The House of Shadows

Chapter 12

The journey to the Savoy Palace was solemn and silent. Matthias of Evesham led the way as men-at-arms garbed in the royal livery grouped around Athelstan and Cranston under standards and pennants displaying the lions of England and the fleur-de-lys of France: thirty soldiers in all, the sight of their drawn swords clearing the streets as they marched down to the quayside and the awaiting royal barge. They clambered in, Matthias in the prow, Cranston and Athelstan sitting under an awning in the stern. The order was given to cast off. The barge drifted away, the rowers lowered their oars, cutting through the icy, misty river. They had hardly reached mid-stream when other boats grouped around them; these were full of royal archers in their brown and green padded jerkins, across their chests the personal escutcheon of John of Gaunt — displaying the arms of France, and Castile. Athelstan pulled his cloak around him, took out his Ave beads and tried to calm his mind by reciting the Ave Maria.

Cranston sat strangely silent. Usually he would take a swig from the sacred wine skin, or engage in friendly banter with those about him. The coroner did not like His Grace the Regent and had often clashed with him. Despite his bonhomie, Sir John refused to sell his soul; he obeyed the law and pursued justice without fear or favour. Now Cranston sat like some great surly bear, cape close about him, his beaver hat low on his head, glowering at the various craft, quietly muttering under his breath. The day was dying, the river freezing cold. Occasionally the bank of mist shifted to reveal the spires of St Paul or the crenellated walls of mansions along the north bank of the Thames. Now and again a herald on the prow gave a long, shrill blast on the trumpet, a warning to other craft to pull away. The barge swept past the Fleet river and down towards the quayside of the Savoy Palace. It slipped easily alongside, servants hurrying up to catch the mooring ropes. Cranston and Athelstan were helped ashore; their escort ringed them and led them into the palace proper.

Athelstan was aware of crossing cobbled yards where the stink of horse muck mingled with more savoury smells from bakehouses and kitchens. On one occasion he glimpsed two pages carrying across a peacock on a platter which had been de-feathered, roasted and then feathered again, its claws and beak being gilded in gold, so lifelike that Athelstan expected it to rise and give its flesh-tingling scream. A gate opened; they were walking through gardens, their beauty hidden by the mist and cold frost, along a colonnaded walk and into the corridors of the palace. The opulent beauty of this place was famous. Athelstan felt that he was entering a world far different from the poverty and grime of his own parish. The floors were a shiny mosaic of black, white and red lozenge-shaped tiles, rich oaken wainscoting gleamed in the light of countless beeswax candles. Above these glowed tapestries, the work of the best craftsmen in Europe, displaying scenes from the classics, the Bible and Arthurian legend. One in particular caught Athelstan’s eye and made him smile: the ‘Great Beast of Time’, part wolf, which devoured the past, part lion, displaying courage to face the present, part dog, faithful enough to accept the future. Inscriptions carved in gold gleamed above doorways. The Latin poet Terence’s famous quote ‘Without wine and food, Love dies,’ symbolised the life of the palace. The courtiers they passed were dressed in the latest attire from France, the men in doublets and elaborately pointed shoes, the ladies in the finest gowns with lacy bodices, low-slung girdles, their fashionable cloaks inlaid with embroidered silk. They reminded Athelstan of lovely butterflies in a gorgeous garden.

Matthias of Evesham first took them to a buttery in one of the main halls, a comfortable chamber with polished walnut furniture and tiled floors, linen panelling covering most of the walls. Edible bread platters of delicate red rose, tinged with the green of parsley, were placed before them, on which a scullion served a ladle of spicy lamb, accompanied by the finest wastel bread and goblets of cool white wine. The coroner regained his good humour and did not take long to finish the bread and wine. Matthias had to hurry his own food before leading them into the gorgeous meeting chamber, its walls decorated with resplendent samite cloths, each displaying the six principal colours of heraldry. They were told to sit together on a cushioned settle, to the right of the mantled hearth; they had hardly done so when the far door opened and two men entered. The first, John of Gaunt, the Regent, was easily recognisable in his gold and red silk and soft boots. His narrow, intelligent face with its sharp nose and flinty blue eyes was a sharp contrast to his soft silver-blond hair and neatly clipped moustache and beard.

