The House of Shadows

Chapter 5

Sir Laurence Broomhill was half asleep. He was drowsy yet aware of being in his chamber at the Night in Jerusalem. He heartily wished he was back in his comfortable manor house on the road to Gravesend, but then again, none of them could have anticipated what had happened. Sir Laurence, like the rest, had drunk deeply that afternoon and lurched back to his chamber, La Morte D’Arthur, with its coloured tapestries exuberantly depicting the Great Hero’s struggle with the black-armoured Mordred. The picture of knights helmeted and visored, swords and shields raised, provoked vivid memories of the battles in Outremer, outside Alexandria.

For a while Sir Laurence recalled those arrows, wrapped in flaming cotton, shooting through the air. Scaling ladders all ablaze, the men on them, small black figures trapped by the inferno, dropping like pieces of soot to the ground below. The hideous song of the mangonels, catapults, the ominous battering of the rams, the creak of siege towers and that chilling climb to the parapets. . Sir Laurence had been there, one of the first, eager to seek the absolution promised, in the heart of the fight, all around him the hiss of the sword, the clang of the axe and the dire music of those arrows let loose against the fiery sky before dropping like a deadly rain. On either side of Sir Laurence men went down as they fought to advance the great white banner with its red cross further along the battlements. They were all maddened, the noise of battle pulsing fiercely through their blood, made worse by the fever brought on by the pitiless heat and myriad flies. Their opponents, men in turbans and billowing cloaks, fell like scythed corn before them, blood splattering out.

Sir Laurence opened his eyes. Even now he could recall their snarling faces as well as those of the innocent, cut down as the Crusaders advanced deeper into the city: the young, the women, left broken with sightless eyes and blood-dripping mouths. Sir Laurence would never forget the exquisite beauty of those fountain courts, all awash with red water. Gardens, heavy with scent, turned into battlefields, the blood-chilling screams, and afterwards? Sitting on ebony-inlaid chairs, sleeping on low-cushioned divans, drinking sherbet and wine, stuffing his mouth with dried dates, and clothing himself in the soft fabrics found in the chests of the treasure houses of their enemies. Sir Laurence sighed deeply. Whatever the bloodshed, he, and the other Knights of the Golden Falcon, had taken that victory as a sign of God’s favour. They had all survived, returned home to enjoy the fruits of their endeavours.

Sir Laurence stiffened at the knock on the door. He pulled himself up and swung himself off the bed. He walked across the room. He was about to draw the bolts when he glimpsed the scrap of parchment pushed beneath the door. He snatched it up, read it quickly and paled at what was written. He strode across and swiftly pushed the small scroll deep into the brazier, losing it amongst the burning coals. For a while he paced up and down, wondering whether to rouse the rest, only to reject this idea. The note had been quite explicit, promising to reveal the truth behind Chandler’s death and warning him to come alone. Sir Laurence pulled on his boots, fastened on his war belt, took his cloak and went out down the stairs. The passageways were fairly deserted. The tap room had yet to fill for the evening revelry, whilst it would be some time before he and the rest of the knights gathered in the solar for a feast of roast swan and whatever other delicacies the taverner could offer.

Sir Laurence paused. He stared across the tap room, watching a scullion mop at a table. All pleasure had gone out of this visit, with Chandler’s death, and that olive-skinned Dominican and his harsh remarks about sin and absolution. He reached the cellar door, lifted the catch and went down into the musty darkness. Candles glowed in the gaps between the old red brick-work. It was still frighteningly dark, made worse by the scampering and squealing of vermin. Sir Laurence reached the bottom step; all was dark, except the candle which was glowing at the far end. He screwed up his eyes; was it a lantern or a lamp? He could make out the tuns and vats stacked at either side, and the wine-soaked path between.

‘Who’s there?’ His voice echoed. His hand fell to his dagger. Perhaps he should go back? The cellar had now fallen very silent. The rats and mice were cowering in the dark, as if they too were aware of what evil might lurk there. Sir Laurence stepped down, and his booted foot hit something hard. In a few heartbeats he heard a click, a snap, and his leg shattered as the cruel claws gripped and dug deep. He screamed as tongues of pain shot up his leg, forcing him back, coursing like flames through his body. He tried to move but could not, and in his agony he recalled the lush papyrus groves along the great river near Alexandria, those huge water beasts with their long snouts and cruel teeth which could drag a man down, sever a limb with a snap of their jaws. Was this happening? Sir Laurence found he couldn’t move at all. The pain was intense. That dreadful chill, the words of the Dominican echoing about sin. . Had the past leaped forward like a panther to punish him? Sir Laurence screamed as a fresh wave of excruciating pain swept through him. .

