The House of Shadows

Chapter 1

The hideous murders began on the Night of the Great Ratting, the eve of the Feast of the holy martyr St Wulfnoth, who had been boiled alive by the heathen Frisians. The inhabitants of Southwark, their tattered purses full of crocards and pollards, those battered and clipped coins rejected by worthy tradesmen, these denizens of the slums, hoods pulled up against the freezing cold, made their way to the spacious tavern, the Night in Jerusalem, which stood on the broad thoroughfare which swept down to London Bridge. The night was bitterly cold; the season of Advent was only a month away. The seers had prophesied snow, but the night sky was cloud-free and the stars brilliant. A full moon bathed the reeking alleyways and lanes in its ghostly light. The day’s business was done, windows were shuttered, doors locked and barred. The cats slunk away whilst the rats, as if they sensed what was going to happen, kept well clear of the frozen rubbish heaps.

Everyone knew about the Great Ratting. Those who liked to gamble or play hazard had already laid their wagers. Others were just curious as to see what would happen. Of course, every thief could smell a profit. There’d be purses to be cut and pockets to be picked whilst enjoying a good night’s entertainment. The news had spread across the swollen black Thames, attracting the more well-to-do and genteel from Cheapside, Farringdon Ward, and even as far north as Clerkenwell. Moleskin, the boatman who sailed out of Southwark Steps, was promised a roaring trade. The Thames, however, was choppy, the river breeze sharp as a dagger, so many just slipped under the chains at London Bridge, scampering along the narrow lane between the houses and the great selds, or warehouses, built either side of the bridge. All excited, they ignored the frozen midden piles containing every type of waste heaped high along the middle, nor did they pause to stare at the severed, mouldering heads of traitors placed high on spikes on either side of the bridge. They showed a similar lack of pity for those caught stealing from stalls during the previous day’s trading; these malefactors were now fastened in the stocks by hand, head or leg, or shut up in the cages at each end of the bridge, where they would stand all night and suffer the freezing cold.

The petty traders and chapmen, the sellers of figs and apples, the tallow chandlers, the wax chandlers, the fleshers and the tanners all forgot their trade rivalry, flocking to the Great Ratting. They were joined by doxies and the whores in their gaudy rags from Walbrook and Hounsditch. These ladies of the night hid their charms behind cowls, hoods, shabby cloaks, and masks with gaps for their eyes and mouths. Once they reached the spacious tap room of the Night in Jerusalem they removed such disguises.

The tap room’s tables and chairs were ringed by row after row of barrels, each table being lit by a yellow tallow candle or a bowl of oil with a burning wick floating in the centre. Even though the champions hadn’t arrived, the wagering had begun, encouraged by the good silver and gold brought by the young men of the court, garbed in their tight hose, puffed jackets, protuberant codpieces and high-heeled boots. In the view of many of those who flocked to the tavern, these popinjays with their high-pitched voices, soft hands and faces, and curled, crimped hair were the real reason for the evening. They carried purses and wallets openly for all to see, and the fingers of many itched to be so close to such wealth. A few arrivals brought their own dogs, bull mastiffs, terriers, and even the occasional greyhound or whippet so as to measure up the opposition.

They all crowded in, gathering around the grease-covered tables or going to stare at the stuffed corpses of other prized dogs who had won the title of ‘Champion Rat Killer’. Pride of place was given to the embalmed corpse of a white bull mastiff with black patches around its protuberant glass eyes. A collar about its neck proclaimed the dog as ‘The Greatest Champion of all times’. In the centre of the tap room stretched the great pit, still covered over, a broad and very deep whitewashed hole ringed with lanterns and hour candles, the flames of which were already approaching the eleventh ring. Soon the games would begin. Mine host, a great tub of a man who rejoiced in the name of Master Rolles, was already enthroned in his chair of state on a velvet-covered dais overlooking the pit. He sat there like a king, bawling for more lights to be brought. Link boys hurried up with lantern horns they’d filched from the doorsteps of houses in the wealthier parts of the City. Once these were in place, Master Rolles, his fat, greasy face shimmering in the light, stared petulantly round, small lips pursed, greedy black eyes gleaming, ready to make his power felt. The tavern was filling up. Master Rolles quietly congratulated himself on making a handsome profit. Once the game was over, he’d visit Mother Veritable’s House of Delights and, in the morning, light more candles before the Virgin’s altar in the Priory Church of St Mary Overy.

