Instead, I found myself confiding in, of all people, Luke Prettywood.
June 22nd that year, as I remember, was extremely hot, with a hint of thunder in the air. I had had a long, tiring day and was making my way homewards through the broad meadows below the castle, carrying, as well as my almost empty pack, a bedraggled and tattered-looking bunch of dog roses. As I sat down for a well-earned rest on the banks of the Frome, Luke Prettywood arrived. He was in charge of a handcart laden with barrels and pulled by half a dozen stout and sweating young apprentices. These youths set to work filling the barrels with water from the river, while Luke sat down beside me and watched their labours with the malevolent enjoyment of the foreman.
‘What’s going on?’ I enquired.
Luke grinned. ‘It’s the city’s Great Red Book again, isn’t it? Bristol brewers ain’t allowed to draw water from the public conduits for fear of upsetting the supply to our beloved private citizens, who might not be able to wash, or even take a bath, as often as they’d like.’ He roared with laughter. ‘So we take water from the Frome. It’s what gives Bristol beer its special taste.’ He regarded me with interest. ‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve lost a shilling and picked up a groat.’ He added shrewdly, ‘The wife I’d guess, by all the signs.’
‘What makes you say that?’
He smiled the insouciant smile of the carefree bachelor. ‘When men look as glum as you do, it’s never anything else.’
‘Never?’
‘Well, hardly ever. Want to tell me about it? The lads’ll be some time yet.’ And he shouted a word of encouragement to the toiling apprentices. They glowered at him in return.
I hardly knew him. I should have said nothing. But I needed to unburden myself to someone. When I’d finished, he nodded understandingly.
‘Avoiding children is always a problem,’ he acknowledged with the world-weary air of a man twice his age. ‘I’m not married myself, but as you know I’m not celibate, either.’ He gave me a nudge and a wink before fishing in the leather pouch attached to his belt. ‘Ever seen one of these?’ He held out his hand.
On his palm lay what appeared to be a sheath for a knife blade, except that it was made from very fine skin or, more likely, a membrane. A calf’s or pig’s bladder, I reckoned after a closer inspection. I had heard about these things, but had never seen one. All the same, I could guess its function by its shape. I also knew that generally they were for use only by the nobility, and not for the likes of Luke Prettywood or me. The proliferation of peasant stock was necessary for the successful running of the country. Who else would perform menial tasks, or be sent as common foot soldiers in time of war?
I asked Luke where he’d got it and how much it had cost.
He grinned. ‘There’s an apothecary that makes them. For a price, naturally. He has a shop near the castle, on the corner of the Pithay and Gropecunt Lane.’ Handy for the brothels, then. ‘Funny little humpbacked fellow called Witherspoon.’
Witherspoon! An apothecary with a shop near the castle! I really should have to take myself in hand. Goody Tallboys had told me of Witherspoon, and I had forgotten all about him. Of course, I had promised Timothy Plummer and, more importantly, Adela, not to pursue any enquiries that might have to do with the events at Rownham Passage. But this was different. I needed to visit the apothecary, I told myself, on a personal matter.
‘Does it work?’ I asked. ‘Or wouldn’t you know?’
Luke chuckled. ‘Oh, I know all right.’
I quirked an eyebrow. ‘Mistress Avenel?’
The chuckle slid into a self-conscious laugh. ‘Now why should you think that?’
‘I saw the pair of you in the crypt of Saint Giles that day. Besides, it’s general gossip.’
He looked uneasy. ‘Master Avenel knows nothing, I’ll swear.’
The apprentices had finished filling the barrels and loading them back on to the handcart, and were now taking their ease on the river bank. I lowered my voice to a whisper.
‘Then you and the fair Marianne had better be more careful.’
Luke gnawed his thumb, looking troubled. ‘You wouldn’t say anything to Master Avenel, would you, chapman?’
‘Of course not!’ I exclaimed, revolted by the very idea of myself in the role of informer. ‘You and the lady aren’t planning anything foolish, are you?’
He gave what was meant to sound like an amused, man-of-the-world laugh, but which sounded somewhat hollow to my ears.
‘No, no! In truth, I rather fancy that maid-companion of Mistress Alefounder. And I rather think she favours me.’
‘A very beautiful woman,’ I agreed, subduing an impulse to punch him on the nose. I saw my opening. ‘Do you see much of her and Mistress Alefounder?’