Athelstan returned to his house to find the kitchen and scullery scrubbed and cleaned. Benedicta, who had a key, had also left a pie and freshly baked doucettes. The fire was banked, fresh green logs on the top to keep the flames down, but the heat from the charcoal beneath was refreshing. Bonaventure, stretched out, lifted his head disdainfully as the Dominican came in. Athelstan cut the pie and took pewter, tranchers, horn spoons and napkins across to the church, telling the Misericord to wait a little longer. Then he visited the stables where Philomel, belly full, was snoring loudly.

Athelstan locked his house and stared up at the church tower. The mist was spreading, rolled in by a biting breeze from the river. In a few hours it would hang like a thick blanket, shrouding everything. He looked up at the sky. The stars seemed so distant. He would have loved to go up and spend the last hours of the night watching the stars wheel and wondering if that comet he’d recently glimpsed would be seen again. Athelstan loved to spend such evenings suspended, as he had described it to Cranston, between heaven and earth, watching the glory of God, whilst Bonaventure sprawled out beside him. Did the earth move? Athelstan wondered. Or was it the stars? He had read certain new treatises collected by his mother house at Blackfriars. Was Aristotle right? Did the planets give off music as they turned? What force, apart from the power of God, held stars in their position? Yet why did comets fall?

He felt a movement against his leg and stared down at Bonaventure. ‘Great assassin of the alleyways,’ he whispered. He stood for a few seconds watching the fire of the braziers and half listened to the men crouched around him. Their raucous singing made him smile. Watkin must have drunk deeply. He would only sing when his belly was full of ale. Athelstan hurried back to the church. He arranged the firing of a small brazier and filled two chafing dishes with burning charcoal. Once they were warming the sanctuary, he and the Misericord sat either side of the rood screen door, leaning against the wood as they shared out the food and wine. The Misericord ate ravenously, gulping the pie and two doucettes even before Athelstan had finished Grace. Afterwards, one hand over a chafing dish, the other holding a goblet, the Misericord stared down the nave.

‘How old is this place, Brother?’

‘Some say two, others three hundred years old. A few even claim it was built before the Conqueror came.’

‘Does it hold anything valuable?’

Athelstan recalled the ring and quickly felt his wallet, his fingers brushing the small case.

‘It contains very little,’ he conceded. ‘According to canon law we should only have a missal, a complete set of vestments, a fine linen cape, a pyx on a silver chain and a corpus case.’

‘What’s one of them?’

‘The leather pouch in which you put the pyx. You have never stolen from a church?’

The Misericord shook his head. He was about to say something but changed his mind.

‘Look.’

The Misericord pointed at the mist now curling under the doorway.

Athelstan had lit two of the wall torches but, with the mist seeping in and the shadows shifting, they made the church even more sombre.

‘Do ghosts walk here?’

‘Perhaps,’ Athelstan teased.

The Misericord gave a low groan.

‘Don’t worry,’ Athelstan assured him. ‘Ghosts can’t come into a church. Watkin claims that sometimes, early in the morning, a young man with dark red-rimmed eyes in a snow-white face can be seen on the top step outside, one arm around a dog. The parishioners claim it was a young apprentice who hanged himself on a yew tree in the cemetery. And of course,’ Athelstan continued, ‘a former parish priest dabbled in black magic. He was called Fitzwolfe. I met him once, a tortured mind with a soul as black as midnight. Oh, and by the way,’ Athelstan pointed further down the church, ‘over there, see the leper squint? Once upon a time a leper hospital stood nearby. The poor souls who lived there were not allowed to come into church, so if they wanted to hear Mass, they looked through the squint holes in the church wall from outside. The ghost of a poor leper woman is sometimes seen kneeling there. She has fiery red hair and liverish scaly skin. She is supposed to have mocked the Mass, but I think that is only a story meant to frighten the children.’

The Misericord refilled his goblet.

‘And what ghosts do you harbour?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I know you are a scholar and a singer, so what brings you here?’

