The House of Shadows

Chapter 4

Cranston and Athelstan left the tavern. The coroner went into a scrivener’s to peer at an hour candle and came out loudly declaring for all to hear how it was past two in the afternoon and he was very hungry. Athelstan wanted to go back to his parish, but Cranston plucked at his sleeve claiming it was time to meet Mother Veritable, the Whore-Queen of Southwark. They made their way through needle-thin, filthy streets under the jutting storeys of houses which leaned so far out they blocked the sky and seemed about to crash into each other. Athelstan kept a wary eye on the windows as well as the creaking shop signs hung so low they were as dangerous as any axe or club. The streets were busy, packed with thronging crowds; they also reeked of sulphur as the scavengers were out, clearing the lay stalls, the Corporation’s refuse tips. The stench of the rubbish, which included the rotting corpses of animals, was so offensive Cranston bought two pomanders from a passing tinker. They held these to their noses, Athelstan firmly gripping his walking stick in his other hand as the poor of Southwark swirled about them, eyes and fingers ready to filch. Prostitutes, pimps, cunning men, the naps and the foists slunk back into doorways or alley mouths at Cranston’s approach. Now and again a piece of refuse was thrown — thankfully it always missed — followed by a curse or shout.

‘Watch out, watch out! Fat Jack’s about!’

Cranston growled deep in his throat but chose to ignore such taunts. The King’s justice was also very apparent along these grim streets. Cranston and Athelstan had to stand aside as a moveable gallows, a scaffold on a huge platform fixed on wheels, was pulled by oxen down one broad lane. Bailiffs guarded each side of the cart. On each branch of the four-legged gibbet hung a corpse, pitched and tarred. A placard nailed to the back of the cart proclaimed that the dead men were river thieves, hanged on the quayside just after dawn. After these came four women, wearing striped hoods, who had been caught playing naughty. They would be taken down to the stocks until their menfolk collected them and gave guarantees of future good behaviour. This macabre procession was followed by the bell man, dressed in the colours of the city livery. Every so often he would pause, ring his bell and proclaim how Miles Sallet, a cobbler, was to forfeit twenty-two pairs of shoes of good calfskin leather for knocking down a City beadle, and refusing to pay the fine.

Eventually Cranston led Athelstan off this broad thoroughfare and down Darkhouse alleyway. At the bottom of this, across a strip of common land, rose a fine but rather decayed mansion, its tiled roof, lead piping and red bricks peeping above a high grey curtain wall. Cranston marched up to the gate-house and pulled at the bell rope, hidden by a screen which looked curiously like a penis. He pulled at the cord again. Athelstan read the proclamation nailed to a piece of wood hanging from one of the gate pillars which declared that the ‘Garden of Delights’ beyond offered grapes, apples, pears, cherries, quinces, peaches, mulberries and apricots. Above the notice was a painting of a pale swan nesting, its long neck turned.

‘To the uninitiated, Brother,’ Cranston laughed, ‘that appears to be what any coster would sell from his stall. Take my word for it, you’ve never seen the type of gooseberries this house grows.’

Cranston hammered on the gate. The small grille opened, and eyes peered out.

‘Piss off,’ a voice snarled.

‘Is that you, Owlpen? Open up. It’s Jack Cranston. Either open up or I’ll return with warrants.’

The gate swung open and a little man with rounded eyes in a rounded face, two tufts of hair sticking up like the ears of an eagle owl, peered fearfully up at the coroner.

‘Oh! Sir John.’

‘Never mind that,’ Cranston snapped.

He pushed Owlpen aside and walked up the pebble-dash path. The garden on either side was cordoned off by a latticework fence. They went up some steps, through a half-open door and down a twisting passageway. The walls were lime-washed, the paving stones scrubbed clean. Owlpen tried to catch up but Cranston knew where he was going. He turned right and entered a small solar with two large windows overlooking a lovely garden. Athelstan glimpsed a lawn and raised herb patches as well as a small dovecote at the far end. The solar itself was more like a nun’s cell, plain with white plastered walls, dark furniture, no tapestries or pictures except for a great Crucifix above the mantled hearth. A woman sat beside the crackling fire, deep in a throne-like chair, feet resting on a small stool. She was busy with a piece of needlework, and hardly raised her head when Cranston doffed his beaver hat and gave a most mocking bow.

‘I thought you’d come, Cranston, like a fly from the dung heap.’

The woman looked up. In the poor light from both window and fire, Athelstan could not determine her age. She had a pale, hard face, quite beautiful, if it wasn’t for her glittering eyes and the slight twist to her mouth. She was dressed in a dark blue kirtle, with front lacing, a low girdle, and over this a velvet cloak lined with embroidered silk. Her dark hair was hidden by a headdress of fine gauffered linen cut in semicircles to hang down on either side of her face. Around her neck hung a gold chain with a jewelled cross, with a matching ring on the little finger of each hand.

Cranston didn’t reply to her insult. Instead he just stood over her, like some sombre shadow.

‘Roheisa,’ he whispered, ‘don’t make me act the bully boy.’

‘Mother Veritable to you, Sir Jack.’

