The House of Shadows

Chapter 6

Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City of London, sat in his court chamber at the Guildhall overlooking Cheapside. He had arrived just before dawn resplendent in his grey hose and quilted jacket of dark murrey lined with silver piping over a cambric shirt laced high under the chin. He sat in his throne-like chair behind the great oaken table on the dais at the far end of his chamber. On his left, a copy of the Statutes and Ordinances of the City; on his right, his broad leather war belt. The writing tray in front of him contained sheets of vellum, sharpened quills, a razor-edged knife, pumice stone and a shaker of fine sand. Just below the dais, sitting on a high stool stooped over his writing desk, sat Simon the scrivener, Cranston’s clerk. The day’s proceedings were about to begin and, beneath his straggling white hair, Simon’s lined, chalky-white face was severe. Nonetheless, he kept his head down to hide his enjoyment. Simon liked nothing better than to regale his wife and large family with the doings and sayings of Sir John Cranston. Today promised to provide fresh amusement, Cranston seemed in fine fettle and some of the cases were set to be highly disputatious.

‘Did you send to the Chancery of Secrets,’ Cranston barked, ‘and tell those lazy buggers I want that document?’

‘I did, Sir John,’ Simon answered mournfully, shaking his head. ‘But you know these Chancery clerks — it’s sign this and sign that and by whose authority?’ Simon waved one ink-stained hand. ‘And so on and so on.’

‘Good, good,’ Cranston murmured. He scratched his head, his hand going under the table for the miraculous wine skin.

The murderous business at the Night in Jerusalem had perplexed him so much he had decided not to stay there but to return home to the loving embrace of the Lady Maud and the welcoming screams of the two poppets.

‘Lovely boys, lovely boys,’ the coroner breathed.

‘Sir John?’

‘Nothing.’

Cranston straightened up in the chair, took a swig from the miraculous wine skin and, as usual, offered it to Simon, who, as usual, politely refused.

‘Right,’ Cranston declared, ‘let’s begin. Tell Flaxwith to bring up the first.’

Simon rang the hand bell. Flaxwith, breathing heavily, and escorted by his two ugly mastiffs, marched a line of prisoners into the room, a group of roisterers who had become drunk, attacked the watch and urinated into the Great Conduit in Cheapside. Cranston fined them a shilling each and sentenced them to a morning in the stocks with a small bucket of horse piss to be tied round their necks. The next case was a petty trader, guilty of ‘evecheping’, selling goods after the market horn had sounded and the day’s trading had finished. However, he looked so pathetic and hungry that Cranston gave him sixpence, offered him a swig from the miraculous wine skin and dismissed the case. Two women and a man came next: Eleanor Battlewaite and Mary Dodsworth, followed by a garish-looking man dressed in a black cape decorated with silver stars and golden half-moons. Cranston leaned back in his chair and listened to Simon, who tried to keep his voice level as he read out the indictment.

‘Wait a minute,’ Cranston shouted. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Peter the Prophet,’ the man replied in a squeaky voice.

‘Go on,’ Cranston said.

Simon described the case — how Eleanor had accused Mary of stealing a yard of silk, Mary had hired Peter the Prophet, told him secrets about Eleanor and bribed him to get close to her to persuade her that Mary had not stolen the silk. The case went on and on, Eleanor and Mary screaming at each other, Peter the Prophet protesting his innocence. Cranston at last grew tired of it all and beat the table.

‘So, you say you are a prophet?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘So, you know how much I am going to fine you then?’

‘Er. .’

‘Tell me,’ Cranston asked sweetly, ‘what’s going to happen here?’

Peter the Prophet decided silence was the best defence.

‘Very well.’ Cranston banged the gavel again. ‘Mary Dodsworth, you are fined five shillings for stealing the silk and hiring the prophet. Peter the Prophet, you are fined the same for being a charlatan. Eleanor Battlewaite, two shillings for being stupid enough to believe him and for wasting my time.’

