The House of Shadows

Chapter 13

‘It is an unassailable theory,’ Athelstan began, ‘that murder, like charity, always begins at home. In this case, home was the Night in Jerusalem, where a group of young knights, brothers-in-arms, assembled over twenty years ago to take part in the Great Crusade of Lord Peter of Cyprus. Eager, hungry young men, raised in the House of War, who saw their fortunes threatened by the recent peace treaty with France. A group of such knights from the shire of Kent assembled here with their chaplain Brother Malachi.’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the Benedictine. ‘Only one was an outsider: Edward Mortimer, a landless knight who’d become the handfast friend of Culpepper, so close they were like peas in a pod.’

Athelstan moved his chair sideways so he could stare out of the window to where Flaxwith and the others were busy digging up Master Rolles’ garden.

‘You didn’t have much money.’ He was aware how quiet the solar had become; the ghosts were now gathering. ‘You came up to London,’ he continued, ‘and took lodgings in this tavern, recently purchased by Master Rolles with the plunder and the ransoms he had earned in France. Through Master Rolles you became acquainted with Mother Veritable, who owned a pleasure house down near the stews. Now, Culpepper fell in love with one of the ladies of the night, who rejoiced in the name of Guinevere the Golden, a beautiful woman, fair of face but fickle of heart. You all enjoyed yourselves while the crusading army gathered and the cogs of war assembled in the Thames.’

‘What does all this mean?’ Sir Maurice Clinton spoke up, his face ashen and sweat-stained.

‘God knows the true reason,’ Athelstan ignored the interruption, ‘but His Grace John of Gaunt, together with the Lombard banker Teodoro Tonnelli, decided that part of the war chest, the loan raised by the Crusader commanders, should be transported secretly, by night, to the Admiral’s flagship waiting in the Thames. His Grace wished to avoid any public show, so as not to attract the attention of the outlaw gangs or mob of river pirates which crowded along the Thames like flies on a dung heap. To make a long story brief, on the Eve of St Matthew, the Year of Our Lord 1360, the treasure barge left the Tower, crossed the Thames and went along the south bank, past the Oyster Wharf to a secret location. His Grace had decided that the treasure would be taken out the Fleet by his trusted retainer Edward Mortimer, who’d also brought Richard Culpepper into the secret design. Both knights were well rewarded by His Grace. They were to attract the treasure barge in, by lantern or torchlight, and the chest would be moved to an ordinary barge specially hired for that occasion. The treasure duly arrived. The two knights, waiting on the river bank, took charge of it, and brought their own barge in. They were to pay the boatmen off and take the treasure to the flagship.’

Cranston played with the edge of his cloak. He didn’t know what path Athelstan was following, but he understood why the little friar was talking so slowly, keeping a watchful eye on what was going on in the garden. Cranston was also vigilant. The two knights sat like carved statues as their mask of respectability was slowly peeled away. Cranston was more wary of Rolles, who seemed to have recovered his wits. One hand had already slipped beneath the table. Cranston remembered how this dagger man had a knife in a sheath on his belt, as well as another in the top of his boot. His fingers slipped to the hilt of his own knife. He would watch Master Rolles.

‘Imagine the scene,’ Athelstan continued, ‘a fairly cloudless sky, the moon riding high, the Thames quiet and sluggish, the silence broken by the cries of the night, creatures hunting their prey. Culpepper and Mortimer talking to the bargemen, eager to be away, unaware that more deadly hunters were loose along the river that night.’

‘But, but,’ Sir Reginald Branson intervened, ‘no one knew of this.’

‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan scoffed. ‘No one, apart from those two knights, was supposed to know; they didn’t even tell the boatmen why they needed their barge. Culpepper, however, had made a dreadful mistake. He truly loved Guinevere the Golden. He had shown her the money he had earned, and whispered about how there would be more. Guinevere was the last person he should have told, and he did tell her everything: the treasure, the secret place along the Thames, the arrangements, even the hour. Guinevere was fickle of heart. Culpepper may have loved her, but her attentions were already wandering. Unbeknown to Culpepper, she was also bestowing her favours on one of the other knights. I don’t know who. Perhaps you, Sir Maurice? Sir Thomas Davenport, or Sir Laurence Broomhill? She told one and he told the rest. Were you poor, penniless knights already resentful of the fortune and favour shown to Culpepper and this relative newcomer Mortimer? So, you hatched a plot to steal the treasure, and you enlisted the help of Master Rolles and Mother Veritable.’

‘I didn’t. .’ Master Rolles raised a hand. ‘Sir John,’ he gasped, ‘this is nonsense.’

‘Hush now,’ Athelstan soothed. ‘On the night in question you pretended you were all revelling and carousing in a chamber here at the Night in Jerusalem. No one would mark the hours, not even the Misericord, who was serving as a pot boy, or the other heavy-eyed servants and maids, only too eager to slip exhausted into their narrow beds. Now, Master Rolles, you owned a great high-sided cart, the perfect place to hide a group of men under a leather awning. You had the cart hitched, its wheels covered in straw and sacking to hide the sound, and slipped away, leaving probably only two of the knights to continue the sound of revelling and carousing so as to distract the attention of others. You knew, thanks to Guinevere, where Culpepper and Mortimer would be waiting for the treasure. You came upon them suddenly and silently. All of you are trained bowmen, skilled archers. You arrived at the moment Culpepper and Mortimer took possession of the barge.’

Athelstan paused.

‘The attack would be swift, the shafts hissing through air.’ The friar glanced quickly at Malachi, now so pale his eyes seemed like dark pools, his lips thin, bloodless lines. ‘Four corpses,’ Athelstan continued, ‘transfixed by arrows. You quickly carried them to the waiting cart, together with the treasure chest. The location was secret. The river water would soon wash away any signs of violence. You pushed the barge out into mid-stream, having cleared it of any possessions.’

‘And Guinevere the Golden?’ Cranston asked, his gaze still intent on Master Rolles.

‘Ah, Guinevere the Golden,’ Athelstan sighed. ‘She whom fortune didn’t favour. Poor Culpepper died thinking she loved him and him only. The men she betrayed him to encouraged her to maintain this illusion. I suppose she was told to wait for Culpepper somewhere lonely and dark; what better place than their usual love tryst, the cemetery at St Erconwald’s, near to the river but far enough away from the Night in Jerusalem. She was to wait there until it was all over. Of course, if you betray one person, it’s only a matter of time before you betray someone else. Guinevere had to be silenced. I have no proof that it was at St Erconwald’s, but I do know that Mother Veritable took care of her. The cart containing the four other corpses would stop to pick up her body as well. In the dead of night that cart, its wheels muffled, slipped back into the Night in Jerusalem.’

‘Master Rolles on his cart,’ Cranston intervened, ‘was a common enough sight at all hours of the day and night. Slatterns and servants, the Misericord included, slept in the tap room, under the tables. There’d be enough of you to keep watch in the dead of night. .’

