St. Martin’s Le Grand, London, and Southwark
The Year of Our Lord 1396
In the twentieth year of the reign of Richard II
From that day forward, the household became one whose primary business was queynte. Reluctant though I’d been to become what I most loathed, someone who profited from a woman’s body, when the role was thrust upon me, I not only enjoyed the privilege, but was damn good at it too.
Whoring was illegal in London and yet, as was the way with anything men desired, the authorities turned a blind eye, excusing it with prayers and pardons. Naturally, it thrived. Each Sunday, the priests and bishops would rail against the wickedness of women and their whoring ways and then seek them out for just that purpose the moment they left church. Yet, when punishment was meted out, even though it took two to commit the act, it was the women who suffered.
So it is for now and for evermore, amen.
Apart from a few churls who thought it was within their rights to beat the girls as well as swive them, and one young lordling who convinced himself he was in love with Leda and attempted to kidnap her, Leda, Rose, and Yolande ventured out into the city most days and returned with shillings and pennies.
In no time, our fortunes turned. Decent quantities of food graced the table; throughout the following winters we were warm. Soon, we were able to afford enough wool to make good quantities of thread. I began to weave again—not that it was necessary.
Instead, spinning and weaving became the legitimate cover for our real trade.
When the girls came home, always together as instructed in those early days, then waiting until the children were abed, I’d ask them about their day. Gathered around the kitchen table, the yellow hoods that whores were required by law to wear cast aside, they’d chat about who sought their services and where. Some of the men were young, others old, some wealthy, many just able to afford them. They’d laugh, wink, and make light of what they were doing, even the occasional bruises or grazes. I watched carefully for any signs of unhappiness, but, God be praised, there were none. What they most complained about were men whose breath smelled like onions and stale ale, were covered in lice and treated soap and water like a leper—best avoided lest they catch something. When I understood they were still accommodating these hog’s entrails, I was horrified.
“Don’t you understand? You don’t need to go with just anyone. Ordric may demand that, but I don’t. If the men stink like the Fleet, tell them to piss off.”
“Some already have,” said Rose, screwing up her nose. “Pissed, that is.”
“Then tell them to find someone prepared to tolerate their filth. You won’t.”
The girls stared in disbelief.
“But they have coin—” began Yolande.
“So? Doesn’t mean you have to take it.”
“But—” said Leda, looking at Yolande and Rose.
“But what?” I said. “God’s balls, ladies! The whole point of me agreeing to this was to give you control. If you don’t respect your bodies, how can you expect anyone else to?”
My thoughts flew to Jankin. I hadn’t respected mine, allowing him to use it ill. The shame was still raw, and I pushed it aside. “Order them to wash, present themselves accordingly. Just because the men have coin, doesn’t give them rights. It’s you who has the authority in this transaction. Use it. Oh—” I added, as the women shook their heads in wonder, “and then raise your price.”
“We can’t do that!” protested Rose. “Making them wash is bad enough. We’ll lose custom.”
“Nay, you won’t. Anyway, since you’re offering a discount to the priests here, we need to make up the shortfall.”
Not only did the majority of men agree to make themselves more presentable, but as the months flew by, word got around my girls were fussy. This made men more inclined to hire them, believing it reduced the chance of the pox or some other disease. While that worked in our favor a while, it made the other bawds and pimps angry. We were stealing customers. Careful never to frequent Gropecunt, Puppekirty, or Cock Lane and upset the likes of Ordric and his maudlyns, soon we were hard-pressed to find anywhere we were welcome.
Sometimes, the girls would seek my advice regarding men—how to ensure the cleaner and better-quality customers returned.
“Encourage them to talk about themselves,” I said. “Men love to be listened to. Ask about their wives, if they have one, then prepare to hear them moan.” My experience was showing. “Get them to tell you about their sweethearts. If they’re sailors, the ports they’ve visited. If they have a trade, liken their pricks to tools and tell them they must be good at what they do, because they wield their instrument so well.”
The girls would fall about laughing. Later, they’d report my advice worked, depositing a few extra coins as proof.
“If only we could lease our ears along with our queyntes,” said Leda. “We’d double our money.”
