Part 21 (1/2)

'Which pope would that be?' he responded.

I looked at him, now truly shocked. To speak of disendowing the clergy was one thing; to question the English alliance with Rome against Avignon and France was quite another.

'These are high matters, gentlemen,' said Clanvowe, waving a hand as if to dismiss them all. 'Matters between our king and his uncle, between parliaments and popes. If Father Purvey errs too far on the side of the crown against the church, others Sudbury, say err in the other direction. Yet that's not why we're here this evening.'

'Then why are we here?' I asked, suddenly wary.

He hesitated. 'I am going to be honest with you, John, and I hope you'll forgive me for luring you to my house under false pretences.' He took a deep breath, exhaled. 'I've known all along why you were coming to Oxford.'

I reared back.

'You're after the De Mortibus. You and half of England.'

'How-'

'Chaucer told me. At Windsor.'

'But how did Chaucer-'

'That's unimportant,' said Clanvowe. 'The point is, I've invited our guest here this evening to refute to your face the vile rumours connecting Master Wycliffe and his teachings to these prophecies. Your word carries weight in London, John. It's crucial that you understand the difference between honest theological disputation and open rebellion. Wycliffe had strong opinions, true. But he was hardly a traitor, and neither are his followers.'

'I know what Braybrooke must have told you,' said Purvey, leaning in. 'That we commissioned the work's copying, encouraged its circulation. Perhaps even wrote it ourselves, maybe to inspire rebellion against King Richard, install our ally the Duke of Lancaster on the throne. But these are lies, Gower, intended to destroy Father Wycliffe's legacy. However strongly Ralph Strode and his ilk dispute us on matters of endowment, possession, and so on, I'd step into my own grave before promoting or even imagining the death of our king. This Liber de Mortibus has nothing to do with our teachings. Why, I believe that the king, not the pope, is the vicar of G.o.d! It's from the king alone that the bishops derive their authority and jurisdiction.'

Plain blasphemy. I remained silent, wis.h.i.+ng I had a clerk's transcription of the whole evening.

'These so-called prophecies are worth less than the sheepskins they're scribbled on,' Purvey said, pressing on. 'They offend me. They offend me as a Christian, as a citizen of this realm, and as a priest. Most of all, though, they offend me as an intellectual. They are utter trash, the work of a jongleur, not a prophet.'

Clanvowe's brow shone as he moved in the candlelight. 'As a poetic maker like you, John, I also have a pretty low opinion of this work. Like our friend here, I regard it as tripe.'

'At least there we can all agree,' I said, sitting back. Despite my better judgment I found myself believing Purvey's account. It was true that this outspoken priest and his ilk had the potential to do great harm in the realm, and I had long wondered what merit Lancaster saw in Wycliffe. Yet the late theologian had never shown himself disloyal to the crown. Then, just as my mind was settled on this version of things, I realized its obvious implication.

'You two seem to know the Liber de Mortibus quite well,' I said. 'Well enough to judge the quality of its poetry, the value of its prophecies. How have you gotten so familiar with such an execrable work?'

A church bell struck for Vespers, struck again, then another sounded in the distance, both carried on the evening air and filling Clanvowe's hall with a low thrum. It's always unsettling to be away from home, where you can't name the bells. Purvey was fingering a last bit of flesh, teasing it round a circle only he could see. He looked up at Clanvowe with the faintest of nods.

Clanvowe grunted. His tight smile broadened when he met my gaze. He said, 'I made a copy.'

THIRTY-THREE.

Ditch Street, near Aldgate 'The stews of Southwark be watched.' Eleanor turned from the slitted window, looking down on what had to be the narrowest, filthiest alley in all London. In the bare room behind her Millicent and Agnes sat huddled beneath a blanket on an old furze pallet, the rough gorse spines crackling with their every move. It had been a chill afternoon, and for a fourth day the three women had remained inside, waiting for a constable's pounding at the door. One of Bess Waller's girls had been bringing food and drink to the room, which had seen its last consistent use two years before as a comfort station of sorts for travellers from Colchester on the Mile End Road. No proper beds, just a stack of old linens for warmth. Though the new ordinances had forced closure of this small venture in the flesh, Bess Waller still leased the filthy tenement on and off as a way of maintaining a foothold in this part of the city.

'Gropec.u.n.t Lane's being watched,' Eleanor continued. 'The parvis is being watched. Same with Paternoster Row and St Paul's. The eyes of all London are looking about for three maudlyns and a poisonous book.'

