Episode II

Johnny pulled up at a large gateway. The monastery wall stretched for quite a way in each direction, imposing a heavy-duty sense of calm on what should otherwise have been a busy street. It was almost as if the oppressive bulk of the wall somehow sucked in noise. Jumping down from the cart, William rapped on the wooden wicket door. A moment later, it was opened by the porter – one of those toothless, spindly, little old men who’d made it out of life’s gutter by earning himself permanent employment in his twilight years.
               “Alright gents,” the porter said in his crackly voice, with a small but deferential nod. “What can I do for you boys?”
               “Alright Nick, nice to see you,” William replied. He liked the porter, even if the little man had his odd ways. “Is Bonnie in?”
               “Oh, Brother Boniface. I fink so... I don’t know... let me go and check.” The porter’s face disappeared and then reappeared a few moments later. “’Ee’s comin' out.” William looked at Johnny, who rolled his eyes, as the big gates emanated a series of squeaky noises and slowly rasped open for the cart to enter.
               “Gotta be a ’undred year old if it’s a day,” Johnny sniffed. “Needs oilin', that.”
               “What, old Nicky, there?” William deadpanned.
               “Nah, the gate.”
               A red faced monk was ambling across the courtyard towards them, wearing a familiar expression: that of a naughty boy caught red-handed. Brother Boniface was possibly one of the most sleazy men William had ever met, and that was saying a lot, considering this was London.
               “Blessings, Boys, blessings,” said the monk, who always seemed to look at you sideways as if he wanted to share something illicit. Often he did. “What have you got for me?” His voice was part well-educated choirmaster, part wheedling drunk. William was pretty sure the monk got up to some pretty disgusting things in his spare time.
               “Got a nice little blonde in the cart for you, Bonnie.”
               “Oh, bless you both. Go on, let’s have a look at her, then.” The monk’s greedy eyes flashed as he eyed the cask; he clicked his fingers and a pair of solid but bored looking men appeared from the shadows and came up to the cart. The monk rapped an order and the two men slowly lifted the cask and rolled it away to a doorway in one of the service buildings. “I’ll enjoy her later,” said the monk. “Where ever do you manage to find Belgian beer in London, boys?” William just smiled.
               “Now, Bonnie, I happen to need a favour from you,” he said smoothly, as if the thought had just occurred to him.
               “Of course you do, of course you do,” Brother Boniface replied. “Come up to my office.”
               The monk’s study always amused William; he watched Johnny’s face, taking in the fancy cushions, piles of irreligious books and the various chests arranged around the small room; there were even a couple of entirely ungodly pictures tacked to the wall. Settling into his easy chair, Brother Boniface eyed them up and down.
               “So what’s this favour then, Master William?”
               “Well, Bonnie, I know you look after all kinds of business relationships for your employer.” The monk’s attention was grabbed by a sheaf of papers, which he discreetly shuffled and hid under a book. “I think you have a brothel...”
               “Yeeeeessss...” The monk drawled. “Which one is it you’re referring to?”
               “The one off Cornhill.”
               “Yesss...It’s an important part of our business portfolio, that. Wellllll... anyway. What’s up?”
               “Well, I understand that – how shall we say this – there are some gentleman employed in said brothel who manage the employees and are causing trouble for a client of mine.”
               “What sort of trouble?” the monk asked suspiciously. “That’s a high-class establishment we run there. Very discreet.”
               “These gentlemen are operating on a particular street where a client of mine lives. He’s concerned that the girls are bringing down the area, setting the wrong tone, that sort of thing.”
               “So you want my boys and girls to leave that street alone?”
               “Yes, if you could arrange that, that would be... beneficial.”
               “Which street exactly?”
               “Graysons”
               “That’s one of our most profitable areas!”
               “Well, it’d be a shame if you never get any more Belgian blonde at your doostep.” William was smooth and he knew it.
               “Alright then,” the monk replied, sullen. No more of my lot on Graysons. Is Lyme and Filpot alright?”
               “Of course.” William stared at his nails for a moment. “Oh, don’t forget those dates you said you didn’t need...” The monk knew he was cornered: the abbey kitchen always had plenty of high-quality foreign foodstuffs and he’d purloined far too much in the past to protest now. Brother Boniface was in way too deep in too much dirt to ever complain his way out.
               “That’s fine, Will. You can have a bag of those. The Cellarer and I have an arrangement...”
               “I’ll bet you do, Bonnie... Johnny here can go and inspect them, if that’s alright? Just in case your kitchen lads have accidentally filled the bottom of the bag with apples instead?” William smiled; Johnny – the Little Cook – knew his onions. And his apples and dates for that matter – and he didn’t put up with second-rate goods. It’d be a shame if there was a punch-up in the abbey kitchens over such a small thing...
 
A short while later, they were on the cart again, carrying one bag of top-quality Medjool dates. Happily no blood had been required for this friendly transaction. For some reason, the abbey kitchen staff had been only too happy to lose them.
               “So these dates is for Ham, then?” Johnny asked.
               “Yep; a little gift to a good customer of mine. He loves his dates, does Ham. And I need to do him another favour too, to pay for that Belgian beer...”