‘There was also another way in.’ Athelstan spoke quickly, fearful lest Cranston be carried away by his excitement at what was being revealed. ‘The small postern gate to the garden.’ The friar stared down the table. ‘Master Rolles, I must study your accounts. I believe you were having the garden laid out then, weren’t you? The ground all dug up? A beautiful place now, but an ideal one at the time for hiding five corpses and all their possessions. They were brought through the postern gate that night.’ Athelstan gestured at window. ‘No wonder you had mantraps to protect such a place.’

‘This is preposterous,’ Sir Maurice broke in. ‘You have no proof.’

‘You don’t deny it,’ Cranston barked, ‘you simply ask for evidence.’

‘I’ll supply that soon enough.’ Athelstan pointed to the window. ‘We’ll find the corpses, then there’s Mother Veritable: she’ll be about to take the oath now, provide the Crown and its lawyers with all the proof they need.’

‘But this treasure. .’ Sir Reginald Branson spoke up.

‘You know the answer to that,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘We’ll come to it by and by. What were you planning to do with that treasure? Break it up, hide it away until you returned?’ Athelstan’s face creased into a smile. ‘But you couldn’t do that, could you? In the end all you had to do was hide the corpses, and let those poor men take the blame. The perfect crime, except for Mother Veritable. She has already confessed to killing Guinevere the Golden. She was supposed to destroy all that poor woman’s possessions, make it look as though she had packed all her bags and vanished without a trace, but she was greedy. She kept a small coffer owned by Guinevere.’ Athelstan leaned under the table, brought out the small casket and placed it carefully in front of him. ‘The years passed, the casket became tawdry. Mother Veritable grew careless or her conscience pricked her. She gave the casket to Beatrice and Clarice, not realising the terrible mistake she was making.’ Athelstan tapped the broken clasps. ‘Look at that, gentlemen, do you see the insignia? Dark blue Celtic crosses on a tawny background. Don’t you remember whose insignia it was?’

‘In God’s name!’ Sir Maurice leaned forward, hands shaking.

‘Ah, Sir Maurice, you have reached the same conclusion as I have, hasn’t he, Brother Malachi?’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the Benedictine. ‘Aren’t those the personal insignia of your brother, as opposed to your family escutcheon? A dark blue Celtic cross on a tawny background. I noticed that in the Tower when I scrutinised the indenture. Your brother Richard always signed a cross like this next to his name, while Mortimer used a lion, the heraldic device of his family. You had forgotten that, but the Misericord didn’t. He became very friendly with Beatrice and Clarice. One day he saw this coffer and, being keen of eye and sharp of wit, realised it must have been a personal gift from Sir Richard, a fact Mother Veritable had overlooked. The Misericord would wonder why their mother Guinevere, supposedly so devoted to Sir Richard, would vanish but leave that here. He began to reflect, racking his memory, recalling the events of that night. Did he remember something amiss? An item he had glimpsed? Did he grow suspicious of the accepted story? Eventually he shared his secret with Beatrice and Clarice whilst enigmatically hinting to his own sister what he had found. Something which could also be found on Edith’s person, namely a cross. When I visited Edith at the convent of the Minoresses she was wearing a cross similar to this one.’ Athelstan tapped the casket. ‘The Misericord must have told those two young women to be careful, to entrust the casket to someone else, which they did, their friend Donata. After their murder, Donata suspected something was wrong and decided to flee Mother Veritable’s, entrusting this to me.’

‘Is this true?’ Sir Reginald Branson shouted, glaring at Brother Malachi.

‘You know it is,’ the Benedictine spat back.

‘Of course you do,’ Athelstan declared, pushing the casket further down the table.

Malachi’s hand went out, as if by caressing it he could somehow touch his dead brother.

‘Let me continue my story,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Once the vile deed was done, you warriors of Christ went to Outremer, Master Rolles returned to looking after his tavern, whilst Mother Veritable followed her own evil path. But sin, like a beast at the door, crouches and waits, doesn’t it, Brother Malachi? You see,’ Athelstan chose his words carefully, ‘Brother Malachi was very anxious about his brother. For a while he believed the accepted story, that his brother, with Mortimer, had stolen the Lombard treasure, and disappeared with his leman, Guinevere the Golden. Now the Crown, not to mention the Lombard bankers, had circulated a list of the missing treasure to the goldsmiths’ guilds in all the principal cities of the kingdom. Brother Malachi did likewise.’

Athelstan opened his writing satchel and took out the two documents Cranston had given him the night before.

‘There are two lists here, one circulated by the Crown, the other by Brother Malachi. There’s one difference. On yours, Malachi, you added an item not found on the other.’ Athelstan undid his wallet and brought out the small velvet-lined box which held the Erconwald ring. ‘Your brother owned this. It may be Saxon but I suspect he bought it because the crosses inside the ring are very similar to those of his personal insignia. Did he buy it in London, Brother Malachi? He certainly showed it to you before he gave it to Guinevere the Golden as a token of his love.’ Athelstan paused. The silence now weighed so heavily that every sound from the garden echoed through to the solar. ‘None of the treasure ever reappeared,’ Athelstan continued, ‘but this ring did. A goldsmith contacted Brother Malachi. Once he saw the ring, he realised that Guinevere was dead, and so was his brother. When Mother Veritable killed Guinevere, greedy as ever and disappointed at what was found in the Lombard treasure chest, she kept the casket, but sold the ring. It was only a matter of time before some goldsmith recognised it and, hoping to claim the reward, wrote to Brother Malachi. This ring has already made Mother Veritable confess.’

‘I told you!’

Master Rolles’ outburst surprised even Cranston. The taverner leaped to his feet, dagger already drawn, and lunged across the table, the point of the blade narrowly missing Sir Maurice’s face. The knight pushed his chair back, hand going to his own dagger, but Rolles, face white and tight, eyes glaring, now lunged at Athelstan, his tormentor. Cranston, even swifter, lashed out with his hand and knocked Rolles’ wrist, sending the dagger flying. Athelstan could only sit as the taverner, backing away, drew the evil-looking Welsh dagger from the top of his boot. He turned on Cranston, lips moving soundlessly, one hand going to brush the sweat from his cheek.

‘Don’t be stupid.’ Cranston rose, drawing his own sword in a hiss of steel, his other hand expertly plucking a dagger from its sheath. ‘Come, Master Rolles, this is no way forward, whatever charges you face.’

‘Charges?’

Rolles wiped his face with the back of his hand. He had lost all sense of where he was and what was happening, trapped by the mistakes of the past.

‘You stupid bastard.’ Rolles turned on Sir Maurice. ‘It was your scheme from the start. I should have known better. And what for? All that blood, for what? And that stupid bitch Veritable, greedy as a jackdaw.’

Sir Maurice still sat in his chair, slightly pushed back from the table. Sir Reginald’s hand edged slowly towards his own dagger.

‘All this,’ Rolles shouted so loudly the guards outside became alarmed and burst in, only to be waved away by Cranston, ‘all this,’ he screamed again, a white froth appearing at the corner of his mouth, ‘lost because of you.’