‘I was a member of the Society of Pui. The name comes from the French town Puy-en-Vale. It is a society dedicated to music. Its purpose. .’ The Misericord screwed up his eyes. ‘Oh yes, that’s what its charter says: “For the increasing of joy and love and, to that end, the spreading of mirth, peace, harmony and joyousness, that they all be maintained.”’ The Misericord opened his eyes. ‘I hail from the Halls of Cambridge. I was a good singer, a poet. . The society used to meet in St Martin’s in the City. You had to pay sixpence for admission, and every year you had to compose a new song. A contest was held, and the winner would be crowned with a gilded chaplet.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Well, when we met, one of us was given money, to buy a fifty-pound candle of pure beeswax. On one occasion I was given the money, but I had fallen on hard times so I bought a cheap candle and filled the centre with fat, turpentine, cobbler’s wax and resin.’

‘Oh no!’ Athelstan groaned.

‘Oh yes!’ the Misericord declared. ‘I brought the candle back and gave it to our leader. When he was halfway down the nave of the church, the candle. . well, the flame reached the turpentine and fat, and it all disappeared in a shower of flame. I was expelled from the society.’ He shrugged. ‘And one thing led to another: thievery, trickery, filching, clipping coins. At first I was successful, until the sheriff’s men discovered who I was. I was proclaimed a wolfshead and went into hiding.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You have a keen mind and nimble wits.’

The Misericord put his face into his hands. He muttered something inaudible.

‘Why are you hiding now?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I don’t know.’ The Misericord took his hands away. ‘I’m a cunning man. I have deceived many. It’s happened before. Some powerful official whose wife I have bedded, or a merchant I have tricked. It’s not the first time that I have had the hunters of men tracking me as if I am a deer.’

‘And this time?’

The Misericord shook his head.

‘Whoever it is,’ he confessed, ‘the malice runs deep. The Judas Man has pursued me all over Southwark. I know him by reputation. He had two of my friends hanged.’

‘And last night?’ Athelstan asked. ‘At the Great Ratting?’

‘I had to be there. I know all about your parish, Brother Athelstan. Amongst those who live in the twilight world, Ranulf the rat-catcher has a fearsome reputation. I decided to wager on him and won a good purse.’

‘But you suspected the Judas Man would follow?’

‘Oh yes, that bastard is worse than a hunting mastiff. So I decided to play a trick. I looked around the tap room and glimpsed poor Toadflax, with his red hair and pale face. He had more than a passing resemblance to me, so I paid him a coin and gave him one of my misericord daggers. I didn’t intend the poor man to be killed. I thought he would delay the Judas Man.’

‘Did you see the Judas Man enter the tavern?’

‘I knew he was there but I hid in the shadows. I was determined about my wager.’

‘Did you see him speak to anybody?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You must have wondered who had hired him.’

‘I don’t care who hired him. Whoever it is cannot catch me. It’s the dog he’s hired which worries me.’

‘And you saw the fight?’

‘I saw it begin, but then fled.’

‘Do you know Master Rolles?’

‘Know him? He is a distant kinsman. He often shelters me. He told me to be careful.’

‘So you often stay at the Night in Jerusalem?’

‘Yes, out in the stables or the hay barn.’

‘And the two girls who were killed?’ Athelstan pressed on with his questioning. ‘Beatrice and Clarice?’

The Misericord glanced away and shrugged.

‘I know them by sight. Rumour has it that they were garrotted.’

‘No, they were killed by crossbow and dagger.’

‘I did see them talk to that fat knight.’ The Misericord glanced at Athelstan out of the corner of his eye. ‘Pike’s a good source of knowledge — there’s been another killing at the tavern, hasn’t there? Anyway,’ he continued, ‘that pricked my memory. The fat knight was talking to the two girls. They were teasing him how they had enough custom for the night, and he would have to wait.’ The Misericord blew his cheeks out. ‘That’s all I know, Brother. I watched the Great Ratting, collected my purse and fled. I tried to cross London Bridge but the Judas Man had his spies there. The hue and cry was raised. .’ His voice trailed off.

Athelstan rose and cleared away the tranchers and spoons. Bonaventure slid through the half-open corpse door to begin his night’s hunting. Athelstan was about to retire when a clamour broke out at the main door. He hurried down and removed the bar. Two women stood there. Behind them, some distance away, the Judas Man and the bailiffs watched carefully.