She put down the embroidery on a side table, picked up a hand bell and rang it vigorously. A maid came in. Mother Veritable asked for two stools to be brought. Ignoring Cranston, she looked Athelstan over from head to toe.

‘A Dominican,’ she sneered. ‘Ah well, it takes all types. In this house, the cut of a man’s cloth means nothing. Why do you stand there, little priest? I’ve heard of you, with your sharp wits,’ she laughed, ‘and your snouting nose.’

‘God bless you, Mother Veritable.’ Athelstan sketched the sign of the Cross; she just made a dismissive gesture with her hand.

Owlpen and the maid returned with stools. Cranston and Athelstan made themselves as comfortable as they could.

‘I won’t offer you refreshment.’ Mother Veritable kicked the foot rest away. ‘You’ll take nothing in this house, will you, Cranston?’

‘I’ll take the truth.’

Mother Veritable sighed and raised her eyes heavenwards.

‘Here we go, my Lord Coroner, back into the world of men, eh? Two of my girls were killed last night, Beatrice and Clarice.’

‘Guinevere’s golden daughters.’

‘I remember Guinevere.’ Mother Veritable’s eyes looked sad, her face lost some of its hardness. ‘As I said, Sir Jack, the world of men, sharp and cruel. I loved Guinevere. Oh! She had a heart as black as her face was fair, but perhaps I loved her because of her treachery. You knew us both then, Jack.’

Cranston coloured with embarrassment and shuffled his feet. Mother Veritable leaned forwards and placed her jewelled white fingers over Cranston’s great paw.

‘You remember the glory days, Jack?’ Her voice was soft and sweet. ‘Guinevere loved, I loved, you loved, the City was full of young knights with their fair damsels. It wasn’t so hard then. My heart hadn’t turned to stone. I hadn’t accepted the world for what it is, cruel and harsh. Do you remember the man I loved, Jack?’

‘Killed,’ Cranston replied. ‘Killed outside Bordeaux, wasn’t he?’ He withdrew his hand as if suddenly remembering why he was here.

‘Beatrice and Clarice?’ The woman sat back and shrugged. ‘Master Rolles, as usual, had sent for them, left a message in the tapestry of the Castle of Love; somebody wanted to hire them both. So they bathed and perfumed themselves, donned their best robes and went off to the Great Ratting. Oh, by the way, I’ve destroyed Rolles’ message.’

‘And you agreed?’ Athelstan asked. ‘To send two of your women out into the night?’

‘I had already received a silver coin, a token of what was to come.’ She held Athelstan’s gaze. ‘They didn’t come back. I thought they had been hired for the night. This is the only place they know. They would have returned and brought their silver with them.’

‘Every penny?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Little priest-’

‘Friar,’ Athelstan corrected. ‘I’m a Dominican friar.’

‘Whatever you are,’ she snapped, ‘I tell you this: woe betide the girl who returns here and holds back what she owes.’

Her gaze shifted, staring at a point behind Athelstan’s head. The Dominican turned: two great oafs dressed in leather jackets, hose pushed into high-heeled boots, sword belts strapped round their waists, stood silently at the door grasping cudgels.

‘Tell your lovely boys to go away,’ Cranston demanded. Mother Veritable gestured with her head. Cranston heard the door close behind him.

‘Master Rolles sent a message this morning. How the two girls had been found in the hay barn. Killed by a cross-bolt and dagger, wasn’t it? I went down to view the corpses,’ Mother Veritable continued matter-of-factly, as if describing a visit to a market stall. ‘Still beautiful, but dead.’ She half smiled. ‘Master Rolles had taken their jewellery.’

‘I had forgotten that.’ Cranston snapped his fingers. ‘I meant to take the jewellery for Brother Athelstan to sell and distribute the money amongst the poor.’

‘I don’t want it.’ Athelstan spoke up. Despite this woman’s apparent harshness, he wondered if she was trying to make sense of the horror she had witnessed. ‘Sir John,’ he turned to the coroner, ‘have the jewellery returned here.’

Mother Veritable smiled with her eyes. ‘The singer not the song,’ she murmured and winked at Athelstan. ‘Not many priests would have said that. Did you pray for them, Brother?’

Athelstan nodded.

‘Do you know what happened?’ Cranston insisted.

‘From what Rolles and the others described,’ Mother Veritable sighed, ‘the two girls enjoyed the evening, and quietly left to meet their customer in the hay barn.’

‘And you do not know who this was?’

‘Sir John,’ she glanced coyly at the coroner, ‘if I did, my beautiful boys would have visited him by now. Master Rolles didn’t know. Nobody saw anything.’

‘Did Master Rolles ever. .’ Athelstan searched for the words.

‘Sample such wine?’ Mother Veritable teased. ‘At his tavern? Not to my knowledge.’ She tapped the tip of her nose. ‘But he’s always welcome here.’

‘You know who resides at the Night in Jerusalem?’ Cranston asked. ‘The Judas Man.’

Mother Veritable shook her head and pulled a face.

‘And the Falconers, the Knights of the Golden Falcon.’

Mother Veritable rested her elbows on the chair and stared down at the floor.

