The House of Shadows Page 5

  ‘You’ll be gone from the City within the hour, or I’ll have you whipped the length of London Bridge,’ he shouted.

  The cunning man bolted up an alleyway whilst Cranston and his small retinue continued apace. They passed the gate leading to St Thomas’ hospital and down the busy thoroughfare which led to the Night in Jerusalem. Athelstan had been here before. The tavern was a stately four-sided mansion, built on a stone base with white plastered walls stitched with black timber. A place of contrasts. Some of the windows high in the wall were mere arrow slits, but others lower down were protected by sheets of horn, or treated linen set in strip panels, with an open lattice framework and shutters on the inside. For the grand chambers on the second floor, the windows were of mullion glass and, in some places, even decorated with small pictures of leaping white stags, red hearts or yellow shields. Athelstan knew Master Rolles by reputation. He had only met him when begging for alms, and the taverner had been most generous. They found him in the spacious stable yard, talking to a group of ostlers. As Cranston swept into the yard, Master Rolles dismissed these: he treated Sir John as an equal, grasping his hand and nodding at Athelstan.

  ‘Master Henry Rolles,’ Cranston exclaimed. ‘Squire to Sir Walter Manny. How well you have prospered!’

  Cranston stared around the yard.

  ‘I understand you had the Great Ratting last night. I’m sure you had a licence from the Corporation?’

  ‘The City has no power here, Sir John,’ the taverner replied, ‘and you know that. If I have broken the law then I shall be summoned to the Guildhall. Yet who cares about licences when there’s been gruesome murder?’

  He beckoned them forward.

  ‘I do pay taxes, Sir John, for the King’s peace to be upheld.’

  Cranston ignored the jibe at his expense. Rolles led them all, including the Judas Man, across to an outhouse, pulled back the doors and ushered them in. Two lantern horns hung on hooks suspended from the rafters. In the pool of light below lay three corpses on wooden pallets. Athelstan immediately recognised Toadflax. He had seen him collecting the corpses of dogs; now his own corpse sprawled, eyes staring blindly, blood-encrusted mouth gaping, the front of his shabby jerkin soaked in gore. The other two Athelstan did not recognise, but he felt a deep pang of sadness. Alive, these two young women must have been vibrantly beautiful, with their ivory skin and golden hair, which not even the horror of death could disguise, but now they too lay sprawled, eyes open, heads to one side, faces encrusted with splatters of blood. One had been stabbed, a knife thrust to the belly; the other had had the top half of her chest crushed by the iron-hard crossbow bolt still deeply embedded there.

  Athelstan knelt down and gently moved the blonde hair from each of their faces. He began the prayer, ‘De profanais . . . Out of the depths I cry to thee, O Lord . . .’

  ‘Lord, hear my voice!’

  Athelstan turned round. Brother Malachi had entered the outhouse.

  ‘I have already recited the death prayers; the Benedictine explained. ‘I have whispered the words of absolution and anointed their hands and faces with holy water.’

  Cranston, standing in the shadows, came forward and Athelstan introduced the two men. The coroner glanced down at the corpses. ‘Wherever their souls have gone,’ he murmured, ‘their bodies lie murdered, and someone, Master Rolles, will have to answer for that.’

  Chapter 3

  Sir Stephen Chandler didn’t know he was going to die. After his return from St Erconwald, he had decided to bathe in a tub of hot water, and sip a deep-bowled cup of claret. Chandler liked to bathe; his wife and retainers laughed at him. Most men of his station only bathed on the eve of the great feast days of the Church. Sir Stephen, however, had fought in Outremer, he had swum in the cool fountains and ponds of the Caliph of Egypt’s palaces. He had never forgotten that. Once the palaces had been taken, their treasures ransacked, the men slaughtered, the women raped, to swim in the ornamental pools and to smell the exquisite scent of the lotus flowers floating there was pleasure indeed. He was a man who liked his comforts, Sir Stephen, a great landowner in the shire of Kent, owner of Dovecote Manor on the road to Canterbury, a fine red-bricked building with its pastures, meadows, hunting rights, streams and well-stocked carp ponds.