‘Good evening, Brother.’ The voice was cultured and sweet-sounding. ‘May we come in?’

Athelstan stepped back. He thought the two women were cowled and hooded, but as they came through the doorway, he realised they were both dressed in the heavy brown robes and starched white wimples of nuns. The speaker was young and comely, smooth-faced, with wide-spaced gentle grey eyes. She wore a silver Celtic cross around her neck, a plain white girdle around her waist. The other was much older, wearing a ring on her vein-streaked left hand. Athelstan realised the younger was a novice, whilst the older was a fully professed member of the Minoresses from the Franciscan convent to the north of the Tower near Poor Jewry. The younger one gestured to her companion to stay near the door, whilst she stretched out her hands to exchange the kiss of peace with Athelstan.

‘My lady?’ Athelstan gently kissed her on each cheek.

‘This is Sister Catherine.’ The grey eyes smiled. ‘Whilst I am Edith Travisa.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I am Edith Travisa.’

Athelstan suddenly recalled the Misericord’s true name.

‘You are. .?’

‘Edith!’

The Misericord came running down the church. Athelstan hastily closed the door and pushed the bolt back. He turned around. Edith and the Misericord were clasped in a tight embrace. The novice held the young man like a mother would a son, her white fingers gently patting him on the back.

‘Edith, you shouldn’t have come.’ The Misericord stepped back. ‘Brother Athelstan, this is my sister.’

‘I think we had best leave the doorway,’ Athelstan urged. ‘Sister Catherine, are you comfortable?’

The old nun gave a gap-toothed smile.

‘I’ll stay here,’ she said in a sing-song tone. ‘Mother Superior gave us an hour. We have left our porter outside. He’ll see us safely back.’

‘Do you want something to eat or drink?’

‘There’s no time, there’s no time.’ Edith’s voice was stern and the old nun nodded in agreement.

Athelstan escorted the brother and sister back up into the sanctuary. He brought a chair for the novice whilst he and the Misericord sat on the rood-screen step.

‘I heard you were taken,’ she began.

‘I’m not taken,’ the Misericord declared, ‘and you shouldn’t have come here. I’ll escape, something will happen.’

‘I’ve brought you some-’

‘There’s no need,’ the Misericord interrupted. ‘Brother Athelstan, would you leave us alone?’

‘Only if you tell me what this is all about?’

‘Edith and I,’ the Misericord’s haste was apparent, ‘are full brother and sister. Our parents lived near Cripplegate. They were clothiers. They died when the plague returned. Other relatives, too, perished. I have to look after Edith. Now, she was betrothed to Henry Sturny-’

‘Ah, yes!’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘They are cloth merchants in Cheapside.’

‘Henry loves Edith, Edith loves Henry, but there was the question of the dowry.’ The Misericord took a deep breath. ‘I wasted my parents’ wealth. Now, Brother, you know the reason for my mischief. I placed Edith in the care of the good Minoresses, and have spent every waking moment of the last three years trying to raise her dowry. Five hundred pounds sterling in all.’

Athelstan could tell by the way this cunning man was staring at his sister how much he loved her. He made to go away, but turned back.

‘Do you know any of these knights, with their rather grand title of the Golden Falcon? They’d be known to you by their name and status in the shire of Kent.’

The Misericord blinked and cleared his throat. ‘I have,’ he chose his words carefully, ‘done business with them.’

‘You mean you’ve tricked them?’

‘What is this?’ Edith interrupted.

‘Your brother’s usual depredations,’ Athelstan explained. ‘You do realise he is well known to every law officer south of the River Trent?’

Edith coloured with embarrassment.

‘Well, sir,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Answer my question and I’ll leave you alone.’

‘I have taken a hare for the pot and a pheasant from their fields,’ the Misericord confessed. ‘I have also sold all manner of things to their villagers and tenants.’

‘Do they have a grievance against you?’

‘They may have.’

The Misericord’s eyes shifted, and Athelstan knew there was more meat to his admission than the few scraps he had thrown. The Dominican leaned down.

‘You think you’re safe,’ he warned, ‘but you are not. Those are very powerful men, warriors, land owners, who would see you swinging from a branch and not blink an eye. Are any of them your enemies?’

