When Christ and His Saints Slept (12 page)

Berta continued to grumble, but without any real heat. Sybil knew there were stew-holders who ran roughshod over their whores, but neither Berta nor her taciturn, morose husband, Godfrey, had a talent for tyranny. Sybil accorded them a casual sort of deference because it was politic to do so, but she never doubted that in any clash of wills, the stronger one would prevail—hers. Giving Emma one last quick kiss, she shed her cloak and sauntered into the common room.

She did not like what she found there: a surfeit of working women, a dearth of paying customers. It was, she saw, going to be a long night. There were a few foreign sailors, a drunken dockworker, a nervous youth whom she dismissed as a serious prospect; lads that young had the itch but rarely the money to scratch it. The sailors were already snared, sitting at a table with Loveday, sharing ale and bawdy laughter, apparently not handicapped by their lack of a common language, for they knew only Norwegian, and Loveday, like most of the Southwark harlots, was of Saxon birth, which meant that English—not Norman French—was her native tongue.

As Sybil entered, Loveday gave her a wave. Between them, they had the pick of the Cock’s clientele, but their rivalry was a friendly one, for they were rarely in direct competition; they appealed to very different male needs. Loveday was a big-boned, good-natured country girl, crude and blunt-spoken, with thick masses of untidy curly hair, dyed yellow or gold or red as the whim took her. She always looked somewhat disheveled, breasts spilling out of her low-cut bodice, so well-rouged that she seemed sunburned, perfumed and powdered but none too clean. There were many men, though, drawn by her brazen earthiness, reassured by her easygoing approachability. And for the others, there was Sybil: tall and slender, with small wrists and feet, high breasts and unblemished skin, so prideful and poised that a man could easily indulge in fantasy, could pretend he was bedding a lady.

Sybil poured herself some wine, sat down at one of the trestle tables. She felt no surprise when Eve soon drifted over. She’d vowed not to take the younger girl under her wing; she had enough on her plate as it was. But Eve, a timid, frail fourteen-year-old newcomer to the stews, needed no more encouragement than a lost, scared puppy would, and as she took a seat with a shy smile, Sybil grudgingly admitted to herself that she was stuck with yet another stray. She was frowning over an ugly greenish bruise that was only partially hidden by the sleeve of Eve’s gown when Avelina pulled up a stool, helped herself to Sybil’s wine, and announced glumly that she had missed her flux again.

Time was never a friend to women in their precarious profession, and tonight it was the enemy. Loveday went off with her sailors. Sybil suggested some herbs—tansy and pennyroyal—that Avelina might try. The drunkard in the corner spilled an entire flagon of ale and took it out on the little kitchen maid, who fled in tears. Avelina was cheered by the arrival of a portly goldsmith, one of her regulars. But he was intercepted by Jacquetta the Fleming, who’d been blessed with blue eyes and long blonde hair but no scruples; she had no qualms about stealing another girl’s customer, as she proved now, coaxing the goldsmith above-stairs before Avelina could muster up an effective protest. Sybil ordered another wine flagon and they set about drinking in earnest, for there seemed no better way to pass the hours. But it was then that the door banged and their watchdog barked and the young lords swaggered in.

She could tell they were gentry, Sybil explained to Eve, by their swords and fine wool cloaks and bold manner; did Eve not see how Berta and Godfrey were fawning over them? Knights—no, too young, she amended, most likely squires to some lord, for that was how the Norman highborn educated their sons, sending them off to serve in great households, first as pages and then as squires.

Eve was fascinated; Sybil never failed to impress her by how much she knew of the ways of the world. But her admiring glance went unnoticed. Sybil was coolly assessing these new arrivals, as alert as a cat on the scent of prey, for she well knew there was both danger and opportunity in any encounter with the highborn. They would have money, these young lordlings, and they’d need no urging, would be quick to spill their seed, not like some of her customers, who required tiresome coaxing to prime the pump. She was fastidious by nature, much preferred to couple with a body that was young and firm and reasonably clean, and these cocky lads were more to her taste than aging merchants or unwashed sailors. But if the rewards were greater, so, too, were the risks. What did a Southwark whore’s wishes matter to a baron’s son? Who would object if he chose to maltreat a lowborn harlot? Who would even care?

They were coming her way now, and Sybil sat up straighter, giving her bodice a discreet tug. Avelina and Eve looked hopeful, but the youths had eyes only for Sybil, and the two girls reluctantly withdrew, leaving her in possession of the battlefield.