‘Did they ever come here? Maurice Clinton, Thomas Davenport, Reginald Branson, Laurence Broomhill, Stephen Chandler? Did they come here?’ Cranston repeated. ‘Do their names mean anything to you?’

Mother Veritable turned her face away, staring into the fire. She coughed as if clearing her throat, her shoulders shook and Athelstan realised she was crying. The room had fallen deathly silent, the only sound the flames crackling, and the spluttering from one of the braziers. Mother Veritable rose, grasping a cane, and limped over to a side table on which a chaffing dish stood. She opened a small pot and sprinkled herbs, then came back to the chair, wiping the tears from her cheek.

‘My leg was broken.’ She sat down carefully, clutching her stick. ‘Sir Jack will tell you about it, Brother Athelstan. A man I didn’t please came visiting with his bully boys, but to answer your question, yes and no. No, those knights have not been here. . well, not recently. Yes, I know their names.’ She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. ‘As I said, in the glory days. . They were friends of Culpepper, weren’t they, and the other one who stole the Lombard treasure and fled.’

‘What makes you so sure they stole it?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Because at the same time Guinevere disappeared. She and Culpepper were smitten with each other, her beauty had turned his head.’ Mother Veritable rested on her stick, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘Glory days,’ she whispered. ‘London was full of young soldiers, knights and squires, preparing for the Great Expedition. The Thames brimmed with ships, cogs from Hainault, war vessels from Flanders, galleys from Venice — all the young lords ready to take the Cross and go out and kill the infidel for sweet Jesus’ sake.’ She paused. ‘Culpepper and the rest stayed at the Night in Jerusalem. He and Guinevere met. Of course the men came here, including Sir Maurice Clinton, who was much taken with me, at least in those days.’

‘Did Guinevere ever tell you about what was planned?’

Mother Veritable shook her head. ‘Oh, she hinted that this life was not hers, that one day things would change, that her knight, like some hero from Arthur’s court, would come galloping along and scoop her up into his arms. Culpepper was deeply in love with Guinevere; she thought she was in love with him.’

‘Thought?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Guinevere’s heart was as fickle as the moon. All she dreamed of was bettering herself, becoming the Grande Dame.’

‘And the father of her daughters?’

Mother Veritable chuckled. ‘It’s a wise man who knows his father. Guinevere made a mistake but, there again, she had many admirers. You’ve been kind, Brother, so I’ll tell you this. On the night she disappeared, well, the afternoon beforehand, she packed all her belongings and stole away. She was all excited. I asked her where she was going.’

‘And?’

‘Why, to your church, Brother.’

‘St Erconwald’s?’

‘That’s what she said. She was never seen or heard of again.’

Mother Veritable leaned over and nudged Sir John, who was beginning to fall asleep. The coroner stirred.

‘What do you think happened, Roheisa?’ He smacked his lips.

‘I’ve heard reports,’ she confessed. ‘And you can check the records, Sir Jack, that a woman fitting Guinevere’s description was seen boarding a cog, a Venetian ship, three days after the crusading fleet left for Alexandria.’ She pulled a face. ‘But that is all.’

‘And her two daughters?’

‘I reared them, two peas out of the same pod. They were so much like their mother. Sometimes I thought Guinevere had returned.’ She put the stick down beside the chair.

‘Can we search their chambers?’

‘I’ve done that already. There’s nothing much.’

‘Can we see it?’ Athelstan insisted.

‘Will their jewellery be given back to me?’ she asked.

‘You have my word,’ Cranston assured her.

Mother Veritable got to her feet and, leaning on her cane, walked towards the door. She whispered to the servants outside and returned to her chair, sitting serenely like an abbess in a convent. A short while later a young woman entered the room, her auburn hair caught up behind her. She was dressed in a Lincoln-green smock, a white girdle around her waist. If Mother Veritable was the abbess, this young woman acted as comely and coy as any novice. She brought a stool over and sat beside her mistress, cradling a small leather bag.

‘This is Donata,’ Mother Veritable explained, ‘a close friend of the two dead girls.’

Donata lifted her pale face; her almond-shaped eyes gave her a serene, calm look.

‘Donata is resting at the moment,’ Mother Veritable continued, ‘which is why her face and lips aren’t painted. She is also in mourning.’ She touched the black ribbon tied round the girl’s swan-like neck. ‘Donata, this is Sir John Cranston and Brother Athelstan. No, don’t be afraid, Sir Jack has no authority here.’ Mother Veritable smiled. ‘Whilst I have powerful patrons. Tell them what you know.’

‘Beatrice and Clarice. .’ Donata began.

Athelstan detected a West Country accent. He noticed how long and slim the girl’s fingers were. He wondered what such a beautiful maid was doing in a house like this, until he recalled the droves of young men and women who trudged in from the countryside looking for work.

‘What about them?’ Brother Athelstan asked.

Donata took a deep breath, her beautiful butterfly eyes dancing prettily.

‘We are meant to give every penny we earn to Mother Veritable who looks after us so well,’ she added hastily. ‘But one night, in their cups, they said, well, they said they could earn more gold and silver than I could imagine, that’s all they’d say.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought it was a jest, wine words.’

