The Straw Men

PART FOUR

The light was dying. People, wrapped in cloaks, mantles and hoods, hurried home. The Southwark gallows rose fearsome and sombre through the murk, the corpses hanging there already freezing hard. The stocks nearby were full of miscreants, locked by neck, wrist or ankle. The moans of the prisoners were so pitiful Athelstan begged the bailiffs, for the love of God and the honour of Sir John, to free them. A couple of coins provided the necessary encouragement. Athelstan walked up the main thoroughfare into the tangle of alleyways leading towards his church. The friar paused, still lost in thought. ‘The heads were severed in Ghent,’ he murmured, ‘their tongues plucked out beforehand. They must have uttered some terrible slander against My Lord of Gaunt, but what? Something connected with that mysterious prisoner?’

‘Brother, are you well?’ Athelstan blinked and stared at the sharp features of Ranulf the rat catcher peering out at him from the shelter of his tarred, pointed hood. Ranulf lifted his cage carrying his ferocious ferrets, Ferox and Audax. ‘All quiet at the church, Brother. Master Thibault’s gifts disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. Slices of roast pork and stoups of ale. Well,’ Ranulf shook his cage, ‘Moleskin the boatmen’s shed is plagued by rats. The cold has driven the enemy out into the open,’ and, muttering to himself, Ranulf wandered off, swaying slightly on his feet.

Athelstan continued up the alleyway on to the open enclosure before St Erconwald’s. The old church rose eerily in the murky light under its carpet of frozen snow, a white wilderness which only emphasized the dull, black mass of the sombre church. A beacon light, lit by Mauger the bell clerk, glowed from the steeple. Candlelight flared behind the shutters of the death house where Godbless and his goat sheltered. Athelstan stared around at the sheer bleakness. He wondered what visions lurked here beyond the veil? He walked to the cemetery lychgate. Did the Soul-harrier, Satan’s apostate angel, hide among the gravestones? Did the shadow spirits, the wandering wraiths and shade-souls, hover to plot dark designs against the living? Athelstan closed his eyes. Was Godbless right? Did the dead swarm here like larvae, squalid ghosts, eyes the colour of boxwood in faces of waxen yellow? The beggar claimed he had heard their night shrieks. Athelstan rubbed his eyes. ‘And you, Friar,’ he quietly accused himself, ‘are becoming tired and your brain fanciful.’ He took a deep breath, tried to clear his mind and went in search of where Benedicta had hidden the house key. Once he found it, he ensured Philomel was comfortable, unlocked the door and walked into the stone-flagged kitchen, clean-swept, tidy but very cold. Athelstan took a taper to the hour candle. He lit the spigots and lantern horns before firing the braziers and the kindling in the hearth. Benedicta had left a lamp with perfumed oil of the anointment of roses to sweeten the air. A scratching at the door disturbed the friar’s enjoyment of the fragrance. He allowed Bonaventure in and the cat immediately joined the friar at the hearth. Athelstan pulled across the two rods; from each hung a small cauldron on a chain, one containing oatmeal, the other a soup, thickened and seasoned with herbs and onions. The room slowly thawed, the savoury smells from the pots curling out. Once the food was ready Athelstan prepared two bowls for himself and a pot of oatmeal for Bonaventure. The friar sat at the table, blessed both himself and the cat and ate slowly, staring into the flames.

‘Where do I begin, Bonaventure?’ he murmured. The cat scarcely lifted its head. ‘Just like Sir John, absorbed in your food. Well, let me explain. There are two camps. My Lord of Gaunt’s and that of the Upright Men, who definitely have a cell here in Saint Erconwald’s. Each party has a spy deep in the other’s household, and so it begins.’ Athelstan gulped a spoonful. ‘Gaunt brings his agents the Oudernardes from Ghent. They escort a mysterious prisoner, probably a woman, along with those two severed heads: one belongs to a young man, the other to an older woman. Both must have spoken some hideous slander against Gaunt, hence the removal of their tongues before their heads were severed. The gruesome remains were probably brought to London as trophies as well as proof of a task well done, of clacking tongues being silenced forever.’ Athelstan supped another mouthful. ‘The Upright Men stole the heads during that attack but failed to capture the mysterious prisoner. I wonder, Bonaventure, who gave them such excellent intelligence of where Gaunt’s party would be at a certain time on a certain day in the depth of winter?’ Athelstan waved his spoon at Bonaventure. ‘At the Roundhoop Thibault struck like a hawk. Who among the Upright Men told him about such a meeting?’ Bonaventure, who’d licked his bowl clean, cast an envious eye on those of this strange little friar. Athelstan pushed the oatmeal towards his dining companion. ‘Not the best of banquets, Bonaventure, but at least it’s hot. Now, what did really happen at the Roundhoop? Something definitely did but I can’t place it. What did that young man mean when he said the woman should continue gleaning? And what was he looking for? Some people might say he was all feverish due to the shock of death but I don’t think so.’

Athelstan paused, listening to the faint sounds from outside. Darkness would be falling, and the freezing cold would keep most of his parishioners indoors. ‘I wonder,’ Athelstan put down his spoon and stroked Bonaventure, ‘has Gaunt, my learned cat, truly placed a spy here in my parish?’ He stared at the crucifix fastened above the hearth. ‘None of my parishioners were present in Saint John’s Chapel, thank God.’ Athelstan swiftly crossed himself. ‘But Bonaventure, a clever assassin certainly was.’ Athelstan rose to put a log on the fire; when he turned back Bonaventure was finishing his soup. ‘Wretched cat!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘But who was that Judas man in the chapel? How did he kill? At first I suspected he used Hell’s mouth to shield and hide himself but, to do that, he would have to detach it from the rood screen, and that never happened.’ He breathed out noisily. ‘Yet how could that assassin loose two bolts and not be seen, leave those severed heads and not be detected? And how did the assassin trap Barak in that crypt, strike him at the back of the head, strap on the war belt, thrust a crossbow into his hand then hurl him from that window?’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘All a great mystery, even more so Eli’s death. Imagine a chamber like this, Bonaventure. No secret entrances, the window shuttered both within and outside, the door locked and barred. So how was Eli killed by a crossbow bolt? The eyelet was sealed and stuck?’ Athelstan moved to the door. ‘Even if it wasn’t, if I open the eyelet here and slide the shutter back, I’d see a weapon thrust against the gap. I’d already be vigilant — that’s why we use an eyelet — even more so if I glimpsed a crossbow.’ Athelstan went and stood before the hearth. ‘And that mysterious fire? I am sure it was a diversion so Eli’s killer could slip through the darkness. Why Eli? A simple player? To spread terror or,’ Athelstan wagged a finger, ‘did he see something untoward in that chapel? Or was he simply murdered because he might have done? Yes,’ Athlestan rubbed his hands, ‘that’s a start. After Oudernarde was struck, everyone, including myself, was at the far end of that nave, except Eli. Why was he slain? And, above all,’ Athelstan went back to his chair, ‘how was it done?’ He stared into the fire. As he stroked Bonaventure, his eyes grew heavy so he put his head down on his arms and slept. A loud knocking on the door eventually aroused him. Athelstan glanced at the hour candle — an entire ring had burned. He hurried to the door.

