Now, though, it was time to choke down a dry and gristly mouthful of pride and seek out my erstwhile betrothed. But first I needed to get rid of the man who had been following me since I had left the hostelry. Queen Isabella had not been convinced, then. The man, early middle age, nondescript and balding, dressed in the neat but dull clothes of a well-to-do artisan or a guild member, had been trailing me with some expertise, but I had learned this craft from true masters, and he had not been hard to discover. At least he did not look like a killer, but you could never be sure. So I threw the rest of my eels into the river and set off north, idling through the streets as if I were a bored sightseer. My path took me past Saint Paul’s and through streets that grew narrower and meaner until I had reached Saint Martin’s-le-Grand, where I let myself be carried along by the crowd passing through Aldersgate. As I passed underneath the great arch I made sure the bald pate of my follower was still behind. It was, and so I stuck my thumbs into my belt and turned left towards the steeple of Saint Bartholomew’s Church.
Even blindfolded I would have known Smooth Field by the stench. The ground was open here, with a litter of shanties and crooked houses around the edge of the churned meadow that stretched north of the priory of Saint Bartholomew. I struck out from the priory lane and soon I was walking through rutted mud still reeking with the blood and ordure of the cattle that had died here last market day, and as I had hoped, packs of emaciated, shock-haired children were circling me. I ignored them and made for the nearest huddle of shanties, my follower in plain sight now, trying to hide among a knot of country folk on their way home. As soon as I was among the hovels I stopped and let the children catch up with me. They swarmed around me, their small faces streaked with dirt and scabby with ringworm, hands tugging at my clothes, little fingers scrabbling at the strings of my purse.
‘All right,’ I said, squatting down. They were so surprised that they drew back, alarmed and angry. I pulled out a handful of pennies and one cut piece of silver. ‘Do you want this? Then look over there. See that man in grey, with the shiny head? He’s come to Smooth Field looking for little chaps like you to roger. Now I don’t like that, and I’m sure you don’t either. So here’s some coin if you make sure he doesn’t play his game around here any more, eh?’ I selected the tallest child and poured the coins into his cupped hands, pausing long enough to see his eyes widen. As I turned away I heard their feral voices raised in something like a hunting cry, and glancing back I saw the whole pack of them, twenty or more, racing across the field towards Queen Isabella’s spy. I ran the other way, through the squalid maze of huts towards the Fleet river. Following the stream brought me down to Lud Gate. Making sure that no one else was following me I passed back into the city and hurried east towards the bridge.
The warehouse that Letice owned was downstream, just beyond Billingsgate wharf, that much I remembered. She now rejoiced in the name of Agnes de Wharram, and I did not think it would be hard to find her. I was half-right, at least. The de Wharram warehouse lay between the river and an ancient little church that was slowly being swallowed by the new buildings going up around it. Letice’s building was new as well, a fine stone barn of a place, looking well-swept and prosperous. It was locked up, as I had expected, but round the corner was a little counting-house, and inside, in the shadows that smelled of tallow and scraped parchment, a young clerk laboured amidst towers of accounting ledgers.
‘Is your mistress available?’ I asked him.
‘Lady de Wharram? She is not,’ he said, surprised.
‘Where might I find her?’
‘She is down here every day in the morning. You have missed her by not even an hour,’ was my answer.
‘I have urgent business with her. Where might she be now?’
The clerk rubbed his spotty cheeks and studied me. I probably looked like one of her investors, I supposed, all done up in my Venetian stuff. I let him take in the quality of my tunic, the gold upon my fingers, and the sea-green glint of Thorn at my belt. He blinked, and stood up, wincing. He had been sitting since before dawn, I guessed, scratching entries and poring over spider-scrabble handwriting in the bad light. I wondered if Letice was a kindly employer, and realised that if I were in this pale young fellow’s place I would probably be scared half to death of her.
‘She will have gone home,’ he said, unhelpfully.
‘Good sir,’ I said, and he lifted his chin a little at the compliment. ‘I have come a long way to see Lady Agnes. I would certainly be welcomed at her home, and would have gone there, but during my voyage – and it was a lengthy one – I had the misfortune to lose much of my baggage, including the particulars of everyone in London with whom I have business. It is a little mortifying to have come two hundred leagues only to arrive as helpless as a blind man, but at least I still have life. Now, if you could direct me?’
I pulled out a small gold bezant and laid it on the leather face of a book, where it glinted, inches from the boy’s nose. I could see him gazing at the worn head of a Byzantine emperor and the Greek writing. He had counted gold coins before, no doubt, but had he ever possessed one? I guessed that he had not. I was right. He caught my eye and I nodded, and the coin disappeared. A shy grin revealed an unhappy set of teeth.
‘Don’t tell your mistress I gave you that,’ I said dryly. ‘Now, where might she be?’
‘Two Dogs Court, off Aldersgate Street,’ said the clerk. ‘Shall I draw you a map?’
