The House of Shadows (31 page)

‘Your Grace.’ Cranston and Athelstan went to kneel.

‘Oh, sit down,’ Gaunt declared wearily. ‘I’m tired of bobbing courtiers.’

He grasped a stool, brought it forward and sat down in front of them, one elbow on his thigh, chin cupped in his hand. He gestured with his other hand for his companion to do likewise. Now, up close, Athelstan could clearly study the other man’s swarthy face, fringed by long dark hair. He was not as relaxed as the Regent; his large soulful eyes were watchful, one beringed finger scratching at a bead of sweat which ran down into the close-cut moustache and beard. He was dressed soberly in a dark blue cotehardie; rings glistened on his fingers, a single gem dazzled on the gold chain around his neck. A secretive man, Athelstan thought, who kept his own counsel, but the way that he sat next to John of Gaunt, and the look which passed between them, showed intimacy and affection.

‘Signor Teodoro Tonnelli, may I present Sir John Cranston, Coroner to the City, and his secretarius, Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark.’ Gaunt smiled. ‘You all know who I am.’

Athelstan gazed steadily back at this scion of Edward III, regent of the kingdom during the minority of his nephew Richard, son of the Black Prince. A man many called the Viper, who was feared by the Church and loathed by the peasants and their secret society, The Great Community of the Realm. Nevertheless, Gaunt was also personable, capable of dazzling charm and extraordinary generosity.

‘Well, Brother,’ Gaunt studiously ignored Cranston, ‘you and the Lord Coroner have questions for us?’

‘The Lombard treasure, a chest of jewellery worth at least ten thousand pounds,’ Athelstan replied.

‘Double that,’ Gaunt whispered, ‘double that, and half as much again.’

Cranston whistled under his breath.

‘There are dreadful murders at the tavern the Night in Jerusalem,’ Athelstan declared.

‘I have heard of them.’ Gaunt looked at Cranston. ‘Is it not time, my Lord Coroner, that you arrested someone?’

‘The treasure,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘how was it composed? What happened to it? I mean, before it was stolen?’

‘I have brought a list.’ Tonnelli’s English had only a tinge of an accent. ‘You may study it, you may keep it.’ He pulled a scroll from his sleeve and handed it to Athelstan, who unrolled it. The jewellery was very carefully listed.

Item 1
A pelican brooch: the pelican stands on a scroll, on the breast of the golden pelican lies a ruby and on the scroll a glowing amethyst.

Item 2
The Swan Jewel: the swan is of gold and studded with precious gems.

Item 3
A silver Cross studded with rubies and amethyst . . .

Athelstan moved the document so that Cranston could also study it. A hundred items were listed there, as well as pouches of silver and gold minted in Genoa, Pavia and Milan. The jewellery was of every type imaginable: rings, crosses, brooches, chains, pendants, bracelets and even precious buttons taken from robes of gold.

‘I collected this jewellery,’ Tonnelli explained, ‘from our banking houses in England, France, Italy and the cities of the Rhine. It was supposed to be part of the Crusaders’ war chest to buy weapons, supplies and animals, as well as bribe officials. The treasure was placed in a chest, what I called a chest of steel, protected by bands of iron with three different locks. Twenty years ago I brought the chest down to the Tower whilst I sent the keys to the Admiral of the Fleet. He in turn shared these with trusted officers.’

‘This was a loan?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes,’ Tonnelli agreed. ‘The Crusader leaders had agreed to pay it back at a fixed term of interest and give my banking house a percentage of whatever profits they earned. We considered it a sensible venture.’ Tonnelli allowed himself a smile. ‘The cities of North Africa are fabulously wealthy; the plunder from even one would settle such a debt ten times over.’

‘And why did you take it to the Tower?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Why not hand it over to the Admiral of the Fleet immediately?’

‘Oh, little friar,’ teased the Regent, ‘do not act the innocent! London is full of thieves at the best of times, and many of them live in Southwark. The war with France was over. There was no plunder to be had, or profits to be made from fat ransoms. The city was swollen with desperate soldiers, camped along both banks of the Thames, men of every kind, from a dozen kingdoms, whilst the sailors of the fleet were the riffraff from every port in Christendom. They’d all heard about the treasure, so Master Tonnelli approached me. The chest of steel would be hidden in the Tower and secretly conveyed to the Fleet at night shortly before it sailed. Once it was aboard, the Admiral, who trust his own crews, would have the chest opened and the contents distributed amongst captains and masters he could trust.’

Gaunt tapped Athelstan on the knee.

