The House of Shadows (26 page)

‘Well, Father, are we to begin?’ Watkin rose.

‘Yes, we are. First bring down the hour candle.’

‘Oh no!’ Basil the blacksmith moaned. ‘Father, you’re not angry with us?’

‘No, I’m not,’ Athelstan replied, ‘but I can see you are angry with each other. The clouds are gathering, the anger will come, the lightning will flash!’

Watkin brought the hour candle and placed it next to Ursula’s sow, whilst Crim the altar boy scampered off to bring a taper from the Lady Chapel.

‘I’ve lit the candle,’ Athelstan said, taking his seat. ‘This meeting will certainly end when the flame reaches the next red circle.’

He nodded at Mugwort the bell clerk, who was sitting on his stool, his crude writing tray on his lap.

‘Only take down the important decisions; afterwards, put that ledger back in the sacristy. Right, the preparations for Advent. Watkin, you will have to take your cart and go out to the wasteland to collect as much greenery as possible . . .’

‘You haven’t said a prayer.’ Pernel lifted one gloved hand and shook it vigorously.

‘No, we haven’t,’ Athelstan confessed, ‘and I think we need one.’ He closed his eyes and, in a powerful, carrying voice, sang the first three verses of the Veni Creator Spiritus. The parish council sat transfixed. Brother Athelstan had a rich, vibrant voice, and when he sang with his eyes closed, they recognised that he was not in the best of humours. He had taught them the translation of these words and he always emphasised the same verses: ‘Oh come you Father of the poor, Oh come with riches which endure.’

‘You know what I’m talking about.’ Athelstan opened his eyes. ‘We’ve asked God to warm our hearts of snow and make us bend our stiff necks. Now, Watkin, the greenery . . .’

The parish council went through each item, but as soon as they reached the Christmas play, the Holy Spirit was forgotten as the intense bitter rivalry resurfaced. Athelstan shouted for silence but, as he quietly whispered to Benedicta, he was ‘a voice crying in the wilderness’. Nevertheless, he was given a sharp schooling in the language of the alleyways, as Imelda and the rest hurled abuse at each other. Athelstan decided to weather the storm out, keeping one eye on the greedy candle flame. He soon learned that coylums were testicles, a cokeny was a homosexual, a gong was a prostitute, a Jordan was a chamber pot whilst a mamzer was a bastard. For a while he let his parishioners shout themselves into exhaustion, and when they looked to him for direction, turned immediately to Huddle the painter.

‘What is glair?’ he asked. ‘You mentioned it a week ago when you proposed to paint the great Chain of Being in one of the transepts.’

The parishioners stared in disbelief at their priest. He hadn’t answered their question but simply moved on, and of course, once Huddle was asked about paint, there was no stopping him. He immediately began a lecture on how glair was beaten egg white used for binding paint but that it must be mixed with red arsenic to prevent a foul odour and corruption. Athelstan let him talk, and as soon as the red ring on the candle disappeared, he shot to his feet, made a sign of the Cross, and walked up into the sanctuary to pray.

He knelt in the rood screen, eyes closed. The parish council came to an abrupt ending and the members unanimously decided to continue their argument outside.

‘Brother Athelstan.’

The friar turned. Moleskin stood halfway down the nave, his hand on the arm of an old woman garbed completely in black. Athelstan rose and went down to meet them.

‘This is Margot.’ Moleskin stumbled over the name.

‘Mistress, you’re welcome.’ Athelstan took her vein-streaked hand; it was icy cold. ‘You had best sit down.’

Margot, rheumy-eyed, peered up at him. ‘I’ve seen you say Mass, Father. I come here sometimes on the Great Feasts. Moleskin here nearly called me “Fat Margot”.’ She tapped her bony cheeks and moved a wisp of white hair from her brow, tucking it under her black hat. ‘But that was years ago; now I’m as thin as a wand.’

Athelstan took her back to where the parish council had met and let the old woman warm her fingers over the brazier.

‘Margot,’ Athelstan opened his purse, took out a coin and dropped it gently into the old woman’s hand, ‘that’s for your trouble. You’re the widow of one of the boatmen who disappeared on the night of the great robbery.’

The old woman’s eyes filled with tears as she sat down on a stool.

‘Godric was his name, a fine man, Brother. He left that afternoon. I’ve never seen him since, though we found his boat further down the river, caught in some reeds, it was.’

‘In Southwark?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No, no, where the river bends, going down to Westminster. Just the barge, Father. No pole, nothing. It was as if the hand of some ghostly giant had picked it up and emptied men and goods into the river.’

‘Was there any mark of violence – a bloodstain?’

Margot shook her head. ‘A long, low craft, Brother, built of fine wood, with benches and a small locker at each end for Godric and his partner to store their goods. Painted black, it was, with a high prow and stern. Godric called it the
Glory of the Thames
.’

‘Did your man ever tell you,’ Athelstan asked, ‘why he had been hired that day?’

‘He wasn’t hired, Father.’

‘Pardon? I thought he was.’