‘Brother Athelstan, it’s me, Flaxwith, and two of my bailiffs.’ Athelstan drew the bolts and let them in. All three were draped in cloaks and mantles, mufflers and hoods pulled close. Flaxwith’s mastiff stayed obediently outside; he and Bonaventure had met before and both nourished a lasting hatred for each other.

‘Sir John sent you this.’ Flaxwith handed over a small cream-coloured scroll tied with a green ribbon. Athelstan undid this, offering his visitors blackjacks of ale. They refused but gratefully ladled out some of the hot soup while Athelstan read the itemized list of information about Humphrey Warde and his family. The details were succinct and clear. According to Sir John, Warde was a very successful spicer who’d mysteriously left his shop in Cheapside. Rumour had it that he’d fallen on hard times. However, Sir John had learnt on good authority from whisperers in the Guildhall that Warde still enjoyed a lucrative trade with the spicery department of Gaunt’s wardrobe as well as those of the royal household.

‘Spices be damned!’ Athelstan whispered, rolling up the scrap of parchment.

‘You sound exactly like Sir John.’ Flaxwith put down the bowl, smacking his lips.

‘Master Flaxwith, come with me. Leave one of your men to guard my house. He may eat and drink whatever, within reason. Bonaventure will tell me if he doesn’t.’ Athelstan grabbed his cloak, put on his stout walking boots and, followed by a surprised Flaxwith and one of his bailiffs, swept from the house. It was a black night, freezing hard, the ground under foot glitteringly treacherous, a trap for the unwary. The friar recalled the attack on him outside St Peter’s. Was that against him or someone else? To kill or to frighten? Athelstan hurried past his church, his mind teeming with problems and questions. God bless both him and them but what if Pike and the others were correct? Humphrey Warde could well be a spy, a cockle planted deep in Athelstan’s wheat field, a collector of intelligence for his sinister masters at the Savoy palace. Athelstan walked on. The snaking lanes and paths were deserted. Chinks of light gleamed at windows and doors. Snow slid from roofs peppered with icicles. A rat scrabbled across the frost. A black shadow pursued; in the corner of a runnel the hunted gave an eerie screech as it was caught. From somewhere a voice chanted a common song and then faded. Athelstan reached Rickett Lane. Down under the leaning, cramped, crooked little houses, much decayed and held up by crutches, Athelstan found Warde’s narrow, two-storey tenement. The front was boarded up but the door hung slightly open, unlatched and unlocked. A cold and unreasoning dread seized Athelstan as he pushed back the door. Inside the stone-flagged passageway was lit by greasy tallow candles in their niches. Somewhere a child whimpered. Athelstan paused. The house was cold but the air fragrant from the smells of crushed spices stored in the small shop immediately to his left. Athelstan was about to walk on when he glimpsed the shadow slumped between the two tables where the spices were prepared and weighed. He grabbed the box lantern off its hook just within the doorway and walked in. Humphrey Warde lay sprawled on his back, the crossbow bolt almost buried in his chest. The blood from the wound had clotted in an icy puddle. Athelstan murmured a prayer and moved on. Katherine Warde lay face down in the small kitchen, killed by a crossbow bolt to the back of her head. In a small cot beside her, baby Odo murmured fretfully.

‘Raise the hue and cry!’ Athelstan whispered to a shocked Flaxwith who had followed him in. ‘Shout “Harrow” and rouse the parish!’ He tapped the small cot. ‘Baby Odo needs attention.’ In the small comfortable solar above, Humphrey’s two children, Laurence and Margaret, had been struck down. Laurence almost blocked the threshold; the barb had sliced his throat, the blood splashing out to stain both lintel and floor. Margaret had been thrown back in the comfortable window seat, the embroidery she had been working on slipping through her fingers as the bolt smashed into her chest, a direct hit to the heart. Her eyes stared in glassy horror, her slack mouth encrusted with blood.

‘These are nightmares,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘The blackest sins have been committed here. The demons gather. God have mercy on us all.’ Flaxwith touched him on the shoulder and pointed to a parchment scrap nailed to a wooded settle nearby. Athelstan plucked it down and read the scrawl.

‘When Adam delved and Eve span

Who was then the gentleman?

Now the world is ours and ours alone

To cut the Lords to heart and bone.’

Sir John Cranston gazed down at the four bloody corpses stretched out on a canvas sheet in the spice chamber. Athelstan had swiftly finished the rite for the dead and informed the coroner of what he had found. The lane outside was packed with people. The wardsmen had been alerted by the ringing cries of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ Bladdersniff, the local beadle and constable, despite his topeish ways, had roused Athelstan’s parishioners. Baby Odo was being looked after by a family. Now the rest of the neighbourhood, armed with staves, clubs, cudgels, daggers and maces, gathered in the freezing cold.

‘Father, we are here.’

‘So you are.’ Athelstan beckoned Watkin and Pike into the small chamber. ‘Just one question.’ Athelstan’s face was drawn in anger, eyes hard, no smile or understanding look. ‘One question.’ Athelstan repeated. ‘On God’s eternal judgement on your souls, the truth!’ he hissed. ‘Are you responsible for this?’

