Herald of Hell

PART THREE

‘Murdrum – Murder.’

Cranston and Athelstan exchanged the kiss of peace and the friar left Sir John to his reflections and his wine and made his way out into Cheapside. The crowds had now broken up as the sun began to set. The market horns were blowing and the stall-beadles insisting that the day’s trading be completed. The denizens of the night were also slinking out: nightwalkers and shapeshifters in tattered clothes and cheap hoods with their harsh, pocked faces, glittering eyes and fingers which constantly hovered over the wooden hilts of stabbing daggers and dirks. Beggars whined for alms. Children, enjoying the last hours of daylight, screamed and chased each other, causing the skinny street dogs to yip and bark. Athelstan, his cowl covering both head and face, turned down an alleyway. He had to stand aside for a funeral party making its way down to one of the churches to conduct the death watch, the vigil of prayer before the requiem Mass was sung the following morning.

He retreated into a shabby tavern and was immediately accosted by the ale wife, an ugly-looking harridan with a hooked, dripping nose and skin rough as a sack. Bleary-eyed, she munched on her gums as she glared at Athelstan, one hand on her waist, the knuckles of her fingers glistening with grease. Beside her another woman, face wrinkled as a pig’s ear, blowsy and hot-eyed: Athelstan pulled back his cowl, smiled and sketched a blessing in their direction. The ale wife nodded and pointed to a greasy stool where the friar could sit while the noisy funeral party, which had stopped to drink, and already had done so deeply, organized itself to continue. Athelstan took his seat and stared round the dingy taproom. Hens roosted on the open ale-tubs; his stomach pitched as he saw droppings from the birds fall into the drink, but this did not concern the ale wife, who began to strain the dung through a hair net.

Customers came and went. Many had no money but brought a rabbit, a pot of honey, a spoon or a skillet in lieu of payment. One woman carried a jug but she first sat down to cut a piece of leather off the sole of her tallow-smeared shoe to stop a hole in the jug. Athelstan watched all this with deepening unease. Just a walk away rose the stately mansions of Cheapside hung with silks and brightly coloured cloths, chambers crammed with precious objects. Outside of these stood stalls heaped with goods imported from abroad: oranges, barrels of fruit, glass goblets, rolls of damask and satin, pipes of wine, ornamental needles, mantles of leopard skin. Yet here thrived a different world, one which plotted the bloody destruction of everything Cheapside represented. Athelstan pulled his cowl back over his head as he swiftly scrutinized the other customers grouped around the overturned ale casks and wine tuns, shadowy figures in the poor light from the smelly tallow candles. Here undoubtedly thronged the Upright Men of the ward with their foot soldiers the Earthworms. Here, once the hush of evening descended and the dark gathered, so would the plotters. When the day of the Great Slaughter dawned and the strongholds began to fall, the flame of rebellion would burst out in places such as this. Hidden caches of bows, arrows, spears, clubs and swords would be opened and the inhabitants of this narrow lane would burst out to plunder the wealth of Cheapside.

‘In the name of the King and the esteemed council of this city,’ a voice roared from outside, ‘move on and move away.’

‘Meryen the bailiff!’ one of the customers cried. ‘He’s warning that drunken funeral cortege. I’d recognize his trumpet voice across the city.’

Athelstan glanced sharply at the door as Meryen the bailiff swaggered into the alehouse. ‘All clear now,’ he roared.

Athelstan grabbed his chancery satchel and made his way out. He hurried along the streets, past the stocks crammed with miscreants fastened by the neck, wrist and ankle, and the moveable gibbets with their grisly burden of tarred corpses. He reached London Bridge and whispered a prayer as he made his way along the thoroughfare which cut between the lines of houses on each side. He always found the giddying height disconcerting, the rattle of nearby watermills, the roar of the water through the starlings, but he was determined to conquer such fears as he did when he climbed to the top of St Erconwald’s tower to view the stars at night. He thought of the mummer’s play his parish council was rehearsing and their use of the tower as well as Crispin the Carpenter’s repairs. He paused, fingers to his lips; he also recalled the bell clerk of St Mary Le Bow. Athelstan blinked furiously. Wasn’t St Mary one of the saints in that strange litany written out by Whitfield? What was that a reference to?

‘Saints and bell towers,’ he murmured, ‘I must remember that.’

‘Brother, are you moonstruck?’

Athelstan turned and smiled at the young courtesan whom he’d glimpsed earlier sidling along beside him.

‘No,’ he grinned, ‘just struck by your beauty.’ The young woman simpered. Athelstan blessed her and hurried on. He had almost reached the end of the bridge when he heard his name called. He recognized the voice and quietly groaned but turned to stare up at Master Robert Burdon, Custos of the Bridge and Keeper of the Heads. A true mannikin scarcely five feet tall, Burdon was a diminutive, barrel-bellied man who gloried in always being garbed in blood-red taffeta, the colour of the Fraternity of the Shearing Knife, the Worshipful Guild of Executioners and Hangmen. Burdon was standing on the top step of the side gatehouse, the iron-studded door behind him half open. He gestured at Athelstan to join him.

The friar forced a smile and, hiding his weariness, climbed the steep steps into a gloomy, narrow chamber lit only by a few candles. The floor was scrubbed clean, as was the long table running down the centre of the room. On shelves against the wall were ranged rows of recently severed heads, each washed in brine and tarred at the neck. A truly macabre scene, their glassy eyes staring blindly from beneath half-closed lids; blood-crusted mouths gaping as if about to speak. Athelstan tried to ignore the gruesome sight as he was ushered to a stool. From the chamber above he could hear Burdon’s brood of children readying themselves for bed.

‘What is it, Robert?’

‘Brother, I am terrified.’ Burdon gave vent to his fear in a rush of words. ‘Rebels from the southern shires will seize the approaches to the bridge. They will storm this gatehouse, they will put me and mine to the sword, they will …’

‘Hush now.’ Athelstan seized the mannikin’s small, gloved hand. ‘Robert, you are the King’s officer, you must do your duty, but the rebels mean you no harm.’ He fought to keep the doubt from his voice.

‘Yes, they do,’ Burdon replied mournfully. He rose, crossed to a shelf and brought back a cracked beaker brimming with blood; it also contained a number of sharpened sticks, each with an onion on the end, two large, the rest small. The message was blunt and stark.

‘The Herald of Hell?’ Athelstan asked.

Burdon closed his eyes. ‘He left a warning.’ The mannikin lisped:

‘Brother Burdon be not so bold,

For Gaunt your master has been both bought and sold.

Listen now and listen well

To this final warning from the Herald of Hell.’

‘Quite the poet,’ Athelstan retorted but softened as the panic flared in Burdon’s eyes. ‘Now, Robert, peace, when did this happen?’

‘A few nights ago, in the early hours, before the bell for matins tolled.’

‘The Herald talked of a final warning?’

‘Oh, yes. The Upright Men have asked me before where my allegiances lie, but nothing so threatening as this.’

‘In the early hours, you said?’

‘Yes, Brother, and I know what you are going to say! The bridge is sealed after the curfew bell so, whoever the Herald was, he must have swum the river, climbed the starlings and left the same way.’

‘Or he lives on the bridge,’ Athelstan made a face, ‘but, there again, that would create other problems. How does he get off the bridge at night to appear elsewhere in the city?’

Athelstan recalled Meryen the bailiff roaring outside that alehouse near Cheapside. He lifted his head and his gaze caught the sightless glare of one of the severed heads. The friar swiftly glanced away. He fully understood Burdon’s panic and fear and how this was being exploited by the likes of the Herald of Hell. The dark was truly rising. Time was flittering on. The harrowing of Hell was fast approaching. The chalice was cracked, the wine of life draining into the soil. Athelstan grew even more aware of impending disaster, conscious of a creeping, crawling malevolence seeping out to envelop the city. He had recently visited his mother house at Blackfriars and listened to the brothers who had been out amongst the villages in the surrounding shires. According to them, an eerie restlessness could be felt. ‘Nature’s struck and Earth is quaking,’ was how Brother Cedric described it, quoting a line from the ‘Dies Irae’. Owl hoots, prophecies of imminent disaster, haunted the night whilst during the day, birds of such ill-omen clattered around the high-branched trees before swirling darkly over sun-washed fields. The rebels were massing, gathering like some malevolent fruit coming to fullness. They kept well away from the main highways but slipped like ghosts along the coffin lanes, pilgrim paths and other ancient byways. Burdon was right to be fearful, Athelstan conceded to himself. When the rebels reached London their very first task would be to seize the bridge.

‘Brother?’

Athelstan smiled even as his heart sank at the sheer fear in Burdon’s face.

‘Robert, as I said, you are the King’s officer.’

‘My wife isn’t, or the beloveds. They are not the King’s officers.’

Athelstan sighed and opened his chancery satchel. Taking out a piece of parchment, he set up his writing tray and carefully wrote his message to Prior Anselm of Blackfriars. He then signed and sealed the piece of vellum and handed it to Burdon, who read it slowly, lips mouthing the words. The mannikin’s face became transformed, all anxiety draining from it.

‘Pax et bonum,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Be at peace, my friend. If the terrors …’ He shrugged. ‘When they come, do your duty, Robert. However, at the first sign of real trouble, send your family to Blackfriars. Prior Anselm will provide them and you, once you have done what your conscience dictates, with safe and holy sanctuary. No one will dare touch you there.’

Athelstan gathered his writing material back into his chancery satchel. ‘Now I must go …’

He made his way down the alleyway leading to the concourse which fronted St Erconwald’s. He passed Merrylegs’ cook shop but the pastry maker and his many sons had apparently locked up for the day and adjourned to the Piebald Tavern, to sample the ale of its one-armed owner Joscelyn. The tavern door hung open, its shutters flung back. As he hastily walked by, sniffing the ale-fumed air, Athelstan heard the laughter and the doggerel chants of the Upright Men. Something had happened but he did not stay to find out what. He reached the precincts of his parish church, skirting the cemetery wall, then stopped and groaned. Godbless the beggar, together with his omnivorous goat Thaddeus, stood lurking in the shade of the lychgate. The only consolation Athelstan could thank heaven for was that neither Godbless nor Thaddeus appeared drunk; moreover, the goat was still firmly tethered, even though it still managed to lunge at Athelstan’s chancery bag.

‘Pax tecum,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Peace be with you.’

‘God bless you too, Father,’ the beggar man replied, pulling on the goat’s rope. ‘Rest assured, Father: Philomel your horse sleeps safely in the stable and Hubert the Hedgehog rests in the hermitage.’

‘And all is well here?’ Athelstan pointed across the cemetery at the old death house converted to a comfortable cottage for Godbless and his equally smelly companion.

