Paul Doherty - The House of Shadows

‘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.’

‘And I suppose nobody saw anything?’

‘We didn’t,’ exclaimed Sir Maurice, who was leaning against the door. ‘We always stay at the Night in Jerusalem. We have never known such excitement! The Great Ratting, the fight in the tap room, the whores being cut down in the hay barn. Like the old days, Sir Jack.’

Cranston looked sharply at him.

‘I have been standing here watching you,’ the knight explained. ‘I remember Master Rolles from the war years, but now I recall you. You were in Sir Walter Manny’s expedition out of Calais. Do you remember?’

Cranston smiled and brushed back his mass of grey hair.

‘Of course, days of glory, eh? I was freshly knighted. I was handsome then, slim as a whippet, fast as a falling hawk, but I don’t recall you, sir.’

‘I was a lowly squire,’ Clinton replied.

‘So many different memories,’ Cranston mused.

He got to his feet, walked over and, crouching down, pulled back the sheet covering the corpses of the two women.

‘I knew these two girls,’ he smiled over his shoulder, ‘though not in the carnal sense. I also knew their mother, a very famous whore! A woman of mystery. She was famous throughout Southwark. One night. .’ Cranston paused, ‘Satan’s tits,’ he whispered, ‘one night she disappeared.’

Athelstan felt a prickle of cold on his back. The coroner had recalled something significant.

‘Guinevere the Golden,’ Cranston murmured.

His remark brought a gasp of surprise from Brother Malachi, who was sitting beside Athelstan. The Benedictine sprang to his feet, fingers going to his lips, his agitation so obvious Athelstan became alarmed.

‘What is it, Brother?’ Cranston re-covered the corpses and got to his feet. The Benedictine looked as if he was about to faint. Athelstan put down his writing satchel.

‘I don’t know.’ Malachi scratched his forehead. ‘I don’t really know.’ He glanced quickly at Athelstan. ‘I don’t want to talk here.’

‘You can use the solar,’ Rolles offered. ‘I’ll take you there myself.’

‘And me?’ the Judas Man asked. ‘Are you finished with me, Sir John?’

‘No, I am not finished with you, but you can return to your post. On no account leave Southwark without my permission.’

‘The corpses.’ The taverner stopped at the door. ‘They’ll begin to ripen.’

‘Flaxwith,’ Cranston roared.

The bailiff, followed by his two dogs, came hurrying across the yard.

‘Have these corpses removed. They are to be taken across the river and buried in the strangers’ plot outside Charterhouse. The Corporation will bear the cost.’

Athelstan and Cranston left the outhouse with the others and crossed the muck-strewn yard. A faint drizzle had begun to fall, so the passageway into the tavern seemed even more warm and sweet-smelling. They passed the tap room, still being vigorously cleaned after the previous night, and into the more comfortable part of the tavern, the solar, a large chamber which overlooked a well-laid-out garden.

‘I grow my own herbs and vegetables,’ Rolles explained. ‘So visitors don’t come at the dead of night,’ he continued sharply, ‘to offer me leeks and shallots for sale.’

Cranston laughed and patted him on the shoulder. The taverner shrugged this off and pointed to the polished wooden table which ran down the centre of the room.

Cranston sat at the top, Athelstan on his right, with Malachi and Sir Maurice on his left. Athelstan placed his writing satchel on the floor. What he learned today he would write up later. Brother Malachi still looked pale. The taverner’s offer of a jug of Rhenish wine and a plate of comfits was eagerly accepted by Cranston. Athelstan believed the taverner wished to eavesdrop, so he nudged Sir John under the table. The coroner took the hint and loudly began to praise the solar’s furnishings, pointing at the mantled hearth, where a log fire spluttered, the coloured drapes above the wooden panelling, the glass in the windows. Despite the taverner’s obvious annoyance, the coroner heaped praise upon praise and continued to do so until Rolles had served the wine and the silver dish of marchpane, and left the room. Even then Cranston got to his feet, still talking, opened the door and slammed it firmly shut.

‘Well done, Brother, well done.’ He smiled, tapping the side of his nose.

Malachi’s colour had returned, and he drank greedily at the wine but refused to eat anything. Athelstan wondered what had so alarmed the Benedictine. He was, Athelstan reflected, a youngish man, yet he appeared to have aged. His usual cheeriness had crumpled, the furrows around his mouth were more obvious, his skin was pasty, his eyes tired, his mouth slack.

‘Brother Malachi need not tell you. I shall,’ Sir Maurice offered, patting the Benedictine gently on the arm. ‘Twenty years ago the French signed the peace treaty of Bretigny, and the war with France ended, at least for a while. I and my companions. . well, Sir Jack, you know how it was, young knights with little land and no wealth? We all came from Kent, we’d fought across the Narrow Seas, but none of us had taken any plunder or ransoms. We became mercenaries. The Crusader, Peter of Cyprus, organised an expedition against the Turks in North Africa. He hoped to seize Alexandria and free the trade routes in the Middle Sea.’

‘I remember it,’ Cranston nodded. ‘An army assembled in London. The King loaned ships, a squadron, berthed here in the Thames, cogs and merchantmen.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Sir Maurice, I think I know what you are going to talk about. The treasure, the Crusaders’ war chest?’