Watkin and Pike gaped in horror at the blood-drenched corpses.

‘Under the ban!’ Watkin exclaimed. ‘They must have all been placed under the ban! Father, I swear, if they were, the order was not known or carried out by us.’ Watkin scratched his face. ‘The Wardes were a nuisance; they actually learnt very little, nothing more than most of the parish know. Well,’ he shuffled mud-caked boots, ‘until that attack on the Roundhoop.’

‘Juravisti iuramentum magnum et non poenitebet vos,’ Athelstan replied, quoting the solemn legal phrase. ‘You have sworn a great oath and you cannot repent of it, yes? You and yours,’ Athelstan pointed at both of them, ‘had nothing to do with this. If you did, I shall, with bell, book and candle, solemnly excommunicate you from the steps of the sanctuary of our church. Damned Watkin! Damned to the fires of Hell for all eternity! Cursed in your waking. Cursed in your sleeping. Cursed in your eating. Cursed in your drinking. Bereft of the sacraments. No Eucharist, no shriving, no anointing, no baptizing.’ Athelstan’s words rolled like the peal of doom, echoing out along the passageway and into the street beyond. Watkin and Pike stretched out their hands, the solemn gesture when taking an oath.

‘Father, on our souls,’ Watkin couldn’t take his eyes off those corpses, ‘we swear on our souls.’

‘If you were involved,’ Cranston barked, ‘once Holy Mother Church finished with you, the hangman will begin.’

‘Father?’ Huddle the painter, accompanied by Benedicta, pushed his way by Watkin and Pike to stare aghast at the carnage.

‘How?’ Benedicta whispered.

‘Never mind.’ Athelstan softened. He picked up a leather sack and thrust this at her with the keys to both church and house. ‘Benedicta, these are Humphrey Warde’s papers: some ledgers and a psalter. Put them in the parish chest, make sure they are safely secure. Please look after everything. I have to accompany Sir John.’

‘King’s business,’ the coroner lugubriously intervened. ‘Despite the late hour, I need Brother Athelstan and, when we are finished, I’m afraid it’s back to the Tower.’

‘Ensure all is safe,’ Athelstan urged Benedicta. ‘Go to Father Walter at Saint Ethelburga’s, ask him as a favour to send his curate to celebrate the Jesus Mass for you tomorrow. Huddle?’ The painter stepped out of the shadows, his stained fingers clutching the skin of his face now whiter than the driven snow, his eyes two large pools of terror. He could not stop staring at the corpses.

‘Huddle,’ Athelstan gently shook the painter’s shoulder, ‘Huddle, what is it?’

‘So gruesome, Father, so savage, so much blood. I was. . I was only talking to them, I. .’ Huddle turned and fled into the street to retch and vomit noisily.

‘Take care of him,’ Athelstan urged Benedicta. ‘Tell him to look after our anchorite; they must continue with their paintings. Now,’ Athelstan forced a smile and sketched a blessing, ‘all of you must leave. Benedicta, do look in on baby Odo, take care of everything.’

Once the chamber was cleared and the shop door closed, Athelstan sat on a high stool and stared owl-eyed at Sir John. ‘So, I am to accompany you?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ the coroner replied evasively. ‘Yea, even into the Valley of the Death.’ Cranston eased himself into the chamber’s only chair. ‘The centre doesn’t hold,’ Cranston murmured as if to himself. ‘All things are falling apart. A violent storm is coming.’ He pointed at the corpses, ‘Do you believe they were spies?’

‘God forgive Gaunt,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘But yes! Warde depicted himself as a spicer who had fallen on hard times, forced to leave his house and shop in Cheapside. Nonsense! That was a sham, a play, a little masque. Your enquiry, Sir John, proved that. The truth is that Warde supplied precious spices to the Royal households. He was Gaunt’s man and cheerfully indulged in this pretence — he came and took root here. A man needed by the community, everyone wants to do business with a spicer, especially in the depth of winter when our meat is old and heavily salted. Nutmeg, mace, cloves and cinnamon are in great demand. Warde and his children would have good custom, at least in theory. They would visit houses, get to know families. Katherine would mingle with other women. All the chatter and gossip of the community would flow around them. They would collect, sift this and pass it on. Precious information, be it who was close to the Upright Men, or even the time and date of meetings like that at the Roundhoop.’ Cranston made to object.

‘Clever and cunning, an entire family acting as a subtle shield for a spy. Sir John, I can guess your objections. According to Thibault’s plan, the Wardes should have settled in Saint Erconwald’s as comfortable as Bonaventure in my kitchen, yet they didn’t. From the very start they were marked down — distrusted, suspected. So, how did the likes of Watkin and Pike who, most of the time, do not know what day of the week it is, realize this was all a subterfuge?’

‘And the answer?’

‘You know it, Sir John. The Upright Men were informed about the Wardes by their spy in Gaunt’s retinue. And yet there is a further problem. If Warde was discovered so swiftly, distrusted so deeply, what real danger did he pose? How could this poor spicer find out about a secret meeting at the Roundhoop? If they were so blatantly Gaunt’s spies, why not just drive them out? Why this?’

‘Punishment? The ban?’

‘Oh, come, Sir John, you and I both know people are buying and selling information on all sides, all the time. What puzzles me,’ Athelstan rose to his feet, ‘is the devastatingly harsh punishment. The Wardes were spies but, and this is the paradox, they also seem to have been protected while they were here. Why? By whom? Well, at least until now.’ Athelstan surveyed the herb and spice jars along the shelves. The spicer was an orderly man: everything was in its place and clearly tagged, except one jar just on the edge of the shelf, pushed the wrong way round while the cork stopper on the top was not fully secured. Athelstan took this down and turned it. ‘Dust of poppy seed,’ he read the tag. ‘An opiate. Why is it out of place, put back wrongly, hurriedly? Did the killer help himself? Was Warde preparing something for him when the assassin struck? Did the murderer ask for an opiate as a pretence? Did he need it? This is where I found Warde. Was our spicer enticed into his shop and silently slain?’ Athelstan held up the jar. ‘As you know, I have been through the house. Apart from this jar, Sir John, there is no real disturbance, no sign of resistance or a struggle.’