‘Invaded, Brother! Invaded by nuns and felons, all followed by dark shapes from Hell.’

‘Godbless,’ Athelstan soothed, ‘now is not the time.’ He stared beseechingly at the beggar man, who the friar secretly considered to be as mad as a box of drunken frogs.

‘Brother Athelstan, Brother Athelstan!’

The friar turned away in relief. Benedicta stood on the top of the church steps beckoning furiously at him. He hurried across and she led him into the shadowy porch.

‘Brother, there has been great excitement whilst you have been gone.’

‘There usually is.’ Athelstan smiled at the widow woman’s pretty face framed by a white, starched, nun-like wimple. He was glad that it didn’t hide all her lustrous night-black hair. He gently tugged a loose lock lying against her sweaty brow. ‘What is it, Benedicta?’

‘Rather what was it, Brother. You informed me that Pike the Ditcher was going to meet his cousin, Sister Matilda, a Poor Clare nun, here in our sacristy?’

‘Yes, I gave him permission to do so. He claimed he wanted to meet her in some private place, well away from the usual parish gossips. Apart from quietly thanking heaven that Pike’s family has some semblance of religion, I did wonder at the truth of it. She was to meet him about mid-afternoon. So, what happened?’

‘Sister Matilda,’ Benedicta grinned, ‘was portly, red-faced and rather stout. I glimpsed her going up the sanctuary steps. Anyway, she and Pike apparently met, then Thibault’s men turned up.’

‘What?’

‘Led by Albinus. They entered the concourse outside. Watkin and Ranulf, along with Moleskin and others from the parish council, thought they had come to seize Lebarge and refused them entry.’

‘As they should have.’

‘But it wasn’t Lebarge they were after, Thibault would be too cunning for that.’ Benedicta forced a smile. ‘Brother, I know a little of him and what I’ve heard …’

Athelstan noticed her quick change of expression but was too intrigued by her message to reflect upon it.

‘Apparently,’ Benedicta continued, ‘they intended to seize Pike and this nun. Albinus and his comitatus swept through God’s Acre to the sacristy door. By then the whole parish was alerted and so was Pike. He used the ancient tunnel, the one beneath the parish chest. He and Sister Matilda escaped down that.’ She smiled. ‘The tunnel was narrow, the nun was plump enough, but they were safe. They reached Godbless’ cottage. The Earthworms were lurking close by, and they hurried Pike and Sister Matilda across God’s Acre, over the far wall and to safety.’

Athelstan shook his head in disbelief, staring at the fresh painting of St Christopher which the Hangman of Rochester had recently finished. He knew all about the trap door in the sacristy and the narrow passage beneath; the parish chest could be pulled away to reveal a shaft beyond it. He could picture Pike and the mysterious nun using it to escape. Sister Matilda, if that was who she really was, would have gone first, and Pike would have followed. Standing in the shaft, he would have pulled the chest back, then, on his hands and knees, followed the narrow tunnel to a trapdoor in the old death house. Once there, protected by the Earthworms, it would have been easy to use the broken ground, thick with sprouting gorse, not to mention the burial mounds, crosses and stones, to steal across the rest of God’s Acre. The tunnel had been dug years ago, so Athelstan had learnt, in turbulent times when the priest of St Erconwald’s had to hide and take with him all the precious and sacred objects. Now such turbulence was about to return.

‘Brother?’ Benedicta, hard-eyed, her pretty face all watchful, was staring quizzically at him.

‘And where is Pike and his beloved cousin now?’

Benedicta just shrugged and raised her eyes heavenwards, a return to those pretty, feminine gestures which always intrigued Athelstan.

‘I will deal with Pike later, but I wonder …’ Athelstan murmured.

‘What?’

‘How on earth did Thibault know about Pike meeting his mysterious cousin in the sanctuary at that particular time?’ He glanced at the widow woman. Benedicta lowered her head as if to hide her face. Athelstan felt a chill of fear as he recalled his meeting earlier that day with Thibault and his realization that Gaunt’s Master of Secrets might have a spy deep in the parish of St Erconwald’s.

‘Benedicta?’

She lifted her head and he caught a wary look in those beautiful, dark eyes.

‘Benedicta, what is happening?’

‘Nothing, Brother.’ She leaned forward to grasp his hands, but Athelstan turned and walked away to stare down the nave. The light coming through the roundel window above the sanctuary was fading to a dull grey.

‘I wonder …’ Athelstan murmured, distracted. ‘It truly would be so beautiful if we had some painted glass here.’ He knew his mind was wandering, eager to be diverted from his present troubles. The friar closed his eyes and murmured a prayer for help. Pike the Ditcher would have to wait. Lebarge was more important. He opened his eyes, crossed himself and walked back to Benedicta, who stood in the shadows away from the light thrown by the candles before St Christopher’s pillar.

‘Our sanctuary man,’ Athelstan indicated with his head, ‘Oliver Lebarge?’

‘Terrified, Brother, frightened out of his wits. He trusts you, me and Crim but no one else. Watkin tried to approach him and Lebarge protested loudly. He will only eat and drink what I bring him from your house. On the last occasion he asked me to taste both food and wine.’

‘Has he said anything?’

‘Nothing, Brother.’

‘Very well.’ Athelstan turned away and made his way up the dappled, dark nave through the heavy rood screen and into the sanctuary. He first visited the sacristy and, using all his strength, pulled away the parish chest, which revealed the shaft dropping into the tunnel beneath. He could see the shards of plaster knocked off when Pike and his so-called cousin had entered. Athelstan now entertained the greatest suspicions about that so-called worthy nun. He pushed the chest back and examined the outside of the sacristy door, battered and broken by the weapons of Thibault’s men.

‘Master of Secrets or not,’ he whispered, ‘Great Revolt or not, Master Thibault can pay for these repairs.’ He strode back into the sanctuary and across the enclave where Lebarge sat huddled on the mercy stool, lost in his own thoughts. Athelstan fetched the footrest from the celebrant’s chair and sat down opposite him.

‘Oliver?’

Lebarge looked up.

‘I’ve recently come from the Golden Oliphant. Whitfield is truly dead; his corpse now lies at St Bartholomew’s …’

The scrivener put his face in his hands and glanced up. ‘I will not say anything,’ he hissed. ‘I will say nothing unless I receive a royal pardon for all offences I may have committed or be accused of. If not, I demand that the law of sanctuary be enacted, and that after forty days I be escorted to the nearest port.’

‘In other words, Queenshithe and Odo Gray’s Leaping Horse, as you and Whitfield were plotting to do, yes? I have been to your chambers in Fairlop Lane,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You stripped them of all valuables and moveables. You arranged to pawn or sell these to Mephistopheles at the Tavern of Lost Souls. You were both preparing to flee. You wanted to be out of England for a while to escape the coming fury. You aimed to confuse Thibault. Whitfield even separated articles of clothing which would be found along the Thames with some other items, all pointers to an accident or possible suicide. I have also read Whitfield’s death note and discovered that he was to meet young Camoys and help him with those enigmatic carvings left by his late uncle Reginald, which may or may not indicate the true whereabouts of the Cross of Lothar. And finally,’ Athelstan edged closer on the footrest, ‘I truly believe Whitfield did not commit suicide. He was murdered, wasn’t he?’ Lebarge, now all narrow-eyed with shock, stared in surprise.

‘Well?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘I am correct? You do not contradict me …’

‘I will not speak, Brother, until I receive a full pardon.’

‘For what?’

‘Then I will tell you a secret, a great secret.’

Athelstan stared up at the window. Darkness was thickening; night would soon fall. He felt tired. It was time to sleep. But first he must have some answers to his questions.

‘Then at least tell me,’ he spread his hands, ‘why you also – and I wager you do – believe Whitfield was murdered?’ He paused. ‘What happened yesterday evening?’

Lebarge pulled a face and stared across the sanctuary. ‘Whitfield drank his wine and retired to bed.’

‘Joycelina went with him?’

‘Yes, but she came down shortly afterwards saying Whitfield had drunk enough. I finished mine and went upstairs. Amaury’s door was locked and bolted. I called goodnight and he answered, said he was ready for bed. I was desperate for rest. I fell asleep. I heard or saw nothing untoward. I was roused just after dawn. I remembered that Mistress Cheyne was to prepare my favourite spicy simnel cakes, best served hot. I was very hungry. I heard Master Griffin trying to raise Whitfield but I thought nothing of it.’ Lebarge was talking in a monotone as if he had carefully prepared what he was saying. ‘I went down to the refectory, my simnel cakes were ready.’ He paused at the squealing from the far side of the sanctuary and flinched as a dark shape shot past, claws scrabbling at the floor. ‘Rats!’ he exclaimed. ‘I hate them.’

‘As does Bonaventure,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Now, this morning,’ he insisted, ‘what happened in the refectory?’

‘Joycelina announced Whitfield could not be raised. I became alarmed but Mistress Elizabeth said she did not want people charging through her tavern. She despatched Foxley to fetch the labourers and the battering ram. She also sent Joycelina out to keep the maids quiet once the hammering began. I knew what was going to happen. I stayed for a while. I heard people clattering on the stairs but the tension proved too much. I ignored Master Griffin and stole up to the third storey, hiding in a recess near the steps leading to the top gallery.’

‘Why did Whitfield rent a narrow chamber at the top of the house?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lebarge mumbled.

‘In other words, you do, but you won’t tell me?’

‘I stayed there,’ Lebarge replied. ‘I heard the battering against the chamber door. Foxley was directing them, Mistress Cheyne shouting for Joycelina. I was all a-tremble. I heard the door crash open and the exclamations. I went back downstairs to the refectory – by then everyone was alarmed. The labourers came down to announce what had happened. I stole back up to Whitfield’s chamber. I could not believe what I saw – Whitfield just hanging there. I panicked. I hurried back to my room, collected certain items and fled.’

‘But you came here with virtually nothing.’

‘True, Brother. Empty-handed except for the clothes I stand in.’

‘Did you hide the rest with Hawisa?’

‘Oh, that little mouse,’ Lebarge scoffed, ‘good to romp with on a bed but nothing else. They’re all whores; they’ll sell you for a penny. I hid certain items – I don’t trust anyone. I will say nothing more until I receive a full pardon.’

‘For what offences?’ Athelstan demanded. Lebarge just stared dully back.

‘I am safe here.’ He gestured airily. ‘I’m glad Radegund the Relic Seller has left.’

‘Why?’

‘Full of questions, he was. Anyway,’ Lebarge shrugged, ‘I know about Thibault’s men arriving. I thought they had come for me but it was one of your parishioners, Pike, and the nun he met over there in the sacristy.’ He sniffed noisily. ‘I am sorry, Brother, I will not say anything else. I am tired, I should sleep …’

Lebarge’s voice trailed away. Athelstan realized he would learn nothing further from the scrivener, so he blessed him and left.