‘Who were their customers?’ Athelstan asked.

Donata stared serenely back.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Mother Veritable laughed, ‘our customers don’t wear placards around their necks, they come and go like shadows.’

‘That’s all they said,’ the girl pleaded. She handed the small sack over to Athelstan. ‘They kept their precious things in there.’

Athelstan undid the cord and tipped out the contents: some jewellery, trinkets, gewgaws, buttons, hair clasps, a lock of hair and a small roll of parchment, rather dirty and yellow. Athelstan placed the sack down and unrolled the piece of manuscript. The writing was in a deep black ink. The hand looked clerkly, the letters clearly formed; it was a poem written in Norman French, imitating the troubadours of Paris. Athelstan read the opening lines.

Le Coq du Couronne Rouge est Maigre

Comment le grand Seigneur, Monsieur Le

Coq. .

Athelstan realised it was one of those poets’ clever conceits: the references to a ‘cock’ and a ‘red crown’ were sexual allusions. The writing was cramped, of little significance, so he rolled it up and put it back.

Cranston made to get up, but abruptly his hand shot out and he grasped Donata’s wrist. The girl started.

‘The Knights of the Golden Falcon?’

Mother Veritable tried to protest; Cranston pressed the fingers of his other hand against Donata’s mouth.

‘I’ll have you arrested, girl, and questioned if you do not tell the truth!’

Athelstan was surprised at Sir John’s roughness. He could tell from Donata’s face how Sir John had stirred up a hornet’s nest.

‘They come here?’ Sir John asked. ‘Those great lords from Kent, not together, but perhaps singly. They do, don’t they?’ He tightened his grip. Donata, eyes rounded in fear, nodded. ‘And they asked for Beatrice and Clarice, didn’t they? Which ones?’

The girl, terrified, shook her head.

‘Let her go, Sir Jack.’

Mother Veritable picked up her stick and beat it on the floor. Cranston released his grip. Donata snatched the sack back. She got up so quickly she knocked over the stool, and fled through the door, slamming it behind her.

‘You were too harsh.’

‘I told you, I came for the truth,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that five great lords of Kent who have come up to London to celebrate, fill their bellies with wine, ale and good food, do not satisfy their other hungers? That they wouldn’t visit a brothel which they frequented in their youth? Oh, they’ll do it differently now they’re important, won’t they? They won’t come swaggering up the path, carousing, singing a ribald song, but, as you might say, like a thief in the night. Now, if you want, Mother Veritable, I can have this place searched. I can whip up Master Flaxwith.’

‘I’ve told you more than I should, Sir John. You know the rules of this house about secrecy! Yes, you are correct. They’ve all been here, one at a time. They all asked to see Beatrice and Clarice, sometimes one, sometimes both together.’

‘Ah!’ Cranston sighed. ‘And so it’s not beyond imagining that, on the night of the Great Ratting, one, or two, or all of those stalwart knights asked for Beatrice and Clarice?’

‘But why meet them in the hay barn?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Mother Veritable knows the answer to that, don’t you?’ Cranston rose and stood over the brothel mistress. ‘Whoever hired them wouldn’t dare take them up to their chamber; they didn’t want such stories going back to Kent. Who knows, perhaps in the hay barn itself, some other tavern, or even your cemetery, Brother Athelstan.’

Cranston leaned down and pressed Mother Veritable’s shoulder.

‘Which of the knights favoured both girls together? Don’t glare at me! Which of the knights?’

Cranston plucked up the piece of embroidery and held it out as if he was about to drop it in the fire. ‘Two young women were brutally slain!’

‘They all did,’ Mother Veritable conceded.

‘And what did the girls report? Come on,’ Cranston growled. ‘You collect tales about your customers.’

‘They are as old as you, Sir Jack, so they have their difficulties, particularly the small, fat one, Sir Stephen Chandler.’

‘You know he’s dead?’ Athelstan asked.

Mother Veritable made a rude sound with her lips.

‘So, another man has died, Brother. I don’t care! Yes, they’ve all come here. They always asked for Guinevere’s daughters. They liked that. They saw the girls as a link with the past.’

‘And something else?’ Cranston taunted. ‘If Guinevere was so smitten by Culpepper, unobtainable to them, they might think that the daughters were sufficient compensation.’

‘You know the ways of men, Lord Coroner, better than I do. Now, you must be finished.’

‘This custom,’ Athelstan demanded, ‘of Master Rolles sending for girls?’

‘It’s very profitable to us both.’

‘And they always come back with silver?’

‘Usually they do. Sometimes there are disappointments, a rare occasion.’

‘And the Benedictine?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Malachi?’

Mother Veritable shook her head. ‘I know nothing of him.’

