London - Edward Rutherfurd [202]
The bishop’s estate in Southwark was extensive. Like the old private wards that had once featured in the city opposite, it was actually a feudal manor, within whose bounds the bishop dispensed justice and ruled as absolute lord. And since such jurisdictions were also called “liberties” and this one contained the prison called the Clink, the whole estate was known, even in official documents, by a curious name: the Liberty of the Clink.
The Liberty of the Clink was well run, as were the eighteen brothels. Nearly a century and a half before, in the reign of Henry II, the Bishop of Winchester, who as it happened was also Archbishop of Canterbury just then, had decided: “My brothels are a mess.” And so, aided by his able assistant, he drew up a thorough list of regulations for running them which, in Latin and in English, was preserved for future centuries in the diocesan library. “To the honour of God and according to the laudable customs and regulations of the land,” the document concluded; and so excellent were these rules that afterwards, when the city of London had been granted permission to have its own official brothels in Cock’s Lane near St Bartholomew’s, it was the bishop’s regulations which applied there too, while the prostitutes themselves were still cheerfully referred to as “Winchester Geese”. And whether or not he personally should be thanked for these rules, the Archbishop’s assistant when they were made was none other than that great Londoner, Thomas Becket.
But now the brothelkeeper and his wife were approaching her. He was a large, balding man with a black beard that always seemed to be greasy; she was a square woman, whose broad, yellowish face made Joan think of a sweating cheese. And the moment she saw them, she guessed. “You promised . . .” she blurted out. But they were both grinning. She was completely in their power.
Desperately the girl looked around. It had been the Dogget sisters who had thought of the whole idea; the Dogget sisters who had promised to protect her. Surely they had not abandoned her now? Yet where were they?
“There’s a customer for you, dear,” the square woman said.
Everyone in Southwark knew the Dogget sisters. One was called Isobel and the other Margery, but nobody – not even the brothelkeeper of the Dog’s Head where they worked – could tell you which was which. For Margery and Isobel were identical twins.
They were tall and stringy, with thick tresses of black hair, big black eyes, big buck teeth, and voices that, whenever they laughed, made a surprisingly deep sound, like a donkey’s braying. Yet, with their slim bodies and rather heavy breasts, they possessed a remarkable sexuality. And if all this was not enough to mark them out, over the centre of their foreheads, in their black tresses, each had a streak of white.
They dressed identically, always; their conversation was identical, they rented rooms side by side in the Dog’s Head where they sold their bodies; and, if a client wanted, they would, for a modest discount, make up a party of three that could, if the client had the stamina, last all night.
The Dogget sisters belonged to a small tribe that infested Southwark, and whose presence there derived from a simple, human, mistake. For eighty years ago, when poor Adam Ducket had lost the freedom of London, he had made a foolish choice. In his hurt and bitterness, when the Barnikel family had offered to help him, he had utterly refused. “If they don’t want me for their daughter, I’ll take nothing from them,” he had angrily declared. Within a month of his trial, he had drifted across to Southwark where he set up a market stall that failed. Then he had worked in a tavern, married a serving girl, and in time had a brood of