Athelstan blessed the corpses again.

‘You imply that some other person or group, apart from Thibault, were protecting the Wardes?’

‘Yes, Sir John, I mean here in Southwark. Warde was distrusted so he was isolated; he never posed a real danger because he remained on the outside. Why didn’t Thibault just withdraw him? Why didn’t Warde recognize the truth and leave? More importantly, why didn’t the Upright Men, or their cell here at Saint Erconwald’s, just drive him out? Why did such apparent tolerance abruptly end in a savage massacre?’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Yet Watkin, and I believe him, maintains this is not their work. Are the Upright Men innocent of this? Thibault, surely, would not turn on his own spy — so is there a third party, another group with their own grievances — but who? Those in the Tower are forbidden to leave. Ah, well.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘Where to now, my friend? This Valley of the Shadow of Death?’

Cranston jabbed a finger at the door. ‘Brother, we have a meeting at the Tower of Babel in the Cloisters of Hell, Whitefriars, to be precise. I am — we are — going to do business with Duke Ezra of Caesarea, leader of the rifflers, ruffians and roaring boys. I want to question him and one of his henchmen, the Herald of Hades, about what they know.’ Cranston squeezed himself out of the chair. ‘Gaunt and the Upright Men both pride themselves on their knowledge. Believe me,’ Cranston ran a finger across the spice counter, ‘they know nothing compared to Duke Ezra. All my spies, such as the Troubadour or Muckworm, report only what they have learnt from Duke Ezra and his coven, who speed throughout this city like a colony of rats. They sneak along runnels into the dingy dens, mumpers’ castles and dark dungeons of the counterfeits, the cozeners, the coney-catchers and the Jacob men. You’ll find them in taverns and alehouses, cook shops and bakeries. They thrive in the mansions of the mean as well as those of the wealthy. Palaces, friaries, priories, abbeys and monasteries are not free of them either.’ Cranston donned his beaver hat. ‘And now we go to the very source. Let’s leave all this horror to Bladdersmith and his wardsmen.’

Within the hour, having collected his writing satchel and other items for his continued stay at the Tower, Athelstan joined Cranston in the royal barge, specially summoned for the journey across the Thames from the Bishop of Winchester’s steps to those of the Temple. A perilous, freezing, choppy journey. The night was black as ink. The heavy wherry, despite its careful manning by royal bargemen, shook and shivered as it breasted the swells and turbulent tide pools of the Thames. A sea mist was gathering to block out the north bank so only the beacon lights in church steeples and the flaming bonfires of rubbish heaps lit along the different quaysides pierced the murk. Athelstan sat clutching his writing satchel. Around him huddled Cranston and his bailiffs. The mastiff whined against the cold; Flaxwith, tender as a mother with child, tried to soothe it. The bargemen, hooded and masked against the biting breeze, bent over their oars, pulling in unison to the soft chant of the prowman. The air reeked of salt, fish and sweat. Other barges and wherries swept by, the lanterns on their sterns glowing fiercely. Athelstan wondered about the Fisher of Men, that enigmatic recluse who, from his Chapel of the Dead, harvested the Thames of corpses, assisted by his henchman, Icthus, and other grotesques. Would they be busy on a night like this? The prowman called out an order and the barge turned a little to port, juddering as the river caught it. A bell sounded hollow and sombre in the dark. A barge laden with produce broke from the mist and cut across the bows of their craft. Athelstan tensed, Cranston cursed. The wherry swerved a little. The danger passed and they aimed like an arrow towards the host of torches flaring along Temple steps. They swiftly disembarked. Flaxwith and his companions ringed them, swords and daggers drawn, as they moved into the hideous underworld of the city. They entered a maze of narrow, crooked lanes, alleyways and runnels which snaked around the decaying, crumbling houses. Some of these were beginning to pitch forward, turning the paths beneath into hollow, dark tunnels, the sky blocked out by the leaning storeys and jutting gables. Dungeon-like doors, barred and studded, remained sealed shut, though Athelstan glimpsed light through the eyelets. Above them shutters abruptly opened only to slam shut just as swiftly. Box lanterns glowed on the end of their chains. Now and again a shout would ring out a warning. ‘Cranston,’ a voice called. ‘Cranston and his minions.’

A hunting horn brayed. ‘Let them pass.’

Another voice bellowed, ‘Allow those who come to pay service to our Duke safe passage.’ Shadows floated across their path. Ghostly shapes emerged out of doorways and alley mouths. Naked steel would glitter then disappear. Athelstan watched his step but the ground under foot was surprisingly firm and clear.

‘Saltpetre,’ Cranston whispered, ‘they have their own dung carts to clear the muck and spread that. Duke Ezra always looks after his own.’ They left the lanes and crossed a square where a mixture of smells wafted to greet them: the stench of dirty clothes on unclean bodies mingled with odours from the tallow chambers, melting rooms and tanners’ yards which thronged the area. Beggars raced across the square to meet them — ‘ill-looking vermin’ as Cranston described them with their long, dirty beards, their heads covered in old stocking tops. The hunting horn brayed twice again and these promptly scuttled away. They went down a further street, turned a corner and entered another square. On the far side of this rose an ancient gateway illuminated by a veritable forest of torches fastened to clasps above the yawning entrance and along its crenellated wall top; from these broad, silver-edged black banners swirled in the night breeze.

‘The Castle of the Fleet and Newgate Dogs. The Tower of Babel. Believe me, Brother, there are more bodies buried in its cellars and streets than in your graveyard. If you cross Duke Ezra, you are not punished, you simply disappear. Be on your guard. This is the place of jabbing daggers and slashing blades. Prepare to enter Satan’s dark pavilions, the tents of Hades, the bowels of Hell; false of heart and sick of soul are its citizens.’ Cranston turned to Flaxwith and the bailiffs. ‘They have given me their word, but remain careful. Do not draw your weapons unless I tell you. Do not wander off even for some glimmering mort or pretty doxy. So sheath your swords and follow Sir John into the Valley of Gehenna.’ Cranston led them across the square. Trumpets bellowed and the great gates swung open, allowing them into the notorious sanctuary of Whitefriars. This was the home of all the greasy, grimed rogues: the cogging naves, the courtesy men, the nighthawks, the nugging maids, the cheaters, shifters, cross-biters, the naps and the foists, the knights of the dusk and the squires of the sewers, the rifflers and the rutters.

