‘I wonder what he’s—quick! Against the wall.’ He thrust out his arm to arrest her passage, and the two of them retreated against the frontage of a butcher’s shop. A pockmarked apprentice stared from the candlelit doorway, from where the stench of rotting meat assaulted their grudging nostrils.
‘Ugh.’ Keeping her eyes on Bellecour, Mercia screwed up her face. ‘What do you see?’
‘He’s slowing. I think he senses danger. I recognise the signs. Let’s just … yes, he’s quickening his pace again. Out of here, we come over Thames Street by the river, so we shouldn’t lose him.’
To a jeer from the apprentice, they ducked out of the narrow passage into a wide space before the river. Further down, boatmen were perched on a railing, jostling near their wherries to win fares. And they had spotted their latest customer.
‘I hope he’s not …’ muttered Nicholas. ‘God’s truth, he is!’
Mercia watched as Bellecour followed one of the ferrymen down a series of wet steps. ‘Damn,’ she said. ‘I think we shall have to—’
Without finishing her sentence she hurried to the lined-up boatmen. At once a trio leapt from the railing, nimbler even than they had been with Bellecour.
‘Cheap price, my lady.’
‘My boat’s largest, love, more room.’
‘Mine’s fastest!’
She reviewed the three men in one quick glance; pointing at the second, she descended the steps to the rocking boats. She accepted the ferryman’s hand as he steadied her into his craft.
‘Him too?’ said the man, as Nicholas got in. ‘Pity. Where to, then?’
‘You see that wherry that launched before us? We need to go to the same place, and quickly.’
Nicholas laughed. ‘Follow that boat!’
The trip was a short one. Within two minutes, they were halfway across the river, following the dim shape of Bellecour’s wherry, clearly heading for Southwark on the opposite side.
‘Hell’s teeth,’ said Mercia. ‘Is he only visiting the bear pit?’
‘No fight on tonight, love.’ The boatman sniffed in the stale river air. ‘What’re you following him for, anyway? Looked a bit foreign, if you ask me.’
‘Nobody did ask you,’ said Nicholas.
‘Calm down, mate. Only trying to help.’
‘Is anything else happening in Southwark this evening?’ she asked. ‘If not bears, then maybe cocks, or prize fights?’
‘No, love. We haven’t had much trade this way tonight at all. Bit of a pain, what with all them kids at home to feed, and their mother not so much as—’
‘She said she would pay you well if you rowed us fast, not talked us to death,’ said Nicholas.
The boatman sucked in through his teeth. ‘That don’t mean to say her man can’t be civil. Or shall I leave you here in the middle of the river? That cove’ll be clean away soon, you know, whatever your business with him, poor fellow.’
‘You are right,’ said Mercia, suddenly abrupt. ‘He is foreign. He’s crossed me, and I want my revenge.’
‘Now we’re getting to it! Bloody foreigners! Can’t trust them, can you?’
‘I could not agree more,’ she said, ignoring Nicholas’s amused expression. ‘Good thing this war has started, now we can show them!’
‘Right you are, my lady! I’ve said it all along, ever since the King returned, what we need’s a good war to show them who’s best.’ He nodded as if agreeing with himself. ‘I’ll have you over there in a minute.’
She flicked her eyebrows at Nicholas, who covered his mouth with a well-timed hand, although the creases of his eyes told their own story. True to her word, when they disembarked not far up from London Bridge she reached into her pockets for a generous coin: the man’s eyes fair bulged when he saw the silver crown.
‘Shall I—’ he stammered. ‘Shall I wait here, my lady? Take you back, later on?’
‘If you wish.’
She held onto Nicholas’s shoulder as she climbed from the boat. St Saviour’s church loomed close above, but it was the gloom of its deep shadow that drew her attention, for that was where Bellecour was disappearing, arrived just a short time before them.
Nicholas sped ahead. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep him in view.’