Cranston promptly dismissed them, and they were followed by another fortune-teller, Richard the baker, who believed he could predict events by cutting up a loaf. He was fined and dismissed, as were two pastry cooks who had tried to sell pies as venison when they contained rancid beef. Flaxwith cleared the room and Cranston sank back in his chair.

‘Satan’s tits! I’ve had enough of this. I am going to pray.’

‘The usual church, Sir John?’

‘Yes,’ Cranston replied. ‘The usual church.’

The coroner went down the stairs and out across the courtyard into Cheapside. It was a fine day. The clouds had broken, the sky was blue, and the clamour in the marketplace was almost drowned by the clear tolling of church bells. For a while Cranston stood at the entrance of the Guildhall courtyard. He loved this scene. The market horn had sounded and another day’s trading had begun. On either side of Cheapside’s great thoroughfare, stalls and shops were open and apprentices were already shouting, eager to catch the eye of citizens who flocked in for the day’s trading. The cookshops were busy and the sweet smell of baked pastry and spiced meat curled everywhere, mixing with the more unpleasant odours of horse dung, wet straw, and the piled midden heaps awaiting the dung carts. A group of knights rode by, sitting arrogantly in their high peaked saddles, a glorious array of colour, gleaming harness and the glint of spur, dagger and the bits of their horses. Alongside them ran huntsmen and dog whippers leading the hounds out to the fields to the north of the City. Troops of prisoners were being escorted by bailiffs of the Corporation eager to deposit their charges at the Fleet, Marshalsea, or the prison barges waiting on the Thames to take them downriver for trial at Westminster.

Cranston walked across Cheapside. Stall owners shouted and boasted; already a quarrel had broken out regarding a barrel of salt from Poitou, whilst further down Cheapside, the Pie-Powder Court, which governed the marketplace, was arbitrating over whether a piece of leather was bazen, sheepskin or, as the trader claimed, from Cordova in Spain. People were being fastened to the stocks or led up to stand in the cage above the Great Conduit. Two ungainly figures hobbled towards Cranston. He groaned and tried to quicken his pace but his pursuers were relentless and blocked his passage.

‘Good morrow, Sir John. And how is the Lady Maud?’

Cranston glared at these two professional beggars, Leif the lame, who had one leg but could move swifter than many a man with two, and Rawbum who, many years previously, drunk as a sot, had sat down in a pan of burning oil and lived never to forget it.

‘Sir John, we have composed a new song.’

Cranston stared unblinkingly, and without further invitation, Leif, one hand on his chest, scarred face staring up at the sky, began the most awful singing, while Rawbum played a tune on a reedy flute.

‘Very good, very good,’ Cranston intervened, thrusting a coin into each of their hands. ‘I’ve heard enough, now bugger off.’

The two beggars, chorusing their thanks, would have pursued Sir John even further, but the coroner turned threateningly, and they took the hint and headed back towards a pastry shop, whilst Sir John, like an arrow from a bow, sped across Cheapside and into the welcoming warmth of his chosen tavern, the Lamb of God. Once ensconced in his favourite window seat overlooking the herb garden, Sir John welcomed the loving ministrations of the ale-wife, who placed in front of him a tankard of frothing ale and strips of bread covered with honey. He drank and ate staring out into the garden, its bright greenery hidden by a sharp frost. The broad carp pond was still covered with a skin of ice and Cranston realised that it would be some time before the sun’s warmth was felt. He chatted about this to the ale-wife as he stared around the tavern. A second tankard was brought. Sir John sipped this whilst listening to a boy in the street outside sweetly singing a carol, ‘The Angel of the Lord Announced to Mary’.

‘I wonder,’ Cranston reflected, ‘if God’s good angel will reveal the truth to me?’