Despite its reputation, Athelstan was surprised at how clean the lanes were. The smell of mulled sack hung heavy in the air, wafted out of the brightly lit taverns and ale shops. The houses were mean and shabby but, despite the cold, doors and windows remained open, the streets lighted and warmed by roaring bonfires and crackling braziers. At first glance this beggar’s town was not a hive of dark dens but a busy ward with markets still doing business selling goods — stolen, of course, from elsewhere. The ladies of the night strolled in their tawdry finery under the supervision of their two guardians: the venerable Mother of the Kind Matrons — Athelstan did not dare ask Cranston to explain this — and the Mistress of the Wicked Wenches. Lazarus men, as the coroner described them, kept order in the streets with club and cudgel. They passed a large, shabby house. Flaxwith agreed with Sir John that it was the infamous Cutpurse Manor, where pickpockets were tutored. They passed an ancient chapel, the Church of the Condemned, served by a defrocked priest called the ‘Vicar of Hell’. The crowds in the narrow lane parted before them. Curses were shouted at Cranston but he ignored them. The coroner plucked at Athelstan’s sleeve and pointed to where two old ladies stood in the door light of the aptly named Devil’s Tongue tavern. Athelstan peered at them as he passed; their faces were caked in paint, pursed lips brightly carmined.

‘Nightshade and Belladonna,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Two old ladies who visit to nurse and give their victims poison — eternal comfort, a quiet way to go into the dark. One day, Athelstan, I’ll catch them in the act and hang them out of hand.’

They moved on. Athelstan noted that they had a discreet escort, ‘Tyburn Sprigs’, as Flaxwith described them, hooded and visored with the insignia of a red, three-branched scaffold sewn on to their cloaks. The lane twisted and turned and they entered a square. In the centre rose a huge Pity, a life-size cross bearing a carving of the crucified Christ; a little beyond this a fountain still gurgled despite the freezing cold. Athelstan exclaimed in surprise. The cobbles had been cleared of all slushy dirt so they gleamed in the light of the great flambeaux lashed to heavy poles driven into the ground. Three sides of the square were bounded by outhouses, storerooms, stables, smithies and workshops all closed up for the night. Directly opposite them rose a majestic mansion of Cotswold stone with a sloping tiled roof, smoking chimney stacks and mullioned glass windows lit by glowing lamps, their wooden sills painted a smart blood red. The mansion’s majestic entrance door of shimmering black oak stood at the top of wide, earth-coloured steps lit by merrily burning braziers under a row of cresset torches. Cranston and his party moved across.

‘No further!’ a voice called. Men emerged out of the shadows; mailed and helmeted, they wore surcotes boasting the green and gold cedars of Lebanon.

‘No further!’ the voice repeated. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you may go on. Master Flaxwith, you and your men must stay. They will be entertained. Come, come,’ one of the guards beckoned.

‘Go,’ Cranston murmured. ‘But act prudently.’

Cranston and Athelstan were led up the steps. The great door swung open; shadowy figures welcomed them along the gleaming, oak-panelled gallery, past chambers locked and secured. Pure white candles glowed in their wall clasps. Alabaster oil jars exuded both light and a delicious perfume, the fragrance mingling with the most mouth-watering smells of cooked food. Guards stood discreetly in the shadows. Now and again the gleam of their steel was caught by the light. They reached the end of the passageway and were welcomed into a sumptuous chamber hung with cloth of gold; thick Turkey rugs stretched across a layer of coarse rope matting, carpeting the floor. Tapers glowed by the dozen while lowered Catherine wheels, their rims crammed with perfumed candles, provided more light. A fire leapt vigorously in the black stone hearth to the right of the dining tables. Brilliant white samite cloths covered these tables while their every plate, jug and trancher were of the richest metal, studded with jewels.

‘Welcome, Sir John, Brother Athelstan!’ The towering, bald-headed, bushy bearded man in the throne-like chair at the centre of the high table gestured to the empty seats on his left. ‘Sit, eat and drink.’

Cranston and Athelstan sat down. The goblets before them brimmed with red and white wine and herb-tinged water. Athelstan crossed himself as a servant appeared out of the shadows to serve portions of veal and a ladle of savoury vegetables and herbs. Duke Ezra of Caesarea toasted his guests and then turned back to whisper to his companions. Cranston sat and ate, as comfortable as if he was in the Holy Lamb of God. Athelstan simply pretended. He glanced swiftly around; there were about a dozen other men present, lean, pinched faces staring out of pointed hoods. Gang leaders, Athelstan concluded, men summoned to render their account at this robber’s exchequer. Eventually the hushed conversation ended. Duke Ezra rose from his seat and walked around the tables arranged in a square, going behind the seats, praising his disciples. He reminded them of their oaths of loyalty. Abruptly he paused behind one of his captains. Athelstan stiffened as he glimpsed the battle mace Ezra clutched. The duke’s burly face had turned puce red; spittle bubbled at his lips.

‘No Judas sits at my board,’ he roared, ‘drinks my wine, eats my food and clasps my hand.’ Then the mace came whirling down. His victim half turned; he was struck a second blow which sent blood and brains splattering on to the sheer samite cloth. A third blow and the man’s head cracked like a shell as he collapsed sideways.

‘You came here to pay your tithes,’ Ezra raised the brain-splattered mace, ‘not to withhold what is Caesar’s. You must render to your ruler what is your ruler’s. Now my beloveds, you may go. Take this dog’s carcass and bury it beyond the sight and memory of man.’ The rest of the company, stony-faced, chilled by the sudden violence, pushed back their chairs and rose. They lifted the corpse of their comrade, bowed to their host and left. Duke Ezra watched them go and leaned his elbows on the table, fingers laced together, smiling benevolently at what he now termed his ‘special guests’.

