The House of Shadows (17 page)

‘Pernel, please do me a favour. Go and tell Watkin, Pike and Ranulf that I want to see them now.’

‘Why, do you want to hear their confessions, Father?’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Just before I hang them!’

The old Flemish woman scurried off, and a little while later the three miscreants entered the church. Athelstan told Pernel to stand outside and guard the sacristy door whilst he took the three into the sanctuary. They stood hangdog before him.

‘Yes, you all look as if you are heading for the execution cart.’

Athelstan sat down on the altar steps and looked up at them.

‘You know you can be hanged for helping a felon escape sanctuary?’

‘But, Father, how could you . . .’

‘Oh, very easily, Pike. I’ll tell you how it was done, then I’ll decide whether or not to inform the Judas Man. The Misericord has quick-silver wits, a nimble mind and a clever tongue. He knew all three of you before he ever took sanctuary here.’

The three stared at the paved floor as if they had never seen it before.

‘Ranulf, where are your ferrets?’

‘With God-Bless in the death house.’

‘That’s where you’ll be, you stupid man. As I was saying, the Misericord is a merry rogue. He’d often leave the sacristy to relieve himself, and he secretly chew you three into conversation. I suspect he had silver coins hidden all over his person. He paid one of you to go across the river and tell his sister Edith, sheltering in the Minoresses, about his predicament. You all know she visited here last night, and one thing about a nun’s robes is that you can hide an army beneath them. She brought a change of clothing, money, food, anything he might need to flee. She asked to speak with him alone and it would have been easy to hide a bundle in a darkened corner of the sanctuary. She left, I left, the posse outside settled down for the night. Somehow you three beauties managed to guard one part of the cemetery wall. You had arranged with the Misericord, in return for a pocketful of silver, to provide a signal when it was safe for him to slip out of the church.’ Athelstan pointed down to the squint hole. ‘And what better plan than to light a candle and place it at the squint hole, the sign that it was safe to leave? The Misericord was all ready, dressed in a wig, a dark cloak. Out of the sacristy he crept, across the cemetery and into the night.’

Watkin jumped in alarm as Bonaventure entered the church and sat next to his master, as if curious to discover what was happening.

‘I may have some of the details wrong,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘but I think the story is true. Yes? How much did he pay you?’

‘Ten marks,’ Ranulf muttered. ‘Three for each of us and one for the church.’

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You can have one each and I’ll keep seven for the church. Come on.’

The three quickly handed over the coins. Athelstan handed one back.

‘Pike, give that to Pernel, and if I were you, I would keep out of the Judas Man’s way.’ He got to his feet. ‘It’s only a matter of time before his wits follow the same path as mine.’

Athelstan dismissed them and returned to his house. Malachi was fast asleep, head on his arm, so Athelstan left him, quietly going up to the bed loft, removing the warming pan and tidying things up. He heard shouting and went out to the cemetery, but it was only the Judas Man and his posse preparing to leave. Athelstan had returned and was banking the fire when Cranston swept through the door all abluster. Malachi started awake. Excusing himself, the Benedictine greeted Sir John but refused Athelstan’s offer of food and said he would return to the tavern. Once he had gone, Sir John told Athelstan everything he’d learned in the Lamb of God. Athelstan listened quietly and hid his prickle of unease. He feared the Regent and wondered why a man like Matthias of Evesham should be so interested.

‘It’s not just the treasure, Sir John, it’s something else.’

‘And what about the excitement here?’

Cranston sat at the table mopping his brow, helping himself to a bowl of oatmeal mixed with honey. He stopped eating and listened with surprise as Athelstan informed him about the Misericord’s disappearance.

‘I’ll tell that Judas Man to keep his hands—’

The coroner was interrupted by a furious pounding at the door. Athelstan answered it, and one of Master Rolles’ tap boys burst into the room, red-faced, hair clammy with sweat.

‘Sir John,’ he gasped, fighting for breath, ‘you’ve got to come. I’ve been across to Cheapside but couldn’t find you. Sir Laurence Broomhill has been horribly wounded, he lies dying at the Night in Jerusalem.’

Athelstan made the boy calm down, giving him a small cup of buttermilk. With a little bit of coaxing, the boy described how, late last night, the tavern had been roused by a hideous screaming. How Master Rolles had gone into the cellar and found Sir Laurence Broomhill, awash with blood, his leg held fast in a mantrap which Rolles had kept in the cellar.

