Bitching Bits of Bone

Chapter 1

Molly’s Warning

London stank. Whilst the dungy streets and alleyways undoubtedly played their part, the biggest culprit was that midden called Thames. Mischievous bubbles oozed up the tidal ditch, only to burst and belch the most ghastly of vapours that wreaked havoc as they cascaded down the riverbanks. This environmental imbalance had left the wind gods gasping. Not even the faintest wheeze of sweet Zephyr could be discerned from the west.

It was early evening when Master Chaucer of Aldgate braved the miasmas of Christendom’s greatest cesspool. After alighting on the South Bank, he began to make his way through the gloomy streets of Southwark. Passing a narrow lane of the most wretched lean-tos, he perceived the choked radiance of a dying sun, struggling to pierce through the stymied atmosphere.

Chaucer had an appointment that evening with the local summoner, who occupied rooms next to the archdeacon’s residence. He entered the passage of a dingy back alley. Through a mephitic haze that was difficult to breathe, Chaucer caught sight of a fishwife as she emptied a basin of brown slops from a first-floor window, narrowly missing a pretty young girl who was squatting amongst the muck heaps of the Stygian thoroughfare.

The young girl wiped herself with a bit of old rag before pulling down her frock and standing up. Chaucer awkwardly bid her a good evening through the veil of his kerchief, as yet unaccustomed to the air to be able to fully remove it. The adolescent glared for a moment before smiling gently.

Yer out and about early this evening Sir John, she said in a coarse Cheapside accent. I ’opes you got another pretty trinket there for me from the ’oly Land.

Rather taken aback, Chaucer proceeded to lower his kerchief and suggest that there had been some sort of mistaken identity. The girl seemed unabashed and chuckled to herself.

Begging yer pardon Sir. I thought like, well that you’d come from that Monstary yonder. The man in question always wears a long ’ooded cloak and covers ’is face just likes yer good self.

Chaucer meekly inquired as to the girl’s name, more out of discomfort than curiosity. She looked back at him in approval, as if the question had a special kind of local parlance. Her expression became more seductive as she began to play with her oily fringe.

I’m known round these parts as Molly, she replied with a wink. Though Molly’s parts are known in town by a lot a different names.

Now standing provocatively outside the dimly lit entrance of her hovel, Chaucer was able to study Molly’s features more closely. The girl before him was perhaps sixteen winters old, fair-haired, tall and curvaceous. She adjusted her scanty garments to reveal a buttery pale cleavage of ample bosom and placed each of her hands on either side of her wide hips, stroking the fabric gently. Her language now became more direct, as if the quarry before her had become her next patron of the day.

There’s still time to play my luv. You look as if yer cobblers could do wiv a good purging. I’ll unblock ’em for you if yer like. Oooh yes! You’d like that darlin’ wouldn’t you? Mmmm, yes my sweetheart. Come an’ spill yer balm inside Molly and relieve yerself for a while at least. I’ll even do it for a groat as it’s ya first time like.

Becoming ever more uncomfortable and frantically rummaging in his pockets for coin, Chaucer handed over a groat and politely declined any sort of recompense. Molly looked a little nonplussed - even disappointed - before thanking him for the money.

You’re clearly no ecclestiastic! she laughed. Chaucer shook his head and grinned.

Where’s you be a heading might I ask?

I’m paying a visit to the archdeacon’s residence, said Chaucer. I’ve got a meeting with the local summoner, Hen…

Rufus bleeding Boyle! interrupted the girl. Molly’s not set eyes on that booze-blossomed puff-guts since Sunday last - fank Christ! His fiery face was even worst than usual. It was so bleedin’ ’ot that I thought it must surely go up in flames! Have ya met ’im before?

No, but how do you know him? inquired Chaucer with interest.

O you’ll find out soon enough, said Molly. "Fat Rufus is ’ighly proud of ’is exploits in brothel-land. And when ’e puts that malmsey-fuelled face between yer thighs, it’s bloody ’ard to forget about ’im - beleeeve you me! ’oly Mary - like Lucifer’s warming pan under yer sheets! But there’s plenty a worst thing about ’im than ’is face a fire. O yes! Molly knows this all too well. As poxed and rheumatic as an old bawd’s muvver ’e is! Lordy almighty! That firedrake’s well and truly singed - likes a spewing salamander coated in Tooksbury mustard!

No, but serious Sir, be very bleeding careful! Rufus Boyle is purest evil! Shit, yes – ’e must be! For ’e’s the fully-fledged catchfart of the Pardner ’imself!

The Pardoner? asked Chaucer.