‘Your Grace.’ Cranston and Athelstan went to kneel.

‘Oh, sit down,’ Gaunt declared wearily. ‘I’m tired of bobbing courtiers.’

He grasped a stool, brought it forward and sat down in front of them, one elbow on his thigh, chin cupped in his hand. He gestured with his other hand for his companion to do likewise. Now, up close, Athelstan could clearly study the other man’s swarthy face, fringed by long dark hair. He was not as relaxed as the Regent; his large soulful eyes were watchful, one beringed finger scratching at a bead of sweat which ran down into the close-cut moustache and beard. He was dressed soberly in a dark blue cotehardie; rings glistened on his fingers, a single gem dazzled on the gold chain around his neck. A secretive man, Athelstan thought, who kept his own counsel, but the way that he sat next to John of Gaunt, and the look which passed between them, showed intimacy and affection.

‘Signor Teodoro Tonnelli, may I present Sir John Cranston, Coroner to the City, and his secretarius, Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark.’ Gaunt smiled. ‘You all know who I am.’

Athelstan gazed steadily back at this scion of Edward III, regent of the kingdom during the minority of his nephew Richard, son of the Black Prince. A man many called the Viper, who was feared by the Church and loathed by the peasants and their secret society, The Great Community of the Realm. Nevertheless, Gaunt was also personable, capable of dazzling charm and extraordinary generosity.

‘Well, Brother,’ Gaunt studiously ignored Cranston, ‘you and the Lord Coroner have questions for us?’

‘The Lombard treasure, a chest of jewellery worth at least ten thousand pounds,’ Athelstan replied.

‘Double that,’ Gaunt whispered, ‘double that, and half as much again.’

Cranston whistled under his breath.

‘There are dreadful murders at the tavern the Night in Jerusalem,’ Athelstan declared.

‘I have heard of them.’ Gaunt looked at Cranston. ‘Is it not time, my Lord Coroner, that you arrested someone?’

‘The treasure,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘how was it composed? What happened to it? I mean, before it was stolen?’

‘I have brought a list.’ Tonnelli’s English had only a tinge of an accent. ‘You may study it, you may keep it.’ He pulled a scroll from his sleeve and handed it to Athelstan, who unrolled it. The jewellery was very carefully listed.

Item 1 A pelican brooch: the pelican stands on a scroll, on the breast of the golden pelican lies a ruby and on the scroll a glowing amethyst.

Item 2 The Swan Jewel: the swan is of gold and studded with precious gems.

Item 3 A silver Cross studded with rubies and amethyst. .

Athelstan moved the document so that Cranston could also study it. A hundred items were listed there, as well as pouches of silver and gold minted in Genoa, Pavia and Milan. The jewellery was of every type imaginable: rings, crosses, brooches, chains, pendants, bracelets and even precious buttons taken from robes of gold.

‘I collected this jewellery,’ Tonnelli explained, ‘from our banking houses in England, France, Italy and the cities of the Rhine. It was supposed to be part of the Crusaders’ war chest to buy weapons, supplies and animals, as well as bribe officials. The treasure was placed in a chest, what I called a chest of steel, protected by bands of iron with three different locks. Twenty years ago I brought the chest down to the Tower whilst I sent the keys to the Admiral of the Fleet. He in turn shared these with trusted officers.’

‘This was a loan?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes,’ Tonnelli agreed. ‘The Crusader leaders had agreed to pay it back at a fixed term of interest and give my banking house a percentage of whatever profits they earned. We considered it a sensible venture.’ Tonnelli allowed himself a smile. ‘The cities of North Africa are fabulously wealthy; the plunder from even one would settle such a debt ten times over.’

‘And why did you take it to the Tower?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Why not hand it over to the Admiral of the Fleet immediately?’