The friar walked down the nave, lost in thought. Lebarge was virtually conceding he had done something highly illegal as well as being the keeper of great secrets. Whitfield must have been in the same situation. Yet what did Lebarge mean? Athelstan stood still and stared around. People were still drifting in and out of the church, pausing to light candles before this statue or that, moving shadows in the poor light.

‘Ah, well,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof; time for bed and board. Tomorrow will come soon enough.’

He made himself comfortable in the priest’s house. A small fire, banked with the coal still crackling red, heated the pottage in a fat-bellied cauldron hanging from its hook above the fire. Recently baked bread lay stacked in the small, iron-gated oven beside the hearth whilst fresh ale, butter and cheese had been left in the narrow buttery. The flagstone kitchen, which served as Athelstan’s solar, hall, dining chamber and chancery office, had been scrubbed, the table too with its leather-backed chair and cushioned stools. Bonaventure came scratching at the door. Athelstan admitted him and served the tomcat some pottage then broke his own fast with a steaming bowl, all the time being scrutinized by the unblinking stare of his one-eyed, constant dining companion.

Once finished, Athelstan cleared the dining table. He took out his writing tray, a sheet of scrubbed vellum and began to form columns under different headings: the customers of the Golden Oliphant, Whitfield’s plans, Lebarge’s flight, the death scene. Under each heading Athelstan tried to list everything he and Cranston had learnt, all the scraps of information, although they could not be formed into any logical coherence. He also listed his suspicions, the words he had heard and the scenes he had glimpsed. He finished his ale and had just begun to nod off to sleep when a pounding on the door roused him.

‘Who is it?’ he called.

Mauger the bell clerk cried that it was he. He had gone to lock the church for the night and found the sanctuary man, Oliver Lebarge, dead on the floor, foully slain …

Cornelius the corpse collector tugged at Pegasus, his huge dray horse which pulled the high-sided death cart around the filth-strewn lanes of Southwark. The curfew bells had tolled and the beacons been lit in different steeples. Cornelius, eyes down, trudged on. Hood pulled over his face, he was a shambling figure, yet he was keen-eyed for any corpse pushed under a mound of refuse, a midden heap, some filthy laystall or even in the crevices hollowed out of the walls of the ancient, leaning houses which towered above the tangle of alleyways running through Southwark. Nobody bothered Cornelius, the black-garbed figure of death who trundled his cart searching for cadavers. He would collect the mortal remains of some hapless unfortunate and take them to the Keeper of the Dead who presided over Heaven’s Gate, a makeshift mortuary kept on a lonely, moon-washed coffin path leading out of Southwark. If there was anything suspicious about the corpse, the keeper would expose the cadaver for public view on the steps of Heaven’s Gate where, if it was recognized, the relatives of the dead could redeem their kin for proper burial. The others, who the keeper called the ‘Perditi – the lost’, would be soaked in a bath of lavender and stitched into a linen shroud by the Harpies, the Keeper’s nickname for the gaggle of old women he hired for that work. Once ready, the corpse would be given swift burial in the great pit, the common grave which stretched behind Heaven’s Gate …

Cornelius turned a corner and paused, pulling at Pegasus’ halter as he stared down the narrow lane. He was now close to St Erconwald’s, which over the last few days had been a hubbub of excitement. Cornelius always stayed well away from that particular parish. Watkin the dung collector claimed St Erconwald’s as his domain: he was the one who would collect refuse and anything else hidden beneath it. Cornelius was highly wary of Watkin, an Upright Man, a captain of the dreaded Earthworms. The dung collector could, if he wished, whistle up his legions of the dark, and Cornelius wanted no trouble with him. Indeed, the Keeper of the Dead believed the Earthworms would soon rise and the likes of Cornelius would be busy enough harvesting the corpses, but until then … This, however, was different. Cornelius stared down the alleyway. He could make out a figure lying on the ground and another above it pounding the prostrate person with a club or some other weapon. Time and again the blows fell, a sickening thud which prickled Cornelius’ sweaty body with shivers of cold. Pegasus, also alarmed, whinnied and blew noisily, head shaking as the great dray horse caught his master’s fear. Cornelius calmed Pegasus and stared back down the alleyway. All he could see now was the dim outline of the prostrate body. The attacker had disappeared.

Cornelius stared around. This was a deserted area. Certainly no one else had witnessed the incident. Intrigued and smelling profit, Cornelius pulled on Pegasus’ halter and, with wheels rumbling, the death cart and its custodian rattled along the alleyway. The corpse collector stopped just before the mouth of the alleyway. He pulled a spindle-like dagger from its ring on his leather belt and hurried forward to kneel by the young woman’s corpse. He could tell she was young from the texture and colour of her hair, her rounded, silky soft arms and what was left of her face. She had been killed instantly with a dagger thrust to the heart, the bodice of her dress heavily soaked in bubbling blood. Afterwards, the young woman’s assassin had pounded her face with a rock taken from a nearby crumbling wall. Cornelius’ quick, darting gaze took in the bracelets and rings on the young woman’s fingers and wrists; the gold chain around her swan-like neck, the brooch pinned to the neck of her gown; her clothes and leather boots looked costly enough, too.

‘Some pretty little whore,’ Cornelius murmured to himself. ‘No need to display her.’

The corpse collector swiftly stripped the corpse of its gown, petticoat, linen underclothes and boots, the tawdry jewellery disappearing into his cavernous belt wallet. Cornelius then lifted the young woman’s corpse, marvelling that her smooth, marble-like skin was still warm from life and, despite the ragged, bloody mess to her chest and face, exuded a faint perfumed fragrance. Standing on tiptoe, Cornelius tipped the cadaver, her long blonde hair now free of its clasp floating down her back, into the death cart to join the remains of a drunk found drowned in a horse trough and those of a beggar man, crushed by a fall of masonry whilst sheltering in a derelict, rotting tenement. Cornelius wiped his hands on his leather jerkin and froze. Whoever had killed that young woman could well be lurking nearby watching him. The corpse collector breathed out slowly.

‘All in all,’ he whispered reassuringly to himself, ‘a good night’s work.’

He tapped his now heavy wallet and wondered what he should do. If the assassin was still close by and watching, he would surely not object to what Cornelius had done. Nevertheless the corpse collector realized he was vulnerable. He could not run away, leave Pegasus, the cart and its grisly load. He licked dry, cracked lips and made his decision.

‘To you who dwell cloaked in the darkness.’ Cornelius paused; he liked that, recalling his early days as a stroller, a mummer who played his part in the miracle plays. ‘What you have done,’ Cornelius continued, ‘is a matter between you and God. Your victim lies dead, her face unrecognisable, and now she lies stripped of all raiment.’ He patted the sacks hanging from the slats along the side of the cart. ‘Her corpse will be taken to the Gate of Heaven, soaked in lavender, sheathed in linen and buried in the common grave unclaimed and unnamed.’ Cornelius paused, eyes and ears straining into the dark. Satisfied, he grasped Pegasus’ halter and slowly moved on, shoulders hunched, belly pitching. Nothing occurred. Cornelius relaxed. He stopped and looked over his shoulder at the dark mass of St Erconwald’s rising against the night sky. Did the killing he’d witnessed have anything to do with what was happening there? he wondered. Had not a royal scrivener called Lebarge taken sanctuary in St Erconwald’s? Murder and mystery were certainly active in that parish. After all, why should someone kill a young woman, pound her face into an unrecognizable, blood-splattered mess, but not filch her trinkets? Cornelius pulled a face. In the end that was not his business, and the corpse cart, carrying the naked cadaver of the young whore Hawisa, trundled into the gathering night.

Sir John Cranston was thinking about Oliver Lebarge as he strode, and now again stumbled, down the street leading to his house. Cranston had stayed at the Lamb of God to be entertained by Mine Hostess with more wine and the most succulent strips of pheasant meat. Now he intended a good night’s sleep, even though after the events of the day his mind continued to tumble like dice in a hazard cup. He reached the door of his house. He was fumbling for the key on his belt when he heard the hiss of steel and, quick as a twirling coin, he brought sword and dagger slithering from their sheaths to confront the mailed men who emerged out of the blackness. Two of them carried torches. Cranston glimpsed the White Hart, the King’s personal emblem, the insignia of the Cheshire archers.

‘Peace, Sir John.’ A figure strode through the mailed men and took off his helmet, pushing back the mailed coif beneath to reveal the sallow, lined face of Sir Simon Burley, the King’s personal tutor and close advisor. Others also stepped forward to be recognized, including Walworth, Mayor of London. Cranston resheathed his weapons.

‘Simon, gentlemen, this is no way to call on a comrade in the dead of night.’

‘Jack, my old friend,’ Burley replied, ‘this truly is the very dead of a night that stretches out before us all. Great danger lurks in the darkness! Treachery, betrayal, the breaking of oaths and the deadliest treason. You must come with us.’

‘Must!’ Cranston exclaimed. ‘Must? I am the King’s own officer. I have knelt, placed my hands between his and sworn a personal oath of fealty to King Richard.’

‘Sir John, it is the King and his mother, the Princess Joan, who demand to see you …’

Within the hour, Cranston and the rest disembarked at King’s Steps and made their way up the narrow lanes which brought them under the magnificent, soaring turrets and towers of Westminster Abbey. They entered by the south door close to the cavernous crypt. The abbey, despite the late hour, was lit with torches, creating a shimmer of light and dancing flame against the great drum-like pillars that guarded the resplendent sanctuary, which also served as the royal mausoleum, housing the tombs of the Plantagenet kings. At the centre of this mass of carved stone rose the gloriously decorated shrine of Edward the Confessor, erected above and around the magnificent marble sarcophagus of the saintly king whom the Plantagenets regarded as the ancestor and patron of their royal house. Nearby stood the Confessor’s throne and beneath it the Stone of Scone, once used to hail the kings of Scotland, until it was seized by Edward I and hurried south to become part of the coronation regalia of the kings of England. In the fluttering candle-flame the great wooden throne with its elaborately carved jewelled back and armrests seemed to dwarf the young boy sitting on the purple-cushioned, gold tasselled seat.

Cranston and his party immediately went down on their knees, daggers drawn, points turned towards their hearts, in an act of complete obeisance. The young boy chuckled and in a ringing voice, light and carrying as any chorister, ordered them to resheath their daggers. He added that they were his loyal friends, accepted into the love and protection of Richard, King of England, France and Scotland, Lord of Ireland … The titles echoed through the shrine. Once finished, Richard leaned forward, bidding them to look upon his face. Cranston did and returned the boy-king’s infectious smile even as he secretly wondered at this angel-faced lad with his golden hair, snow-white skin and the strangest light-blue eyes.

