Herald of Hell

PART ONE

‘Oliphant: a curved, ornately embellished drinking horn.’

Brother Athelstan, Dominican friar and parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, sat on the sanctuary chair placed in the entrance to the rood screen of his church. He stared in utter disbelief at the pageant being staged before him. Judith, once a member of the travelling players, ‘The Straw Men’, who had now settled in the parish, had been persuaded by his council, led by Watkin the Dung Collector and Pike the Ditcher, to prepare a play for midsummer. They had chosen the translation of a famous French masque, La Demoiselle de la Tour – ‘The Lady of the Tower’. The principal role had of course been given, despite the best efforts of the parish wives led by Imelda Pike’s hard-faced spouse, to Cecily the Courtesan with her sister Clarissa as her lady in waiting. Both madams had risen to the occasion, their gold-spun hair a glorious mass of curls framing pretty faces, their gowns cut deliberately low so, as Athelstan secretly reflected, they literally carried all before them.

Athelstan had risen before dawn and recited his office in the chantry chapel of St Erconwald’s. Bonaventure, the great, one-eyed tom cat who had adopted the friar as his closest friend, had been his only companion. Athelstan had then celebrated the Jesus Mass with this most faithful of gospel greeters amongst his parishioners. Afterwards the friar had broken his fast in the priest’s house and then returned to convene the parish council, where Mauger the bell clerk had taken careful note of the decisions about repairs that Crispin the Carpenter insisted must be done to the tower and its beacon light. According to Crispin, these needed to be carried out urgently. In fact, Crispin argued, until these essential repairs were completed, he would be grateful if their parish priest did not use the tower for his star-gazing at night. Once Athelstan had agreed, to the murmured approval of his parish council, Judith had insisted that their priest remain to see part of their mummer’s masque. The friar could only sit and stare in quiet wonderment.

Cecily and Clarissa were hiding in the tower chamber whilst outside in the nave ranged their defenders led by Ranulf the Rat-catcher, Hig the Pigman, Mauger, Moleskin the boatman and a host of others. These would protect the ladies against the coven of the evil black knight – Watkin, ably assisted by Pike and their followers. Athelstan’s gaze was caught by a miniature painting executed on one of the drum-like pillars which separated the nave from the chancel, the work of their parish artist, Giles of Sempringham, also known as the Hangman of Rochester. Athelstan stared at this depiction of the death of Dives, the rich man in the gospels, damned and ready for burial deep in the fiery bowels of Hell. The hangman had caught the dramatic scene so accurately that Athelstan could almost feel the symptoms of approaching death which now plagued Dives: the misty eyes, the drooping skin, the furry tongue thrust through blackened lips and the rigid feet. Athelstan wondered what the hangman was doing now – carrying out executions at Smithfield or above Tyburn Stream? Would the Hangman know anything about what had happened at the Golden Oliphant, Southwark’s most notorious brothel, from which one of his ‘enforced guests’ had so recently fled?

Athelstan turned in his chair and peered across the sanctuary at the mercy enclave, where fugitives from the law could remain unmolested once they had grasped the altar horn and demanded the church’s protection. The recess now housed two such guests. The first was Oliver Lebarge, a slender, mouse-faced man dressed in drab fustian, his grey hair unkempt, a scrivener, obviously, from the inkstains on his fingers. Lebarge had walked quietly into St Erconwald’s just after Mass, touched the corner of the altar, demanded sanctuary and allowed Athelstan to usher him into the mercy enclave. He had given his name almost in a whisper. Lebarge refused to declare what he had done except that he had fled from the Golden Oliphant, where a violent death had occurred so he feared for his own life and safety. Lebarge had surrendered his dagger to Athelstan in accordance with the law and allowed the friar to search his person, but the Dominican had found nothing else. Lebarge had remained taciturn, sullen and withdrawn. Appearing highly nervous, the scrivener had informed Athelstan that he would only eat and drink what the parish provided and that he would wait for justice. Athelstan shrugged, blessed him and walked away. Benedicta the widow woman, together with Crim the altar boy, had later taken the fugitive some bread, meat and ale. Once Lebarge had established who they were and the origin of the food, he reluctantly accepted it, and now sat huddled, lost in his own thoughts.

The second fugitive next to Lebarge made Athelstan grin. Radegund the Relic Seller! This cunning charlatan now lay stretched out, head resting against his ‘Holy Satchel’ as he called his bag of religious artefacts. Athelstan had never really decided whether he should indulge in limitless admiration for Radegund’s persuasive patter or sheer pity for the relic seller’s many victims: men and women who blithely bought a scrap of Jesus’ napkin, nails pared from the Virgin Mary, hair from St Joseph’s beard, a feather from Gabriel’s wing, straw from the manger, a loaf from the Last Supper, Salome’s bracelet, or even dung from the donkey in the stable at Bethlehem! Radegund sold these ridiculous forgeries yet people kept coming back for more – except for now. Apparently Radegund had been busy selling a bloodstained tunic purportedly worn by one of the Holy Innocents slaughtered by Herod to some court notable. Unfortunately, the tunic was recognized by a flesher’s wife who, in a voice as brazen as the last trump, accosted Radegund, boldly proclaiming that the tunic had been stolen from her washing line and steeped in a vat of blood near her husband’s stall. Radegund had tried to defend himself, or so he said, claiming the clothing was almost 1,400 years old. However, when the relic seller held up a bloodstained hand in protest, the crowd had decided against him, so Radegund had fled here for sanctuary. As usual Radegund would lie low for a while and, when the time was opportune, slip back to his usual mischief.

‘Brother! Brother!’

Athelstan turned back. The masque of ‘The Lady of the Tower’ had descended into chaos, with Judith shouting at everyone that this was a parish play, not a time of misrule.

‘Brother!’ Athelstan glanced up. Tiptoft, messenger of Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London, stood smiling down at him. Athelstan narrowed his eyes at this most eccentric of retainers, garbed in Lincoln green like some forest verderer, his flame-red hair spiked with nard.

‘Brother Athelstan, I am sorry to intrude, but Sir John Cranston needs you immediately at the Golden Oliphant.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan murmured, staring across at Lebarge, ‘I did wonder …’

Athelstan crossed himself and went into the sacristy to collect his chancery satchel. He stopped and beckoned Benedicta to join him. Once inside, he half closed the sacristy door.

‘Benedicta, I must leave. Sir John awaits.’ He indicated with his head. ‘Let Judith deal with the mummers. Try to persuade our sanctuary man Lebarge to take comfort from where he is. Reassure him that only you or Crim will bring his food from my house and oh,’ Athelstan tapped the side of his head, ‘did you know that Pike the Ditcher has a cousin, Sister Matilda, a nun, one of the Poor Clares?’

‘No, Brother.’ Benedicta laughed. ‘Pike, of all people!’

‘Well, apparently she is passing through Southwark later today. Pike has asked to meet her here in the sacristy about the third hour after midday. He says he needs a little privacy. I can see no difficulty in that.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘I just wish I could meet her.’ The friar paused as the widow woman quickly turned and went back to the half-opened sacristy door and peered out. ‘Benedicta?’

‘My apologies, Brother.’ She smiled. ‘I must be hearing things.’ She handed him the chancery satchel. ‘Go, Brother, all will be well here, whilst Sir John must surely be fretting …’

The Golden Oliphant was in uproar when Athelstan reached it just before the bells of Southwark tolled the noon day Angelus. The brothel was ringed by Cheshire archers from the Tower sporting the young king’s personal insignia of the White Hart Couchant with a crown and chain around its elegant neck. Athelstan knew from Sir John that both Gaunt and his Master of Secrets, Thibault, depended more and more on these skilled and loyal bowmen with a personal allegiance to the popular young king. The Cheshires also enjoyed a reputation of being ruthless zealots: they had already taken over the brothel, frightening its occupants into corners. Sir John, cloaked in bottle green, a beaver hat clamped on his thick white hair, beard and moustache freshly trimmed, stamped his booted feet on the cobbles of the stable-yard. Master Thibault, along with his faithful shadow Albinus, stood opposing him. Gaunt’s principal henchman was dressed in dark robes with his blonde hair neatly crimped, his genial face shaven and oiled. He looked like some jovial Benedictine monk, the refectorian or cellar man. Athelstan knew different. Despite the ever genial smile, the pretty gestures and the soft voice, Thibault was a killer to the bone, a ruthless street fighter totally dedicated to his royal master John of Gaunt. This morning, however, the mask had truly slipped. Thibault was beside himself with fury, icy blue eyes popping in anger, bejewelled fingers clawing the air as he gestured at a group of women, amongst whom Athelstan recognized Elizabeth Cheyne, the mistress of the brothel.

Athelstan sensed the pressing threat and danger. Thibault was yelling at the whores whilst Albinus was preparing a makeshift scaffold. He had looped a noose over a wall bracket, removing the lantern hung there, and pushed a handcart beneath. Two Cheshire archers were shoving a young, blonde-haired prostitute on to the cart, one binding her hands behind her whilst the other looped a noose around her neck. Thibault shouted imprecations as the whore’s frightened screams pierced the air. Cranston, uncertain about what was happening, fingered the hilt of his sword as he acknowledged Athelstan’s arrival with a curt wave of his hand. Athelstan realized the tension was about to tip into hideous violence. Whatever had happened, Thibault, in a dancing rage, was determined to make someone pay for it. The shouting and screaming grew more intense. The archers had now seized the poles of the handcart, ready to push it away and let the whore dangle in the air. A mastiff, lips curled in a snarl, burst out of an outhouse and lunged at one of the archers, who drew his dagger and thrust it into the dog’s exposed throat. The animal collapsed, whimpering in a welter of blood. The chaos deepened. Horses in the stables overlooking the yard smelt the blood and grew increasingly restless. From inside the brothel echoed shouts and the barking of dogs. Cranston had now drawn his sword. Some of the archers were stringing their bows.

Athelstan hurried forward. He pushed his way through, climbed on to the swaying handcart, lifted the noose from the young whore’s neck and, with a dramatic gesture, placed it around his own. Silence immediately descended. Cranston raised his sword in salute and resheathed it. Thibault turned away, hands on hips, and walked back to the entrance of the brothel. The archers released their captive. Athelstan slipped off the noose, climbed down from the cart and exchanged the osculum pacis – the kiss of peace – with Cranston. The coroner’s bristling moustache and beard tickled Athelstan’s face as Sir John clasped him close.

‘Be careful, little friar. Thibault is in a murderous rage. His chancery clerk, Amaury Whitfield, attending the Festival of Cokayne here has been found hanged …’

‘And his scrivener, Oliver Lebarge, fled.’ Athelstan smiled as he freed himself from Cranston’s embrace. ‘He has taken sanctuary in St Erconwald’s.’

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan!’ a voice interrupted.

‘Our master summons us,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Remember, watch your tongue!’