He sat back in his seat cradling the tankard and recalled the events of the previous evening. He had left Athelstan and returned to the Night in Jerusalem for a cup of warm posset, where he had engaged Tobias the cask man in conversation. Tobias had been full of horror at the hideous murder of Toadflax, Chandler and the two whores. Cranston sipped at the tankard, distracted by the cowl-cloaked individual who sat huddled in the inglenook. The coroner prided himself on knowing everyone who came into the Lamb of God, but he marked that one down as a stranger and returned to his reflections. Tobias had also been angry on behalf of Master Rolles.

‘He was in the kitchen all the time with me,’ the cask man had protested, ‘and I know who did it.’ He had tapped his nose knowingly.

Cranston had bought him a drink, and Tobias confessed how he had seen Chandler, plump as a plum, coming in from the yard.

‘More importantly,’ he whispered, ‘I glimpsed blood on his hands.’

Tobias then went on to explain how his curiosity was so provoked he visited the tavern washerwoman, responsible for the linen in the guest chambers. They had both sifted amongst the cloths and found napkins from the dead man’s chamber with stains which looked suspiciously like dried blood. The washer-woman was not certain; she pointed out how Chandler had tried to wash the napkins himself. Tobias immediately reported his findings to Master Rolles. The tavern keeper was gleeful, crowing like a cock on a dung hill, exclaiming that, according to an ancient law, he could not be fined the ‘murdrum’, an ancient tax levied on all hosteliers and taverners on whose premises a mysterious death occurred. Rolles, still happy with this news, had also joined Cranston, repeating what Tobias had said and triumphantly producing the stained napkins. Cranston examined them carefully and concluded that both Rolles and Tobias were correct. The stains did look suspiciously like dried blood. So had Chandler killed those two whores, hidden his crossbow and returned to his chamber to wash his hands? But why should a powerful landowner, who could more than pay for the likes of Beatrice and Clarice, murder them in such hideous circumstances? And Chandler’s own death? Was that revenge? Was Chandler feverish that morning because of what he had done? Had he taken that bath to wash away any evidence of his crime? Sir John absent-mindedly ordered another ale pot.

‘I’ll pay for that.’

The figure crouched in the inglenook rose and, taking off his cloak, walked across to join Sir John.

‘Well I never!’ Cranston’s hand went out to shake his visitor’s. ‘How did you know I would be here?’

Matthias of Evesham clasped the coroner’s hand and slid on to the bench next to him, turning slightly to face Cranston, his beringed fingers laced together like some benevolent priest waiting to hear confession. The ale-wife brought two further tankards. Matthias lifted his, toasted Cranston and sipped carefully. The coroner moved slightly away so he could study the newcomer more closely. Matthias of Evesham was newly appointed as Master of the Chancery of Secrets in the Office of the Night, which had its chambers in the Tower. With his round, cheerful face, sparkling blue eyes and pleasant, smiling mouth, he assumed all the appearance of a benevolent monk, an impression he deliberately fostered with his soft speech and ever-present good humour. The only obvious betrayal that he was no ascetic was his love of jewellery: the gold collar around his neck, the costly rings which bedecked every finger, not to mention the gold bracelet on his left wrist.

A man of secrets was Master Matthias, a scholar of logic and philosophy who had lectured in the schools of Oxford and Cambridge, even those of Paris, before entering the service of the Regent John of Gaunt. Many mistook him for a priest, but Master Matthias was married — a good match — with the Lady Alice, who owned a pleasant mansion between the Temple and Fleet Street. Married or not, he was still a man for the ladies, as well as a great ferreter of secrets. He organised Gaunt’s spies both at home and abroad and advised the Regent privately as well as at the Great Council meetings at Westminster.

‘You’re well, Sir John?’ Matthias broke the silence. ‘And the Lady Maud?’

‘I am fine,’ Cranston replied. ‘My lady wife is fine, my children are well, my dogs are well, my cat is well, the fish in my stew pond are well. You haven’t come sailing along the Thames to ask me that?’

‘No, I haven’t.’ Matthias laughed and put his tankard down. ‘You asked for a schedule of documents, for the searches made after the Lombard treasure was robbed some twenty years ago.’

