But Aldred was intent upon sharing his newfound knowledge and plunged in. "Nora — that be her name — told me all about the laws. They're right interesting and I think fair, too. No woman can be held there against her will. The whores are to live elsewhere and pay rent for their rooms to the stew-master. He is not supposed to lend them money, not over sixpence, lest they get so deeply in debt that they end up working for nothing. They must be seen by a doctor every three months, so men can be sure they are free of the pox. They are not allowed to have lovers, are punished if they do. They're not to whore during holy days, and the last man with a whore must stay with her all night long."
"Why?" The other regulations seemed self-explanatory to Justin, but that one puzzled him; he very much doubted that the Crown was concerned with making sure a man got his money's worth.
"That is easy," Luke explained. "It is to thwart river crossings. Once curfew is rung, the city gates are closed. But if men could hire a ferryman on the Southwark side of the river, they could then roam the streets as they pleased, up to no good."
Aldred started to speak, stopped abruptly as Nell approached with another flagon. As soon as she withdrew, he seized control of the conversation again. "I suppose that is why they are forbidden to sell ale or wine in the stews — to keep drunken brawls from breaking out. But some of the bawdyhouses still offer it on the sly," he confided. "Nora had wine sent up to her room. She said they are not supposed to sell food either, and I see no reason for that rule. Do you, my lords?"
Luke was about to venture a guess that it was to keep the customers from tarrying once they'd gotten what they paid for above-stairs. But Jonas forestalled him. "I daresay we could pass the rest of the day talking about whores. We ought to be talking, though, about one whore in particular. Tell us about the Fleming's Irish wench, Aldred."
"Well… she is young and pretty. Her hair is a pale yellow color, like new-churned butter. She has a little waist and…" Aldred hesitated, for Nell was still nearby, and he did not know how to describe Nora's physical charms in polite terms. "She'd make a good wet nurse," he finally blurted out, gesturing with his hands to indicate the ampleness of Nora's breasts, and flushing then when Luke and Justin laughed.
Jonas did not. "I already know she's good in bed, lad," he said impatiently, "for you came back grinning from ear to ear. That's not what we need to know. Is she clever? Featherbrained? A bitch? A talker? You must have formed some opinion of the woman, Aldred!"
Aldred squirmed on the bench; up until now, Jonas had called upon him to provide brawn, not brains. "She… she talks easy enough, but she says little, in truth. She's not one for chattering, like most women. She was sweet as honey at first." His flush deepened; he could hear again that soft Irish lilt, calling him "darlin' lad" and "lover." "But she was different afterward, once she had the money. Then she became right practical. I think she is a woman with secrets, not easy to read." This last phrase was said self-consciously, for Aldred had never so much as opened a book. "Looking into her eyes was like looking into the eyes of our barn cat back home. Does that make any sense?" To his relief, they were nodding, so it must.
"Very good, lad," Luke said, and Aldred grinned widely. Picking up his ale cup, he drank, eyeing Nell all the while. She was cleaning spilt ale from a nearby table, but Aldred had enough experience in eavesdropping to recognize another practitioner of that useful skill. When Nell glanced his way, he winked, and was delighted when she gave him an impish half-smile before turning aside. She did not go far, though, staying within earshot. Aldred did not give her away, and as the men talked, planning their strategy, she listened intently, and she, too, made plans.
~~
Six nights later, Justin, Luke, and Jonas were back, seated at the same table. Nell was giving them such good service that the other customers noticed and marveled. But her efforts were in vain. They were not talking much, and when they did, it was in French. Nell was growing increasingly frustrated. Her spirits lifted, though, when the door banged and Gunter strolled in. A man who valued order and took comfort in routine, he was expecting only his usual evening ale. But he'd taken just a few steps before he was accosted by Nell, pulled aside for an urgent conference.
"Am I glad to see you! Go over and talk to Justin straightaway!"
"Why? Is something wrong?"
"I want to hear what they're saying. If you're there, they'll talk English." Gunter was starting to shake his head, for he did not want to get involved in one of Nell's schemes. He liked her well enough, but he did not fully approve of her; he was somewhat alarmed by her headstrong ways and quick temper. But then she entreated softly, "For me, Gunter? Please?" And he found himself crossing the chamber, as if propelled by the sheer force of her will. As she'd predicted, he was welcomed warmly by Justin and Luke, succinctly by Jonas, and was soon pulling up a stool to join them, feeling uncomfortably like a spy in their midst.
They were quite willing to share their disappointment with him, for his pitchfork attack upon Gilbert the Fleming had earned him the right to participate in their hunt, if only vicariously. They'd had no luck whatsoever, they informed him glumly. For six days now, they'd kept Nora under watch. They'd rented a room across the street from the house Nora shared with three other prostitutes, and took turns keeping her lodgings under surveillance. They'd put the Bull under close watch, too, and whenever she ventured out, she was trailed at a discreet distance. All to no avail.
Justin was not as downcast as his companions, for he'd managed to find some free time to spend with Claudine. He'd escorted her to the leper hospital of St Giles, where she'd distributed alms at the queen's behest, and later in the week he'd taken her skating at Moorfields; both times, they'd ended up in bed back at Gunter's cottage.
But neither Luke nor Jonas had a Claudine to make the waiting bearable, even pleasurable. As the days dragged by without results, Luke was becoming as edgy and ill tempered as a wet cat. Nor was Jonas in the best of moods, either. He listened morosely as Luke complained about the futility of their efforts and did not argue with the deputy's pessimistic conclusion: that Nora was poor bait to catch a killer.
"The truth is," Luke said grimly, "the Fleming is not a man to lose his head over any woman. However much he enjoys rutting with this whore, he is not about to put himself at risk for her."
Jonas grunted a sour assent, and Justin shrugged. "What will you do now?" Gunter asked, trying to ignore Nell, who was industriously sweeping the floor rushes near their table.
"That is what we've been arguing about," Justin admitted. "I think we ought to give it more time. But Luke says we've squandered nigh on a week as it is, a week he can ill afford to lose. He thinks we have to take more drastic measures."
Luke nodded vigorously. "I'm getting bone-weary of sleeping on the floor of your cottage, Gunter. And it's becoming obvious to me that we can watch this woman from now till the spring thaw with no results. So Jonas is going to arrest her, see if we cannot get her to reveal the Fleming's whereabouts — "
"No! You cannot do that!"
The men were staring at Nell as if she'd lost her senses, but she didn't let that daunt her. "You must not do this," she insisted. "Once you arrest her, you lose any chance of catching Gilbert off guard. And if you cannot get her to talk, what then? You cannot even be sure she has anything to tell you!"
Luke was frowning. "I do not mean to be rude, Nell, but this is none of your concern."
"Be thankful that I'm here to keep you from making a great mistake. What do you know about this woman? Whores are not supposed to take lovers, can be fined and even put in gaol for a few weeks. So why is she sharing her bed with Gilbert? Is she too scared to tell him nay? From what I've heard about the man, that is not far fetched. Or she might like having such a dangerous lover. Some women do. Or she might want the protection of being known as the Fleming's woman. Or she could be his accomplice as well as his bedmate, for whores often hear useful information. Who's to say she's not passing it on to him? She could even fancy herself in love with him. As unlikely as that sounds, the world is full of fools. Could she be one of them? You do not know, do you? You cannot answer any of those questions. And until you can, arresting her would be lunacy!"