He did so, and as he did I looked about the place. She was doing well, judging from the piles of accounting this poor boy was saddled with. I peered at an open book.
Saffron
Ginger
Grains of Paradise
Pepper
Canel
Galyntyne
‘How is the Lady Agnes?’ I asked absently.
‘She is … very well, master,’ said the clerk, looking up from the neat hatchmarks of his map.
‘Does she treat you well?’
There was a suppressed snort. The boy wiped his nose and leaned close over the map.
‘Well, does she?’
‘We … we call her Agnes Peuerel – not to her face, master, but …’
‘Peuerel. So she is fiery, like pepper?’
‘She’s hot all right,’ said the clerk. ‘I mean …’ I did not have to see his face. His ears were burning red. ‘That is to say, she does not suffer fools gladly, and when her blood is up …’
‘Indeed. That I know. Well, young man, thank you for this fine map. And a word of advice: your mistress’ temper may burn like pepper, but she will heat the blood as well. Resist the temptation of hot-blooded women, boy. They will lure you to a doom your worst dreams could not imagine.’
‘As to that I wouldn’t know, sir,’ said the clerk, an eyebrow rising. ‘I meant no dishonour to the Lady Agnes. She is a widow, and has suffered much.’ Fine words, but the knave was blushing to his roots.
‘Your mistress has suffered more than most,’ I agreed. ‘But I can assure you that she has given as good as she’s got. You have my word on it.’
‘And who might you be, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?’ I was beginning to make the poor boy uncomfortable. No doubt swarthy, scar-faced strangers making mock of his mistress did not cross his path very often.
‘Since I have my directions and you have your bezant, it hardly matters, does it?’ I told him. ‘But in terms of your lady’s hard life I would call myself a phantom, of sorts.’ A frown twitched at the corners of the boy’s pustular brow. ‘Nay,’ I said, with a cheery wink, ‘I am from her bank in Venice. Don’t dream about Lady Agnes so much, and maybe those spots will go away.’
I left him gawping and set off to find Letice. I hoped he would take my advice. Everyone in my abbey had known that spots came from interfering with yourself – God knows that I had come by mine that way. I hoped, though, that I was not begrudging him his sweaty dreams simply because they involved my almost-wife. He had drawn me a nice map, after all. It was sendin
g me crab-wise to the north-west, and soon enough I found myself on the broad thoroughfare of Cheapside, hurrying along with the flood-tide of market-goers. It was the one place in London that I had determined to avoid, but I was in a hurry. I tried to keep my eyes on the ground, but there were too many obstacles – filth, dogs, a dead chicken, a lost child – and instead I fixed my eyes on the filthy kennel, the stream of ordure that divided the street in two. I set my shoulders and barged my way forward, one hand on my knife, the other on my purse. Then something fluttered very close to my face: it was a live goose hanging by its feet from a pole that was slung across a serf’s shoulder. I flinched, and as I did so I saw, across the way, the sign of the Blue Falcon. So I had come here after all. This was the place where four lives had met for less than a minute, and of those four, only I remained. I swallowed, gritted my teeth and climbed onto the stepping stone that bridged the kennel. There was the spot where Anna had fallen. I do not know what I expected to see, but I saw nothing, and all of a sudden I was glad of that. The tide of flesh and toil had washed it all away. I let it carry me.
Up Blowbladder Street I went, and into Aldersgate Street. The wind was blowing from the north-west, bringing to my nose the gifts of Smooth Field – animal dung and man-shit, and all the rotting waste of the great business of butchery that went on there, day in and day out. I wondered why Letice had chosen to live so close to her old home. ‘I grew up on a dung-heap,’ she would say, and here she was, back again and downwind. I was starting to feel nervous, if truth be told, for I had not seen the woman in almost two years, and while part of me looked forward, with a happy tremble in the lower quarters of my person, to our reunion, another part – and it included my head – trembled with less pleasant anticipation. Well, here was Two Dogs Court.
I paused at the entrance to the narrow street. Houses pressed very close together over the passage, which was marshy with nightsoil. At the end was a small court that allowed a little sunlight to fall upon the broad face of a large house. That must have been the Two Dogs Tavern, I supposed, or had a knight lived there, who wore a brace of hounds upon his shield? The former, I supposed, for this place had the look of a Grope Alley about it, and smelled like one into the bargain. Letice had bought the tavern, or knocking shop, or whatever it had been. Christ’s mother! Could she not have found herself a better place to live? And then it occurred to me that perhaps it was still a knocking shop. That was a trade my Letice knew more than a little about. Not a bad investment, either. I knew her old madam in Venice well – there was no information whispered in the Republic that did not reach Mother Zanetta’s ears, and no thread of the weave of power that was Venice that she did not hold an end of – and she was less a brothel-keeper than the queen of the San Polo quarter. Letice would make an excellent madam, I realised. Then I shook that thought from me and plunged into the alley.