Up close, they were younger than Sybil first thought. Seventeen or so, she reckoned, and as unlike as chalk and cheese: a red-haired, freckle-faced giant, a swarthy, handsome lad with glittering black eyes, and a wiry youth of middle height whose most striking feature was his uncommon coloring—deep-brown eyes and sun-streaked fair hair. He seemed, at first glance, overshadowed by his comrades, lacking the redhead’s impressive stature or the other’s smoldering Saracen intensity. But Sybil had noted that when they conferred with Berta, he’d done all the talking, and he was the one she favored with a provocative, slightly wary smile.

“We are seeking,” he said, “a lass who speaks French. The stew-master assures us that our hunt is over. Is it?”

“Indeed, I do speak French,” she said, “as I’ve just proved. If you and your friends would like to join me, mayhap we could discuss what else you are seeking this night.”

He studied her for a moment more, then he grinned, and Sybil thought, God has been too good to you, lad, for with a smile like yours, you do not need money, too. It transformed his face as if by some erotic alchemy, a smile to cajole and disarm and bewitch and break hearts…and she’d wager that he knew it.

“I am Ranulf,” he said, “and my companions here are Gilbert and Ancel,” gesturing carelessly toward the redhead and the Saracen in turn. “I believe the bawd said you are called Sybil?”

Sybil nodded. “You sound as if that surprises you?”

“It was not what I was expecting.”

Ancel gave a snort of laughter. “Why be so tactful? What Ranulf seems loath to say straight out is that your sisters in sin usually prefer to call themselves Petronilla or Mirabelle or Rosamund, fancy whore names. Sybil…now that sounds plain as dirt, drab as homespun. Have you no more imagination than that?”

Sybil’s smile was so sultry that Ancel saw only the promise, not the mockery. “In a world full of Cassandras and Clarices, a simple, plain Sybil is sure to be remarked upon…and remembered.”

Ranulf was watching her approvingly, dark eyes agleam with amusement. “I think,” he said, “that you are exactly what we are looking for, Sybil plain and simple.”

“Ere you say that, my lord Ranulf—you are a lord, I suspect—I think we ought first to reach an understanding. It would be my pleasure to entertain you and your friends, but one at a time. Crowds are fine for fairs and markets, not for beds. And I bruise easily, so I find it best to say this beforehand: no games that involve whips or ropes or bleeding. Other than that, I am amenable to suggestions…and can offer up a few of my own.”

They seemed taken aback by her candor, and she decided they were even younger than she’d realized—sixteen at most—for their lust was still a simple, uncomplicated urge, not yet shadowed by darker, deviant needs. Ancel guffawed too loudly and Gilbert actually blushed. Ranulf’s mouth curved. “You are the one who does not yet understand, Mistress Sybil. We do not want you to play the whore. We want you to play a nun.”

Although Sybil was only nineteen, she was sure she’d long ago lost the ability to be surprised. Ranulf had just proved her wrong. “I am likely to regret saying this,” she said at last, “but tell me more.”

Ranulf relaxed, flashing another of those beguiling grins. “It is quite simple, truly. We have a grudge to settle, and with your help, we can. We are all squires in the household of Robert Fitz Roy, the Earl of Gloucester, and—”

Ancel would have interrupted then, but Ranulf shook his head impatiently. “Nay, no false names, Ancel. Either we trust the lass or we do not, and if not, why are we still sitting here? There is a knave in Earl Robert’s service who is badly in need of a lesson. His name is Baldric Fitz Gerald, and I’ll not lie to you: he has powerful kin, for he is a cousin to the Earl of Leicester and Leicester’s twin brother, Count Waleran. When Baldric was a squire like us, he well nigh drove us mad with his boasting and conniving. Now that he has been knighted, he has become even more insufferable. With Earl Robert, he pretends to be a man of honour, but he amuses himself by playing cruel tricks upon those who cannot defend themselves—kitchen maids and stable lads and the pages in Earl Robert’s service.”

“He calls me Judas,” Gilbert chimed in indignantly, “because of my red hair, and when Ancel got green sick the first time he had too much wine, Baldric made up a song about it, sang it for a hall full of highborn guests. He put a burr under Ranulf’s saddle whilst we were at the king’s Christmas court in Rouen, and brayed like a jackass when the stallion pitched Ranulf into a mud wallow. I know, Ranulf, we cannot prove it. But I’d wager any sum you name that he was the culprit!”