Delicately featured, exquisite in all his gestures, Richard of Bordeaux was almost a fairy-tale prince. Cranston found it difficult to believe that this highly intelligent, intense and sensitive young man was the son of the ruthless warrior, Edward the Black Prince, a chevalier so fierce and fiery, so determined in battle to kill everything and everyone who passed across the eye slits of his war helmet, he had even killed his own destrier when its nodding head caught his gaze in the red mist of battle. Cranston and the other knights of the body who had fought alongside the Black Prince soon learnt never to go before him. Now the Black Prince was dead of some loathsome, rotting disease contracted in Spain, leaving this young boy as England’s future king. As he knelt there listening to Burley’s declaration of loyalty on behalf of them all, Cranston speculated on what would become of this boy-king, so poised in his golden gown with the Lions of England emblazoned across his chest, fingers and wrists shimmering with jewellery, a silver circlet around the gold-spun hair. Sometimes, and Cranston had only confided this to Athelstan, he worried about the stability of this young king’s mind, so taken up with the sacredness of his office and the rights due to him from all his subjects. The coroner shifted his gaze to the woman clothed in dark-blue damask fringed with ermine, sitting on the King’s immediate right. If anyone was responsible for Richard’s sensitivity about his royal office, she was. Joan of Kent, mother of the King, once considered the greatest beauty in all of Europe.

Joan caught Cranston’s gaze, winked and smiled, pulling back her head to reveal her not so golden hair and a face dissipated by wine, luxurious living and the cares of high office. The lioness and her cub, Cranston thought. So what lay behind this extraordinary meeting at the dead of night, here, close to the Confessor’s tomb? He stared around. Like Cranston, these men were the King’s personal bodyguard who had sworn to be Richard’s men, body and soul, in peace and war. Once Burley’s declaration was finished, Richard delivered a pithy reply and bade them sit on the stools his retainers hastily set out. Cranston looked over his shoulder to see that the lights were being extinguished, candles capped, sconce torches doused, leaving only a shimmering glow around the ghostly tombs.

‘Gentlemen,’ the Queen Mother’s voice rang out. ‘You have been brought here to renew your oaths of loyalty and be advised of a most sinister conspiracy against your king.’ She paused for effect, before lifting a gloved hand to caress her son’s arm, a gesture which only emphasised his youth and vulnerability. Once again Cranston recalled those sombre words: ‘Woe to the kingdom whose ruler is a child.’

‘Listen now,’ the Queen Mother continued, ‘we all know unrest seethes both here and in the surrounding shires, in particular Kent and Essex. Oh, we know the storm will come and, to quote the great Augustine, “We shall bend lest we break.” Now, Sir John, my old friend,’ she smiled dazzlingly, ‘confidant of my late beloved husband, comrade in arms to many assembled here, you are investigating the mysterious death of Amaury Whitfield, creature of Thibault, the so-called Master of Secrets, henchman of His Grace, the King’s beloved uncle, John of Gaunt.’ Despite the smile and the courtly titles, the Queen Mother could hardly conceal her well-known loathing for her brother-in-law. ‘His Grace, the King’s uncle,’ Joan continued, her false smile now fading, ‘has left this sea of troubles to defend our northern march against the Scots. Anyway,’ she pointed at Cranston, ‘have you discovered the truth about Whitfield’s death or the secrets he may have carried?’

‘Your Grace,’ Cranston stood up, ‘my secretarius, my friend Brother Athelstan, has not yet resolved it, though he believes Whitfield did not kill himself. As for any secrets he may have held, we have a cipher which at this moment we cannot break. Your Grace, why …?’

‘You are here,’ the Queen Mother declared, rising to her feet and pulling back the sleeves of her voluminous gown, ‘because we have received dreadful news. You know the rebel leaders have always proclaimed, sworn and solemnly protested that they have no quarrel with their king, our beloved son, but only with those who try and control him.’ She let her words hang in the air. Everyone knew she was referring to Gaunt and his henchmen, Sudbury of Canterbury, John Hales, Master Thibault and others of their ilk.

‘Now, however,’ the Queen Mother’s voice shrilled, ‘matters have changed. We have received information from the very heart of the Great Community of the Realm that some of the Upright Men plot the greatest blasphemy, regicide! The murder of your God-given king and our most beloved son!’ Her words created uproar. Shouts and cries of protest filled the hallowed precincts. Swords were drawn and raised as individuals shouted their defiance against such an outrageous act, even though some like Cranston wondered how true the threat was. The clamour was silenced by the King rising to his feet. Immediately swords were sheathed and the assembled council retook their seats. Cranston remained standing.

‘Sir John,’ the Queen Mother declared, ‘you have a question, though I can anticipate it. What source informed us of this? Suffice to say,’ she continued with one hand on her son’s shoulder, ‘that we accept this information unreservedly, as well as the warning of how it will be done.’

Cranston sat down.

‘On no account when the troubles come,’ the Queen Mother continued, ‘and they surely will, must our soveriegn lord agree in any form or guise to meet the rebel leaders. If he does, if he is forced to, if he has no choice, remember this. Your king’s very survival, your survival, our survival, will depend on one thing and one thing only.’ She paused for effect, lifting her right hand as if taking a great oath. ‘You must go armed. You must kill every single rebel leader present at that meeting because if you do not, they will undoubtedly slay your king, God’s Chosen, Christ’s Anointed, as well as anyone else who accompanies him. So swear.’ The Queen’s voice echoed like a trumpet. ‘Here in this hallowed place that what I said tonight will be obeyed. On your souls’ eternal fate …’

‘Absolvo te a peccatis tuis – I absolve you from your sins.’ Athelstan crouched by the corpse of Oliver Lebarge sprawled on the sacristy floor. He tried to avoid looking at the dead man’s liverish face all twisted in the agonized contortion of a painful death. Lebarge had been poisoned, Athelstan was certain of that. The dead man’s face was more than proof, especially the dirty white foam drying on his mouth, the bulging eyes, his slightly swollen tongue thrust through half-open lips; his limbs were rigid, head thrust forward as the dying man had fought for his last breath. The friar finished the absolution and hastily anointed the hands, chest and feet of the corpse, aware of his parishioners thronging at the half-open door leading to God’s Acre. Apparently Lebarge had taken the poison, God knows what, how or when, and, realising he was in mortal agony, staggered out of the sanctuary only to collapse here in the sacristy where Mauger had found him.

‘How, Brother?’ Benedicta came across and crouched beside him. He turned and stared at her smooth, olive-skinned face. ‘How?’ she repeated. ‘Brother Athelstan, this was a man terrified out of his wits. The only food he would eat was what I brought from your house; nothing was added whilst I fetched him his supper some hours ago.’ She gestured at the door. ‘He distrusted the doxies at the Golden Oliphant, he confessed as much, none of them came here. Moreover, why should he take anything from those he fled from?’

Athelstan agreed. He clasped shut the phial of anointing oil and rose to his feet. He took a lighted candle and walked slowly back out into the sanctuary, across to the mercy enclave, studying the floor at every step. He could detect nothing except dried drops of thick saliva which must have come from Lebarge as he staggered across to die. Once in the sanctuary recess, Athelstan put the candle down. Crouching on all fours, he carefully scrutinized the floor but, apart from dried mud, candle grease and some rat droppings, he could discover nothing unusual. How then had Lebarge been poisoned: by food or by some cut or wound? Benedicta and Mauger, having ordered the others to stay back, came across to join him.

‘Where’s Pike, Watkin, Ranulf and the rest of their merry crew?’ Athelstan demanded.

‘Celebrating in the Piebald.’ Bladdersmith the bailiff, reeking of ale and unsteady on his feet, entered the sanctuary. ‘Now what do we have here, a corpse?’

‘Most perceptive,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Master Bladdersmith, have the body shrouded and carted. It is to be taken to Brother Philippe at St Bartholomew’s hospital. Ask him, for my sake, to scrutinize the corpse most carefully. Go on, go on,’ Athelstan urged, waving his hands. ‘There are enough of the curious outside to assist you, but first …’ He knelt and went through the dead man’s pockets and belt wallet. He was surprised to find a small, dark green velvet purse fastened with twine containing a number of silver coins. ‘I will give these to Cranston,’ he murmured, ‘with a plea to return them to me for funeral expenses and what’s left for the poor.’ The friar continued his search and discovered a stiletto-like dagger pushed into a concealed sheath on the dead man’s belt. ‘Strange and stranger still,’ he murmured.

‘What is?’ Benedicta asked.

‘Here was I thinking Lebarge had fled here with only the clothes on his back, yet I now find him armed and monied. Benedicta, Mauger, are you sure no one else approached our sanctuary man?’

‘Brother,’ Mauger protested, ‘true, we did not mount close guard on the entrance to the rood screen or the sacristy door, but I’m sure no one met Lebarge.’

‘I agree,’ Benedicta added. ‘Master Bladdersmith,’ the widow woman turned to the bailiff, ‘you were sleeping in God’s Acre. You and Godbless were sharing a tankard …?’

‘I saw nothing,’ the bailiff slurred.

Athelstan stared down at the corpse and blessed it one final time. ‘What is strangest of all,’ he declared, ‘is that Lebarge would have nothing to do with anyone except us, yet he dies of poison …’ He thanked them all, walked quickly out of the sanctuary and down the gloomy nave. Benedicta called his name but he walked faster. He needed to think, to be alone. He paused by the entrance to the church tower and glimpsed Crispin’s work-bench and tools. He smiled to himself and slipped through the main door back up to the priest’s house. Athelstan believed he had done enough and fully agreed with the verse from scripture which advised that one should not worry about the morrow as each day had troubles of its own. It certainly had! The friar sat for a while at the table quietly reciting the office of compline from his psalter. He finished, tended the dying coals in the hearth, then started at a rap on the door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Brother, it’s Pike the Ditcher. I need to speak to you!’

‘And I want to speak to you,’ Athelstan shouted back and, without a second’s thought, he unbolted the door and flung it open. The grotesques who pushed him back into the kitchen were frightening to look at: Earthworms, the Upright Men’s street warriors, garbed in cow-skin dyed and daubed in an array of garish colours, their faces blackened, hair tied up in greasy tufts like the horns on some demon goat. They were all armed with oxhide shields, swords, daggers and maces. They crowded in around Athelstan before parting to let a shame-faced Pike and Watkin through.

‘I could excommunicate you for this.’ Athelstan tried to hide his fear. ‘Cursing you with bell, book and candle. Denying you the church and all its sacraments. There is no need to come for me like this in the dead of night as if I was some felon.’