I’d make a businesswoman of her yet.
More than once the girls were threatened and chased away from popular meeting places like St. Paul’s, the land up near Smithfield, or Aldgate. Customers were never brought into St. Martin’s Le Grand (the priests being the only exception), so it was becoming difficult to find suitable places to offer services—after all, we still had to avoid the law. It wasn’t until a sympathetic customer told Leda the alleys around St. Katherine’s were more accepting of the trade than others that we operated securely there a while. But after a year and a half, even that became untenable as more and more women were also drawn to a place where pimps wouldn’t coerce them or other whores attack them.
It was a crowded market and no one traded well in those.
Then I heard some maudlyns were making trips across the river into Southwark during the day. The Bishop of Winchester’s Liberty on the south side of the river had different laws from London. Over there, the oldest profession in the world flourished. Bankside was dominated by a colony of Flemish people who’d settled there years earlier, and many of the places along the waterfront had been turned into bathhouses. Over near the fishponds owned by the bishop, the area became known as the “Stews.”
Time to see what it was like. If this was a place the girls could ply their trade safely.
* * *
In the October of 1396, I finally crossed the river. Along with Milda and Drew, who I’d coaxed out of the precinct, I left as the bells sounded prime. The wicker gates had just opened, yet the city was bustling. Vendors parked their carts and wagons along the Cheap, barrow-boys too. The grind of wheels and hooves on cobbles was matched by the grunts of swine, baying of cattle, and bleating of sheep being herded with crops and sticks along the main thoroughfare toward the markets and the blood-soaked lanes of the Shambles. Bakers and milkmaids cried out in singsong voices, the shutters of shops flew open. Trestle tables were swiftly erected and goods carried outside. A stiff wind made awnings flap and pennants crackle as frost was blown away. Above us was the promise of weak sunshine. Women wrapped in shawls, baskets over their arms, chins tucked into chests, walked toward the conduit or paused to purchase candles, fur, nails, rushes, woad, leather, or stockfish—everything was for sale. The ring of hammers almost drowned the faint strains of a keen lute player. Men in livery, satchels slapping their hips as they darted between folk, their faces grim, refused to be distracted by the temptations around them.
We walked through St. Paul’s, ignoring the urgent beckoning of merchants who invited us to buy their ink, books, oranges, spices, and all manner of other goods. One old man with a scrappy white beard delivered warnings atop a barrel. Another held a star chart in his hand, promising he’d forecast futures for a mere shilling. One young maid held up handfuls of ribbons, claiming they were the finest in all the world and not to be found anywhere else.
“Poppycock,” grumbled Milda. “I saw the same ones just yesterday in Master Hall’s shop.”
Distracted, Drew kept pausing to consider a barrow filled with cabbages or a milkmaid’s brimming jug and doe-eyed cow. His limp slowed us as well, and I tried to be patient. I laced my arm through his and kept him close, pointing out the man tossing swords or the cat suckling its kitties beneath a costermonger’s cart, all the while moving forward.
We headed to Powle’s Wharf near Baynard’s Castle. The smell of the river was strong and the number of carts and buckets filled with fish, oysters, and eels being pushed uphill increased with every step we took down. When we reached the water stairs, a boatman who’d just deposited some passengers was happy to take us back across the choppy brown waters.
“What you reckon ’bout his lordship, eh?” he asked, steering us toward the middle of the river, hailing neighboring wherries and boats.
He was referring to John of Gaunt, who’d recently wedded his former mistress, Katherine Swynford. It just so happened, she was the sister of Geoffrey’s late wife. I’d been stunned when Geoffrey told me—he was now related to royalty, albeit in a roundabout manner. It was like a fairytale, a prince marrying a commoner; a man as rich as Croesus plighting troth with a pauper. It was the talk of the town and set women’s hearts racing as suddenly the stuff of dreams became a reality. Fools. I knew the stuff those kinds of dreams were made upon. Marriage was no elevation for a woman but a slow descent into ignominy and slavery, all in the name of God.
Much better to be a whore and be beholden to neither God nor one man.
When Geoffrey first told me, I’d asked, “Why does the Duke wed her now?”
“Likely so his children won’t be bastards anymore.”