Bruvver John Trent, whispered Molly. The queerest monk I’ve ever set me eyes upon - and I’ve seen a few tonsures in my time! Wiv those bitching bits o’ bone, its gauntish face looks more akin to a death’s ’ead on a mop-stick! And I daresay that its unfledged chin will never feel the bite of a barber’s blade. Molly would sooner ’av a beard sprout out of ’er own arse than for that Pardner creature to grow ’airs on its chin! More of a fumbling capon than a rampant cock - if yer takes me meaning good Sir. And wiv the feeblest little grub buried in its breeches, this monk’s balls are no bigger than a pair of unripe cobnuts!

Chapter 2

The Summons

Henry Boyle was a large man, with a huge red face. His blotchy cheeks were speckled with fiery pimples and a livid network of thread veins. The boils upon his chin were hottest of all and could seethe any stray rivulet of sauce that trickled down the scraggly remnants of his coppery beard. His nose was bulbous, oily and hot - alight with coal-black comedones that seemed to crackle and spit within their scorching abode. A magnificent cyst took pride of place upon the tip - like a congested volcano about to erupt and spill forth its molten core. His eyebrows were scaly and scabbed, sparsely covering up the protuberant whelks of knobbly scars that distorted his eye-sockets into swollen narrow slits. The eyes themselves were small, watery and close-set; the whites constantly bloodshot and displaying a slight tinge of saffron. His irises were a dark brown, almost black, whilst domed greasy deposits of sulphurous papules peppered his eyelids.

A thin boy entered the dining room, bowing excessively.

The gentleman has arrived Sir. He wishes to seek an audience with you as soon as possible. He is awaiting your lordship outside.

Boyle slouched back behind his vast mahogany table and swilled from a cup of red wine. The greasy residue of his carnivorous third course glistened over his lips and chins.

Christ’s blood! Just serve the next meat course before I ruddy starve to death! You know full well that I dine between six and eight every evening - uninterrupted! My digestive constitution is extremely fragile you know. Such an interruption to the inflow of food will surely make me bilious and cause the most unpleasant and intractable flatulence!

I’m terribly sorry my lord, stammered the boy. I shall attend to you at once.

I’ll bend you later lad! shouted Boyle, breaking wind violently. He inhaled deeply before belching into his closed mouth. Christ! And tell that ruddy cook not to be so sparing with the garlic and ginger next time! I like my sauces hot and strong!

It was just on eight of the clock when Geoffrey Chaucer was finally summoned into the dining room. The nearby sounds of curfew bells could be heard outside.

Come in, come in! boomed Boyle. Take a pew and we’ll get straight down to business.

As Chaucer entered the dining room, a pungent smell of garlic and onions hit his nostrils, mixed with the fusty odours of stale sweat, bad breath and flatulence.

My name is Henry Boyle, and I am district summoner to the archdeacon.

Chaucer smiled and had to disguise a slight snigger into a fake cough.

My name amuses you I see, replied Boyle in a sly but dulcet tone. Forgive me if I do not join you in the joke but after enduring years of countless lead lotions, tartar creams, mercury salves, sulphur ointments and borax balms, I hope you’ll understand that my humour is wearing a little thin. It’s all just bastard quackery!

Chaucer mumbled an apology for his lack of discretion. Boyle glared at him through his weasel eyes before continuing.

"Now let us speak plainly and rid ourselves right away of any false sentiments we may pretend to have for one another. For I am a plain-speaking man. I do not pretend to boast a noble birth nor privileged heritage. My father was a sot and my mother a whore. And from the countless bastards and abortions of their over-fruitful loins, I - a sickly runt - finally came into this world over forty years ago.

"After a destitute childhood eking out a living on the streets of London, I managed to smuggle myself aboard a ship bound for France. I still pinch myself when I think of how far I’ve come since those lean days in the Parisian whorehouses. It was in my twenty-sixth winter when I was finally saved by Brother John Trent. Like Christ harrowing hell, he dragged me from Montmartre’s pit. And like a blazing phoenix, I arose in a glorious resurrection!

"Thus began my apprenticeship under my new master and patron. The Pardoner took me under his Benedictine mantle and began to instruct me on the ways of the Church. He moulded me, conditioned me and taught me how to read, write and think. I absorbed his education like a leech to blood. He tutored me in the fundamentals of Church business and economics. He taught me about Church politics, Canon law and its enforcement. He introduced me to influential ecclesiasts and benefactors, and procured me this prestigious job of regional summoner.

"As you can now see, I am a man of wealth and high estate. My main duty is to serve compulsory summons to people, ordering them to attend a disciplinary hearing at the ecclesiastical Court of Justice within the diocese. I have the honour of working within the jurisdiction of the Venerable Talbot Tallow, who has the power to administer correction or to even order excommunication. The archdeacon’s book is brimming already this year!

