The House of Shadows (16 page)

‘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.