‘I understand you have been to see Master Hubert in the Tower? Go back there and search amongst the records. Did you know that every gang of outlaws in London, and beyond, had an interest in that treasure? Take a walk along the quayside near London Bridge; you’ll see the river pirates hanging from their gibbets for three turns of the tide. London was full of such men who feared neither God or the law.’

Athelstan nodded in agreement. The Regent’s reasoning was logical, yet he detected a glibness like the patter of some subtle lawyer presenting his case.

‘Why didn’t you have the treasure conveyed by your own armed retainers, or even the garrison in the Tower?’

‘I didn’t trust them. Once they knew the secret, they would know everything, wouldn’t they? When and where and to whom it was to be given. Once people know the times and seasons, Brother Athelstan, it is easy for them to plot. I wanted as few people as possible – so did the Admiral, not to mention Signor Tonnelli – to know about the treasure’s whereabouts, even when it came aboard ship.’ He shrugged. ‘Even my captain of the guard, who took the treasure to Culpepper, was told the chest was empty, a diversion to distract certain people I couldn’t name.’ Gaunt paused. ‘The problem was twofold. We didn’t want anyone seeing such a barge go directly from the Tower to the flagship; any would-be thief would be watching for that. More importantly, and remember this, we wanted as few people as possible to know when or where the treasure was taken aboard. The design was mine—’

‘So, it was you who chose Mortimer and Culpepper?’

‘Yes. Mortimer was my henchman, a man who was mine both body and soul, as I was his,’ Gaunt added sadly. ‘In France, Mortimer saved my life on at least two occasions during sudden ambuscade. I talked to him and swore him to secrecy, and asked him to find one man he could trust. He brought along Culpepper, whom I also liked. I paid them for their needs, good silver to ease their path.’

Gaunt’s strange blue eyes held Athelstan’s gaze. The friar wondered how much this cunning nobleman knew about the searches by both himself and Cranston. He recalled the whisperings of his own parishioners, how Gaunt had more spies in London than the city had dogs.

‘We decided,’ Gaunt continued, ‘to transport the gold on the Eve of St Matthew, the twentieth of September. My boatmen were told to take the chest across the Thames. They would pause for a while at the Oyster Wharf, where my agents would ensure that all was well, before continuing further south. They did so. Mortimer and Culpepper had not even told me the precise location, except that it was a lonely stretch on the south bank of the Thames, near to the river turns down towards Westminster.’ Gaunt paused, sucking on his teeth. ‘According to my men, everything went according to plan. My agents on the Oyster Wharf were satisfied that everything was well and the barge continued. You see, Brother, boats and barges go up the Thames every day and every night; those who lusted after the treasure expected it to be moved with great pomp and ceremony from the City to the Admiral’s flagship. They would hardly be looking for a simple barge with a crew of two. My men had been told to look for a lantern light, one which would swing and clearly flash, and they found it.’

‘Who was there?’ Cranston asked.

‘According to my men, Mortimer and Culpepper, still waiting for their barge from Southwark. They handed the treasure over, Culpepper and Mortimer signed the indenture. My men withdrew and that was it.’

‘And there was nothing wrong?’

Gaunt pulled a face. ‘Mortimer was deeply uneasy, he kept looking back into the darkness. Culpepper too was suspicious and a little wary. Mortimer comforted him and teased him that he would soon lie with the love of his life amongst the dead.’

‘Amongst the dead?’ Athelstan exclaimed, and immediately thought of the cemetery of St Erconwald, the grass growing long and thick amongst the tombs and crosses.

‘My retainers left,’ Gaunt continued. ‘I thought all was safe. Just before dawn the Admiral sent a message that the treasure had not arrived. I immediately ordered both banks of the Thames to be scoured. I instructed every official in the kingdom to search for the treasure, and gave a description of it and its keepers to every reeve and harbour master.’

‘Nothing,’ Tonnelli almost shouted, ‘nothing at all in either this kingdom or any other; no sign of Culpepper and Mortimer.’

Cranston recalled Helena Mortimer’s gentle face, but held his peace. He glanced quickly at Athelstan. The friar was a closed book when it came to thoughts and emotions. Nevertheless, Cranston had studied Athelstan most closely, and something about the way he sat, tapping his foot against the tiled floor, the gentle shaking of his head, followed by an abrupt glance at Tonnelli, showed that the Dominican was not satisfied. The Regent was glib because he had been through this story time and again, but he was still cunning enough to sense Athelstan’s reservations.