‘I had a dalliance with one of their daughters.’

‘And?’

‘Some of their womenfolk, but I forget who. It was some years ago. Brother, that is all I shall say.’

Athelstan sketched a blessing in his direction and walked down the church. He talked to Sister Catherine, a kindly, garrulous old soul, about her own girlhood, how she had been raised in Southwark and had often visited St Erconwald’s. Oh yes, she certainly remembered Fitzwolfe, the demon priest, and talked in a hushed whisper about his dabbling in the black arts. Athelstan, with his back to the sanctuary, half listened, ears strained. The echoes in the church were very good, a fact Athelstan always tried to remember when he listened to his parishioners’ confessions. Edith and her brother had begun their conversation in whispers, but their discussion had spilled into a quarrel, and their voices were raised. Athelstan was sure he heard the name Mother Veritable mentioned. Sister Catherine chatted on about how Fitzwolfe was supposed to have sacrificed a black hen at night and had committed other blasphemies in the darkness of the night. Athelstan smiled and nodded his head. The conversation at the top of the church had now returned to whispers, and eventually Edith, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, came tripping down the aisle, hands concealed in the voluminous sleeves of her gown. She stopped before the friar and bowed.

‘Brother Athelstan, I thank you for your kindness to my brother and myself. Now I must leave, as the night is drawing on. .’

Distracted, she stepped around him. Sister Catherine caught her by the arm, and when Athelstan unbarred the door, they both slipped through and down the steps. Athelstan closed and locked the door behind him. He returned to the rood screen, eager to question the Misericord, but the fugitive was now lying in the sanctuary fast asleep, or pretending to be. Athelstan crossed himself, left by the side door, locking it behind him, and walked into the night.

‘Who was that?’

Athelstan spun round. The Judas Man was standing almost behind him.

‘This is God’s Acre,’ Athelstan snapped, ‘church land. You should not be slipping about like a thief in the night.’

‘Who was that woman?’

‘None of your business,’ Athelstan replied, stepping closer. ‘You are truly determined to bring that man to justice, aren’t you?’

‘I’m being paid well.’

‘By whom?’

‘I don’t know,’ the Judas Man grinned. ‘If I did, I would certainly ask for more. By the way, where’s your cat?’

‘In the church,’ Athelstan gestured with his head, ‘hunting for mice. He can leave by the sacristy door.’

‘Your cat and I have a lot in common.’

‘No, sir, you do not,’ Athelstan replied. ‘My cat hunts to eat. You. .’ Athelstan played with the cord around his waist. ‘You, sir, you love it. It helps fill the dark void in your own soul, doesn’t it? A way of exorcising your demons. I bid you goodnight.’

Athelstan returned to his house, locking the door behind him. It had fallen cold. He built up the fire, plucked some of the charcoal from it, filled the warming pan and took this up to the bed loft. He pulled back the blankets and the linen sheets beneath. The straw mattress underneath felt cold, icy cold. Athelstan put the warming pan carefully under the blankets and went back down the ladder. He felt agitated and restless. He had spent the day dealing not only with hideous murder, but with people who hid their sins behind lies and conceits. The Misericord had been less than truthful, whilst the presence of the Judas Man was oppressive and menacing.

Athelstan went to the scullery and, from the small pantry, brought out a loaf, some cheese and a pot of butter. He half filled a cup of wine and sat in front of the fire, trying to make sense of the day’s happenings. He recalled the small coffer taken from Sir Stephen’s bedchamber. He unlocked this and emptied the contents on to the table, and was about to examine them when there was a knocking at the door.

‘By St Michael and all his angels,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘is there no peace?’

He drew back the bolts, half expecting to see the Judas Man; instead, a young woman, hood pulled over her head, stood just beyond the light, and beyond her another figure hidden by the darkness.

‘What is it?’ Athelstan kept the door only slightly open.

‘Brother, don’t you recognise me?’ The cloak was pulled back.

‘Why, it’s Donata!’ Athelstan greeted the young woman he had met at Mother Veritable’s.

‘Brother,’ she pleaded, ‘may I come in? I am freezing cold and frightened. I mean you no harm. Look.’ She turned to the person behind her, then came towards Athelstan carrying a small coffer. ‘I’ve brought you a present. I didn’t want to leave Beatrice’s and Clarice’s prized possessions with that old harridan.’