They entered the Golden Hall, the great taproom of the brothel: a dark, sombre chamber where guests could sit at tables and be served from the food bench close to the kitchen, the doors to which were now flung open. The air was savoury with cooking fragrances from the bread ovens either side of the mantled hearth, carved in the shape of a gaping dragon’s mouth. Athelstan noticed how the fire irons hanging close by were priapic in shape, a motif repeated in the torch brackets and candle-spigots around the hall. Here and there were replicas of the huge sign hanging outside, a golden Oliphant, or a curved drinking horn, encased in precious metal, the actual cup covered by a lid surmounted by a bejewelled cross. The ‘Oliphant’ was a subtle title for a brothel, the horn symbolizing good wine, cheer and all the pleasures of both bed and board. The friar had learnt from his parishioners how the word ‘horn’, cornu in Latin, was a priapic symbol often used to describe the penis.

The Golden Oliphant undoubtedly did a prosperous trade: its taproom walls were strangely bare but its floor was of waxed, scented wood with rope matting placed to catch the slops. They passed through this into the heart of the brothel: a sumptuously decorated parlour with its adjoining ‘betrothal chamber’ as it was called, where guests could meet the ladies of their choice and negotiate what they wanted and how much they would pay. Rooms ranged either side of the grand gallery, similar accommodation being on offer above stairs. Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne, along with her hard-faced assistant Joycelina, walked in front, leading Athelstan, Cranston and Thibault and his escort up an extremely steep staircase and on to the top gallery. Narrower, its ceiling rather low, this gallery contained only two chambers, their doors set back in a slight recess. One of these lay open, the door, wrenched off its leather hinges, resting against the inside wall. A bleak, low-ceilinged room, with a broad bed of stuffed straw supporting a thick mattress, the starched, homespun linen sheets thrown back. Nevertheless, all the chamber’s meagre comfort was shattered by the corpse swinging slightly from the oiled hempen rope which had been lashed to a lantern hook on the ceiling beam. Nearby lay an overturned stool. Thibault ignored the corpse. He went and stood at the door window, all its shutters pulled back, staring at the oiled pigskin covering which allowed in a yellowish light. Athelstan gazed swiftly round at the elmwood coffer and cloth poles, the chancery satchel and saddle bags heaped in the corner. The air smelt foul and Athelstan glimpsed a half-covered chamber pot beneath the table close to the bed.

Albinus, Thibault’s henchman, drew his dagger and moved to saw at the hempen rope. Athelstan told him to stop. Albinus half smiled and glanced in the direction of his master, who weakly raised his hand as a sign to let Athelstan have his way. The friar stared up at the corpse. Amaury Whitfield’s plump face was a hideously mottled hue under a mop of reddish hair, a stout man, his belly bulging out. Athelstan wrinkled his nose; the dead man’s bowels and bladder must have emptied as he died his choking death. The friar swiftly blessed the corpse and whispered words of absolution followed by the requiem before returning to his study. He noted Amaury’s bulging, watery eyes, the swollen tongue twisted through bloodless lips, the dried saliva on the corner of the gaping mouth. Athelstan pulled back the cuffs of the dead man’s dark green jerkin; he could find no marks to the wrists. Athelstan picked up the stool and placed it beneath the dangling feet, allowing the soft-soled boots to brush against it. He took this away and his gaze was caught by the scarlet gown and blonde wig hanging on a wall hook. He walked across, took these down and glanced at Mistress Cheyne standing in the doorway.

‘The Festival of Cokayne,’ she declared, her harsh face betraying a smile.

‘Ah, yes, Cokayne,’ Athelstan replied, ‘the world turned topsy-turvy! Where hares hunt hounds, males become female, piglets roast themselves and birds land on your plate fully cooked.’ Keeping a watchful eye on Thibault, who was still standing with his back to him, Athelstan gestured at the gown and wig. ‘Master Amaury’s?’ he queried. Mistress Cheyne nodded. Athelstan walked slowly around the chamber, observing the different items: an old sack full of clothing, a jerkin of dark murrey which bore the fading insignia of the royal chancery, a finely stitched leather belt with Amaury’s name etched on it and other items.

‘He dressed for death,’ Athelstan murmured. He pointed to the sack bulging with clothing. ‘And why were these kept separate from the rest? And what’s this?’

He knelt and opened a chancery satchel, filled with writing materials including a pumice stone, ink horn, quills, wax and rolls of parchment. Athelstan shook his head and continued his scrutiny. He picked up an empty wine goblet from a dusty wall ledge, swilled the dregs and sniffed, but he could only detect the rich tang of Bordeaux. He walked back to the corpse, the rope creaking, boots toed down as if even in death Whitfield was desperate to secure a foothold.

‘What do you see, friar?’ Thibault still stood at the window.

‘Master,’ Mistress Cheyne broke in, ‘I have other business to …’

‘Get out!’ Thibault screamed over his shoulder. ‘Leave us, you painted bitches, you false-faced whores!’

Mistress Cheyne and Joycelina scurried off, their footsteps echoing down the stairs. Thibault was breathing noisily and Athelstan recalled stories of how this lord of intrigue loathed prostitutes with a passion beyond understanding. How once he had left here, Thibault would strip and cleanse himself, an act of purification more suitable to an ascetic than Gaunt’s master of mischief.

‘Why are you really here, Master Thibault?’ Athelstan asked softly. ‘Why have you graced this place?’

Thibault half turned and thrust a piece of parchment at Athelstan. In colour and texture this was very similar to that in the dead man’s chancery satchel. Athelstan held it up to the light and read the elegant, courtly hand. Its message was stark and brutal. ‘All is lost. The Herald of Hell has called my name, better to die in peace than live in terror. Pray for my soul on its journey, God have mercy on me and all of us.’ It was signed, ‘Magister Amaury Whitfield, clericus – clerk.’

‘Did Master Amaury Whitfield kill himself,’ Athelstan asked, ‘because of this Herald of Hell? I have heard rumours about him.’

‘A mysterious figure,’ Albinus said, his voice hardly above a whisper, ‘an envoy of the traitorous Upright Men. He appears at all hours of night outside the lodgings of loyal servants to the crown. He threatens them with doggerel verse and leaves a pot brimming with blood and stalks, onions on their tips, like heads spiked above London Bridge.’

‘And he visited Whitfield?’

‘About a week ago,’ Albinus confirmed. ‘Whitfield reported it the following morning in the chancery chambers at the Tower.’

‘Was he frightened?’ Cranston asked, sipping swiftly from the miraculous wineskin he deftly hid beneath his cloak.

Athelstan studied his great friend’s usually jovial face. Cranston looked thinner, the icy blue eyes no longer crinkled in merriment. The friar also glimpsed the light coat of Milanese mail beneath the coroner’s bottle-green cloak. Athelstan glanced at Thibault and Albinus; he suspected both wore the same. The terrors were closing in. The Upright Men and their soldiers the Earthworms openly roamed the city, waiting for the day of the Great Slaughter to begin, for the strongholds to fall, for the blood to stream along Cheapside like wine pumped through a conduit. Citizens were fleeing the city. Cranston’s wife, Lady Maude, together with their two sons, the Poppets, their steward, dogs and other members of the coroner’s household had joined the great exodus, disappearing into the green fastness of the countryside against the violence about to engulf the city.

‘He was terrified!’ Thibault declared.

‘So did he commit suicide?’ Athelstan wondered aloud.

‘Why, Brother,’ Albinus exclaimed, ‘do you suspect murder?’

Athelstan shook his head and turned back to the corpse to scrutinize it more carefully. He then felt the pockets in the cloak and jerkin, which were slightly twisted. He found a few coins and the same in the unbuttoned belt wallet. Athelstan suspected someone had already searched the corpse.

‘Master Thibault, where did you find Amaury’s last letter?’

‘On the bed.’

‘Though you didn’t come here just to mourn your clerk?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You have already searched his corpse, haven’t you? You sent someone up from the yard, that’s when you really found his last letter.’ Athelstan pointed at Thibault. ‘You crossed into Southwark to visit a brothel, a place you deeply detest. You took a risk. You are a marked man, my friend,’ Athelstan added gently. ‘The Upright Men must know you are here and,’ the friar pointed at the window covered with oiled pigskin, ‘I would not stand so close to that. Now, what are you really here for? What were you hoping to find?’

‘A document,’ Albinus answered. ‘A manuscript holding a great secret which Master Amaury was striving to decipher. We have not found it.’

Athelstan gestured at the corpse. ‘Cut it down.’

Albinus hurried to obey, helped by the Captain of Archers who held the swaying corpse. Albinus severed the rope and they both lowered Whitfield’s mortal remains to the floor. Athelstan knelt down and, taking the phial of holy oils from his own satchel, swiftly anointed the corpse. He scrutinized it again for any mark of violence but, apart from the purplish mark around the throat caused by the noose as tight as any snare, he could detect nothing untoward.

‘A manuscript?’ Athelstan glanced at Thibault, who now sat on a stool well away from the window.

‘A manuscript,’ Thibault mockingly replied.

Athelstan searched the dead man’s clothing for any secret pocket. He was about to give up when he recalled how his own order, the Dominicans, conveyed important messages. He drew off the dead man’s boots and smiled as he searched the inside of the left and felt the secret pocket sewn into the woollen lining. He deftly opened this and drew out two scrolls of parchment. The first was greasy, worn and slightly tattered, the second the costliest any chancery could buy. Athelstan, ignoring Thibault’s exclamations, insisted on studying both. The first was simply an array of signs and symbols, numbers and letters. Some of these were from the Greek alphabet, a common device used in secret ciphers. The second was a triangle with a broad base, alongside it a litany of saints with a second triangle inverted so the apex of each met. Athelstan studied the litany of names. He could not recall seeing the likes before: St Alphege, St Giles, St Andrew and others. He curbed his temper as Thibault greedily plucked the parchments from his hand.

‘It makes no sense!’ the Master of Secrets whispered hoarsely. ‘I will …’ Thibault whirled around as a crossbow bolt shattered the pigskin-covered window and slammed into the opposite wall.

Athelstan leapt forward, dragging Thibault to the floor as a second bolt thudded against the window frame, followed by a third which whirled through to sink deep into the broken chamber door. Athelstan crawled across as if to open the window and peer out. Cranston roared at him to lie still. The coroner, despite his bulk, crept swiftly towards the door, bellowing at the Cheshires, now alarmed by Thibault’s cries, to remain outside. One of the archers opened the door to the adjoining chamber. Athelstan heard the coroner shout, yells echoed from the garden below followed by the clatter of armour and the braying of horns as the alarm was raised to shouts of, ‘Harrow! Harrow!’

Athelstan lay face down next to the corpse, staring at Whitfield’s swollen, mottled features all hideous in death. Did the dead speak to the living? Athelstan suppressed a shiver at the half-open, sightless, glassy eyes. Had Amaury Whitfield written that despairing letter and, his wits turned by fear and wine, taken his own life here in this chamber? Athelstan turned and stared across at the far corner where the fire rope lay half coiled. Whitfield must have cut some of this off to fashion a noose. He’d then stood on the stool and lashed the other end over a beam hook before stepping off into judgement. Or so it seemed. Nevertheless, Athelstan nursed a growing suspicion that Whitfield’s suicide was not so simple or so clear. Had fear of the coming revolt truly turned his wits? Certainly the Master of Secrets was marked down for destruction by the Upright Men, yet Whitfield had lived with that fear for months, even years, so why now? And why had Master Whitfield apparently brought all his possessions to this brothel – baggage, chancery satchel and other objects – only to commit suicide?