‘Master Rolles,’ Cranston warned, ‘put down your knife.’

‘And you,’ Rolles took a step forward, ‘fat Jack Cranston, come to take my profits, have you? I never did like you, with your prying eyes, all bluff and merry, ever righteous.’

Cranston took a step back, raising both sword and dagger. Rolles was lost in his own fury, mad with rage at what was about to be revealed. Athelstan had calculated that the disappearance of Mother Veritable would disconcert Rolles, but not to this extent.

Suddenly there was a tap on the window. Flaxwith, alarmed, was peering through. Cranston lowered his sword; Rolles seized the opportunity, turning slightly sideways like the fighting man he was, and lunged, his dagger making a feint for Cranston’s face, but moving just as quickly, he brought the dagger down, aiming for his true mark, the coroner’s broad chest. Cranston, despite his bulk, acted even more swiftly. Instead of retreating, he moved to the right. His dagger hand blocked Rolles’ blow, whilst he thrust his sword deep into the soft flesh where stomach and chest met. The force of Rolles’ lunge made him take the blade deeper, and for a while he just rocked backwards and forwards on his feet, a look of pained surprise on his face as he dropped his dagger.

Sir John pulled his sword out. Rolles tried to speak, moving forward even as the blood frothed between his lips. He made one last effort, then fell to his knees, gave a sigh and collapsed to the floor. Flaxwith threw open the door, others of his company thronging in behind, Cranston roared at them to withdraw.

‘But Sir John, I’ve-’

‘Never mind,’ Cranston retorted. ‘You saw it all, Henry. I had no choice.’

Flaxwith nodded. ‘It’s treason, Sir John, to draw a weapon on a King’s officer who is about to make an arrest.’

‘Thank you, Henry.’

Cranston gestured to the door. The bailiff withdrew, and Cranston ordered the rest to stay where they were and keep their hands on the tabletop. He knelt down, pressing his fingers against Rolles’ neck. Athelstan joined him. By now the blood was gushing out of Rolles’ mouth and the gaping wound in his chest, forming a dark red puddle on the floor. Neither Cranston nor Athelstan could find the life beat. The friar whispered a prayer, but Cranston was more practical.

‘He’ll have to wait. Let his corpse sprawl there and his soul can hear our judgement.’

‘Are you sure?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Sit down, Brother,’ Cranston ordered.

The friar returned reluctantly to his chair. Malachi was smiling to himself, as if savouring the moment.

‘You celebrated Mass in my church,’ Athelstan accused. ‘You condemned these men because they consorted with whores, yet you smile because an enemy lies dead a few paces in front of you.’

Malachi’s response was to turn and spit at the corpse. ‘He was an assassin,’ the Benedictine replied. ‘You know that and so do I. He was lawfully executed by a King’s officer in pursuit of his duty. Rolles had a hand in the murder of my brother.’

‘Aye, and others.’

Athelstan stared across at the two knights. Both men looked beaten, faces grey with fear.

‘And so we come to the night of the Great Ratting,’ Athelstan continued. ‘All of you, the knights, Master Rolles and Mother Veritable, had decided that the Misericord was too great a danger to ignore; his friendship with Beatrice and Clarice posed a threat, whilst the knights, especially Chandler, had other grievances against him. Mother Veritable had heard rumours, and God knows what questions the Misericord may have been asking. The Misericord moved about in the twilight of the law; he could piece information together, reaching the conclusion that you, Malachi, were innocent but the rest were a coven of assassins. He would keep such knowledge close, fearful of reprisal, unable to approach the law but greedy for what wealth blackmail might bring. He wouldn’t have learned everything, but enough to feed suspicions. Once this were known, his death, and those of the two women, was decided upon. Beatrice and Clarice were easy prey; it was just a matter of time, of waiting for a suitable occasion. The Misericord was different; a man of keen wit, he would have to be hunted down, so the Judas Man was called in. He was, in fact, hired by all the assassins.

‘On the night of the Great Ratting, Beatrice and Clarice were lured here and sent to the hay barn. The Misericord was to be killed by the Judas Man, but he escaped and fled to the last man he should have approached, Master Rolles. The taverner sent him to the hay barn, either to be killed with Beatrice and Clarice or trapped and depicted as their assassin. The cunning man’s stomach saved him: he was desperate for the privy. He was fortunate, blessed by that luck which had always kept him one step ahead of the law. He wasn’t there when the assassin entered the hay barn.’

‘Who was it?’ Brother Malachi asked.

‘Oh, I suspect Master Rolles. He had sent both the girls and the Misericord to the hay barn. He must have known that the Judas Man had trapped the wrong felon, but he didn’t really care. He pretended to be busy in the kitchen to distract the likes of harassed Tobias, then slipped through a side door, out across the yard. Sir Stephen Chandler was waiting in the shadows. He would act as sentry, whilst Rolles committed the deed. Broomhill also came down to keep an eye on matters.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Rolles crept into the hay barn, killed those two women, but realised what Chandler may have told him, that the Misericord wasn’t there. He bars the hay barn door and returns to the kitchen. Chandler, drunk and maudlin, goes into the barn to view the corpses before staggering back to the tavern. If anything went wrong, Chandler and Rolles could vouch for each other. The Misericord had escaped, but he could wait for another day, and that day came sooner than he thought.

‘The Misericord is arrested and taken to Newgate. He now realises what the deaths of Beatrice and Clarice mean. Whilst locked in Newgate, he leaves further clues about what he suspects. He scratches on the wall “Quern quaeritis”, “Whom do you seek?” It comes from the Gospel at Easter; when the women arrived at Christ’s tomb to anoint His Body they met angels who asked the same question. It’s a reference to the Crusaders, soldiers who vow to fight for the sepulchre of Christ. In a subtle way the Misericord was naming those knights who, twenty years earlier, had robbed the treasure intended for that crusading fleet. Such an allusion would appeal to the Misericord, with his knowledge of music and liturgy, as did the second-clue, the reference to numbers — 1, 1, 2, 3, 5. He was actually numbering the assassins — the five knights staying at this tavern. In fact he was doing more than this. The numbers 1, 1, 2, 3, 5 come from Signor Fibonacci’s work on geometry, Practica Geometriae. The writer demonstrated a sequence of numbers, each of which, after the first, is the sum of the two previous. The Misericord, a scholar, had to show off: he was not only listing you knights, but demonstrating how you were all bound up in one murderous coven. Finally,’ Athelstan sighed, ‘as he died, the Misericord became more explicit. He tried to scream the source of his suspicions. The prisoner in the adjoining cell thought he was shouting “Askit”. In truth, it was “casket”.’

Athelstan stretched out and brought the casket towards him.

‘You had decided on his death, hadn’t you, Sir Maurice? You and your companions, Master Rolles and Mother Veritable. You were a coven of conspirators, who could vouch for each other whatever pretended quarrels occurred between you. When Sir John came with his questions, you could act all innocent, and claim that no one left the tavern, but one or more of you certainly did slip across to Cheapside and, cowled and cloaked, arrange for that poison pie to be sent in to the Misericord. I suspect two of you went. Mother Veritable bought it, and one of your company gave it to the keeper. You knew we were going there. You simply watched and waited for us to leave, then carried out your murderous design. You must have known a gift from the Lord Coroner to a prisoner in Newgate would be handed over immediately.’

