Herald of Hell

PART FIVE

‘Omnium Finis: the end of all things.’

Athelstan made his home in the little chamber beneath the Guildhall loft. The only things he asked for were clean sheets and a prie-dieu to be placed beneath the stark black crucifix nailed to the lime-washed wall. He sent Tiptoft, Cranston’s messenger, to St Erconwald’s to deliver certain messages and collect other items he needed. Athelstan celebrated his morning mass in the small, timber-beamed chapel and broke his fast in the refectory used by the Guildhall servants. Despite his absorption in drafting and redrafting all he had learnt about the deaths of Whitfield, Joycelina and Lebarge, Athelstan sensed how frightened people were becoming, especially the Crown officials, men whom the rebels had publicly marked down for judgement. Already news was seeping in that the clerks, scriveners and other officials at the centre of royal government at Westminster were beginning to flee. Officials of the Exchequer, Chancery and the different courts sitting in the great hall, be it King’s Bench or the Court of Common Pleas, were sending in their excuses and refusing to attend. At the same time the Guildhall was being turned into a fortress; heavy shutters were fastened over windows; doors fortified against a siege; the well checked and cleaned; the barbican or weapon store placed under the command of city serjeants; the narrow postern doors closely guarded.

Cranston, however, refused to be cowed. Accompanied by troops from the Tower, the coroner swept the city streets, moving from church to church. Some of these, already alerted by the summary arrest of Malfort, were found deserted of both men and arms. At others Cranston found the same as they had at St Mary Le Bow. In many cases the priests had no knowledge of what was happening in their bell towers, though, as Cranston wryly observed, he had never come across so many church towers in the process of being repaired or refurbished. The plot to seize and fortify certain steeples became public knowledge. Many of the Upright Men fled, taking their weapons with them. A few were caught and faced summary justice. Thibault was very pleased and sent a letter of congratulation to both Athelstan and Cranston along with a pipe of the very best wine from Bordeaux, freshly slaughtered meat and other delicacies for the Guildhall kitchen. Cranston kept Athelstan informed, though he could not draw the friar into any meaningful discussion. Athelstan would beg for the coroner to be patient and return to the drafting and redrafting of his memoranda under each of their headings. Secretly, Athelstan believed he had trapped the assassin, though how he was to seal that trap was a different matter.

A few days after his arrival at the Guildhall, Athelstan joined Cranston for supper in the refectory. The friar ate little and drank even less but asked the coroner, along with Flaxwith and his bailiffs, to join him in the great bailey just after he celebrated his Jesus Mass. Athelstan refused to provide any details except that Sir John should also ensure that Tiptoft, his messenger, accompany them. Early the next morning they arrived at the Golden Oliphant. Athelstan strode through the great taproom, calling everybody to sit round the tables. Under the watchful eye of Flaxwith and his bailiffs, the entire household were guided in to take their seats. Athelstan glanced around; all were there: Stretton, Gray, Camoys, Griffin, Foxley, Mistress Cheyne and her moppets and servants. At Athelstan’s request, the bailiffs made a sweep of the galleries and chambers. Only when Cranston declared himself satisfied did Athelstan climb on to the dais in the Golden Hall, hands outstretched.

‘Beloved brethren,’ he began, ‘I thank you for your patience and cooperation. I ask you to sit here and reflect whilst I make certain preparations.’ He climbed down and beckoned at Tiptoft to follow him out of the Golden Hall, then gave him precise details on what to do. Tiptoft expressed his surprise, but Athelstan repeated his instructions before taking the messenger back into the taproom, where he demanded and received from Mistress Cheyne a ring of keys to all the chambers. Athelstan then visited the murder room on the top gallery. He entered the chamber next to where Whitfield had been found hanging, closely shuttered the window, put a stool in the middle just beneath the lantern hook, then returned to the Golden Hall, Tiptoft accompanying him.

‘Very well,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I shall now stage my masque based on the events of that morning when Amaury Whitfield was found hanged. Please, I beg you, correct me if I err in any way. Some of you are more knowledgeable than others. I would be grateful for your close attention to what I say. Now I appreciate the guests were in the refectory but for the present, that is too small to hold you all. This taproom will suffice well enough.’ He pointed at Tiptoft, who had been closely advised on what to do. ‘You, Sir, for the moment, will act the part of Master Griffin. You have been upstairs to rouse the guests, that’s what happened, yes?’ A murmur of agreement, led by Stretton and Gray, greeted his question. ‘Simnel cakes had been baked,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Lebarge in particular was greedy for them. Whitfield’s absence is eventually noticed, so Joycelina is sent up to rouse him. She returns claiming that she cannot and something must be wrong.’

‘That is correct,’ Griffin shouted to cries of approval.

Athelstan’s ‘congregation’, as he now called them, watched fascinated as they realized that the truth may be about to unfold.

‘Mistress Cheyne,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you then sent Master Foxley to fetch two of the labourers from the garden to bring in that battering ram. Joycelina had reported Whitfield’s chamber to be locked and barred; she’d glanced through the eyelet but that too was closed. I understand this battering ram has been used before when a chamber is locked and the guest within refuses to respond. Very well, Master Foxley, please do what you did that morning. Sir John, I would ask you act the part of Lebarge and follow exactly what he did. Tiptoft, you are now Joycelina; go along the galleries, assure anyone you meet not to be disturbed about what they may hear.’