‘Oh, little friar,’ teased the Regent, ‘do not act the innocent! London is full of thieves at the best of times, and many of them live in Southwark. The war with France was over. There was no plunder to be had, or profits to be made from fat ransoms. The city was swollen with desperate soldiers, camped along both banks of the Thames, men of every kind, from a dozen kingdoms, whilst the sailors of the fleet were the riffraff from every port in Christendom. They’d all heard about the treasure, so Master Tonnelli approached me. The chest of steel would be hidden in the Tower and secretly conveyed to the Fleet at night shortly before it sailed. Once it was aboard, the Admiral, who trust his own crews, would have the chest opened and the contents distributed amongst captains and masters he could trust.’

Gaunt tapped Athelstan on the knee.

‘I understand you have been to see Master Hubert in the Tower? Go back there and search amongst the records. Did you know that every gang of outlaws in London, and beyond, had an interest in that treasure? Take a walk along the quayside near London Bridge; you’ll see the river pirates hanging from their gibbets for three turns of the tide. London was full of such men who feared neither God or the law.’

Athelstan nodded in agreement. The Regent’s reasoning was logical, yet he detected a glibness like the patter of some subtle lawyer presenting his case.

‘Why didn’t you have the treasure conveyed by your own armed retainers, or even the garrison in the Tower?’

‘I didn’t trust them. Once they knew the secret, they would know everything, wouldn’t they? When and where and to whom it was to be given. Once people know the times and seasons, Brother Athelstan, it is easy for them to plot. I wanted as few people as possible — so did the Admiral, not to mention Signor Tonnelli — to know about the treasure’s whereabouts, even when it came aboard ship.’ He shrugged. ‘Even my captain of the guard, who took the treasure to Culpepper, was told the chest was empty, a diversion to distract certain people I couldn’t name.’ Gaunt paused. ‘The problem was twofold. We didn’t want anyone seeing such a barge go directly from the Tower to the flagship; any would-be thief would be watching for that. More importantly, and remember this, we wanted as few people as possible to know when or where the treasure was taken aboard. The design was mine-’

‘So, it was you who chose Mortimer and Culpepper?’

‘Yes. Mortimer was my henchman, a man who was mine both body and soul, as I was his,’ Gaunt added sadly. ‘In France, Mortimer saved my life on at least two occasions during sudden ambuscade. I talked to him and swore him to secrecy, and asked him to find one man he could trust. He brought along Culpepper, whom I also liked. I paid them for their needs, good silver to ease their path.’

Gaunt’s strange blue eyes held Athelstan’s gaze. The friar wondered how much this cunning nobleman knew about the searches by both himself and Cranston. He recalled the whisperings of his own parishioners, how Gaunt had more spies in London than the city had dogs.

‘We decided,’ Gaunt continued, ‘to transport the gold on the Eve of St Matthew, the twentieth of September. My boatmen were told to take the chest across the Thames. They would pause for a while at the Oyster Wharf, where my agents would ensure that all was well, before continuing further south. They did so. Mortimer and Culpepper had not even told me the precise location, except that it was a lonely stretch on the south bank of the Thames, near to the river turns down towards Westminster.’ Gaunt paused, sucking on his teeth. ‘According to my men, everything went according to plan. My agents on the Oyster Wharf were satisfied that everything was well and the barge continued. You see, Brother, boats and barges go up the Thames every day and every night; those who lusted after the treasure expected it to be moved with great pomp and ceremony from the City to the Admiral’s flagship. They would hardly be looking for a simple barge with a crew of two. My men had been told to look for a lantern light, one which would swing and clearly flash, and they found it.’

‘Who was there?’ Cranston asked.

‘According to my men, Mortimer and Culpepper, still waiting for their barge from Southwark. They handed the treasure over, Culpepper and Mortimer signed the indenture. My men withdrew and that was it.’

‘And there was nothing wrong?’

Gaunt pulled a face. ‘Mortimer was deeply uneasy, he kept looking back into the darkness. Culpepper too was suspicious and a little wary. Mortimer comforted him and teased him that he would soon lie with the love of his life amongst the dead.’

‘Amongst the dead?’ Athelstan exclaimed, and immediately thought of the cemetery of St Erconwald, the grass growing long and thick amongst the tombs and crosses.

‘My retainers left,’ Gaunt continued. ‘I thought all was safe. Just before dawn the Admiral sent a message that the treasure had not arrived. I immediately ordered both banks of the Thames to be scoured. I instructed every official in the kingdom to search for the treasure, and gave a description of it and its keepers to every reeve and harbour master.’

