It was nearly dinner time. I could feel it in my belly even if I couldn’t guess it by the way in which the out-of-door workers were flocking inside to the sound of braying trumpets and the banging of gongs. Once again, I had to decide where to eat, and this time settled on the Boar’s Head in East Cheap. It was not a hostelry I was acquainted with at all well, so was unlikely to meet anyone there whom I knew or who might recognize me. I therefore left the Tower by the Postern Gate and directed my footsteps in a westerly direction.
The traffic, both four-wheeled and two-legged, was dense at that time in the morning and the June day was beginning to heat up. The ranks of the innumerable street-vendors had been augmented by strawberry sellers coming in from the country, anxious to dispose of their wares as quickly as possible before they became overripe and mushy. The season was, in any case, short for these luscious fruits, so one was accosted on all sides by men, women and even occasionally children pushing their trays right up under people’s noses, thus making progress even more difficult than usual.
It was while I was repelling a particularly persistent man, with black stumps of teeth and a body odour to make the eyes water, that I saw, some little way ahead, her back towards me, a woman I was sure was Amphillis Hill. She, too, was staving off the importunities of a strawberry seller, who was trying to force a sample berry between her teeth.
I raised my voice and hollered her name and, in spite of the din all around us, I thought for a moment that she had heard me. She half-turned her head and gave a quick glance over her shoulder, so I shouted again, but this time with no effect. She elbowed the strawberry seller aside with a strength surprising in so small a woman and vanished among the crowds ahead of her. It had been my intention to offer to buy her dinner, but now resigned myself to a solitary meal.
Of course, it was inevitable that the moment I entered the Boar’s Head in East Cheap the first person I clapped eyes on was Amphillis. But she was not alone. She was sitting — huddled one might almost have said by their postures and the closeness of their heads — with two other women at one of the smaller tables beside an open window, whose shutters had been flung wide in a vain attempt to allow some air into the ale room. So engrossed were the three of them in their conversation that they failed to notice my entrance, despite the fact that my height drew the usual curious stares from some of the other customers.
I hastened to sit down, choosing a seat in a shadowed corner where I could observe without being seen. As I edged on to a rickety stool that had seen better days — and had probably been there since King Henry V’s misspent youth, the inn having been one of his and his cronies’ favourite haunts if all the stories about him were to be believed — I realized that one of the other women with Amphillis was Rosina Copley. I had not thought them to be such good friends. And then, with a start of amazement, I recognized the third member of the group as Etheldreda Simpkins. But a greater shock was to follow. It was when Dame Copley turned her head to stare in disapproval at a noisy group of young men seated at a neighbouring table, and who had already consumed too much of the tavern’s good ale, that I saw a marked likeness between her and Etheldreda. I recalled Lady Fitzalan saying that the nurse had a sister who lived in Dowgate.
A potboy came to take my order and my attention was momentarily distracted. By the time I was at liberty to look again, the three had been joined by yet a fourth woman, and another stool was being dragged across from the large table in the centre of the ale room and accommodated at their own. I knew at once that the newcomer was the woman I had twice before seen in Amphillis’s company and whose back view I had been so certain that I recognized. And yet, now that I saw her face, I was unable to place her. Nevertheless, the sense of familiarity persisted.
Once more, the heads were bent towards one another and the earnest conversation resumed. That it was earnest was apparent by the set expression of their features. This was no idle gossip between friends. There was no giggling, no head thrown back in laughter, no hand extended to press another’s arm or shoulder, no purchase produced for the approval of the rest. Whatever the four of them were discussing, it was a serious matter.
My food, a rabbit stew with sage and onion dumplings, arrived to claim my attention, together with a beaker of the inn’s best ale. For quite a few moments I had no thought for anything but filling my belly and slaking my thirst, and when I had time to look around me again, the women had gone. I stared in consternation at the table where they had been sitting, but this was now occupied by three men, carpenters judging by the tools jutting from the pockets of their leather aprons. I half-rose from my seat, then sank back again to finish my meal. There was no point in wasting such excellent fare.
And in any case, why did I want to go after the women? Why did it matter where they had gone? Yet something nagged at me, something I could not quite put my finger on. It was not simply that I could not place the fourth woman, even now that I had seen her face, nor the fact that I felt certain of having met her somewhere before. No, there was something else, some small thing that irritated me like a fly buzzing around my head that would not go away.
In the end, I gave up thinking about it. I knew from long experience that it was the only course. The more I tried to remember, the less my brain was amenable to divulging its secrets. I called for bread and cheese to round off my meal.
‘Stuffing your belly again, Roger?’
I recognized Piers’s voice, and I wondered briefly when the more respectful ‘Master Chapman’ had been replaced, not just by the familiarity of my Christian name, but also by a certain mocking intonation whenever it was pronounced.
I glanced up to find the lad standing by my table, but the slight protest I had been about to make died on my lips. The left-hand side of Piers’s face was marred by a bruise that spread upwards from his cheekbone to encircle his eye.
‘Wh-what happened to you?’ I stuttered.
‘What happened? Oh!’ Piers put up a hand to touch the discolouration. ‘You mean this? Careless of me, wasn’t it? I wasn’t looking where I was going and walked straight into the edge of a door.’
‘When was this?’
He waved a vague hand. ‘Yesterday evening sometime.’ He winked. ‘I’d had a drop too much to drink.’
‘Was there someone with you when it happened?’
He frowned. ‘Does it matter? Why do you want to know?’
‘Because someone attacked me with a knife last night, just as I was returning to my room. I managed to hit whoever it was a good right-hander on the left-hand side of his face and he ran away.’
The smile was wiped from Piers’s lips and he stared at me in horror. ‘Roger, that’s terrible.’ He gave a little gasp and his eyes widened. ‘Sweet Virgin and all the saints! You don’t — you can’t — think it was me?’ When I didn’t answer, he went on, ‘Roger! I swear to you that I really did walk into the edge of a door. It’s true! If you don’t believe me, ask Dame Copley. As a matter of fact, it was partly her fault that it happened. Some of the other lads and I had just returned to the castle by boat — we’d been across to Southwark, to the Tabard — and had gone in by that landing-stage door not far from her room. As I said, we were a bit drunk. More than a bit if the truth be told, and we were kicking up quite a din. We disturbed her and she flung open her door just at the very minute I was passing. I walked straight into it. Caught myself the devil of a crack as you can see. Not that I got any sympathy from her, I can tell you! She said it served me right and gave us all a great scold, just as if we were children.’
‘Dame Copley’s gone back to that room then, has she? I thought she’d moved permanently into the guest apartments so that she could be a comfort to Lady Fitzalan. When you and I looked into her old room yesterday, it was empty.’