‘They are gone.’ Cranston strolled back into the room. ‘I suspect the Upright Men. They entered the garden and must have escaped the same way.’

‘Who told them which chamber Master Thibault was in?’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet.

‘Brother,’ Cranston shrugged, ‘the Upright Men’s spies are as thick as lice on a Newgate cloak. They know Master Thibault’s here and the reason for it: their assassins must throng in and around this blessed place.’

‘More like the sty of a filthy sow,’ Thibault retorted, sitting down on the bed. The Master of Secrets began to brush his clothes and whisper to Albinus. Athelstan walked to the door window. There were shutters both within and without. These had now been flung open, the bar to the inside one lying on the floor; the window was narrow but big enough for a slender man to enter. Athelstan stepped closer to continue his scrutiny. The pigskin covering, now in tatters, had been stretched out and fastened over small hooks. The hinges of the door window were of the hardest leather, the wood and paint tarred against the elements, and the handle was a clasp which fitted neatly into a metal socket on the frame. The window looked stout and in good repair except for the damage done by the crossbow bolt.

Athelstan pressed on the latch and pushed; the door window swung open on the outside. He peered down at the sheer drop to a well-cultivated flower bed, rich with spring flowers and ripening roses. Revelling in the fresh, breezy air, sweetened with fragrant garden smells, Athelstan turned his head to catch the strengthening sunlight and closed his eyes. This reminded the friar of his father’s farm and the sheer delight of a summer’s morning. Athelstan was convinced that such beauty could not be matched in any other kingdom, even in this place of ill-repute! He opened his eyes. The brothel was a wealthy house and its garden reflected this: the vegetable plots with sorrel, cabbage, spinach, lettuce, peas and broad beans; the numerous herb beds which undoubtedly produced marjoram, sage, snakeweed and rosemary amongst others. He glimpsed gooseberry and raspberry bushes as well as cherry, plum and apple trees. The garden was dissected by high walls against which black, wooden-trellis fencing was in the process of being fixed: long, narrow poles, the horizontal and vertical creating squares across which vines and rambling rose bushes would grow. Athelstan watched the soldiers move carefully through the garden, swordsmen first, a line of archers behind, the shouts of their officers clear on the morning air.

‘Brother Athelstan?’ He turned away from the window.

‘Do you think my clerk committed suicide?’

‘At a guess, Magister,’ Athelstan replied swiftly, ‘I would say not.’

Thibault gave a loud sigh. Albinus walked to the door to shoo away the guards. Cranston moved to the window as Athelstan took a stool before Thibault, who was still sitting on the edge of the bed.

The Master of Secrets leaned forward. ‘Begin, Brother.’

‘No.’ Athelstan pointed at Thibault. ‘You tell me, Magister. First, Amaury Whitfield?’

‘A graduate from the schools of Cambridge, a scholar skilled in the Quadrivium and Trivium. A shrewd clerk who trained himself in cipher, secret alphabets and other chancery matters. He was highly skilled.’

‘Loyal?’

‘Undoubtedly.’ Thibault’s face turned more cherubic as he smiled to himself.

‘Magister?’

‘I have my spies, Brother. I call them my sparrowhawks and I loose them along the lanes and runnels of London. Naturally they collected information about Whitfield, a bachelor with comfortable lodgings in Fairlop Lane near the Great Conduit in Cheapside. A clerk who liked games of hazard and the soft flesh of whores. Oliver Lebarge was his scrivener, who lodged with Whitfield and shared his pleasures. They were both constant visitors here. Mistress Cheyne proclaimed that the Golden Oliphant would hold the Festival of Cokayne, so, naturally, Whitfield and Lebarge were included. I understand they arrived three days ago.’

‘He was missed at the Chancery?’

‘Of course, but, according to the indenture he sealed with me, Whitfield was granted Saturdays and Sundays as boon-free along with other such days in each quarter.’

‘You suspected nothing wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ Albinus replied, moving to sit beside his master.

‘Nothing?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘Except the summons from the so-called Herald of Hell that frightened him, yes?’

‘We thought he had taken his boon days to recover,’ Albinus pulled a face, ‘to wallow in his filthy pleasures and so forget all threats and menaces.’

‘You have visited his chambers in Fairlop Lane?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Do not,’ Athelstan declared. ‘If you want me and Sir John to investigate this matter, then we need the truth as we find it. Yes?’ Thibault just shrugged.

‘The recent attack,’ Athelstan gestured at the window, ‘nothing or no one was found?’

‘If they had been,’ Albinus jibed, ‘they would have met the same swift fate as Whitfield.’

‘And the other guests?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Cheshire archers now ring the Golden Oliphant. No one is allowed in or out without permission.’

‘Good,’ Athelstan breathed. ‘I need to question Mistress Cheyne, her servants and the guests, as well as study those manuscripts. What are their origins?’

Thibault rubbed his hands. ‘Thank you, Brother, for finding them. As for their provenance, the Upright Men have a messenger who calls himself Reynard. God knows his true name; some claim he is a defrocked friar of the Order of the Sack.’

‘Reynard the Fox?’ Cranston interrupted. ‘Leading emissary of the Great Community of the Realm, a true miscreant who prides himself on slipping in and out of the city as easily as a fox does a hen coop?’

‘Well, this time he was trapped and caught,’ Thibault snapped. ‘Reynard murdered the bell clerk of St Mary Le Bow, Edmund Lacy, and fled. He was recognized and caught in the Hall of Hell – a disreputable tavern.’

‘A veritable mummer’s castle,’ Cranston agreed. ‘Deep in that filthy maze of streets around Whitefriars.’

‘Anyway,’ Thibault hurried on, ‘Reynard was arrested and lodged in Newgate, where he was searched and interrogated. We discovered the cipher on his person but not the alphabet to go with it. Under torture Reynard admitted he was to meet a leader of the Upright Men in London who styles himself the Herald of Hell.’

‘And where is Reynard now?’

‘Recovering in Newgate, he, ah …’ Thibault pulled a face. Athelstan held his gaze. Reynard, or whoever he truly was, would have been harshly tortured, probably crushed beneath an iron door until he began to plead. Thibault’s cruelty was a byword in the city.

‘Master Thibault has shown great compassion,’ Albinus lisped. ‘The traitor Reynard could have been immediately condemned, hanged, drawn and quartered.’

‘Great compassion indeed!’ Cranston murmured drily.

‘Reynard,’ Albinus continued, ‘has been given the opportunity to reflect and mend his ways.’

‘By helping to decipher that message?’ Athelstan intervened.

‘As well as informing us of other secret matters affecting the Crown and its business.’

Athelstan studied this precious pair. Thibault and his eerie henchman were royal officials who could expect no mercy if the Upright Men stormed London and assumed power. The punishments threatened to Reynard would be nothing compared to what the Earthworms would inflict on both these men at Smithfield or Tyburn.

‘And now?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Reynard is still reflecting. We await his answer by Vespers tomorrow evening, Brother Athelstan.’ Thibault thrust both documents back into the friar’s hands. ‘Sir John will be officially commissioned to investigate the mysteries here at the Golden Oliphant. We expect you to assist with this secreta negotia – secret business – and, in doing so, win the approval of the Crown, not to mention its undying gratitude.’

‘Of course, what could be more pleasing?’ Athelstan murmured. Thibault smiled with his eyes.

‘We also ask you, as we know you are peritus – skilled in these matters – to unlock the secret of the cipher and so tell us the messages being carried to this Herald of Hell.’ Thibault wagged a finger. ‘I suspect the other manuscript, displaying the triangles and saints’ names, represents Whitfield’s workings before he died, but what they mean …’ Thibault shrugged. ‘In the end that cipher, I am sure, refers to matters which are most important, crucial to the rebels when they raise the black banner of treason against our sovereign lord …’

‘And that includes yourself and His Grace, my Lord of Gaunt?’

‘But more especially the person of our young king Richard,’ Cranston intervened swiftly, fearful that this little friar might provoke Thibault too far.

‘Traitors, Brother Athelstan,’ Thibault hissed, ‘thrive on their dunghills. I have, and will leave alone, those who burrow deep in certain parts of Southwark.’ He shrugged. ‘What difference does it make now? Why hunt sparrows when more dangerous birds of prey circle overhead?’ He abruptly recalled himself. ‘Unlock the cipher, Brother Athelstan, and you will have my usual gratitude.’

Athelstan held Thibault’s gaze. The Master of Secrets had raised this matter before and, to be fair to him, had kept his word. St Erconwald’s had its own coven of Upright Men – Watkin, Pike and the other miscreants – and, though Thibault knew this, none of them had suffered some violent raid on their dwellings in the dead of night. No mailed horsemen had clattered into yards, damaging property, seizing goods whilst none of the parish’s young men had been seized and hustled away to rot in the Bocardo, Southwark’s filthy prison or those other hellish pits in Newgate, the Fleet or the Tower.

‘Good, good.’ Thibault clapped his hands like a child, rocking backwards and forwards on the bed. Athelstan glanced quickly at Albinus and was surprised. Thibault’s henchman was gazing sadly at him with those pink-rimmed, glass-coloured eyes, then he winked slowly and pulled a face. Athelstan went cold. Albinus, for his own private reasons, was warning him that Thibault may well leave the parish of St Erconwald’s alone because he did not need to bother himself. Thibault already knew what the Upright Men were plotting there, which meant that the Master of Secrets had a traitor, someone deep in the parish. Shocked and yet certain of the warning given, Athelstan abruptly rose to his feet and walked across to the window. He leaned against the ledge, watching the tattered pigskin flutter in the breeze as he recalled Albinus’ warning. Athelstan knew Thibault’s henchman was most amicable towards him: the friar had done good work for Gaunt and never indulged in the cheap insults others directed Albinus’ way, either about his strange looks or sinister status. Nevertheless the possibility of a spy in St Erconwald’s would have to wait. Other matters demanded his attention.

‘I will need to question this Reynard,’ Athelstan pushed himself away from the ledge, ‘as I do Oliver Lebarge, Whitfield’s scrivener who fled from here this morning to seek sanctuary at St Erconwald’s.’

‘So he is definitely there,’ Thibault murmured, glancing swiftly at Albinus. ‘We wondered why he should shelter in your church. According to Mistress Cheyne, Lebarge fled as soon as Whitfield’s corpse was discovered. He had the chamber next to this.’

‘And his possessions?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Also gone. Why, Brother, you look surprised.’

‘Because Lebarge came with nothing, Master Thibault, a true fugitive. No possessions except for the clothes on his back. What do you know about the man?’