She tossed the ferryman his coin and followed as fast as she could, but by the time she reached the church’s western steps she had lost them. Cursing her misfortune, at first she failed to notice the beggar at her feet, but on the second tug of her hems, she shook the emaciated creature away.
‘That way, is all,’ the filthy man rasped, pointing to a nearby alley. ‘Your man said to tell you.’
‘Oh.’ Red-cheeked, Mercia felt inside her dress to withdraw a penny. ‘Thank you.’
She hurried in the direction the beggar had shown her: the alley was close, dirty sheets flapping out the scant moonlight, but candles had been lit in many of the storefronts, and she could make out Nicholas’s cloak as he approached the thoroughfare’s end. She squeezed past the few people standing about, making it through without incident, but then she found herself in a maze of streets, and each time she looked up, Nicholas was vanishing around the next corner.
At a four-way junction she halted to catch her breath. The road stretched on in each direction, but Nicholas was nowhere to be seen. Then she noticed two women chatting outside a doorway on her right, and she approached the animated pair, thinking to seek their help as the beggar had offered his.
‘Excuse me,’ she panted. ‘Have you seen a man coming past? Two men indeed, one not long after the other?’
The women glanced at each other. ‘What brings you down here, darling?’
‘I am sorry, I do not have time to talk. Could you just—’
A hissing came from behind the women. She peered round to see a darkened hand, beckoning her approach the doorway. And then the hiss again.
‘Here!’ Nicholas called.
She looked at the women, who shrugged, before stepping to one side to allow her past.
‘Nicholas!’ she said, joining him on the threshold. ‘Where is Bellecour?’
‘He … came in here. Why don’t you go back to the boatman and wait for me there?’
‘Why?’
‘I … just think you should.’
‘Nicholas?’ She glanced behind him. ‘Is this not an inn? I can see down this hall that there are plenty of people drinking. Mostly women, besides, so I should not have any—’
She cut herself off with a gasp.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Now will you listen?’
She put her hand to her mouth. This was no inn.
She was standing in the entrance to a whorehouse.
Chapter Seventeen
The women outside were smirking at her discomfort. ‘Not quite your usual place, I’m thinking,’ said the elder of the two. ‘Perhaps you should leave your brother be.’ She draped an arm around Nicholas’s shoulders. ‘I’m sure he can – handle himself.’
Nicholas shrugged off the whore’s advances. ‘I’m not looking for a woman. I saw a man come in here and—’
‘God’s wounds.’ She exhaled a long breath. ‘Well, I’m not sure. Simon might be willing to play your pipe for a shilling, but we don’t much go in for that unnatural stuff here.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘I mean, I’m not looking for anything, damn it. A man came in here just before me. Are there any other ways out?’
The jilt cocked her head. ‘You a harman?’
‘A constable? Me? Do I look like one?’
‘Not much. You sure you don’t want a girl?’
‘If I did, I wouldn’t choose you. Answer my question.’
‘Get this one.’ The woman turned to her companion and pulled a mocking face. ‘Must like them younger. You have a go.’
‘I said I don’t want … Hell’s teeth!’
‘What he means to say,’ said Mercia, ‘is could you answer his question?’ For a third time that evening, she reached inside her pocket for
a coin. ‘It is important.’
The older whore eyed up the sixpence. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Does it matter? Here is money. Take it.’
Before the woman could react, the younger snatched the coin from Mercia’s hand. ‘There’s one door round back, to the yard,’ she said quickly. ‘We use it if the harmans come knocking. But it’s guarded. No one can leave that way.’
The girl sounded surprisingly erudite. ‘So the man who just came in could not have come out,’ asked Mercia, ‘but by the same entrance here?’
She shook her head. ‘No one’s been past us since.’
‘Does he often come here? Did you recognise him?’
‘Yes, I seen him here before. He likes Mellie, but—’
The elder woman coughed.
‘What?’ said the younger. ‘I’m just talking.’
‘Mind what you’re talking about, then. I’ve got better things to do.’