Dishes of burning charcoal were also brought up with incense strewn on top. The taverner liked this touch — the incense gave the tap room a holy smell and helped to hide the reeking odours of the slops-strewn floor. Master Rolles felt a little guilty. One of his maids had stolen the incense from the Priory Church but Rolles quietly promised himself that, in time, he would make compensation. Glowing braziers, their tops capped, were wheeled in from the scullery and placed around the room. More logs were thrown on to the roaring fire, building up the flames under the mantled hearth. Master Rolles bellowed an order and the carcass of an entire pig, only its head and trotters removed, was spiked on a spit and placed on the wheels on either side of the hearth to be turned and basted with spices. The pig had been killed because it had trespassed into Master Rolles’ yard. In truth, two of his stable boys had enticed it there, and Master Rolles, knowing the law of the City, had been only too happy to slit its throat. The taverner watched his cooks place the spit carefully, ladling over the spiced oil whilst giving careful instruction to the dwarf who had been paid a penny, told to ignore the heat, and to turn the spit until the pig was cooked.

‘Don’t go to sleep!’ the taverner roared.

The dwarf, who had once been a jester until he had been mauled by a bear, nodded and sat down, turning his face against the blast of the fire. The air turned sweet with the smell of spiced, roasted pork. Customers were now shouting for ale and beer. Scullions and slatterns hurried across with brimming tankards, stoups and blackjacks filled by tap boys from the great barrels. The taverner rubbed his stomach. In an hour, most of his customers would be too drunk to tell how much water he had added to the beer and wine.

The Night in Jerusalem was now almost full. In the garish light it looked like some antechamber of hell. The underworld was there; the taverner knew each and every one of them: the pimps and the pickpockets, the quacks, the dice-codgers, house-breakers, bully boys and roaring lads. Where they went, prostitutes of every age and description followed, their hair dyed, faces painted, garbed in cheap finery and smelling richly of the perfumes they used to cover their illwashed bodies. The taverner promised himself to keep a sharp eye on these, as he would the tinkers and petty traders, those who dared to make a profit in his tavern: the sellers of bird eggs, horse bread, old fish, or whatever else they had filched from the stalls in the market across the City. The cranks and the counterfeit men had also arrived. The professional beggars, all surprisingly nimble as they washed off their scars; the leg they had claimed to have lost now miraculously appeared as they undid the straps and heaped their crutches in a corner.

The taverner’s own keepers, ruffians from the alleyways armed with cudgels and knives, moved amongst what Master Rolles called his ‘congregation’ to ensure the peace was kept; ankles were kicked, fingers rapped, and shoulders punched as a warning to observe the proprieties. A relic-seller, who had become drunk and attempted to urinate in the middle of the tap room, was given a beating and thrust into what the taverner termed ‘outer darkness’. Customers lined up for a strip of pork, served on a piece of wood and garnished with stewed leeks and a piece of hard rye bread, liberally covered in a cheap hot pepper which Master Rolles hoped would inspire their thirst.

The ‘congregation’ clustered around the pit. A roar went up as Ranulf the rat-catcher from the parish of St Erconwald, where Brother Athelstan the Dominican was parish priest, appeared in the doorway, carrying his two favourite ferrets, Precious and Pretty, in a reed basket. Ranulf was accompanied by fellow parishioners: Pike the ditcher, Basil the blacksmith, Crispin the carpenter, Mugwort the bell clerk, Mauger the hangman, Moleskin the boatman, Bladdersniff the bailiff and finally, in all her glory, her blonde hair falling around her face like a halo, Cecily the courtesan, one hand resting on Huddle the painter, the other on Crim the altar boy, who was Pike the ditcher’s son. The rear was brought up by Pernel the Flemish woman, her hair dyed a garish black and red. Cecily was greeted with catcalls, whistles and lecherous offers; she just curtsied prettily and made an obscene gesture in the direction of her tormentors.