A short while later Cranston and Athelstan left the house and went up Darkhouse Lane, now well named as the day drew on and a faint river mist began to boil up the alleyways and runnels. Candles glowed in windows and, already, lanterns were slung on doorposts outside houses. The main thorough-fare, however, was still busy. The crowds, in their motley-coloured garb, were eager to buy; trading was drawing to an end, so meat, fish and vegetables were reduced in price. The bailiffs were also busy, parading a set of steps through the streets, proclaiming how a washerwoman, busy with her clothes on the Thames, had slipped off these steps and drowned. The bailiffs declared the steps had been estimated at a third of a mark and, because of the accident, the wood would be sold and the profits go to the Crown. Behind them came a wax chandler sitting backwards on a horse, a leaking pitcher on his head, the dirty water trickling out, the penalty for drawing off water from a public conduit. The bailiffs were accompanied by a set of bagpipe players, their noise deadening all sound. Two madmen, attracted by the noise, cavorted wildly, dirty rags streaming in the stiff breeze from the river.

‘Where are we going, Sir John?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Where do you think?’

Cranston turned to the right and Athelstan groaned as he realised they were going back to the Night in Jerusalem, though he quietly conceded that such a visit was necessary; those gentlemen of Kent were not as innocent and high-minded as they appeared.

They reached the stable yard, Cranston striding across, bellowing for the taverner. Athelstan stared around the open cobbled expanse. The tavern must have been a lordly mansion, with stables, outhouses, granges and barns. These had now been converted for the use of travellers. The hay barn, its doors now concealed by a huge high-sided cart, stood at the far side. Athelstan realised it could be approached from the main doorway of the tavern as well as through the side door and kitchen door, not to mention the various windows. At night the yard would be pitch dark, perhaps lit by a cresset torch, or a brazier, but he could imagine someone slipping through the blackness, crossbow in hand, dagger thrust into his belt, sliding like the Angel of Death through that half-open door and into the hay barn. Inside, a capped lantern would provide the assassin with sufficient light. Beatrice and Clarice would be tired. They would have drunk deep. . How long would it take to release the cord of the crossbow to send the bolt whirring through the air? At such closeness death would be immediate. The other girl would be confused, the assassin could stride across thrusting the dagger deep. Athelstan pulled his hood up and stared down at the mud-strewn cobbles, shining in the light drizzle which had begun to fall. The murderous act would take no more than a few seconds, faster than a priest pattering through his psalter.

‘Well, Athelstan.’

Cranston stood in the tavern doorway, beckoning him over. Athelstan hurried across, grateful for the sweet warmth of the inn. Rolles was busy in the kitchen, but the coroner was most insistent on meeting the knights, and a short while later, Cranston sat at the head of the long walnut table in the solar, Master Rolles, Brother Malachi and the four knights ranged down either side. Athelstan sat at the far end. He brought his writing tray out, uncapped the ink horn and had a sharp quill ready.

‘I must protest.’ Sir Thomas Davenport spoke up. ‘My Lord Coroner, we intended to visit Trinity, guests of the Aldermen at the Guildhall.’

‘I couldn’t care if the Lord God Almighty was your host,’ Cranston snapped. ‘I have more questions for you.’

Davenport pulled a sullen face. Sir Reginald Branson, with his long grey hair tied in a queue, made to leave, scraping back his chair, his black and white cloak draped over one arm.

‘If you leave, sir, I’ll have you arrested for murder.’ Cranston pounded the table with a ham-like fist. ‘And the same goes for you, Master Rolles, busy as you claim, even if you had Mary and Joseph in the stable outside, though, knowing you, you wouldn’t even give them that!’

Cranston’s anger stilled all protest.

‘Master Rolles, you hire girls from Mother Veritable?’

‘I’ve told you.’ The taverner’s fat face glistened with sweat; his piggy eyes screwed up in annoyance, he breathed noisily through his nose and gestured at the tapestry. ‘A letter left there, a silver coin with the name of the girl wanted.’ He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘Sometimes that’s just left for me, other times I put it there for Mother Veritable’s messenger-’

‘How many coins?’ Athelstan interrupted.

‘Whatever the arrangement, it’s a deposit of two coins; one for me, one for Mother Veritable.’

‘Isn’t that against the City ordnances?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Tell him, Sir John.’

‘Southwark lies beyond the jurisdiction of the Corporation. As long as Rolles doesn’t actually house the girls in question, he is breaking no law. So, these wenches simply arrive and their customers are waiting?’

‘Yes,’ Rolles agreed. ‘The note will designate where they are to come, to the tap room or to a chamber.’

‘Or a hay barn?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Where is your note,’ Cranston asked, ‘inviting Beatrice and Clarice?’

‘I understand Mother Veritable has destroyed it.’

‘You saw them arrive?’

‘Yes,’ Rolles agreed. ‘On the night of the Great Ratting they came into the tap room. They were to meet their customer once that was over, about the second hour after midnight. There are hour candles in the tap room. The girls wouldn’t miss such an assignation. I saw them there until just before the fight, when the Judas Man killed Toadflax thinking he was the Misericord.’

‘Why are we here?’ Sir Laurence Broomhill, slightly shorter than the rest, leaned over the table and glared down at Athelstan.

‘You know full well. Would any of you here,’ Cranston stared around, ‘take an oath that they have never lain with either or both of those slain women?’

Sir Laurence sat back.

‘Answer the question.’ Cranston pounded the table. ‘You come up to London to celebrate what you call the “old days”, when you gathered here as Crusaders under the banner of Lord Peter of Cyprus. Every year you return. You lodge here and have Mass said at St Erconwald’s. You also visit the brothel, and always ask for Clarice or Beatrice.’