Together, John of Gaunt and Katherine had four children.
“You don’t think he marries for love?” I asked, certain of my own thoughts on the matter.
Geoffrey shrugged. “Who does?”
It was on the tip of my tongue to say I had once and look where that led, but stayed silent. I caught the wistful look on his face. Had Geoffrey ever loved? Was he even capable? He loved his children—at least, I think he did, even though he rarely spoke of them. I knew Elizabeth was still at Barking Abbey. I didn’t know much about his eldest son, Thomas, except he’d made a good marriage recently. Of Lewis, Geoffrey scarce made mention, though when he did, his entire face lit up.
Mayhap, the Duke had wed for his progeny. There were worse reasons, and if it benefited the woman who birthed them, then that was the least she was owed.
While the boatman discussed Gaunt and his new wife, declaring her a whore who’d pay for her sins if not on earth then in the hell where she belonged, I thought about pushing him overboard, but how would we finish our crossing? Instead, I shut out his carping and focused on the approaching bank and the houses set back from it.
Clouds of smoke squatted above the buildings, the familiar stench of tanning and fulling apparent as we drew closer. On the muddy foreshore, there were some horses and carts, as well as thin dogs, skulking cats, and hens with their feathers fluffed up against the cold. People milled about, working on the wharves, unloading boats and wherries. Goods were stacked in crates to one side, while people queued to board swaying vessels on the other, baskets and burlaps empty, purses no doubt full. There were shouts to move aside, chatter and the general din of industry. Church steeples cut through the haze, signs that the godly also dwelled in a place with a reputation for vice and sin. Well, they’d ever been comfortable bedfellows.
As we paid the boatman and came ashore, I was struck by the poor efforts of those nearby not to stare at us. It would have been laughable if it wasn’t also reassuring: after a cursory glance, they turned away. We didn’t warrant a second look. A good sign.
We hadn’t walked very far when the door of a rather large two-storey house with a mews opened. A fading shingle depicted a large bird. A big woman stood, her cap askew, her puffy face blotchy as she shook a rug then proceeded to beat it with a stick, uncaring that the dust flew in our faces and back inside the open door. Over her shoulder she called out in another language. Flemish. I looked again at the house. It was in a dire state. So was the one next to it, the sign so dirty it was hard to discern—a cross and key? The shingle on the next house appeared to depict a pointed edifice.
The frontage was strewn with rubbish and stank of shit and piss. A couple of men came out of another place, again Flemish from the sound of them. I steered Drew and Milda away and back toward the water where, even though the shore was littered with the innards of fish and other animals and a dead dog’s carcass, it was cleaner.
“Big houses,” said Milda, nodding toward them.
“Bathhouses.”
Drew twisted his head to study them. “What? You have baths in ’em?”
“I think once upon a time, you did, but now they’re just bawdy houses.”
“Like what we are?” he asked.
“Sort of. Only our girls can’t swive indoors.”
“Not yet,” said Milda.
“Not ever, not in St. Martin’s,” I reminded her. “If they do, that will be the end of us.”
“Will that necessarily be a bad thing?” She fixed her eyes on my face. Ever present was the worry the girls would be harmed. Every week, news reached us about this or that maudlyn being beaten bloody or having her throat cut and found in a ditch.
“Nay, it wouldn’t. But as the girls remind me daily, no job is without risk.” I drew her close. “There’ll come a time, Milda, I promise, when we won’t make a living in this manner.” I nodded toward a woman in the window of one of the whorehouses. Her kirtle had slipped over one shoulder, exposing the swell of her bosom. Her long, mahogany hair was unbound. She sat eating an apple in a manner I’m certain most priests imagined when discussing Eve. “For now—” I jerked my chin toward another large establishment as two young girls without aprons emerged from a doorway beneath a shingle bearing a crane, “we’ll see if we can ply trade around here. Mayhap, not here exactly. That’ll get everyone offside, Flemish or not. Let’s see where the girls can work, shall we?”
