The Burgundian’s Tale

‘Certainly not!’ I was deeply offended by this remark and let it show.

‘Well, you might have to,’ she pointed out, reasonably enough, ‘if the lad you’re on about’s got anything to do with that there Fulk’s death.’

This, of course, was true – she was no fool, this girl – but even so, live and let live has always been my motto. There are ways of doing, and not doing, things so that, wherever possible, they don’t incriminate innocent people.

‘What’s the boy’s name?’ I asked, just to check that we were indeed taking about one and the same person. She was reluctant to tell me, so I asked, ‘Is it Roger Jessop?’

‘Yes.’ Surprise jerked the answer from her. ‘At least, he’s called Roger. I don’t know his other name. We leaves those behind us when we comes to Faitour Lane.’

‘And how shall I recognize this whorehouse?’

‘Told you. Fifty paces from ’ere, or thereabouts. You’ll see a lad at the door, watching out for customers.’

She was right, and also surprisingly accurate in her measurements. I had barely counted out fifty paces when I saw a young boy, some thirteen or fourteen years of age, lounging in the shadowed doorway of a ramshackle house with a crooked chimney. This last was an unusual enough feature in Faitour Lane for it to be a mark of identification in itself, yet my little whore hadn’t mentioned it. I wondered where she had come from and what was her history.

I approached the boy in the doorway.

He eyed me sharply. ‘What d’you want?’ he demanded.

‘I’d like to speak to Roger. Roger Jessop. Is he here?’

The young fellow’s face lost its suspicious look.

‘Friend of Roger, are you? You better come in then. ’E’s busy at the moment, but I shouldn’t think ’e’d be long now.’ The boy gave a raucous laugh. ‘Shouldn’t think ’is present customer’s got a good shag in ’im.’

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.’