‘You have been summoned.’ The Captain of the Earthworms, his face hidden behind a grotesque raven’s mask, beckoned. ‘You must come. You have no choice.’

‘Please?’ Pike pleaded.

Athelstan put on his sandals and cloak and stormed out of the house. Immediately the Earthworms surrounded him and he was gently guided down the lane. Athelstan wondered if they were going to some desolate place along the river and hid his surprise when they stopped at the Piebald Tavern. He looked up and down the narrow lane: silence. No foraging cats or swarming rats, no dogs prowled or howled against the sky, nothing but moving shadows. The Piebald, and all approaches to it, would be closely guarded.

Pike rapped on the tavern door, bolts were pulled, locks turned and Athelstan was ushered in to the tangy warmth of the taproom. This had been transformed into a council chamber with men ranging either side of the long common table. A monstrously fat figure, head and face covered by hood and veil, sat enthroned at the far end. Athelstan glanced at the men. Most were his parishioners: Ranulf, the Hangman, Crispin, Hig the Pig Man, Moleskin and the usual motley crew. He glared at them as he sat down on the chair placed at the near end of the table. Pike and Watkin also took their seats. The Earthworms gathered near the door or fanned out behind those sitting there. The Raven walked to the top of the table and whispered to the veiled figure, who removed the heavy headdress to reveal a fleshy, sweaty face under a balding pate, hungry eyes and a strong mouth over a jutting chin.

‘I am Simon Grindcobbe, Brother.’

‘Of course you are.’

‘I am a lord, a master on the Council of the Upright Men.’

‘So you have lords already.’ Athelstan’s response provoked grunts of approval and even snorts of laughter from others around the table.

‘The Great Community of the Realm demands leadership.’

‘And naturally you regard yourself as the logical choice, hence your self-election?’

Grindcobbe leaned forward, lacing stubby fingers together. ‘In the end, Brother, all my titles mean – and you know this – is that I will die a slower, more painful death than our comrades here.’

‘Our comrades?’

‘You are with us, Brother Athelstan, or so they say.’

‘Those who say so can go hang, Master Grindcobbe. I have chosen my vocation. I am a Dominican priest.’

‘And the Lord High Coroner’s Secretarius?’

‘He chose me for a task, necessary for good order in our violent community.’

‘You have no solidarity with the poor?’

‘If I didn’t, what would I be doing here? Master Grindcobbe, I am tired and weary. You have brought me to you at the dead of night, for what reason?’

‘To determine if you are a traitor.’

‘My allegiance is to Christ and the Church, my Order and the King.’

‘And to your parishioners?’

‘I have never betrayed them.’ Athelstan stared around at the men gathered there. None dared meet his gaze except Radegund the Relic Seller, who glared sullenly at him.

‘You know,’ Grindcobbe pointed at Athelstan, ‘I was to meet Pike the Ditcher in the sacristy three hours after midday.’

‘I did not know that. I was informed by Pike that he was meeting a cousin, Sister Matilda of the Poor Clares. He asked for somewhere quiet and reclusive, and suggested our sacristy. I agreed. I had my doubts then; now I realize how true my feelings were.’

‘And you told no one else?’

Athelstan closed his eyes. He recalled meeting Benedicta in the sacristy. He repressed a chill and stared down at the table top. He had told her, he was sure he had.

‘Brother, if you told no else – and I certainly didn’t, and Pike the Ditcher wouldn’t – who informed Thibault’s men of the day, the hour and the place?’

Athelstan closed his eyes. ‘I …’

‘He told me.’ Athelstan started in surprise. Benedicta came out of the kitchen at the far end of the taproom. She was shrouded in her cloak, wiping her hands on a napkin. Athelstan stared at her as he realized he did not truly know this woman, not really. He had judged her to be a pious widow, lovely in all aspects, dedicated to good work, the care of the church and the priest’s house. He crossed himself as he secretly confessed to his own arrogance. Benedicta was so different now: her walk, her poise, the simple gesture of carefully wiping her hands on a cloth, the way she was staring at him, the half-smile which faded as she stopped behind Radegund the Relic Seller.

‘You told me, Brother, in the sacristy. Radegund here, a veritable bee of busy gossip, in hiding because of an alleged fraud against some lord of the soil, crept across the sanctuary and eavesdropped.’

‘I did not.’ Radegund half turned on his stool. ‘I did not!’ he spluttered.

‘Oh, yes, you did.’ Benedicta leaned down and whispered hoarsely in his ear. ‘Master Lebarge, then in sanctuary, saw you. He commented on how much you questioned him about this and that, but he definitely saw you and told me so.’ She glanced up. ‘Brother, do you remember when we discussed Pike the Ditcher’s meeting? I went to the sacristy door. I thought I’d heard something – I did. But by then Radegund had hastily withdrawn.’

Athelstan stared at the relic seller as he recalled how Thibault, that sinister Master of Secrets, had insinuated that he had a spy in the parish of St Erconwald’s. Radegund would be ideal. A man who flitted here and there, a friend to all who could act the merry rogue, a true son of the soil.

‘You claimed sanctuary, Radegund,’ Benedicta continued, now addressing the entire company. ‘You claimed that you had offended a great one and so fled for sanctuary …’

‘You knew about Lebarge,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘You entered St Erconwald’s and gained his confidence to discover what had really happened at the Golden Oliphant. And when you failed, you decided to leave. You knew you would be closely protected by Watkin, Pike and the others.’

‘But he also learnt,’ Benedicta declared, ‘about Pike the Ditcher’s meeting with a mysterious cousin and passed that information on.’

‘I had to come here,’ Grindcobbe declared, ‘as you will learn, Brother Athelstan. I need to have urgent and secret words with you, which is why I met Pike in the first place. Thibault’s spies swarm like fleas over a turd. I thought,’ he grinned, ‘I could pass through here as a rotund but cheery-voiced Poor Clare sister.’

‘And we would both have been taken,’ Pike screeched, ‘had it not been for that secret shaft. In the end,’ he shrugged, ‘Godbless did not know what to make of it all, especially when the Earthworms appeared.’

Benedicta patted Radegund on the shoulder. ‘We suspected we had a spy and you, Radegund, are he. You act the roaring boy, but in truth you are a whore touting for custom, blithely betraying those you eat and drink with.’

‘Did you poison Lebarge?’ Athelstan demanded.

‘Of course not! I have done nothing wrong!’ Radegund protested. Grindcobbe ordered the relic seller to be searched, and his pockets and wallet, the lining of his jerkin as well as his sack of geegaws were all emptied on to the table. Even before they were seized, Athelstan noticed the freshly minted silver, new from the Tower, and the green-ribboned seal bearing a crown above a portcullis: Thibault’s personal waxed insignia given to protect Radegund if he was ever taken up. All of these were inspected and gleefully passed around. Athelstan stared pityingly at the relic seller. He was already tried, judged and condemned. Behind him Benedicta, so poised and so silent, watched everything closely. Athelstan thought the relic seller would be hustled away, but now the rest of the company thronged about Radegund, punching and tearing at his clothes.

‘Guilty!’ a voice cried. ‘Treason!’ another shouted. ‘Traitor!’ The violence deepened. Athelstan tried to intervene but the Earthworms held him back. He watched in horror as the fighting men of the Great Community lifted the screaming Radegund on to his stool, a rope was produced, looped over the roof beam and a noose fastened tightly around Radegund’s throat. The Raven kicked the stool away. Athelstan shouted and struggled to break free but there was nothing he could do. Radegund jerked and choked until the Hangman seized his legs and pulled him down. Radegund convulsed one final time and hung still. For a brief while silence reigned. Athelstan looked for Benedicta, but she was gone. The others, however, were elated, triumphant at the discovery and summary execution of a traitor.

‘You may have him now, priest,’ a voice shouted. Radegund was cut down and laid on the table whilst Joscelyn, the one-armed former river pirate, ordered jugs of ale and tankards to be brought. Athelstan walked around the table. He closed his mind to the living bustling about him as, shaking and sweat-soaked, belly lurching, he administered the last rites and commended Radegund’s soul to the mercy of God. Once finished, the friar slumped on a stool and, for a matter of heartbeats, cursed both his life and his calling. He would get out of here! He would plead with his superiors to send him elsewhere. He could not understand, he could not bear this sudden, horrid violence. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Pike pressed a goblet of wine into his hand.

‘Drink, Father,’ he urged. ‘Do not judge us. We knew there was a traitor. Radegund would have hanged us all, destroyed our families. He came crying “All hail” when like Judas he meant all harm. But come, Master Grindcobbe needs urgent words with you.’

Athelstan finished the wine and allowed Pike to take him up to a chamber above stairs. Simon Grindcobbe was already there, hunched over a table with a platter of cheese, bread and dried meats. He waved Athelstan to the stool opposite and filled a tankard, toasting the friar with his own.

‘Be at peace, Brother.’

‘I am – I was at peace until I saw murder.’ Athelstan swiftly blessed the food and stared around. They were alone. The window firmly barred. The heavy door shut. No fire burnt in the grate. Candle spigots and lanterns hooked to the wall provided light.

‘It wasn’t murder, you know that, Brother. Radegund could have had every man, woman and child in this tavern hanged for treason and myself quartered and filleted at Smithfield.’

‘I could do the same.’

‘But you won’t. Radegund was worse than a common whore in Cock Lane, selling what he knew to anyone who would pay, and to the devil with the consequences. Now, Brother, why I am here?’

‘A very good question.’

‘To talk to you. I came in disguise to meet Pike to arrange this meeting.’ Grindcobbe shrugged. ‘My features and form are well known. A Poor Clare sister, burly and big, face hidden by a veil, one who came and went within the hour, was probably the safest way. A nun closeted in the sacristy would not provoke as much attention as Pike and I meeting in some market alehouse or tavern where the likes of Radegund swarm like lice.’

‘You suspected him?’

‘No, we did not. We knew that Thibault had spies but never guessed our notorious relic seller was one of them, except for …’

‘Benedicta?’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘She also sits high in the Council of the Upright Men?’

‘Yes, Brother, she does. A good woman trusted by all, including you.’

‘Perhaps not now.’

‘Don’t judge her hastily, Athelstan. Sharp and swift as a hawk is Benedicta. She is no hypocrite. Has she hurt anyone in your parish? Does she not care for you and the brethren? Believe me, she has good cause to be one of ours. She hails from the Weald of Kent, where her father was executed for poaching, hunting meat for his starving family. Benedicta’s brother was cut down in an affray over taxes. Her husband had his ship impounded by the crown for the King’s war at sea and, when both he and ship were lost, she received a mere pittance in compensation.’

Athelstan sipped his drink as he mentally beat his breast. One of my many faults, he considered, I must remember: still waters run very, very deep and behind every soul stretches a life known only to God.