Ranulf walked to the edge of the pit and sat on a stool whilst the rest of the tavern gathered about. Ranulf the rat-catcher had a pinched, narrow face with bright button eyes, a sharp nose and bloodless lips. Some whispered there was more than a passing likeness between him and the rodents he hunted. Now he sat like a prince, black-tarred hood pulled close to his head, under which his oiled black hair was neatly combed back and tied in a queue. This self-proclaimed scourge of London’s rats cradled the basket in his lap, whispering to the two ferrets inside. Another roar echoed as Master Flaxwith, with his two mastiffs, Samson and Satan, entered the tap room. He too was greeted like a conquering hero, those who had wagered on his dogs crowding round to offer encouragement and advice. Mine host watched the proceedings. He had to be careful with Flaxwith, who was chief bailiff of Sir John Cranston, Lord Coroner of the City, a man with a fearsome reputation for fingering the collars of those who broke both the King’s law and the City ordinances.

‘That’s certainly happening tonight,’ the taverner whispered to himself.

Master Rolles had crossed swords on many occasions with Sir John, an old soldier but a fierce one, with his red face, piercing blue eyes and luxuriant beard and moustache which he would comb with his fingers whenever he questioned the likes of Master Rolles. Cranston acted the bluff, hearty old soldier, the pompous City official, but he had nimble wits and a sharp brain. He was just as quick with sword and dagger, even though he seemed to spend most of his life drinking the best claret from his miraculous wineskin. Even more dangerous was the small, dark-faced Dominican Friar Athelstan, with his soulful eyes and searching looks. Athelstan was Cranston’s secretarius, or clerk, and often accompanied the coroner to his investigations of hideous murders, subtle thefts or, indeed, any infringement of the King’s Peace along the dark lanes and alleyways of Southwark. Master Rolles glanced quickly around the tap room; he just hoped and prayed nothing would go wrong tonight, no mistake occur which might provoke the curiosity of those two sharp-eyed hawks of the law.

‘Let the festivities begin,’ Rolles roared.

The pit was uncovered. First there were the usual diversions. A juggler attempted to spin five cups in the air, but when he dropped one, he was pelted with scraps of food and soiled rushes from the floor. He was followed by the farmyard player, a man who could imitate the quack of a duck or the bray of a horse. He only lasted a few minutes, and was followed by a French dancing master, an old man with straggling grey hair and a nasty cough. His dogs were frightened and refused to dance, so he too was driven from the pit. Crim the altar boy, who had been given a blackjack of ale, silenced the clamour with a beautiful song in his vibrant carrying voice.

Behold Mistress Sweet,

Now you may see that I have lost my soul to thee.

The words were haunting, and the French dancing master, who had agreed to accompany the boy on a flute, created a heart-wrenching sound. For a moment, just for a measure, a few heartbeats, the customers forgot their own ugliness and the hideous circumstances of their lives.

Crim was followed by Pike the ditcher, and Master Rolles was not pleased. Pike was suspected of being a secret member of the Great Community of the Realm, a mysterious society flourishing across London and the surrounding shires. The Great Community was said to be plotting rebellion, to bring about sweeping changes where the noble lords would be pulled down and the Poor Worms of the Earth, as the Community called the peasants, allowed some respite from the incessant demands of both the King’s tax collectors and the Great Lords of the Soil. Pike, his narrow, sallow face flushed with ale, immediately launched into the rousing verses,

When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?

When Adam delved and Eve span, where was then the pride of man?

Such words provoked roars of approval, until the taverner’s bully boys hustled Pike from the pit.

Master Rolles had had enough. He snapped his fingers at the ostler standing next to him, and the fellow lifted a horn to his lips and blew three long, carrying blasts, which stilled all the clamour and noise.