Athelstan took it. ‘And who is that with you?’

‘My name is Jocelyn.’

The young man stepped out of the darkness. He was tall and thin, but his face was open and kindly under unruly black hair. Athelstan caught the smell of sweaty leather.

‘I’m a journeyman from Colchester,’ Jocelyn explained. ‘I deal in leather goods.’ He pointed back into the darkness. ‘I have tethered my sumpter pony just outside the lych gate — one of your parishioners said he would guard it.’

Athelstan liked the look of the young man, whilst Donata was clearly agitated.

‘You had best come in.’

They stepped into the light. Athelstan barred the door behind them and ushered them to the table, where he served them some oatmeal, already prepared for the morning, and two small pots of beer drawn from the barrel in the scullery. They were both hungry. Athelstan sat at the top of the table between them. Bonaventure scratched at the door and was also let in to bask in front of the fire.

‘A busy night,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘but why are you here?’

‘I’m fleeing Mother Veritable’s,’ Donata splurted out. ‘Jocelyn loves me and I love him. We are going to Colchester. We shall be married in St Luke’s Church.’

‘No, you are not going to Colchester,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘you are fleeing to Colchester; you’re indentured to Mother Veritable. Though,’ he added hastily, ‘I agree with what you are doing. But why?’

Jocelyn stretched across the table and grasped his beloved’s hand.

‘I can see you are in love,’ Athelstan remarked, ‘and what you are doing is right.’ He stared at the journeyman. ‘I have your word that you will act honourably?’

‘On my soul, Brother. We shall be married before Advent. We will exchange vows at the church door.’

‘I want to go,’ Donata explained. ‘Mother Veritable is truly wicked. She takes our souls and sells our bodies. Oh, we live in comfort, but we are at the beck and call of any man with his belly full of ale and his heart full of lust.’

The young woman rubbed her eyes.

‘I’m tired of the violence,’ she whispered, ‘of the searching fingers and foul mouths.’

‘What made you decide now?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Beatrice and Clarice’s deaths — murders.’ She looked directly at him. ‘I love Jocelyn, Brother, I want children,’ she clutched her stomach, ‘here, in my womb. I don’t want to drink Mother Veritable’s potions and powders. I don’t want to grow old raddled with disease, or die in some hay barn, my throat slashed from ear to ear, or stabbed in some stinking alleyway. I don’t want the silk and the costly perfumes, or men looking at me as if I am a horse at Smithfield.’

‘You are in love but you are also frightened?’ Athelstan asked.

The young woman nodded.

‘Mother Veritable found out about Beatrice and Clarice. How they had some secret plan to amass their own wealth and flee her house.’

‘Just like their mother?’

‘Yes, just like their mother,’ Donata agreed. ‘Mother Veritable was all in a rage — shouting dire threats.’

‘What was this plan?’ Athelstan asked.

Donata shook her head. ‘I don’t truly know, but I think that cunning man the Misericord was involved.’

‘That’s not what Mother Veritable said this morning.’

‘She was lying. Those knights lusted after the two girls. I have seen them visit the house. It was always the same, Beatrice and Clarice, either individually or together.’

‘So Mother Veritable hates the Misericord?’

‘I think so, Brother, but I don’t know why.’

‘Could she have hired the Judas Man?’ Athelstan asked. ‘you’ve heard of him. He’s outside guarding the doors of my church.’

‘Everybody knows about him,’ Donata agreed. ‘Mother Veritable may have hired him.’ She gave a great sigh. ‘That’s why I was allowed out tonight. I was sent to comfort him, invite him to Mother Veritable’s solar. So I arranged to meet Jocelyn.’ She pulled back her cloak. ‘I left in what I was wearing. I had to seize this opportunity. I shall not return.’

‘Was Mother Veritable at the Great Ratting?’ Athelstan asked.

‘It’s possible.’

‘Could she have killed those two girls?’

‘Mother Veritable is violent.’ Jocelyn spoke up. ‘I visited her house, that’s how I met Donata. I have seen her with cudgel and knife. Brother, she is ferocious as any mercenary.’

‘So why have you come to me?’ Athelstan asked. He took the young woman’s hand, still cold, and gently caressed her fingers.

‘I want your absolution, Brother. I want to confess my sins.’

Athelstan let go of her hand.