‘Mistress Alefounder calls in at the brewery now and then. Her late husband was Master Alefounder’s nephew, you know.’
I nodded. ‘And what do you think of her? There are rumours that she and her brother are loyal to the Lancastrian faction.’
Luke Prettywood shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know about that. I’m not interested in politics, myself. Although, now you mention it, I did hear Master Gregory the other day telling her to guard her tongue, and he wouldn’t have that sort of seditious talk in his brewery.’
‘And Mistress Hollyns?’
He looked puzzled. ‘What about her?’ He had already forgotten his vaunted interest in Rowena and was pulling petals off a daisy like any lovelorn youth. ‘She loves me! She loves me not! She loves me …’
I remembered my wilting dog roses and proffered one.
‘It’s Midsummer’s Day the day after tomorrow,’ I reminded him. ‘An occasion for the women to play at that game.’
He turned up his nose at my offering and glanced over at the apprentices, two of whom had fallen asleep. ‘Time we were getting back,’ he said, jumping to his feet. ‘I hope things go well for you at home, chapman.’
‘And you take care!’ I warned him, but he merely laughed.
‘Oh, I can look after myself,’ he assured me, waving a hand in farewell.
I hoped he was right. As for me, I threw away the almost dead dog roses and decided that this Midsummer’s Day I would live dangerously and buy Adela a rose from a street seller, waiting with baited breath while she denuded it of petals. ‘He loves me! He loves me not!’ The answer would be unknown to both of us.
But now I had another visit to make before returning home.
It would have been easy to miss the entrance to the apothecary’s shop on the corner of Gropecunt Lane, so discreet was it. Indeed, I walked the entire length of the street without noticing it, and it was only on the return journey, steadfastly ignoring the invitations of the madams seated at the doors of their respective whorehouses, that I found it, just where Luke Prettywood had told me it would be.
The shop was as dark and dingy inside as it was outside, the light which filtered through a single, dirty window augmented merely by two miserable tallow candles standing on the counter. There was a peculiar smell about the place, too, like a very old, very dead rat. I gagged and wished I still had my roses.
Once my eyes had adjusted to the gloom, I was aware of being watched. A small man, about half my height, with a bowed back and a disfiguring hump, was regarding me from behind the counter with a pair of bright, shrewd eyes. When he spoke, his voice was low and cultured. Not at all what I had expected.
‘Did you want something, young man?’
‘Er … Master James Witherspoon?’
‘No. I’m Silas Witherspoon. James was my father. He’s been dead these fifteen years. What would you be wanting with him?’
‘Ah! Well … Nothing really. Not if he’s dead, that is. But you may be able to help me.’
I approached the counter. The unpleasant aroma became stronger. Silas Witherspoon saw me wrinkle my nose and laughed.
‘I’m boiling up my winter remedy for chilblains. A rather evil-smelling concoction of different fungi which, when it cools, is very much more efficacious than spiders’ webs. Not so cheap, of course,’ he added with a smile, ‘but it works faster. Can I persuade you to buy some? No? Ah well! It is rather difficult to think of winter in this heat, I agree. So! As I say, my father’s dead, but if I can be of any assistance …’
I hesitated for a second, then asked, ‘Are you the present owner of the old “murder” house at Rownham Passage?’
‘I am.’ He frowned. ‘This is most strange, you know. That place has been like a millstone around the neck of both my father and myself. No one has wanted to know about in half a century. Now you are the third person to enquire about it in the past few weeks.’
‘The third? Who was the first?’
‘I’m afraid I not at liberty to tell you that. I was sworn to secrecy.’
‘Then let me guess. Was it Master Avenel of Broad Street?’
He looked disconcerted. ‘I … No … I mean, I can’t say. I told you, I promised secrecy.’
‘That means yes then. What did Master Avenel want with the house? Did he want to rent it? How long for?’
‘Please! I’ve explained. I can tell you nothing.’
‘Did it have to do with a woman? A man? Or both?’ I persisted.
‘Both,’ the apothecary answered involuntarily, then bit his lip. ‘Damnation! Look, will you please go away! I’ve already said too much.’
‘But not enough.’ I rested my elbows on the dusty counter. ‘All right! Who was the other person asking about the house at Rownham Passage?’