‘Why can’t we have more singing?’ someone bawled.

Master Rolles glowered at his congregation.

‘We are not here,’ he shouted back, ‘to plot rebellion! Who here wants to dance in the air at Smithfleld, a rope round his neck, the other end fastened securely around the branch of an elm?’

His words chilled the fevered crowd. They all knew what he was hinting at. The young King, Richard II, son of the famous Black Prince, grandson of the war-like Edward III, was under the protection of his uncle, the Regent John of Gaunt. A sinister man, Gaunt, with a finger in every pie and a host of spies swarming all over London; even here in this tap room there might be men and women prepared to sell a name or a man’s life for a piece of silver or a paltry groat.

‘Let the rats be brought,’ Rolles shouted.

The crowds stood hushed as the door leading to the stable yard was flung open and the great boxes were brought in. They were taken to the edge of the pit and the lids lifted, and the whitewashed hole came to life with swarming rats, black, grey and brown, some scarred and lean, others young and plump. Many tried to escape, scampering round, desperate to hide from the light and noise. A few of the bolder ones stood up on their hind legs and began to wash themselves, oblivious to their gruesome future. Everyone crowded around the pit, people climbing on tables or up the great wooden pillars supporting the ceiling, eager to catch a glimpse of what would happen next.

Flaxwith went first; he unmuzzled the mastiff Satan and released the dog into the pit. Satan, hungry and ferocious, began a hideous slaughter amongst the rats even as Master Rolles turned the hourglass over whilst his assistant, the horn man, counted slowly under his breath. It took ninety seconds for Satan to reduce the swarm of rats to a mess of bloody corpses. Samson followed. Fresh rats were brought, and the air quickly turned foul with the smell of their corpses and the gruesome tang of blood. Samson was more swift and deadly, accomplishing his task by the time the horn man had reached eighty-five. The tavern crowd watched with bated breath; now it was the rat-catcher’s turn.

The ferret, Pretty, was released into the pit to meet a fresh horde of rats, and Ranulf’s disappointment was obvious when the horn man counted ninety-five before Pretty had finished his bloody work. Those who had wagered on the rat-catcher growled and mumbled under their breath. Everything rested on Precious. More rats were brought. Precious was released and the air was riven with the squeal of the vermin and the scampering of their paws. Precious was a master killer, a true slaughterer, one of the litters of the great Ferox, Ranulf’s prize ferret. He completed his massacre before the horn man had even reached eighty. For a moment there was silence, then Master Rolles rose to his feet as if he were a Speaker in the Commons in St Stephen’s Chapel.

‘Master Ranulf has won!’

His proclamation was greeted with shouts of joy and distress. Some who had wagered on the mastiffs tried to leave furtively, but the windows were all sealed whilst the taverner’s bully boys guarded the doors. No one was allowed out into the yard until all debts were settled.

Master Rolles turned in his great chair and stared around the tap room. The contest over, the customers were drifting back to the tables, shouting for drink and food. A pet monkey had broken loose; it had been chased by a greyhound and now sheltered in the rafters, chattering noisily down at its tormentor. The taverner didn’t fear a raid by the constables; in fact, Master Rolles had paid them well to look the other way. He just wanted to make sure that everything was as it should be. Ranulf the rat-catcher was now being brought tankard after tankard by his numerous supporters, and the taverner drew comfort from this. The rest of the night must pass smoothly. He glimpsed Beatrice and Clarice; the two sister whores looked happy enough. Rolles only hoped their friend the Misericord did not become involved in any mischief and have to flee. Absent-mindedly he took the goblet of wine a pot boy brought and sipped at it. The Knights were there, and the Judas Man? Rolles slouched in his chair. Ah yes, he thought, the Judas Man!