Ranulf shrugged, clearly not pleased to have that particular memory dredged up again. “Let’s keep to what we can prove for certes. I know he was molesting that little kitchen maid back in Caen, for I came upon her weeping afterward. We know, too, that he caused the other servants to shun that stable groom with the red blotch on his face, claiming it was the Devil’s sign, the way Satan marked out his own. The lad finally ran off, and no one knows what became of him.”

Sybil was not sure how much of this she should believe. She knew the king was still in Normandy, but Earl Robert could be back in London; these Norman lords made frequent trips to check upon their English estates. “From what I’ve heard of Earl Robert,” she said, “he is a decent sort, and truly believes that a lord owes protection to the weak and powerless, to Christ’s poor. Why not just go to him, tell him of this Baldric’s true nature?”

They looked at her blankly, as if she’d suddenly begun to speak an unknown tongue. There was much about the male mind that she found incomprehensible, and nothing more so than the credo that men—especially young men—must settle their grievances on their own, that it was somehow dishonourable to appeal to higher authority for help. “Whatever was I thinking of? Well, then, tell me what part I am to play in this scheme of yours?”

“Baldric is a hypocrite and a cheat, and I think it time he showed his true colors to the rest of the world, not just to his prey.” Ranulf was smiling faintly, but his voice held a sudden, hard edge. “What I want,” he said, “is to see him publicly shamed, his sins stripped naked for all to look upon.”

“I am beginning to understand,” Sybil said, looking at Ranulf with new respect. “You make a bad enemy, love. Few sins are as serious as seducing a nun.”

“The best part of this plan,” he said, “is that Baldric will be the instrument of his own ruin. He does not have to take the bait…but he will. You need only lure him into a compromising position. We’ll provide the witnesses. You’ll not even have to let him tumble you; that is a pleasure the whoreson does not deserve!” He laughed then, and Sybil could not help herself; she laughed, too. “Well?” he prompted. “What say you—”

The cry was muffled, quickly cut off, but it had carried enough pain to swivel all heads toward the sound. Sybil saw at once what had happened. Berta—damn her grasping soul—had sent Eve over to entice the drunkard above-stairs, and Eve had botched it, for the girl was scared witless of drunks, had yet to learn how to handle a man deep in his cups. Now she cringed back in her seat, whimpering, as her assailant turned upon her the full blast of his alcoholic rage. Sybil half rose, only to sink back again. They had a hireling to deal with drunks, a huge, clumsy bear of a man, not too bright yet big enough to intimidate all but the most belligerent of troublemakers. He was out sick, though, and Godfrey, as she well knew, was not about to put himself at risk to protect a whore. Fighting back her anger, she reminded herself that there was nothing she could do. But then the drunk struck Eve across the mouth, and she jumped to her feet, shouting for him to stop.

She did not expect the drunk to heed her, nor did he. But Ranulf did. As she watched in amazement, he crossed the chamber in three quick strides, grabbed the man before he could aim another blow, and told him curtly to “Go home, sleep it off.” It may have been his tone, the echoes of rank and privilege. It may have been the sword at his hip. But he somehow penetrated the man’s wine-sodden haze. Seeing that, Godfrey hurried over to offer some belated support, and Sybil sighed with relief, sure now that the worst was over.

Ancel and Gilbert had kept their seats during the fracas. Now Ancel gave a comical grimace, winking at Sybil. “I swear that lad could find turmoil in a cemetery! Usually he sucks us into it, too, and his heroic impulses have gotten me more bruises and black eyes than I care to count. Not that it’s entirely his fault. The two men who’ve loomed largest in his life are Earl Robert and Count Stephen of Boulogne. Good men, both, but Robert is an earthly saint, and Stephen…well, he’s quite mad, never happier than when he’s rescuing damsels in distress or chasing after dragons to slay. No wonder Ranulf’s grasp of the real world is so tenuous!”

“You might do well,” Sybil murmured, “to follow in Ranulf’s footsteps. You see, women find ‘heroic impulses’ very alluring, indeed…even irresistible.”

Ancel’s smile flickered. For a fleeting moment he wondered if she could be making fun of him, but almost at once, he dismissed the suspicion as preposterous. Women were invariably charmed by him; the older ones mothered him and the younger ones flirted with him. Why should this Bankside harlot be any different? “Women already find me irresistible,” he joked. “So…what say you, Sybil, my sweet? Shall we pick a nun’s name for you? How about Sister Mary Magdalene?”