‘A reasonable request,’ Cranston retorted. ‘I want to know what searches were made, what was discovered.’

‘Very little.’

‘So why not let me see the documents?’

‘They’ve been destroyed.’

Matthias looked so sorrowful Cranston burst out laughing.

‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Matthias grinned, ‘but they were destroyed, because they furnished us with nothing.’

‘Us?’ Cranston asked.

Matthias ran a finger around the rim of his tankard. ‘Let me make it very clear, Sir John, nobody would love to find out more than my master, John of Gaunt, what happened to the treasure. I will answer any question you want and you’ll learn much more from me than anyone else.’

Cranston simply stared back.

‘Twenty years ago,’ Matthias began, ‘the Crusading army which left here negotiated a massive loan from the Lombard bankers, in return for which the bankers were promised certain trading concessions in both the Narrow Seas and the Middle Sea. They were also assured of a percentage of any plunder. The Lombards sent the treasure to the Tower. At the time, my master, John of Gaunt, was Keeper of the Tower.’

‘Ah!’ Cranston exclaimed. ‘Now we come to it.’

‘On the eve of the Feast of St Matthew, the twentieth of September 1360,’ Matthias continued, ‘the treasure was taken out of the Tower, placed on a barge and dispatched to a secret place.’

‘Why wasn’t it taken directly to the ships?’

‘The Admiral of the Fleet decided that was too dangerous. He wanted the treasure sent across the river to Southwark then transported secretly to the flagship. For reasons best known to himself he thought this was safer, and so did John of Gaunt.’

‘Why all this stealth?’ Cranston asked.

‘To keep the treasure safe. You see,’ Matthias wiped his mouth on a napkin, ‘if anyone had heard what was happening and wished to steal the treasure, they would expect it to be brought by land along the north bank of the Thames, past London Bridge and across to the flagship or by royal barge downriver in the direction of Westminster. Sir Jack, when the Crusader fleet was at anchor, every river pirate and outlaw who had heard about the treasure would watch the flagship. They might have attacked when the treasure was being transported, they would certainly know when it arrived and where it had gone. So, John of Gaunt and the Admiral of the Fleet decided the treasure should be taken by barge, during the night across river and along the south bank of the Thames. This meant the route of the treasure barge, its destination and the time it arrived would remain a secret. Barges from the Tower go back and forth across the river to Southwark all the time. Once across the Thames, it was to be collected by two knights and transported to the flagship. Now the bargemen handed that treasure over to two knights whom Gaunt trusted.’ Matthias pulled a face. ‘Well, at the time they were: Richard Culpepper and Edward Mortimer. Ostensibly they were chosen by Lord Belvers, but John of Gaunt really made the decision.’

‘Why,’ Cranston asked, ‘didn’t they have a military escort?’

‘To attract as little attention as possible.’

‘Why were Culpepper and Mortimer chosen?’

‘Because,’ Matthias sighed, ‘they were trusted by everyone, especially His Grace.’

Cranston bit on the skin of his thumb. Like every-thing which came from the Regent, Cranston sensed Matthias’ story was a mixture of truth and lies. The coroner gazed quickly around the tap room and edged closer.

‘Master Matthias,’ he whispered, ‘let’s cut to the chase. How do I know that the treasure wasn’t stolen by the Regent himself?’

Matthias smiled. ‘His Grace predicted you might say that. Two things.’ Matthias held up his hand. ‘First, the captain of his guard brought back to the Tower an indenture, signed by Culpepper. Second, for months after the robbery, the finger of blame was pointed at my master. He took a great oath that he knew nothing about the great robbery.’

‘In a word,’ Cranston replied, ‘your master was furious.’

‘Yes, and he still is,’ Matthias agreed. ‘He has not forgotten what happened twenty years ago, and still makes careful enquiries, yet he has found nothing.’