‘Why did you want to see me?’ he asked.

‘To pass on a warning.’

‘I have been warned often enough. I will not join your revolt.’

‘Something more serious than that, but, to show you my goodwill, let me help you …’

‘And reveal the name of the Herald of Hell?’

‘Brother, I will not betray our secrets. I refer to Whitfield’s death.’

‘And?’

Grindcobbe leaned over the table. ‘If Radegund acted like a common whore, Whitfield and Lebarge were no better. Oh,’ Grindcobbe sipped from his tankard, ‘Whitfield was the most skilled of cipher clerks who worked at the very heart of Thibault’s chancery. Heaven knows what secrets passed through his hands, but Whitfield was also very greedy and lecherous, even though he was impotent. We know that from the whores with whom he played so many games. Whitfield needed silver and gold to pay his way and satisfy his appetites. He also had an eye for the future. He feared the coming troubles, especially when he, like so many of Gaunt’s minions, was visited by the Herald of Hell.’

‘Whitfield had a great deal to fear.’

‘Oh, too true, Brother. You see, Whitfield had sold himself to others, including the Upright Men.’

Athelstan just shook his head.

‘It’s the truth. Indeed we called him “Chanticlere”, the cock which crows so shrilly for all to hear and tries to mount every hen in his filthy yard. In return for good coin, Whitfield, through his scrivener Lebarge, would send us warnings, give us sound advice, not too much to provoke suspicion but enough for us to take precautions when needed.’

‘And the gold and silver?’

‘It would join the rest of Whitfield’s illicit income.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You have met Adam Stretton, Fitzalan of Arundel’s man, at the Golden Oliphant? A mailed clerk, a true assassin, a killer born and bred who has carried out all kinds of nefarious crimes secretly, subtly, at the dead of night for his master. Stretton is most adept at arranging accidents: a fall downstairs, a fire which abruptly breaks out, a horse which suddenly turns violent and bolts. Did you know he once trained as an apprentice with the Guild of Locksmiths? A crafty, cunning clerk who can work wonders on bolts, locks and hinges. Oh, by the way, Odo Gray, our jolly sea captain, is no better. Many is the passenger who has disappeared over the side. The member of crew who protested too much tumbling from the rigging or the unwanted guest supposedly falling ill on board and buried swiftly at sea before any physician could examine the corpse and shout poison.’ Grindcobbe licked his lips. ‘To return to Stretton. His master Arundel hates Gaunt, who replies in kind. To be brief, Arundel, through Stretton, was also paying Whitfield for whatever information he could glean about Gaunt, Thibault and the rest of their devilish coven. Stretton had to be careful, so he would come to the Cokayne festivals or any other revelry at the Golden Oliphant. Whitfield attended the last joyous meeting, he always did, and Stretton joined him to discover more, to put pressure on him or …’ Grindcobbe paused. ‘Did Stretton also suspect that Whitfield and Lebarge were preparing to flee across the Narrow Seas for pastures new? Was he there to draw Whitfield into Arundel’s coven? To offer him protection, to discover more information, or, more likely, threaten Whitfield that the Earl of Arundel wanted a richer return on his investment? We certainly did.’

‘You have Upright Men at the Golden Oliphant?’

‘Of course, as we do in all the wards, streets, taverns, alehouses and brothels of London. The Golden Oliphant is no different, you know that. When Thibault arrived there, the Upright Men, whoever or whatever he, she or they may be, seized the opportunity to loose those crossbow bolts.’ Grindcobbe chuckled. ‘Of course we did little hurt or harm but it served a powerful warning to our demon enemy.’

‘And you intervened again outside St Mary Le Bow?’ Athelstan asked. His surprise had now faded, replaced by a deep curiosity. He had served at St Erconwald’s for many a day. The Upright Men had become part of the fabric of his life and that of the parish, but now he was being drawn into the very heart of their machinations.

‘Yes, it was us outside St Mary Le Bow. We intended you no harm. We guessed that Thibault had handed you the cipher that Whitfield held, the one seized, or at least part of it, when that arrogant madcap Reynard allowed himself to be captured. We only wanted to hold you as a threat against Cranston, whilst we emptied or filched your chancery satchel. Of course we, or rather they, made a stupid mistake. Cranston, despite his bulk, is still as fast as a lunging viper.’

‘Good Sir John.’ Athelstan toasted Grindcobbe with his tankard. The captain of the Upright Men stared back, smiled and grudgingly responded to the toast.

‘At least Cranston is not corrupt. He has not sold his soul,’ Grindcobbe murmured. ‘Which is why I am here tonight, but I will come to that by and by. Now, to return to the Golden Oliphant. Naturally we were deeply concerned by Whitfield. He had taken our money, we wanted more information and were not happy about the prospect of him disappearing.’

‘Especially with the cipher?’

‘We needed that back. We certainly didn’t want Whitfield to translate it.’ Grindcobbe turned and glanced at Athelstan out of the corner of his eye. ‘They say Whitfield was found fully dressed as if about to leave?’

‘Yes.’

‘He was,’ Grindcobbe grinned. ‘He was supposed to leave the Golden Oliphant in the early hours and meet me.’

‘Why? Oh, of course,’ Athelstan answered his own question. ‘To return the cipher.’

‘Correct, but he failed to appear. We knew him to be a toper so we thought we would wait for another occasion.’

‘One small mystery is solved,’ the friar conceded. ‘I wondered why Whitfield was dressed in the early hours. So, in the end, he agreed to hand the cipher over?’

‘We threatened him. If he did, we would let him go, if he didn’t we would take action.’

‘So the cipher is important?’

‘Have you translated it?’

‘No, is that why you wanted this meeting?’

Grindcobbe shook his head, swilled the dregs of ale around his tankard, promptly drank them and refilled it. ‘The cipher is obviously important,’ he conceded. ‘It is related to what is about to happen. Do not worry, we will not search you or your house. You have undoubtedly made copies of it. Another little task performed in the Lamb of God.’ Grindcobbe leaned across the table and grasped Athelstan’s hand. He squeezed and let it go. ‘Brother, believe me, in a short while it will not matter. The day of wrath will soon be upon us.’

‘How soon?’

‘Within the week at the very most.’

Athelstan went cold. The room grew darker; even the candlelight seemed to dim at Grindcobbe’s sombre tone.

You are not lying, Athelstan thought. You are warning me.

‘Brother?’

‘I recall the words of the prophet Amos, Master Grindcobbe: “Israel, prepare to meet your God.” When, how will this all begin?’

‘As scripture says, Brother, it will come like a thief in the night and ye know not the day nor the hour.’

Athelstan took a deep breath. ‘So,’ he declared, ‘back to Whitfield and the Golden Oliphant. Desperate, wanting to escape, fleeing from his own master, hounded by you and Stretton. Who knows, perhaps he did commit suicide?’

‘No, no.’ Grindcobbe shook his head. ‘Whitfield was plotting to flee, but not only him – the villainous Odo Gray was also hired to take Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne, Joycelina and all their household out of London to the …’

‘All of them?’

‘Oh, yes. Think of the Golden Oliphant, Brother! You have only seen some of the chambers. Believe me, Mistress Cheyne has packed up her valuables and movables, or most of them. The Golden Oliphant was to be boarded up and left under the protection of hired ruffians. Mistress Elizabeth and her moppets would soon adjourn abroad. There is a profitable market for English flesh as well as English wool in Flemish towns, and, when the troubles were over, back she would return.’

‘And Whitfield and Lebarge would go with her?’

‘Yes. Secretly, though. The accepted wisdom is that Whitfield was probably planning some pretend accident along the Thames: a slip down the steps, a fall from the quayside, a tumble from a barge, which would be portrayed as a possible suicide of a man whose wits gave way, whose soul fractured due to all his worries.’

‘And Lebarge?’

‘No one really worried about Lebarge, a mere servant, although I know he was more than that to Whitfield. In the end, he was just another man frightened out of his wits. I understand he too has died, poisoned whilst hiding in sanctuary.’

Athelstan nodded.

‘By whom?’

‘Heaven knows,’ Athelstan murmured, holding up a hand, ‘and that is the truth.’ The friar closed his eyes. Grindcobbe was being honest, at least about what concerned Whitfield, though he was being very cautious not to betray any secrets of the Upright Men. Athelstan opened his eyes. ‘So, Whitfield was pestered from every side?’

‘At first he told us not to bother him, that he was frightened; he had done enough for our cause. I am sure he made Stretton the same response. Don’t forget, Whitfield was wary of Arundel but he feared Thibault the most. He was terrified that Gaunt’s Master of Secrets would discover what he was going to do.’

‘You could have threatened to expose him.’

‘We did. Whitfield threatened us back with the cipher he held, not to mention other secrets. We compromised. We would let him go unscathed, providing he returned the cipher. I suspect he was planning to do this when death, in some form, brutally intervened.’ Grindcobbe leaned across the table.

‘Brother, Whitfield was not just a frightened clerk with a boot in either camp. I mentioned earlier about the flow of secret information across his chancery desk. I am sure he responded in kind to any threat from Stretton.’

‘Like some chess game,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘pieces thrust against each other.’

‘Precisely, Brother, and all Whitfield had to do was wait a short while, perhaps not more than a day. Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne would finish moving whatever else she wanted to take with her, and ensure all the moppets and the rest of her household had their secret instructions on what to take – not that such ladies have much to carry.’

‘And the members of your coven, the Upright Men would have gone with them?’

Grindcobbe just wagged a warning finger. ‘That does not concern you, Brother.’

‘But then Whitfield dies. Lebarge flees, panic-stricken, and it all comes to nothing. Mistress Elizabeth and everyone in the Golden Oliphant is now under strict instruction by the Lord High Coroner to remain where they are.’

‘True,’ Grindcobbe agreed, ‘Mistress Cheyne is deeply furious.’

‘Let her rage, Master Grindcobbe. Other matters do puzzle me. First, here’s Whitfield anxious, agitated, fearful, bound up with himself, so why did he offer to help Matthias Camoys try to discover the whereabouts of the Cross of Lothar?’

‘I have heard of that,’ Grindcobbe declared, ‘and of the mysterious carvings at the Golden Oliphant, but I cannot help; such a mummery does not concern me or mine.’

‘I wonder …’ Athelstan tapped on the table. ‘Those inscriptions, “Soli Invicto” and “IHSV”, are familiar. Yet, for the life of me, I cannot specifically recall why or what they are. “IHSV” is a Greek abbreviation for Jesus Christ, Son of God and Saviour. But why should Sir Reginald …?’

‘What else?’ Grindcobbe broke in testily.

