The House of Shadows (23 page)

‘Brother Athelstan, I am sorry.’

The friar glanced up in surprise as Brother Malachi came down the ladder from the bed loft. The Benedictine looked as if he had been deeply asleep. Warming his hands over the fire, Malachi told Athelstan all about his visit to the church: how he had been attacked and fled to the house for safety.

‘Strange,’ he smiled, ‘I never thought a church could be so dangerous. Brother, I had no choice, there was no one around. I forced the shutters and hid; I dared not go out.’

‘I saw no sign of your attacker in the church or cemetery.’

‘Once I was in here,’ Brother Malachi declared, ‘there was no further attack. I think my assailant fled.’

Athelstan reassured him that he had done the right thing, whilst trying to control his anger at the way the attacker had used his church for murder and sacrilege.

‘He threw knives? You are sure of that?’

‘Very sure, Brother. Two narrowly missed my face; they were long, thin and ugly. I thought I would die from fright. I went into the church to think, to make my devotions. I do not like that tavern. I am now highly distrustful of my companions. My days with them are ended.’

He held up his maimed hand.

‘I have known them for longer than I care to think. I have eaten, drunk, lived, slept and fought with them.’

‘Do you think one of them was your assailant?’

‘Perhaps.’ Malachi rubbed the side of his face. ‘And yet, I know those knights. My assailant moved swiftly, a dagger man, and unless I am mistaken, that is not a skill shared by any of those knights.’

‘Let us see, let us see.’

Athelstan took Malachi back into the church. They lit candles and carefully searched but, apart from the splintered wood in the entrance to the chantry chapel, Athelstan could find no sign of any knife.

‘I’ll get Crispin the carpenter to see to the wood.’ Athelstan patted Malachi on the arm. ‘If you wish, you can stay with me. You would feel safer, wouldn’t you?’

The Benedictine nodded. ‘I’ll go back later to collect my belongings. If you could shelter me, Brother, when this is all over, before I leave,’ he offered, ‘I’ll make good any damage or inconvenience I may have caused.’

Athelstan walked him back to the house, describing what had happened that day. He talked whilst he prepared the evening meal, laying out the tranchers. From its hook in the buttery he brought a roll of cured spiced ham, yesterday’s bread, small pots of butter and honey and a pitcher of ale. He recited the Benedicite and sat down.

‘Did you know the Misericord?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I remember him vaguely as a lad, a cheeky-faced boy who had the run of Master Rolles’ tavern, nothing significant. I’m sorry for his death. God assoil him and give him good rest. Brother, I was not in Cheapside today.’ Malachi grinned. ‘I can tell from your eyes you must be suspicious about everyone.’

‘The Judas Man?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Athelstan, I know nothing of him either, nor do I know anything about Master Rolles or Mother Veritable. The knights? I thought they were honourable men, boisterous when young, valiant warriors in war, respectable and upright in their mature years.’

‘Do you think they could have killed your brother and stolen the treasure?’

‘How could they?’ Malachi glanced away. ‘On the night the treasure was taken, they were drunk. I was across the river visiting brethren at Charterhouse. The next morning I saw them; they were totally dispirited, indeed, irritable. Brother Athelstan, I went to Outremer with these men, I slept beside them on ship, on shore, in the desert. I fought with them before the walls of Alexandria. I heard their confessions. If they owned the treasure it would have been obvious. The mice in your church are richer than they were. They were pressed for money, even to eat and drink. When the ship docked at Genoa to take on supplies they had to pawn some of their own weapons and beg loans from their comrades.’

‘But couldn’t they have stolen the treasure and hidden it until their return?’

‘It’s possible.’ The Benedictine pushed away his trancher, picked up a piece of cheese and chewed on it slowly. ‘My order has houses the length and breadth of this kingdom, from Cornwall to the mountains of Scotland. I made enquiries through them; sometimes our abbots act as bankers. I have also circulated lists to the guilds of goldsmiths and jewellers in London, Bristol, Nottingham, Carlisle and even in the Cinque Ports. I promised rewards for any sign of the Lombard treasure being found.’

‘How did you know the description of that treasure?’

‘I went to see Teodora Tonnelli, head of the Lombard banking house in London. He still does business here. He gave me a complete list of what was stolen. He, too, offered a reward.’

Athelstan put his face in his hands. He tried to visualise the Oyster Wharf at night, the cresset torches burning, Culpepper and Mortimer, the two bargemen.