‘But everyone is here,’ Mistress Cheyne protested.

‘Yes, yes, they are. But on that particular morning, apparently they were not, which is why you, Mistress Cheyne, despatched your helpmate!’ Athelstan pointed at Foxley and Tiptoft. ‘Do what I ask.’

Both men left on their separate tasks. Athelstan waited until Foxley had returned with the two bemused labourers. One of the men carried a small, stout battering ram. Athelstan ordered everyone to remain where they were and led Foxley and the two labourers up to the top gallery and the chamber next to Whitfield’s. At Athelstan’s behest, Foxley pressed against the door, peered through the eyelet and keyhole and pronounced both blocked. The door was clearly locked and bolted with the key still inserted. Athelstan gestured at the door. ‘Break it down, as you did that morning. Do not worry, Master Foxley, the city will pay for any reasonable repairs. Now, where is Tiptoft? I need him here.’ Athelstan gestured at the labourers to begin as he went back to the top of the stairs calling for Tiptoft, his voice echoing harshly along the gallery. The labourers pounded the door, Foxley shouted encouragement and instructions whilst Athelstan continued to summon Tiptoft. At last the door gave way, snapping at the lock, its thick leather hinges breaking from the lintel. The chamber beyond lay in pitch darkness. Athelstan immediately dismissed the labourers whilst instructing Foxley to go into the chamber to unshutter and open the window. Once this was done, Athelstan led Foxley and Tiptoft back out into the gallery and down the stairs to join the rest in the Golden Hall.

‘All is set,’ Athelstan whispered to Cranston. ‘It is best if we do this in the presence of a host of witnesses whose memories are now being stirred. So …’ Athelstan walked into the centre of the hall.

‘What were you doing?’ Mistress Cheyne, who had been whispering to Foxley, sprang to her feet. ‘This is my house, my home.’

‘And your place of murder,’ Athelstan retorted, silencing her and the murmuring of the rest. ‘Master Foxley,’ Athelstan asked, ‘who was in the gallery when the door was forced, I mean just now?’

‘Why, you, me and the labourers; Master Tiptoft joined us later. You were calling for him.’

‘And the door we forced was both bolted and locked?’

‘Yes, of course, you could see that for yourself.’

‘And when the door was forced, the window?’

‘Firmly closed and shuttered until I opened it.’

‘Master Tiptoft,’ Athelstan put his hand on the messenger’s arm, ‘you heard me shouting. Where were you?’

‘In the chamber which was forced.’

‘Nonsense!’ Fear thrilled Elizabeth Cheyne’s face and voice.

‘Impossible!’ Foxley exclaimed.

‘I was in the chamber,’ Tiptoft insisted. ‘Brother Athelstan gave me the key. As soon as l left here, I went upstairs. I locked and bolted the door, closed the eyelet and made sure that the window was firmly shuttered. The room was as dark as night. I stood, as Brother Athelstan advised, to the left of the door as it opens. When it was forced and flung back, I stayed. Athelstan dismissed the labourers then Master Foxley entered, crossing the chamber to pull back the shutters. I simply stepped round the door and joined Brother Athelstan on the threshold, a matter of heartbeats. I did as Brother Athelstan asked. Remember the chamber was as black as a moonless night. I counted how long it took to step around the door, I barely reached four.’

Athelstan glanced around. ‘Remember that, because I was calling Tiptoft, Foxley thought, when he turned around after opening the windows, that Tiptoft had been with me all the time. When the chamber was being forced, Master Foxley, you were concentrating solely on the door and what might lie inside. True?’ The Master of Horse agreed. ‘I also noticed,’ Athelstan continued, ‘that on the day she was killed, Joycelina was wearing sandals. Did she always wear those?’

‘Yes,’ Anna the maid shouted.

‘So why, on the morning Whitfield was found dead, was Joycelina wearing red-capped, thick, soft-soled buskins?’

‘Nonsense!’ Mistress Cheyne exclaimed.

‘So how do I know she had a pair?’ Athelstan turned to the rest. ‘She did, didn’t she?’

‘Yes.’ One of the maids lifted her hand. ‘Mistress, after Joycelina died, you gave them to me.’

Cheyne’s head went down.

‘Joycelina,’ Athelstan explained, ‘wore those same buskins that morning to ensure that for a few heartbeats, in that pitch-black chamber with Foxley terrified and having eyes and mind only for that swinging corpse and opening the window, she could slip soundlessly forward and join you, Mistress Cheyne, her accomplice.’

The Mistress of the Moppets did not reply, though she turned slightly as members of her household murmured their agreement to Athelstan’s statement.

‘Sir John?’ Athelstan turned to the coroner. ‘You imitated Lebarge. You left here and went to the foot of the stairs leading to the top gallery. Did anyone pass you?’

‘Oh, of course not.’ The coroner grinned. ‘I heard you calling Tiptoft but he never came by. He never passed me. I stayed in that recess until the labourers returned and I followed them down.’

Athelstan went and crouched before Mistress Cheyne. ‘I have demonstrated,’ he held her cold, angry gaze, ‘how you and Joycelina murdered Amaury Whitfield.’ He rose, gesturing at Flaxwith to come forward and restrain the murderess, sitting on a high-backed chair, fingers firmly clutching its arms.