‘The woman,’ Cranston declared, ‘the courtesan known as Guinevere the Golden. They say she was glimpsed here and there.’

‘Rumours.’ Matthias shook his head. ‘Stories, people eager for the reward. A large reward, Sir John, a hundred pounds, not to mention a pardon for any crime.’

Matthias sniffed.

‘His Grace the Regent has heard about the killings at the Night in Jerusalem, the sudden and mysterious death of Sir Stephen, so his curiosity is pricked. He wants to know if these events are somehow connected with the Lombard treasure. He asks me to ask you to remember that.’

‘Whom does he suspect?’ Cranston asked.

‘He often wonders where Culpepper and Mortimer fled, or where they may have hidden the treasure.’

‘Whom does he suspect?’ Cranston repeated, gripping Matthias’ arm.

‘There’s a man sheltering in St Erconwald’s Church, protected by your secretarius, Athelstan the Dominican. Did you know that twenty years ago the Misericord’s father and Master Rolles were the closest of friends? That the Misericord often absconded from his school master at St Paul’s to frequent Rolles’ tavern? His Grace wonders if the Misericord, a born rogue, knows anything of this twenty-year-old mischief. Is that why someone hired a hunter as ruthless as the Judas Man to track him down and bring him to justice? Is it because the Misericord knows something about the Lombard treasure?’

Matthias got to his feet and picked up his cloak; he pointed at the bread and honey.

‘You should eat that, Sir John. It would be a sin to waste it,’ he leaned down, ‘as it would His Grace’s favour.’

When Matthias had left, Cranston picked up the bread and honey and chewed it thoughtfully. He wondered how much of what he had been told was the truth. The ale-wife came over. Cranston absent-mindedly thanked her, paid the bill and left the tavern, going down to the river to hire Master Moleskin’s barge for passage to Southwark. .

Athelstan had risen early to collect bracken for the fire from the small copse at the far end of the cemetery. He greeted his parishioners and other members of the posse as charitably as he could, and tried to distract himself by admiring the wind-washed sky, which promised a fine day. He acknowledged their shouts of greeting, although he noticed Watkin and Pike kept their backs to him. He returned to the kitchen, built up the fire, washed his hands and settled down to compose himself for the morning Mass. With Bonaventure crouching beside him, Athelstan recited the ‘Adoro te devote’ of Thomas Aquinas, the great Dominican theologian. A knock on the door interrupted him and, praying for patience, he answered it. However, instead of the Judas Man or one of his parishioners, Brother Malachi stood there in his black Benedictine robe, hood back, and over his shoulders a set of leather panniers.

‘Brother!’ Malachi stepped back. ‘You do not seem pleased.’

‘Brother,’ Athelstan quipped, ‘I thought you were someone else.’

They exchanged the kiss of peace and Athelstan ushered him into the kitchen. Due to the fast before Mass, he could only offer a cup of water, but Malachi shook his head, saying he was only too pleased to warm his fingers above the fire.

‘Did you stay at the Night in Jerusalem?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No.’ Malachi spread his hands out to catch the warmth. ‘I’ve had enough of my companions. I left late in the afternoon, I was ashamed of what they said, those two poor girls lying murdered! Sir Maurice and the rest acting all righteous during the day but slinking out like sinners at night!’

‘Are you shocked?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, yes, I am,’ the Benedictine replied. ‘Oh, I understand the feasting and the drinking. I can understand them being smitten by a tavern wench, but singling out those two girls, it’s callous, cruel, especially as they knew their mother. I am not being self-righteous,’ Malachi made himself more comfortable on the stool, ‘but I do not think I will join them next year. The past is gone, it’s finished.’

‘You have searched for your brother?’ Athelstan raised his hand in apology. ‘I know, I have asked you before.’

‘I have done what I can,’ Malachi replied. ‘My order has houses the length and breadth of Christendom, all manner of travellers rest there. It also does business with both the great and the lowly so it is well positioned to hear things. Oh, I have heard reports, but I know in my heart my brother is dead.’