Athelstan paused. In the garden outside the window the bailiffs were gathering around a deep pit, talking excitedly at each other, pointing down to something. Athelstan half rose to get a better view, and realised that the bailiffs had been digging near the small flower arbour where he and Rosamund had sat.

‘In a while,’ he murmured, ‘all will be revealed. By now. .’ he continued. Sir Maurice seemed not to be listening, leaning on the table, head in hands, whilst Branson gazed at the wall like a man who had taken a blow to the head. ‘By now you had decided on other deaths. The Judas Man was a danger, narrow of soul but with a razor-sharp wit. He grew suspicious; indeed, anyone would have. During those long hours in St Erconwald’s cemetery, he would ask himself questions like, why the Misericord? Who had hired him? Why the great secrecy? He would learn about the Lombard treasure and the mysterious events of twenty years ago, and, of course, he was a suspect over the killings of Beatrice and Clarice, even though he was involved in a brawl on the night they were murdered. I searched his chamber and found a scrap of parchment where he had written “4 not 5”.’

‘He was talking about this present company, wasn’t he?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes, he was,’ Athelstan agreed.

‘He had met you, hadn’t he, Sir Maurice? He knew all about the five knights and their chaplain. He was keen-eyed, and on the night of the Great Ratting, he came down into the tap room. He must have met you, did he not?’

Sir Maurice refused to look up.

‘He noticed one of you was missing around the very time that those two young women were murdered. He noticed Chandler wasn’t there. This is pure deduction,’ Athelstan conceded, ‘but the Judas Man would be intrigued: what important event where only four of the knights, not five, were present? The only significant occasion, the only murders which occurred when he was close by, were those of Beatrice and Clarice. He must have heard the gossip about Sir Stephen quarrelling with those women as well as being seen in the yard afterwards. Above all,’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the corpse stiffening beside him, ‘he wondered why Master Rolles never interfered with his confrontation with that poor miscreant Toadflax. Was Rolles so busy in the kitchen he couldn’t come out? The Judas Man started asking questions, so one of you killed him, very close, with a crossbow bolt. The Judas Man was a soldier, a hunter; he would have to be caught unawares. I could imagine Master Rolles tapping on his door, the primed arbalest well concealed. The Judas Man flings the door open, and in a few heartbeats he is dead.’

Athelstan glanced at Malachi, lost in his own thoughts, beating his fingers against the table edge.

‘Master Rolles must have been involved. You would need his cart. The Judas Man’s corpse, stripped naked, was concealed under mounds of rubbish. At dusk Master Rolles took it out to the lay stall, the great refuse mound on London Bridge. Nobody lingers to watch refuse, ordure and other unmentionables be unloaded. The Judas Man’s corpse became part of the midden heap, and along with the rest was tipped into the Thames.’

He paused at the furious knocking at the door, and Flaxwith came in. The bailiff stood fascinated by the corpse sprawled on the floor.

‘What is it, Henry?’ Cranston asked.

Flaxwith whispered hoarsely in the coroner’s ear. Athelstan overheard a few words: something had been found in the garden.

‘Let it wait, Sir John.’

Cranston agreed, but ordered Flaxwith to remove the taverner’s corpse. A sheet was hastily brought, the body rolled in it, and taken out into the passageway. Athelstan heard the cries and groans of the servants and maids, now gathering, horrorstruck at what was happening. He rose and closed the door firmly against the noise.

‘Brother Malachi, we come to you. You were attacked in my church by a dagger man. One of the knives used belonged to the Judas Man, but of course, that was just to muddy the water. That poor unfortunate had already gone to God. Master Rolles, a prime mover in all these matters, was your assailant.’ Athelstan pointed at the coroner. ‘When Sir John first described Rolles, he called him a sicarius, “dagger man”; the knights sent him to silence you.’

‘And why should they do that?’ Malachi’s voice was rich with sarcasm.

‘You know why.’ Athelstan held the Benedictine’s gaze. ‘Once you had that ring,’ he continued, ‘you realised your brother was dead. On the day of the great robbery you had been absent across the river; for all I know, that may have been arranged by Rolles, Sir Maurice and the other conspirators. You returned and, like the rest, were mystified at what had happened. In the end you reluctantly accepted that your brother was a thief and a fugitive. You had no reason to suspect otherwise. The crusading fleet left the Thames; never once did you see or hear anything to arouse your suspicions, until that ring came into your possession. It was a matter of logic. Who else would have known about that treasure? Who else had the means to carry out the deed? Did you reflect upon Guinevere the Golden, on the possibility that she may not have loved your brother as he loved her? And, of course, the treasure. Have you been to see His Grace, John of Gaunt?’

Malachi gazed coolly back.

‘What was it, Brother?’ Athelstan urged. ‘What made you decide to carry out God’s judgement on these murderers?’

‘Did I?’ Malachi taunted back. He scraped back his chair, smiling to himself. ‘Tell Sir Maurice how I did it, Athelstan.’

‘You decided Chandler should die first,’ Athelstan replied. ‘That fat knight was all a-quiver, still disturbed by the events of the previous night, hot and sweaty and agitated. He wanted to sip at claret and soothe himself in a hot tub. You saw the taverner take it up. You waited until he had gone and then, carrying an identical cup, of claret, tapped on Sir Stephen’s door. The knight, all in a fluster, admitted you. He was in a state of undress, and when he realised that you had come to talk about nothing of significance, he wanted you to go.’

‘But only after Malachi had exchanged one cup for another,’ Cranston replied.

‘Oh yes,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘The goblet Malachi brought was heavily laced with poison. How many times do we put a cup down and pick up the wrong one? Chandler didn’t even notice. He let Malachi out, placed his boots to be cleaned, locked and barred the door, climbed into that hot bath and swallowed his own death. The rheums in his nose would dull the taste of poison.’

‘And Sir Laurence Broomhill?’ Cranston asked. ‘You lured him into that cellar, lit the candle at the far end and he stumbled into that repulsive mantrap.’

‘God knows,’ Athelstan added, ‘how you did it. A message that Broomhill was to come alone to learn something? You know all about this tavern, the cellar and what it holds.’

‘I now realise,’ Cranston tapped the table, ‘why we were not summoned when Broomhill was first found. You, Sir Maurice, delayed, you didn’t want us to hear the dangerous babbling of a dying man who might ask Athelstan to shrive him.’

‘You are truly evil men,’ Athelstan accused. ‘You didn’t give a fig for Broomhill’s soul or Chandler’s reputation. If matters were pressed, Chandler could be blamed for the deaths in the hay barn, the result of too much wine and hot lust. After all, he’d touched the corpses and bloodied his hands. You claimed Chandler’s crossbow was missing, I doubt very much if he had one. You were more concerned about your chaplain being your nemesis.’