'So it is,' said Millicent. 'And we've nearly lost our chance with the one man who has interest in its purchase thanks to you, Eleanor Rykener.'

They glared at each other. Eleanor didn't trust Millicent Fonteyn the width of a hen's beak, yet here she was, imprisoned in this cursed hole with the uppy trull, and seeing no way out. Unlike Eleanor and Agnes, who'd been living on so little for years, Millicent had plummeted from a condition of genuine wealth and comfort to this dire state. There was a wild, threatened desperation in the woman, like some caged bear on the bankside, baited with a dog, and yet she acted sullen and secretive, casting furtive glances at the book and the stair. Nor did she seem to have any concern for Agnes, who had brought her the book in the first place, put it right in her hands. She treated her sister like a servingwoman, as Eleanor saw it, giving her little commands as if she were some lady at court.

'Selling this book isn't like peddling meat-pies on the bridge,' Eleanor said. 'Why, I seen a man whipped in the street for selling bad herring. Constables catch us at this? We'll be lucky if they throw us in the Tun for a month.'

'We can't hold it against Pinchbeak that he was away on king's business when we went to Scroope's Inn,' Millicent disagreed, rubbing her hands together. 'Pinchbeak has wealth beyond our reckoning, ladies, and I for one wish to give him opportunity to lavish it on us.' The two marks were still nearly intact, and Millicent's hope, Eleanor knew, was to multiply the sum twentyfold or more.

Eleanor shook her head, determined to resist Millicent's l.u.s.t for riches. 'If Pinchbeak had as much interest in this book as yourself, wouldn't he have had something more waiting for you when you went to Scroope's? Besides, you think it's chance that Gropec.u.n.t Lane got broken up so soon after you met him at the parvis?'

'Oh, so you think it's my doing now, is that it? Listen to the little thief, Ag, just listen to her!' Millicent taunted.

'Oh, I'm the thief, is that it, then?' Eleanor's hands balled hotly into fists. 'You two been striding about London these weeks, peddling some other man's book, and Eleanor Rykener's the thief is it?'

Eleanor was now inches from Millicent's nose. Millicent pushed her roughly, then stepped in, ready to strike. Agnes sprang up. She wedged herself between them, a hand on each chest.

'Shut it, you trulls,' said Agnes. 'You want the ward-watch on us?' She gestured to the window. London parishes were small, everyone knew everyone's business, and it would not do to have theirs known by their temporary neighbours. 'If we're not together on this all shall be lost.'

Eleanor turned away, her eyes screwed shut. Millicent's loud breaths slowed.

'Now,' said Agnes, 'let's talk it out. Mill, clamp it for a half-bell and let Eleanor speak her thing. It's the least the girl deserves after what we put her through.'

Millicent shrugged.

'Eleanor, say what you want to say,' said Agnes.

Eleanor calmed herself and spoke. 'There are men we can trust in the city, at the Guildhall. The common serjeant, say. He's helping Gerald, and I don't doubt he'd help us with this matter of the book.' She thought of Ralph Strode, wondering if he had learned of Tewburn's death. 'We can take it to him. Lay out the whole matter as it's pulled us in.'

'Turn ourselves in, then?' said Millicent incredulously. 'Hand the book over, and our bodies with it?'

Millicent's reb.u.t.tal began another round of argument that stilled with a sudden noise from the alley.

'Jonah's c.o.c.k it be a h.e.l.lish walk, and me joints faring poorly.'

A familiar voice, the suck of shoes in mud. The three of them froze, then scrambled about for weapons.

'Bear up, Joannie, bear up,' another voice replied. Equally familiar; more rea.s.suring.

Eleanor walked to the door and opened it a crack. Bess Waller, and behind her trudged Joan Rugg, panting heavily, her great dress half-soaked with her exertion. She stopped when she saw Millicent.

'Ah Lord, Bess, you didn't' she paused to catch her breath, pus.h.i.+ng her hands against her lower back 'didn't tell me to expect her ladys.h.i.+p'd be about.' Once inside she looked around in the candlelight, then chose a stool against the inner wall. 'What finds a grand lady like Millicent Fonteyn dallying with two common women, albeit one her sister?'

'No wh.o.r.e be commoner than yourself, Joan Rugg,' said Millicent.

'Won't give you a sed contra to that, my dear.' Here she looked at Bess. 'I'd suppose between the two of us we've sold half the queynt of London over the years, hey, Bessie?' She s.h.i.+fted her bulk on the stool, allowing a slow fart to escape her mounded form.

Eleanor wrinkled her nose.

'There's no body fouler than your own, Joan Rugg,' said Bess.