‘Well, it’s obvious. If you are correct, and I accept that you are, Amaury Whitfield must have earned a great deal of silver and gold from you, Stretton and whoever else he did business with. Yet we found nothing of that treasure either on him or in his room, which makes me reflect on another problem. Whitfield hired a bleak chamber at the top of the house. He could have housed himself in more comfortable quarters on one of the galleries below. I am sure Mistress Cheyne has more luxurious accommodation for select guests. Whitfield, however, chose to climb very steep stairs – the one to the top gallery is especially long and arduous – why? To protect himself? To conceal something against an intruder who might find a lower chamber easier to break into through door or window? Was Whitfield guarding his ill-gained wealth, and if so, where is it now?’

‘Brother Athelstan, the hour is passing, I must be gone. I have demonstrated, as much as I can, my good faith. Now I must tell you the reason for this meeting.’ Grindcobbe moved the ale jug and platters from between them. ‘The Great Community of the Realm have decided they are ready. The chosen day is fast approaching. Once upon a time the leaders of the Upright Men were united. Now, as the stirring time approaches, sharp divisions have appeared. We have always protested our loyalty to the boy-king; it is his evil councillors we wish to remove and punish. I am personally loyal to Richard. I fought as a captain of hobelars for his father the Black Prince.’ Grindcobbe drew breath. ‘Cranston may already have some intelligence about what I am going to say; a similar warning has been despatched to the court party with one significant omission …’

‘What is all this?’

‘Brother Athelstan, may God be my witness, but I truly believe a most senior captain amongst the Upright Men intends to meet the young king and draw him into negotiation. This will only be a ploy to allay Richard’s suspicions before the captain kills him and all members of the royal party.’

‘Impossible!’

‘No, listen,’ Grindcobbe held up a hand, ‘there are some amongst the Upright Men who want the entire court party, all the lords spiritual and temporal, slaughtered. I and the others have always regarded them as hotheads, who could be restrained on the day.’

‘I am not too sure,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Once the bloodletting begins, killing begets killing.’

‘True, but there’s more. This is my suspicion and mine only. I have very little proof; it is more conjecture than anything else. My Lord of Gaunt is quitting London for the northern march. He claims he must deal with Scottish incursions across the border. Nonsense! Why, I ask, is Gaunt leaving London and the southern shires when the young king and the royal family need both his protection and that of his troops?’

‘I agree.’

‘Hence my suspicion of a plot forged in Hell. One of our leading captains has been suborned by Gaunt with promises and assurances.’ Grindcobbe paused. Athelstan felt a fear grip his belly; he half suspected what Grindcobbe was about to say.

‘Gaunt wants the young king dead. He will then come hurrying south to crush the revolt. More importantly, if Richard dies he leaves no heir.’

‘And the Confessor’s crown,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘will go to the next in line, away from the Plantagenets, to John of Gaunt, uncle of the King, brother of the Black Prince, head of the House of Lancaster and next in line to the throne. Do you have proof of this?’

‘None, just a deep, gnawing apprehension as well as the whisperings of my most skilled spies.’

‘And so?’

‘Sir John Cranston may well be alerted to the warning I have already sent to the Queen Mother, but I did not voice my full suspicions. After all, not everybody in the court party can be trusted. Tell Cranston the threat is even more dangerous than he thinks. Young Richard must not meet any of our leaders, for if he does, royal blood will be shed.’

‘Why not accuse Gaunt publicly?’ Athelstan paused and sighed. ‘I can guess your response. If any specific allegation is laid, then where is the proof?’

Grindcobbe nodded in agreement.

‘I suppose,’ Athelstan continued, ‘Gaunt will be forewarned about what you know, whilst your spies who helped you reach this conclusion would be left vulnerable. In the end Gaunt would brush it off as just another devious stratagem to blacken his name and reputation. He would protest his innocence, his years of service, and then wait for some other occasion.’ Athelstan stared at the dancing candle-flame. Grindcobbe was telling the truth. The friar recalled Lebarge’s demand for a pardon for any crimes he may have committed or be accused of. If Whitfield knew the truth behind Grindcobbe’s allegation and shared it with Lebarge, little wonder both men were desperate and wished to flee for their lives: such knowledge was highly dangerous and could engulf them in the most heinous treason.

‘Brother Athelstan?’ Grindcobbe brought him back to the present.

‘Do you think Whitfield knew such secrets?’ Althelstan asked.

‘There is a very good chance he did, Brother, but,’ Grindcobbe pushed back his stool, ‘the hour is passing. I must be gone. It’s only a matter of time before Thibault’s soldiers return. Benedicta will walk you back to your house.’

Athelstan rose and crossed to the door.

‘Brother?’

The friar turned.

‘Athelstan, I doubt if we will meet again this side of Hell. Pray for me and, if I fail, pray that my death be swift.’

Athelstan nodded, gave his blessing and left, going down the stairs to where Benedicta was waiting in a now deserted taproom. They left the Piebald, walking in silence for a while. Benedicta slipped her hand into his.

‘I never lied, Athelstan. I am what I truly am. I do what my heart tells me is right. I have made my confession to you at the mercy pew. You have sat in the shriving chair and absolved my sins. I have dedicated myself to you and this community.’ She stopped and faced him squarely now, grasping his other hand. ‘Well,’ she added impishly, ‘what would the parish gossips say about us standing, hands clasped, in the moonlight?’

Athelstan stepped closer; her smile faded. ‘You could have told me, Benedicta.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I kept it hidden from you because, my dear friar, you would have worried, worried and worried yet again. I am telling you now as it is the truth, but tomorrow when I rise, I shall put on my mask to meet the others who hide behind their masks, though not from you, beloved Brother.’ And, leaning forward, Benedicta kissed him on both cheeks, pressed his hands and disappeared into the night.

After a troubled night’s sleep, Athelstan finished his dawn Mass attended by Benedicta, Mauger, Crim and the ever vigilant Bonaventure, who seemed very interested in what might be lurking in the sanctuary, though Crim kept shooing him away. Athelstan was divesting in the sacristy afterwards and wondering what to do when the green-garbed Tiptoft slipped like a moonbeam into the church to whisper that Sir John sent his greetings and would Athelstan meet him in the Lamb of God as a matter of great urgency.

‘I surely will,’ Athelstan replied. He collected his belongings and whatever else he needed and followed Tiptoft with a small escort of Flaxwith’s bailiffs down to London Bridge. The day was mist-hung. The swirling white cloud masked both sight and sound, though as they approached the gallows and stocks near the entrance to the bridge, Athelstan glimpsed the pole set up with Radegund’s head spiked on the top, and beneath it a colourful scrolled proclamation which publicized the stark, brutal message: ‘Radegund the Relic Seller, adjudged a traitor, condemned to death’, followed by the date and the phrase, ‘by order of the Upright Men and the Great Community of the Realm’. Athelstan murmured a prayer, pulled his cowl closer over his head, took his beads out and began a decade of aves as his escort led him across the mist-strewn bridge and up into the city. Cries and shouts rang out. Figures passed like wraiths, except for one of the numerous preachers of doom, garbed in animal skins, walking up and down with a torch in each hand, quoting texts from the Apocalypse.

At last he reached the Lamb of God. Mine Hostess had opened specially for Sir John who, all trimmed and freshly garbed, was sitting in his favourite window seat eating newly baked bread and drinking a stoup of ale. Athelstan and Cranston exchanged the kiss of peace whilst a heavy-eyed servant brought more bread and ale. The friar had hardly blessed this when Cranston started to describe the previous night’s meeting at St Edward’s shrine. Athelstan did not interrupt but, once the coroner had finished, he gave an equally terse account of all that happened: the murder of Lebarge, the confrontation with Radegund, the relic seller’s swift and brutal execution and the information Grindcobbe had shared with him.

‘Satan’s tits!’ Cranston grumbled, staring quickly around. ‘We know enough treason to really set the pot bubbling. We have been given halves of the same coin, Brother.’

‘And we will put them together when the time comes, though that is not now, Sir John.’ Athelstan bit into the bread, eager to break his fast, chewed quickly, then continued. ‘When that hour does come, my Lord High Coroner, you will know it. God forgive me, I am supposed to be a man of peace, but we are talking about the Lord’s anointed, our king, an innocent boy. So, when the danger threatens, Sir John, strike hard and may God’s angel strengthen your arm.’

Cranston sipped at his ale. He and his colleague, Walworth the Mayor, had already decided what to do when what Athelstan called ‘the hour’ arrived. He put his cup down.

‘Amen to that, Brother,’ he declared. ‘Interesting, though, how the Upright Men, at the very time they need unity, are beginning to divide into at least three factions. There are those who wish to pull up everything, root and branch, and destroy the present order. The second group, like Grindcobbe, simply want the present order purged of all sin and reformed. And now a sinister third group. One, possibly more, of the leaders amongst the Upright Men have been suborned by Gaunt with a dream of a new king, a new royal house and fresh beginnings.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘No wonder Whitfield was murdered. Perhaps Thibault despatched his own assassins into the Golden Oliphant and all that rage and temper was just a pretext, a cover for his deep relief at the death of a clerk who knew too much and could no longer be trusted. The fact remains: we do not know who killed him, why or how. The list of suspects seems to be growing all the time. Mistress Cheyne is ruthless enough to hire killers. Grindcobbe correctly described the rest and it agrees with what we already know. Stretton enjoys a most sinister reputation. Odo Gray is no better. Foxley, and I truly suspect this, is an Upright Man. Did you notice the wrist guard on his left arm? I am sure he is skilled at loosing a crossbow. And of course there is Thibault’s assassin, Albinus. Did he, by himself or with others, slink back into that brothel at the dead of night and kill Whitfield?’ Cranston sighed noisily. ‘Nor must we forget young Camoys, who had enough sway with Whitfield to coax our hapless clerk, desperate to escape, into trying to resolve the riddles left by his uncle. Well, talking of riddles, Brother, what about the cipher?’

Athelstan pulled a face, ‘I have hardly looked at it. I suspect the cipher itself cannot be unlocked. As for the triangles and the litany of saints, I suggest these are Whitfield’s workings, as much as he could deduce from the cipher. Well, Sir John, now I am in the city, I think it’s time I spent a period of reflection in our library at Blackfriars where I can pursue these matters a little further.’

‘Away from your parish and the likes of the lovely Benedicta?’

Athelstan just smiled. He thought it best if he did not inform Cranston about Benedicta, or at least not for the time being.

‘Sir John?’ a voice interrupted them.

Athelstan glanced up. Osbert Oswald, Cranston’s Guildhall clerk, had slipped into the tavern, two pieces of parchment clutched in his hands. The coroner took them and read them swiftly.