‘Search her,’ Athelstan ordered. Flaxwith did so, ignoring her protests, and drew the needle-like dagger, more of a bodkin than a knife, out of a secret sheath on the belt around her waist. He threw this on the table as Athelstan took a stool to sit opposite the accused. He stared around. He would have preferred to first question Mistress Cheyne in some secure, isolated chamber, but those present, although they did not fully realize it, were in fact witnesses to her crimes.

‘Amaury Whitfield,’ Athelstan began, ‘came here to join the Festival of Cokayne, to forget his terrors and, above all, to complete his plans to flee abroad. True, Master Gray?’ He turned to where the sea captain slouched on a bench.

‘Answer!’ Cranston roared.

‘Correct,’ Gray replied. He gestured with his hands. ‘Whitfield, Lebarge and Mistress Cheyne’s household. You must know that by now?’

‘Good.’ Athelstan smiled at him. ‘Whitfield’s mind and soul does not concern us now. He was a terrified man with an unfinished, ever-changing plot about masking his disappearance behind an accident or suicide.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘This does not matter any more. However, Whitfield was not only a frightened man but a very, very wealthy one with a heavy money belt crammed with good coins, strapped around his waist. He would have provoked your suspicions, Mistress Cheyne, by hiring a chamber on the top gallery: that was a way of protecting himself. Of course, during her ministrations to Whitfield, Joycelina must have learnt about this treasure trove. Somehow or other, you both discovered how wealthy Whitfield was and how accessible his riches were. You planned to kill him and seize that wealth. You probably plotted to do it once you reached foreign parts. However, that part of your plan you could not control. We all know Whitfield was disturbed, deeply agitated, fearful of his powerful master and,’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Stretton, ‘other equally sinister figures. No wonder Whitfield moved from plot to plot and plan to plan. We shall never know the truth of it, but in the end, I believe he was thinking of fleeing on his own, possibly with Lebarge, which is one of the reasons he went down to visit the Tavern of Lost Souls. However, Whitfield’s visit to Mephistopheles does not concern us. All I can say is that he went there panic-struck, considering all the choices he could make. Indeed, in the end I would say Whitfield’s wits were turned, he was not thinking clearly.’

‘I would agree.’ The usually taciturn Griffin spoke up. ‘Let’s admit it. We all saw him talking to himself and drinking deeply …’

‘You, Mistress Cheyne,’ Athelstan accused, ‘suspected Whitfield’s ultimate plan. He was going to disappear, escape your clutches, so you and Joycelina concocted your murderous design. On the night before he died, Whitfield and you others drank deeply, yes?’ Athelstan did not wait for agreement. ‘Afterwards Whitfield lurched upstairs, possibly planning to leave either during the night after he had met a certain stranger or immediately the following morning. You, Mistress Cheyne, together with Joycelina, slipped upstairs and inveigled yourself into his chamber. No one would notice. Lebarge, who occupied the only other chamber on the gallery, had also drunk deeply. For all I know, an opiate may have been slipped into his drink, I suspect it was. However, let’s move on.

‘In that chamber, locked and bolted, Whitfield would prove to be most malleable to you and Joycelina. Drunk and sottish, you enticed him into some sexual game to rouse his potency. I understand that strangulation can be used to excite a man like Whitfield. Whatever, the fire rope was taken and transformed into a hanging noose. Somehow or other you or Joycelina inveigled Whitfield to stand on that stool. Drunk and confused, he would not realize the trap until the noose around his neck swiftly tightened and the stool was kicked away. He struggled, you and Joycelina may have grabbed his legs and pulled him down to hasten death. In a very brief period, it was all over.’

‘You have no proof of this, no evidence. I have always been honest …’

Mistress Cheyne glared around. Athelstan could detect little sympathy or support for this grasping woman.

‘We will come to proof in a moment, won’t we, Sir John?’

Cranston nodded approvingly even though he secretly wondered what real evidence the little friar could lay against this cunning killer.

‘You knew about Whitfield’s note of desperation,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You left that out. Above all, you removed his fat, bulging money belt. No wonder Master Foxley thought Whitfield looked slimmer in death than in life.’ Athelstan paused. ‘All is how you want it. You and Joycelina slip out, lock the door behind you and take the key. No one else has access to that chamber.’

‘Whitfield would have struggled, surely?’ Stretton asked.

‘No,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘he was deep in his cups when he left here that night. We know from another source that he intended to go out in the early hours, but of course, he was never given that choice. He was drunk, wasn’t he?’ A murmur of agreement confirmed this. ‘A potion or a powder may have been added, but above all, Master Stretton, Whitfield did not view Mistress Cheyne and Joycelina as dangerous – why should he? He had come here to be entertained, to be pampered and cosseted by them. I suspect he babbled like a babe about his fears, his madcap schemes to vanish, the letter he planned to leave. In Whitfield’s eyes, Mistress Cheyne and Joycelina were his lovers, his friends and allies.’ Athelstan smiled bleakly. ‘As you know, as we all now know, he viewed others sitting here as the real threat.’ Stretton glanced away. ‘We now come to the events of the following morning. Most of this household, guests and servants, are in or around the refectory. Lebarge had woken all mawmsy and dry-mouthed after the previous night’s drinking. He was roused by Griffin and hurried down to eat his favourite simnel cakes. Whitfield does not. So …’

‘Strange.’ Anna the maid sprang all hot-eyed to her feet.

‘What is strange?’

‘Well, Brother. Joycelina was all important here, high and mighty. I cannot recall her ever going up to the top gallery to rouse guests.’