‘And you accuse me of Davenport’s death?’ Malachi asked.

‘I do!’ Sir Maurice seemed to have recovered his wits. He tried to shake Branson from his reverie, but Sir Reginald turned away like a frightened child. ‘I do!’ Clinton repeated, pushing back his long grey hair. ‘Whatever he says.’ He pointed at Athelstan.

‘Are you confessing, Sir Maurice?’ Cranston asked.

‘I’ll confess to nothing until I have a meeting with His Grace.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you will,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Yet no one killed Sir Thomas Davenport. He committed suicide. You, Sir Maurice, lied about him, you tried to depict Davenport as a jovial, merry man, eager for a goblet of wine and the sweet embraces of the fair Rosamund. It was you or Master Rolles who sent for her to divert Sir Thomas. He had lived with his sin for twenty years; every time he came here was a sharp reminder. Indeed, it was the real reason you gathered here every year. Under the pretext of celebrating a past triumph, the conspirators met to reaffirm their loyalty to each other. That’s why Chandler brought his chancery coffer with him. I don’t think any of you feared God or man. Sir Thomas may have been different. He realised that one sin begets another. The murders of Beatrice and Clarice, the Misericord, the Judas Man, and of course when you sent Master Rolles to dispose of Brother Malachi. . Sir Thomas realised that the conspiracy was crumbling away. The Beast of Sin no longer lurked by the door; it was hunting him. Davenport went out in the garden and, like Sir Stephen Chandler, begged God to forgive him. He asked for pardon but, like Judas Iscariot, guilt consumed him. He sat in that garden and thought of the corpses mouldering there, the other victims, their blood shrieking for God’s vengeance. He could take no more. He returned to his chamber, locked himself in and died in the Roman fashion. He took the candle pricket and thrust it up into his own heart.’

‘How did you know that?’ the Benedictine intervened. ‘I thought you’d lay his death at my door.’

‘No, no, Malachi. You knew what had happened. The knights, Master Rolles and Mother Veritable had taken careful counsel over the murders of Chandler and Broomhill. If one of them was not responsible, and the Judas Man was elsewhere hunting the Misericord, it must have been another of their number. The logical conclusion was the pious Brother Malachi, so devoted to the memory of his brother. Rolles tried to kill you in St Erconwald’s. You realised that, so you fled this tavern and sheltered with me. Your departure so frightened Davenport, terrifying him out of his wits, that he took his own life.’

‘I danced when I heard the news,’ Malachi jibed.

‘Undoubtedly,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘But suicide is the only logical solution. Sir Thomas was sealed in that chamber. He ate the sweetmeats, drank some wine, then drove the pricket in whilst seated in the chair, which is why the blood splashed out on to his lap. Rolles and Clinton didn’t want me to discover the truth, so they confused matters to make it look like murder. Why not? We hadn’t resolved the killings of Chandler or Broomhill; Davenport’s supposed murder not only removed the suspicion of suicide but tangled matters further. Naturally they could only go so far, as the chamber had been visited by the fair Rosamund, whom I later questioned. You made one mistake, Sir Maurice. When Davenport drove that pricket into his heart, he must have kept his hands clenched on it. His fingers, sticky from the sweetmeat, would have been drenched in blood. You or Rolles wiped both the blood and the sugar off. Sir Thomas went to God with clean hands but a stained soul.’

‘If it had been suicide,’ Cranston spoke up, ‘if we had established that immediately, we would have wondered what could have frightened Sir Thomas Davenport so much that he took his own life.’

‘How did you,’ Athelstan pointed at Malachi, ‘eventually realise what truly happened twenty years ago?’

‘How did I realise?’ the Benedictine mimicked. ‘How does anyone know? Oh, it was the passing of the years, a crumb here, a crumb there. My brother would never have disappeared, not like that.’ He shook his head. ‘Not like smoke on a spring day, and the same goes for Mortimer. He truly loved his sister. I heard reports about Guinevere being seen here or there, but I dismissed them as lies. Then these,’ he gestured around, ‘these reunions, every year. Why were five knights of Kent, powerful Lords of the Soil, so eager to meet up with the likes of Master Rolles and Mother Veritable? Every year they came together, and I began to wonder. It was like the weather, little signs, but you know there’s a change. I used to wander this tavern, that’s how I discovered the mantrap. Like you, Brother Athelstan, I noticed the high-backed cart, the tavern’s many entrances, then the ring was found.’ He smiled dreamily at Athelstan. ‘I showed it to them and they didn’t even recognise it. The only thing I had from my brother; that’s why I gave it to you, in fulfilment of a vow. I wanted it to be kept in a sacred place.’

He leaned over and pulled the small coffer closer to him, gently caressing the top.

‘On the night of the Great Ratting, when those two whores were killed and the Misericord was being hunted, I made my decision. Oh yes, I had been to see His Grace the Regent. I wanted to clarify something. He knew who I was. Perhaps he suspected what I planned. He didn’t call me by my monkish name, but “Master Culpepper”. What passed between us is a matter for you and Sir John to find out. Yes, I did what I did, because I was compelled to. Innocent blood demands justice.’ He scraped back his chair. ‘No, Sir John, I’m not leaving. I want to view my dead.’

Cranston and Athelstan followed him out of the solar. The coroner ordered the two knights to be guarded and shouted at the throng of servants and maids to stay in the tap room. They all retreated fearfully, stepping around the gruesome remains of their former master wrapped in their blood-stained cloth. Followed by Brother Malachi, Cranston and Athelstan went out into the garden, now ruined by the digging of the bailiffs: mounds of hard clay where the lawn had been ripped apart, flower beds and herb patches roughly dug up. To the left of the arbour stretched a long, deep pit. Flaxwith went over and pointed into it. Athelstan gazed down and closed his eyes at the pitiful scene.

‘The corpses must have been stripped,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Not even a burial shroud.’

The skeletons lay like a collection of bones in a charnel house, one tossed on another, all flesh and hair rotted away. Athelstan could see no trace of clothing belt or boot, nothing to distinguish these five people sent to their deaths in such a hideous fashion.

‘I’ll make a full confession.’ Brother Malachi knelt down beside the pit, hands clasped. ‘I know my brother; whatever they have done, I’ll still know my brother.’

He lifted his head, tears spilling down his cheeks, an old man stricken to the heart by what he had seen and heard, no longer any smiles or taunting, just the heart-stopping pain of loss and grief.

‘In a way I thank you, Brother Athelstan. God’s judgement has been done. Don’t worry about me, I won’t flee. I am a priest. I will demand to be handed over to the church courts. Until then I will mourn for my brother.’

Athelstan quickly blessed the pit and stepped away. Cranston ordered Flaxwith and his bailiffs to remove the skeletons and have them coffined.

‘Take them to St Mary-le-Bow,’ he ordered, and gestured at the Benedictine. ‘He may go with you but under strict guard. Brother Athelstan?’