We followed the maudlyns toward the High Street, meandering in and out of the various alleys, past a cordwainer’s, a butcher, at least two mercers, taverns, a bookseller, a goldsmith, a scrivener’s, and a lawyer’s. Barrows and carts filled with vegetables, fruits, fish, and all sorts of tempting vittles as well as hay, planks, coal, wine, and laths lined the street. Hucksters with jugs of ale wandered about, so did bakers with trays of steaming bread. Every so often, we’d see a woman leaning against a doorway or just standing idly on a street corner. Not too far away was a man or boy, his face alert, one hand hovering over a weapon strapped to his hip. When a customer approached the woman, the man or boy would step forward, there’d be some discussion, the coin would be taken, and the woman led her client into the shadows. It happened right beneath people’s noses; no one turned a hair. Was it really so simple?
We paused, watching a while, pretending to be interested in some fragrant oils a Moor was selling. I purchased some rose oil and, when there was a lull in business, approached two women. Even though they didn’t wear the yellow hood, they were from London. None too happy to talk at first, when I pressed a few pennies in their hands, they admitted it was fairly easy to get custom, provided you didn’t venture into the next liberty.
“Stay this side of the street and don’t go any further than St. Margaret’s Hill, up by the Tabard, then you’re alright. But take one step over there—” the older of the two, possibly the mother of the other, nodded toward the opposite side of the road where a tavern stood with a sign bearing an angel standing on a hoop, as if its halo had slipped to the ground, “and the cocksucking bailiff’ll be onto you. He’s a nasty piece of work—Lewis Fynk. Likes to pinch you if he thinks you ain’t listening to ’im.” She pushed up her sleeve to display a series of livid bruises.
“That’s the least of what he does,” said the younger girl, rubbing her jaw.
Milda sucked in her breath. Drew frowned. My heart began to beat strangely. I resisted the urge to put my arm about her. Bastard.
“You thinkin’ of doin’ some business, are you?” said the older woman. She looked me up and down. “You be a looker for an old doxy. There be some like ’em buxom and with age on the bones—and cunt,” she cackled. “Experience.” She rotated her hips suggestively. Abruptly, her demeanour changed. “But don’t tread on our turf, you hear?” She shook a fist in my face, then unfurled her fingers. Her nails were long and filthy. “If you do, I’ll mark you like I’ve others.”
I said I’d keep that in mind, and dragged Milda and Drew away.
We strolled a bit further up the High Street, into the part known as Long Southwark, pausing to buy eel pies. While we ate, I studied the area. Most of the street corners were claimed. Upon reaching the tavern with a White Hart on its shingle, I suggested we return. There had to be somewhere suitable closer to the bridge, surely.
We spent the next few hours talking to any of the women willing to share their stories. So many had run away from untenable homes, marriages, the brutality of brothers, uncles, men, sometimes their own mothers, grandmothers, or sisters. Some fled just so they could choose their own fate. Others had been lured to London with promises of a ring, love and wealth, only to find once they’d sacrificed the thing all females should hold precious (oh, how I sound like the women of Noke Manor), they were abandoned—too often with a babe in their bellies.
There were women not beholden to a bawd or a pimp, and those who came from the bathhouses. We chatted to a well-dressed trio who cautiously admitted their degree of well-being depended on who ran the business. Protected from the worst ravages of the profession, though not always from the violence and drunken expectations of men, they’d decent food, a roof over their heads, and freedom to do what they wanted when they weren’t flat on their backs.
“Better than slaving for a bastard husband who ruts like a pig and smells worse,” said one.
“Better than being in service to a man who thinks he’s entitled to your titties and queynte for nothin’,” said another.
“Better than being at the mercy of the Fathers at the priory,” said yet another.
And on it went.
Not all were so fortunate. Bathhouse owners were mostly considered tyrants—especially the Flemish, and by their own.
The way I saw it, there wasn’t much difference between these women and me. To them, their queyntes were a commodity they sold. What was marriage but an exchange of queynte and title: that of wife. Only, once the ring was on a woman’s finger and she gained respectability and, if she was fortunate, a home and possessions, ’twas the men had the best of the deal. A woman had not only to surrender her queynte but her entire body, will, mind, right to make decisions. Even her children were not considered hers, but her husband’s. She was like a piece of property, traded on the marriage market for a man’s profit; to ensure his name continued and his lineage was secured. The moment a woman married, her past was erased—even her name. All she’d been was forgotten when she became a wife. Mistress Husband, more like. Wives had as much value as a beast—less if they couldn’t breed.