"The scope of punishable offences is varied, ranging from defamation and usury to simony, heresy and even witchcraft. All have been written down in law, questio quid juris. But by far the most insidious transgressors are the delinquents of the flesh. I am a close acquaintance of the bawdy scum of London’s underbelly. The city is like a huge baked pie in which I poke and rummage with my fat little fingers into her soft centre. And like any Church official worth his mettle, I’m in this game for greed.

"The most profitable and cost-effective schemes are the blind-eye contracts, managed directly by the Bishop of Winchester in the stews of Southwark. These contracts and their types of licence vary according to each individual and his particular requirements. For the average monk wanting to keep a concubine for a month, my own retainer fees are very reasonable and generally start off with a basic package of two groats per week, supplemented by a quart of wine or a bushel of London ale. The stews have a vast ecclesiastical clientele, ranging from the humblest of privy parsons to the proudest of bishops."

The Summoner drained his glass and then opened another bottle of Spanish wine, dark crimson and thick as blood. He chuckled to himself as he poured and took a long draught. His eyes grew even redder, like glowing coals. He continued.

"My expertise in the subtle arts of brotheldom is so immense that I may be considered somewhat of a local authority on the Southwark whore and her infidelities. I am pastor and pimp to the prostitutes! I have them eating out of my hands - and breeches too - like tamed hawks scavenging for titbits. I know them all and all their intimate secrets: they are totally under my thumb - and cock as well!

"Blackmail is my first name and extortion the second. Like a well-fed cockerel, I feast off bribes and drink my fill of extortion. But blackmail is by far the sweetest meat. Left to stew and tenderise over weeks, months or even years, its rewards are well worth the wait.

I am a thief and a scoundrel! I summon and fleece all and anon before the archdeacon’s chapter-bench. Like a Judas, I crave a purse full of silver coin, although gold suits me better. Indeed, the effortlessness of the art sometimes astounds even me. A simple Southwark sot will not even ask for a warrant as I open and pillage his hot purse like a harlot’s cunt!

A maidservant entered the room and began to clear the dining table. Boyle - as lecherous as any cock-sparrow - glanced at her with lustful eye.

Ah, thank you my dear, he wheezed, grinning widely to show a disarray of stained teeth, partly eaten by decay. The maid lifted a decorative garland of ivy and mistletoe from the centre of the table. The Summoner staggered over and seized the circlet before placing it on his head. He then picked up his wine glass and raised it in a drunken toast.

To Bacchus and Dionysus! he roared.

Turning once more towards the table, Boyle skewered a round bread trencher, crudely transfixing it with his dagger and holding it forth like a shield.

Oh fairest maid! he cried. Do not fear, for I shall be your noble knight and protector!

The maidservant looked impishly at Chaucer and rolled her eyes.

O what magnificent haunches! continued the Summoner. I am awestruck by such a wide and curvaceous arse. I’m sure to bend you over later and ride those bitching bits of bone!

He’s bladdered as usual, whispered Polly. He’ll be weeping like a gib-cat before the nonce.

"Master Chaucer here has been a very naughty boy, Mistress Polly. He recently attacked a dear friend of mine and broke his holy arm - Friar Cuthbert of Fleet Street: a kind and loveable rogue! I’ve had a nice long chat with our poor old limiter and he’s prepared to drop all charges upon receipt of twelve shillings. Once paid in full, I will personally close the case and the archdeacon need never know. The name of Geoffrey Chaucer will be stricken out of my black ledger - his reputation unscathed."

Chaucer rose from his chair and politely refused to pay. He explained that the friar’s arm was certainly not broken and that he’d rather clear his name through the conventional channels of the archdeacon’s court. The Summoner looked flabbergasted. As the maidservant hurriedly left the room, she caught a final glimpse of that fat sweaty face, twisted and contorted - as if he was trying to pass an over-baked stool through a barrage of piles - she thought. His thin glazed eyes fixed on his standing guest and he began to speak lucidly again.

"Do not underestimate me, Master Chaucer. My tongue is as spiteful as any butcher-bird. A stomach of pity and conscience I have none! I live by extortion, by tricks, by cunning - and by violence. I am like a ravenous spider and London is my web. With the help of my spies and informants, I keep constant vigilance, ready to clutch and gorge on any stray fly - however small. I am well protected by powerful allies. Bodyguards I also employ to buffer me from the fists, boots and knives of retribution. Their brutish brawn also makes sensitive financial transactions so much smoother.