‘Nothing,’ Tonnelli almost shouted, ‘nothing at all in either this kingdom or any other; no sign of Culpepper and Mortimer.’

Cranston recalled Helena Mortimer’s gentle face, but held his peace. He glanced quickly at Athelstan. The friar was a closed book when it came to thoughts and emotions. Nevertheless, Cranston had studied Athelstan most closely, and something about the way he sat, tapping his foot against the tiled floor, the gentle shaking of his head, followed by an abrupt glance at Tonnelli, showed that the Dominican was not satisfied. The Regent was glib because he had been through this story time and again, but he was still cunning enough to sense Athelstan’s reservations.

‘What is wrong, Brother? You act as if something is amiss. Don’t you believe me?’

Gaunt pointed to a lectern on the far corner.

‘A book of the Gospels lies over there. I, Regent of England, uncle to the King, will take the most solemn oath. I loved Mortimer as a brother, I owed him my life, a blood debt. I have searched and I have scoured but I have found no trace of him.’

‘Do you suspect anyone?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I suspect everyone, Brother. Where are the corpses, where is the treasure?’

‘You think that Mortimer is dead?’

‘Yes, I do. I would take another oath, regretting I ever drew him into this business. I know as much now as I did the morning after the great robbery. Now, these murders in the Night in Jerusalem. .’

Athelstan described what had happened; John of Gaunt sat shaking his head, keeping his face down, and the friar’s unease deepened. Gaunt wasn’t telling a lie, but was he withholding something? He looked guilty; why?

Athelstan asked the same question as he and Cranston, after being dismissed by the Regent, made their way up into Fleet Street and through Bowyers Row into the City. The day was now drawing on, lanterns and torches spluttered against the misty, murky nightfall; the market horn had sounded, a sign that the day’s trading was ending. The bells of the city tolled, booming across the rooftops, reminding the citizens of evening prayer. They went up past the soaring mass of St Paul’s. A group of the sheriff’s men had ringed the cathedral cemetery, shaking their fists and shouting curses at the wolfsheads who had taken sanctuary beyond the cemetery wall and so could not be touched. The criminals and felons answered with a hail of rocks and mud. One scoundrel recognised Cranston and started shouting a litany of abuse, brought to an abrupt end by the appearance of a funeral party. A Carmelite, face hidden in his cowl, chanted the prayers of the dead as he led the procession from the cathedral towards the main gate of the cemetery. He was followed by a cross bearer, and a little boy who carried a lantern in one hand and a bell in the other which he shook vigorously. The mourners carried the cathedral coffin chest covered by black and gold pall. On either side acolytes swung censers; their perfumed smoke billowing out did something to hide the pungent stench, whilst the lowing sound of the funeral bell stilled the clamour. Athelstan used the occasion to hurry Sir John on up into Cheapside.

‘Sir John, His Grace the Regent could tell us little.’ He smiled mischievously at the coroner. ‘His silence told us much more.’

‘Like what?’ Cranston glared across Cheapside at the stocks filled full of pilferers caught during the day’s trading.

‘I truly don’t know, Sir John. Gaunt regrets Mortimer’s death, and I agree with him: those two knights and the boatmen were foully murdered, though how and why?’ He caught the coroner’s arm. ‘Now I’ll stay here. You must visit that goldsmith, the one who helped Helena Mortimer; goldsmiths are very scrupulous, they keep excellent records. I want you to ask him two things.’

Athelstan tapped his wallet and remembered how the ring of St Erconwald was safely hidden away in the parish church.

‘Ask the goldsmith if he has the list of the Lombard treasure distributed by John of Gaunt and that Italian banker.’

‘Why? Don’t you think that they did?’

‘Oh yes, Sir John, I believe him. Ask him also if he has a second list, distributed by the Benedictine monk Malachi.’

Cranston made to protest.

‘Please, Sir John, it’s very important! If he doesn’t have it we will have to try elsewhere. I know, I know,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I already have a list from Tonnelli, but I have to be sure.’