‘Shut up, you stupid bitch!’ Mistress Cheyne exclaimed.

‘Whitfield was most partial to Joycelina,’ another called.

‘And those simnel cakes!’ Anna shouted. Athelstan could see there was little love lost between Mistress Cheyne and her servant. ‘Whenever have you made simnel cakes so early in the morning?’ she asked accusingly.

‘I did it because Lebarge wanted them.’

‘No matter,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Lebarge was down here. You, Mistress Cheyne, decided to act. Joycelina, whether it was her duty or not, went up to that chamber and returned claiming Whitfield could not be roused. You, Mistress Cheyne, acted decisively and swiftly: those in the refectory are instructed to stay. Foxley is sent to bring the labourers and the battering ram. Joycelina is despatched, ostensibly to inform the other servants about what is about to happen. In truth, she climbs swiftly to Whitfield’s chamber, unlocks the door and goes inside where she ensures the eyelet is blocked, the key turned and the bolts pulled across; she then locks herself in with that dangling corpse. Tell me,’ Athelstan glanced around, ‘does anyone here recall Joycelina seeking them out that morning?’ Silence greeted his words. A thin-faced slattern, wiping greasy fingers on her grubby gown, got off the bench, hands fluttering.

‘I passed her on the stairs. My task is to empty chamber pots …’

Her words were greeted with laughter which the slattern dismissed with a flick of her rat-tailed hair. ‘She told me to go immediately down to the refectory. I …’ She shrugged and sat down.

‘Does anyone else?’

‘We were all here,’ Anna, who could sense blood, called out.

‘Hawisa might have helped us about what happened but we will come to her by and by.’ Athelstan cleared his throat. ‘All is now set. Mistress Cheyne supervises the breakdown of the door whilst calling for Joycelina as if her accomplice is still below stairs. Of course she isn’t. The door is forced. The labourers are immediately dismissed. Master Foxley is sent to open the window. You, Sir, are shocked by the sight of Whitfield’s swaying corpse. The chamber is cloaked in darkness, even so you only have eyes for that ghastly sight. You have to pass it and reach the window to pull back the shutters. Your eyes, ears, all your senses are taken up with the terrible tragedy confronting you. You would never dream that someone else was in the room. When you turned from the window you saw two people who must have been with you on the gallery. What else would you think? Before you battered the door down, you knew it was locked and bolted, and remember, you were mawmsy with ale fumes after being deep in your cups the night before. I played the same trick just now with Tiptoft and I convinced you even though you are more sober and alert. Now, to go back to that morning. Joycelina simply moved ever so softly in her buskins, from one place to another, all in the space of a few breaths. So, Master Foxley, think! When you were out on the gallery, whilst the door to Whitfield’s chamber was being broken down, can you recall actually seeing Joycelina?’

Athelstan walked over to where the Master of Horse lounged against a wooden pillar listening intently to what the friar had been saying.

‘Brother,’ Foxley looked past Athelstan at Mistress Cheyne, ‘for the life of me …’ Athelstan tensed. Foxley’s testimony would be vital. ‘I cannot recall precisely either way.’

‘Would you go on oath and swear that?’ Cranston demanded.

‘Yes, I would. Indeed, the more I reflect, the more certain I become that I did not see Joycelina. I never considered her not being there, it would just never occur to me.’

‘Nor to me,’ Athelstan replied, taking his seat, ‘until I spoke to Lebarge. He left the refectory, didn’t he, Master Griffin?’

‘Yes, I couldn’t stop him.’

‘He went up the stairs, but paused on the stairwell leading to the top gallery. He never mentioned anyone passing him, though he remembered the door being pounded and Mistress Cheyne calling for Joycelina. He stayed there until the chamber was forced, sheltering in that small recess or enclave. He heard the labourers going down and the clamour above about Whitfield being dead. Sir John took up the same position when Tiptoft was hiding in the chamber I forced. Of course, despite all my calling, he never saw Tiptoft pass him. Lebarge said the same, no one passed him on that staircase. He certainly never mentioned Joycelina running up. I am not too sure whether Lebarge realized the full implications of what he was saying. Perhaps in time he would have done, which could well be one of the reasons you decided to murder him, Mistress Cheyne.’

‘Nonsense!’ Elizabeth Cheyne leapt to her feet. ‘This is all a lie. A farrago of lies. You have no …’ Flaxwith, pressing on her shoulders, forced the woman to sit down.

‘Lebarge,’ Athelstan continued, ‘was truly frightened and confused. His master was dead, he did not know who to trust except for one person, young Hawisa. He hid his relationship with her behind a mask of diffidence, publicly dismissing her as just another whore. But I know, as you do, Mistress Cheyne, that secretly he was much taken with her. Strange that you never provided such information to me when I first questioned you. Whitfield wanted to flee, Lebarge also, and the scrivener intended to take little Hawisa with him. The moppet may already have been hiding Lebarge’s baggage; she had a chamber here, or certainly some place where she could stow away his possessions. I admit I have little proof for what I say, but, to continue. On that particular morning after Lebarge had visited the death chamber, he had a few swift words with his sweetheart then fled to St Erconwald’s for sanctuary. He went there because he was confused and frightened. He’d committed no crime but at least he would be safe in sanctuary against Thibault and any other adversary. Eventually he would be granted permission to leave London by the nearest port, which is what he wanted in the first place. Above all, safe in my church, he could think, plan and plot. Hawisa would know where he was, a place nearby, and, in time, easily join him. Lebarge decided to shelter there, determined only to take sustenance from myself or the widow woman …’

‘Benedicta?’ Mistress Cheyne spat the name out. ‘We know all about her, Brother Athelstan …’

‘As God knows about you being so determined on Lebarge’s death. You learnt from Griffin or others here that Lebarge had left the refectory …’

‘She asked me and I told her,’ the Master of the Hall interjected.