They returned to the solar. Sir Maurice and Sir Reginald had demanded a jug of wine and now sat cradling their goblets. Branson looked as if he was ill, but Sir Maurice was steely-eyed and determined.

‘You and Rolles,’ Athelstan reflected, studying that grim face. ‘You and Rolles must have been the prime movers. You have no pity, no conscience.’

‘I demand my rights.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ‘Both Sir Reginald and I are knights of the shire. We demand to see His Grace the Regent.’

Athelstan paused as he heard the sound of a horse leaving the stable yard. Going to the door, he asked what had happened, only to discover the head ostler had left on some urgent errand. Athelstan smiled to himself and came back into the room.

‘You have no authority!’ Sir Maurice yelled at Sir John.

‘I have every authority.’ Cranston walked down the room. He gripped Clinton’s shoulder and forced him back in his seat. ‘Sir Maurice Clinton, Sir Reginald Branson, I arrest you for high treason, for foul murder, for robbery, for breaking the King’s peace. You are my prisoners and will await the King’s pleasure.’ He prised the goblets from their hands, throwing each to the floor, allowing the metal cups to spill their contents and roll into a corner, then he walked to the door, gesturing for Athelstan to join him. He ushered the friar out and closed the door behind him, shouting for more guards. He ordered two to go into the room and told the others to allow no one in or out. Then he took Athelstan by the shoulder and led him into the great tap room, now deserted.

‘Well, well, little friar. You had scant proof. Clinton and Branson will not confess. They’ll try to pass the blame on to Rolles and others, whilst Brother Malachi will plead Benefit of Clergy. How did you know?’

Athelstan led him across to a table and sat down. ‘Straws in the wind, Sir John, straws in the wind! As Brother Malachi said, it was like watching the weather changing.’

He paused as one of Sir John’s bailiffs brought in both his writing satchel and the small casket he had left in the solar.

‘Think, Sir John,’ he continued, ‘of all these vile deeds being held in a basket. Time passes, the basket begins to rot, one or two strands break free: the ring, the casket, Brother Malachi. I used to wonder whether it was one or more murderers, and I eventually decided it must have been two.’ He used his hands to emphasise his point. ‘On the one hand we have Chandler and Broomhill, murdered secretly. I deduced there was only one assassin at work behind those deaths. But the others, the Misericord, the Judas Man, Beatrice and Clarice, as well as the attack on Brother Malachi, all pointed to a conspiracy. What we had to decide was who was part of that conspiracy? I concluded that all of them were, except Malachi. Davenport’s death, and the way it was twisted to look like some mysterious murder, convinced me. In the end it was merely a question of breaking the conspirators up and presenting them with the evidence I had gathered. And there’s one left. Oh no, Sir John.’ Athelstan got to his feet and smiled as he recalled the head ostler riding so swiftly out of the stable yard. ‘There are in fact three, with one more guilty than the others.’

‘Athelstan?’

The friar handed Sir John the coffer. ‘Tell your men to keep this safe, place a close guard on those two knights and Brother Malachi and let’s hasten across the bridge. We have business with Mother Veritable. I knew her absence would unsettle Rolles.’

During their swift walk through Southwark and across London Bridge, Athelstan tried to placate Sir John, whilst at the same time keeping his own counsel.

‘One thing I cannot understand, Brother Athelstan, is the treasure! If the knights stole it, then what became of it? According to all the evidence you have collected, it was not the source of their wealth. Indeed, it has never been traced.’

‘Hasn’t it?’

Athelstan paused in front of the House of the Crutched Friars. Both men seemed unaware of the crowd milling around them and the strange glances they received from tradesmen in the stalls either side of the thoroughfare. Only a cart packed with prisoners heading up towards Newgate forced them to step aside.

‘Don’t talk in riddles, friar.’

‘I’m not, Sir John. When did you last lose something precious?’

‘Oh, about three years ago; a medallion.’

‘And did you find it?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘And are you still looking for it?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Precisely.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘But come, Mother Veritable awaits.’

They were hardly through the gate of the Minoresses when they became aware that something was wrong. A cluster of brown-robed nuns greeted them excitedly; led by Sister Catherine, they gathered round Sir John.

‘Oh, my Lord Coroner, an accident! A terrible accident!’

Athelstan’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Oh no, not Edith?’ he whispered.

‘Oh no,’ Sister Catherine answered, ‘her visitor, Mother Veritable.’

She pointed across the courtyard towards the very steep steps running up one side of the convent building.

‘A strange one her, Brother.’

Athelstan gazed across the courtyard and felt a chill of fear. A dark stain blotched the bottom step and the cobbled yard beneath. Cranston was trying to placate the rest of the nuns.

‘She fell, didn’t she? Edith agreed to meet her there, in her chamber, on the top floor.’

‘What was that?’ Cranston turned.

‘Young Edith,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘she agreed to meet Mother Veritable in her chamber at the top of the stairs, and when they’d finished talking they came out, didn’t they?’

Sister Catherine nodded.

‘And something happened, didn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes,’ the nun gabbled. ‘Mother Veritable must have missed her footing. We were in the refectory at the time and heard the scream. Her body bounced down the steps, that’s how Edith described it, her head sliced open. Our infirmarian said she had broken her neck. Edith is now in the guest house, with the two visitors you sent.’

She led Cranston and Athelstan across the yard. The friar glanced quickly at the pool of blood, the dark red stain, slowly drying, which marked the end of that wicked woman. Inside the guest house they found pale-faced Edith cradling a posset of wine, Benedicta and Cecily sitting either side of her.

‘I wish to speak to Brother Athelstan alone,’ Edith called out. The friar nodded at Cranston.

‘I’ll stay outside with these two beauties.’ The coroner coughed abruptly as he remembered Sister Catherine. ‘I mean three. Sister, you wouldn’t have some bread and a jug of Bordeaux for a hungry, thirsty coroner?’

‘Of course, Sir John.’

Grabbing the coroner by the arm as if they were long-time friends, Sister Catherine led him out, Cecily, grasping his other arm, tripped cheekily alongside. At the doorway, Benedicta came back. She gripped Athelstan by the shoulder and gave him the kiss of peace on each cheek.

‘They say it was an accident, but. .’

Then she was gone. Athelstan sat next to Edith on the bench.

‘I came to thank you for what you did. You intimated to Mother Veritable that you wished to join her house.’

‘I promised her the world and everything in it,’ Edith replied quietly, ‘and the old bitch preened herself as if she was Queen of the Night. I kept her for as long as I could, Brother. I tolerated her smell, her presence. This woman who, I knew, had a hand in my brother’s death, who certainly was responsible for hunting him like a dog the length and breadth of this City. She assured me of a fine time, of beautiful clothing, jewellery, the favour of the great and good.’ She leaned her head back against the wall. ‘I could tolerate her no more and said she should rejoin her companions. We left my chamber and reached the top of the stairs. Then she tripped.’ Edith turned her head, her sea-grey eyes all innocent. ‘The Lord works in wondrous ways, Brother, his wonders to behold! That’s my confession and all I will ever say. Eye for eye, Brother, tooth for tooth, life for life.’