  Sir Stephen sat in the leather-backed chair and sniffed appreciatively at the steam curling from the scented hot water the slatterns had poured in. He had insisted on crushed rose juice being added; it always made him relax, and Sir Stephen, if the truth were known, was deeply agitated. He hated these journeys to London every autumn, the gathering, the Masses and, above all, the memories. Sir Stephen picked up the wine cup and sipped carefully. He didn’t like that priest, the dark-faced Dominican; wasn’t he clerk to Cranston the coroner? Chandler knew Cranston personally – they had fought together on the borders of Gascony. Chandler pulled off his boots, undid his jerkin and stripped himself naked. He stared down at his podgy white body, the red scars and purple welts of ancient wounds, the way his forearms and the lower parts of his legs were still burned dark by that fierce sun.

  Sir Stephen waddled across to make sure the bolts on the door were pushed across and the lock turned. He absent-mindedly patted the coffer on the table just within the door and crossed to the bath tub. He would have liked two of the maids to bathe him, but he had to be careful, especially of that self-righteous monk Malachi. He had to hide his secret pleasures. Sir Stephen moved his wine cup to a small table near the tub and stepped gingerly in. He flinched at the heat but lowered himself carefully into the water. He had been quite explicit – the bath tub had to be sturdy and take his size, the finest oak, bound by hoops of iron. Master Rolles, as usual, could not do enough for him and his other companions. No wonder, Sir Stephen reflected, they’d paid the greasy taverner generously enough over the years. He stared appreciatively around the chamber. Master Rolles did look after them! These chambers were luxurious, whilst they dined not in that filthy tap room, but in the comfortable solar at the rear of the tavern. No dirty rushes covered that floor; instead, the oaken boards had been polished to shine like a mirror whilst carpets of soft turkey had been carefully nailed down to deaden the sound and keep in the warmth. The walls were hung with exquisite tapestries of blue and gold depicting scenes from the legends of King Arthur. Each chamber had its own theme, and Sir Stephen had been given the Excalibur chamber. Accordingly, all the blue and gold tapestries described incidents relating to the famous sword, from its discovery in a stone to its return to the Lady of the Lake.

  Sir Stephen leaned back, gazing up at the black rafters and the Catherine wheel of candles which could be lowered, lit and hoisted up again. In each corner of the chamber were capped metal braziers, the charcoal now red and spluttering, exuding not only warmth but also the fragrance of the herb pack-ets placed carefully amongst the coals. Sir Stephen smacked his lips; he would bathe, dress, perhaps sleep, before joining the rest for his midday meal. Master Rolles had promised them fresh pheasant, served in the tavern’s special oyster sauce, with newly baked white loaves. Sir Stephen sighed. These pilgrimages to London might be difficult but at least they were comfortable. He stared across at the coffer with its three locks. He always checked to ensure it was secure. He bathed his face in water, and even as he did so, the memories came flooding back. He must not forget that he was a soldier of the Faith. He had borne the Cross against the infidel; surely that was reparation enough? How many men had fought in the hot sands around the Middle Sea, the sun beating down, harsh and cruel as any war club? The excruciating thirst, when the tongue became swollen, and the mouth was dry as the sand you trudged through! The foul food aboard the war cogs, the salt of the sea stinging your eyes and worsening your thirst. The long marches during the day, watching your comrades die! The freezing cold of desert nights, and above all, the enemy, dressed in white, astride nimble horses, appearing out of nowhere with ululating war cries, so swift a man had hardly time to arm. The patter-patter of arrows, the sudden surprise of a ni
ght attack, the hideous embrace of hand-to-hand combat as you fought for your life and tried to silence the enemy gasping beneath you.

  Sir Stephen moved uneasily in the bath, his feet feeling strangely cold. And the sieges! The long ladders against the wall, the dizzying climb, rocks being hurled down, the splash of boiling oil, worsened by fire arrows which turned comrades into living, screaming human torches. Oh yes, Sir Stephen told himself, he had done his duty, he had received the blessings of popes and bishops, so now he should comfort himself and forget past sins. He moved his legs, becoming alarmed. The feeling of coldness was creeping up his body. He wanted to get up but his legs felt paralysed, as if encased in the heaviest steel armour. He stretched out for the wine cup and took a deep draught, not realising he was swallowing his own death.