‘You, Mistress Cheyne, must have wondered what Lebarge really knew, what he had seen, heard or felt. You would realize he was safe in sanctuary with time to reflect. Above all, Lebarge knew about that money belt. It would be only a matter of time before he began to cast the net of suspicion wider and wider. Lebarge had to die and, if it was going to be done, it was best done quickly. You would use the one person Lebarge trusted …’

‘Hawisa!’ Foxley shouted. ‘I saw you on the day Lebarge fled conferring with her.’

‘Of course you did. Is that not so, Mistress Cheyne? You consoled her, promised help, every assistance. To cut to the quick. You offered to take Hawisa to St Erconwald’s in the evening of that same day when my church is fairly deserted and full of dancing shadows. Just a brief meeting. You would help both of them. You wrapped a simnel cake in some linen as a small token of friendship. Lebarge would like that. Cloaked and cowled, both of you slipped into St Erconwald’s, two women who would not attract attention. You told Hawisa not to be long. You would keep watch and alert her to any danger. You insist that Lebarge eat the cake immediately and Hawisa bring the linen covering back with her so there’d be no trace of anyone from outside assisting him, one of the rules for all who seek sanctuary. At the time these would appear trivial matters. Hawisa and Lebarge would be eager to discuss a future which, little did they know, you intended to destroy. I can imagine Hawisa, that little mouse, slipping through the shadows whilst you kept watch near some pillar close by the Lady Altar, ready to cough or give some prearranged signal if danger approached. The short meeting took place. Hawisa met Lebarge not in the mercy enclave but in the shadow of the rood screen door. The cake is handed over and eaten but, unbeknown to you, or even despite your instructions, Hawisa also provided Lebarge with a knife and some coins, just in case he decides to flee sanctuary. She then rejoined you. You would make sure all was well, that the cake had been eaten and the linen cloth returned.

‘Afterwards, you both slipped away into the gathering darkness back to the Golden Oliphant, though only one of you reached here. You are a killer, Mistress Cheyne, to the very sinews of your wicked heart. You are steeped in evil with no conscience. On the way back to the Golden Oliphant you murdered Hawisa along some filthy runnel or alleyway: a swift stab to the heart in some dark-filled cranny where you could take care of anything that might indicate who she was or where she came from. Hawisa became just another corpse amongst those of so many poor women, found with their throat slit or drenched in their heart’s blood, lying on a filth-filled laystall or in a dirt-smeared recess.’ Athelstan gestured around. ‘Somewhere in this house you have hidden the possessions of both Lebarge and Hawisa.’

‘Hawisa ran away!’ Mistress Cheyne exclaimed. ‘She’s fled.’

‘Why would she?’ Cranston retorted. ‘She, like the rest of you, was under strict orders not to leave the Golden Oliphant. Why should a little moppet challenge that?’ By the murmur of protest this provoked, Cranston could see why Athelstan had chosen to confront Mistress Cheyne in public: everything the whore-mistress now said or did was being closely scrutinized.

‘Hawisa has not fled.’ Anna led the attack. ‘Where would she go? Now Lebarge is dead, she would be alone with no home, hearth, kith or kin. She risked being put to the horn as an outlaw.’

‘I spoke to her,’ another cried, ‘the last time I saw her. She talked about wishing to go abroad or returning to Coggeshall where she was born.’

Others shouted their comments. Mistress Cheyne just sat seething with hate, fingers curling as she glared at Athelstan.

‘And now,’ Athelstan raised his voice to still the clamour, ‘we come to the murder of your accomplice, Joycelina …’

‘She fell.’

‘She tripped,’ Athelstan countered. ‘Once again, you assemble the household in the refectory and hall. You are busy in the kitchen baking bread as well as at the wash tub outside. You’d sent Joycelina to sweep and clean Whitfield’s chamber. A macabre task, a killer cleaning the very chamber where she had committed murder. Joycelina would, quite rightly, be highly nervous, deeply apprehensive, wary of her victim’s ghost hovering close about her, fearful that she might be discovered. You told her to clean the chamber just in case any trace of what you had both plotted might be found. The gallery is deserted, everyone, including yourself, is busy below. You had Anna close by,’ Athelstan pointed at the maid, ‘quite deliberately so. Young lady,’ Athelstan smiled at Anna, ‘you have a most carrying voice; do you remember what happened?’

‘Mistress Cheyne had left bread baking in the oven while she and I went outside. I came in. No, she sent me in, that’s right. I found the bread burning.’ Anna grinned in a display of broken teeth. ‘She then told me to go and fetch Joycelina.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan leaned forward. ‘Why did you need Joycelina down here? You had Anna and others to help you. A minor, most insignificant matter, a passing moment of no importance whatsoever except for what you had secretly planned. Joycelina was busy in Whitfield’s chamber. You left her there and went downstairs. You had, however, prepared a lure, a snare. On each side of those steep steps leading down from the top gallery stands a newel post. Around one of these you had fastened a piece of twine, just to hang there, unnoticed. Before you continued down, you turned, took this innocent looking piece of twine and fastened it tight around the opposite newel post. The snare is set: those stairs are dangerous enough but you have created a death trap. You return to the kitchen. There is little or no chance of anyone going up those stairs, why should they? The only person coming down would be Joycelina and you wanted her dead.’