"Our business tonight is thus concluded. And may the black devil take my soul, I tell no lie when I say that you will bypass the kindly court of our clement archdeacon and be issued immediately with a Significavit. Now get out!"

Chapter 3

The Black Boar

As Henry Boyle hurried through the dim-lit lanes of Southwark’s Bankside, an aging courtesan raised her red skirt to parade her womanly wares, already bespattered with the recent stains of her trade. She appeared to be bow-legged and somewhat wide in the saddle, beckoning the Summoner over in an oblique Bermondsey dialect.

Just look at the state of that old timer! muttered Boyle to himself. I’ll warrant her venereal velvet’s more colt than veal. But how many younger tails is she packing in her kennel tonight I wonder? Bah! I’ll warrant that none of the new season’s vine is as yet unpicked. The pitchers are already cracked no doubt!

The Summoner continued to walk south into the new Flemish quarter. The brightly illuminated façade of a three-storey building faced onto the main street, with the painted head of a black boar projecting out from above the doorway. He entered into a main reception room where he was instantly greeted by a young woman.

Good evening Master Rufus, she said. Is it business or pleasure that brings you to the Boar tonight?

Greetings Mistress Abigail, replied the Summoner. I’m here to see the house physician if he’s not already out on his rounds.

Doctor Longbone is just finishing supper. Would you care to dine before you see him?

What’s good this evening? Boyle enquired.

We have an excellent assortment of starters, including fresh quail and guinea hen. Our dish of the day is laced mutton - tender, pink and meltingly rare.

Sounds delightful! exclaimed the Summoner through a mouthful of drool. But I’ve generally got a penchant for sweeter meats after sundown, perhaps some Greek figs and quince to start with, followed by a selection of pastries and tarts. Is the new lady in tonight?

Unfortunately she’s riding the cotton palfrey and therefore out of action, replied Abigail, leading her guest up the creaking stairs.

Room allocation was the principle duty of the newly-appointed house deputy, Mistress Isabella. Whilst the Summoner was enjoying a complimentary jug of wine in a private second floor parlour, his chosen harem of women held a brief council of war with the procuress, Madam Florence. Handing round four glasses of liquor on a silver alms tray, she addressed them all individually.

Claire, you’ve got the old bloater first. His Gassiness was very specific on this point.

Bugger that! said Claire. Have you smelt him lately? He reeks of leeks … and worse! He could do with some cloves for his breath. Anyway, I’m not having his dripper anywhere near my chops and that’s flat! I’ll try to deflect the monster into my cleaver - at least the dumb-glutton can’t taste!

Madge winced before piping in.

I doubt that your dainty mouth could bear such a fierce freight of full cargo. Anyway, whatever you do Claire, Izzy and me want this porker well drained and wilting!

And finally ladies, said Abby with a groan. Let’s calm the inevitable flatulence with a generous sprig of dill. Any sort of jumble-gut activity and he’ll soon be playing a tune on that gargantuan bum-fiddle of his!

Holy shite! exclaimed Madge. I’ve only got to smell fart and dill and I’m running agush to the cacatorium!

Isabella shuddered with disgust.

What about that time when one of my clients came back from the jakes and asked me to lick his hairy arse clean for him. You must have seen it - all caked in fartleberries!

At least we haven’t got that foul Pardoner this evening, said Abigail. His manhood is nothing but a languid little corn-worm - more splinter than beam. He’s barely able to stiffen his swiving tongue!

It’s true that our Uncle John is more jenny than jack, said Madge. I also have it on the highest authority that he was secretly married once - to an erotomaniac nun no less!

Are there any other kinds of nun then? giggled Isabella.

Apparently he bought his wife a hound to protect her when he was away, said Claire.

That’s right, said Florence. She called him Alan!

The women laughed. Madge beckoned them all to move in closer and she began to whisper.

"Most agree that the dog’s real purpose was to prevent other monks from making him a cuckold. Anyway, rumour has it that Brother John was about as useful in bed as a lame eunuch, forcing his frustrated wife to begin…experimenting - as it were - with Alan, who soon became her secret lover. All was well until one summer evening. The amorous dog entered the bedroom to find his mistress in an equally amorous union with her husband. Alan attacked the Pardoner and apparently compromised his manhood even further. Some say that the pain was so excruciating that it made his eyes pop out and bulge permanently!"

Whatever happened next? asked Isabella.

As you can imagine, the union didn’t last! Madge continued. Nobody knows for sure what came of Sir John’s secret wife. One rumour has it that she’s living happily up north - with three dogs, two asses and a billy-goat called Bernardo!

There was a brief period of mirth before the girls ceremoniously drank their liquor. When all had finally said their piece, Madge took Florence aside for a quiet word.