‘Well, Brother, one trouble after another. Physician Philippe has replied; copies have been sent to you whilst I have received what is due to the coroner. Lebarge was definitely poisoned. Some herbal plant. Our beloved physician believes it could be deadly nightshade.’

‘That’s no surprise,’ Athelstan declared. ‘The real mystery is how it was administered to a man so terrified that he would only eat what Benedicta brought and tasted.’

‘And more trouble!’ Cranston had unrolled the other parchment. ‘It’s back to the Golden Oliphant. Joycelina, Mistress Cheyne’s principal helpmate, has taken a tumble downstairs and lies dead of a broken neck.’

They found the Golden Oliphant strangely quiet. The violent deaths which had occurred there seemed to have turned the brothel, as Athelstan remarked, into a place of deep shadow. Mistress Cheyne, face cleaned of paint, and garbed in a simple, dark brown gown, a veil covering her hair, ushered them across the Golden Hall into the refectory where all the guests and household retainers were assembled.

‘When can we leave?’ Stretton immediately shouted.

‘Keep quiet,’ Cranston snarled. ‘Another death has occurred. You, sir, are a suspect.’

‘And where is Mistress Hawisa?’ Athelstan looked round. ‘Hawisa?’ he repeated.

‘She is gone.’ Mistress Cheyne, red-eyed and wiping her hands on the apron she’d swiftly donned, gestured around. ‘People are very afraid.’

‘What about Hawisa’s belongings?’

‘Gone. I will show you her chamber.’

‘And Lebarge’s baggage? You know he is dead.’

‘So we heard,’ Foxley spoke up. ‘Slain in sanctuary, they said.’

‘And his baggage?’ Athelstan insisted.

‘Also gone,’ Mistress Cheyne replied. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I do not know why Lebarge fled and died, or where his baggage has been taken.’

Athelstan nodded as if in agreement. He gazed round. The guests, household moppets and servants sat on benches along each table littered with the remains of their morning meal. The friar sensed their deep anxiety. Outside one of the mastiffs howled, an eerie, blood-tingling sound on the early summer morning. Stretton sat head down, playing with the hilt of his dagger. Odo Gray was fashioning a knot with a piece of rope. Matthias Camoys doodled with his finger in the drops of ale on the table top. Foxley sat back, staring up at the roof beam in patent exasperation. Master Griffin slouched beside him, eyes closed as if catching up on lost sleep. Whatever you appear, Athelstan reflected, you are all frightened. You wish to be gone. But … He clapped his hands.

‘I ask you to stay here a little longer.’ Athelstan ignored their groans and grumbles. ‘Sir John and I will soon finish our business. Mistress Cheyne, if you could show us Joycelina’s corpse?’

She took them out across the stable yard, glistening after it had been sluiced clean by water from the great well, sunk in the middle of the yard beneath its tarred, red-tiled roof. She led them past the stable where Stretton’s destrier lunged, head back, lips curled as it banged sharpened hooves against the door.

‘Keep well clear of that one,’ Mistress Cheyne murmured. ‘A killer like its master.’

‘You know Master Stretton?’

‘I certainly know of him, Sir John.’

‘As you do Master Odo Gray, who was preparing to spirit away you, your moppets and all you hold dear?’

Mistress Cheyne turned, her hand on the latch of the door to one of the outhouses. ‘I wondered when you would learn that, but so what? Has not your own wife fled London?’ She waved around. ‘I have removed furniture and heavy goods to Master Mephistopheles’ warehouses. Other movables are in the hold of the Leaping Horse.’

‘But you won’t be leaving now?’

‘No, Sir John, as you say, not until this business is finished.’

‘Why did Whitfield hire a chamber on the top gallery?’

‘I don’t know, Brother Athelstan, I asked him that myself. I believe I’ve told you, he just wanted it that way.’

‘Was Whitfield wealthy?’

‘He had coins. Whitfield was not the most generous of men.’

‘And his favourite moppet?’

‘Why, Joycelina. She had certain skills.’

‘Did Whitfield need these?’

Mistress Cheyne smiled coldly. ‘Most men do. Whitfield had problems with potency. He was fat and drank too much.’

‘Were you party to his plot to fake his own death?’

‘Sir John, all I know is that Odo Gray made a great deal of money. He offered to take us to foreign parts. Whitfield and Lebarge were part of that, but why they wanted to flee from London, where they were going and what they were planning to do is not my business. I had troubles of my own.’

‘Did you know that Whitfield was a holder of great secrets?’

‘You mean just like us whores?’ Mistress Cheyne pulled a face. ‘What was that to us?’

‘And Lebarge?’

‘Whitfield’s shadow? Or so it seemed to young Hawisa. A greedy man. He had a passion for my simnel cakes.’

‘What about Hawisa?’

‘As I said, she has fled, taking her baggage and probably Lebarge’s with her. Now, gentlemen, Joycelina awaits you.’

They entered the outhouse. Joycelina’s corpse lay on a battered table covered by a canvas cloth; candles glowed at head and foot. Out of fear of fire all straw had been cleared from the mud-packed floor and some heavy herbal concoction poured out to provide a pleasant odour. Mistress Cheyne pulled back the cloth. Joycelina lay head strangely askew, her face a mass of bruises. Athelstan blessed the corpse, took out his phial of anointing oil and administered the last rites with Cranston reciting the refrain. Once finished, Cranston and Athelstan inspected the corpse. The broken neck, the cause of death, was easily identified, as well as the mass of bruising from the fall down those very steep, sharp-edged stairs leading to the top gallery.

‘What actually happened?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I was baking bread. I went out into the yard to collect some sheets left over the stand close to the well. One of the moppets, Anna, the one Thibault almost hanged, came with me. She went back into the kitchen to fetch something and noticed the bread was burning. She ran out and told me. I ordered her to fetch Joycelina. She went back inside and I could hear her calling. Joycelina was on the top gallery cleaning Whitfield’s chamber. Anna went up and shouted for her. She was on the stairs leading to the third gallery when she heard Joycelina’s answer followed by a scream, a yell and a hideous crash. Anna ran up and found Joycelina had tumbled down. She realized it was very serious and came calling for me. The rest of the household, together with the guests, were having their meal in the refectory. I ran.’ She crossed herself. ‘Joycelina was dead. That was obvious. Anna and I went to the top of the stairs but we could see no reason why Joycelina had slipped, except I noticed one of her sandals had become loose. Now,’ she spread her hands, ‘whether this was due to the fall or not …?’

Athelstan walked to the foot of the makeshift bier and picked up the sandals. Each was supposedly held in place by a thong which went around the ankle to be clasped in a strap on the other side. The right sandal strap was broken, pulled away from its stitching. The sandals jolted Athelstan’s memory about something but, for the moment, he could not recall it.

‘It looks an accident,’ Cranston observed. ‘The sandal could have snapped due to the fall.’

‘I would agree,’ Mistress Cheyne declared. ‘Joycelina would never wear a broken sandal. It would be too uncomfortable.’

‘True, true,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Mistress Cheyne, when you and Anna were out in the yard, most of the household were supposedly dining in the refectory?’

‘Yes, but before you ask, Brother, people would go to our taproom to fetch more food from the common table or fill their tankards at one of the butts.’

‘Anyone in particular?’

‘Brother, virtually everyone who was there; they all had to eat and drink.’

Athelstan blessed the corpse again, pulled back the sheet and returned to the main building. They climbed the staircase to the top gallery, Athelstan in the lead. He studied each step carefully. On some of the lower ones he detected flecks of blood, but nothing else. At the top he paused to examine the two newel posts, one at the end of a narrow balustrade running along the gallery, the other opposite, slightly jutting out from the wall. Both felt very secure, whilst the top of the staircase was clear and firm – nothing to explain why Joycelina had fallen.

‘A simple accident,’ Cranston murmured.

Athelstan stared down the staircase. It was truly dangerous. Anyone who missed their footing would sustain serious injury, yet Joycelina must have gone up and down those steps time and again. So why now? Athelstan walked into the death chamber. The bed was half stripped, the chest and coffer lids flung back. A broom and bucket rested against the wall.

‘Joycelina was cleaning here,’ Mistress Cheyne explained again. ‘We wanted to put matters right.’

Athelstan went back up the staircase. Had Joycelina been up here alone, he wondered, or had someone else been waiting for her to leave? A sudden push, maybe? And could her death be connected to that of Whitfield? Perhaps Joycelina had seen something. If so, had she tried to blackmail someone here at the Golden Oliphant and been murdered to silence her threatening mouth?

‘Brother, are you suspicious?’ Cranston came up beside him.

‘As ever, but let us return to the refectory.’

The people waiting there were now growing restless. Athelstan noticed how easy it was for someone to slip in and out of the taproom. He made sure they were all present and asked about Joycelina’s death. Each protested how they had been here for the evening meal just after the vespers bell and knew nothing about the mishap. The only exception was Anna, a wiry young woman with a high-pitched voice and ever blinking eyes. She confirmed in ringing tones everything Mistress Cheyne had said.

‘You reached the foot of the stairs?’ Cranston asked her.

‘Joycelina was just lying there,’ Anna’s voice was almost a screech, ‘body all twisted.’

‘Was her sandal broken?’

‘I didn’t notice, Sir John. It was her neck, the terrible marks on her face … I ran to the mistress; she came and …’

‘And so did I.’ Griffin spoke up. ‘It was obvious Joycelina was dead. I arranged for the poor woman’s corpse to be moved to the outhouse.’

‘Remind me,’ Cranston asked, ‘when was this?’

‘The vespers bell had sounded,’ Mistress Cheyne declared wearily, ‘the curfew was imposed. Anyway, I sent a message to the Guildhall but you were not there.’

Athelstan plucked at Cranston’s sleeve. ‘Sir John, I believe we can go no further on this, not now, not here.’

They made to leave when Athelstan felt a tug on his shoulder. He turned. Stretton, angry faced, jabbed a finger.

‘Friar, I have to be gone.’ Behind him stood Odo Gray and an equally truculent Matthias Camoys. Cranston stepped between Athelstan and Stretton, poking the mailed clerk in the chest.

‘Stay, Master Stretton, stay, Master Gray, stay, Master Camoys. Stay with us all until this matter is resolved. Until then you have a choice: remain here or lie in Newgate. Rest assured, that is not a threat but a solemn promise.’

Cranston grasped Athelstan’s arm and they left the Golden Oliphant. Outside, they stood beneath the ornate sign as the friar ensured his chancery satchel was properly buckled and the coroner, still huffing over the sudden confrontation, adjusted his warbelt.

‘Sir John, you have other business,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I know you must confer with those who protect our king. I also have matters to attend to. I need to reflect, to study, to pray. I will not return to St Erconwald’s; you will find me at Blackfriars …’