It was obvious by this stage that I needed to get back to Oxford. My quest was nearing its end and the answer to my remaining questions lay in that county. But it was too late to leave, as the next coach did not go until the following day. Had I been less exhausted, the constant scratching of the fleas in the straw pallet that was my communal bed would have irritated, and the noise of my companions disgusted, my senses. As it was, they occasioned no dismay at all, once I had securely bound my money bag to my waist, and ostentatiously placed my dagger under my pillow so that all could see that they were to beware of taking advantage of my sleep.

The following morning I dawdled like a true gentleman of leisure, slowly drinking a pint of ale with my bread, and only leaving the place when the sun was well up.

As I had nothing better to do, I played the viewer of sights, visiting St. Paul’s Cathedral—a scandalously run-down pile of stone, quite reduced from its former glory by the depredations of the Puritans, and yet more glorious in its decrepitude than the ill-formed conceit which is now being built to replace it. I watched the booksellers and hawkers of pamphlets who congregated in St. Paul’s yard, and listened to the criers and constables reciting the list of crimes and deceits which had been the previous night’s crop of malice. So many thefts, assaults, riots, it seemed the whole town must have been up all night to have committed them. Then I walked to Westminster and saw the palace and gazed in awe at the very window from which King Charles stepped to his bloody martyrdom, covered now in black crepe to commemorate that evil deed, and reflected awhile on the punishments the nation had endured because of that sinful act.

Such entertainments tired me quickly, though, so I bought myself some more bread from a street seller, and walked back through Covent Garden, which was no more agreeable to my senses now than it had been the previous day. I was hungry, and trying to decide whether to spend the vast quantity of money needed for a pint of wine in that place, when I felt a light touch on my arm.

I was not such a bumpkin that I did not realize what was probably about to take place, and I spun round and reached for my knife, then hesitated when I saw a finely dressed young woman standing beside me. She had a good face, but it was so covered in wig and beauty spots and rouge and whitening that God’s gifts to her could scarcely be discerned. Most noticeable of all, I remember, was the stink of perfume which so covered her natural aromas that it was like being in a flowershop.

“Madam?” I said coldly as she raised an eyebrow and smiled at my alarm.

“Jack!” cried the creature. “Do not say you have forgotten me?”

“You have the advantage.”

“Well, you may have forgotten me, but I cannot forget the gallant way you protected me under the stars near Tun-bridge,” said she.

Then I remembered—the young whore. But how changed she was, and though her fortunes had obviously improved, in my eyes she had not changed for the better.

“Kitty,” I said, remembering her name at last. “What a fine lady you have become. You must forgive me for not knowing you, but the transformation is so great you cannot blame me too much.”

“No, indeed,” she said, waving a fan in front of her face in an affected manner. “Although no one calls me lady who knows me truly. Whore I was, and now I am raised a mistress.”

“My congratulations,” I said, for evidently she thought this was in order.

“Thank you. He is a fine man, well connected and extremely generous. Nor is he too repulsive; I am a lucky woman indeed. With fortune, he will give me enough to buy myself a husband before he tires of me. But tell me, what are you doing here, gaping like a yokel in the middle of this street? It is not the place for you.”

“I was looking for some food.”

“There is plenty here.”

“I cannot—will not—afford that.”

She laughed merrily. “But I can and will.”

And with a brazenness which took my breath away, she linked her arm in mine and led me back to the Piazza and a coffee shop called Will’s, where she demanded a room to herself, and for food and drink to be brought. Far from being affronted at such a request, the servant obliged with obsequiousness as though she was indeed a lady of consequence, and a few minutes later we were in a commodious room on the second floor, overlooking the bustle below.

“No one will object?” I asked anxiously, concerned that her lord might send some bravoes around in a fit of jealousy. It took her some moments to work out what I meant by this, but then she laughed again.

“Oh no,” she said. “He knows me too well to think me capable of ruining my prospects by such an indiscretion.”

“May I know the name of your benefactor?”

“Of course. Everyone else does. He is my Lord of Bristol, an entertaining and well-placed favorite of the king’s, if rather old. I caught him at Tunbridge, so you see I have great reason to be grateful to you. I was there scarcely a day before I received a message asking to meet me. I pleased him as best I could, and kept him entertained, and thought that was that. The next thing I know, he wants my company back in London, and offers a handsome incentive.”

“Is he in love with you?”

“Goodness, no. But he is hot-blooded where his wife is an old prune, and he is mortally afraid of disease. It was all her idea; she spotted me in the street first of all and drew his attention to me.”

She wagged her finger at me. “You look about to launch into a sermon, Jack Prestcott. Do desist, I pray you, or you will vex me. You are too virtuous to do anything but disapprove strongly, but what would you have me do? I sell my body for my little bit of wealth and comfort. All around there are priests and ministers who sell their souls for theirs. I am in good company, and one more sinner among such a throng will hardly be noticed. I tell you, Jack, virtue is a lonely state in this age.”

I hardly knew what to say to this frank expression of depravity. I could not approve of her, but I was disinclined to condemn, for that would have meant an end to our acquaintance and, despite everything, her company pleased me. All the more so because, to show off her good fortune, she ordered the best food and wine, and insisted I eat as much as my stomach could hold and my head endure. All the while she talked to me of town gossip, and of her lover’s inexorable rise at court so that (she said) he was a serious rival to Lord Clarendon in the king’s favor.

“Of course, Clarendon is powerful,” she said, affecting to know all the secret dealings of the government. “But all the world knows that his ponderous gravity drives the king to distraction, while the gayness of Lord Bristol keeps His Majesty amused. And this is a king who always sacrifices on the altar of amusement. So Lord Clarendon is vulnerable; it will not take much to eject him, and then I will be the second whore in the kingdom, after Lady Castlemaine. It’s a pity my lord is a papist, as that is a great hindrance to him, but even that can be overcome, perhaps.”

“You think any of this might happen?” I asked, fascinated despite myself. It is odd how gossip of the high and mighty exercises such interest.

“Oh, yes. I hope so. For Lord Clarendon’s sake as much as anything.”

“I hardly think he will thank you for your solicitude.”

“He should,” she said, seriously for a moment. “Truly he should. For I have heard worrying tales. He has annoyed many powerful people and some are less peaceable and generous than my lord. If he does not fall from power, I fear worse may befall him one day.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “Fall he will, but he is an old man and that is only natural. But he will always be rich and mighty and favored. Such people as he, who never raise a sword nor put their courage to the test, always survive and prosper while better men fall by the wayside.”