‘Master Rolles sometimes uses them,’ the boy explained. ‘Places them in his garden against those who poach from the carp pond, or break into his stables or outhouses.’

Sir John nodded understandingly, though in truth he hated such devices, which were increasingly used by the powerful and wealthy to protect their gardens and orchards, and were so sharp and powerful they could sever a man’s leg.

‘Was it an accident?’ Athelstan asked.

The boy shrugged.

‘Master Rolles doesn’t know. He thinks Sir Laurence went down to the cellar for some wine; a jug was found nearby.’

‘Why didn’t they send for me immediately?’ Cranston asked.

‘Oh, Sir John,’ the boy blustered, ‘it was all dreadful, they had to free his leg, bind it and take him to his chamber. Master Stapleton the physician was sent for but there was nothing he could do. Sir Laurence now lies all sweaty and bloody. I saw him.’ The boy imitated the dying knight’s jerky movements.

‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston soothed, ‘I know what happens. Brother Athelstan,’ he pointed to the door, ‘another day, another hunt.’

They found the Night in Jerusalem eerily quiet. Rolles had kept the door shut, refusing to allow customers inside the stable yard. Ostlers and grooms lounged about, whispering amongst themselves. The passageways and tap room lay silent. Sir Maurice Clinton and the rest were already waiting in the solar. Cranston and Athelstan greeted them and were halfway up the stairs when they met Rolles.

‘You are too late, sir.’ Rolles pointed back at the chamber. ‘Broomhill’s dead. Stapleton the physician has just left – there was nothing we could do.’

The taverner looked strangely agitated. Athelstan regarded him as a man with a soul as hard as flint, which not even the most dire of circumstances could weaken; now his fleshy face was pale and unshaven, eyes red-rimmed.

‘I am not a well man, Brother.’ The taverner gestured at his clothes, which were soaked in blood. ‘I am losing custom. I do not want these knights here ever again.’

He paused as Brother Malachi came up the stairs, a stole round his neck, in his right hand a phial of holy oils, in his left a beeswax candle.

‘I must anoint him,’ murmured the Benedictine.

They let him by. Rolles continued on his way down; Athelstan and Cranston went up on to the gallery and waited outside the Morte D’Arthur Chamber.

‘You may come in.’

Brother Malachi was standing by the bed, the candle snuffed, the holy oil replaced in its small leather bag.

Cranston whistled as he looked round. ‘It’s like a battlefield!’

The bed drapes, linen, coverlets and rugs were drenched in blood. Bandages, linen pads, as well as the poultices Stapleton had used to try and staunch the bleeding lay everywhere. The corpse, its skin as white as a leper’s, sprawled on the bed, naked from the waist down. Athelstan went across whilst Cranston, grasping his miraculous wine skin, turned away in disgust. Broomhill’s right leg was shattered midway between knee and heel. The wound exposed raw flesh, muscle and vein, and, peering down, Athelstan could see even the bone beneath was gashed. The smell was offensive; infection had already set in.

‘He must have been in agony,’ Athelstan remarked, staring at the dead man’s face, contorted by his last convulsions.

‘Stapleton gave him an opiate,’ Malachi replied.

‘There was nothing we could do.’ Rolles stood in the doorway like a prophet of doom. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Did he say anything before he died?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He babbled about the past.’ Rolles came into the chamber. ‘He talked of a great river beast which could swoop up and gulp a man’s body. He was feverish, he didn’t know what he was saying.’

‘What was he doing in the cellar?’

‘He went down in the evening. I found a jug nearby; perhaps he was going to fill it from one of the vats?’

‘Aren’t there servants, scullions, tap boys?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Of course,’ Rolles snapped, ‘but sometimes the galleries are deserted, and I do not object to favoured customers helping themselves. The knights always pay well.’

‘Pay well.’ Athelstan echoed the words. ‘Brother Malachi, what is the source of these knights’ wealth?’

‘Estates, some of the most fertile land in Kent, flocks of sheep, fishing rights. You could fill a charter with the sources of their profit.’

‘But once they were poor.’

‘Poor men become rich when their fathers die. Moreover, the knights brought plunder back from Egypt. They stormed palaces and treasures. Sir Maurice Clinton seized a box of mother-of-pearl, exquisite in their beauty, called the Pearls of Sheba; supposedly they once belonged to the great Solomon’s lover.’

