London - Edward Rutherfurd [222]
He saw his family, stared at them sadly, rather blankly, but gave no other sign. Nor, in their grief, did they cry out to him. But his eyes wandered over the rest of the crowd as though looking for something.
An ostler stepped forward, ready to lead the horse. But now, just as he did so, there was a new and excited murmur from the back of the crowd, which began to part. The sheriff glanced irritably towards the commotion, then his face took on a look of surprise. He said something to the king’s justice, who also turned in his saddle to stare. But their surprise was nothing to the look of horror and stupefaction which now appeared on the pale face of Martin Fleming as he gazed at the apparition coming towards him.
Joan walked slowly but steadily. On her head was a white striped hood, to go with the white striped dress she wore, the humiliating garb of the common prostitute. In each hand, a long, lighted candle, sign of the penitent. Her feet were bare, despite the cold, as she moved towards the tumbrel. Before it, as the king’s justice and the sheriff gazed down at her, she stopped.
“I am Joan, a whore,” she said in a clear voice that every ear in the crowd could hear. “Will Martin Fleming marry me?” And she looked at the young man, straight in the eye, with a look that said: “Remember. Remember the message. You have nothing to fear.”
The crowd, stunned, had momentarily fallen silent. Now an excited buzz began. The prisoners gazed at her. The bailiffs and ostler stared at her. And the sheriff and the justice looked at each other.
“What do we do about this?” the sheriff asked.
“Damned if I know,” the knight replied. “I’ve always heard of this sort of thing but I never thought I’d see it.”
“Is she within the law?”
The knight frowned. “I rather think she is.” He glanced down into the tumbrel at Martin, for whom he had felt rather sorry, then suddenly he grinned. “I’ll be telling this story for years.”
Now there were voices in the crowd. The knight turned. A stocky little man with a large head had stepped forward. His face was white with agitation, and he was gesticulating wildly.
“This is my daughter,” he cried. “We’re a respectable family.” There were laughs and catcalls. “She only left home a day ago.” More cries. “It only takes a night,” someone yelled. “She’s a virgin, I swear,” the painter shouted. The crowd erupted with laughter. Joan looked neither to right nor left but only stared at Martin Fleming.
Her father was right. Bull had not harmed her, and nor had Silversleeves. The plan of the night before had worked perfectly. While Dionysius was wrestling with one of the Dogget sisters in the darkness, the other had run up to the little attic room, slipped on a silk nightdress like the one Joan was wearing, and lain down on the bed, while Joan herself, entering ahead of Silversleeves, had hid under a blanket in the corner where she had stayed, holding her breath, until it was over and he had fallen asleep. It was the Dogget girl the drunken fellow had mounted in the darkness, and in the early hours of that morning, the two sisters had sat downstairs together, rocking with laughter at the joke. “It worked,” they cried. “It worked. What a jape.”
“We’ll be there to watch you save your boy from hanging,” they had promised Joan at dawn that morning. As yet, however, there had been no sign of them, for the simple reason that, at this moment, the two Dogget sisters were still happily asleep.
Looking down at Joan and her agitated father, the justice spoke firmly to the craftsman.
“Either she is, or she isn’t a prostitute,” he said. “I don’t see it makes much difference for how long.” He turned to Joan. “Can you prove you’re a whore?” he mildly enquired.
She nodded. “At the Dog’s Head on Bankside. Ask the bishop’s bailiff.”
The justice glanced at the sheriff. “We can put this boy back in the gaol until we’ve checked,” he remarked. “We can always hang him another day, I suppose, if she’s lying.”
The sheriff nodded. He was rather enjoying the scene.
Further deliberations were now interrupted by a savage cry. It came