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into the road and turned left, her impulse to weep had changed to one for slightly bitter laughter. Whores did not cry over men…and anyway she had a great many more important things to do before she could start for Oxford the next day.
    She needed some items for the trip. It had been so long since she left the London area that her travel baskets had been adapted for other purposes. She would have to get at least one new one so her gowns would not be too badly wrinkled. For the rest, her undergarments and toilet articles and such, she thought a good strong piece of canvas and two leather straps should serve. Then she must be sure that no necessary item would be used up in the Old Priory Guesthouse while she was gone. First and foremost sheets—keeping the linen clean in a whorehouse was very hard on sheets; they tended to thin from being washed so often and then tear when the action abed became vigorous.
    Musing on other supplies that might be needed before she returned, Magdalene walked briskly along the wall of St. Mary Overy priory, past the gate, which was only a hundred feet or so from the gate to the bishop’s house, and on toward the river. At the end of the road was a small dock belonging to the priory. Magdalene glanced at it, but there was no boat tied up there and it would take longer to try to signal one than to walk to London Bridge. Besides, the bridge was lined with merchant’s stalls. She might see something she wanted.
    In fact the fine spring weather had caused the merchants and peddlers to spill off the bridge itself into a broad apron around it. Magdalene tightened her veil around her face against the tugging and brushing it would receive in the press of people ahead. A curious glance or two, because it was not customary for women to veil their faces—especially on the Southwark side of the river where prostitution was a major business—made her reflect unhappily on the flawless beauty that would gain far less welcome attention if she walked bare-faced. She had been told she was beautiful enough to stop a man’s breath. Perhaps, but unveiled she was more likely to experience grabbing hands than breathlessness.
    The wry thoughts slipped away as pie-sellers thrust trays at her, ribbon vendors offered multicolored streamers for her inspection— Magdalene did stop to look, she and all of her women embroidered and ribbons were always needed, but these were too coarse—and shouted praise of these wares and those drew her attention from one side to another. Despite a resolution not to be seduced, she was a handful of sweetmeats the poorer by the time she got onto the bridge itself.
    Here were the established merchants, those who owned stalls along each side of the bridge, although one still had to push past and around itinerant sellers of small items and food as well as by purchasers and passersby who just wanted to cross the bridge. She could only thank God that the bridge was not roofed; even open to the air and the sky the noise was deafening. Journeymen and apprentices bawled their masters’ wares, peddlers bawled their own, purchasers shouted offers at merchants who shouted back higher prices, and those who wanted to cross pushed and excused themselves and cursed as the mood took them.
    In fact, Magdalene found her travel basket on the bridge. It was actually a pair of long, narrow baskets, just about the length of a horse’s body so they could be mounted on pads or a frame without getting in the horse’s way. The baskets were long enough to hold a gown and one fitted into the other. There were open handles woven into both baskets about a third of the way from each end. One could pass a rope or a strap through those to secure the baskets together and attach the bindings to straps on the animal’s harness. Magdalene paid for the baskets and left them with the merchant to be picked up on her way back.
    She was good about resisting temptation as she worked her way to the other end of the bridge,