‘You already have.’ He raised his own hand in blessing. ‘And I absolve you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.’

‘Is it as simple as that, Brother?’

‘As simple as that,’ Athelstan agreed.

‘Aren’t you supposed to give me a penance?’

‘You’ve already done that,’ Athelstan pushed back his chair, ‘but I’ll give you a fresh one: leave Southwark, never come back. Cling to Jocelyn, love him, close the door on the past, lock and bolt it. . But there’s something else, isn’t there?’

The young woman gnawed at her lip.

‘You’ve left in your shift,’ Athelstan joked, ‘with just a cloak and a pair of sandals. You need money, don’t you?’

‘I have some,’ Jocelyn spoke up, ‘but Donata was insistent that she ask you for help. She said your eyes were kind.’

‘Is that why you brought the coffer?’ Athelstan asked.

Donata shook her head. ‘No, that’s my gift. Beatrice and Clarice were my friends, that’s all that is truly left of them. They loved this casket, I don’t know why. Mother Veritable shouldn’t have it.’

Athelstan stared at the small coffer with its faded blue leather cover and the black Celtic crosses painted there. It was certainly old, its locks broken, the lid not too secure, whilst the painted leather covering was faded and chipped. Athelstan tipped back the lid; the coffer was empty.

‘Why were Beatrice and Clarice so attached to this?’

‘I don’t know, Brother. They said it was a keepsake and entrusted it to me. They must not have wanted Mother Veritable to know they had it, but,’ she rubbed the side of her head, ‘if they had it so long, she must have known.’

Donata blinked away tears.

‘Brother, I’m sorry, but you can help me more than I can help you.’

Athelstan got to his feet, went up to his bed loft and, from its hiding place, brought out a small purse. He came back down and thrust this into the young woman’s hand.

‘Can you tell me, before you leave, how Beatrice and Clarice intended to escape Mother Veritable?’

‘I don’t know, I truly don’t. All I know is that the Misericord may have been involved.’

‘Would Mother Veritable resort to murder to keep such girls?’

‘Of course, Brother, she said they were worth more than a bag of gold.’

‘And she would kill them as a warning to the rest?’

Donata got to her feet. ‘Brother, I thank you, and to answer your question, yes, that’s why I am fleeing now. I must go,’ she pleaded. ‘Time is short.’

Athelstan opened the door and the lovers slipped into the night, whispering their farewells and thanks. Athelstan closed the door and bolted it, crossed himself and said a small prayer that both would be well.

He returned to the contents of Sir Stephen Chandler’s casket and eagerly sifted amongst them. There was a smell of mint from the quilted sachets placed there. The contents were personal possessions, relics of Sir Stephen’s past: a dark blue pennant, neatly folded, displaying a golden falcon, wings outstretched, talons curved to strike; a key; a Turkish dagger with a jewelled hilt in a purple silver sheath; a small reliquary, allegedly containing a piece of the True Cross; a velvet purse, heavy with gold and silver coins; a small Crucifix; a pouch of sand; two exquisite mother-of-pearls; scraps of parchment; a calf-skin-bound ledger and a cream-coloured roll of parchment. Athelstan scrutinised these. The first contained the accounts of Sir Stephen’s estates, showing income and expenditure, all neatly entered alongside each other. A quick survey proved how prosperous Sir Stephen was — the sale of livestock, corn, hay, fish and timber, not to mention the income from rents and leases as well as certain mercantile investments.

‘Truly a finger in every pie,’ Athelstan murmured.

The expenditure was equally lavish: offerings for Masses; the foundation of a chantry chapel in a Canterbury church; gifts to retainers at Christmas, spring, midsummer and Michaelmas; precious cloths brought from Flanders; furnishings, the work of craftsmen in London, Canterbury and Dover. The beautiful roll of parchment, soft and wrapped in strips of red silk, was a draft of Sir Stephen’s will. The writing was that of a professional scribe, the Latin that of a scholar, and its clauses, Athelstan concluded, the work of some high-ranking lawyer. According to this, Sir Stephen had left most of his estate and wealth to his children. Only one thing was left to his colleagues, namely this very coffer and all it contained.

The Dominican pushed the documents away and stared at Bonaventure, curled up comfortably on the floor. ‘Why,’ he murmured to himself, ‘would Sir Stephen bring these documents with him? His accounts, yes, but why his will?’

