A what wig?

Medieval history often unveils some quirky habits from the past, and some habits are just too hilarious to preclude from my fiction. It's 1480, midday, and my Irish characters are being led through Westminster Palace.  
Baubles decorated earlobes and necks glistened and shimmered. Beards and moustaches failed to mask mouths ripe with intrigue. People loitered. People whispered. People studied the Irishmen with undisguised boldness. This was a place where influence was peddled, alliances and promises made for ill or for good, and it mattered more who talked to whom than about what.

‘I have heard much of this place,’ announced Harry, with no concern for the curious ears close by. ‘Double dealing and intrigue, everywhere to be found. By day it is sleight of hand and sleight of tongue. In the evening, ‘tis in the indulgence of rich foods and mind-wilting wines. And then at night, in the dark shadows, they celebrate wanton debauchery.’

‘I think you have your roster out of order, Harry,’ retorted Conn Mor. ‘Did you not see that dalliance in the half-curtained window seat we just passed? ‘Twas a fair leg I saw, held unnaturally high, and a white-as-white merkin hiding the lass’s—’ 

‘Syphilis,’ sniggered Manus, finishing Conn Mor's story.

Gerald twisted his head in search of the tryst and the new fashion of a pubic wig, but was blocked by the men hot on his heels.   
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