‘Blunt as usual.’ Rohesia grinned. ‘Still, good to see you. I will never forget. .’
‘Please,’ Anselm tapped her knee, ‘leave the dead to bury their dead. The past is gone. Bardolph the gravedigger from Saint Michael’s, Candlewick?’
‘Bardolph was a frequent visitor, like so many of his parish.’
‘Mistress?’
‘Almaric the curate, Simon the sexton. .’ Rohesia was enjoying herself, using her long, delicate fingers to list more names, ‘. . and Bardolph the gravedigger.’ She smiled.
‘Parson Smollat?’
‘Never but, there again, Anselm, why should he? His woman Isolda once worked here and, by all accounts, was very popular.’
‘Sir Miles Beauchamp?’
‘Oh, our mysterious clerk who slinks like a shadow? No, he has never graced my house with his presence, but you never know.’
Anselm sat with his fingers to his lips.
‘Don’t be surprised,’ Rohesia caressed his cheek softly, ‘that so many of Saint Michael’s parish come here. Welcome to the world of men, Brother Anselm, where fornication and swiving are as natural and common as eating and drinking. You all eventually come here,’ she added, softly pausing at a laugh which echoed from deep in the house. ‘I am breaking confidence, Anselm, because I trust you, I like you. I am in your debt. And,’ she made a moue with her mouth, ‘I have also heard about the commotion at Saint Michael’s — the news, the gossip, the chatter which runs through these alleyways swifter than a colony of rats. Even more so now that Bardolph has flown from his church tower, poor man.’ Rohesia bowed her head, fingers picking at a thread in her beautiful gown.
Stephen sat, fascinated. He had never met anyone like Rohesia — so serene, so confident. She talked about the world of men; what, Stephen reflected, would it be like to enter the world of women? This chamber, so delicately painted, elegantly furnished, its air sweet with the most alluring of fragrances.
Rohesia stared at Stephen, her face more gentle. ‘Another man of visions,’ she murmured. ‘Bardolph,’ she turned back, her tone brisker, ‘often came here. He was infatuated with one of my nuns.’
‘Girls,’ Anselm corrected. ‘Edith Swan-neck?’
‘Or so he called her,’ Rohesia replied. ‘Infatuated with her. Bardolph could not do enough: presents, trinkets, ribbons, gowns, even a furred hood.’
‘And?’
‘Now I will tell you, Anselm. Edith disappeared,’ she drew a deep breath, ‘along with others.’
‘What others?’
‘Brother, I talked of the world of men where we women are regarded as chattels no better than cattle. Young women, Anselm, are disappearing here in Dowgate and beyond. I know,’ her voice grew forceful, ‘girls disappear in London every day, but that is not strictly true. They disappear but their corpses are found, plucked from the reed beds along the Thames, or beneath some filthy laystall or out in the heathland beyond Cripplegate. This is different. Young women like Edith are disappearing without trace, never to be found again.’
Stephen glanced to his right. He glimpsed something fluttering like a bird which swoops then disappears. This comfortable chamber had grown darker. Voices whispered then faded. He shivered from the fear which coursed coldly around the nape of his neck.
‘Magister,’ he murmured, ‘remember the girl from The Unicorn?’
‘What girl?’
Stephen told Rohesia, trying to hide his blush. She smiled sweetly.
‘And the others,’ Stephen added. ‘Do you remember, Magister? The same day we were returning to White Friars? The market beadle, bawling out the description of two missing whores? I mean,’ Stephen hastily corrected himself, ‘two young women.’
‘Whores, Stephen, you are correct.’ Rohesia smiled bleakly. ‘I and others have heard the same. Whores, prostitutes, yet still God’s children. Young women who have disappeared without trace.’
‘Edith Swan-neck was one of these?’
‘Yes, Anselm, but with a difference. In Bardolph’s search for Edith he scoured the streets and runnels. He bribed and cajoled. I helped him but to no effect. Then, by mere chance, Bardolph decided to search the cemetery of Saint Michael’s and found a necklace he had given to Edith. He came here all glowering and solemn. He suspected Edith may have lain with someone else in the graveyard. I told him not to be so stupid.’
‘Why?’
‘Edith only went there to please Bardolph. In fact, the day she disappeared, she had gone out looking for him but never returned. The necklace was the only thing of hers ever found.’
‘And Bardolph?’
‘I heard rumours that he boasted how he would be rich. He would own great treasure.’ She shrugged. ‘Bardolph, our Knight of the Firey Nose, was an empty gong full of sound and fury with little substance. Now, sirs.’ Rohesia made to rise.
‘Rohesia! Rohesia! We are not finished yet. Sir William Higden — does he come here?’
‘No,’ she retorted. ‘They say Sir William loves books and boys but that,’ she pulled a face, ‘is only rumour.’
‘And Edith Swan-neck before she disappeared. . did she say or do anything untoward?’
Rohesia chewed the corner of her lip. ‘Yes, she seemed pleased about something. Well, as if laughing to herself.’ She sniffed noisily. ‘Brother Anselm, the hour is late — I can tell you no more.’ This time Anselm let her rise. They made their farewells, went out into the hallway and back into Gutter Lane. They re-entered the tangle of alleyways, the melancholy wasteland around White Friars. ‘Magister, what do you make of what Rohesia said?’
‘She has a bold heart, a voice of power and a strong countenance,’ Anselm retorted. ‘Do you know Rohesia has asked to be buried with a flagon of wine and a goblet to ready herself to drink the first toast in hell? Somehow I don’t think she will be drinking there.’ He gestured to Stephen to walk alongside him. ‘We are all going to be very surprised about who is chosen for heaven. Anyway, Stephen, to answer your question, Rohesia has pointed us, perhaps not to the truth, but certainly to the way there. Well, now I am going to find my path to a different place.’
Anselm strode on, Stephen hurrying beside him. It was lamplight time, the hour of the Jacob thieves who, armed with ladders, climbed on to the roofs of houses and moved across the narrow gaps between them, searching for an open attic window. The brotherhood of the beggar were also marshalling together with all the other counterfeits, cheats and thieves pouring out of their shabby, underground cellars. Strange cries echoed. The gathering gloom was lit only by the occasional horn box containing a burning tallow candle suspended out of some window. The midnight thieves, however, ignored the Carmelites treading through the slops and dirt of the mean alleyways. This was the dead hour and these malefactors were more interested in fresh prey or spending the fruits of their earlier hunts in the low-ceilinged alehouses and wine shops. Anselm turned and went down a runnel which was more like a covered passageway, the houses on either side closing in over their heads. No candle or lamp gleamed but a light at the far end beckoned them on. Stephen shivered. He turned to his right and stifled a scream at a face peering through the narrow slats of a fence. A pallid, white-haired woman with black, glowing eyes was holding a lamp in both hands just beneath her chin. Stephen blinked and looked again, but the woman had gone.
They reached the end of the alleyway and entered a box-like square, its cobbled ground gleaming in the light of torches fixed to the walls. In the centre of the square stood the bowl, casing and roof of a huge well, illuminated by two roaring braziers. Along three sides of the square ranged black-and-white timbered houses, their windows filled with strengthened linen or clear horn. Lamplight glowed at some of these windows. On the far side of the square rose the dark silhouette of a church, more like a barn, built out of black stone with a ramp rather than steps leading up to the great iron-bound door. A hooded figure sat on a stool to the right of this porch, warming his fingers over a chafing dish. Above him flambeaux fixed in iron clasps licked the air with leaping flames.