‘Amaury Whitfield’s one and only friend,’ Albinus whispered. ‘Both bachelors with no close kinsmen. Lebarge and Whitfield occupied the same lodgings in an old ironmonger’s shop in Fairlop Lane. Whitfield was a senior clerk; he would deal with secreta negotia – secret business. Lebarge was his personal scrivener, skilled in his own right.’

Albinus paused as the captain of archers entered the room and bowed.

‘Master Thibault, we have searched the brothel, its outhouses and gardens. We’ve found no trace whatsoever of the attackers. I understand three bolts were found, which means,’ the man scratched his bearded face, ‘a trained archer, perhaps one of the Earthworms who might have followed us here, or someone sheltering in the brothel itself. But,’ he held up a leather-mittened hand, ‘we have no proof of that. The Golden Oliphant is now ringed with archers. Sir John, your chief bailiff Flaxwith and others have arrived. They too have taken up position.’ The captain coughed apologetically. ‘Oh, Sir John …?’

‘Yes?’

‘Your bailiff Flaxwith is accompanied by the ugliest mastiff I have ever seen!’

‘Keen-eyed, you are,’ Cranston grinned, ‘and, what is worse, the ugly bugger thinks I am his bosom comrade.’

The captain left, chuckling to himself as he clattered down the stairs.

‘So,’ Athelstan resumed, ‘Whitfield and Lebarge, two bachelors, came here to participate in the Festival of Cokayne, the topsy-turvy world, a stark contrast to the rigours and the discipline of the royal chancery at Westminster on the Tower. Then the festival turns fatal …’

Athelstan took a set of Ave beads from his pocket and threaded them through his fingers, a common gesture which always reminded him of other realities hidden from the human eye.

‘And you suspect murder?’ Thibault demanded, getting to his feet.

‘Yes, but I could be wrong.’ Athelstan pointed at the corpse. ‘Whitfield’s remains will begin to swell and stink: his cadaver should be taken to Brother Philippe in St Bartholomew’s at Smithfield. He must perform the most scrupulous search of the corpse and report his conclusions to me and the coroner as soon as possible. In the meantime, Master Thibault, Sir John, nobody must leave this tavern. I will need to meet the guests who resided here yesterday evening. Though,’ Athelstan pulled a face, ‘I am sure they are now as eager to depart this place as Lebarge was.’

The friar walked over and stared down at the corpse. ‘And this Herald of Hell?’ he asked. ‘What do we know of him?’

‘Nothing more than a title,’ Thibault replied. ‘Whether he truly exists or not cannot be proved. My sparrowhawks have skimmed the streets and shelter under the eaves and gables. They report that the leader of the Upright Men in London has assumed such a title. The only fact that I do know is that this herald mysteriously appears outside the dwellings of God-fearing citizens to deliver his warnings.’

‘But never here?’

‘Why should he, Brother? Though this house has its own mysteries. It was once owned by Sir Reginald Camoys. I believe his brother, Sir Everard, is a former shield companion of yours, Sir John? Sir Everard has recently been visited by the Herald of Hell but, as for the Golden Oliphant, all I can say is that this is a strange house with an even stranger history. Who knows, Sir John, you may even find Lothar’s Cross here. Now,’ Thibault beckoned at Albinus, ‘we must be gone.’ And both men swept from the room, Thibault shouting for his entourage to be ready.

Athelstan waited until the clatter on the stairs faded. Cranston moved across to the bed. He took out the miraculous wineskin, drank a generous mouthful and offered it to Athelstan, who shook his head. The coroner sat cradling the wineskin in his arms, staring moodily at the damaged door.

‘Thibault did not really tell us much,’ he remarked. ‘But, there again, Gaunt’s henchman never opens his soul to anyone.’

‘Sir John, you are quiet, withdrawn, querulous?’

‘I always am when Thibault is within spitting distance. I don’t trust him or his royal master John of Gaunt, our dear king’s loving uncle. I am sure Gaunt nurses a deep ambition to be king. Richard is only a boy, a mere child. Gaunt wouldn’t really mourn if his nephew died without an heir, leaving only him and the House of Lancaster to occupy St Edward’s throne and wear his sacred crown.’ He glanced quickly at Athelstan, ‘The preacher is correct: Vae regno ubi rex est puer.’

‘Woe to the kingdom whose king is a child!’ Athelstan translated. He paused as a clerk of archers came up the stairs and into the chamber, accompanied by four Tower guards carrying a makeshift stretcher. They waited whilst Athelstan once again searched the corpse, but he could find nothing. The clerk lit a candle, took a sheet from the bed and used it as a shroud, sealing the linen cloth with blobs of wax from his writing satchel so the corpse and other items could not be interfered with. Whitfield’s baggage was then scrupulously searched. Athelstan declared himself satisfied that he had overlooked nothing and repeated his instructions: Whitfield’s remains and all his possessions were to be taken to Master Philippe at St Bartholomew’s for further scrutiny and examination. The busy-eyed clerk of archers promised all would be done and, with a little help from both Cranston and Athelstan, the corpse and the other impedimenta were taken out on to the gallery.

‘So bleak and empty.’ Athelstan gestured around.

‘Why, little monk, what did you expect?’ Cranston teased.

‘Pictures, paintings depicting love, lust and all the other fascinating things and, by the way, Sir John, I am a friar, not a monk.’

‘And one apparently acquainted with brothels?’

Cranston, his face all curious, came over and gently poked the Dominican in the chest.

‘Oh, yes,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘I visited one in Perugia, Italy. I was studying at Pavia but, in the summer months, I journeyed round the northern cities. One glorious afternoon, I was walking across a sun-washed piazza in Perugia. The square was a sea of brilliant colour. Beautiful young men and women dressed in multi-coloured silks and taffeta milled back and forth. Children were selling the freshest fruits. Open air, portable stoves cooked the most appetizing food: cheese and herbs on flat savoury bread with strips of quail and other meats grilled to perfection. A group of musicians played heart-plucking melodies. Anyway, I was there, all agog, when a beautiful nun, her face framed by a wimple, approached me and grasped my hand. She had the most brilliant smile. Although I could not understand her, she talked so softly, so prettily; she pulled at my hand, urging me to come with her.’ Athelstan paused. Cranston was now sitting on the stool, face in his hands, shoulders shaking. ‘She took me across the square to what she called her Domus, her convent.’ Athelstan ignored Cranston’s snort of laughter. ‘A truly exquisite place. The outside stone was honey coloured, the walls within covered in rich paintings, a shimmering black and white tiled floor reflected the light. Only when I entered what I thought was the convent parlour did I suddenly realize that something was very wrong.’ Cranston was now sobbing with laughter. ‘There was a painting of a young man, supposed to be Adonis, attended by two graceful young ladies, naked as when they were born …’

Athelstan smiled as Cranston, shaking with laughter, his eyes brimming with tears, rose and clapped him on the shoulders.

‘Oh, little monk!’

‘Friar, Sir John!’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I explained that she had me wrong. I was there to see the sights …’

Cranston threw his head back and roared with laughter.

‘I asked if she would like to accompany me, did she wish to be shriven? I …’

Sir John turned away and slumped back on the stool.

‘She became very angry.’ Athelstan drew a deep breath. ‘So I thought it best to leave.’ He went and stood over Cranston.

‘I often think of her, Sir John, her exquisitely decorated chamber, the bed with its snow-white sheets …’

‘Have you ever been with a woman,’ Cranston asked, ‘having lain with one?’

Athelstan coloured and turned away. ‘I know what it is to love, Sir John, to love and lose and nurse a broken heart. As for the sex act, strange to say, my good friend, and you can ask many a priest, it’s not the coitus, the little death of the bed which haunts your soul. No, being celibate, remaining chaste bites deeper than that. It’s the loneliness, Sir John, the yawning, empty solitude. Bonaventure, not my cat but the great Franciscan theologian, had it correct. He claimed the greatest friendship in the world should be that between husband and wife.’

‘And the good Lord does not fill that emptiness, Brother?’

‘We worship a hidden God, Sir John, an elusive one. We search for him, the hidden beauty, and that search can lead us down many strange paths. In the village where I was born an old widow woman lived in a well-furnished cottage surrounded by a garden overlooked by a small rose window filled with coloured glass. Turtle doves nested beneath this. Now the old woman lived by herself. Her husband had left an eternity ago to fight in Normandy. He promised he would return: the first she would know about it was when he tapped at that rose window. He never came back, killed by a crossbow bolt at Crecy. Nevertheless, every evening that old lady, just as dusk fell, waited for the turtle dove to begin its passionate pattering against the darkening glass. Love, Sir John, manifests itself in so many strange ways. The human heart is a hungry hunter; it starves for love, for acceptance and deep friendship, and the road it follows twists and turns. Sometimes it can bring you to a place like this. They say a man who knocks on the door of a brothel really wants to knock on the door of God. He is searching for that hidden beauty and joy.’

‘You are a strange one, friar.’

‘Then I am in good company, Sir John.’

‘You deal with sin but never commit one?’

‘I did not say that, my portly friend. Yes, I sit in the shriving chair and listen to souls pattering their sins. However, the more you listen, the more you realize that you and your penitent have so much in common.’ Athelstan laughed. ‘They often confess what you would love to do yourself, which, Sir John, brings us back to Perugia and what I saw there compared to what we have here, a stark bareness, which is not what I expected.’

‘Brother, any house openly proclaiming itself a brothel would be condemned, raided and closed. So the Golden Oliphant masquerades as a wealthy tavern.’

‘Where other appetites are discreetly served?’

‘Precisely, little friar. Now we should go down and meet those other guests.’

‘They will wait, they have to,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘It’s good for their souls. Rest assured, Sir John, The Golden Oliphant now houses the deep, curdling mystery of Whitfield’s death. Logically therefore it also holds the solution which, I suspect, is already known to one or more of its occupants. So, let us get the measure of this place.’

Athelstan crossed to the door then came back.

‘Thibault claimed there was a story to this house. He mentioned an old comrade of yours, Sir Everard Camoys, his brother Reginald and the Cross of Lothar. I have heard of the latter; an exquisitely beautiful, bejewelled cross of great antiquity. Come, Sir John, there is a story behind the Golden Oliphant?’

The friar gazed expectantly at the coroner, who just stared back. You are, Cranston thought, a little ferret, you gnaw away at a problem until you reach the truth. The coroner half-cocked his head, listening to the sounds from below: the archers leaving, Whitfield’s cadaver being loaded on to a sled, the clatter of pots, all drowned by the deep growling of dogs.

‘What are those?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Hunting dogs, mastiffs, Mistress Cheyne lets them loose at night to roam the gardens. Well, there is one less now, thanks to Master Thibault.’

‘So those mastiffs must have been prowling last night?’

Cranston raised his eyebrows. ‘Brother, we should go down and begin the questioning.’

‘In a while, Sir John. Thibault said that you have a story and, as I have said, I want to hear it. I need to capture the very essence of this place. We must summon up all our wit.’

‘Why?’

‘Because a very clever, subtle murder has been committed here.’

‘You are sure of that?’