The door had a bronze knocker upon it, and I banged three times. The door was sound, and new, I saw: good oak with finely worked wrought iron bands and hinges. I half expected a half-naked sylph to answer my knocking, but instead an older man dressed soberly in fustian the colour of sea-coal opened the door carefully, blinked deliberately, and drew back his shoulders.
‘Yes?’ he enquired, any note of curiosity wiped from his voice.
‘I should like to see the Lady Agnes de Wharram, my good fellow,’ I replied, trying as best I could to sound English. I did not succeed, I guessed, for he ran his eyes over my get-up for a moment and tightened his grip on the door. She had chosen this one well, had Letice, but I was at least glad that he did not look like the doorkeeper to a brothel.
‘Is she within?’ I asked politely. Nothing.
‘Perhaps you would tell her that Messer Cane – Caa neh – is without?’ That had been her jesting name for me, Master Dog in Venetian, in honour of Gurt Dog, the name I had left behind me in England. The servant stepped back and beckoned me inside with a small, elegant turn of his hand. I followed him into a short but wide stone hall with a dark, ugly Venetian bench on each side. They were polished so that they glowed like new chestnuts, and the air was sweet with lavender and beeswax. The servant indicated that I should sit, and disappeared through an inner door. Not a knocking shop, then. Letice was free to live her life as she pleased, but I was a little bit relieved all the same.
I waited for some time, scuffling my feet in the fresh rushes on the floor and enjoying their spicy fragrance. But I was still nervous, and when a female form stepped into the hall I jumped up with clumsy haste. But it was not Letice, just another servant, a young woman in dove-grey linen, who gave a nice curtsey and asked wouldn’t I follow her, please?
The de Wharram residence was spotless and furnished sparingly with the finest things a trading ship could bring. There were Flanders hangings, Damascus curtains, lustre-ware jugs and bowls from Al-Andalus, candleholders fit for a cardinal’s palace. The girl showed me into the solar. It was a neat room with narrow windows that let in enough thin London light to show off the quality of its furnishings. Venetian chairs. An Egyptian carpet, of the kind that Mussulmen kneel on to pray, graced a new oak table, and on it rested a pair of tall silver candlesticks.
‘You take me by surprise, sir.’ The voice was light and as polished as honed marble. I turned, gracelessly. Agnes de Wharram stood there, hands loose at her sides, head very high, yellow braids falling onto a plain dress that looked as if it had been spun from cobwebs gathered on the moon. For more than a moment I believed that I was looking at a sister, some lost twin of Letice, for this Agnes seemed to possess the woman I knew, as I had once seen a holy man entered by the ghost of a saint, one night in Alexandria.
‘My lady,’ I said. I almost bowed, and felt myself wincing with the effort to stop myself. She noticed, and the suggestion of a smile appeared on the face I thought I would have known but did not. ‘It … It’s me,’ I added, feebly.
‘I know,’ said the apparition, flatly. She glided past me and stood behind the table so that the light surrounded her. ‘What is it that you want with me?’
‘Agnes … Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ I could not keep myself in check a moment longer. ‘Letice, I am sorry that I have come here, and even sorrier that I must …’
‘Must what?’
‘I need your help.’
‘Of course you do.’ The words were Letice, but the voice was not. A fingernail tapped imperiously upon the foot of a candlestick. ‘How long have you been in London, Messer Petrus?’
‘For God’s sake, Letice, do not make me stand here like a bloody pilgrim! I have been here a week. On business – unexpected business, and unwelcome, at that. And I have reluctantly tracked you down, through the good offices of your clerk who, by the way, abuses himself mightily in your honour, to ask you a very small favour. Grant it, and I shall show my gratitude by leaving on the very next tide, and that I swear on my mother’s bones.’
‘Sit down, Patch,’ she said, with a sigh. I did so, and she did as well. We faced each other across the alien colours of the prayer rug: her control and elegance, my twitchy, street-soiled impatience.
‘What do you want?’ The finger had ceased to tap, and the room was very quiet.
‘I should like you to be yourself. Please.’
‘And who might that be?’ I could not see her face, but it did not sound as if she was smiling.
‘The woman who …’ I paused, mouth stoppered by the surge of memories I had let out of their gaol. Christ, what a terrible mistake I had made, coming here. ‘The woman who used to be about to marry me – how about that?’ There was silence. I thought I heard myself blink, a tiny wet snap, but perhaps I was mistaken. ‘I did not come here to ask you that – to marry me,’ I said at last. ‘I am not sure that this Agnes de Wharram, whoever she might be, would have me.’ I took a deep breath and let it out slowly through my nose, feeling my heart slow to where it would not make my voice tremble. I had not meant to get angry, but there again, it had not really been anger. ‘I thought you might be able to
get me an audience with the Earl of Cornwall,’ I told her, and leaned back, finished, in my beautifully polished chair.
‘I might,’ said Lady de Wharram. ‘Mightn’t I?’ added someone else.
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