‘What is wrong, Brother? You act as if something is amiss. Don’t you believe me?’

Gaunt pointed to a lectern on the far corner.

‘A book of the Gospels lies over there. I, Regent of England, uncle to the King, will take the most solemn oath. I loved Mortimer as a brother, I owed him my life, a blood debt. I have searched and I have scoured but I have found no trace of him.’

‘Do you suspect anyone?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I suspect everyone, Brother. Where are the corpses, where is the treasure?’

‘You think that Mortimer is dead?’

‘Yes, I do. I would take another oath, regretting I ever drew him into this business. I know as much now as I did the morning after the great robbery. Now, these murders in the Night in Jerusalem . . .’

Athelstan described what had happened; John of Gaunt sat shaking his head, keeping his face down, and the friar’s unease deepened. Gaunt wasn’t telling a lie, but was he withholding something? He looked guilty; why?

Athelstan asked the same question as he and Cranston, after being dismissed by the Regent, made their way up into Fleet Street and through Bowyers Row into the City. The day was now drawing on, lanterns and torches spluttered against the misty, murky nightfall; the market horn had sounded, a sign that the day’s trading was ending. The bells of the city tolled, booming across the rooftops, reminding the citizens of evening prayer. They went up past the soaring mass of St Paul’s. A group of the sheriff’s men had ringed the cathedral cemetery, shaking their fists and shouting curses at the wolfsheads who had taken sanctuary beyond the cemetery wall and so could not be touched. The criminals and felons answered with a hail of rocks and mud. One scoundrel recognised Cranston and started shouting a litany of abuse, brought to an abrupt end by the appearance of a funeral party. A Carmelite, face hidden in his cowl, chanted the prayers of the dead as he led the procession from the cathedral towards the main gate of the cemetery. He was followed by a cross bearer, and a little boy who carried a lantern in one hand and a bell in the other which he shook vigorously. The mourners carried the cathedral coffin chest covered by black and gold pall. On either side acolytes swung censers; their perfumed smoke billowing out did something to hide the pungent stench, whilst the lowing sound of the funeral bell stilled the clamour. Athelstan used the occasion to hurry Sir John on up into Cheapside.

‘Sir John, His Grace the Regent could tell us little.’ He smiled mischievously at the coroner. ‘His silence told us much more.’

‘Like what?’ Cranston glared across Cheapside at the stocks filled full of pilferers caught during the day’s trading.

‘I truly don’t know, Sir John. Gaunt regrets Mortimer’s death, and I agree with him: those two knights and the boatmen were foully murdered, though how and why?’ He caught the coroner’s arm. ‘Now I’ll stay here. You must visit that goldsmith, the one who helped Helena Mortimer; goldsmiths are very scrupulous, they keep excellent records. I want you to ask him two things.’

Athelstan tapped his wallet and remembered how the ring of St Erconwald was safely hidden away in the parish church.

‘Ask the goldsmith if he has the list of the Lombard treasure distributed by John of Gaunt and that Italian banker.’

‘Why? Don’t you think that they did?’

‘Oh yes, Sir John, I believe him. Ask him also if he has a second list, distributed by the Benedictine monk Malachi.’

Cranston made to protest.

‘Please, Sir John, it’s very important! If he doesn’t have it we will have to try elsewhere. I know, I know,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I already have a list from Tonnelli, but I have to be sure.’

Cranston, grumbling under his breath, strode across Cheapside. Athelstan found a plinth and sat down. He pulled up his cowl and, as the bells tolled for vespers, quietly recited the opening psalm of the divine office.

‘Oh Lord, come to my aid, make haste to help me.’

He was halfway through the third psalm when Cranston returned brandishing two lists, both written on good vellum. Athelstan took them over to a lantern on a door-post hook, then turned, smiling brilliantly at Cranston.

‘I have found it, Sir John!’

Athelstan left a bemused Cranston and hurried down to the riverside, along Thames Street into the Vintry, and took a barge from Dowgate across to Southwark. Night was falling, growing colder by the moment, so he was pleased to find that Malachi had built up the fire in the priest’s house. The Benedictine was sitting at a table reading the treatise Athelstan had borrowed from the library at Blackfriars. The friar did his best to be pleasant, but found the pretence difficult, so he immersed himself in a whole series of petty tasks. He went backwards and forwards to the church, taking across his writing satchel, pots of ink and fresh sheets of vellum, as well as a small desk he kept stored under the bed loft. When he moved the truckle bed across and informed Malachi that tonight he would be sleeping in the church, the Benedictine glanced up sharply.