‘No murder, Sir John.’ He pointed at the door. ‘Edmund Rastner, also known as “Brillard”, also known as “Rummage”, also known as “Deverel”,’ Ezra waved a hand, ‘wanted in Bedfordshire, Lincolnshire, Norwich and Bristol.’ Again the airy wave. ‘I killed a wolfshead according to statute law. But,’ he smiled in a show of strong, gleaming white teeth, ‘we are not here to discuss that. You would like some blancmange?’ He suppressed a grin, ‘Blood red and laced with nutmeg, no?’ He pointed to the wine jugs carved in the shape of water horses. ‘Do help yourselves. Oh, by the way,’ he gestured around the chamber, ‘it may look as if we are alone but of course, Sir John, we are not. You recognize that?’

‘Naturally.’ Cranston smiled back. ‘The only time you will be really alone with me, Duke Ezra, is when I take your head on Tower Hill.’

The self-styled Duke threw his head back and roared with laughter.

‘Tempus fugit,’ Athelstan murmured.

‘Time flies indeed, Brother.’ Ezra stopped laughing. He dabbed his eyes with a napkin and drank deeply from his goblet. ‘And thus comes the hour of darkness.’ Ezra turned sideways on his throne, peering at Athelstan out of the corner of his eye. ‘I know you full well, Brother.’

‘I wish to God I did.’

Ezra smiled and shook his head. ‘Your world, Brother, is divided into good and bad.’

‘And yours?’

‘Bad and those bad men trying to be good. You and Sir John belong to the latter. I truly believe that. You’re trying to make sense of our world. I gave that up years ago, Brother. I simply exploit it. Now,’ he turned to face them squarely, ‘let’s make sense of it. Gaunt’s party was betrayed. The attack at Aldgate? They wanted to humiliate our noble Regent, seize those severed heads and, above all, capture that mysterious prisoner, yes?’ Ezra didn’t even wait for an answer. ‘Magister Thibault, that weasel in human flesh, now believes that a traitor lurks close to his master. He has you to thank for that knowledge. Thibault certainly has a traitor-spy in your parish, Brother, though I understand that has now been taken care of.

‘Murdered,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘The Wardes were slain in cold blood.’

‘Master Humphrey was certainly Gaunt’s spy,’ Ezra agreed, ‘a clever ploy. Warde was betrayed by the Upright Men’s spy in Gaunt’s retinue — you’ve probably reached that conclusion yourself. As far as the assault at the Roundhoop is concerned, that was Master Thibault’s revenge.’ Ezra slurped noisily from his goblet. ‘Reflect very carefully,’ he sniffed. ‘As for the deaths in the Tower, Gaunt must be furious. The Upright Men are openly claiming that Gaunt and his coven are not safe even at the very heart of their power.’ Duke Ezra grinned. ‘A true mystery, a public mockery! Gaunt’s guests attacked in full view of the leading citizens of London. What a shame! As for the assassin, young Barak?’ Ezra shook his head, ‘I do not believe he is the guilty one. The murder of Lettenhove and Eli proves that no one is safe. The assassin is like a fox in a chicken run, he is killing whom he wishes. Gaunt looks weak and helpless, that is what is sweeping the city. Guests killed, severed heads left, a member of his favourite acting group slaughtered mysteriously.’

‘Do you know anything fresh?’ Cranston jibed, ‘or are we here to marvel at your wisdom and knowledge? You have power, Duke Ezra, but so do I.’

‘Something else is being planned,’ the gang leader retorted quickly, stung by Cranston’s jibe. ‘What, Sir John, I do not know. There is chatter about a gathering at the Tower, or around it.’ Duke Ezra sipped from his goblet. ‘Tell Gaunt to leave there,’ he continued. ‘The Upright Men will play him hard and fast, make it appear as if he is besieged, driven from his power, frightened of even being in his palace of the Savoy. Also tell him,’ Ezra paused, ‘that despite all his precautions, the secret prisoner, or so the gossip runs, poses a direct threat to him.’

Athelstan leaned forward. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing, for the moment.’

The friar stared at this notorious wolfshead. For a few heartbeats he caught fear in Ezra’s face and voice, as if this self-proclaimed Duke knew how far he could go. Gaunt’s mysterious prisoner seemed to mark the limit. So who was she? Athelstan wondered. If Gaunt thought Ezra would meddle with his prisoner he’d send troops into Whitefriars and hang this outlaw leader from his gatehouse.

‘I will give His Grace the Regent your kind advice.’ Cranston toasted Ezra with his goblet. ‘But you know why we are here. I want to meet the Herald of Hades. If there is mischief afoot, he’ll have snouted it out as swiftly as a hungry hog with a truffle.’

Duke Ezra stared at the blood brimming on the samite cloth.

‘Sir John,’ he did not lift his eyes, ‘the Herald of Hades — you want to speak to him?’ He raised a be-ringed hand, the precious finger stones dazzling in the light. ‘So you shall. But not now.’ Ezra grinned. ‘He has been very busy on my behalf across the Narrow Seas in Ghent. You may meet him the day after tomorrow, on one condition.’ He drew a small scroll from the cuff of his velvet-laced jerkin and held it up. A figure stepped out of the darkness and took this round to Cranston. The coroner unrolled it. Athelstan glanced quickly at the list of names under the heading of ‘Newgate’.

‘My beloveds, Sir John, all intended for the Elms gibbet at Smithfield. I know you have pardons prepared. I want my beloveds back.’

Cranston, fingers to his lips, studied the names. ‘Not these two.’ He tapped the parchment. ‘Crail and Layburn ravished an innocent maid and throttled her; they must hang.’

‘Really, Sir John?’

‘They will hang,’ Cranston declared defiantly, pushing back his chair. ‘I viewed her corpse. Barely twelve summers old, she was. I have seen a cat treat a rat with more respect. God wants them for judgement.’

‘No mercy?’

‘None!’ Cranston shouted. ‘But these three others, the Plungers. .’

‘Plungers?’ Athelstan queried.

‘Professional cozeners,’ Cranston whispered. ‘One pretends to fall in the Thames, the second pretends to rescue him, and the third organizes a collection for both the so-called victim and his saviour.’ He tapped the parchment. ‘These three,’ he raised his voice, ‘have allegedly dipped into every stream, river and brook in and around London. I know this unholy trinity; they’ve had the gristle in their ears pierced and an “F” branded on their shoulders, yet they still keep plunging.’