‘Sir John, I feel it here.’ Athelstan beat his breast. ‘Something is very wrong and we must uncover the truth. We must listen, reflect and pray. Eventually that truth will emerge like light from a candle, the pool will spread and strengthen. So,’ Athelstan spread his hands, ‘the Golden Oliphant?’

‘Many years ago,’ the coroner began lugubriously, ‘when I was young and handsome …’

‘Sir John, you still are!’

‘And my hair was golden, my body svelte. I was like all the others after our great victory at Crecy, we flew on eagle’s wings, young warriors, Brother. English knights and English bowmen were needed here, there and everywhere. Many of my comrades hired themselves out to form companies and fight for this prince or that. Everard and Reginald Camoys, together with their bosom shield companion, Simon Penchen, were leaders amongst the Black Prince’s eagles. They journeyed into Eastern Europe where they were hired by the Teutonic Knights to fight the Slavs. Everard was the real soldier; Reginald was a dreamer, an artist who valued beautiful objects. He and Everard were close but Reginald was totally devoted to his childhood friend, Simon Penchen. They had served as pages, squires and household knights in this noble retinue or that. Two young men who saw themselves as David and Jonathan from the Old Testament or Roland or Oliver at Roncesvalles.’ Cranston paused to drink from his miraculous wineskin. Athelstan listened to the sounds of the tavern, dominated by the deep growling of those mastiffs. Another strand to this mystery, the friar reflected. If Whitfield was murdered, the assassin must have entered from the garden. The door to this chamber had not been forced, so the murderer must have used the window to get in and get out, but how? The chamber was at least eight yards up from the ground. What ladder, if any, could reach that height and, above all, those mastiffs would surely tear any intruder apart?

‘Brother?’

‘Ah, yes, Sir John: Simon Penchen and Reginald Camoys?’

‘Two peas from the same pod. Penchen was killed fighting the Easterlings; Reginald Camoys was distraught. He had the mortal remains of his comrade embalmed and brought home and buried in a chantry chapel he founded at St Mary Le Bow. Later he erected an ornate table tomb for Penchen and eventually one for himself. Reginald died just a few years ago. Now listen, Brother,’ Cranston wagged a finger, ‘Reginald loved the beautiful, the work of skilled craftsmen. When he and his brother left the Teutonic Knights and hastily brought Penchen’s corpse back to England, Reginald was so distraught that, to compensate himself for his grief, he stole a precious relic from the chapel where the Teutonic Knights had their treasury, the Cross of Lothar, a priceless precious object, only six inches high and about the same across. Nevertheless, it is fashioned out of pure gold and decorated with pearls, gems and precious enamels. At the centre of the cross piece is a medallion of the purest glass and ivory delineating the head of the Roman Emperor Augustus. A rare object indeed, Athelstan, blessed, sanctified and bestowed on the Teutonic Knights by the Emperor Lothar.’

‘Did the knights pursue Reginald?’

‘No, never. A few years after the brothers left, the Easterlings overran the garrison town. I think the Teutonic Knights had to move their treasury. Chaos ensued there …’

‘And in England?’

‘Sir Everard settled down to become a mercer, a prosperous goldsmith. He married, but his wife died giving birth to their scapegrace son Matthias.’

‘And Reginald?’

‘A painter. He embellished the chantry chapel at St Mary Le Bow, dedicating it to St Stephen. He also used his skill to become one of the finest sign writers in the city. Go down Cheapside, those magnificent shop signs, guild markings, escutcheons, heraldic devices are, in the main, the work of Reginald Camoys.’

‘And he never married?’

‘No. According to Everard, who served with me in France, Reginald returned a broken man. We talked of coitus, lying with a woman – in a word, Reginald became impotent.’

‘Kyrie Eleison – Lord have mercy on him.’

‘Yes,’ Cranston smiled, ‘the Lord certainly did have mercy on Reginald Camoys. He met Elizabeth Cheyne, our Mistress of the Moppets. Heaven knows her skills and devices, but she apparently cured Reginald of his impotence. He became deeply smitten with her – hardly surprising. He bought this tavern, the Golden Oliphant. When he died his will divided his wealth: one third to his brother and one third to the maintenance of the chantry chapel at St Mary Le Bow for the singing of requiems for the repose of his soul and Simon Penchen’s.’

‘And a third to Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne?’

‘Yes, the tavern, all its moveables and the garden. Mistress Elizabeth found the maintenance of such an establishment, not to mention keeping herself in her accustomed luxury, beyond all income, so she decided to supplement her revenues with the most ancient trade available.’

‘And the Cross of Lothar, did Reginald Camoys have that buried with him?’

‘No, no …’ Cranston paused as a young girl came breathlessly clattering up the stairs and into the chamber.

‘Mistress Cheyne asks how long?’

‘Tell Mistress Cheyne,’ Athelstan replied, ‘that we appreciate her patience and that of the others.’ The girl stood chewing the corner of her lip.

‘Tell your mistress,’ Cranston declared, ‘we will be down soon enough.’

‘Oh, child?’ Athelstan pointed to the window. ‘If I climbed through that, is there a ladder long enough to take me down to the garden?’

The girl shook her head. Athelstan recalled the recent murders at the Candle-Flame tavern. ‘Is there a cart high enough to place a ladder on and so lean it on the window ledge outside?’ The girl stood, fingers to her mouth, then again shook her head and clattered off.

‘You suspect the assassin used this window?’

‘I don’t know, Sir John, but to return to Lothar’s Cross, what did happen to it?’

‘It disappeared. Reginald always maintained that it would not be buried with him but displayed in a most appropriate place. What that is, or where, no one knows. People still come here looking for it, pilgrims searching for a precious relic.’

‘Or treasure hunters?’

‘Yes, above all Reginald’s own nephew, Matthias. I understand from Sir Everard that Matthias and the Golden Oliphant are almost inseparable. Sir Everard does not know if his son comes here for the delights of the ladies or for Lothar’s Cross. Matthias also haunts St Mary Le Bow and the chantry chapel there.’

‘And the relic has never been found?’

‘No, but, come, little friar, the world and his wife await.’

‘This chamber,’ Athelstan walked over to the door, ‘was definitely forced. Look, Sir John, the bolts at the top and bottom of the door have been roughly wrenched, the lock has bulged and snapped …’

‘Surely it must be suicide?’ Cranston whispered. ‘Whitfield locked and bolted the door from within, he intended to die. Perhaps his wits had turned, that’s why he was dressed: he was leaving and, in his own befuddled way, he was preparing to quit life.’

‘Perhaps, Sir John. However, let’s say it was murder. The assassin must have come by this window and yet he could not use the fire rope – that was impossible – so it would have to be a ladder if there was one long enough. Secondly, even if he used a ladder, how could he release the clasp on the outside shutters or lift the bar, or those inside? Only someone within could do that. Then there’s the window itself – its handle can only be lifted by someone inside. No one could slip a hand through. I am sure the pigskin covering was intact until Thibault’s would-be assassin loosed his crossbow quarrels.’ Athelstan pulled up the latch, opened the window and glanced down.

‘Be careful, Brother: you do not like heights.’

‘I stand on the top of St Erconwald’s tower to study the stars. Yes, heights can frighten me, but only if I let them, as I do on London Bridge. No, Sir John, anyone who used this window would need a long ladder and, even from here, I can see the garden below has not been disturbed. This window and its shutters only deepen the mystery around a possible intruder and, of course, there’s those dogs.’ Athelstan came away and stared down at the floor, tapping his feet. ‘You’re right, it’s time we went below where, as always, we will have to sift the truth from the lies …’

‘Newgate is truly the gateway to Hell.’ So preached John Ball, hedge priest and leading captain of the Upright Men. ‘The very antechamber of Satan and all his fallen angels, the deepest pit of brooding despair and the veritable anus of this wicked, filthy world …’

Reynard, principal courier to the Upright Men, could only agree. He had been lodged in Newgate three years ago over the question of a pyx stolen from a church. In the end he had managed to escape the gallows, though he had been branded as a suspect felon. He lifted his manacled hands and traced the outline of the ‘F’ burnt deep into his right cheek. Leaning against the slimy wall, he felt the flies and lice crumble between the stone and his back. He moved his bare feet and curled his bruised toes against the muddy mush of rotting straw, decaying food and the filthy contents of the common close-stool which had brimmed over to drench the floor with its slops. The air was thick with corruption. The stench would have offended a filthy sow, whilst the only light came from a needle-thin window high in the wall and the flickering cheap oil lights which exuded more foulness than light. Shapes lurched through the gloom to the clink and heavy scrape of chains. Other prisoners, groaning and cursing, were groping their way to the common hatch for their bowl of scraps and stoup of brackish water. Reynard could not be bothered. His entire being ached from the beatings he had received, the burn marks to his legs and the scalding to his arms where the Newgate gaolers had poured boiling water; his back was one open wound from being wedged under that heavy door in the press yard.

Reynard was now lodged in the condemned hold which lay at the very heart of the grim, battlemented, soaring mass of dark dwellings built into the ancient city wall and given the mocking title of Newgate. There was nothing new, clean or fresh about the prison. However, Reynard ruefully conceded, he would not be here for long. Master Thibault had given him a choice. He could stay and rot in the condemned hold until the Hangman of Rochester came with his execution cart for that last, grim journey to Smithfield or Tyburn. He would be dragged up the steps of mourning into the chamber of the damned, where a priest would offer to shrive him before being thrown into the execution cart. Or … Master Thibault had made him another offer. Confess! Confess to everything he knew. Well, he had been caught red-handed over the slaying of Edmund Lacy, the bell clerk at St Mary Le Bow, whose death the Upright Men had ordered for their own secret purposes. Reynard had tried to discover what these purposese might be, but found nothing. Lacy had to die and Reynard had been instructed to make sure this happened. He had done so, knifing Lacy in the Sun of Splendour tavern, and had then fled to Whitefriars, only to be recognized there and arrested. He had slipped whilst trying to escape; a filthy pool of ale had brought him down! If this had happened to anyone else, Reynard would have scoffed and jeered, but all he felt was shame that the great Reynard, famed for his cunning and guile, had been trapped so easily. And as for the documents he’d been carrying, he’d been told to leave them at St Mary Le Bow within a cleft in the window of the chantry chapel dedicated to St Stephen, which housed the tombs of Sir Reginald Camoys and Simon Penchen. He had failed to do so, being arrested before he could complete his task. Reynard, despite his pain, smiled to himself. Who, he wondered, were these documents for? Reynard could not say, nor did he understand the cipher. He could read, of course, educated in his previous life before he had fallen from grace, never to rise again. Reynard, or Peter Simpkins as he had been baptized, had been a friar at the Order of the Sack, but now …

Reynard moved restlessly as one of the huge rats, a swarm of which haunted this hideous place, slunk out of a congealed mass of dirt and refuse. Nose twitching, its ears flat against its knobbly head, back haunched as if ready to spring, the rat sloped across a pool of light. One of the feral cats brought in to contain such vermin as well as provide fresh meat for the prisoners, sprang out from the dark. Reynard watched the life-and-death struggle reach its inevitable bloody climax in a long drawn-out screech. The cat loped away, prey in its teeth, and Reynard returned to his reflections. What could he confess to? He could provide the names of the leading Upright Men of Essex, yet Thibault knew these already. Reynard had been asked for other names, including the identity of the Herald of Hell. Reynard could not reply to that. All he could say was that the Herald was a will-o’-the-wisp with no true substance.