‘Why should I?’

‘To be rid of an accomplice who one day might talk and who would certainly demand at least half of Whitfield’s treasure. In the end, Mistress Cheyne, you are a killer, a murderess. You had everything to gain from Joycelina’s death and nothing to lose. So,’ Athelstan continued, ‘we have all this mummery in the kitchen. You allow the bread to burn deliberately, creating a petty affray. You despatch Anna to call Joycelina down. Anna’s strident voice probably did little to soothe Joycelina as she cleaned the chamber where she’d committed murder. Summoned to come down urgently, she may even have thought something had gone wrong. Anyway, she hurries from the chamber, catches her ankle on the snare and tumbles to her death. The chances of anyone surviving such a fall, albeit with very serious injuries, would be rare. Joycelina lies dead, murdered. She is no longer a threat to you in any way. During all the hustle and bustle of tending to her corpse, you hasten to the top of the stairs and, with a concealed knife, ensure no trace of that twine remained.’ Athelstan held up his hand. ‘Three murders. You tried to make it four. I am sure it was you who watched me wander into the garden and slipped out to release those mastiffs. You will hang, Mistress Cheyne, and deservedly so.’ Athelstan paused at the sound of horsemen arriving in the yard outside.

‘You have no proof,’ Mistress Cheyne taunted. ‘No real evidence.’

‘Oh, I will find it here and I have this.’ Athelstan leaned down, opened his chancery satchel and delicately took out the linen parcel, specially prepared by a cook at the Guildhall. He opened the folds and held up a portion of simnel cake. ‘Admittedly,’ he moved the piece of food from hand to hand, ‘it is now slightly hard, stale.’ He half smiled. ‘More like stone than food. But,’ he sniffed at it, ‘still full of poison. When we throw you in a dungeon, Mistress Cheyne, I will put this in the cell next to it and wait for the rats to eat it and die in swift agony. I will have that witnessed and sworn to. I will also arrange for the Golden Oliphant to be scoured. We will eventually find Whitfield’s gold and the possessions of both Lebarge and Hawisa.’ Athelstan held up the piece of simnel cake. ‘Strange that Lebarge, in his excitement, put this down on the floor and forgot it.’

‘No, he didn’t!’ Mistress Cheyne closed her eyes in desperation at her mistake.

‘Why not eat some?’ Athelstan offered. ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘You have nothing to fear, surely?’

‘You said Lebarge died after eating it. He was poisoned. Hawisa could have done that.’

‘So you admit that Hawisa did take a simnel cake to Lebarge at the sanctuary?’ Athelstan was determined that the sheer logic of his argument would break this killer. He had trapped the murderer – now he would show her there was no escape. He went and stood over the accused, using his fingers as he emphasized the evidence against her. ‘Item, Mistress Cheyne: through Joycelina you knew about the money belt and Whitfield’s determination to flee, whatever convoluted plot he was weaving to cover it. Item: on the night before Whitfield died, he was deep in his cups. After all, he had come here to celebrate the Festival of Cokayne. Joycelina, by everyone’s admission, cared for him. He would allow her and you into his chamber. Everyone else was sleeping, sottish with drink. The Cokayne Festival was over. The guests were tired and sated whilst you acted the busy hostess, hurrying here and there. Nothing untoward. You are so skilled at that, Mistress Cheyne, using everyday routines to mask murderous intent. Whitfield would let you both stay. After all, drunk as he was, he was only biding his time until he slipped out in the early hours to meet someone, though that does not concern us now.

‘Once in that chamber, you had nothing to fear from anyone else, least of all Lebarge, deep in his cups and smitten with Hawisa. Item: by use of wine, potions or the prospect of some sexual game, you persuaded poor, drunken Whitfield to stand on that stool with a noose around his neck and watched him die. You undid his clothing, took the money belt and made ready to leave. Item: soft-footed, you slipped from that chamber taking the key. No one would notice. Who else, belly full of ale and wine, would climb these steep steps to the top gallery? The only person would be a drunken Lebarge, but he had sunk into a deep sleep in his own chamber. You both fled unobserved. Anyone who later approached and knocked on Whitfield’s door would receive no answer and conclude the clerk had fallen into a drunken stupor.

‘Item: you assumed Lebarge would wake all mawmsy after his drinking bout, eager for his simnel cakes. He and the rest assembled in the refectory. Item: under your direction, Joycelina raised the alarm and you took over. Who would gainsay you as mistress of this house? You have the authority to tell guests and servants what to do. Item: Joycelina, now armed with a key, was secretly despatched to Whitfield’s chamber under the guise of some errand. Item: You again, as mistress of the house, take Foxley and the labourers to the top gallery. You make sure Foxley, still befuddled from the previous night’s heavy drinking, confirms the door is barred and locked. The ram is used as you shout for Joycelina to join you. Of course, she is hiding inside having ensured that both the eyelet and lock are blocked and the bolts pulled across.