Cranston, grumbling under his breath, strode across Cheapside. Athelstan found a plinth and sat down. He pulled up his cowl and, as the bells tolled for vespers, quietly recited the opening psalm of the divine office.

‘Oh Lord, come to my aid, make haste to help me.’

He was halfway through the third psalm when Cranston returned brandishing two lists, both written on good vellum. Athelstan took them over to a lantern on a door-post hook, then turned, smiling brilliantly at Cranston.

‘I have found it, Sir John!’

Athelstan left a bemused Cranston and hurried down to the riverside, along Thames Street into the Vintry, and took a barge from Dowgate across to Southwark. Night was falling, growing colder by the moment, so he was pleased to find that Malachi had built up the fire in the priest’s house. The Benedictine was sitting at a table reading the treatise Athelstan had borrowed from the library at Blackfriars. The friar did his best to be pleasant, but found the pretence difficult, so he immersed himself in a whole series of petty tasks. He went backwards and forwards to the church, taking across his writing satchel, pots of ink and fresh sheets of vellum, as well as a small desk he kept stored under the bed loft. When he moved the truckle bed across and informed Malachi that tonight he would be sleeping in the church, the Benedictine glanced up sharply.

‘What is wrong, Brother? You have work to do? You seem agitated.’

‘That’s because I am.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘So much to do,’ he murmured, ‘so little time to do it. Brother Malachi, you must excuse me, I have accounts to finish, certain business of Sir John’s, and of course,’ he forced a smile, ‘there’s always my parish council.’

Athelstan continued going backwards and forwards, praying quietly that Brother Malachi would not question him any further. He turned the chantry chapel into a small chamber, with writing desk, chair, bed; it even included a tray bearing a jug of watered wine and three goblets. Malachi, as if he sensed Athelstan’s growing agitation, politely excused himself and said he would go down and sample the ale at the Piebald tavern. Once he had gone, Athelstan immediately relaxed, feeling the tension drain from his back and legs. Bonaventure appeared, following the friar like a shadow, getting under his feet and making himself a genuine nuisance. Only when the cat heard the scurry of mice in the far transept did he decide his bowl of milk could wait, as he loped across to investigate. Athelstan wheeled out two cupped braziers from the church tower and filled each with a small sack of charcoal.

‘Can I help, Father?’

Benedicta had appeared suddenly in the doorway. Athelstan clutched his stomach.

‘Benedicta, you made me jump! If I had been drinking, I would have thought I was having a vision.’

‘You don’t have visions, Brother!’

Benedicta pulled back her hood. Her black hair hung loose to her shoulders.

‘And don’t try to distract me; the bells will soon ring for vespers. The hour is growing late. Why are you lighting two braziers? You intend to spend the night here, don’t you? You are not going to study the stars? And don’t tell me,’ Benedicta drew close, ‘you are going to lie in front of the high altar and pray for our parish council.’

Athelstan went over and closed the church door. ‘No, Benedicta, I’ll tell you the truth. I am hunting the sons of Cain. I want to trap men who have done great evil, who believe that they can wipe their mouths on the back of their hands and face God as if they were innocent.’ He walked out of the shadows and grasped her cold hands.

‘Why, Brother Athelstan?’ Benedicta kept her face serious, but her beautiful eyes smiled.

‘You’re cold.’ Athelstan let her hands slip.

‘I’ll help you light the braziers.’

He brought out the tinder box and a bundle of dry bracken, which they pushed into the small gap under the charcoal. Benedicta found the bellows in the church storeroom. For a while, laughing and chattering, they attempted to fire the braziers, at first unsuccessfully, but eventually the charcoal caught and began to glow, as Athelstan remarked, ‘like the fires of hell’. Benedicta went out and brought back sweet-smelling weeds which she sprinkled on top, then helped Athelstan wheel the braziers up the nave and into the chantry chapel. She insisted that they dine together and hurried off to Merrylegs’ cookshop. On the way she met Crim and persuaded the altar boy to help her, and together they brought back a large meat pie.

‘Freshly baked,’ Benedicta announced. ‘Merrylegs went on oath to tell me the meat was no more than a month old. I also stopped at the Piebald.’ She gestured at Crim. ‘Jocelyn sent that free of charge, and Crim hasn’t spilt a drop, have you?’

