The House of Shadows (18 page)

They left the cellar and walked out into the stable yard, well away from any eavesdropper.

‘I’m sure Sir Laurence was murdered,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘That’s how it was done. Somebody, somehow primed that trap and invited him down to the cellar. I wonder what the lure was? Perhaps a revelation about the mysteries now besetting us, or something else?’

‘It was dangerous,’ Cranston declared. ‘Somebody else could have been killed.’

‘I don’t think the assassin cared. The real question is, who is it? The taverner? Any of those knights? And the Judas Man and Mother Veritable seem to be able to come and go as they wish.’

Athelstan stared across at the hay barn.

‘Do we have one assassin, Sir John,’ he asked, ‘or two? Even more? Think of these mysteries as lines. We have the Misericord’s strange doings; we have that infamous robbery twenty years ago; we have the death of those two young women; now we have the murder of two knights. It’s a question of logic, Sir John. Do the lines run quite separate and parallel, or do they meet, tangled up with each other?’

He was about to continue when the Judas Man came swaggering through the gate, his face bright with pleasure.

‘I’ve found him!’ He clapped his leather-clad hands. ‘Brother Athelstan, I apologise for my earlier rudeness, but the Misericord’s been caught.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Just near Bishopsgate. I had men on the road leading out. They’ve sent a message; the Misericord is safely in Newgate and I shall visit him there.’ Chuckling with glee, the Judas Man tapped Athelstan on the shoulder and entered the tavern.

‘He’ll find little comfort there,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Brother, where are you going?’ Athelstan was already striding towards the gate.

‘Why, Sir John, to Newgate. I want to question the Misericord before the Judas Man pays him a visit.’

This time Cranston found it difficult to keep up with Athelstan’s pace as they threaded through the needle-thin alleyways down to the quayside. They were delayed for a short while, as bailiffs with staves and clubs were trying to break up a small but very noisy crowd shouting, ‘Shovels and spades!’ the usual cry which went up along the riverside whenever any private individual tried to take over a stretch of the Thames.

‘It’s happening along both banks of the river!’ Cranston exclaimed as they climbed into Moleskin’s barge.

‘That’s right, Sir John,’ Moleskin agreed. ‘If the rich have their way they will buy up every plot of land along the Thames. I won’t be able to moor my barge without paying a tax, whilst you, Sir John, won’t be able to water your horse.’

‘And the women of the parish,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘won’t have anywhere to wash their clothes. Water is a gift, Sir John; as the Gospel says, the Good Lord lets his rain fall on the just and the unjust.’

‘But the unjust gets more,’ Sir John quipped, ‘because he owns a bigger barrel.’

‘And has stolen the just man’s,’ Moleskin added, pulling back the oars and taking the boat out across the choppy tide.

While Cranston and Moleskin badgered and teased each other, Athelstan stared moodily across the river. A bank of mist still hovered mid-stream. Athelstan quietly prayed that Moleskin would have his wits about him, as well as a sharp eye for the various wherries, fishing boats and barges of every description going up and down the Thames. To his right he could make out the lines of London Bridge, including the poles bearing the severed heads of traitors. He wondered how Master Burdon, the Keeper of the Bridge, was doing. Burdon was a mannikin, very proud of the trust shown to him, an engaging little man if it wasn’t for his rather macabre habit of combing the hair of the severed heads.

Athelstan, reflecting on the tumult behind him, wondered how the likes of Burdon, Moleskin, Pike the ditcher, Ranulf and the rest would cope when the great revolt occurred. He had listened most attentively to Sir John, he had witnessed first hand the soul-wrenching poverty of London’s poor, aware of the stories flooding in from the countryside of how the peasants seethed at the taxes, levies and tolls imposed upon them. Would the revolt reach Southwark? Would his own parishioners join in? Would they achieve anything, or would it all end in murderous street fighting, and mass executions in Smithfield and elsewhere? He heard Moleskin mention the death of the two whores on the night of the Great Ratting, eager to find out if Cranston knew all the gory details. Was their journey across the Thames connected with this? Cranston replied evasively while Athelstan thought about the Misericord being trapped outside Bishopsgate.

‘Have you taken anyone suspicious across?’ he asked abruptly.

‘I am suspicious about all my passengers, Father.’ Moleskin nodded at Cranston.

‘You’ve heard how the Misericord escaped?’