Edith sat for a while, eyes half closed as if praying.

‘Whatever you think, Brother,’ she whispered, ‘whatever you say, I truly believe that God had decided to call that wicked woman to Him.’

Athelstan patted her on the shoulder.

‘What will be, shall be,’ he murmured, ‘so come, let’s join the rest.’

They found Sir John in fine fettle, seated at the high table in the refectory, a goblet of claret in one hand, a small manchet loaf in the other. He was busy regaling Benedicta, Cecily and what appeared to be the entire convent with his exploits at Najera in northern Spain. He hardly broke off to greet Athelstan and Edith, but ceremoniously waved them to a seat further down the table. Cranston knew what had truly happened to Mother Veritable but he decided to leave that with Athelstan. As he refilled his goblet, he wryly reflected, before continuing his description of the battle, that the deaths of Rolles and Mother Veritable had saved the City the expense of a hanging. He winked at the friar and continued his graphic description of how the English archers had deployed in a series of wedges to defend themselves. The nuns hung on his every word. Cranston grew suspicious. Athelstan, too, listened attentively, as if he had decided to stay the entire day in the convent. The coroner was about to bring his story to a close when the sound of horses and the jingle of harness echoed through the cavernous, low-beamed refectory, followed shortly by an old porter hobbling in, cane rapping on the paving stones. He breathlessly announced that His Grace, John of Gaunt had arrived!

Athelstan rose swiftly to his feet and Cranston quietly cursed. Now he realised why Athelstan had been waiting, even as he recalled the head ostler riding so swiftly from the tavern in Southwark. He and the friar courteously excused themselves and walked out of the refectory. Cranston stopped on the top step. The convent yard milled with armed men, all wearing gorgeous livery displaying the arms of England, France and Castile. Banners and pennants fluttered in the breeze. Knights of the royal household gathered round Mother Superior and other officials of the convent, placating them and offering the Regent’s excuses for this sudden visit.

‘Satan’s buttocks!’ Cranston whispered. ‘I wonder what the royal serpent wants.’

Athelstan felt a chill as he noticed that each gateway and entrance was guarded by archers, bows unslung, quivers hanging by their sides. A knight banneret, in half armour, his ruddy face gleaming with sweat under a mop of close-cropped blond hair, broke away from the group around Mother Superior and came striding across.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, His Grace waits for you.’

He led them across to the guest house, opened the door and ushered them in. John of Gaunt, dressed in a simple leather jerkin, open at the neck to reveal the golden double S collar of Lancaster, had already made himself comfortable, war belt slung on the floor, his long legs and booted feet up on the table, gauntlets stripped off. He was enjoying a small jug of beer at the far end of the table. Signor Tonnelli and Matthias of Evesham did not look so relaxed as their master.

‘My Lord Coroner, Brother Athelstan, come here!’

The Regent gestured at the stools on the other side of the table. Cranston and Athelstan went over, bowed and took their seats. The coroner stared pointedly at the Regent’s boots. Gaunt smiled apologetically, swung his feet off the table, and leaned across, hand extended so that Cranston and Athelstan could kiss the ring on his middle finger.

‘Now we have dispensed with ceremony, let us get to the heart of the matter.’

‘The heart of the matter?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You mean the truth, your Grace. Well, I shall tell you the truth. No Lombard treasure was ever put on that barge. Oh, it may have arrived in the Tower, but it was never sent downriver.’

Cranston gasped and put his hands to his face, peering through his fingers. Gaunt seemed unperturbed, playing with the ring, watching Athelstan as he would a fellow gambler reach for the next throw. Tonnelli and Matthias of Evesham went to protest, but Gaunt waved his hand.

‘An interesting theory, Brother.’

‘The truth usually is, your Grace. You took the treasure, and concocted that farrago of nonsense about outlaws and river pirates. Oh, it was true enough, but it only served as the spice for the meal you cooked. Edward Mortimer was your man, body and soul, a knight who would have gone down to hell for you. He brought Richard Culpepper into your plot. You took the treasure, opened the chest, removed the precious hoard and filled it with bricks and stones, or whatever came to hand. It was then locked and resealed, the keys sent to the Admiral of the Fleet. Mortimer and Culpepper were to take possession of it and, in midstream, would tip it overboard, where it would sink to the bottom of the river. They would then tear their clothes, inflict minor wounds and bruises on themselves, and arrive at the Admiral’s ship with a story about how they were attacked by a group of river pirates. Mortimer prepared for that by giving his sister a cross he did not wish to lose in the darkness on the river. They would be believed. After all, where was the treasure? And they bore wounds to prove their resolute defence. The Fleet would sail. Later on, Mortimer and Culpepper would receive their reward. Nobody was to be really hurt. The Lombard treasure was only a part of the Crusaders’ war chest; they would claim that they could not pay back what they didn’t receive. The Lombard bankers might cry piteously in public, but in private, Signor Tonnelli was part of the plot, as were you.’

Gaunt clapped his hands together quietly.

‘Very good, Brother,’ he murmured.

‘But then something went wrong,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You and Mortimer made one mistake, as did Richard Culpepper. He had fallen in love with Guinevere, a courtesan who sold her favours to the highest bidder. She betrayed him to what I call the company at the Night in Jerusalem. You never knew that. In the end, as in a game of chequers, everyone’s move was blocked. The Crusaders had lost their treasure, but there was more to be had from the Lombards, not to mention the profits of the war. The bankers hadn’t really lost their money and stood to gain more. The Keeper of the Tower was the secret recipient of fresh wealth, whilst the true thieves were the proud owners of a mere midden heap. The real victims were Mortimer, Culpepper and those two innocent boatmen. You knew Mortimer and Culpepper must be dead, but, of course, you couldn’t reveal that without telling the truth, for why should two knights abscond with a chest full of rocks and bricks? Oh, you would make a careful search, but the game was played, there was nothing to be done. All you could do was sit, wait and watch. Only one person warranted sympathy, poor Helena Mortimer, still hoping, still trusting that her brother would return. You took pity on her. You made sure that every quarter your comrade here, Signor Tonnelli, handed a pension to a London goldsmith for her. This kept Helena’s dreams alive and made sure she didn’t fall into poverty; it was the least you could do to honour Edward’s memory.’

Athelstan’s gaze never left the Regent’s face. Handsome as an angel, he reflected, his light skin burned dark by the Castilian sun. The silver-blond hair, beard and moustache so neatly trimmed, those beautiful blue eyes so frank and direct, except for the glint of mischief; only this time Gaunt looked genuinely sad. For a moment Athelstan caught this powerful man’s deep regret and sorrow at what had happened.

‘Do you believe this, my Lord Coroner?’ Gaunt glanced at Cranston.

‘I have always admired both your courage and your cunning, your Grace. A source of wonderment for me, as it was for your blessed father and elder brother.’

Gaunt laughed quietly to himself.