The altar boy, holding the beer jug as he would the sacred pyx, shook his head.

All three sat at the entrance to the sanctuary, Athelstan sharing out the pie and ale, regaling Crim with stories about how the ghost of the leper woman had helped him solve a recent mystery. Crim sat round-eyed, and once the meal was finished, left, taking the jug back to the Piebald and the cookshop’s bowl for Merrylegs.

Athelstan washed his hands and face in the small lavarium in the sacristy.

‘You were talking about the sons of Cain?’ Benedicta stood in the doorway.

‘He killed his brother, Benedicta, and when God questioned him, shouted back a question which has rung down the ages: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Like Pilate he didn’t wait for an answer, but, also like Pilate, received one whether he liked it or not. God hunted Cain down, seized him and marked his head. Tomorrow,’ Athelstan sighed, ‘God willing, I am going to see that sign myself.’

‘Can I help?’ Benedicta offered.

Athelstan folded his napkin and put it over the arm of the lavarium.

‘Not now, but tomorrow. I’ll celebrate Mass just after dawn. I’ll ring the bell so you will know. I want you to bring Cecily here. Oh, and tell Pike the ditcher not to drink too much tonight, I also want him at Mass. He must take certain messages for me.’

Benedicta left, and Athelstan returned to the house. Thankfully Malachi hadn’t returned. Athelstan quickly unlocked the chest, took out the casket and St Erconwald’s ring. He banked the fire, made sure that everything was in order and left for the church, where he locked and bolted the doors behind him. Then he prepared himself, laying out the parchment, quills, ink horn and other writing materials. Going into the sanctuary, he prostrated himself before the high altar. He quietly recited the Veni Creator Spiritus, but stumbled on the words, so he recalled the famous hymn ‘In Laudem Spiritus Sancti’: ‘Spiritus Sancte, pie Paraclete, Amor Patris e Filii, Nexus gignentis et genitï, O Holy Ghost, O faithful Paraclete, Love of the Father and the Son. .

Once he had finished, Athelstan lit more candles around the chantry chapel and concentrated on his task. Slowly but surely he teased out the facts, listing the various killings one after the other, trying to find a pattern, basing his theory on the hypothesis that one person, and one person alone, was responsible for the murders, only to quickly realise that that was futile. He then tried various combinations, listing the incidents in different categories, but eventually he changed this to three: the great robbery; the murder of the knights, Chandler, Broomhill and Davenport; and finally, the murder of the rest. The great robbery he ignored, and concentrated on the latter two, but the problem became even more vexatious, particularly Davenport’s death. For a while Athelstan concentrated on that blood-soaked corpse, until eventually he closed his eyes and whispered, ‘Deo Gratias!’ At last he was able to impose some order, a harmony on these apparently disjointed facts, before returning to the great robbery.

‘The radix malorum, the root of all evil,’ Athelstan whispered. He left the desk, warmed his hands over the brazier and walked up and down the nave, turning the problem over and over in his mind, looking for the weakness, preparing what he called his bill of indictment. He could see the logic of what he proposed, but where was the evidence? He had very little except for that ring, the casket and those two lists of jewellery. He returned to his writing desk and re-examined the evidence. He now understood the Misericord’s scratchings on the wall of his Newgate Prison cell, what he was truly shouting as he died, as well as the veiled allusion that the clue to Guinevere the Gulden’s death was something which could be found on his sister’s person. It all made sense. He also understood the Judas Man’s strange scribblings, which, in turn, took him back to the night of the Great Ratting.

Athelstan sifted amongst the evidence he had collected; what else was there? He picked up his quill and wrote a few words. The real problem was the Lombard treasure. Where had it gone? And those four men who’d disappeared off the face of the earth twenty years ago? Athelstan closed his eyes. He thought of the desolate stretch of bank south of the Thames, the dark, lonely night. Other images came to haunt him: John of Gaunt, with his glib tongue and sharp eyes; Sir Stephen Chandler’s pitiful prayer for mercy; Rolles the taverner, a knife in one hand, in the other a letter from the Castle of Love; the hay barn; the great cart standing in the tavern yard; Davenport sitting all alone in that garden. Athelstan felt thirsty, so he took a gulp of watered wine. If he could only make sense of the robbery. He recalled the axiom of one of his masters: Nihil ex Nihilo, ‘Nothing comes from Nothing’. He paused in his pacing, so surprised by his conclusion he threw his head back and guffawed laughter. He had his proof; the hypothesis was firm, the bill of indictment was ready!