In a small chamber two floors above the tap room, the Judas Man sat waiting for his orders. He was of middling height, with a beetling brow, close-cropped hair and wary, shifting eyes in a lean pockmarked face. Many would describe him as pitiless, a man of little mercy, but the Judas Man didn’t care. It was many years since he had darkened the church and mumbled his sins whilst crouched in the shriving pew. Some whispered that he came from Dorset, a farmer whose family had been massacred by the French when they had raided the villages along the south coast. How such bloody deeds had turned his mind, killed his soul, and so he had become a hunter of men.

The Judas Man sat, his Lincoln-green hose pushed into black boots to which the spurs were still attached, his brown leather jerkin unbuttoned to reveal a clean white shirt and round his neck a silver chain bearing a golden ring, allegedly belonging to his dead wife. His cloak, war belt, and small crossbow lay on the truckle bed. They were within easy reach as the Judas Man contented himself, squatting on a three-legged stool playing softly on a penny whistle, a jigging tune, more suitable to a May Day dance than this sombre chamber rented for him. He lowered the whistle; he did not know the name or identity of his hirer. He had simply followed instructions — now he had to wait. He had gathered, from the roars below, how the ratting had ended. Now the raucous sound of a bagpipe echoed through the ceiling.

The Judas Man picked up his wine goblet and sipped carefully. He wanted to remain calm but wished the stranger would come. He felt trapped in London. He did not like its narrow, winding, reeking streets. He preferred to work out in the shires, bringing in the outlaws and wolf heads — those who had been proclaimed ‘utlegatum’ — beyond the law. He would hunt them down and drag them, at the tail of his horse, into some market square before the Guildhall. He would hand the prisoners over to the sheriff’s men and claim the reward. What happened to his captives afterwards was not his concern. Now he had been hired by some mysterious stranger, a generous advance in good coin, with a promise of more to come, once he had captured the Misericord. The Judas Man knew all about the Misericord, a clever thief — the most cunning of men. Rumour had it he was a former priest; they had forgotten his real name. He was called the Misericord because of the small dagger, clasped in a velvet sheath, worn round his neck. The misericord was the dagger used by archers to dispatch a wounded enemy. The Misericord used it to cut purses and prise open locks. He was also an infamous trickster, a man who could sell soil and claim it was gold. No wonder he was wanted dead or alive in numerous towns and shires around London.

The Judas Man had been at Coggeshall in Essex when he had received the letter, written in a clerkly hand, with a generous purse of silver coins. The instructions were quite simple. He was to be in London by the eve of St Wulfnoth and take lodgings at the Night in Jerusalem in Southwark. Once he had arrived, the Judas Man realised that a trickster like the Misericord would try his luck on the night of the Great Ratting. Nevertheless, he had to wait for the signal. He rose to his feet and walked across the room, staring out of the needle-thin window. He gazed down into the stable yard of the inn; here and there a pitch torch, lashed to a pole, gave off a pool of light, shadows flitted across. The Judas Man didn’t like his chamber. When he had climbed the stairs he had seen how luxurious the rest of the tavern was, but Master Rolles had been very particular. This was the chamber which had been hired so this was the chamber he had been given. Suddenly the door behind him rattled. The Judas Man hastened to pick up his war belt; he strapped this about him and walked carefully across as the door rattled again.

‘Who is it?’ he called.

Again the door rattled. The Judas Man pressed his ear against the wood but he could hear no sound. He loosened the bolts at the top and bottom, lifted the latch and looked out. Nothing, except a lantern horn glowing on the high windowsill at the top of the stairs. The wind rattled a shutter, the floorboards creaked; the Judas Man glanced down and saw the leather pouch lying there. He picked it up and stepped back into the chamber. The pouch contained a scrap of parchment with the scrawl ‘The Misericord is below’ and a small purse of silver coins. The Judas Man counted these out carefully. They were good — freshly minted, ten pounds sterling. He put the pouch carefully inside his jerkin and finished his preparations.