Silas Witherspoon sighed. ‘I don’t know. And that’s the truth. A little fellow, not a great deal taller than myself. He’s not from hereabouts, judging by his speech. London, I reckon. He had a thin, straggly beard that he kept fingering, as though unused to finding it on his chin, and a pair of those “scissor” spectacles that you perch on the bridge of your nose. They kept falling off.’ Timothy Plummer, master of disguise! It could be no other! ‘He was dressed like an out-of-work wool comber, but had a gold ring set with a very fine agate stone.’ Typical!
‘And what did he want to know?’ I asked, adding with heavy sarcasm, ‘Or are you sworn to secrecy about that, as well?’
‘No.’ Silas Witherspoon gave me a blinding smile that transformed his ugly little face into something close to beauty. ‘But I don’t suppose he could foresee that some long-nosed pedlar would be making enquiries about him, or he, too, might have instructed me to hold my tongue.’
‘But as he didn’t …’
‘He simply wanted to know the same as you. Had my house at Rownham Passage been let to anyone at any time in the past few weeks. I told him what I told you. I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘Did he ask about Master Avenel by name?’
‘He did. And got the same answer.’
Well, Timothy was no fool. Like me, he could work out how many beans made five. And unlike me, with his superior knowledge of what was going on, he could complete the picture.
‘I’m sorry,’ Silas Witherspoon added, without much sign of regret, ‘that I can’t be of greater assistance. Are you desirous of hiring the house yourself, perhaps?’
‘No, no! Heaven forfend!’ I replied, rather more rudely than I’d intended. ‘I do have reasons for asking about it, but I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge them.’ He gave his lopsided smile again, acknowledging a hit. ‘However,’ I went on uncomfortably, ‘there is something else I understand you might be able to help me with.’
I glanced over my shoulder to make certain that no one had entered the shop behind me, then leaned even further forward across the counter.
‘Indeed?’ he queried, but there was an expression in his eyes that told me he already guessed what I was going to say.
I explained my present domestic predicament as quickly as I could in a sort of embarrassed mumble. ‘So you see,’ I concluded, ‘neither my wife nor I wish for another child for some while yet. Maybe not for a considerable time. I’ve seen a sample of … of your work. The … the sheath. I wondered if you … er … would make one for me?’
‘I can make you one, certainly,’ he agreed. ‘But they are not easy to sew. It will cost you a lot of money.’
‘How much?’
He named a sum that would normally have kept me and my family in food for a week or more. I thought about it, but only for a moment. Unknown to Adela, I had a small store of money which I had salted away for emergencies. The question was, could this count as an emergency? I decided that it could.
‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll pay on receipt.’
‘That’s understood. Do you require small, medium or large?’
‘Large, naturally,’ I said, affronted.
‘I thought you might,’ was the enigmatic response. ‘When it’s ready, do you want it sent? Or will you collect it?’
‘Oh, I’ll collect it,’ I answered hurriedly.
‘This day next week, then.’ He half turned towards a rickety shelf behind him, on which reposed what seemed to be a small stack of parchment, curling at the edges.
‘I have a very good love manual, if you should need one. It contains splendid advice from a number of well known people. Arnoldus de Villanova, for example, writing in the last century, advises a lover to always be sensitive to his woman’s needs, and suggests only caressing her breasts while she sleeps, to save her embarrassment.’ What a spoilsport! ‘Then, in our own time, the eminent physician, Anthonis Guainerius, recommends men should kiss with “sweet sucking of lips”.’ I could go along with that. ‘And Hildegard of Bingen describes making love like “a stag thirsting for the fountain, the lover racing swiftly to his mate, and she to him. She like a threshing floor, pounded by his many strokes and brought to heat when the grains are threshed inside her”.’
I croaked, ‘Hildegard of Bingen? Are you sure?’
Silas was emphatic. ‘Oh, yes. She didn’t just write sacred music and verse, you know.’
Obviously not! But it left me wondering what on earth they got up to in those foreign nunneries three and a half centuries ago.
‘Well, do you want it?’ The apothecary lifted the folio off the shelf and, holding it by its rotting laces, shook it free of dust and dead flies.
I refused as politely as I could. Silas looked disappointed and returned it to its former resting place.
‘That’s up to you. But I think you’d have found it useful. I’ll see you in a week’s time, then.’
I tottered out into the brilliant sunshine and the stench of the summer streets.