On occasion Demontaigu would stop. We were not taking the direct route to Lothbury but going along those narrow lanes towards Cripplegate. Demontaigu would pause and enter the taprooms of various taverns — the Roebuck, the Spread Eagle, the Whirl, the Jackanapes — where comrades of his order were sheltering, disguised as beggars, tinkers, chapmen or, on occasion, even as lepers or Bedlamites. Outside the Glowing Worm, I was approached by a herb wife who offered me some parsley and thyme. I shook my head and smiled, but she drew closer. She was not so much interested in selling herbs as in seeking my attention for a narrow-faced man sheltering in a doorway further down the street: in truth a pimp and his whore seeking fresh flesh for their trade. Demontaigu came out of the tavern, took one look at the woman, glanced down the street and drove both off with curses.
‘I am sorry,’ he apologised. ‘But that was my last visit. Come.’
We went up Gutter Lane, past Bakewell Hall into Lothbury and across the Great Common dotted here and there with stately houses, their towered roofs and occasional glass-filled windows glinting above high stone curtain-walls. Demontaigu took direction from a chapman who smiled at his enquiry but pointed to a track-way winding through a thick copse of trees.
‘The path to pleasure,’ he joked, then pointed at me. ‘But why go there with a merry handful so close?’
Demontaigu laughed. I blushed. We made our way down across the wasteland, the soil and grass slippery underfoot. A group of boys with their lurchers appeared, eager to raise a hare; the shouting and barking dinned our ears as we entered the silent copse, to be greeted by strange cooking smells. A group of Moon People sheltered in the trees; they were busy baking in hot ash small birds, skinned hedgehog and squirrel, which a dark-faced woman offered us for a penny a piece. The smell was foul. I gave her a coin but refused the food, pinching my nostrils even as Demontaigu teased me how he’d eaten such fare when fighting in France. The woman, apparently a bawdy basket, followed us along the path shouting in a language I could not understand. A man slipped out of the trees carrying a club, approaching us as if we’d insulted the woman. Demontaigu half drew his sword and both the bawdy basket and her protector promptly disappeared. At last the trees thinned. The track-way branched on to a lane leading up to a red-brick wall with a smartly painted blue gate boasting a black cross above the grille high in the wood. Demontaigu asked for Isabella and Gaveston’s seals. He approached the gate and pulled hard on the chain hanging from the bell-cote. The grille opened. Demontaigu held up the seals.
‘The king’s business,’ he shouted as loud as any herald, and the bolts were drawn. Demontaigu beckoned me closer as the gates swung open. A young woman dressed like a novice nun in black from head to toe, an ivory-coloured wimple framing her lovely face, gestured at us to come in. I noticed how the white ruffs at her neck and wrists offset the bleakness; I also glimpsed the carmine-coloured nails as well as the bright red pointed shoes peeping out from beneath the black kirtle. She smiled gracefully, sketched a curtsy and led us up the well-swept path. Only then did I notice the two men, pug-nosed and aggressive, sheltering behind the gate, which they now swung shut.
A flowery arbour trellis shrouded the path with plants climbing up across the top; on either side of this lawns, herb banks and flowerbeds budded under the spring sun. At the end of the path, steps led up to a metal-studded black door with grilles and eyelets, like that of a convent. Our guide pulled at the brightly polished copper bell. The door swung open and she invited us into a rather stark parlour with cushioned stools, benches and tables. The walls were a brilliant white, with linen paintings stretched over wooden board fastened to the plaster, each showed a young woman busy about some household task. Demontaigu studied one of these, grinned and sat down on the bench beside me. The Novice, as I now thought of her, stood smiling demurely down at us. She moved from the door as a more mature woman, harsh-faced, dressed in a similar fashion to the Novice, swept into the room. She glanced in surprise at me, but shrugged and, rounding on Demontaigu, spoke quickly in Norman French, demanding to examine the seals. She did so carefully before sweeping out of the chamber, beckoning the Novice to join her. Demontaigu whispered, lips almost touching my ear, ‘In hoc loco muri oculos auresque habent — in this place the walls have eyes as well as ears’. He rose, tapped one of the paintings and came and stood over me. ‘Alvena is here,’ he whispered.
A short while later there was a knock on the door and a young lady entered. She was dressed like the Novice, though her gown was dark green, the wimple blood red. She had skin as white as a water lily, brows as black as jet, an impish face with laughing eyes, snub nose and full lips. She offered us Leche Lumbard and dates in spiced wine, but we refused.
‘Then what can I do for you?’ she asked mischievously. ‘The hour is early. We sisters usually rest and begin our service after Vespers.’ She looked questioningly at me.
‘Not here,’ I murmured, moving to the door.
The young woman shrugged, pulled a face and brushed past me, going back down the passageway. I heard the mutter of conversation. Alvena started to come back. A voice called. She returned; more conversation, then she appeared out of the gloom, slightly flushed, eyes more wary.
‘Mother Superior says we may sit in the garden.’
We made ourselves comfortable on a stone bench outside. For a short while Alvena chattered about the flowers, how she looked forward to summer and how lovely it was to sit here especially in the evening and watch the sunset.
‘Pax-Bread?’ I declared. ‘Edmund Lascelles? He came here last night, didn’t he? He visited you?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied, eyes rounding in surprise. ‘I don’t know if I can help.’
‘Mistress,’ I retorted, turning to face her squarely, ‘you can answer our questions either here or in the gatehouse at Westminster. We know Edmund Lascelles sent Spit Boy here to arrange an assignment with you after Vespers. He came here?’
‘Yes, yes, he did.’
‘Tell me — and please, mistress, the truth, or it’s the gatehouse and much rougher questioning. We mean you no harm,’ I insisted. I took two silver coins from my purse. ‘These are yours. I assure you, we mean no harm.’
Alvena’s demeanour changed, her face hard, no more pretence. She pocketed the coins and stared across the grass as if fascinated by a thrush jabbing at the soil.
‘I am originally from Poitou,’ she declared. ‘I came here four years ago. Master Lascelles met me in Cock Lane where I was doing service in a boarding house. He offered better: this place under the care and protection of Mother Superior. Our guests are, how can I put it, carefully selected? Not everyone is allowed through that gate. Edmund is kind and gentle. He is also a superb pastry cook. He often delighted us as much as we delighted him.’ She laughed softly. ‘Then he had to return to France. Occasionally he returned to London. He would always visit me, bring me some present. Last night he did the same but this time there was no present. Edmund was usually cheerful, a merry soul, but yesterday he was silent and withdrawn. It took some time for him to relax, a few cups of wine, some soft music. I asked him what the matter was. He just shook his head and said he was on king’s business and that he was frightened. I must admit, mistress,’ she glanced sharply at me, ‘he was so fearful that even I became cautious, especially when he said he felt as if he was followed to this house. I asked him by whom. He just shook his head and we fell to our games. Afterwards I pressed him: what was his business? Why was he so frightened? He told me he was staying at the Secret of Solomon and that he would return this evening.’ She glanced at me. ‘He won’t, will he?’