London - Edward Rutherfurd [214]
The cross had been there only some five years, since King Edward’s wife, to whom, most unusually for a monarch, he was both devoted and faithful, had died in the north. A great cortège had set out to bring her body to Westminster, and twelve nights it had rested on the way: the last stage, before its formal entrance to the Abbey, had been here, at the road’s turning. So great was Edward’s devotion, that he had ordered a stone cross erected at each stopping place. There was another, in the West Cheap, by Wood Street. And since this spot was known by its old English name of, roughly, Charing, meaning the turning, this touching little monument was known as Charing Cross.
Barnikel had respected the queen; but he paused at the cross because, on the day it was erected, his own dear wife, having given him seven children, had died in childbirth with the eighth. It was because he had never found a replacement for her that Barnikel had not remarried, but preferred instead to go to Bankside once a week. As he always did, therefore, he said a prayer for her at Charing Cross and then rode on for his rendezvous. He had no qualms of conscience as he did so. His wife had been a cheerful soul. She would have approved. He pushed his horse into a canter.
As they approached the Dog’s Head, Isobel and Margery were still not certain what to do. They had visited a doctor in Maiden Lane who was said, for a bribe, to keep his mouth shut, and he had confirmed their fears at once. “It’s a leprosy,” he said. So all such contagious sores were called. After bathing it in white wine, he had given Margery an ointment which, he swore, would cure her. “The chief ingredient,” he remarked cheerfully, “is the urine of a goat. Works every time.” She thanked him, doubtfully.
“I could go away for a bit I suppose,” Margery said. She had never been away from her sister before. “I can pay the rent, and we’re supposed to be closed tomorrow anyway, because of Parliament.” In fact, the brothelkeeper usually arranged some discreet services for which he required the sisters. “I shall pray,” said Isobel.
Isobel was religious. The dispensation allowed to its prostitutes by the Church was uneven. They could receive communion, for instance; but they must be buried in unconsecrated ground. Though whether this meant that the dead were more liable to moral contamination than the living Isobel did not know. Even so, she believed that God might forgive her sins in this harsh world and that, in the end, she would be saved. But she knew that Margery’s condition must not be discovered. “You’d better not work tonight,” she said. “We can decide what to do in the morning.”
With such urgent affairs on their mind, they still had not remembered about little Joan. As they drew near the stew-house, they did so, with some shock. For the girl was standing outside, between two men and the brothelkeeper. Something, clearly, was badly wrong.
Waldus Barnikel was very angry indeed; Bull was smiling blandly and the brothelkeeper was looking embarrassed.
“You offered me a virgin,” the new-made alderman thundered.
“She was, this morning,” the brothelkeeper apologized. “I thought you’d come sooner, sire,” he added.
“And so I would have done,” the alderman declared, looking contemptuously at Bull, “but I have been with King Edward. He was speaking to me about the Parliament,” he explained as a final reminder of his superiority to the patrician.
“She’s only been had once,” the brothelkeeper said, with a nervous glance at Bull.
“By me,” Bull remarked with quiet satisfaction.
The new-made alderman and Parliamentarian glared.
“You think I would want her after that old fart?” he cried, glowering at the hated patrician; and the brothelkeeper wondered if this would lead to blows. But Bull seemed content to witness the