‘And Guinevere the Golden?’

‘The same.’

‘Did your brother ever hint at what was planned?’

‘He was much younger than I. He was full of knightly dreams and chivalry, of beautiful women, of jousting and tournaments and brave deeds. Oh yes, he could act the merry rogue, but he truly lost his heart and soul to Guinevere. He didn’t see her as a courtesan or a whore, but a beautiful damsel in distress, trapped in a life she was desperate to escape from.’

‘And was she?’

‘She had a face as beautiful as an angel, not an evil heart but a greedy one. Fickle of mind, changeable in mood, yet I might as well have asked your cat to sing the Ave Maria than make my brother realise the truth. The last time I saw him was the day before the treasure arrived. He seemed distracted, perhaps excited.’ Malachi pushed back the stool and got to his feet. ‘But after that, nothing.’

‘And why was he chosen?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I’ve told you. Lord Belvers, his commander, trusted him. John of Gaunt also played his part; Mortimer was his man.’

‘Do you truly think he stole that treasure?’ Athelstan asked.

‘In my heart no, but the evidence seems to point otherwise. I’ll pray for him at Mass.’

‘As will I, at mine,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You know my story, Brother Malachi?’

‘I’ve heard about it,’ the Benedictine replied. ‘How, when you were a novice, you and your brother joined the levies bound for France. He was killed there, wasn’t he?’

‘And I came back,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘My order made my novitiate twice as long, every humble task was given to me.’ He opened the door. ‘Let me put it this way, Brother, I know everything there is about the latrines and sewers of Blackfriars.’

They left the house and entered the church by a side door. Athelstan walked to the rood screen, stopped and gasped.

‘Brother?’

‘Where is he?’

Athelstan hastened across into the sacristy. He opened the side door which led out to the small latrine built over a sewer. Across the cemetery, members of the posse were staring at him. Athelstan returned to the church and locked the door.

‘It’s the Misericord,’ Athelstan gasped. ‘He appears to have vanished. Come, Brother, help me.’

They searched the church, the chantry chapel, the sacristy, even the small disused crypt, but of the Misericord not a sign, nothing to mark his stay, except an empty ale pot and a trancher with some stale crumbs. He had vanished along with his weapons. Athelstan scratched his head. He didn’t want to shout the Misericord’s name or raise the alarm. He was surprised, yet slightly relieved. How had the rogue managed to escape? Once again he searched the church, sending Brother Malachi out to walk the perimeter of the cemetery and visit God-Bless snoring in the death house. The Benedictine returned shaking his head.

‘Gone,’ he said, ‘like the snow in spring. Neither hide nor hair of him.’

‘We’ll not raise the alarm,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Not until I’ve celebrated Mass.’

They busied themselves preparing the altar, lighting the candles, filling the cruets with water and wine. Athelstan vested and celebrated his Mass alone in the small chantry chapel, whilst Malachi did the same at the high altar. Athelstan tried to think only of what was happening, of the Great Miracle, of bread and wine changing into the body and blood of the unseen God, but as he confessed to Malachi afterwards, he was distracted by another miracle. How could a criminal like the Misericord vanish from his church, walk through a ring of armed men ever vigilant to catch him, without let or hindrance?

‘Well,’ Athelstan crossed himself, ‘I might as well proclaim the good news for all to hear.’

He walked down the nave, opened the main door and, ignoring the protests of Pernel and Cecily the courtesan, who had been waiting for Mass, though they confessed they had arrived late, called across the Judas Man from his usual position by the lychgate. This hound and scourge of criminals came swaggering across, sword slapping against his thigh.

‘Good morrow, Brother.’

‘Good morning to you, sir.’ Athelstan forced a smile. ‘I must inform you that our sanctuary man, the Misericord, has disappeared.’

‘What?’