He glanced up at a shrill yell. Dark shapes milled around Benedict Bedlam, a hedgerow priest sentenced to hang for the murder of a doxy outside St Bartholomew’s the Less. Bedlam was defending himself against Wyvern and Hydrus, wolfsheads hired by the Upright Men to attack a convoy of weaponry Thibault had organized at Queenshithe. Brutal scavengers, Wyvern and Hydrus had decided to take Benedict’s bowl of filthy pottage. They had returned too late to the condemned hole to collect their own meagre meal after they had been taken to a separate chamber to be searched for any knife or dagger. Reynard looked away. Perhaps he could advise Thibault how wrong the Master of Secrets was about the timing of the impending revolt? Indeed, it was already beginning. The black and red banners of anarchy, along with longbows, quivers crammed with arrows, swords, clubs, maces and spears were being taken from their secret hiding places behind parish altars or dug up in village cemeteries. Soon, very soon according to John Ball, the Armies of God would be marching. Finally there was that scrap of parchment Reynard was still carrying, hidden in the stitching of his clothing. Was that the key to the cipher? Would it make the other document intelligible and so provide Thibault with valuable information? If it did, Reynard could buy his life and his freedom. He would receive the promised pardon, be escorted to the nearest port with food, weapons and licence to be taken across the Narrow Seas. Once there, like the fox he was, he’d lie low until the storm blew over.

‘Brother! Brother!’ Reynard glanced up. Hydrus and Wyvern were crouching on either side of him. In the gloom Reynard could not make out their ugly faces, yet a spurt of fear gripped his belly.

‘Brother?’ Hydrus leaned forward. ‘The turnkeys who searched us support the Great Community.’

‘Liars!’ Reynard replied, his mouth turning dry, his tongue seeming to swell.

‘They say you are here to reflect, that you have been offered a pardon by Thibault the turd.’ Hydrus laughed at the crude joke. ‘You wouldn’t be thinking of leaving us, would you, Brother?’

‘No, of course not.’ Reynard pushed himself back against the wall.

‘Look up to the hills, Reynard,’ Hydrus exclaimed, ‘from whence our salvation comes. Look up! Look up!’ Reynard had no choice and Wyvern swiftly sliced his throat with the razor-edged dagger Benedict the Bedlam had slipped to him during their pretend quarrel.

Cranston and Athelstan left the death chamber. The friar was insistent on walking around the Golden Oliphant. They first visited the garden strip beneath Whitfield’s bedchamber. Both of them scrutinized the black-soiled flower plot but could find nothing to suggest a ladder or anything else had been placed there, or that anyone, though God knows how, had slipped down from Whitfield’s chamber. They then visited the kennels. Athelstan warily inspected the mastiffs, smooth-haired dogs with long legs, bulbous faces and powerful jaws: red-eyed with anger, the hounds threw themselves against the stout oaken palings, foam-flecked teeth snapping the air.

‘In the dark, certainly,’ Cranston murmured, ‘they wouldn’t distinguish friend from foe. Perhaps we should accept the obvious and the inevitable, Brother: Whitfield hanged himself.’

He grasped Athelstan’s shoulder and made the Dominican face him. ‘Why do you pursue this, little friar?’

‘God’s work, Sir John. God gives life and only God can take it away. The first sin committed outside Eden was Cain slaying his brother Abel. He then hurled the challenge which still echoes through all human existence, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” And yes, Sir John, I am, you are, we are.’ Athelstan paused, as if listening to the cooing from the dovecote. The dogs had fallen silent, so the birdsong carried strong and clear. ‘I just feel here in my heart that something is very, very wrong. But what,’ Athelstan sighed, ‘I cannot say. We have a saying where I come from: “The whole world is strange except for thee and me, and even we are a little strange sometimes.” So, just bear with me and let’s continue our survey.’

They visited the stables. Athelstan glimpsed a magnificent destrier in its stall and wondered who the warhorse belonged to. They inspected the other outhouses and entered the kitchen block, where a sweaty-faced galopin or spit-turner informed the ever hungry Sir John that the previous evening they had served leek and venison pie and jugged hare, followed by fresh cheese tartlet. The coroner smacked his lips and took a serving of fresh waffles and a small cup of hippocras for ‘refreshment’s sake’. They continued their tour, oblivious to the messages from an increasingly agitated hostess. Athelstan was insistent on learning all he could about the Golden Oliphant, from the cellar with its barrels, casks, earthenware jars and baskets of dried fruit and vegetables to its wet storeroom, where fish were salted and brined and pates placed along the shelves in their strong crusts or ‘coffins’.

Only then did Athelstan declare himself satisfied and moved into the spacious taproom where Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne, Joycelina, Foxley, the weasel-faced Master of Horse, and Griffin, Master of the Hall, were assembled along with others. Athelstan and Cranston’s arrival was greeted with grumbles and dark looks, despite the free stoups of ale and platters of lait lardel – beaten eggs cooked with lardons and saffron – which had been served. Athelstan gathered that some of those present were guests, others servants – slatterns or, as Cranston tactfully described them, moppets of the bedchamber. Athelstan stood on a bench and, having apologized and delivered a special blessing, issued a spate of questions about what had happened the night before.

He soon established that it had rained. The mastiffs had been loose in the garden but, in the end, nothing remarkable had occurred, or so they said. Master Whitfield, along with his comrade Lebarge, had eaten and drunk deeply here in the taproom before going their separate ways. Lebarge stayed to converse with Hawisa, one of the moppets, whilst Whitfield had climbed the stairs to his chamber. Apparently, Mistress Cheyne pointed out, the Festival of Cokayne was over; the dinner parties and topsy-turvy chamber games had finished, and Whitfield was due to leave the following morning. Eventually the explanations and answers petered out. Athelstan continued to stand on the bench and stare around. He realized he could not detain them for long but insisted that, for the time being at least, all retainers of the Golden Oliphant, together with those who had participated in the Cokayne festivities, should stay lodged under pain of arrest and confinement in Newgate. They could leave to do this or that but they had to return to the Golden Oliphant by nightfall.

Athelstan and Sir John then retired to what Mistress Cheyne called her ‘Exchequer Chamber’, where she kept accounts, a pleasant, wood-panelled room with a large window overlooking the sweet-smelling kitchen garden. The chamber boasted a chancery desk, chairs and stools all polished to gleaming like the waxed floorboards. Athelstan noticed, from the marks on both the wall and floor, that items such as pictures, painted cloths and carpets had been removed. He had observed the same elsewhere on his tour of the house.

Cranston sat behind the desk with Athelstan next to him on a high chancery stool. The friar opened his satchel while Cranston summoned in Elizabeth Cheyne and her principal maid, Joycelina. The two women sat together on the high-backed cushioned settle which Cranston had moved in front of what he called his ‘judgement table’. Athelstan, under the pretext of laying out his writing instruments, closely studied these two ladies of the night. Elizabeh Cheyne, Mistress of the Moppets, was dressed in a dark blue gown fastened at the neck with a silver brooch carved in the shape of a leaping stag; her auburn hair was clamped with jewelled pins and hidden under a gauze veil. Despite her homely dress and head gear, she was harsh-faced and hard-eyed, her bloodless lips twisted into a sour pout. Nevertheless, Athelstan caught traces of her former beauty and grace: the way she sat and the delicate gestures of her long, snow-white fingers as she adjusted her headdress or the brooch on the neck of her gown. Joycelina, her principal maid, was equally demure in her light grey gown with white bands at cuff and neck; thin-faced and sly-eyed, Joycelina exuded the air of a woman very sure of both herself and her talents. She sat, legs crossed, skirts slightly hitched back; on her feet soft, red-gold buskins, well tied, with thickened soles.

‘You have kept us waiting, Sir John. We all have lives, duties and tasks …’

‘As I have mine, Mistress Elizabeth.’ Cranston spread his hands. ‘And principal amongst these is mysterious, violent death such as Master Amaury’s in that chamber on the top gallery of your, some would say, notorious establishment.’

‘Some say a great deal about you, Sir John.’

‘Why did Whitfield hire a chamber on the very top gallery?’ Athelstan asked brusquely.

‘He was a customer, a guest, that’s what he asked for. Perhaps he liked to be away from the sounds of the taproom to enjoy his games.’

‘What games?’

‘Brother, you are in the Golden Oliphant. During the last week of May we celebrate the ancient Festival of Cokayne.’

‘And?’

‘As the poem says.’ Cheyne closed her eyes.

‘We all make happy and dance to the sound

of lovely women being taken and bound.

Nothing to fear, nothing so tame,

but pleasure and laughter without any blame.’

She opened her eyes. ‘You have never heard of such pleasure, Brother?’

‘Oh, yes, it’s common enough in confession when penitants come to be shrived.’

‘But you are not a sinner, Friar?’

‘Greater than you think and one who constantly stands in need of God’s mercy.’

‘Mistress Elizabeth,’ Cranston interjected, ‘you held festivities here not just to make the rafters ring with merriment but for good coin and plenty of custom. Some would claim you run a bawdy house, a place of ill-repute. You host a bevy of whores and prostitutes.’

‘Then, Sir John, arrest me. Let Flaxwith and your bailiffs raid this house. I am sure,’ she added drily, ‘most of them, not to mention the justices I would appear before, will know all about what happens here.’

‘And what is Cokayne here?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘Feasting, music, dancing? The Lord of Misrule and his festive games in a world that’s gone topsy-turvy?’

Cheyne nodded, and Joycelina smirked behind a velvet-mittened hand.

‘Including,’ Athelstan continued, ‘men dressing up as women and women as men. Master Amaury did that, yes? We found a woman’s robe and wig in his bedchamber.’

‘Joycelina knows more about that.’ Cheyne sniffed.

‘I allowed Amaury to be what he wanted and do what he liked,’ the maid murmured, eyes rounded in mock innocence. ‘It brought him some satisfaction, eventually.’

Athelstan decided to change the thrust of his questioning. ‘When did Master Whitfield arrive here?’

‘Three days ago.’

‘He died on his last night here?’

‘Yes,’ Cheyne agreed.

‘How was he during his stay?’

‘Deeply troubled, Brother. Highly anxious and greatly agitated. He talked, when sober, of the coming doom which hovers like a cloud of deep night over the city. He was terrified that when London was stormed, he would be hunted like a coney through the streets, caught, trapped, mocked and ridiculed before suffering the cruellest death, and what could we say?’ Cheyne shrugged. ‘He spoke the truth. Amaury Whitfield, in the eyes of the Great Community, was a tainted traitor worthy of death. He would have been hauled through the city on a sledge, barbarously executed, his head poled, his mouth stuffed with straw to face that of his dead master.’