  He began to panic. Pains fired in his lower stomach, and he felt as if he was slipping away, as if the bath water was turning cold and rising to swallow him. He thrashed about, but in vain. His throat felt strangely dry, the chamber seemed to be moving, the tapestries on the wall rippling as though shaken by some unseen hand. He caught one scene, the arm of the Lady of the Lake coming up to grasp Excalibur. The water was turning black and swollen, like the water on the river so many years ago. He made one last effort to rise, only to slip back, his head hitting the side of the wooden tub. Sir Stephen Chandler, Knight of the Golden Falcon, landowner of Kent, knight of the shire, and former Crusader, slipped quietly to his death . . .

  Cranston was holding court in the outhouse. Athelstan had made himself comfortable on a stool. The leader of the knights, Sir Maurice Clinton, had joined them. He had come looking for the taverner and stayed out of curiosity. The Judas Man was at first reluctant to answer Cranston’s questions.

  ‘You can, sir . . .’ Cranston took a swig from the miraculous wine skin and popped it back beneath his cloak. ‘You can, sir, either answer my questions here or at the Guildhall. You arrived at Master Rolles’ tavern yesterday and three murders occured.’

  ‘Two murders,’ the Judas Man answered. He pointed to Toadflax’s corpse. ‘I killed him in self-defence.’

  ‘Right.’ Cranston went across and sat down on a bale of straw. ‘Master Rolles, do the same for yourself and for him.’ He pointed at the Judas Man.

  ‘Is he always like this?’ Brother Malachi whispered to Athelstan.

  ‘Sir Jack has his own way,’ the Dominican murmured. ‘Like the Holy Spirit,’ he smiled, ‘he works secretly, his wonders to behold.’

  ‘I heard that, Brother.’

  Cranston took off his beaver hat and threw it down between his feet. Loosening his sword belt, he made himself comfortable. Once the Judas Man was seated on the bale of straw, the questioning was resumed.

  ‘You were hired to capture the Misericord. By whom?’

  ‘I don’t know. Look.’ The Judas Man held up a hand. ‘Whilst working in Essex I received a letter along with a purse of silver. I was given the Misericord’s name and a slight description. I was told to be in London at this tavern by the eve of the Feast of St Wulfnoth.’

  ‘Why were you hired? To capture the Misericord or kill him?’

  ‘The Misericord is an outlaw – he is wanted dead or alive. I would have given him the chance to surrender.’

  ‘Why were you hired?’

  There was a pause as Sir Maurice Clinton went over and secured the outhouse door, which was banging in the cold breeze.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ the Judas Man retorted. ‘The Misericord is a villain, he is wanted dead or alive. He has probably offended someone who is tired of dealing with sheriffs and coroners and wants to see him hanged at Smithfleld.’

  ‘So you came here. Oh, by the way,’ Cranston jabbed a finger, ‘I would be grateful if you would treat the office of coroner with more respect.’ He jabbed his finger again. ‘You lodged at this tavern?’

  The Judas Man shrugged in agreement.

  ‘How did you know the Misericord was in the tap room?’

  ‘I received a message, left outside my chamber along with another purse of coins.’

  ‘Who brought it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I went downstairs – I met Sir Maurice and his comrades. I went into the tap room looking for a red-haired man with a misericord dangling around his neck. I thought I had found him. I questioned him. I gave him the chance to surrender. He attacked me, so I killed him.’

  ‘I can vouch for that.’ Master Rolles undid the top clasp of his boiled leather jerkin. ‘My bailiffs saw what happened.’

  ‘Did they now?’ Cranston took another slurp from his wine skin but didn’t offer it to the others, a sign of his growing annoyance. ‘Master Rolles, you will have to vouch for many things. These corpses were found in your tavern. Two beautiful women, one killed by a crossbow bolt, the other by a dagger. I understand they were found in the hay barn?’

  ‘Yes, it is just across the yard.’

  ‘What were they doing there? Come on,’ Cranston barked. ‘Who hired this Judas Man’s chamber, who brought the message to his chamber? Who told these two girls to leave the tavern and go to a hay barn in the dead of night?’

  The taverner wiped his sweat-soaked palms on his woollen hose.

  ‘Sir John . . .’

  ‘Don’t Sir John me. I am not Sir John or Sir Jack to you, but the Lord Coroner of London. In your eyes you must regard me as God Almighty on horseback. Answer my questions.’