‘Is this true?’ Brother Malachi asked weakly. ‘You still consort with whores?’

‘You cannot come to Mass,’ Athelstan spoke up. ‘You must not take the Eucharist, until you stop such sin, confess and receive absolution.’

The knights were clearly taken aback and stunned into silence.

‘In fact,’ Athelstan continued, ‘I do not want you in my church. You have committed fornication.’

‘More importantly for me,’ Cranston remarked, ‘one, two or all of you may have committed murder. Where were you on the night these girls were killed?’

‘We left the tap room.’ Sir Maurice Clinton spoke up. ‘We left after the Great Ratting. We returned to our chambers.’

‘All of you?’ Cranston asked.

‘Tell the truth,’ Brother Malachi said. ‘Go on, Sir Laurence.’

The knight rested his elbows on the table, running his fingers through his thinning hair.

‘We all returned to our chambers. Brother Malachi came to mine, alarmed by the sound from the fight below. He wanted to know if I would share a cup of wine with him, but I’d gone back downstairs to see what the fray was all about.’

‘And so?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What did you do, Brother Malachi?’

‘I went downstairs, to see what had caused the tumult. By then the man was dead, his corpse laid out in the tap room. I went to take the night air in the stable yard. I saw Sir Stephen come back, his cloak all about him. He appeared agitated.’ The Benedictine glanced quickly around the table. ‘I do not want to betray my comrades. But we must tell Sir John what happened in the tap room.’

‘Well?’ the coroner demanded.

‘During the Great Ratting,’ Sir Maurice replied, ‘Chandler parted company with us. I saw him arguing with the two whores.’

‘You mean he solicited them?’

Sir Maurice nodded. ‘They would have nothing to do with him,’ he continued. ‘They were laughing, pushing him away. He came back sweating, cursing under his breath.’

‘Oh Domine, miserere! Lord have mercy,’ Sir Laurence whispered.

Cranston spread his hands on the table.

‘Is it possible,’ Davenport asked, ‘that Sir Stephen was insulted by those two whores? He may have invited them here but they refused him because they had another assignation.’

‘I must confess,’ Sir Maurice broke in, ‘we have been through Sir Stephen’s possessions. He owned a small arbalest, which is now missing.’

Athelstan scrutinised these knights of Kent, powerful lords, men who owned rich estates, warriors of the Cross, who lived secret lives, coming up to London — Athelstan curbed his anger — to roister and carouse. They’d sin secretly in the dark of night then swagger into his church to eat and drink the body and blood of Christ. Oh yes, Athelstan reflected, Sir Stephen, indeed any of these men, would kill a whore in the blink of an eye, out of rage, frustration, or a sense that their famous honour had been besmirched! He stared down the table at Sir Jack, who was also lost in thought; he recalled that the coroner had told him how knights like these, lords of the land, were flinty-eyed, hard of heart and grasping. Little wonder the poor peasants in the shires round London seethed with discontent. Men whispered how there would soon be a rising, led by the Great Community of the Realm. Cranston claimed the revolt would begin in Kent, no surprise with narrow-souled hypocrites like these lording it in the shire.

‘Did any of you go to that barn?’ Cranston asked.

‘What would I have to do with whores?’ The Benedictine raised his right hand and displayed his stunted fingers. ‘The work of a scimitar, Sir John. I could not handle a crossbow. Ask any of these good men here.’ Malachi’s voice was rich with sarcasm. ‘I am more a danger to myself with such a weapon than to anyone else.’

‘And you, Master Rolles. Where were you?’

The taverner got to his feet and went to the door. He shouted for Tobias who served as cook and cask-man and returned to his chair. A short while later a young man with spiked red hair, a leather apron wrapped about him, came into the solar.

‘Tobias, tell the gentlemen here where I was after the Great Ratting.’

The man scratched his face with bloodied fingers, then played with the flesher’s knife in the pocket of his apron.

‘The fight broke out,’ he mumbled. ‘Yes, that’s right, the fight broke out, but you were busy in the kitchen. By the time you returned, Toadflax was dead. You had the corpse laid out in the tap room, then you returned to the kitchen.’

‘Yes,’ Rolles declared exasperatedly, ‘and what happened then?’

‘You told me off for letting some of the pork burn, for not removing it from the spit.’

‘And then?’

‘You stayed there. Something had gone wrong with the tourt, the brown bread,’ Tobias explained. ‘It hadn’t risen in the oven.’

‘Thank you, Master Tobias,’ Cranston snapped. ‘You can go!’

For a while, the coroner just sat drumming his fingers on the table, watching Athelstan, head bowed, his quill racing across the parchment held down by weights at each corner. The friar was now chronicling everything that had happened. Cranston was glad, for he could make no sense of this chain of events.

‘Sir John,’ Sir Maurice asserted himself, ‘you have mentioned our failings, but what about Sir Stephen? His corpse lies cold and stiffening in an outhouse.’

‘For all I know, Sir Stephen could be a murderer,’ Cranston retorted. He stopped himself just in time from openly speculating whether Chandler had gone out to the yard last night of his own accord or been sent by his comrades.