‘So he was frightened even until death and thought to immerse himself in the soft pleasures of this house?’

‘In truth, Sir John.’

‘Did he manifest or betray in any way a desire to take his own life?’

‘Sir John, in his terror, in his fear, Whitfield might have, though he did relax. Joycelina took care of him.’

Athelstan glanced at the maid, who winked mischievously back. The friar smiled.

‘And last night?’ he asked.

‘Everyone was tired, the festivities were over. Whitfield and Lebarge were to leave after breaking their fast this morning. Amaury went upstairs, Joycelina was with him.’

‘And?’ Athelstan glanced at the maid.

‘He was tired. He pulled back the sheets of the bed and fondled me for a while. I do remember he made sure the shutters were closed and barred. He did the same for the window, ensuring the latch was firmly down. I asked him if he was fearful, and he replied, “Only of the sweating terrors of the night.” I kissed him, said I would see him in the morning and left. I recall, very distinctly, him locking and bolting the door behind me. I came down immediately. Ask the others. I didn’t tarry long.’

‘And Lebarge?’

‘He stayed below stairs conversing with some of the guests.’

‘Who?’ Cranston snapped.

‘Odo Gray, Captain of the Leaping Horse, and the mailed clerk Adam Stretton.’

Elizabeth Cheyne paused as Cranston chortled with laughter, rocking backwards and forwards in his chair.

‘Sir John?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You know these worthies?’

‘Oh, Brother, I certainly do. Gray is a man involved in so many pies he has to use his toes as well as his fingers: pirate and smuggler, merchant and mercenary, he would sell his mother for any price.’

‘And Stretton?’

‘A mailed clerk, a graduate of St Paul’s and the Halls of Oxford. A man of peace and war who has performed military service on land and sea; the destrier in the stables must belong to him. Stretton is the most trusted retainer of Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel.’

‘John of Gaunt’s great rival?’

‘John of Gaunt’s great enemy,’ Cranston confirmed. ‘So, this precious pair were also revellers?’

‘Oh, yes, Sir John,’ Cheyne replied. ‘There were five in all: Whitfield, Lebarge, Stretton, Gray and, to a certain extent, Matthias Camoys.’

‘To a certain extent?’ Athelstan queried.

‘Matthias comes here to drink and lust but he nourishes a great ambition to discover the whereabouts of the Cross of Lothar.’ Cheyne rubbed her brow. ‘He is so importunate with his questions. He believes the Golden Oliphant retains some subtle device or secret cipher which will reveal the whereabouts of Lothar’s Cross. I thank God that he also believes the same is true of the chantry chapel at St Mary Le Bow, where my beloved Reginald lies buried. Matthias divides his time between both places.’

For a mere heartbeat Elizabeth Cheyne’s face and voice softened. Athelstan glimpsed the great beauty which must have captivated Reginald Camoys.

‘You never married?’

‘No, Brother Athelstan, never. Reginald, well,’ she smiled, ‘Reginald was Reginald: irreligious, a true devotee of the world and the Land of Cokayne.’

‘Yet he lies buried in a chantry chapel?’

‘Reginald maintained, better there next to his shield comrade Penchen than anywhere else. If chanting masses would help his soul he would surely profit. However, if there was nothing but eternal night after death, then he’d lost nothing.’

‘I have heard the same argument before,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘But to leave the Cross of Lothar for the moment. Do you know of anything during Whitfield’s stay here which would explain his mysterious death?’

‘Nothing.’

‘He was well furnished with monies?’

‘And still is,’ Cheyne retorted. ‘Brother, you will find nothing stolen or borrowed from Master Amaury’s possessions, be it his chancery satchel or his purse. This house enjoys a reputation for honesty. We are not naps, foists or pickpockets. Any girl found stealing is handed over to the sheriff’s bailiffs. Sir John, you know that, don’t you?’

‘Not from personal experience,’ he quipped. ‘But I know enough of your dealings, Mistress Cheyne.’

Athelstan caught the sarcasm in Cranston’s voice. The coroner was well versed in the secret affairs of London’s grim and gruesome underworld; the Halls of Hades and the Mansions of Midnight, as the coroner described the seedy twilight life of the city.

‘Did Whitfield mention that he had been visited by the Herald of Hell?’

‘Yes, both he and Lebarge referred to it. It apparently happened some days before they arrived here and, certainly, both men were terrified.’

‘Did they know who it was?’

‘No. Do you?’

‘Has the Herald visited your establishment?’

‘Of course not. Why should he?’

‘Why should he indeed?’ Cranston soothed. ‘I am sure you pay the Upright Men as well as pass on any information you glean from this customer or that, juicy morsels the Great Community might find interesting and yet,’ Cranston jabbed a finger, ‘when it suits you, you’re also of great assistance to Master Thibault. Is that not so?’

‘Sir John,’ Cheyne fluttered her eyelids, ‘we live in a true vale of tears, in the very shadow of the Valley of Death. So, what can a poor wench do to survive, earn a crust for her belly and keep a roof over her head?’

‘Whitfield brought a great deal of baggage here, didn’t he?’ Athelstan asked sharply. ‘Clothes, possessions?’

Cheyne pulled a face. ‘God knows,’ she murmured.

‘And the letter he wrote despairing of his life?’

‘Again, Brother, God knows. Perhaps Amaury realized he was about to return to the Chancery in the Tower and all that entailed. Lebarge was no better, deep in his cups most of the time, furtive, withdrawn though he revelled merrily enough with some of the maids.’

‘Did either describe a certain memorandum taken from a wolfshead, Reynard?’

‘I have heard the name.’ Joycelina spoke up quickly. ‘A courier for the Upright Men. A travelling tinker who visited here declared how a certain Reynard had been taken up and thrown into Newgate.’ She forced a smile. ‘Brother Athelstan, with all due respect, men come here to forget their lives, their woes and tribulations. Master Amaury and Oliver Lebarge were no different.’

‘Was Lebarge ever talkative?’

‘No, he was taciturn, even in his cups, very much in the shadow of Master Amaury.’

‘And whom did they talk to?’

‘The other customers, the maids, the servants.’ Joycelina waved her hands airily. ‘But about what? You must ask them, not us. I suppose,’ she added, ‘they discussed the revels.’

‘Which were?’

‘Hodman’s bluff, mummer’s games, dances and masques, and, of course,’ Joycelina glanced slyly at her mistress, ‘antics in the bedchamber. Some men like to partake with two, others like to watch.’

‘To watch!’ Athelstan exclaimed, ignoring Cranston’s boot pressing on his foot.

‘Yes, Brother, to watch,’ Mistress Cheyne replied. ‘Each of our chambers has a small eyehole; of course, it can be closed from the inside. This allows someone in the gallery outside to watch what is happening on the bed. In the end,’ she sighed, ‘we strive to please all our customers. Why, Brother, does it shock you?’

‘No, I find it fascinating, I mean, man’s absorption with all aspects of loving, including watching others …’

‘Though who likes to watch whom?’ Joycelina murmured coyly. ‘Well, I just cannot comment.’

‘In the end, what Joycelina and I are saying,’ Mistress Cheyne added, ‘is that we know about the revelry, but why Amaury hanged himself or Lebarge fled this house for sanctuary in your church, Brother Athelstan …’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Brother, it’s common tittle-tattle in the taproom.’

‘What intrigues me …’ Cranston slurped from his miraculous wineskin and offered it to the ladies, who refused; Athelstan, hungry and thirsty, took a sip.

‘Sir John?’ Mistress Cheyne demanded.

‘What I would like to know is why?’ Cranston pushed the wine stopper back in. ‘Yes, why should Amaury dress himself as if to leave before hanging himself? He was found booted and cloaked?’

‘Yes, he was,’ both women agreed.

‘But Sir John,’ Mistress Cheyne declared, ‘as to why, I do not know. Perhaps some evil humour, some sickness of the night seized poor Amaury’s soul? It defies all logic. If he was of sound mind and keen wit this might not have happened …’ Her voice trailed off.

Athelstan moved restlessly on the chancery stool. He was about to enter the maze of murder, to take a path which might lead him to the truth; nevertheless, that path would twist and turn, be fraught with danger. He needed to reflect very keenly on the answers he and Cranston had received since they had arrived here. Athelstan’s suspicions about Whitfield’s death had been sharply honed. The friar was certain that the dead clerk had been terrified out of his wits, but why hang himself as he had, in this place and at that time?

‘Joycelina,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you say you left Whitfield in his chamber, and he locked and bolted the door behind you.’ She nodded. ‘Did anything untoward happen during the night?’

Joycelina glanced at her mistress, who shook her head vigorously.

‘Nothing,’ Mistress Cheyne whispered, ‘on my oath, ask the others.’

‘And this morning?’

‘Our guests were summoned to break their fast at eight. Griffin, Master of the Hall, rang the bell. He then went along the galleries knocking on each door. All came down except Whitfield. At the time, nothing untoward was heard or seen. Eventually we noticed Amaury was absent so I despatched Joycelina to rouse him.’ She nudged her maid.

‘I went upstairs,’ Joycelina declared. ‘I knocked on the door but I could tell when I leaned against it that it was securely locked and bolted. I called his name, I knocked again. I stared through the eyelet and the keyhole; both were blocked. I grew concerned, so I went downstairs. Mistress Cheyne was in the refectory we use for both our guests and the household.’

‘Joycelina told me what had happened and I followed her up the stairs. Oh, no,’ Mistress Cheyne’s fingers flew to her lips, ‘I first told Master Griffin to keep everyone at the table, not to alarm them. I took Foxley, our Master of Horse, with me. I sent Joycelina ahead to quieten the maids on the other galleries as I had already decided what to do.’

‘What was that?’

‘Brother Athelstan, in the Golden Oliphant men lock themselves in chambers with our young maids. Sometimes, rarely, matters of the bed get out of hand. We have a makeshift battering ram, a yule log with handles along its sides. I told Foxley to fetch that along with two of the labourers working on the trellis fencing in the garden.’

‘And the mastiffs?’

‘Dawn had broken, Foxley had secured them in their kennels. We went out into the garden and summoned two of the labourers – they are still out there. We went up to Amaury Whitfield’s chamber. I knocked on the door – no answer. I looked through the eyelet and keyhole: both were sealed. Foxley did the same. I ordered the labourers to break down the door. Joycelina, who later joined us in the gallery after I shouted for her, was correct: the door was obviously locked, bolted at both top and bottom. Foxley supervised the labourers and at last the door broke away. The light in the chamber was very poor, almost pitch black. The candles had burnt out and the window was firmly shuttered. I told the labourers to take the ram back into the garden and instruct Master Griffin to keep everyone in the refectory. I had already glimpsed poor Amaury’s body creaking on the end of that rope, head and neck all twisted. I ordered Foxley to cross and open the shutters. He did so, then the window. Joycelina and I entered the chamber. We waited until there was enough light. I wanted to …’ Her voice faltered.