Athelstan cleared the table and took out his own writing tray. He studied the memorandum he’d written so quickly during Sir John’s interrogation at the tavern. From outside echoed the muffled cries of the Judas Man’s retinue, now settling down for the night.

Athelstan marshalled his thoughts.

Item Toadflax’s death? An unfortunate accident, death by misadventure Cranston would rule. But what does that prove? That the Judas Man had not been given the fullest description and so was easily confused. A subtle trick by the Misericord which showed both how cunning and suspicious he was.

Item The murder of the two whores.

Athelstan paused — he felt guilty. He crossed out the word ‘whores’ and wrote ‘women’.

Who invited Beatrice and Clarice to the Great Ratting? The way they were summonsed was well known, so the girls were neither suspicious nor wary. Accordingly, they must have known that if they were invited to Master Rolles’ tavern they would do business, otherwise they would have not refused Chandler. But who had asked for them? One of the other knights? The Judas Man? Master Rolles? Even the Misericord? But why should the Judas Man or Master Rolles murder them? The Misericord? Had these two young women tricked him and so paid the price? Most unlikely; the Misericord was a rogue but hardly a killer. Mother Veritable? A woman with a midnight soul, cruel and ruthless; was she so angry at these two young women plotting to escape that she killed them? But why should the whore queen remove the source of such rich profits? The knights?

Athelstan rubbed his nose with the end of the quill.

All of these, or one of them, could be the killer, but why? Are the murders of these two young women linked to the mystery of their mother’s disappearance?

Athelstan suppressed a shiver. ‘Like time repeating itself,’ he whispered. Guinevere the Golden had tried to escape, only to disappear. Athelstan nursed a deep suspicion that the poor woman had been killed. Now the same fate had befallen her daughters.

Item The death of Sir Stephen Chandler? He was a fat, prosperous knight preparing to bathe himself and enjoy a cup of claret. Who poisoned that wine? Not the jug, but the cup. Which means that the assassin must have entered that chamber and mixed a powerful poison either just before or just after the wine was poured. Master Rolles? No, too obvious. So who?

Athelstan closed his eyes and tried to imagine that chamber. If someone came in, they would have to act very quickly to place powder in a goblet whilst that sharp-eyed knight was preparing for his bath. One mistake, the smallest of errors, and the murderer would have trapped himself.

So how was it done? And what did Sir Stephen feel so guilty about? Did he kill those young women? Had he been out in the yard with his crossbow, which has now gone missing? Did his quarrel with Beatrice and Clarice during the Great Ratting spill over into violence?

Item The great robbery which took place twenty years ago. Was that just history or did it play a vital role in these grisly occurrences?

Athelstan was beginning to believe there was a connection. He looked up, and from outside came the haunting cry of an owl. The Dominican recalled a lecture given by Prior Anselm on how unforgiven sin, ancient and reeking, never died, but lurked in the undergrowth of life, ready to trap you, to bring you down. Was that happening now? Some twenty years after the Lombard treasure disappeared, along with the boatmen and those two young knights from Kent? Were such ancient sins flocking back like carrion crows to pick over the bones of the present?

Athelstan put his quill down and carefully reread what he had written. One thing did puzzle him about that robbery so many years ago. Why had only two knights been chosen to guard the treasure? And why those two? He rose from the table, stretched and went to kneel beside Bonaventure. The cat hardly stirred. Athelstan crossed himself and, looking up at the Crucifix nailed to the wall, began to recite his evening prayers, concluding with the De Profundis for his brother Francis and his parents. Athelstan tried to ignore the sins of others as he concentrated on his own, and strove to make reparation for them: the meeting with those knights who had fought so many years ago reminded him of how he had lured Francis into the armies of the King and taken him to France only to be killed, coming back to break his parents’ hearts with the news about the death of their beloved younger son. Athelstan leaned back on his heels. Such sins, forgiven or not, never left him.

His mind drifted back to the Oyster Wharf and the night the treasure had been stolen, when so many lives had changed for ever. Athelstan prided himself on his logic, on the way he argued a case based on evidence. He was wary of so-called mystical theories and spurious spiritual feelings. Nevertheless, although he fought the temptation, he could not avoid the conclusion that now, in Southwark, at that tavern the Night in Jerusalem, the sins of the past had lunged back to haunt the living.