Robin Hood 004: The King's Pardon by David Pilling

Author:David Pilling [Pilling, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Fiction, Action & Adventure, Medieval Europe, Folklore & Fairy Tales
Publisher: Sharpe Books
Published: 2020-10-28T06:00:00+00:00

11.

Southwark, London

Though busy by day, at night Southwark came truly alive. When the bustle and noise of the market in the High Street died down, trade of a very different kind opened in the maze of alleys and back streets.

Here, under cover of darkness, some of the most popular and notorious fleshpots in London were to be found. Almost every depraved taste known to man was on offer in the brothels and bawdy houses, dependent on the size of his purse. Nobles and high churchmen, even bishops, were rumoured to visit the more costly establishments, though the latter paid extra to keep their identities a well-guarded secret.

One man at least struggled to understand the appeal of this melting pot of vice and sin. He kept a scented cloth pressed over his face as he crept down one of the side-streets, gagging at the fug of sex and venereal disease, sour ale and unwashed bodies that hung over Southwark.

Thomas Hood had never set foot in the area before, and was following memorised directions to a tavern called The Pilgrim. The tavern, according to information supplied to him by his new master’s clerks, was a front for a brothel offering unusual delights for wealthy patrons.

Unusual, and officially forbidden. “Boys,” one of the clerks, a pinch-faced fellow named Bagot told him, “young and fresh, with sweet faces and good singing voices. The younger the better.”

Bagot tapped the side of his large nose. “The place should be closed down, of course, and the owner hanged, but our master persuaded His Majesty to keep it open. A fair few courtiers and foreign dignitaries like to visit The Pilgrim, and its useful to know the vices of such folk. Useful in all sorts of ways.”

He sniggered, while Thomas felt sick at the mere existence of such depravities. His life at Fountains had been sheltered indeed, and kept him ignorant of a great many things.

I’m learning fast, he thought as he sidled further down the alley. His soft leather shoes sank into the wet mud. An entire day of rain had turned the ground between the houses into a bog. The houses themselves were poor, ramshackle affairs of wattle and daub, and the alley so narrow their upper storeys almost touched.

The ground was strewn with rubbish, some of it human: a beggar lay slumped against a wall, his face hidden under a battered felt hat, gently snoring. His hands had relaxed as he slept, allowing the ale-pot in his lap to tip over and spill the dregs over his already filthy smock.

Thomas soft-footed past the man and picked his way through the piles of refuse. The benighted denizens of Southwark simply dumped their dung and rubbish in the street, leaving it to decay or, if edible, be gobbled up by roving bands of stray dogs. A few stringy pigs also rooted through the mess, and fought with the dogs for choice morsels.

It was near the small hours, a brief lull between the close of the brothels and the start of trade in the market.

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