She disappeared inside. ‘Ale to drink, more like,’ shouted her companion. ‘What was I saying?’
‘About Mellie,’ prompted Mercia.
‘Oh yes. That man – he comes here, asks for Mellie, but there’s never any noise coming from her room while he’s in it. No grunting or anything.’
Mercia pulled Nicholas to one side. ‘What could Bellecour be doing, coming here? He seems to … get what he wants at Court.’
‘He’s a man, Mercia. He’ll have tastes, the same as any other. Coming to a place like this makes it easy. Some men like to think they have mastery over such girls.’
‘But what if he becomes – spreads things, at the palace?’
‘I should think there’s enough of that there already. The quacks must have their work cut out.’
‘So what do we do now?’
Nicholas turned to the young whore. Now Mercia looked more closely, she realised she could only be about sixteen, but then many of the women in this place would be as young. The same age as Tacitus, she reflected, suffering at the whims of others just as he did. But tonight was not the time for a pricking of conscience.
‘Can you show me Mellie’s room?’ Nicholas said.
The girl smiled. ‘What you going to do? Punch his face?’
‘Something like that.’
She puffed out through rouged lips. ‘Oh, go on, then. I never liked Mellie, anyway. I always said she was a queer one.’ She set a hand on his arm, glancing at Mercia as she eased him inside. ‘But your friend waits out here.’
She waited, inside the door. Left alone she felt exposed, especially when a well-dressed man of double her age slunk into the whorehouse and paused to leer. Before he could utter a word, she looked away in pique and shooed the client on. What did he think, she thought indignantly? That she looked like a whore? Even wearing her dowdy brown dress, nothing like the glamour of her fine Court attire, she did not have the air of one of those … base women.
The man growled and carried on, and she dwelt for a moment on the plight of those women, concerned her ready judgement was too harsh. Everyone had suffered in the war – the civil war, that was – and hardship was still prevalent, wherever in London she looked. Perhaps such work was all these women could find, if work it could be called, forced to deal with the cravings of men seeking their wanton release.
A shrill voice at her shoulder startled her from her thoughts, and she turned to find herself confronted by a penetrating scowl, the woman’s face not so much painted as annoyed. Unlike the previous two, she exuded authority.
‘What’re you doing here?’ she snapped. ‘If your man’s gone up with Susan, let him be. He don’t need a chaperone.’
‘He is not … we are just trying to find a man who—’
‘I’ve heard all that. I’m not interested, and I don’t want no ladybird like you loitering around. Mind your own, dear. Get it.’
‘If I could wait for him to come down—’
‘Do you want me to call Gunner for help?’
‘Very well. No need to be impolite.’
She slunk out of the brothel and around the corner, hiding herself on the threshold of a closed-up storefront. A mangy dog padding past stopped to sniff the dirty step, but other than a quick lick of her boots it gave her little heed.
Five minutes passed. A breeze rose up, casting the litter of the day along the shabby street, and in the distance a group of drunks began a raucous song. Then a window opened above the crossroads, back at the whorehouse from where she had come. The squeak made her look up, and to her surprise she saw a pair of boots protruding through a first-floor window, soon followed by some breeches and the hooks of a man’s shirt. Then a whole figure slipped through, gripping the sill before dropping to the ground with an intake of breath.
She pressed herself in to the darkness of her storefront, her brown dress merging with the evening gloom. Distracted by the jolt of his jump, the man rubbed at his legs and failed to notice she was there. But she noticed him.
‘Bellecour,’ she whispered to herself.
And then a commotion sounded from round the corner, as a woman’s accusing scorn chased another man into view. He careered on the spot in the middle of the crossroads, looking directly at the Frenchman.
‘Nicholas,’ she continued.
One look back and Bellecour shot into the Southwark dusk. Without hesitation, Nicholas set off in pursuit, soon followed by another man with a cudgel in his hand, stocky and utterly bald. But his bulk made him slow, and she could see even now how he was falling behind.