Whores had the right of it. Charge a man for use of their cunts and then tell him to piss off. There might be danger in such a profession, but wasn’t marriage also dangerous? Look at mine. And that’s before childbirth was considered. My arm fell across my soft stomach. Would I ever feel my womb quicken? I doubted it, not now. I was two score year and four or thereabouts (what did it matter?) and no babe had quickened inside me. Not from want of trying. A picture of Fulk rose, followed by the rest of my husbands—Turbet, and his unimpressive pole, Mervyn who used his for other purposes, and then Simon, named after his, which dominated his life and mine. Then there was Jankin. What a lover he’d been, gentle, passionate—yet also violent: hating, punching, and bruising . . .
No good dwelling on him. No good dwelling on any of them.
“Isn’t the Tabard just ahead?” asked Milda, interrupting my thoughts. She gestured toward Harry Bailly’s place, from where I’d undertaken at least three pilgrimages—two with Milda. Harry, the man who was also privy to my secret.
“Aye.”
“Why don’t we call on him?” She began to steer me toward it. “He’s right fond of you. He knows the area. Could give us advice.”
“I’ve learned all I need.” I resisted her efforts to turn me around.
Milda regarded me curiously. Truth was, I didn’t want Harry to see me as I was—dressed in old scarlet, trawling Southwark for places my maudlyns could operate. I didn’t want him to see how I’d been reduced. Or Milda. As for Drew, he was like a returned soldier, injured from fighting my battles. The next time I met Harry, I wanted it to be because I’d succeeded. Because if I did, then we all did.
“Anyhow,” I said, heading back toward to the river, “I want to check what’s down this end of Southwark.”
Just before the pillory, which was in the middle of the High Street, directly in line with the entrance to the bridge so those being punished could consider the heads of traitors rotting on the poles above them, the perfect spot presented itself. Just after Mart Place was the courthouse. Not one strumpet or suspicious-looking person dared loiter there. It was crowded with regular folk—traders, lawyers, knights, shoppers, as well as farmers, travelers, diplomats, and all sorts going to the city from Kent, the countryside, and beyond. Why, I’d trod this very road en route to Canterbury. If the girls stood outside the church, they’d catch traffic from the main road and the courthouse. A wide alleyway running along the back of the courthouse was the ideal place to take customers. Cleaner than most, only two doors faced onto it. There were even trees and what appeared to be a bench. A beldame sat there feeding a coven of cats. Here was a situation where the law, such as it was, might work in our favor.
“I’ve seen enough,” I said suddenly, striding back to the High Street. “The girls can start as soon as I’ve organized one last thing.”
“What’s that, mistress?” asked Drew.
I hesitated. I didn’t want what I was about to say to make Drew feel unworthy or think that I didn’t value him.
“I need to hire someone to accompany the girls; look out for their welfare when they walk the streets. I’ve been remiss not organizing it sooner. It’s clear many here have protection. Mine will have no less.”
Drew stopped suddenly, doubling over and clutching his knees, forcing the crowd to go around him. There were curses and some dark looks. A man in black robes stumbled.
“Are you alright, sweetling?” I bent over, one hand on his back.
He slowly straightened, sucking in the air. “Oh, mistress. For a while there, I was afraid you were going to order me to do it! I’ve been afeared since we got here.”
I hid a small smile. “Oh. Well. Who’d look to our welfare in St. Martin’s if you were over here?”
Drew squared his shoulders. “Exactly. That’s my job.”
“Damn right,” I said, cuffing his shoulder.
The entire trip home, Drew couldn’t stop grinning. We discussed the right sort of person needed to safeguard the girls and look out for us in Southwark. Whoever we chose would need to live with us, so would have to be accustomed to being in a small tight-knit household and play his part. He’d have to have good instincts, be discreet, not be swayed by a heavy purse and, above all, able to take orders from a woman.
Where on God’s good earth were we going to find that kind of man?
As luck would have it, he found me.