He had left his chamber and was halfway down the stairs when the group at the bottom made him pause. Four knights in all, dressed like Hospitallers in their black and white cloaks, the golden falcon emblem sewn on the left shoulder; next to them a fifth man in the garb of a Benedictine monk. They were preparing to climb the stairs to the palatial chambers on the Oaken Gallery, which ran along the front, back and one side of the tavern. Luxurious rooms with feather-down beds, turkey carpets on the floor and exquisite draperies and tapestries adorning the walls. One of the knights looked up the stairs, staring full at the Judas Man.

‘By the Cross,’ he breathed, ‘and St Veronica’s veil!’

The Judas Man came down the rest of the stairs to be greeted by the knights, who clasped his hands. He knew them all: Sir Maurice Clinton, Sir Thomas Davenport, Sir Reginald Branson and Sir Laurence Broomhill. They asked the same question he asked them.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘It’s our anniversary.’ The smooth-faced Benedictine pushed his way through, pulling back the cowl of his robe. ‘I’m Brother Malachi,’ he smiled. ‘Their chaplain.’

The Judas Man grasped his hand, even as he remembered how these important knights, all great landowners in the shire of Kent, were accustomed to come up to London every year to celebrate how they had once sailed from London to fight under Lord Peter of Cyprus, the Great Crusader who had captured Alexandria in Egypt almost twenty years ago.

‘Of course!’ the Judas Man exclaimed. ‘You are the Falconers.’

‘That is the standard we fought under,’ Sir Maurice, the leader of the group, replied. He was harsh-faced, tall, and thin as a beanpole, iron-grey hair parted down the middle. ‘And we lodged at this tavern before we sailed. But what are you doing here?’

‘Business,’ the Judas Man murmured, staring hungrily past the knights at the shaft of light pouring through the doorway leading into the tap room. He stepped aside. The knights had apparently been enjoying the ratting and drunk much. Brother Malachi supported Sir Thomas Davenport, who was rocking backwards and forwards on his feet. The Judas Man made his farewell to the knights. He heard their laughter behind him and tried to recall what he knew of them. Ah yes! The five noble Falconers, all Kentish men; the sixth, the monk, had also been a soldier until he’d taken his vows. Wasn’t there some mystery about them? And where was the fifth? The Judas Man put such questions aside as he stepped into the tap room.

Customers sat round tables. Scullions and slatterns fought their way through with tankards. The great fire was beginning to die, the candles were fading, the bowls of oil drying up. The Judas Man hastily stood aside as a boy pushing a wheelbarrow carted out the corpses of the rats killed in the pit, which was now being washed clean with tubs of scalding water. A sea of faces greeted the Judas Man, some disfigured, others pretty. A whore came sidling up; the Judas Man pushed her away as he walked like a cat round the edge of the tap room, looking intently for his prey. People jostled and shoved, pedlars and tinkers tried to sell trinkets. He was invited to sit in on games of hazard, whilst a pretty slattern asked him what he wanted to drink. The Judas Man ignored all these, eyes ever shifting, moving from face to face. He was looking for a man of medium height with a shock of red hair and a misericord dagger on a lanyard round his neck. At last he found him, seated just near the door, throwing dice with two others. There was no mistaking the silver sheath or that shock of red hair, though the pallid face and scrawny beard and moustache hadn’t been in the description. The misericord dagger, though, was unmistakable. The Judas Man pushed his way through, placed his hand on his victim’s shoulder and squeezed tightly. The man looked up.

‘You are to come with me,’ the Judas Man whispered quietly in his ear. ‘You, sir, are under arrest.’

His words had an immediate effect. The other two gamblers shot to their feet, pulling out knives even as Red-Hair shrugged off the Judas Man’s hand and, as fast as a whippet, kicked the stool back into his legs. Then he sprang up, drawing the knife from the battered belt around his waist. The crash of stools, the shouts and curses, created an immediate silence in the tap room. Master Rolles’ bully boys came lumbering across, as the Judas Man drew his own sword and dagger.

‘Put up your weapons,’ one of the bully boys shouted. ‘I’ll call the Watch.’

