
'You want more ale, sir?' Her voice was like the purr of a cat, green eyes studying the preacher from head to toe. 'You are thirsty, tired and in need of comfort?'
'I am in need of company,' the preacher replied.
The young whore perched herself demurely on a stool on the other side of the table. She leaned forward, head tilted, eyes half-closed, affording the preacher a generous view of her bosom and neck. He's a sailor, she thought, come across the Thames looking for fresh meat. And that silver piece in his hand? He'd be a generous customer, even though he looked rather wild and haggard.
'I'm thirsty' she announced.
The preacher raised his hands as he had seen the young bucks do in the taverns. Mine host, standing near the barrels and tuns, smiled and called for a potboy.
'It looks as if Prudence is going to be busy tonight,' he whispered.
The potboy hurried across with two slopping blackjacks of ale.
'What's your name?' The preacher toasted her.
'Prudence.'
'Are you a whore, Prudence?'
'I bear no mark or brand on me,' she quipped. 'I have not been whipped in the pillory.'
'But would you like to be whipped, Prudence?'
'A little,' she simpered back, though her hand fell to the small knife in her girdle.
Prudence was from the countryside but she knew the darkness in men's hearts and souls. She intended to rise, make her fortune in this city of gold; become the mistress of some merchant. She had seen old whores and drabs with their pitted faces, toothless, drooling mouths, scars and cuts covering their bodies. Prudence knew all the tricks, this man had better not mark her! He certainly liked his ale and, when their bellies were full, men were easier to handle. She emptied her blackjack quickly. The preacher did likewise and ordered some more. He asked about her life. She told the usual mixture of lies about flawed innocence, flirting with her eyes, promising much. The preacher drank on until he could tolerate the tension no longer. He slammed the tankard down and lurched to his feet. Prudence looked up in alarm.
