London - Edward Rutherfurd [219]
“Doesn’t matter. Who, by the way?”
The brothelkeeper hesitated, but decided not to risk any more trouble from this devious fellow. “Bull the Merchant,” he unwillingly replied.
“Really?” Silversleeves chuckled. “The old dog. Now go and get her, will you? There’s a good fellow.”
The brothelkeeper turned.
“She’s sick.” Isobel Dogget was standing. Her harsh voice rang out angrily. “Leave her alone, pimple face.”
Silversleeves stared. “What’s the matter with her? And don’t call me names,” he added, “or the bishop will fine you.”
“Go to hell. I’m telling you she’s sick.”
“Bull too rough with her?” he mocked.
“Never you mind. You’re not getting your hands on her. Leave her alone,” she shouted, to the brothelkeeper this time.
But now that worthy man had had enough.
“No. You fetch her down,” he told the girl, while Dionysius laughed.
Joan and Margery Dogget were alone in the little attic room when Isobel came up. By the lamplight, Joan was trying on a striped shift of Margery’s that she would have to wear for the ordeal tomorrow. It was far too long, and the Dogget girl had just cut it and roughly hemmed it to her satisfaction.
“You’ll do us all proud,” she said with a laugh. And then to Isobel, as she appeared: “Maybe we’ll all find husbands at the gallows.”
When Isobel told her the problem below, however, she cursed and poor Joan went very pale. “I can’t do it,” Joan said, “not after all this.”
“And wait till you see him,” Isobel added ruefully.
“We’ve got to think of something,” Margery said.
The two sisters sat down together on her mattress on the floor, with their chins resting on their hands. For what seemed like an age to Joan, they sat there in silence. But then they began to mutter. A little later, there was a pair of hoarse laughs. Then more muttering. Then they looked up cheerfully.
“We’ve got a plan,” said either Isobel or Margery. And they told her what it was.
“We promise she’ll come,” the sisters said, as they sat one each side of Dionysius upon a bench. And when he looked suspicious: “I swear to God,” said one. “She’s coming,” said the other.
“What we need”, said Margery, “is food.” “And wine,” said Isobel. “Let’s sup,” they cried.
At this the brothelkeeper frowned. The stew-houses were not supposed to sell food and drink since this encroached on the tavern-keepers. But Silversleeves was smiling now. He jingled some new-minted coins in his pouch.
“I haven’t eaten since morning,” he said. “I need a full belly for wenching.”
Reluctantly the brothelkeeper went off and reappeared with a flagon of wine, bread, and the information that his wife would shortly bring them a bowl of beef.
“Drink up, girls,” Dionysius said cheerfully.
“We’ll make a night of it,” they agreed. They filled his beaker.
The brothelkeeper’s wife soon appeared with a large bowl which she set on the table in front of them. It smelt good. Silversleeves dipped his nose over it and inhaled with pleasure. He began to eat.
There was still no sign of the girl, but he was not concerned. Perhaps she was, in fact, with a client and finishing off. Perhaps she had been sleeping. He did not care. He was not a man of too many niceties. If the sisters swore she would arrive, he did not think they would dare cheat him now.
Unless. As they filled his beaker of wine it did occur to him that, since they had been so determined to protect this new virgin from him, they might be trying to drink him under the table. He smiled to himself. Whatever his faults might be, a weak head for drink was not one of them. He could drink this flagon and another. But he’d still have the girl. He finished the bowl of beef. They brought him a huge apple tart. That, too, he could manage. But before he did, he sent Margery off to find the girl.
“I’ve waited enough,” he told her, as Isobel poured more wine.
When Margery returned a little while later she was smiling. “She’s coming,” she promised, and