The Burgundian's tale

He moved his emaciated body to allow me access, and I stepped past him into a dark and dirty passageway. The smell of stale, unemptied chamber-pots and their contents made me gag, and I had to turn my head away so that the doorkeeper wouldn’t see me. I had to look as if this sort of place was one of my usual haunts.

While I waited, various men went hurriedly in and out, shielding their faces with raised arms, as though to hide their identity even from one another. Doors opened and shut on glimpses of filthy rooms, and I found myself wondering why a lad who loved gardening would have exchanged it for this twilight existence. What had happened to Roger Jessop to bring him so low?

A door at the far end of the dingy passageway was flung wide, and a man pushed past me, showing the whites of his eyes. He threw a coin to the doorkeeper before dodging into the street, with an anxious glance in both directions.

‘Roger! You got a customer,’ the lookout yelled.

A stocky lad with a thatch of light-brown hair was strolling towards me, and once again something gave my memory a nudge, only to be lost a second later.

‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Don’t know your face. New to the game, are you? Someone tell you to ask for me?’ He jerked his head. ‘Better come in before you take fright and run.’

He pushed me into the room at the end of the passage and closed the door. It was tiny, with just about enough space for a bed, and stank of sour sweat and other, even more unpleasant, bodily odours. A tattered mattress, the straw stuffing erupting through rents in the filthy ticking, had been pushed on to the floor, presumably during young Roger’s last encounter, and I could see it was alive with fleas and bedbugs. The boy’s arms and neck were covered with bites and sores.

‘Right,’ he said, loosening his points and starting to lower his breeches, ‘What d’you want? Straight up or fancy?’

‘No, no!’ I said hurriedly. ‘I haven’t come for that. I just …’

‘No need to be scared,’ my namesake assured me. ‘You needn’t be afraid anyone here’ll tell on you. Matter of fact, it’s the Bishop of London what owns us.’

‘No, no! You misunderstand.’ I held out my hand to ward him off. ‘I just want to ask you a question or two about Fulk Quantrell.’

‘Who?’

‘Fulk Quantrell — the Burgundian who was murdered in Faitour Lane two weeks past.’

‘Oh, ’im!’ The boy adjusted his clothing and scowled. ‘Friend of ’is, are you? He was another one that just wanted to ask me questions. Paid, mind! Same as if he’d buggered me.’

I nodded and jingled the purse at my belt. ‘I’m perfectly willing to do the same.’

‘Oh … All right, then,’ was the grudging response. ‘As long as you understand and plays fair by me.’ He held out a grime-encrusted hand. ‘Come to think on it, I’ll take the money first. Just in case you tries to cheat.’

I passed over the necessary coins and looked around for somewhere to sit, but there was nowhere except the floor, and I didn’t fancy that. I propped my back against the wall.

‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘I’m waiting for the questions.’

‘Well, to begin with, why in heaven’s sweet name did you leave Mistress St Clair’s house for’ — I made a sweeping gesture of distaste — ‘for this!’

He shrugged, but his eyes were shifty. ‘It’s not a bad life, once you get used to it. I got a roof over me head, food in me belly. Food of a sort,’ he added honestly. ‘Better ’n begging on the streets, at any rate.’

‘Is it?’ I sneered. ‘I’m willing to wager you get as much, if not more, abuse than a beggar, and a lot less money. And what little you do earn is taken off you to be shared amongst your pimp and your landlord, His Grace the noble Bishop of London.’

I thought for a moment the lad was going to burst into tears. He did indeed sniff and wipe his nose in his fingers, but continued to stare at me more defiantly than ever.

‘So?’ I prompted. ‘You could still be helping William Morgan in the garden, living with your sister.’

‘Half-sister,’ he corrected.

‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘Nell’s your half-sister. But it doesn’t alter anything. It still doesn’t explain why you’re here.’

An expression of fear flitted momentarily across his face. ‘You ain’t told Nell where t’ find me, ’ave you? Tell me you ain’t! ’Ow did you find me, by the way?’

‘I haven’t seen Nell since discovering your whereabouts,’ I assured him. ‘And as to how I found you, one of the women at the Needlers Lane workshop thought she recognized you when she was walking to Holborn through Faitour Lane.’

His fear turned to puzzlement. ‘Why would you be talking about me to one of Master Broderer’s workers? And what’s it all got to do with Fulk?’