I couldn’t help wondering what the ‘Winchester geese’- so named after the owner of the Southwark brothels, the Bishop of Winchester — had thought about this well-meant interference. In general, they were a noisy, merry bunch, unashamed of their calling, but doubtless there had been some among them — perhaps many — who had been grateful for a helping hand.
It was time to ask the question that had been bothering me since almost the beginning of Audrey Owlgrave’s life story.
‘From what you have said, Mistress, I assume that you are no longer a member of the Sisterhood. No longer a Daughter of Albion.’
She moved her stool away from the heat of a fire to which Bertha had just added another handful of sticks. Moreover, the sun was now beating in relentlessly through the open doorway.
After a moment’s hesitation, she inclined her head.
‘That is so,’ she admitted.
‘Why not?’ I demanded bluntly.
She passed her tongue over her mouth before replying. ‘During the last ten years or so, a different element has crept into the Sisterhood and is gradually gaining ascendancy over the rest.’ Again there was a pause and again she licked her lips. ‘An element that wishes to revive the old pagan associations with Midsummer Eve.’
There was a silence this time that you could cut with a knife. Audrey seemed reluctant to continue, so at last I asked, ‘You mean. . blood sacrifice?’
Bertha gave a scream and dropped the pair of men’s hose she was holding to the flames.
I thought for a moment that the other woman wasn’t going to answer. But then she drew a deep breath and said quietly, ‘Yes.’
The monosyllable was so quietly spoken that I had to strain my ears to catch it, and even then I wasn’t certain that I had heard aright. I repeated my question.
Her answer this time was unequivocal and spoken with firmness and clarity.
‘Yes. Blood sacrifice is what I mean.’
‘Ye’re joking,’ Bertha accused her, picking up the dropped garment with hands that were not quite steady and holding them once more to the blaze.
Mistress Owlgrave shook her head and looked me straight in the eye. ‘In pagan times, at Midsummer, the Beltane fires were lit on the hillsides and people danced around them, offering up sacrifices to the god Baal; Baal Zeboub, or Beelzebub as he came to be called, Lord of the Flies.’
Beelzebub! I wondered suddenly who had named the brute at Minster Lovell. I had naturally presumed that it was either William Blancheflower or even Francis Lovell himself. But supposing it had been the now dead Eleanor? Was it possible that she had been one of the Sisterhood? Had she been unhappily married, or married against her will? If that were indeed so, the events of that night just over a week ago might have a significance that I had so far overlooked.
I told Audrey Owlgrave the story and asked her opinion. Bertha listened open-mouthed.
Our visitor shook her head. ‘I can’t give you an opinion — not a definite opinion that is — one way or the other, Master Chapman. What happened may well have been simply an unfortunate accident in which you played an unwitting part. But then again, it might not. Perhaps when you saw Mistress Blancheflower in the inner courtyard, she meant, somehow, to let the animal in to attack her husband while he was sleeping. When she saw you, she hid by slipping out through the postern gate to wait until you had returned to bed. Unfortunately for her, you noticed the drawn bolts and locked her out. Her presence out of doors in the middle of the night is certainly suspicious, but offers no proof of fell intent. What makes you suddenly suspect her of being a member of the Sisterhood?’
‘It’s only. .’ I paused, looking back and trying to conjure up the scene when Piers had first informed Dame Copley of Nell Blancheflower’s death.
Audrey Owlgrave raised her eyebrows and waited. Bertha cursed as a stray spark from the fire threatened to burn a hole in the gentleman’s hose she was drying.
I continued, struggling to get my thoughts in order, ‘It’s only that when one of Mistress Blancheflower’s friends was first informed of her death, she — the friend, that is — at first refused to believe it, insisting there must be some mistake. I distinctly remember her saying, “It can’t be Nell! You mean it was William.” It didn’t strike me at the time, but now it seems almost as if the friend had been expecting to hear of the husband’s death. At one point, I thought Dame Copley was going to faint, she seemed so grief-stricken, but it could have been from shock.’
Mistress Owlgrave frowned. ‘Are you saying that you think this friend is also a member of the Sisterhood?’
It was my turn to suffer a shock: I hadn’t really stopped to consider the implications of what I was saying. So did I believe that Dame Copley was a Daughter of Albion? I received another jolt when I realized that the not improbable answer was: yes. And the more I thought about it, the more it began to make some sort of sense. Piers had told me that Rosina had been forced into an unwanted marriage by her father when all she had wished to do was embrace the religious life. And yesterday — was it only yesterday? It seemed like a lifetime ago — I had witnessed her with my own eyes huddled together with Amphillis Hill and the unknown woman in the Boar’s Head in East Cheap. Until that moment, I would not have said that she and Amphillis were anything other than the merest acquaintances. Indeed, by all accounts they had not known each other long, only since Rosina’s arrival at Baynard’s Castle two weeks previously. And, within my hearing at least, the nurse had always spoken slightingly of the younger woman.
I turned again to Mistress Owlgrave. ‘Do you think,’ I asked in a voice that quavered a little, ‘that young Gideon Fitzalan has been taken for. .’ I could not bring myself to say the words and finished lamely, ‘. . for a particular purpose?’
There was a moment’s hesitation before Audrey nodded. ‘I should think it possible, yes.’
‘But why him in particular? His captors were prepared to murder his tutor in order to secure his person.’
‘That I don’t know, but I feel there must be a reason. Victims are rarely selected at random.’
‘But where could they be holding him? It’s not in the chamber below St Etheldreda’s crypt.’ And suddenly, as I uttered the words, I knew what had been different about that chamber when I had seen it the day before. The statue of the saint had been removed from the church and brought down to stand on a natural ledge of rock running almost the length of one wall of the underground room. Why? Did it have any significance? I put the question to Mistress Owlgrave.
‘Not that I know of,’ she answered quietly. ‘Nor, I’m afraid, can I suggest any place where the boy might be held. You’ve searched Baynard’s Castle?’
‘As much as it’s possible to do so. A friend helped me, but we found nothing. However, that’s not to say he isn’t there somewhere. A place like that has a score of hidden corners where anything or anyone could be concealed.’ I climbed somewhat groggily to my feet. ‘I must go back at once and inform Sir Pomfret and Lady Fitzalan of my suspicions.’
I experienced a strong sense of revulsion. If what I now suspected were indeed the truth, what an evil woman the nurse truly was! What an accomplished liar, with her protestations of grief, her sympathy and endless tears for her mistress’s loss, her lamentations over Gregory Machin’s death!