Free Death and the Chapman by Kate Sedley Page B

Superiors of enclosed orders; whether wisely or not, who can tell? I am certainly not fit to sit in judgement.) No, it was not this which shocked me, but the revelation that a woman - and so young a woman - knew about these things and was, moreover, prepared to discuss them openly.
    ‘That’s all right, then,’ she said, wriggling backwards until she was right beside me, her little feet clear of the water and sparkling with a myriad drops. ‘Kiss me,’ she commanded, laughing again at my horrified expression. ‘Go on! I dare you!’
    How was I to resist such an invitation? I bent my head to hers and did as she instructed. Her lips were soft and yielding and tasted faintly of salt. Immediately, she wound her arms around my neck and returned my kiss with passion. I fell back on the grass in sheer surprise, her thin, lithe body pressed urgently on top of me, and it was some time later that I sat up, dishevelled and panting.
    Which was how I came to lose my virginity at the advanced age of nineteen, when many of my sex could boast at least one, maybe two, bastard children. As for my companion, although I did not realize it at the time, she had nothing to lose.
    As I adjusted my clothes, I said, appalled: ‘I don’t even know your name.’
    She giggled. ‘It’s Elizabeth, but most people call me Bess.’
    And for the second time that day I found myself remembering the Weavers. Clement Weaver’s horse had been named Bess; the beast who had cast a shoe at Paddington. Once again, my conscience smote me.
    ‘What’s yours?’ the girl asked. Then seeing my blank stare, repeated the question impatiently. ‘What’s yours? Your name, you stupid!’
    ‘Oh! Yes ... It’s Roger.’
    ‘Roger the chapman, eh?’ She leaned back on her elbows, quite at ease, as though what had just taken place was, for her, an everyday occurrence. And I think it probably was. No, not everyday, of course; that, perhaps, is an exaggeration. But I’ve met women like her on many occasions since, with the same sort of expression in their eyes; hungry and languorous both at once, dissatisfied, always searching for fulfilment. A few of them have been rather sad creatures, but Bess wasn’t: she was vital and eager and, above all, inquisitive.
    She began plying me with questions about how old I was, my family, where I came from; and before I knew it, I was again recounting my brief life’s history. When it was finished, I said: ‘And what of you? Or are you a woman of mystery?’
    She shook her head regretfully, the black curls dancing. ‘I wish I were. I should like to be very beautiful and very rich and live in London. And then the King would notice me and take me for his mistress.’
    ‘You’d be one of many, if all accounts are true,’ I put in drily - and was back in the Weaver’s kitchen, listening to Marjorie Dyer. ‘The women all went wild about him. I reckon there were a few cuckolded husbands during that visit.’
    Bess tossed her head. ‘One night with me and he’d forget the others.’ She had all the arrogant assurance of youth. ‘Anyway--’ she shrugged--‘it’s not going to happen.’ Her chin jutted. ‘At least, not yet awhile. For now, I’ll have to make do with the local lads and--’ she gave me a glinting, sideways glance beneath lowered lashes - ‘the odd, handsome, passing stranger.’ She sighed. ‘No, for now I’ll just have to go on serving my lady and pretend to be devoted to her interests.’
    ‘Who is your lady?’ I asked. ‘And why is she in mourning?’
    Bess answered the second question first. ‘She’s in mourning for her father, who died last month. He was Sir Gregory Bullivant, a distant kinsman of Archbishop Bourchier. That’s why the family are so prominent in Canterbury. I was lucky to get a place in my lady’s household - or so my mother tells me.’
    ‘And her husband? Or is your lady not married?’
    For the first time in our short acquaintance, Bess hesitated, looking around her at the