Athelstan went across to the side door, unbolted it and peered out. The priest’s house was shrouded in darkness. Malachi must have retired, so Athelstan vowed to do the same. For a short while he knelt in front of the high altar and gave thanks for the help he had received. As he stared up at the Crucifix, the words of the old Crusader song came drifting back:

They have crucified their Lord of flesh

Upon another Cross

His wounds are new again

The tree of life is lost.

He sighed, blessed himself and, extinguishing all the tapers except one, lay down on the narrow cot bed and drifted off to sleep.

He woke before dawn with Bonaventure nuzzling his ear. ‘I know, I know,’ Athelstan murmured, and, picking the cat up, staggered across to the corpse door to let Bonaventure go hunting in the cemetery. Athelstan then stripped, washed himself at the lavarium in the sacristy and put on a new robe. He tidied the chantry chapel, preparing the high altar for morning Mass. At the first streak of light he tolled the bell three times, and by the time he had vested and knelt before the high altar, Benedicta and Cecily, the latter as fresh and pert as a sparrow, had come into the sanctuary, followed by a rather disgruntled Pike. ditcher spent most of the Mass scratching himself and yawning loudly, grumbling under his breath. He soon cheered up when Athelstan met him in the sacristy afterwards, and gave him a silver coin and a message which Pike had to learn by rote.

‘Go to the Lord Coroner’s house,’ Athelstan warned, ‘and tell him he must be at the Night in Jerusalem by the ninth hour. He is to bring Master Flaxwith and all his bailiffs. Oh yes, and some guards from the Guildhall. Mark me now, you are to go directly to the Lord Coroner’s. Only afterwards visit a tavern.’ He made sure the ditcher had memorised the message, then Pike left, as swift as a whippet, and Athelstan took the two women down towards the main door of the church.

‘I want you to help me,’ he began. ‘Cecily, you know Mistress Veritable?’

‘Whore Queen!’ Cecily spat back. ‘A bitch steeped in villainy. She tried to get me into her house.’ She shook her head, blonde curls dancing, blue eyes angry.

‘Hush now,’ Athelstan warned. ‘Today you and Benedicta must pretend to be her friends. This is what you must do. You are to go to the Friar Minoresses near Aldgate and speak to a novice called Edith Travisa. You are to tell her to meet Mother Veritable and pretend to accede to all her demands. Tell her to negotiate to make it believable.’

‘Brother, what are you doing?’ Benedicta exclaimed. ‘I know Mother Veritable by reputation, a most unsavoury woman.’

‘And so does Edith,’ Athelstan replied. ‘She knows it’s only pretence, but she must be convincing. Once you have done that, you must return to Southwark. Act as though you are the Lady Edith’s messengers. You must tell Mother Veritable how Edith Travisa, now bereft of her brother, is seriously considering entering Mother Veritable’s house. You must pretend, you must convince that hideous woman. You must also persuade her to come back with you across the river this very morning to meet Edith to negotiate certain matters. She’ll ask you who you are. For the sake of the truth you must tell her you are Edith’s friends, and that you support her decision. Garnish your tale as you would a meal; emphasise Edith’s poverty, her lack of family; but one thing you must achieve is Mother Veritable’s departure from Southwark, before the ninth hour.’

Both women agreed and left. Athelstan continued with his cleaning of the church, interrupted now and again as parishioners drifted in. Satisfied, he went across to the priest’s house, where Malachi had just risen and was praying from his psalter before celebrating Mass.

‘Brother Athelstan, you have been up early?’