‘Item: the door is eventually forced back, bolt and locks snapping; the door built slightly into the wall is pushed open; hanging off its leather hinges, it actually conceals Joycelina. Even if it had snapped off completely, your accomplice stands hidden to the left in a chamber which is pitch black with no light. Item: the top gallery is gloomy at the best of times. Foxley, the only one who now remains with you, has eyes solely for the grim spectacle of Whitfield’s dangling corpse as well as opening that shuttered window. Terrified, he stumbles across, his boots creaking the floorboards. All this disguises Joycelina who, in her soft buskins, slips around the door to stand by you. Let us say Foxley turned, and why should he? He’d glimpse nothing amiss except the shadowy outlines of Mistress Cheyne following him into the chamber with Joycelina beside her. This was logical; after all, hadn’t she been calling for her? That Joycelina had been in the chamber all the time would never occur to him and, even if such a remote possibility did, it would be his word against that of his mistress, not to mention Joycelina.’

Athelstan paused and pushed the piece of simnel cake closer to her face. ‘Of course, this was not enough. You and Joycelina were determined to silence both Lebarge and Hawisa lest they come to suspect. Item: you have virtually admitted that Hawisa went to St Erconwald’s with simnel cake. You knew Lebarge had to eat it and leave no evidence that anyone had come to assist him lest he forfeit the right to sanctuary. Hawisa would also be aware of that. She and Lebarge would be most careful and prudent: their meeting in my darkened church would be brief enough for the two lovers to reassure each other. After which Lebarge slipped back to the mercy enclave to die as the poison took effect whilst Hawisa left the chapel with you, slipping into eternal night. Poor Lebarge! Poor Hawisa! They truly trusted you. How long that would have lasted is a matter of speculation. The same is true of Joycelina. It’s only a matter of time before thieves fall out, assassins even more so. You control this house, Mistress, that is more than obvious. People come and go when you tell them to. Joycelina, all agitated, is sent to clean that chamber. You set up your snare. Everyone else is where they should be. You brought about Joycelina’s extraordinary death by very ordinary, mundane means: burning bread, the strident summons of a maid, Joycelina’s haste and a simple piece of twine. Well, Mistress?’ Athelstan leaned down. ‘That’s what the lawyers will argue. What do you say?’

‘I will say no more,’ she shouted.

‘You will,’ Cranston intervened, ‘when you are taken to the press yard in Newgate and forced to lie under a huge door. Great iron weights will be placed on top, one after the other, until you confess the truth. Flaxwith, take her out to one of the outhouses, keep her safe until we leave. For the rest,’ Cranston drew himself up, hands extended, ‘everyone stays here until the Golden Oliphant is searched and the stolen money found. And that,’ Cranston gestured at Stretton, ‘includes you. If anyone does try to leave they will be arrested or, if they flee, put to the horn as outlaws.’

Athelstan bent down to pick up his chancery satchel. When he felt himself being pushed, he glanced up. Mistress Cheyne, despite being held by two burly bailiffs, had flung herself against him. Now she pulled back, eyes hot with hatred, lips bared in a snarl.

‘I have secrets,’ she hissed. ‘I will proclaim such secrets before the King’s Bench, I will …’

‘Take her away.’ Athelstan turned his back on the prisoner. He walked over to Foxley, deep in conversation with one of the ostlers, Mistress Cheyne’s curses echoing behind him. The friar plucked at the Master of Horse’s sleeve and apologised to the ostler. ‘Master Foxley, a word.’ Athelstan took him away from the rest, opened his chancery satchel and thrust a small, red-ribboned scroll into Foxley’s hand.

‘I owe you my life, certainly my health,’ the friar murmured. ‘You protected a Domini canis – a Hound of the Lord,’ he explained the Latin pun on the name of his order, ‘from other, more dangerous hounds. Now,’ Athelstan continued briskly, ‘take this, Master Foxley. The day of tribulation will soon be upon us and, whatever you believe, the Lords of the Soil will crush you. No,’ Athelstan stepped closer, ‘just take the scroll. You saved my life and this will save yours when the Retribution comes and your comrades are fleeing for their lives only to find churches locked and sanctuaries closely guarded. Take this to Blackfriars, my brothers will shelter you. Now …’ Athelstan turned as Cranston gripped his arm.

‘The horsemen we heard earlier, Brother,’ the coroner murmured, ‘were outriders, Thibault and his henchmen have arrived.’

Foxley duly slipped away. The Golden Hall swiftly emptied as Thibault, slapping leather gauntlets against his thigh, swaggered into the great taproom, Albinus slinking in behind him.

‘Spies at the Guildhall,’ Cranston whispered, ‘Thibault must have been aware that something was afoot.’

‘Brother Athelstan! Sir John! So good to see you.’ Thibault exchanged the kiss of peace with both, pulling back the quilted leather hood which hid his face. ‘I gather a murderess has been caught and your work is done. So,’ Thibault gestured to one of the tables, ‘appraise me of what has happened. I thought you would have done so earlier, hence my eagerness.’ He grinned falsely. ‘But here we are and the truth will out.’

Once his soldiers had sealed the doorways, Thibault, with Albinus sitting beside him, listened as the friar tersely explained his conclusions. Thibault betrayed little emotion at Whitfield’s intended desertion or Mistress Cheyne’s murderous plot. He simply sat, close-faced, interrupting with the occasional question or staring round the Golden Hall as if he was already assessing the true value of this busy brothel.