‘Talking of who was where,’ Rolles squirmed in his chair, ‘Mother Veritable has been very truthful with you, Sir John. Did she tell you she was here, in the tavern this morning, when Sir Stephen died?’

Athelstan’s head came up, his eyes narrowing. Rolles was obviously losing his temper, quietly seething, alarmed at how much Mother Veritable’s girl Donata had confessed.

‘What are you saying?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Two of her girls were slain here.’ Rolles couldn’t keep the spite out of his voice. ‘It was well known that Chandler had custom with them. He was soliciting both last night, whilst she was in the tavern this morning when he was killed.’

Athelstan returned to his writing.

‘And there’s someone else.’ Rolles licked his lips. ‘The man sheltering in your church, who calls himself the Misericord.’

‘You know him well?’ Cranston asked.

‘He’s a merry rogue,’ Rolles conceded. ‘He was at the Great Ratting last night. He often comes to this tavern.’ He paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘He, too, had words with Beatrice and Clarice — that was before he tricked Toadflax into wearing that sheath.’

Athelstan returned to his writing, making careful note of what he heard. Cranston pushed back his chair, rose to his feet and walked down to the window overlooking the garden. The day was dying, the darkness creeping in, the river mist thickening.

‘Sir John, are you finished?’ Master Rolles called out.

‘Is it true,’ Cranston asked, not turning round, ‘that there were sightings twenty years ago of Richard Culpepper and Guinevere the Golden?’

‘As many as leaves on the tree,’ Sir Maurice replied. ‘A lavish reward was offered. Nothing substantial ever came of it.’

‘On that afternoon,’ Cranston asked, ‘when Culpepper disappeared, did he pack all his belongings?’

‘Yes, everything.’

‘Including the truth,’ Cranston snapped back. ‘Gentlemen, we are finished, but none of you are to leave this tavern or Southwark without my permission. Oh.’ He smiled falsely at Rolles. ‘The dead women’s jewellery is to be handed back to Mother Veritable.’ He waved a hand. ‘As for Chandler’s corpse, do what you want.’

They left the Night in Jerusalem. Cranston wanted to go to a cookshop, loudly proclaiming he wished to eat in good company and not with a coven of hypocrites.

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan pulled up his cowl, ‘I would like to go down to the riverside. I want to see the place where the great robbery took place. Do you know it?’

‘The Oyster Wharf,’ Cranston replied, ‘or so common report had it. I also know where we can eat.’

They set off through the streets, now emptying as night fell and a freezing river mist swirled in. Stalls were being put away; only a few egg-sellers, carrying their baskets, shouted ‘Ten for a penny!’ Cranston led Athelstan through a maze of alleyways and streets, murky and dirty, reeking of all sorts of offal, and back on to the thoroughfare which wound down to the river. They went along Mincing Lane, past a small chantry chapel which, Cranston explained, had been built in memory of the Earl of Pembroke, who had been killed in a tournament on his wedding day. The streets grew noisier as they approached the riverside. The rippers, the gutters of fish, were still trying to sell what produce was left. The weigher of the beam or tron was busy checking the weights and measures for cheese, butter and wax. At last they reached the Oyster Wharf. Further down stood a great windmill; even so, the air reeked with the stench from the nearby tanneries. Fishermen in their hures, shabby caps of sheepswool, were preparing for a night’s fishing. Near the steps, the boatmen had brought in their catches of oysters, whelks and mussels, laying their baskets before the Serjeant of the Whelks and the Assayer of the Oysters, two officials who guaranteed the quality of each catch before they were sold at fourpence a bushel.

The officials stood under a leather awning. Cranston and Athelstan joined them, eating oysters and onions, a hog’s head serving as a table, whilst the coroner shared out his miraculous wine skin. Further down, young boys with baskets ran about offering salmon, mackerel, haddock, eels and herring at only tuppence a catch. The boys stopped to ridicule a fishwife who had been forced to stand in the stocks for selling whitebait, which had now been draped around her neck. Whilst Cranston chattered to the officials, Athelstan wiped his mouth and walked to the steps leading down to the river. He tried to forget the sounds and smells, so as to imagine this quayside on the night of the great robbery. He went as close as he could to the edge. The river was ebbing, the mist blocked off all view, except for the glow of a torch or lantern horn as some barge made its way down to Westminster. The mist tendrils curled like the cold fingers of a ghost.

‘Be careful, Father!’ one of the boys shouted.

Athelstan stared down at the green-slimed steps.

‘The Lombard treasure arrived,’ he murmured. ‘It would be unloaded, probably left on the quayside. Culpepper and his companion, helped by the two bargemen, would. .’ He stopped his whispering. ‘No,’ he reflected, ‘Culpepper would have waited until those who had brought the treasure had left. He and his accomplice would then kill the bargemen, load their bodies with stones, and arrange. .’ Athelstan chewed on the corner of his lip. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘This is all nonsense, I must find out more.’

‘What are you thinking, Brother?’ Cranston came up beside him, sucking on an oyster.

‘I can think of nothing, Sir John, nothing now.’

‘I don’t think I’ll go home,’ Cranston declared.