  ‘We all have visitors at night,’ the taverner murmured. ‘About two weeks ago, on the Feast of St Hedwig, a customer brought me a message, told me I had a visitor outside—’

  ‘Of course,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘I am sure, Master Rolles, knowing what I do of you, you have many visitors at night: the cask of Bordeaux brought in without paying customs, the cloth from Bruges, farmers prepared to sell their meat without paying London tolls, fishermen who sell their catch without handing over any of their profits to the Guild.’

  ‘You can’t prove that,’ Rolles retorted.

  ‘Oh, one day I will! Sooner than you think, if you don’t answer my questions. This visitor . . .’

  ‘I went out to the yard,’ Rolles confessed. ‘There were three of them, all cloaked and cowled. I told them my time cost money. A silver coin was tossed at my feet. I asked them what they wanted. One man stepped forward, he was hooded and visored. I couldn’t recognise his voice or make out any emblem or sign. He asked me when the Great Ratting would take place. I told him. He said he wished to hire a chamber for a thief-taker, known as the Judas Man. He gave me a description and said he would arrive here, as he did, the afternoon before the Great Ratting. I was to give him safe lodgings, food and drink.’ The taverner spread his hands. ‘Why should I refuse good custom? I was paid in advance and given every assurance that more would be paid. After all, the Judas Man is a law officer. He is hardly likely to steal away in the dead of night. He arrived, and that’s all I know.’

  ‘You don’t know who brought the message?’ Athelstan asked.

  The taverner twisted round. ‘Brother Athelstan, isn’t it? I know all about you.’

  ‘Do you now?’ the Dominican replied. ‘Then you are a better man than I. The message?’

  ‘Do you know everyone who comes to your church?’ Rolles taunted. ‘People come in and out of my tavern, every sort and ilk on a night like the Great Ratting.’ He pulled a face. ‘I cannot say.’

  Rolles turned back to the coroner.

  ‘I’ve answered your questions.’ He gestured at Sir Maurice. ‘I have meals to prepare.’

  Cranston lifted his foot, and pressed so firmly down on the toe of the taverner’s boot that the man winced in pain.

  ‘Master Rolles,’ Cranston shook his head, ‘you are only halfway through your story. I knew those beautiful girls.’ He gestured at the corpses. ‘Two sisters, Beatrice and Clarice, hair like the sun, eyes as blue as the summer sky, impudent and mischievous; now they lie cold, two of the most accomplished courtesans in Southwark. What were they doing in your hay
barn?’

  ‘They came for the Great Ratting. They were looking for custom. Ouch!’ The taverner yelped, as Cranston pressed his foot back down.

  ‘They didn’t have to look for custom,’ Cranston declared. ‘Custom went looking for them, men greedy for their soft flesh and expert ways. Why were they in your hay barn?’

  ‘The stranger,’ Rolles gasped. Cranston took his boot away. ‘The stranger who hired the Judas Man paid me very well, silver coins, this year’s batch, freshly minted at the Tower. He told me that, on the night of the Great Ratting, I was to hire two accomplished whores, Beatrice and Clarice. Of course I knew their names. I told them they would be my guests.’

  ‘And?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘The stranger said that when the Great Ratting was over the whores were to meet him in the hay barn. I was simply told to tell them that they would be lavishly paid. I did what he asked. I sent the usual message to their keeper, Mother Veritable.’ Rolles forced a smile. ‘I put the message to be collected in the Castle of Love; it’s a pocket on a tapestry in the solar, the usual way I tell Mother Veritable to send her girls for customers who have a need. Mother Veritable—’

  ‘Oh, that cruel-hearted hag,’ Cranston broke in. ‘You haven’t met her yet, Brother Athelstan? Mother Veritable, with a face as sweet as honey and a soul of sour vinegar. I will be paying her a visit soon. Well, continue, Master Rolles.’ He lifted his boot.

  ‘The two whores turned up,’ Rolles gabbled on, ‘dressed in all their finery.’

  Cranston stretched out his hand. ‘I noticed their jewellery was missing.’

  ‘I have it in safe keeping.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ Cranston grinned, ‘and I’ll take it before we leave. Brother Athelstan can sell it for the poor. But, Master Troubadour, do continue with your tale.’

  ‘After the Great Ratting was over, I told the girls to go to the hay barn. I’d lit a lantern horn. They would be safe, warm and dry. That’s all I know, Lord Coroner. I had forgotten all about them until early this morning, when an ostler discovered their corpses.’