‘I congratulate you, Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ Thibault declared once the explanation had finished. ‘And once again, I thank you for your discovery of the Upright Men’s plot to seize the towers of certain churches. The arrest and conviction of Malfort and the unmasking of the self-proclaimed Herald of Hell is a magnificent achievement. As for Whitfield,’ Thibault grimaced, ‘I should have seen the signs. Everything is breaking down, old allegiances are dying, new loyalties being formed as people shift, twist and turn against the coming storm.’ He gestured around. ‘I will seize this place. Mistress Cheyne committed treason, slaying a royal clerk, so all her property is forfeit.’ Thibault’s soft, round face twisted into a smirk. ‘My men will stay here until Whitfield’s gold is found. I also claim that in the name of the Crown. As for the murderous bitch herself …’ He glanced at Athelstan from the corner of his eye. ‘Oh, by the way, I heard about Radegund, but he is no great loss.’ The Master of Secrets rose to his feet, beckoning Albinus to join him. ‘I will have words with Mistress Cheyne myself. My men will guard the outhouse and everything else here. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you may stay a little longer. You have told me everything?’

‘Everything you should know.’ Athelstan smiled back. He’d say nothing about Grindcobbe or Sir John’s dramatic meeting with the Queen Mother at Westminster. ‘As you said, Master Thibault, everything is in a state of flux. The killer may be caught but Mistress Cheyne looks for protection from you, claims she knows certain things.’

‘Does she now?’ Thibault jibed. ‘But not as much as you, Athelstan, eh?’

Thibault and Albinus sauntered off, out into the stable yard. Athelstan opened his chancery satchel, took out the little parcel, opened it and offered Cranston some of the simnel cake. The coroner shook his head, produced his miraculous wineskin and took a generous mouthful; he offered it to Athelstan, now munching cheerfully on the simnel cake. For a while they sat in silence, half-listening to the sounds of the household.

‘Clever little friar!’

‘Not really, Sir John.’ Athelstan took a swig from the wineskin and returned it. ‘Mistress Cheyne convicted herself by her care and preparations for each murder. In themselves, her actions appeared to be of no importance whatsoever, the sheer humdrum routine of any household. When isolated and scrutinized, they merge into clever preparations for subtle murder: the burning of the bread, sending Anna to call Joycelina …’ Athelstan broke off as Thibault and Albinus re-entered the hall.

‘Mistress Cheyne,’ Thibault took his seat patting his jerkin, ‘will be committed for summary judgement before the Justices of Oyer and Terminer who now sit in a special commission at the Tower to deal with all attacks on the Crown, its property and servants. She has told me where the money lies hidden so I have commuted her punishment from being burnt alive at Smithfield to a swift hanging on the Tower scaffold. And that will happen before sunset. Throughout the process she will remain gagged and under close custody. So …’ Thibault turned swiftly as a royal messenger, his scarlet and gold livery coated with dust, burst through the cordon of men-at-arms guarding the door, holding aloft two scrolls of parchment which Thibault seized and took over to the light from the nearest window. He read both and sat down on a stall, whispering a prayer. Athelstan caught the words of ‘Jesu Miserere, Jesu Miserere, Jesus have mercy’ repeated a number of times. Intrigued, the friar rose and walked across, Cranston following behind.

‘Master Thibault?’ The Master of Secrets did not look up but handed both documents to Cranston, who read them swiftly and cursed beneath his breath.

‘Sir John?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Reports from royal watchers,’ the coroner murmured, ‘at Wodeford in Essex, to the north of Mile End, and a similar one from Ospring on the Canterbury road. The revolt has begun. Two armies, hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of men marching on London. They’ve unfurled huge red and black banners and issued their proclamations. They intend to destroy the Babylon of Satan and set up the New Jerusalem. God, they say, will punish us for our sins.’

‘God does not punish us,’ Athelstan replied, staring down at Thibault. ‘Our sins do. We have sown the tempest and now we are about to reap the whirlwind.’

The Master of Secrets glanced up. ‘You will remember your promise, Brother? My daughter, my beloved Isabella …’

Athelstan caught the pleading in this ruthless man’s voice.

‘I will keep my promise,’ the friar replied. ‘She will be safe, but will you be?’

Thibault forced a smile. ‘I will be in the Tower.’

‘Even though your lord and master is moving slowly north?’ Cranston leaned down, his face only a few inches from Thibault’s. ‘The storm is about to break.’ Thibault just shrugged. ‘You will be in the Tower, Thibault – you, Gaunt’s Master of Secrets – but you will not be alone.’ Cranston forced a smile. ‘Royal serjeants bearing the King’s own letter, sealed orders for my Lord of Gaunt. They are on the road now.’ Thibault’s face went slack. ‘Sealed orders,’ Cranston hissed, ‘instructing Gaunt to hand over his eldest son, Henry of Lancaster. He is to be brought south. He will be lodged with the King, so where Richard goes, Henry goes with him, very, very close.’ Cranston lifted his hand, fingers interlaced. ‘Close as this, Master Thibault! Even the most skilled of archers could not put an arrow between them.’

‘What do you mean?’ Thibault’s face was pallid, a sheen of sweat prickling his smooth forehead.

‘He means,’ Athelstan stepped closer, ‘that when the storm breaks and the lightning flashes in one corner of heaven to light up the other, we shall all be sheltering under the same tree, Master Thibault.’