Tentative, she stepped out of the threshold, debating whether to pursue or to stay put, but she knew she could never catch up. Instead she decided to return to the riverbank, in case Bellecour made for the wherries there. As best as she could she began to jog, but not far past the whorehouse another figure leapt from the darkness and held her fast.
‘Release me!’ she cried, struggling in the man’s grasp, but immediately he let her go.
‘’Tis me, Mrs Blakewood. Giles Malvern. What in heaven’s name are you doing?’
‘Mr Malvern!’ She took a step back. ‘I should ask the same of you.’
‘What do you think? But there’s no time now. Your man has likely ruined weeks of preparation.’
‘You mean you were—’
‘Wait back by the river. We can speak later.’
‘I was going—’ she protested, but he ignored her, sprinting away into the night.
By now a crowd of women had gathered at the entrance to the whorehouse. Keen to avoid their attention, Mercia marched off just as the madam was storming towards her, oblivious to the two men who were tucking in their shirts and slipping out of sight behind her back. But Mercia eluded her curses, following the streets towards the church, and thence coming out at the wherry rank. The boatman who had brought them over was sitting on a low wall, chewing some noisy substance around his mouth.
‘Back across, love?’ he called, spitting out a nut-sized lump.
‘Not yet,’ she said.
‘You find that cove you were chasing?’
‘Thank you for waiting, but do you mind if I just sit here and do the same?’
He shrugged and settled back onto his perch, but his presence was reassuring as she felt the tingling in her stomach, waiting for Nicholas to reappear. The lapping of the river against the moorings was eerie, the reflection of the waxing moon enhancing the effect.
She waited for what seemed an age, but the moon had barely moved by the time first Malvern, and then Nicholas, came into view. There was no sign of Bellecour.
‘Well,’ said Malvern, forsaking the niceties of the eating house. ‘This is a problem. What did you think you were hoping to achieve?’
‘I told you,’ said Nicholas. ‘We were following Bellecour.’
‘I should rather you be silent and let your mistress speak.’
Mercia sighed; what did she have to lose by being honest? ‘It is as he says. We think Bellecour might lead us to Virgo. We hoped his actions might provide us with usefu
l intelligence.’
Malvern set his hands on his hips. ‘Did I not tell you to be careful?’
‘You did. But I did not think you would be here also.’
He beckoned her to one side, out of earshot of the clearly listening ferryman.
‘I have been watching that … house for some weeks. Bellecour goes there from time to time, and not for the usual purpose. We think he meets someone there, or uses it to pass on information he has learnt. But I doubt he will return now.’ He glanced at Nicholas. ‘Did he get a look at you?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘I had my hood up, but I looked straight at him.’
‘What happened in there?’ said Mercia. ‘The last I know was Bellecour jumping from the window.’
‘Explain to your mistress,’ ordered Malvern. ‘While I search the streets once more. Even in that warren, there are only so many places he can hide. Mrs Blakewood, wait here.’
‘I can help—’ began Nicholas, but Malvern cut him off with a stiff shake of his head. Mercia waited for him to go before she turned to Nicholas and became forthright herself.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
He scratched at his ear. ‘That didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.’
‘You could say that.’
‘Susan – that girl – she took me upstairs. Tried to persuade me to … you know, but I kept telling her no, and she showed me the room where Bellecour was meant to be.’
‘And was he?’
‘I listened at the door while she watched out for me.’ He winked. ‘I think she liked me.’
‘Your humour is not going to help you. What did you hear?’
‘Not what you’d expect. Silence. But there was a small chink in the door I could look through. Susan said all the doors have a hole of some sort, supposedly protection for the girls. Then again, some men like to be watched, or pay so they can spy. So I’ve heard.’
‘Nicholas, get on with it.’
‘Well, that’s certainly not what Bellecour was doing. He was fully clothed, sitting on the bed, while the girl he was meant to be paying was lying on the floor, reading.’
‘She could read?’
‘Looking at the letters, at least.’
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