‘How was the treasure transported?’

‘According to Tonnelli, in an iron-bound coffer with three locks. The keys had been given to the captain of the flagship.’

‘Ah!’ Athelstan sighed. ‘Further precaution, eh? I can’t imagine someone trying to force that chest on the quayside or on a barge on the river at night.’ He closed his eyes again. ‘I’m trying to imagine, Malachi, how it happened? Did your brother and Mortimer kill the boatmen and disappear into the darkness with the treasure? Or did the boatmen help? If that was the case, surely someone would have seen them, two or four men staggering through the darkness with a heavy chest? Yet, if they were attacked, all four men were well armed; surely they would have defended themselves? The crash of swords, the yells, the cries. Someone must have heard! And how would they get so close?’

Athelstan rubbed his fingers around his lips, wiping away the crumbs.

‘Of course, it is possible a master bowman, perhaps two skilled archers, slipping through the darkness, brought down all four men with well-aimed shafts. But there again, the treasure hasn’t been found, nor the remains of any of the corpses. And if blood was shed . . .’ He opened his eyes. ‘The Oyster Wharf was inspected the following morning, wasn’t it?’

Malachi nodded.

‘I went down there myself, Brother, not a sign. My brother was a fighting man, he had been entrusted with an important task. He would be wary. How could his attackers even get close?’

‘So you can tell me nothing about your brother?’

‘What I know,’ Malachi replied, crossing himself, ‘is what you know.’

‘Do you think your brother and Mortimer survived?’

‘And attacked me in your church? No.’ Malachi picked up a piece of cheese and broke it into two with his fingers. ‘I believe my brother and Mortimer are dead.’ He touched his chest. ‘Just a feeling here.’

Athelstan studied the Benedictine carefully – Malachi seemed very agitated, as if trying to control his temper.

‘No one left that tavern today.’ Athelstan put his thoughts into words. ‘Yet who murdered the Misericord? Who would want you dead?’

‘There’s the Judas Man.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Athelstan brushed the rest of the crumbs off and went to refill the ale jug. ‘I’m afraid,’ he called from the buttery, ‘he’s disappeared and is becoming the scapegoat for every awful act.’

‘I know nothing of him,’ Malachi called back. ‘Why should he attack me?’

‘Tell me about Mortimer,’ Athelstan asked, coming back.

‘A Welshman, related to the great family. You know the kind, the youngest son of the youngest brother; all Mortimer owned was a weapon and a horse. A dark, swarthy-faced man with raven-black hair down to his shoulders. A skilled dagger man, good with a bow. Mortimer and Richard met during the wars in France and became the closest of comrades. I felt as if Richard had acquired another brother.’

Athelstan sensed the hint of jealousy in Malachi’s voice.

‘I know what you are thinking: I’m jealous of Mortimer. Somehow he always made my brother laugh. Mortimer was close, secretive, he’d often disappear for days and nights, shifty-eyed but trustworthy enough. He had a sister, a quiet little mouse of a woman.’

Malachi rose from the table.

‘It’s growing dark, Brother, I can say no more. It’s time for vespers, but I will not go alone into your church.’

‘Let’s pray together,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘For strength against the demon who prowls like a lion seeking whom he may devour.’

The two knights were preparing to charge, a surging, united passion of man and horse eager to ride their opponent down. The herald, in the centre of the lists – a long stretch of multicoloured canvas just over a yard high down the centre of Smithfield – raised his white baton, hard to distinguish against the light blue morning sky. All eyes watched him, fascinated by this blue-, red- and gold-liveried herald who would begin the tournament. At either end of the lists trumpeters waited to give clarion blasts on their silver trumpets. Above them, stiffened pennants and loose-tied banners spread out in the early morning breeze. Vividly coloured cloths displayed the arms and heraldic devices of the two opponents: a silver half-moon above red gules and golden scallop shells; and a light grey boar ready to charge against a dark blue field, above that a strip of silver stars against a red background. The two knights waited at either end of the lists in their silver-edged armour, ready to joust; their war destriers, eager to charge, snorted and pawed the ground, resplendent in gorgeously caparisoned cloths and gleaming black harness. The knights sat, heads slightly down so that they could peer more clearly through their visor slits; from each helmet elegantly plumed feathers ruffled in the breeze. The noise of the horses, the creak of harness and the harsh clatter of armour carried across to the spectators, intensifying their excitement.