‘Old comrades,’ Duke Ezra declared mournfully, ‘Sir John, they truly are my beloveds.’

‘All three will be pardoned.’ Cranston rose to his feet. ‘On one condition: I never see their ugly faces this side of the Thames again.’

‘Then go in peace.’ Duke Ezra also rose. ‘The Lord be with you, Brother Athelstan, Sir John.’

‘And with your spirit too,’ Athelstan quipped back.

‘You will arrange it personally, Sir John, the morning after tomorrow as the execution cart leaves Newgate?’

‘I’ll be there. And the Herald of Hades?’

‘Sir John, he will await you. .’

In the ruined nave of the derelict church of St Dismas, which stood in a thick clump of trees to the north of the old city wall, Simon Grindcobbe and the other leaders of the Upright Men had gathered their cell drawn from Massingham, Maldon, and other villages of south Essex. This was a safe, deserted place. Once a prosperous village, the great pestilence had swept through with its scythe and reduced both church and village to a haunt of ghosts. Outside the wooden crosses and stone memorials in God’s Acre had crumbled and fallen. Only the towering memorial stone on the top of the great burial pit bore witness to the church’s former history as well as the horror that had silenced it forever. Grindcobbe, Tyler and Straw now sat cross-legged behind the preacher John Ball as he knelt before the crumbling altar and intoned their chant.

‘Nations in their greatness, he struck.’

‘For his love endures forever.’ The voices of the fifty fighters rolled back like a crashing wave.

‘Kings in their splendour he slew.’

‘For his love endures forever.’

‘Sihon, King of the Amorites.’

‘For his love endures forever.’ The response grew even stronger.

‘On the earthworms their land he bestowed.’

‘For his love endures forever.’

‘Kings in their splendour he slew.’

‘For his love endures forever.’

‘Og, the King of Bashan.’

‘For his love endures forever.’

‘On the earthworms their land he bestowed.’

‘For his love endures forever.’

‘Kings in their splendour he slew.’

‘For his love endures forever.’

‘Edward, tyrant of England.’

‘For his love endures forever.’

‘Gaunt the usurper.’

‘For his love endures forever.’

Grindcobbe turned. The fighters, heads and shoulders cowled and mantled in tarred leather, faces hidden behind black mesh masks, were now in a trance, chanting the responses to John Ball’s hymn of destruction. Grindcobbe rose and walked up the crumbling sanctuary steps into the darkened sacristy. ‘Are you there, Basilisk?’ he called out.

‘I am.’

Grindcobbe peered through the murk; the far outside door, hanging off its latch, swayed in the breeze. ‘You have met our spy in Gaunt’s household? You must be surprised?’

‘No surprise, Master Grindcobbe. This entire city seems up for sale.’

Grindcobbe laughed softly. ‘When you decide,’ he added, ‘deal with him. He has served his purpose. He only feeds us morsels, what he wants to. One day Gaunt will catch him out. The torturers will tug him apart to discover what he knows. More importantly, to protect himself, he might kill you. Anyway,’ he continued, ‘tomorrow, just after the Angelus bell, let all chaos break out. Have the postern gate loosened. You have wreaked great damage. More must be done.’

‘Who is that prisoner?’ The basilisk’s voice was scarcely above a whisper.

‘Rumour abounds,’ Grindcobbe replied evasively. ‘Once we seize her, we shall have the truth about Gaunt’s shame. We will topple him off his high throne. We will make the people wonder. We will present him as a spectacle, a prince who can’t even rule the Tower. Remember, once the Angelus bell has tolled.’

‘I shall remember,’ came the whisper. The sacristy door swung open and the basilisk slipped like a ghost into the night.

‘There is an assassin on the loose who swept through my parish like some winged demon. This murderer annihilated an entire family.’ Athelstan gripped the lectern in the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. The friar had returned to his lodgings in the Garden Tower late the previous day; he’d immediately demanded an audience with Magister Thibault, where Cranston had passed on Duke Ezra’s warnings. Thibault had heard them out, tapping fingers against the arm of his chair before informing them that he would reflect on all this and meet them on the morrow.

‘The Straw Men must also be present,’ Athelstan demanded.

Thibault had nodded and said he would reflect on that as well. Now Gaunt’s Master of Secrets, together with his henchmen and the bland-faced Cornelius, sat on a cushioned bench before Athelstan; on the other side ranged the Straw Men. Judith was openly agitated, her eyes screwed up in fear. She stared at Athelstan, who once again sensed the tension between Judith and her male companions, whose attempts to sit close were brusquely refused. Rachael leaned forward, red hair straggling down, green eyes wide in shock. Master Samuel sat combing his beard with chewed fingers. The burly Samson had the look of a pole-axed ox while the effete Gideon twirled a lock of hair between his fingers. Next to these, leaning against the pillar stood Rosselyn, hood pulled back, his grim face twisted in a look of disbelief.

‘I mourn for you, Brother,’ the captain of archers spoke up, ‘but I swear, nobody here left the Tower yesterday. Ask my men. I was here all day; I can vouch for everyone else. My Lord of Gaunt’s instructions, reinforced by Master Thibault, are most clear. None of us are to leave. None of us did.’

‘Who was murdered?’ Rachael asked, shifting the hair from her face.

‘Nobody you know.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘A spicer and his family,’ he glanced swiftly at Thibault, ‘though I believe they were known to you.’

The Master of Secrets just shrugged as if that was a matter of little concern. ‘We cannot leave here,’ Samson protested. ‘Brother Athelstan, I thought we were to visit your parish to perform a passage from a mystery play?’

‘Not now,’ Thibault snapped. ‘Not till these mysteries are solved. Nobody leaves.’

‘I will.’ Athelstan voice thrilled with defiance. ‘I shall. I need to. I must revisit the Roundhoop.’

‘Why?’

‘To refresh my memory.’

‘About what?’

‘I shall know that, Master Thibault, when I remember it.’

‘And I am the King’s own officer.’ Cranston, sitting in the sanctuary chair next to the lectern, spoke up. ‘I shall go where I want. I have business in the city tomorrow. King’s business.’