"Now look Flo. I work eighteen-hour days, seven days a week, and what have I got to show for my labours? Nothing but the rags I stand in and a string of bad debts! I’ve barely eaten in the past two days, with no meat for over a week, save some bitching bits of bone and the gristle of a few friars’ cocks. I’ve not had a change of clothing in two years and I’ve pawned everything I could possibly pawn, including my best Flemish underwear.

I need to get out of this reeking sink for a bit and hit the streets. The penny upright may not be the most lucrative encounter for a working girl, but it’s the quantity of punters I can get through that keeps the bailiffs from my door. Half a dozen shallow thrusts against a friary wall and the deed is done! Anyway, I’ll leave after my shift with fat-guts - if that’s alright with you?

Don’t be too late, said Flo. And be careful. There’s all sorts of filth lurking about the dark Southwark alleys in the early hours … and that’s just the blimming clergy!

Chapter 4

The Consultation

Later that evening, Henry Boyle knocked on the physician’s door. He entered the room and sat down. Doctor Longbone greeted him in a cordial manner of familiarity.

What can I do for you tonight Master Rufus? Is it something delicate perhaps?

Stop toying with me quack! snapped the Summoner. You know damn well why I’m here. I’ve been stung by the velvet ant! I’ve been bitten by gusset-glue crabs! The peppery princess has scolded me with her whores-radish sauce! In short, I’m as toxic downstairs as a vomiting cobra!

"Ah! It’s the membrum virile playing up again is it?" enquired Longbone.

Of course it ruddy is! Boyle replied. I’ve been poxed by those nymphs of darkness. I’ve drunk too much from Aphrodite’s well. Nebuchadnezzar has been poisoned in his perfumed garden. The Cyclops is weeping glass tears. Polyphemus is going blind!

Poetic as usual, said the physician, grinning slightly. Sounds like a nasty dose of cock-rot! May I take a look?

The Summoner gawkily obliged by removing his hose and heaving up his pendulous belly.

Yes, I see, said Longbone as he sniffed and palpated. After finishing his examination, he walked over to a wall-mounted cabinet in the corner of the room.

Well, you’ve certainly got a severe case, he said authoritatively, passing over a conical glass bottle to his patient. I think this particular form of gleet is a Smithfield thoroughbred, not a Southwark. May I have a sample of your water?

I was afraid you’d ask that, muttered Boyle. I’m pissing pure peppercorn cream!

After he had tasted a few cloudy drips of sediment, the physician nodded while stroking his beard.

Now we come to the remedy, he said.

And the price! mumbled the Summoner.

The physician ignored him and continued to caress his grey beard.

"The infirmity of the burning is best treated by opening a vein in the femoral canal, followed by an oil of castor-seed purge. I will also prescribe you an ointment of kelp in musk mallow oil to be applied topically twice a day. The final - and definitive - treatment is quicksilver of course. This needs to be administered by syringe per urethra, in strict accordance with the Arderne technique. I have the necessary irrigation equipment here and will talk you slowly through each step."

Haile’s Blood! yelled Boyle. My instrument will be turned into a pillar of salt! That malicious mercury plays havoc with my hair and turns my bones into sawdust!

A bald head and bitching bits of bone, sighed the physician. That’s the lot of a Summoner these days, I’m afraid.

Doctor Longbone set up his instruments and laid them out on a white cloth on the floor. The Summoner fully disrobed and assumed the lithotomy position. The physician then applied several drops of warmed olive oil from a glass syringe into the urethral canal.

This will help to lubricate the passage and distribute the mercury more uniformly, he said.

He then attempted to probe the canal, but without success.

It looks like you’ve got a stricture about half an inch inside. I’m going to have to dilate this up with a bougie.

With a what? yelled Boyle.

Amongst a lot of huffing and swearing from his wincing patient, the physician managed to open the stricture.

I now need to milk the mercury into all of the luminal crevices using my hand, said Longbone. This will probably cause you to stiffen, but will actually help in the irrigation process.

After a few moments there was gentle knock at the door. Mistress Abigail entered the room, carrying a large jug of wine. She glanced at the men on the floor; the naked Summoner sprawled out on his back and moaning as the physician massaged his erect phallus.

Pardon my interruption gentlemen, she whispered. Howls of laughter could soon be heard from downstairs.

Chapter 5

The Boneyard of Red Cross Way

After finally leaving The Black Boar, the Summoner hurried on through the dark alleys of Southwark. He met up with the Pardoner in an inn called The Tabard, where the two discussed the issue of Geoffrey Chaucer amongst other more pressing items.

How was the good doctor tonight? asked