The Judas Man bounded up the steps, almost knocking Athelstan aside, and throwing back the door with a crash ran up into the sanctuary. Athelstan followed, protesting. The Judas Man took the small horn hanging from his belt, opened the corpse door and blew three long blasts. Soon the nave was filled with men milling about, Pike, Watkin and other parishioners included. Athelstan decided to let them have their head. Once again the church was searched but no trace could be found. The Judas Man, chest heaving with fury, came and stood before Athelstan, sweat coursing down his unshaven face, the smell of wine heavy on his breath. He went to poke Athelstan but the Dominican pushed his hand away. The Judas Man stepped away at the threatening murmur from Athelstan’s parishioners.

‘For God’s sake, man,’ Athelstan urged, ‘think about where you are! This is a church; I am its priest. I have nothing to do with the escape of your prisoner. You know that.’

The Judas Man opened his mouth to protest but stopped himself just in time. He brushed by Athelstan and stormed out on to the porch, shouting at the others to join him.

‘An exciting start to the day,’ Malachi murmured.

‘Aye, and it’s only begun.’

Athelstan returned to the house, where he and Malachi broke fast. Athelstan was still distracted and puzzled by the Misericord’s disappearance. He excused himself and returned to the church, where Pernel the Flemish woman was trying to place a chaplet of flowers on the statue of the Virgin in the Lady Chapel. Athelstan helped her. The woman stepped back, fingering her strangely coloured hair, tears running down her parchment-coloured face.

‘Father, will you hear my confession?’

‘Oh no, Pernel, not again,’ Athelstan said.

‘But I’ve slept with men, dozens of them!’

Athelstan grasped her face in his hands, staring into those wild, frenetic eyes.

‘Pernel, it’s all your imaginings. You are a good woman.’

‘Do you think I’ll go to heaven, Father?’

Athelstan let her go. ‘Well, if you don’t, Pernel, no one will.’

‘The ghost has been back at the squint hole.’

‘What?’ Athelstan said.

Pernel pointed down the church.

‘Go outside, Father. When I couldn’t get into church this morning I walked round to have a look. She must have carried a candle.’

Athelstan, intrigued, left by the sacristy door and went along the side of the church. He found the diamond-shaped squint hole, crouched down and peered through. He could see Pernel standing at the entrance to the rood screen, and his fingers touched the piece of wax on the edge of the squint hole. He peeled it off, stared across the cemetery and laughed quietly. He recalled the novice in her voluminous gown coming into the church last night, Pike and Watkin in the cemetery, the darkness, the heavy mist. Athelstan went back into the church.

‘Pernel, please do me a favour. Go and tell Watkin, Pike and Ranulf that I want to see them now.’

‘Why, do you want to hear their confessions, Father?’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Just before I hang them!’

The old Flemish woman scurried off, and a little while later the three miscreants entered the church. Athelstan told Pernel to stand outside and guard the sacristy door whilst he took the three into the sanctuary. They stood hangdog before him.

‘Yes, you all look as if you are heading for the execution cart.’

Athelstan sat down on the altar steps and looked up at them.

‘You know you can be hanged for helping a felon escape sanctuary?’

‘But, Father, how could you. .’

‘Oh, very easily, Pike. I’ll tell you how it was done, then I’ll decide whether or not to inform the Judas Man. The Misericord has quick-silver wits, a nimble mind and a clever tongue. He knew all three of you before he ever took sanctuary here.’

The three stared at the paved floor as if they had never seen it before.

‘Ranulf, where are your ferrets?’

‘With God-Bless in the death house.’