‘No you won’t.’ The Judas Man shook his head. ‘I have the law on my side. I carry a commission, sealed warrants from the sheriffs of Essex and Kent as well as those of London. I am empowered to bring in criminals, and this man,’ the Judas Man pointed his sword at Red-Hair, ‘is under arrest.’

The bully boys stepped back, gesturing for everyone to stay out of this confrontation. Red-Hair’s two companions also faded into the crowd, leaving their comrade, much the worse for drink, swaying backwards and forwards on his feet, knife still out.

‘I. . I. . don’t know,’ he stammered, ‘the reason. .’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve only stolen petty things.’

As the man spoke, the Judas Man noticed how his teeth were blackened, his gums sore. He looked closer, a prick of doubt. This man looked unwell; his face was pockmarked, eyes red-rimmed — was this the Misericord? The subtle, cunning man? He lowered his sword, eyes fixed on that silver sheath.

‘You are the one known as the Misericord?’ he asked.

Red-Hair shook his head.

‘You are under arrest,’ the Judas Man said gently, taking a step forward.

The other man panicked, a mix of ale and fear. He lunged drunkenly, his knife speeding for his opponent’s face, but the Judas Man just stepped aside and drove his own sword in, thrusting deep into the man’s stomach. .

The two whores, Beatrice and Clarice, had left the tap room a short while before the Judas Man appeared. They heard the first clamour and outcry but they had other business. Beatrice and Clarice were sisters and served in one of the most luxurious brothels amongst the stews near the Bishop of Winchester’s inn. They had won their reputation by beauty and skill and been given a special invitation to attend the Great Ratting. They had arrived in all their gorgeous finery, gowns of red sarcanet over milk-white kirtles, stockings of pure wool and ankle-high leather boots with silver buckles. They had combed their blonde hair carefully and arranged their jewellery around neck, wrists and fingers. They’d bathed carefully, anointing themselves with perfumed oil, and had delicately painted their faces. They were twins, the daughters of the famous Guinevere the Golden, one of the greatest courtesans of Southwark until she had mysteriously disappeared some twenty years ago. They had been raised by Mother Veritable, one of the most notorious brothel-keepers south of the river. They had been taught how to read and write, and every other skill a courtesan should acquire. They were proficient on the rebec and the lute and could sing the sweetest carol as well as understand Norman French. They had been given places of honour that night and, after the Great Ratting had finished, been told to go to the hay barn which lay at the far side of the stable yard. Beatrice and Clarice had drunk deeply of the coolest, sweetest wines from the Rhine. Master Rolles had been quite insistent.

‘I have been given orders,’ he murmured to them, ‘to look after you well. When the Ratting is over you will have a customer,’ he winked lecherously, ‘in the barn.’

‘And where will we go?’ Beatrice had asked, light blue eyes all innocent.

‘I don’t know.’ The taverner had pressed silver coins into their hands. ‘Perhaps a bishop’s palace, or the silken-hung chambers of some Lord of the Soil.’

The two sisters now clung to each other, laughing as they walked across the yard. They pulled open the door and stepped inside. A lantern horn had been lit, carefully hooded and placed on top of a barrel, well away from the straw and hay. Clarice wished the band round the veil on her head wasn’t so tight.

‘Was that a fight?’ Beatrice asked, sitting down next to her sister.

‘I don’t know,’ came the slurred reply. ‘I feel so sleepy.’

‘I wonder who it is?’ Beatrice lay back and stared up at the rafters. She tensed as she heard a noise outside, a light footfall. The door swung open. A figure dressed like a monk stepped inside. The brown gown covered the new arrival from neck to toe, while the cowl was deep.

Beatrice climbed to her feet and swayed from side to side. She hoped the paint on her face hadn’t run, or the carmine round her lips become smudged. She heard the clink of coins and turned to help her sister up. As she did so, there was a sound like a whirr of wings, and her sister fell away as the crossbow bolt struck her full in the chest just beneath the neck. Beatrice turned, mouth opening to scream. The stranger hurried across, knife in hand, burying it deep into the young woman’s stomach, pulling her head forward and pressing it against that brown robe to stifle any screams.