‘But the Lady Maud will miss you.’

‘I’m going to stay at the Night in Jerusalem, but only after a few more oysters.’

Athelstan patted Sir John on the hand. He made his farewells and, grasping his writing satchel and walking stick, left the quayside.

When he reached St Erconwald’s, he found his parish a hive of activity. The Judas Man had lit braziers and his comitatus were grouped round these, warming their hands as they roasted strips of bacon. Athelstan knew better than to object. They had every right to food and warmth on the Crown’s business, yet, he smiled to himself, the men hadn’t had it all their own way. Apparently the women of the parish had decided to do their washing and, as usual, had laid the wet clothes over the tombstones and the walls of the cemetery. He glimpsed the Judas Man standing near the lychgate and raised a hand. The Judas Man popped a piece of meat into his mouth and turned away. Athelstan shrugged. He entered the cemetery by the small wicker gate at the side and glanced around. The soil here was very thin and it was not unknown for some of the children to play skittles using bones for pins and skulls for balls. He walked along the winding path around the church to the death house. Thaddeus was picking at the grass, whilst God-Bless must have joined the comitatus.

Athelstan went inside to make sure everything was safe. He unlocked the mortuary chest; the parish pall, pickaxe and shovel were still there, as was the rammer used to press corpses down into the soil. He relocked the chest and patted each of the three parish coffins stacked on the three-wheel trestle. God-Bless was keeping everything tidy. As he left the death house, Athelstan noticed two chickens busy pecking at the earth and wondered if God-Bless had stolen them or if they had just wandered in. He went across, unlocked the coffin door and entered the church. The usual smell of ancient walls, incense and candle wax greeted him. In the sanctuary a candle glowed, as did tapers before the small Lady Chapel. Athelstan walked carefully round. The scurrying of mice echoed from shadowy corners.

‘You shouldn’t be here, little ones,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Bonaventure the killer will find you!’

‘Who is it?’ the Misericord called, all alarmed. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Pax et bonum,’ Athelstan called back. ‘Do not concern yourself, it’s only Brother Athelstan.’

He walked back up the nave through the rood screen, and paused. The wood smelt freshly polished and he remembered how the previous day five of his parishioners, who called themselves the ‘Brotherhood of the Rood Light’, had cleaned and polished the oaken screen. The sanctuary lay in darkness, except for the candle on the high altar and the red lamp which showed where the pyx containing the Sacred Host hung from its silver chain. A shadow moved beside the altar.

‘You can come out, sir.’

The Misericord stepped into the light and sat on the top step.

‘I’m hungry, Brother, I thought you would never return.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I was longer than I thought. Murder is a vexing business. So stay there, sir, and I shall come back with food, a good jug of wine, some meat and bread, not to mention a piece of cheese. Afterwards we shall talk about what part, if any, you played in these terrible killings.’

‘Brother. .!’

‘Oh!’ Athelstan came back. ‘I believe a coffer was brought here from the Night in Jerusalem?’

‘What’s happening?’ the Misericord pleaded. ‘I heard rumours. When I went out to relieve myself, Pike the ditcher said there’d been hideous murders.’

‘Did he now? But where’s the coffer?’

‘Watkin put it over there. He and Ranulf brought it in.’

Athelstan walked across the sanctuary. The coffer was under the offertory table. He drew it out and, ignoring the Misericord’s demands for his food to be brought quickly, walked back down the nave and out through the open door, where he put the coffer down. The Judas Man was sitting on the bottom step. He turned and pointed at the chest.

‘That was brought earlier. I hoped it would be safe in there.’

‘It has three locks,’ Athelstan replied, ‘and the Misericord is no fool, and neither are you. If a sanctuary man steals from the Church, or interferes with anything, the law says he can be handed over to the sheriff’s men.’

The Judas Man bit at the quick on his thumb. ‘I’ll have him soon enough.’

‘Are you always so zealous in hunting men down?’

‘You preach, I hunt,’ came the tart reply.

Athelstan pointed to the gold ring on the chain around the Judas Man’s neck.

‘The keepsake of a lady?’

‘My betrothed.’

‘She died?’

‘No, I found her with another man. I killed them both.’ The Judas Man drew his head back, staring at Athelstan from under heavy-lidded eyes. ‘She meant everything to me. I found them out in the woods. He drew a knife, I claimed self-defence.’

‘And since then you have been a hunter? And your soul, Judas Man?’

‘I leave such things to the likes of you and God. Now, you have not come to question me about a ring.’

‘Are you sure you know nothing about those two women murdered at the Night in Jerusalem?’

The Judas Man shook his head. ‘I know nothing about that. I was fighting for my own life.’

Athelstan stared across the cemetery. He noticed how the Judas Man had divided the comitatus to keep the entire outside of the church under view; his own parishioners were now clustered around a makeshift brazier, enjoying the meat and ale.

‘Will you join us, Father?’ the Judas Man asked.

Athelstan picked up the coffer and shook his head. ‘Will you pray, Judas Man?’

The hunter of men made to turn away, then paused and glanced over his shoulder.

‘I’ll talk to God, priest, when He talks to me.’