‘And what happened to these?’

‘On our way home, the fleet docked in Genoa. The Genoese were only too pleased to buy whatever treasure the Crusaders had seized.’

‘Did you receive a portion of this wealth?’

‘No,’ Malachi smiled, ‘but my order did.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, let’s leave here.’ Cranston picked up a coverlet and draped it over the corpse. ‘Master Rolles, I want to see where he was wounded.’

Malachi stayed in the chamber whilst Rolles took them down to the cellar, Athelstan gingerly following the coroner down the stone steps, where a few candles glowed in wall-niches. At the bottom they paused as Rolles lit lantern horns slung on hooks to reveal a long, low-ceilinged cavern with vats and barrels stacked down either side. In the corner, to Athelstan’s right, were garden implements: mattocks, hoes and spades.

‘I did my best to clean the blood,’ Rolles muttered, and gestured at the great oval-shaped mantrap now resting against the wall. He pulled this out and prised apart the teeth.

‘A simple contraption,’ Athelstan conceded, ‘yet so deadly.’

The trap opened up and was kept apart by a spring. When Rolles touched this with a stick, the teeth came together with such a clash Athelstan jumped.

‘I need this,’ Rolles explained, sensing Athelstan’s horror. ‘Brother, ask Sir John, anyone! I have carp ponds, stables and outhouses which must be protected. A gang of rifflers can take your livestock in a night. Just knowing the traps are here will keep them away.’

‘You need a licence,’ the coroner snapped.

‘I have that. I know the law, Sir John, I can only use this when I can prove I am in danger of being robbed.’

‘More importantly,’ Athelstan crouched down, ‘why was it left open down here last night? And why did Sir Laurence come down here?’

He picked up the metal jug.

‘Was this from his chamber?’

‘I don’t know.’

Athelstan stared down the narrow passageway of this gloomy cellar, trying to imagine what had happened. Undoubtedly the Knights of the Golden Falcon would have been upset by Chandler’s death, as well as their own forced confessions about consorting with prostitutes. They might have drunk deeply. Sir Laurence, eager for more wine, took a jug from his own chamber or the kitchen and came down here.

‘This cellar is always in darkness, isn’t it?’

‘Of course,’ the taverner replied. ‘Candles are lit only when necessary.’

‘What if Sir Laurence came down here expecting to see somebody. He didn’t know this place. What do you do, Sir John, when you walk downstairs in the dark, particularly if you have been drinking?’

‘Take great care; those small candles in the wall-niches provide scanty light.’

‘And we don’t know,’ Athelstan mused, ‘if Sir Laurence was carrying a lantern.’

He closed his eyes, trying to recall how he came down the steps of the bell tower at his church. He hated that spiral staircase; he was never too sure when he reached the bottom. Wouldn’t Sir Laurence have felt the same? Athelstan got to his feet. The area around the steps stank of the brine and vinegar Rolles had used to clear up the blood; here and there splashes still stained the wall and the ground at the foot of the steps.

‘Sir Laurence must have been distracted.’

Athelstan pulled the mantrap over, placing it closed at the bottom of the steps. He then walked down between the vats and barrels to the far wall. The brickwork here was uneven and Athelstan noticed, just above his own gaze, a rather large gap.

‘Sister Wax,’ he murmured, recalling his discovery at the squint hole at the church earlier that day. ‘Sister Wax, you’ve helped me again!’

The wax on the brickwork was soft and clean, freshly formed.

‘Master Rolles, come here.’ The taverner came down to join him. ‘Did you place a candle here?’

The taverner brushed the wax with his fingers.

‘No, no, I didn’t. By the amount of wax, a candle must have been burning here for some time.’

Athelstan asked Rolles to bring a tallow candle down. The taverner took one from the box beneath the staircase, lit it and placed it in the niche. The cellar lanterns were doused. Athelstan went back up the steps, ignoring Cranston’s moans about the darkness, then turned and came slowly down again. Even though he was aware of the small lights in the wall-niches, he was still attracted by that solitary candle burning at the far end of the cellar. He reached the bottom step.

‘Sir Laurence was murdered.’ His voice echoed sombrely through the darkness. ‘Master Rolles, please light the lanterns. Sir John, if you would . . .’