ‘I came to visit an old friend.’
Another soldier eyed him suspiciously. ‘An odd time to choose to make a visit.’
‘Indeed. But time waits for no man and I fear there will not be another chance. It was now or never.’
‘We are but humble soldiers of the king,’ said the first man. ‘What advice is it you seek?’
Thomas did his best to look embarrassed. ‘Being away from home, I have in mind to take the opportunity to, er, sample new pleasures. I wondered if you gentlemen might be able to recommend a suitable establishment for a man such as I.’
The second man guffawed. ‘He wants a whorehouse. God’s wounds, man, Oxford is full of them. Take your pick. Take precautions, though, or you’ll get more than you bargained for. There’s plenty of pox about.’
Thomas smiled nervously. ‘Yes, yes, I daresay. It’s just that one seldom has an opportunity for a little, er, variety, and I am in experienced in such matters. Could you possibly recommend somewhere?’
A third man joined in. ‘You’ll find several excellent establishments in Magpie Lane. Try your luck there.’
Thomas inclined his head to the man. ‘I’m obliged, sir. Magpie Lane. And where would that be?’ He knew perfectly well where it was. He had walked down it on his first day in Oxford.
‘It joins High Street and Merton Street. You’ll know it by the whores lining the road. The ones who are too old and too ugly to work with roofs over their heads.’
‘Thank you, sir. Again, I’m obliged. May I refresh your tankards, gentlemen?’
Having made good his offer, Thomas returned to the group. ‘I almost forgot, sirs, there is another matter upon which you might be able to help me. I believe my cousin’s regiment is at present stationed in Oxford. Colonel Pinchbeck’s. Would you happen to know if it is?’
‘It was, sir. After Newbury, what was left of it joined with Sir Henry Bard’s. And what is the name of your cousin, if I may ask? If he’s a stout soldier and a drinking man, we might know him.’
‘Francis Fayne. Captain Fayne.’
There was an awkward silence. Then the first man spoke. ‘Fayne. Not a name to endear you to us, Master Hill. Or to anyone in Oxford, I daresay.’
‘Oh, and why is that?’ asked Thomas.
‘The man’s a gambler, and a poor one at that. He owes money all over the town.’
‘I’m distressed to hear it, most distressed. However, I promised my wife that I would seek him out if I could. Do you know where I might find him?’
‘In a brothel, in a tavern, in his grave? Who cares?’
‘I gather feelings for Captain Fayne run high. Most un fortunate. I shall have to keep this from dear Prudence. And you cannot suggest where he might be?’
‘He disappeared not long ago. Probably ran off to escape his creditors. There’s a good few who’d like to find him.’
‘I am not a military man, but is it not odd for a captain simply to disappear? Will his regiment not look for him?’
‘Ordinarily, they would. But these are not ordinary times. Men go missing and there’s no one to look for them. We’re all needed to fight the war.’
‘What would happen if he were found?’
‘He’d be hanged. The king doesn’t much like men who run away.’
‘No, indeed. Well, I shall just have to tell Prudence that he was off fighting somewhere.’
‘Off whoring somewhere, more like.’
‘Quite. Now I must take a stroll to Magpie Lane. Good day, gentlemen, and thank you for your advice.’
Thomas left the men to their drinking and made his way back to the door. Neither drinkers nor soldiers knew or cared where Fayne was. The man was a gambler and a libertine, he had no friends, and there was no sign of him in Oxford. Even in a dung heap there is one creature more repulsive than the rest.
Even in Thomas’s student days, Magpie Lane had been notorious. It was where many a young scholar had woken up with a head throbbing from drink and an unfamiliar face beside him. Brothels lined both sides of the narrow lane, and, as the soldier had said, whores long past their best plied their trade wherever they could for a few pennies, serving what a merchant might have called the less discerning end of the market.
He knocked on the door of the first house. It was opened at once by a young housemaid, and he stepped inside. Without a word she escorted him to a room at the back, where men and women in various states of undress lolled about, drinking, eating and fondling each other. Some of the men were managing to drink, fondle and smoke a long-stemmed clay pipe all at the same time. A large lady, her face powdered and her head adorned with a wig luxuriant enough to rival any lady at court, emerged from another room. She beamed at Thomas. ‘Good evening, sir. Welcome to our little establishment. Shall you take a glass of wine while you consider how best we may serve you?’
Might as well, thought Thomas. I shan’t be taking anything else. ‘Thank you, madam.’
A glass of wine was brought, Thomas was shown to a chair, and, before he could protest, three women, not one of them older than eighteen, had arranged themselves around him. Despite himself, he looked at them. Neither ugly nor pretty, neither slim nor fat, they might have been chosen for their ordinariness.
‘Are you new in Oxford, sir?’ asked the brothel-owner. ‘I don’t recall seeing you before.’
‘I am,’ replied Thomas, taking a sip of wine. ‘Your house was recommended to me by a friend. Francis Fayne, of Sir Henry Bard’s regiment.’
‘Francis Fayne? Name don’t ring a bell, does it, girls?’ The girls shook their heads. ‘What’s he look like, this Fayne?’
‘Tall, fair hair, a handsome fellow.’
‘We’d remember him, then, wouldn’t we, girls?’ This time the girls nodded. Thomas wondered idly if they were ever allowed to speak. ‘No, sir, can’t say as we know Master Fayne. Never mind, you’re here now, so what’s it to be? We’re offering one for half a guinea, two for fifteen shillings.’