Paul Doherty - The House of Shadows

Athelstan undid the cord and tipped out the contents: some jewellery, trinkets, gewgaws, buttons, hair clasps, a lock of hair and a small roll of parchment, rather dirty and yellow. Athelstan placed the sack down and unrolled the piece of manuscript. The writing was in a deep black ink. The hand looked clerkly, the letters clearly formed; it was a poem written in Norman French, imitating the troubadours of Paris. Athelstan read the opening lines.

Le Coq du Couronne Rouge est Maigre

Comment le grand Seigneur, Monsieur Le

Coq. .

Athelstan realised it was one of those poets’ clever conceits: the references to a ‘cock’ and a ‘red crown’ were sexual allusions. The writing was cramped, of little significance, so he rolled it up and put it back.

Cranston made to get up, but abruptly his hand shot out and he grasped Donata’s wrist. The girl started.

‘The Knights of the Golden Falcon?’

Mother Veritable tried to protest; Cranston pressed the fingers of his other hand against Donata’s mouth.

‘I’ll have you arrested, girl, and questioned if you do not tell the truth!’

Athelstan was surprised at Sir John’s roughness. He could tell from Donata’s face how Sir John had stirred up a hornet’s nest.

‘They come here?’ Sir John asked. ‘Those great lords from Kent, not together, but perhaps singly. They do, don’t they?’ He tightened his grip. Donata, eyes rounded in fear, nodded. ‘And they asked for Beatrice and Clarice, didn’t they? Which ones?’

The girl, terrified, shook her head.

‘Let her go, Sir Jack.’

Mother Veritable picked up her stick and beat it on the floor. Cranston released his grip. Donata snatched the sack back. She got up so quickly she knocked over the stool, and fled through the door, slamming it behind her.

‘You were too harsh.’

‘I told you, I came for the truth,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that five great lords of Kent who have come up to London to celebrate, fill their bellies with wine, ale and good food, do not satisfy their other hungers? That they wouldn’t visit a brothel which they frequented in their youth? Oh, they’ll do it differently now they’re important, won’t they? They won’t come swaggering up the path, carousing, singing a ribald song, but, as you might say, like a thief in the night. Now, if you want, Mother Veritable, I can have this place searched. I can whip up Master Flaxwith.’

‘I’ve told you more than I should, Sir John. You know the rules of this house about secrecy! Yes, you are correct. They’ve all been here, one at a time. They all asked to see Beatrice and Clarice, sometimes one, sometimes both together.’

‘Ah!’ Cranston sighed. ‘And so it’s not beyond imagining that, on the night of the Great Ratting, one, or two, or all of those stalwart knights asked for Beatrice and Clarice?’

‘But why meet them in the hay barn?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Mother Veritable knows the answer to that, don’t you?’ Cranston rose and stood over the brothel mistress. ‘Whoever hired them wouldn’t dare take them up to their chamber; they didn’t want such stories going back to Kent. Who knows, perhaps in the hay barn itself, some other tavern, or even your cemetery, Brother Athelstan.’

Cranston leaned down and pressed Mother Veritable’s shoulder.

‘Which of the knights favoured both girls together? Don’t glare at me! Which of the knights?’

Cranston plucked up the piece of embroidery and held it out as if he was about to drop it in the fire. ‘Two young women were brutally slain!’

‘They all did,’ Mother Veritable conceded.

‘And what did the girls report? Come on,’ Cranston growled. ‘You collect tales about your customers.’

‘They are as old as you, Sir Jack, so they have their difficulties, particularly the small, fat one, Sir Stephen Chandler.’

‘You know he’s dead?’ Athelstan asked.

Mother Veritable made a rude sound with her lips.

‘So, another man has died, Brother. I don’t care! Yes, they’ve all come here. They always asked for Guinevere’s daughters. They liked that. They saw the girls as a link with the past.’

‘And something else?’ Cranston taunted. ‘If Guinevere was so smitten by Culpepper, unobtainable to them, they might think that the daughters were sufficient compensation.’

‘You know the ways of men, Lord Coroner, better than I do. Now, you must be finished.’

‘This custom,’ Athelstan demanded, ‘of Master Rolles sending for girls?’

‘It’s very profitable to us both.’

‘And they always come back with silver?’

‘Usually they do. Sometimes there are disappointments, a rare occasion.’

‘And the Benedictine?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Malachi?’

Mother Veritable shook her head. ‘I know nothing of him.’

A short while later Cranston and Athelstan left the house and went up Darkhouse Lane, now well named as the day drew on and a faint river mist began to boil up the alleyways and runnels. Candles glowed in windows and, already, lanterns were slung on doorposts outside houses. The main thorough-fare, however, was still busy. The crowds, in their motley-coloured garb, were eager to buy; trading was drawing to an end, so meat, fish and vegetables were reduced in price. The bailiffs were also busy, parading a set of steps through the streets, proclaiming how a washerwoman, busy with her clothes on the Thames, had slipped off these steps and drowned. The bailiffs declared the steps had been estimated at a third of a mark and, because of the accident, the wood would be sold and the profits go to the Crown. Behind them came a wax chandler sitting backwards on a horse, a leaking pitcher on his head, the dirty water trickling out, the penalty for drawing off water from a public conduit. The bailiffs were accompanied by a set of bagpipe players, their noise deadening all sound. Two madmen, attracted by the noise, cavorted wildly, dirty rags streaming in the stiff breeze from the river.

‘Where are we going, Sir John?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Where do you think?’

Cranston turned to the right and Athelstan groaned as he realised they were going back to the Night in Jerusalem, though he quietly conceded that such a visit was necessary; those gentlemen of Kent were not as innocent and high-minded as they appeared.

They reached the stable yard, Cranston striding across, bellowing for the taverner. Athelstan stared around the open cobbled expanse. The tavern must have been a lordly mansion, with stables, outhouses, granges and barns. These had now been converted for the use of travellers. The hay barn, its doors now concealed by a huge high-sided cart, stood at the far side. Athelstan realised it could be approached from the main doorway of the tavern as well as through the side door and kitchen door, not to mention the various windows. At night the yard would be pitch dark, perhaps lit by a cresset torch, or a brazier, but he could imagine someone slipping through the blackness, crossbow in hand, dagger thrust into his belt, sliding like the Angel of Death through that half-open door and into the hay barn. Inside, a capped lantern would provide the assassin with sufficient light. Beatrice and Clarice would be tired. They would have drunk deep. . How long would it take to release the cord of the crossbow to send the bolt whirring through the air? At such closeness death would be immediate. The other girl would be confused, the assassin could stride across thrusting the dagger deep. Athelstan pulled his hood up and stared down at the mud-strewn cobbles, shining in the light drizzle which had begun to fall. The murderous act would take no more than a few seconds, faster than a priest pattering through his psalter.