Paul Doherty - The House of Shadows

Cranston stepped back and, swinging his cudgel, smashed the tray, jerking it loose from the cord, then began to grind the pouches under his boot. Flaxwith’s two mastiffs growled. The bailiff himself joined in, squeezing the pouches under his muddy boot into the dirt and ordure, before kicking them towards the sewer which ran down the centre of the street. The travelling leech, aware of his hideous mistake, tried to flee, but Cranston grabbed him by his shabby jerkin.

‘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.’

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 night attack, the hideous embrace of hand-to-hand combat as you fought for your life and tried to silence the enemy gasping beneath you.