I laughed dutifully and said I’d have the mutton and dumplings as well, if they had any. But most of all, I needed a mazer of ale.
‘And none of your small beer,’ I added. ‘The real stuff.’
She flounced a little at that and said the Bones never served anything else. While she went to fetch my order, I moved further into a corner of the settle and closed my eyes, still suffering from the effects of my recent ordeal. Not without some difficulty, I worked out that it must be late Saturday afternoon, and realized with a shock that the day after tomorrow would be Midsummer Eve, the feast of St Etheldreda. I had two days left in which to find Gideon Fitzalan and prevent the fate which I was beginning to feel certain lay in store for him. The seventh son of a seventh son, he was to be a sacrifice to the old pagan gods of tree and stone and stream and the hollow places of the earth.
It seemed ridiculous to think that such things could go on in the fifteenth century, under the very nose of the Church, but the old religion died hard and found its worshippers not just in the lost byways of the countryside, but also among dwellers of the city streets. I felt the panic begin to rise, but had enough sense to accept that I must wait a little longer until I was fully fit again, before forcing myself to confront the problem. Tomorrow, however, Sunday, I must leave the Rattlebones and make a present of my suspicions to someone in authority. The problem was, would I be believed?
The girl returned with a steaming bowl of mutton and dumplings and, even more welcome, my mazer of ale. But instead of going away once she had served me, she sat down beside me on the settle.
‘My name’s Bess,’ she announced. (It always is, unless it’s Jenny. The girls in these places never give you their real names. Sometimes I think they’ve forgotten them, themselves.) ‘I sleep in the attic and I’m alone up there at the moment. Apart from me, it’s all pot-boys here and they sleep down in the kitchens or the cellars.’ She tilted her head to one side and regarded me between lowered lashes. ‘If you fancy a tumble later, to help you sleep, there’s a stair just to the left of your doorway that’ll bring you straight up.’
Taken aback, I stumbled over my reply. ‘Th-thank you, my dear, b-but I. . I. .’
She laughed softly. ‘It’s all right. I ain’t forcing you. I’m just letting you know that if you come up, you won’t be turned away. It’s not an offer I make to everybody, so there won’t be any competition.’
With that she rose, treated me to a broad, salacious wink, wriggled her hips yet again and departed to attend to the needs of other customers.
As much shaken as amused by the invitation — and, if the truth be told, more than a little flattered — I addressed myself to the mutton and dumplings, which was indeed extremely good, and swallowed my ale. After that, my stomach comfortably distended, I leant my head back against the settle and allowed the warmth of the June evening to enfold me in its embrace. Gradually, the hum of conversation all around receded, fading away altogether as sleep intervened.
Once again, I awoke with a start and felt the same sense of disorientation as I had experienced earlier in the day. I realized that my neck was hurting because of my upright posture against the settle-back, and slowly stretched my arms and legs to help them regain some feeling. Once more the light had altered. It was now dusk and candles had been lit, but the ale room was as full as ever. No curfew obtained on the Southwark side of the river, and no one seemed in any hurry to seek the shelter of his own hearth.
I peered into my mazer, but it was empty. I was just debating the advisability of calling for a further pot when the settle at right angles to mine shook slightly as it was occupied. Almost at once, two female voices, raised to make themselves heard above the general hubbub, assailed my ears.
‘I’m glad you could come. Until the chapman mentioned your name, I had no idea you were in London. It’s good to see you again after all this time. Was it difficult to get away?’
The speaker was Audrey Owlgrave.
My thirst forgotten, I leant closer to the back of the other settle, pressing one ear to a gap between two of its boards.
‘Not at all,’ Rosina Copley answered. ‘I told her ladyship that I was going to visit my sister in Dowgate, and that I needed some air. I said the message you sent had come from Etheldreda. So why do you want to see me? You’ve left the Sisterhood!’ The accusation was flung like a knife.
I sat as though turned to stone, surprised that neither woman could hear my heart thumping against the wood.
‘I’ve not regretted it, if that’s what you’re hoping.’ Mistress Owlgrave was taken with a fit of coughing, but then resumed, ‘I don’t agree with. . with certain things you do. Indeed, I deplore them. You’ve always known that. But I still feel loyalty towards the Sisterhood and I shouldn’t want any of you to suffer the full penalty of the law for what you believe in. . for what you are about to do this Midsummer Eve.’
‘What do you mean?’ The nurse’s voice was sharp with fear. ‘Who knows?’
‘The chapman I mentioned just now. I gather the Duke of Gloucester called him in to investigate the murder and the boy’s disappearance. Where is the boy, by the way?’
Rosina snorted. ‘Never you mind. We have him safe. But tell me more about the chapman. He’s dangerous. He solved the problem of how Gregory Machin got into his room and bolted the door after he’d been stabbed. How do you know him?’
Audrey Owlgrave explained briefly the circumstances under which we’d met; an explanation that was met with a vicious curse, followed by a few minutes reflective silence.
‘Amphillis must have done that,’ Rosina muttered eventually. ‘I know she was going down to the chamber, after we all left the Boar’s Head, to make certain everything was ready for Monday night. Master Snooper must have surprised her and she hit him with something. But in Beelzebub’s name, why didn’t she make certain he was dead before she put him in the drain? A pity she didn’t have her scissors with her. She would have made as short work of him as she did of Gregory.’ There was another pause. ‘Where is he now, do you know?’
I thought for a moment that the other woman wasn’t going to answer, but then her newly revived loyalty to the Sisterhood forced a reply.
‘Here, in this inn. He’s not well. The near-drowning has left him in a weakened state. But I know he doesn’t intend staying here beyond the one night. Of that I feel certain.’
‘Where’s he sleeping?’
‘I don’t know. But the landlord’s a friend of mine. If I ask him, he’ll tell me.’
‘Good!’
‘What are you going to do?’
Rosina chuckled and my blood ran cold. ‘What you don’t know, Audrey my dear, can’t hurt you. But this time, when he goes in the river, he’ll stay there.’ Another lengthy silence ensued before the nurse suddenly demanded, ‘Why are you doing this? When you left the Sisterhood, you were adamant that you wanted no more to do with us.’
‘I told you. I don’t like the thought of you falling into the hands of the law. There’ll be no mercy for any of you. You’ll be burnt for witchcraft and murder. I’ve seen people burnt. It’s a terrible, agonizing death.’
Rosina appeared to consider this, but finally said, ‘No, there’s something more.’
The noise had reached fever pitch in the ale room as people made the most of the short time before, inevitably, the weary landlord came to drive them all out. I strained my ears to catch Mistress Owlgrave’s reply, should she give one.
She did.
‘Many years ago,’ she said, ‘I had a very dear friend, Eleanor Cobbolde. She was forced into a distasteful marriage by her parents with a man called William Blancheflower. He was chief kennel man to the Lovell family and took Nell away to live at their place near Oxford-’