‘We realized there was nothing we could do.’ Joycelina took up the story. ‘So we went downstairs. By then of course everyone was roused and fearful. Lebarge had apparently grown very frightened. He pushed past Master Griffin and fled the refectory. Foxley and I went back up the stairs. Lebarge was standing in the death chamber, just staring at his master’s corpse. He was distraught, shoulders shaking. He left, hurrying down the stairs. By then the Golden Oliphant was in uproar. Mistress Elizabeth sent messengers to the Savoy Palace and the Tower to give Master Thibault the news.’ She spread her hands. ‘The rest you know.’

‘And Lebarge?’

‘In all the commotion,’ Mistress Cheyne replied, ‘he simply slipped out, disappeared. I didn’t see him go but he definitely fled.’

‘Yes, he certainly did,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘He arrived in St Erconwald’s carrying nothing. No possessions except a knife and the clothes he was wearing.’

‘Brother, I cannot explain it; he was here then he was gone. We thought he may have locked himself in his chamber or, consumed with grief, gone out into the garden. We were all distracted, especially when Master Thibault and his retinue arrived. He was furious, spitting curses, blaming us and threatening to hang everyone until he had the truth. You arrived and went up to the chamber; only then did the news trickle through about how Lebarge had fled for sanctuary in St Erconwald’s.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Sir John, he is in sanctuary, ask him yourself.’

‘And his baggage is still in his chamber?’

‘No, that’s as empty as a widow’s pantry.’

‘So where is it?’ Sir John asked.

‘Ask Lebarge, we have nothing of his.’

‘We certainly shall, but first we have others to question.’ Cranston tapped the table with his hands. ‘Mistress Joycelina, of your great kindness, ask Masters Griffin and Foxley, together with those two labourers, to come in here.’ The coroner smiled. ‘Quickly now, then we will be gone and you can return to your business.’

She hastened off. Cranston, to break the embarrassing silence, began to question Mistress Cheyne about the Cross of Lothar but she seemed reluctant to answer. Athelstan, whose attention had been caught by the ornately carved mantel above the empty fireplace, rose to inspect it more closely. He scrutinized the two medallions on either end. The one on the left displayed carved initials, ‘IHSV’, the letters wreathed with vine leaves; the one on the right had a sun in splendour with the inscription ‘Soli Invicto’ – to the Unconquerable Sun – carved beneath.

‘Both of these inscriptions …’ Athelstan scratched his head. ‘I am sure I have seen them before.’

‘Reginald’s work,’ Mistress Cheyne called, turning on the settle. ‘For the life of me I don’t know what they signify. Reginald refused to say. You will find the same in his chantry chapel at St Mary Le Bow. Young Matthias has questioned me about them often enough. I wish to God I could explain them, but I cannot. Go around this tavern, Brother Athelstan, and you will find those two roundels carved elsewhere, along with the Golden Oliphant. Reginald loved nothing better than riddles and puzzles. He claimed it reflected life …’

She broke off as the door opened and Foxley entered, a beanpole of a man with a dark, pointed, stubbled face and greasy hair hanging down to his shoulders. He was garbed in a leather jerkin, leggings and boots. Athelstan caught the reek of the stables. Master Griffin, who accompanied him, was a squat tub of a man with deep-set eyes and a ruddy, bewhiskered face, clearly a person who loved his food: he kept smacking his lips and rubbing his swollen belly.

The two labourers reminded Athelstan of Watkin the Dung Collector in their muddy rags, leather aprons and cracked, shabby boots, though their bearded faces and dull-eyed looks were in stark contrast with Watkin’s cunning wit, devious ways and mordant sense of humour. Both men, in deep, gruff accents, confirmed what Athelstan had already been told. Mistress Cheyne had come out into the garden with Master Foxley; they had collected the battering ram and climbed to the top gallery. It was dark and narrow, difficult to swing the ram, but they had succeeded. The door collapsed, their mistress told them to take the log downstairs and inform Master Griffin to confine all the guests to the refectory, though they understood Lebarge had already fled. Despite the poor light they had glimpsed the corpse dangling.

Throughout the labourers’ blunt speech, Foxley and Griffin nodded like two wise men. The Master of the Hall then explained that he had stayed downstairs looking after those who were breaking their fast. They had heard the pounding but he had insisted, on Mistress Cheyne’s instructions, that everyone remain at table.

‘Except Lebarge,’ he concluded. ‘He pushed by me and went through the door.’

‘And you, Master Foxley?’ Athelstan turned to the Master of Horse.

‘I was all troubled. I’d drunk deeply the night before. Anyway, I helped batter the door; it was securely locked and bolted. Eventually it collapsed. Mistress Cheyne ordered me into the room. It was very dark and smelly, all the candles and lamps had burnt out.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Master Whitfield’s corpse just hung like a black shadow. I was, I was,’ he stumbled, shaking his head, ‘deeply frightened.’

‘Did you see anything else amiss in the chamber?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No, except that Master Whitfield looked not so fat in death.’

‘Not so fat?’

‘Slimmer, Brother Athelstan, his belly not so swollen, but, there again, that could have been a trick of the poor light.’

‘And what next?’

‘Mistress Cheyne asked me to open both shutters and window.’

‘Did you notice anything wrong?’

‘No, Brother Athelstan, the shutters, both within and without, were firmly closed. I had to remove the bar from the inside.’

‘That’s right,’ one of the labourers broke in. ‘Just before I left, I saw Master Foxley lift the bar and place it on the ground.’

‘And the window itself?’ Cranston asked.

‘Securely latched.’

‘And the pigskin covering?’

‘Tightly in place.’

‘When we took the battering ram back downstairs,’ one of the labourers affirmed, ‘we went outside and looked at the flower bed beneath the window, but nothing had been disturbed.’

‘Why did you do that?’ Cranston asked. ‘I mean, if the window was shuttered and barred …’

‘You don’t recognize me, Sir John?’ The burly labourer stepped closer. ‘Until Master Foxley hired us, we worked in the Candle-Flame tavern, now in Master Thibault’s hands. I remember the murders there.’ He grinned. ‘The way the window was breached. Everybody discussed how clever you were.’ Cranston, flattered, nodded in agreement.

‘So,’ Athelstan asked, ‘you, Master Foxley, opened both shutters and window and then what?’

‘I turned away. Mistress Cheyne and Joycelina were standing in the room looking at poor Whitfield.’ He spread his hands. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, that’s what I saw.’

‘And Lebarge?’

‘Brother, by the time I had returned to the refectory he was gone. Joycelina and I went looking for him. Mistress Cheyne was concerned. We found him in Whitfield’s chamber, all tearful and trembling.’

‘He said nothing?’

‘No, he pushed past us and left, that’s the last I saw of him.’

Athelstan whispered to Sir John, who had the chamber cleared. Odo Gray was summoned next. The sea captain swaggered into the room. He was weatherbeaten, sloe-eyed under a mop of white hair, his hard-skinned face set in a cynical smile as if he knew the world and all it contained. Dressed in a cote-hardie which hung just above low-heeled boots, he bowed perfunctorily and sat on the settle before Cranston and Athelstan.

‘Well, well, well.’ The coroner rubbed his hands together. ‘Odo Gray, Master of the Leaping Horse, a high-masted cog. Odo Gray, pirate, smuggler and merchant in all kinds of mischief.’

‘Sir John, I am equally pleased to meet you.’ Gray bowed sardonically at Athelstan. ‘Greetings also to the noble Dominican of whom I have heard so much.’

‘Have you now?’ Athelstan smiled. ‘And why is that?’

‘Whispers, Brother Athelstan, amongst your parishioners. How, when the Great Revolt occurs, your little flock wish me to kidnap you and spirit you away from all the bloodletting.’ He grinned as Athelstan gaped in surprise while Cranston swore beneath his breath.

‘Oh yes, it’s been mooted, Brother. Moleskin the Bargeman would call you away from your church, saying that the Lord High Coroner here wanted words with you. In truth you would be bundled aboard the Leaping Horse and taken out of harm’s way.’

‘And what came of this clever plan?’

‘Brother, I pointed out that once the revolt breaks out …’

‘The Thames will be sealed,’ Cranston broke in. ‘Thibault has already deployed fighting cogs, and he is hiring Breton galleys – wolves of the sea – to prowl the estuary and prevent all ships from leaving.’

‘And you refused?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Of course, what was the use? The Leaping Horse is well known to harbour masters from the Thames to Berwick …’

‘And with good cause,’ Cranston retorted. ‘You’ve sailed under the black flag of piracy.’

‘Jealous rivals, Sir John.’

‘And you are known to make landfall with tuns of Bordeaux which the customs collectors never stamp.’

‘Fables, Sir John!’

‘And you are reputed to excel at spiriting away any fugitives who can afford it, before the sheriff’s men arrive.’

‘Tittle-tattle fit for fools, Sir John.’

‘So what were you doing at the Golden Oliphant?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Why, Brother, God forgive me, indulging in the Cokayne revelry. I am,’ Odo crossed himself swiftly, ‘a man of fleshly desires. Often away from hearth and home.’

‘Which is where?’

‘Barnstaple in Devon.’

‘And you frequent this place often?’

‘I am well known to Mistress Cheyne and her moppets in every sense of the word.’

‘And Master Whitfield?’

‘Oh, the clerk who hanged himself?’ Gray shrugged. ‘I talked to him, as I did other guests, but I hardly knew the man or his shadow, the scrivener Lebarge.’

‘Do you know any reason why Whitfield should hang himself and Lebarge flee for sanctuary?’

‘None.’

Athelstan gazed quickly at the hour candle under its metal cap on a stand in the far corner. Lebarge needed to be questioned as swiftly as possible to corroborate all of this. Athelstan was certain that the ship’s master, this wily fox of the sea, was concealing something: his replies were too glib, and why inform Athelstan about some madcap scheme of his parishioners? Athelstan felt warmed by their deep affection, the determination that he would not be caught up in the coming violence. They had discussed what he should do and he had heard rumours about all kinds of stratagems and ploys to protect him. On reflection, what Odo Gray had told him was not so startling. Athelstan was now more intrigued as to why the captain had brought it up in the first place. To distract him, but from what?

‘Brother?’ Cranston’s voice broke into Athelstan’s thoughts. He turned and smiled at the coroner.

‘Sir John, I believe Master Odo Gray is lying.’ The sea captain’s jovial demeanour promptly disappeared – the twinkling eye, the ready grin and the relaxed pose – almost as if the man’s true soul had thrust its way through, aggressive and surly, fingers slipping to the hilt of his dagger. Cranston coughed and the hand fell away.

‘Explain yourself, Brother.’

‘Captain, I would love to but I cannot. I just believe you could tell us more about the nights of revelry, the conversations you had and the words you overheard. Perhaps also the real reason for you being here? So, Master Gray, Sir John here will ensure the harbour masters at the mouth of the Thames do not issue you with clear licence to dip your sails three times in honour of the Trinity and make a run for the open sea. You, like all the rest,’ Athelstan got to his feet, ‘will remain here until I am satisfied that we have the truth.’