A drum began to beat, a striking hollow sound. The crowd fell silent, the course was ready. The knights, unable to control their restless horses, let them move forward a little to relieve the tension. All eyes watched their champions, visors down, sitting so immobile in the high horn saddles, shields up, blunted lances ready. The trumpets blasted, a carrying, ringing sound which sent birds in the nearby trees whirring up to the sky. The crowd moaned in pleasure. Another trumpet blast, followed by a third, and the jousters moved forward, a resplendent vision of moving, dazzling colour. The horses broke into a trot, the herald threw his baton down and stepped back even as the horses burst into a gallop, moving to a furious charge, the drumming of their hoofs drowning all sound. Lances came down, crossing over the horses’ necks to meet their targets, shields slightly raised; a magnificent sight, man and horse, free as a bird, fast and furious as a falling falcon.

They met in a dramatic clash of steel. Each shattered their opponent’s lance and shield. One knight swayed slightly in his saddle but managed to stay in his seat. They reached the end of the lists. Fresh lances were brought and the heart-throbbing music of battle began again as both knights moved into the charge, bearing furiously down upon each other. They met once again in the centre, lances shattering, horses neighing and rearing. The knight who fought under the banner of the Grey Boar swayed dangerously. He tried to right himself, his horse swerved, chain-mailed feet broke free of the stirrups and the knight tumbled to the ground with an almighty crash. His opponent reined in and turned round. The fallen knight tried to raise himself, struggled weakly and lay back as squires and pages, in tabards brightly coloured as a field of flowers, hurried across to help.

‘Well I never! God and St George help us!’ Sir John Cranston, Lord Coroner of the City, turned to the small, thin-as-a-beanpole man standing next to him. ‘Well, Bohun, that was a mighty fight. Reminded me of my younger days.’

‘Yes, Sir John, it did. But what was the tourney over?’

Cranston put his arm round his old comrade’s shoulder.

‘I asked you to meet me here, Bohun, as I knew you would be interested in it. The Knight of the Grey Boar is Sir William Stafford, his opponent Sir Humphrey Neville, both young bucks of the Court. Now, a month ago, our noble Regent staged a
Bal des Ardents.
’

‘What’s one of them?’ Bohun asked.

‘A little conceit our Regent has imported from France, where the nobles of the Court, for God knows what reason, dress as wild men of the woods, their faces smeared with mud, their heads and bodies covered in coats of hay, straw and bracken. What happens is this . . .’ Cranston kept his eyes on the hapless knight as he was lifted on to a stretcher. ‘Oh good,’ he murmured, ‘it doesn’t seem as if he was hurt too badly. What happens is this: the young bucks like to fight, to frighten the ladies, so all the candles are doused in the great hall. The wild men of the woods appear, carrying torches. The lady of their heart has to find which is her beloved. Anyway, to keep my tale brief and pointed, Sir Humphrey, whether by accident or design, let his torch slip and set fire to Sir William’s coat. A lady doused it but Sir William was furious; he claimed it was no accident and challenged Sir Humphrey to a duel. It looks as though honour has been satisfied.’

‘It’s a pity both the stupid buggers weren’t consumed by fire.’

Cranston laughed. ‘Bohun, let’s visit the glories of Smithfield.’

They walked across the open expanse which stretched in front of the great church of St Bartholomew’s and its adjoining hospital, a favourite meeting place beyond the old City walls, with its makeshift stalls, the gathering point for petty tinkers and traders who sold a variety of goods. Most of the great field was dedicated to the horse fair, drawing in people of every kind and quality, from powerful nobles in their silks and ermine-lined capuchins, to travelling people in their sheepskin jackets and shaggy caps. All the entertainers of the City flocked here, not just the whores and the acrobats but the goliards, the storytellers and singers. Pedlars offered relics, cage-holders sold white birds which, if they looked directly at you – or so their owners bawled – could cure you of the malady known as yellow skin. Soldiers from the Tower in their brigadines brushed shoulders with archers from the garrison at Westminster, distinctive in their capeliens, their small iron scull caps, and brilliant blue and gold tabards. Beggars whined for alms from the pretty daughters of powerful merchants, who drew away in disgust. Cranston, one arm across his friend’s shoulder, guided him through the swirling throng, eye ever keen for the rogues and pickpockets who swarmed as thick as crows on a dung hill.