‘Which is?’

‘If you were King, Master Thibault, I’d tell you.’ Cranston got to his feet. ‘But you are not, so I shall not. We are finished here, Brother. We’ve been told that no one left the Tower yesterday.’

Athelstan murmured his agreement. He felt weary. He’d slept late, risen and celebrated his Mass, now this. The friar stared down the church at a faded wall painting depicting St Peter’s confrontation with the arch-magician, Simon Magus. Magus had tried to fly, only to be brought crashing back to earth by the prayer of St Peter. Athelstan smiled to himself. He felt that he was also stumbling around despite going hither and thither in pursuit of this or that. Power games were being played. Pieces were being shifted on the board. Forces gathered — Gaunt on one side, the Upright Men on the other. In between was himself, Cranston and St Erconwald’s. Nevertheless, there was something else, something that constantly dogged Athelstan’s secret thoughts. He was exasperated because he felt weary, because he was failing to resolve these problems. To confront a mystery, to enter it as he would a maze, to thread his way through to the centre and so prove there was no mystery was Athelstan’s great passion. He felt physically and mentally depleted if he was not involved in that, or if he started but failed to make headway. In truth, he loved entering that maze perhaps even more than being a Dominican priest, a friend of Cranston, or the spiritual leader of his flock. An absorbing. .

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Thibault mocked, ‘are you praying?’

‘I wish to God I was,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Believe me,’ Athelstan breathed in deeply, ‘I need to visit the Roundhoop, then we shall return.’ He smiled at Judith, Rachael and the other Straw Men. ‘Perhaps we shall then stage our own play?’

‘Meaning what?’ Cornelius demanded.

‘Oh, we shall go back to Saint John’s Chapel. I want to recreate where everybody stood, to establish how that skilful assassin could wreak such damage.’ Athelstan blessed the air as a sign that he had finished. He collected his cloak and chancery bag from the corner of the sanctuary and left the chapel by the corpse door. Once outside he finished dressing against the cold, thanking God for the thick serge leggings under his robe. Cranston was similarly attired. The morning was freezing cold; a thick mist had wrapped itself about everything, a moving shroud which made the eyes wince and the lips curl as it nipped exposed flesh. No fresh snow had fallen but the ground under foot was like polished glass. Athelstan and Cranston gratefully accepted the walking canes Rosselyn offered. The captain of archers accompanied them down to a postern gate and allowed them through. The ward outside, Petty Wales, was busy, though this was one of the wastelands of the city. The slippery lanes, derelict houses ranging either side, were cold and filthy hovels where illness and ignorance ruled like lords. Hunger-haunted faces stared out at them. Frozen fingers picked at chestnuts roasting in a dirty pan above a rubbish heap which had been doused in filthy oil and set alight. Nearby stale bread, hard and black, was on sale with sausages and dripping from dead dog preparations. The beggars clustered so close together it looked like a mass of rags covered one huge body with many pinched faces. Cheap tapers glowed from tawdry box lanterns, spots of yellow which pierced the thickening whiteness.

They reached the Roundhoop and went up the steps into the musty, circular tap room. The place was dark and the shutters were closed — only candlelight broke the gloom. Athelstan stared around as Cranston ordered two blackjacks of ale. Minehost was new. Athelstan could recognize no one from that previous dramatic and bloody visit. Goodmayes, the tavern master at the time, had been killed along with his servants. Athelstan took his blackjack and joined Cranston in the shabby window seat close to the meagre glow of the hearth fire.

‘Brother, your thoughts?’ Athelstan glanced round; the only customers were chapmen and tinkers sheltering from the cold.

‘The killings at the Tower,’ Athelstan began, ‘were very mysterious. Clever and subtle, they caused deep confusion, heaping great shame on Gaunt. Look at how he is now depicted. Don’t forget, Sir John, Gaunt has assumed the power of Regent. He may call himself that but I understand that it has never been approved by parliament. He is not as secure as he thinks and this bloody business at the Tower weakens him further. Gaunt is being depicted not as a great prince but a jackanapes, a fool, a weakling who cannot even protect his own in the Crown’s greatest fortresses. My friend, I have no idea of how these murders occurred — none whatsoever. We have deduced a few truths about those severed heads but who they were remains a mystery. The murders of Eli and Barak are buried beneath layers of deceit and lies, not to mention clever trickery. The Wardes were murdered, bloody, gruesome deaths yet, at the same time, so swift, so silent with no evidence of any alarm or resistance. The assassin appears to have moved from chamber to chamber like a welcome guest who, at the same time, proved to be a bloody-handed slayer.’

‘And here?’ Cranston gulped from his blackjack. In truth the coroner was deeply uneasy and out of his depth. He resented being locked up in the fastness of the Tower with the treachery and deceit of Gaunt and his party swirling about him. He was the King’s law officer; he dealt with murder and dispatched its perpetrators to the gallows. He glanced wistfully at Athelstan; surely this little friar with his probing eyes and sharp wits would find a path out?

‘And here?’ Cranston repeated. Athelstan rose and walked to the centre of the tap room. He recalled that bloody affray. He was standing here when it occurred; he had turned, desperate to reach the door. The Upright Man had confronted him. He’d been looking beyond Athelstan — at what? Then the arrows had flown. The Upright Man had collapsed. Athelstan had knelt beside him. The friar chewed the corner of his lip. The dying man still had that questioning look in his eyes even as he babbled about some woman gleaning. Athelstan felt a tingle of excitement. He was sure that young man’s swift, brutal death was linked to these mysteries. He could offer no logical reasoning or evidence to justify such a conclusion, just a suspicion which nagged at his brain as a dog would a bone.

‘Tomorrow,’ Cranston called out, ‘we must be at Newgate.’

‘And today, Sir John, we must take care of the present evil. I need to go through Humphrey Warde’s papers. Sir John, if you are leaving the Tower, I would be most grateful if you could collect them from the parish chest in Saint Erconwald’s.’

Cranston finished his blackjack and stood up. ‘I certainly want to be free of the Tower. I promise to give Benedicta a kiss from you. I also want to make my own enquiries. I will collect those papers and rejoin you soon enough.’