‘That’s where you’ll be, you stupid man. As I was saying, the Misericord is a merry rogue. He’d often leave the sacristy to relieve himself, and he secretly chew you three into conversation. I suspect he had silver coins hidden all over his person. He paid one of you to go across the river and tell his sister Edith, sheltering in the Minoresses, about his predicament. You all know she visited here last night, and one thing about a nun’s robes is that you can hide an army beneath them. She brought a change of clothing, money, food, anything he might need to flee. She asked to speak with him alone and it would have been easy to hide a bundle in a darkened corner of the sanctuary. She left, I left, the posse outside settled down for the night. Somehow you three beauties managed to guard one part of the cemetery wall. You had arranged with the Misericord, in return for a pocketful of silver, to provide a signal when it was safe for him to slip out of the church.’ Athelstan pointed down to the squint hole. ‘And what better plan than to light a candle and place it at the squint hole, the sign that it was safe to leave? The Misericord was all ready, dressed in a wig, a dark cloak. Out of the sacristy he crept, across the cemetery and into the night.’

Watkin jumped in alarm as Bonaventure entered the church and sat next to his master, as if curious to discover what was happening.

‘I may have some of the details wrong,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘but I think the story is true. Yes? How much did he pay you?’

‘Ten marks,’ Ranulf muttered. ‘Three for each of us and one for the church.’

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You can have one each and I’ll keep seven for the church. Come on.’

The three quickly handed over the coins. Athelstan handed one back.

‘Pike, give that to Pernel, and if I were you, I would keep out of the Judas Man’s way.’ He got to his feet. ‘It’s only a matter of time before his wits follow the same path as mine.’

Athelstan dismissed them and returned to his house. Malachi was fast asleep, head on his arm, so Athelstan left him, quietly going up to the bed loft, removing the warming pan and tidying things up. He heard shouting and went out to the cemetery, but it was only the Judas Man and his posse preparing to leave. Athelstan had returned and was banking the fire when Cranston swept through the door all abluster. Malachi started awake. Excusing himself, the Benedictine greeted Sir John but refused Athelstan’s offer of food and said he would return to the tavern. Once he had gone, Sir John told Athelstan everything he’d learned in the Lamb of God. Athelstan listened quietly and hid his prickle of unease. He feared the Regent and wondered why a man like Matthias of Evesham should be so interested.

‘It’s not just the treasure, Sir John, it’s something else.’

‘And what about the excitement here?’

Cranston sat at the table mopping his brow, helping himself to a bowl of oatmeal mixed with honey. He stopped eating and listened with surprise as Athelstan informed him about the Misericord’s disappearance.

‘I’ll tell that Judas Man to keep his hands-’

The coroner was interrupted by a furious pounding at the door. Athelstan answered it, and one of Master Rolles’ tap boys burst into the room, red-faced, hair clammy with sweat.

‘Sir John,’ he gasped, fighting for breath, ‘you’ve got to come. I’ve been across to Cheapside but couldn’t find you. Sir Laurence Broomhill has been horribly wounded, he lies dying at the Night in Jerusalem.’

Athelstan made the boy calm down, giving him a small cup of buttermilk. With a little bit of coaxing, the boy described how, late last night, the tavern had been roused by a hideous screaming. How Master Rolles had gone into the cellar and found Sir Laurence Broomhill, awash with blood, his leg held fast in a mantrap which Rolles had kept in the cellar.

‘Master Rolles sometimes uses them,’ the boy explained. ‘Places them in his garden against those who poach from the carp pond, or break into his stables or outhouses.’

Sir John nodded understandingly, though in truth he hated such devices, which were increasingly used by the powerful and wealthy to protect their gardens and orchards, and were so sharp and powerful they could sever a man’s leg.

‘Was it an accident?’ Athelstan asked.

The boy shrugged.

‘Master Rolles doesn’t know. He thinks Sir Laurence went down to the cellar for some wine; a jug was found nearby.’

‘Why didn’t they send for me immediately?’ Cranston asked.

‘Oh, Sir John,’ the boy blustered, ‘it was all dreadful, they had to free his leg, bind it and take him to his chamber. Master Stapleton the physician was sent for but there was nothing he could do. Sir Laurence now lies all sweaty and bloody. I saw him.’ The boy imitated the dying knight’s jerky movements.

‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston soothed, ‘I know what happens. Brother Athelstan,’ he pointed to the door, ‘another day, another hunt.’