Moleskin shook his head, but his eyes betrayed him.

‘If you were fleeing London?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I certainly wouldn’t use the bridge or a barge,’ Moleskin replied, ‘but go south through the countryside.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ Athelstan pointed at the approaching bank. ‘So he must have been going to meet someone, and I know who.’

Once they had landed at Queenhithe, Athelstan reminded Cranston about his previous night’s visitor.

‘So he was going to meet his sister?’ Cranston asked.

‘I think so. One last visit, perhaps,’ Athelstan replied. ‘He made a mistake; the Judas Man knew more about the Misericord than his victim realised.’

They walked up into Thames Street, making their way through the busy crowds. The thoroughfares and lanes were much broader here than in Southwark, the people better dressed in their fur-edged coats, mantles and ermine-lined hoods, the markets more prosperous, the stalls piled high. From the prices being bawled Athelstan understood how steeply the cost of everything had risen, be it cloths and leather goods from abroad, or vegetables from the garden estates outside the City. They passed the towering mass of St Paul’s, up Dyer Lane and into the shambles, where the fleshers and butchers had their stalls. The broad cobble-lined lane had turned slippery with the offal and blood strewn about. Packs of dogs vied with beggars and the poor in snapping up these morsels. The air was rich with the odour of raw flesh; even the butchers and apprentices were drenched in blood, their stalls slippery with the juices dripping off. For the price of a penny, the poor were allowed to place pots and pans underneath to collect these drippings. Cranston was well known here; he was greeted noisily by the bailiffs and beadles as well as the officials who guarded the chain in front of Newgate, its forecourt stretching up to the prison’s iron-barred black gates.

Athelstan always hated the place; it was a veritable pit of misery. Outside the gate, prisoners thronged, manacled together, sent out to collect alms by their gaolers for both themselves and other inmates. Relatives of those held in the pits and dungeons fought to bribe guards and turnkeys with messages and gifts for their beloved ones within. A woman shrieked that she had children to feed but how could she do so whilst her husband was in chains? Athelstan pressed a coin into her hand; only when they had passed through the gate and into the prison yard beyond did Cranston, with some exasperation, explain how the woman was a mummer who often preyed on passers-by. The prison yard itself was also noisy. Lines of prisoners, shivering in their rags and unshod feet, waited to be taken down to the cells, whilst a tired-looking bear sat chained in a corner. One of the gaolers explained how its keeper had become drunk and attacked a spectator.

‘It seems a pity to punish the bear,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘it looks so tired and old.’

The gaoler followed his gaze, scratching the stubble on his cheek.

‘What do you suggest, Brother, a blessing?’

‘No.’ Athelstan pressed a coin into the man’s hand. ‘Make sure it’s fed and watered and looks a little happier before we leave.’

The gaoler agreed, then escorted them into the foul-smelling prison. They walked along narrow, badly lit passageways, down mildewed steps, into what the gaoler called the Netherworld, a narrow, sombre passageway with dungeons on either side. They were introduced to its keeper, a burly, thickset man with a leather apron around his waist. He recognised Sir John and swiftly handed back the coroner’s seal of office which Cranston always carried to identify himself.

‘The Misericord is along here.’ He gestured with a sturdy finger. ‘The Judas Man paid me well to keep him secure.’

He led them along the corridor. Occasionally Athelstan heard a groan, a scream, or raucous abuse hurled at them through the small grilles at the top of each door; occasionally he glimpsed mad, gleaming eyes staring out at them. The Misericord’s cell was at the end, built into what used to be the foundations of the ancient Roman wall, one of the most secure cells in the prison, the keeper explained, inserting a key and scraping back the rusting bolts. The dungeon inside was small, with no window or gap for air or light. It reeked like a latrine and the rushes on the floor had turned to a muddy slime. The Misericord, sitting in a corner, sprang to his feet. The keeper beckoned Athelstan in and handed him the small tallow candle he was carrying.

‘Brother, I thought . . .’

‘You thought I was the Judas Man.’

The Misericord agreed and slunk back into the corner, gazing fearfully at Sir John.

‘Let’s make your guests as comfortable as possible.’

The keeper took the candle from Athelstan and placed it on a rusty iron spigot jutting out of the wall. He brought in two stools for Cranston and Athelstan, then closed the door, but not before explaining that he would keep it unlocked; if they needed help, he would be just outside.