‘You may have suspected the other knights,’ Athelstan declared, ‘but you could never prove the truth, which hangs in a delicate balance and, as I have said, like a two-edged sword, cuts both ways. You kept the treasure, the years passed, Signor Tonnelli would arrange for it to be broken up and sold elsewhere in the cities along the Rhine or even in the lands of the Great Turk. One person remained keen in the hunt for the truth: Brother Malachi, a Benedictine monk, Sir Richard Culpepper’s brother. He approached you, didn’t he? Asking questions, some of which you could answer, others you had to ignore. Malachi was dangerous, an intelligent man, a scholar and, above all, a Benedictine monk. I do wonder,’ Athelstan deliberately picked up the Regent’s goblet and sipped from it; Gaunt did not object, ‘I do wonder what he said to you.’

Gaunt leaned his elbows on the table and cupped his face in his hands, tapping his boot against the floor as he scrutinised this friar.

‘You’re a very dangerous man, Athelstan.’

‘Is that why you have spies in my parish?’

Gaunt smiled.

‘You do have spies in the Night in Jerusalem. The head groom, for one.’

‘True, true,’ Gaunt quipped. ‘I have a legion of spies in Southwark. I watched the Night in Jerusalem like a hawk surveys a field.’

‘You know what happened there today?’

‘Of course, but I would like to hear it from you, Brother.’

Athelstan quickly described the events of the last few days and the violent, bloody confrontation in the tavern solar. Gaunt listened, eyes closed, now and again interrupting with a short sharp question. At the end he turned to Matthias of Evesham.

‘Tell the good sisters to bring some wine, nothing too heavy, the juice of the Rhineland, so we can all slake our thirsts.’

Matthias hurried off. He brought back a tray of mugs and cups and Gaunt insisted on serving everyone. He then retook his seat, lifted his goblet and toasted both Athelstan and Cranston.

‘Tu dixisti, you have said it, Brother. Twenty years ago I was Keeper of the Tower. I had barely reached my twenty-first year. As Jack Cranston knows, I’d campaigned in France, but not long enough to harvest any wealth. In the May of that year the Treaty of Bretigny was signed. There would be,’ Gaunt sighed, ‘for the foreseeable future, no more armies in France, no more ransoms or plunder. My father and elder brother kept me on a tight rein. To put it bluntly, I hadn’t two sous to rub together. Then the crusading fleet arrived and Signor Tonnelli collected the Lombard treasure; the rest you know. I would take the treasure and return it to Signor Tonnelli for a secret loan, the bankers would take the treasure elsewhere, and nobody was to be really hurt. Signor Tonnelli considered it was a good business agreement. We advanced monies to Mortimer and Culpepper. They were sworn to silence and promised, in time, a lavish reward. My friends the Lombards would not lose their treasure, the crusading fleet wouldn’t have to repay a loan they had never received, but they would still give their bankers a percentage of their profits, whilst I, and Culpepper and Mortimer, became richer men. On the morning of the twenty-first of September 1360, the Feast of St Matthew, I accepted that something dreadful had happened. As God is my witness, Brother, I didn’t care about the treasure, but I scoured the City and the kingdom for Mortimer and Culpepper, even though I was forced to accept both were dead. I kept my vow and looked after Helena. The years passed, times changed and the Lombard treasure was forgotten.’

‘Until Brother Malachi appeared.’

‘Yes, he came to my palace at Sheen, and later to the Tower. He never dressed as a Benedictine but in the robes of a clerk; he always insisted that I call him by his family name, Master Thomas Culpepper. He told me about the ring, and questioned me most closely. He pricked my suspicions and, I think, suspected the truth. I told him to do what he had to and let me know the outcome.’

‘But you must have been concerned?’

‘Of course I was. If Culpepper’s comrades were guilty, they might, in court, describe what they found when they opened that chest.’

Gaunt laughed abruptly.

‘That must have been a soul-chilling shock for them. Oh, I knew about the knights gathering every year. I decided I would watch the events in the Night in Jerusalem very carefully. I heard about the murders.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, you know how it is, Brother? The names Cranston and Athelstan appeared. There, I thought, now the hawk will fly.’

‘And so it did,’ Cranston remarked. ‘What will you do, your Grace? You have two knights of the shire guilty of the most heinous crimes. If you bring them to trial before the King’s Bench at Westminster, they will hang, but they will also confess to what they found in that treasure chest.’

Gaunt stared up at the black rafters. ‘Do you know, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, we live in very strange times. They say great armies are moving in the east. Some people claim the Church has lost its mission; there are even people,’ his eyes rounded in mock innocence, ‘who claim that all men are equal, that Watkin the dung collector and Moleskin the boatman should enjoy the same rights as John of Gaunt.’

‘Jesus said the same, your Grace, and was crucified for it.’

‘True, but as you know, my relationship with the Spanish kingdoms is very close. They dream a great dream, of becoming united, of driving the Moors out of Spain, and in their conversations, the princes of Aragon, Castille and Portugal talk of sending ships into the great unknown seas down the west coast of Africa. Some people claim there are lost kingdoms, full of gold and silver. Anyway,’ Gaunt drained his cup, ‘I shall have Sir Maurice and Sir Reginald brought to the Office of the Night in the Tower, where we shall reach an agreement. I am going to send them as envoys to the Court of Lisbon. They are to join an expedition, a seaborne expedition, to charter unknown lands. They will, in fact, be given a choice: to go to Portugal under strict guard, or wait for trial at Westminster.’ Gaunt steepled his fingers. ‘I shall remind them about how many people die of prison fever, or even eating poisoned pies.’

‘And Brother Malachi?’

‘He doesn’t know the full truth about the treasure. I understand that the Order of St Benedict have a monastery, a small community, outside St Ives in Cornwall. I will personally ensure that he spends the rest of his days there. Holy Mother Church owes me a favour or two.’

He got to his feet, scraping back his chair, gesturing at Tonnelli and Matthias of Evesham to follow.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, a good day’s work. The Night in Jerusalem will be sold by the Crown; after all, Master Rolles was a traitor and a thief, so all his property is forfeit. I think I will give it to the chief ostler on a lease. I will ensure that some of the profits go to the chantry chapel at St Erconwald’s.’

He bowed to both of them and swept through the door. Matthias of Evesham patted Athelstan’s and Cranston’s shoulders as he passed.

For a while, the friar just sat staring at the wall.

‘Do you know, Sir John, one of the great differences between good and evil is that good is so necessary and evil isn’t. Look at those assassins. When did they make the decision to rob and kill their friends? An afternoon? An evening over their cups? And when they did, they planted an evil, a malevolent shrub which took root and spread out to blight so many lives. Yet it was so unnecessary. They never got the treasure, and within a few years they were all rich, powerful knights of the shire.’ He crossed himself quickly. ‘All those hideous deaths for nothing.’

‘Come on, Brother.’ Cranston rose to his feet. ‘I’ll treat you to a pie and a blackjack of London ale in the Lamb of God, and we’ll take those two beautiful women for company.’

‘Why, Sir John, are you leading me into temptation?’

‘No, Brother, just delivering you from evil.’