The House of Shadows (13 page)

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.