‘No, no.’ Margot shook her head fiercely. ‘Godric had been paid well by those two knights. All he told me was that the barge had been hired, but not him.’

‘Oh, so they were to bring their barge to the Oyster Wharf and hand it over?’

‘I think so. I’m not sure where the knights took it, but Godric was to remain at the wharf until they returned. He didn’t know why, but the knights were respectable so he trusted them. They’d also paid him good silver.’

She paused as Malachi came through the side door of the church. He raised his hand at Athelstan and walked across to the Lady Chapel.

‘Continue,’ Athelstan asked.

‘I’ve told you all I know, Brother. My man was paid good silver, he was to hire out his barge and wait at the Oyster Wharf. He left just before sunset; I’ve never seen or heard from him again.’

Athelstan thanked Moleskin and Margot, and when they’d left, he sat down in the sanctuary chair. What Margot had told him possessed a logic of its own. Culpepper and Mortimer would never tell anyone what they were doing. And the money given to the bargemen? That must have come from either the Admiral of the Fleet, or perhaps from John of Gaunt himself. Athelstan rose and was about to walk across to the Lady Chapel when the door crashed open and Cranston came in.

‘Brother, I have news.’

Athelstan put a finger to his lips and gestured with his head toward the Lady Chapel.

Cranston peered through the murky light. ‘Just the person!’ he exclaimed. ‘Brother Malachi, a word.’

The Benedictine crossed himself and came down.

‘Brother Malachi,’ Cranston gestured to the stool, ‘I’ll come swiftly to the point. I’ve just visited Helena Mortimer in Poor Jewry.’

‘And, Sir John?’

‘You’ve visited her as well. You could have told me!’

‘Why, of course, her brother was a close comrade of Richard. It’s logical, isn’t it, to seek such a woman out? Yet, she knows nothing—’

‘Did you hire the Judas Man?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Yes, I did discuss such a possibility with Mistress Mortimer. Again, it’s a matter of logic, Sir John. I mean, to hire a man hunter to find a man.’ He spread his hands. ‘My Lord Coroner, what I have done, to quote Holy Scripture, has been done in the full light of day.’

Cranston’s shoulders slumped. He could tell from the Benedictine’s composure that he wasn’t hiding anything.

‘Did you know,’ Cranston sat down on a stool, ‘that Mortimer was a henchman of John of Gaunt?’

‘A retainer, perhaps, but there was nothing significant in that. His Grace was deeply upset by my brother’s disappearance, as well as that of Edward Mortimer. Perhaps Sir Maurice hasn’t told you, but John of Gaunt instigated the most thorough search for the missing knights. He alerted every sheriff, bailiff, mayor and port reeve throughout the kingdom. If he could have no success, why should I? I’m not lying. Ask His Grace yourself. The letters and writs ordering such a search are still enrolled in the Chancery, I’ve seen them with my own eyes. Now,’ Malachi got to his feet, ‘Brother Athelstan, I’ve brought down my possessions, I need to store them in your house.’ Malachi nodded at Athelstan, sketched a blessing in Cranston’s direction and left.

‘Is he staying here? Why?’ Cranston mopped his face on the edge of his gown.

Athelstan told him in short sharp sentences everything that had happened since they’d parted the previous day. Cranston held his peace, then he, in turn, related all he had discovered. For a while both sat in silence.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Cranston shuffled his feet, ‘on my short but very cold journey across the Thames, I met Master Flaxwith. The Judas Man seems to have disappeared. I only wish I knew who had hired him.’

‘We keep asking the same questions,’ Athelstan replied, ‘and receive the same answers. The mystery always deepens. I have a special cask of the best Bordeaux hidden in my buttery. I can’t take you there because of Malachi. So, like Melchisedech of old, if you sit there, I will bring you gifts of bread and wine and, here, in the presence of God, we shall sit like master and scholar and dispute what we’ve found.’

Cranston readily agreed. Athelstan brought across a small jug of claret, two pewter goblets and a trancher of buttered bread smeared with honey. While Cranston ate, Athelstan prepared his writing tray, and made himself comfortable on Mugwort’s stool.

‘So, let’s list the mysteries.’

Athelstan paused, and sipped at the claret. ‘Now, Sir John, we move forward twenty years.’ He continued his writing.

Athelstan glanced up. ‘We don’t even know his name. He was given the task of hunting down the Misericord. Why?’ He kept writing as he talked. ‘Because the Misericord was a rogue who had deceived Sir Stephen and composed a poem about him?’ He shook his head. ‘Definitely not.’

Athelstan paused in his writing and carefully scrutinised his conclusions. Cranston, who had listened as he finished off the bread and wine, came over and sat next to him. He studied the clerkly abbreviations Athelstan had made in listing all his points.

‘In the end,’ Cranston muttered, ‘we come back to the great robbery.’

‘There are two people,’ Athelstan replied, ‘we haven’t questioned. And we should, sooner or later. His Grace, John of Gaunt, and Signor Teodoro Tonnelli.’