‘Why have you come?’ the Misericord asked. ‘Did my escape embarrass you?’

‘I know how you escaped.’ Athelstan sat down. ‘Time is short, the Judas Man will be here soon.’

‘He can’t hurt me, he dare not.’

‘He won’t hurt you,’ Cranston explained. ‘He simply wants to see you hang.’

‘I’ll quote the Neck Verse.’

‘Ah!’ Athelstan replied. ‘The first lines of Psalm 50. You’ll claim Benefit of Clergy and demand to be handed over to the Church courts. The Judas Man will still hunt you down. So tell me,’ Athelstan leaned forward, ‘why is he hunting you so ruthlessly? Who hired him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’re lying. You may be a felon, but London is full of Misericords.’

Athelstan noticed how the prisoner’s face was bruised above his right cheek, whilst his jerkin was torn and rent.

‘You were manhandled, weren’t you?’

‘The bailiffs certainly weren’t Franciscans.’ The Misericord smiled. ‘But why are you here?’

‘I could offer you a pardon.’ Athelstan gently nudged Cranston’s boot. ‘The Regent could give you an amnesty for all crimes committed, on condition you leave London, and tell me everything you know.’

The change in the Misericord was remarkable. He stared open-mouthed at the coroner, who sat pinching his nostrils against the foul smell.

‘You can really do that?’

‘Of course. The Lord Coroner here will personally arrange it, full pardon and clemency. You’ll be given a letter to show to all sheriffs, port reeves, bailiffs and mayors for safe passage.’

The Misericord put his face in his hands.

‘The truth,’ Cranston demanded. ‘The full truth.’

‘Who hired the Judas Man?’

The Misericord lifted his face. ‘I don’t know, Brother.’ He raised his hands to plead as Cranston snorted in derision. ‘I don’t know. It may have been Mother Veritable, even the Judas Man doesn’t know.’

‘Why should Mother Veritable hire him?’

‘For a number of reasons. As you know, Brother, I sold a potion, a powder, which I claimed could increase a man’s potency between the sheets. Now, I often visited Mother Veritable’s house. I became firm friends with Beatrice and Clarice. No, no, it’s true, I enjoyed their company, they enjoyed mine. They said I wasn’t like the rest. I showed them dignity and treated them as ladies. They would tell me about their customers, their strange lusts and desires. They weren’t supposed to. Mother Veritable keeps a strict house. They told me about the knights, particularly the small fat one who drank poison and died.’

‘Sir Stephen Chandler?’

‘Yes, the same. He visited the girls every time he came to London, not just when the Knights of the Golden Falcon met for their annual feasting. Sir Stephen had great ambition in matters of the bedchamber but not the potency to match it. I persuaded the girls to sell my miraculous powder to their lordly customer. They did, and made a pretty penny.’

‘But it didn’t work?’

‘Of course not, Brother. The girls laughed, and I made up a poem about Sir Stephen.’

‘I found that,’ Athelstan exclaimed, ‘amongst their few possessions. Something about a red crown, a cock, losing its power. I’ve seen such songs composed by scholars when they want to mock a master.’

‘Why the red crown?’ Cranston asked. ‘I don’t see the significance.’

‘Chandler had red hair,’ Athelstan replied, ‘whilst Stephen, in Greek, means crown.’

‘And cock,’ the Misericord finished the explanation, ‘was a nickname given to Chandler when he was young. He truly portrayed himself as a lady’s man. Now, I gave my poem to the girls but I also sold copies in certain taverns in Kent. Somehow Sir Stephen discovered that. He complained to Mother Veritable. She beat the girls, took what gold they’d hidden and banned me from her house.’

‘So Sir Stephen, as well as Mother Veritable, had great grievance against you? He too could have hired the Judas Man.’

‘All things are possible, Sir John, especially with that cruel harridan.’

The Misericord fell silent, as if listening to the faint sounds in the rest of the prison, the muted cries and groans, the slamming of doors, the ominous rattling of chains.

Athelstan stared round the cell. In the poor light he saw how the walls were encrusted with dirt and slime. Here and there some prisoner had carved his name or a prayer, other times just a sign, a star, a woman’s breasts or, more commonly, a gallows with a figure hanging from it.

‘Why do you think it was Mother Veritable who hired the Judas Man?’ Cranston asked. ‘Why choose her rather than Sir Stephen?’