‘I have celebrated my Mass, Malachi. Now I have business to do.’ Athelstan kept his face impassive, closing his mind to what he now knew, as well as what he planned to happen before this day finished. ‘Once you have celebrated Mass,’ he continued, ‘I must insist you go back to the Night in Jerusalem. No, no, you will be safe. You must inform Master Rolles, Sir Maurice and Sir Reginald that I, and the Lord Coroner, must have words with them in the solar just after the ninth hour. If they are not there, Sir John will issue warrants for their arrest. I’m sorry, Brother, I cannot tell you the reason why, but all four of you have to be there.’

The Benedictine, mystified, left for the church. Athelstan finished his preparations. He donned his cloak, put the casket in a leather bag, collected his writing satchel and walked down through the early morning streets. He paused outside Merrylegs’ cookshop to eat one of the cook’s specialities, a sweet pie of apple and raisins. He stopped at the Piebald for a mug of ale, then continued down to the riverside to watch the mist lift and the fishing fleets come in. People passed him, Athelstan smiled or raised his hand in blessing, yet he was still very distracted. He kept turning over in his mind what he had planned for that meeting in the solar at the Night in Jerusalem. Church bells chimed, drowning the scream of the hunting gulls. Athelstan felt the cold seep through his heavy robe, and turning round, he walked up to the tavern.

Master Rolles greeted him in the doorway. Athelstan was equally courteous in reply.

‘I have received your message, Brother.’

‘Thank you, thank you. Master Rolles, do you have spades and mattocks? I would like to borrow them for my church field.’

‘Of course, quite a few.’

‘Good.’ Athelstan answered absent-mindedly, patting him on the arm. ‘I need to see you this morning, I assure you it won’t take long.’

Athelstan warmed himself in front of the tap room fire, listening to the chatter of the spit boy, who questioned the friar closely on how much he ate, and did he have a spit? Was it true that friars were forbidden to eat? Athelstan laughed and gave the boy a penny. The lad was still chattering when Athelstan heard a clamour outside, and Sir John, with his retinue of bailiffs and serjeants-at-arms, strode into the tap room.

‘Brother, good morrow, what’s this all about?’

Athelstan took him into a far corner, whispering what he had planned and what Sir John must do. The coroner loosened his cloak, took off his beaver hat, scratched his head and whistled under his breath.

‘Little friar, you have been busy!’ He nodded at the doorway. ‘As I came in, they were gathering in the solar.’

‘So, we must join them. There must be a guard in the room and one outside.’

‘And the bailiffs?’

‘Oh, they’ll be busy. They have a garden to dig!’

Athelstan, clutching his writing satchel and leather bag, left the tap room, followed by a mystified Cranston. The others were already grouped either side of the solar table. Athelstan sat at one end with his back to the window, Sir John at the other.

‘Good morning, gentlemen.’

The knights grunted a reply as if bored by the proceedings. Rolles, however, was clearly agitated by the presence of the guards and so many bailiffs.

‘Ah, Henry.’ Athelstan pointed at Flaxwith, who was standing behind Cranston. ‘I must ask you to leave. I have a very important task for you. In the outhouse, across the stable yard, you will find spades, mattocks and hoes. No, keep still, Master Rolles.’ Athelstan spoke as the taverner scraped back his chair. I want you to collect them, go into the garden behind me and start digging.’

Athelstan glanced quickly at the knights, gratified at the shock in their faces. Rolles was so agitated he couldn’t keep still.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Flaxwith retorted, ‘Master Rolles’ garden is beautiful.’

‘Master Rolles, you will keep seated,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘or I will ask you to be bound. Henry, the garden behind me is not beautiful. It houses the mortal remains of five poor souls, murdered by the men who are now seated around this table.’

The knights jumped to their feet, followed by Rolles. Cranston banged the table, shouting that they would be arrested if they moved three paces from their chairs. Once silence was imposed, Cranston looked over his shoulder and nodded at Flaxwith.

‘Do it!’ he ordered. ‘And dig deep. Brother Athelstan?’ He turned back.

‘Thank you, Sir John. I will repeat what I’ve said. Each of you seated at this table, all four of you, is guilty of the most hideous homicide.’ Athelstan paused. ‘One is missing. You may have made enquiries about her, Mother Veritable. She has been taken by two friends of mine across the river. She has confessed, and will do so again, to the murderous events of twenty years ago.’