by Paul Doherty
Gaunt turned. ‘Well, well, Dogman, in three days’ time, on Saturday morning, between the hours of eleven and twelve, my nephew and I will ride down to Westminster with a cavalcade of knights, squires and pages. The king will distribute alms and confer the King’s Touch on the sick and infirm. You will be there . . .’ Gaunt smirked. ‘The Hare is as scabby and scrofulous as ever?’
Dogman nodded eagerly.
‘And still hates those who ride on palfreys and clothed in silk?’
Again the fevered nodding.
‘Make sure he’s armed.’
Gaunt heard Dogman gasp, so he rose and walked over to him. ‘What are you frightened of, Dogman?’
‘The Hare will attack,’ Judas whispered. ‘Strike at the Lord’s anointed.’
‘Well, isn’t that what you plotted in your covens and secret meetings in Southwark and elsewhere?’ Gaunt dug a fingernail into the man’s dirty cheek and laughed. ‘Mad as a March hare. Just ensure he is there.’ Gaunt patted the man’s greasy hair. ‘Oh, your comrade the Fox has been caught.’ He spun a coin on to the floor. ‘Your information was correct.’
‘What will happen to him, my Lord?’
‘I told my judges to give him a fair trial then hang him.’ Gaunt turned back. ‘I must pray for his soul.’
Dogman grabbed the coin and scuttled out. Gaunt moved over and picking up a jug of water, held his fingers over a bowl, and let the rose-scented water pour over them. He wiped his hands on a napkin and returned to his prie-dieu. He turned abruptly, glared up into the shadowy choir-loft and, narrowing his eyes, caught a glint of mail and knew the archers still waited there.
Gaunt returned to his meditations. Cupping his chin in his hand, he thought about the murders at the Gargoyle tavern. Would Cranston, he wondered, be able to unearth the mystery? Gaunt stared at a fly walking along the crisp white altar cloth. Some men dismissed the coroner as a fat, drunken buffoon, but Cranston’s looks belied his wit. And that friar, Athelstan, with his smooth, olive face and wary dark eyes! Gaunt closed his eyes and smiled. In any other circumstances he would place a wager that they would succeed, but whom could he tell?
There was another knock on the door. ‘Come in! Come in!’
This time the visitor was cloaked and cowled, but the cloth was pure wool and the boots peeping out beneath were costly Burgundian leather.
‘You may be a knight of the shire . . .’ Gaunt murmured. He pointed to the pyx; the gold, jewel-encrusted casket which hung from a silver chain just above the altar. ‘. . . but, in the presence of Christ our King, not to mention his lawful representative on earth, you should kneel.’
The knight obeyed. Gaunt did not bother to turn.
‘You speak loudly in the chapter-house,’ he whispered.
‘Your Grace, that is what you wanted.’
Gaunt pulled a face. ‘Not too hotly,’ he advised. ‘Otherwise, when you change tack, some might whisper.’
‘And when do I do that, your Grace?’
‘Oh, you’ll know the time,’ Gaunt replied. ‘A sign will be given to you.’
‘Your Grace.’ The knight shuffled his feet as if he wanted to draw closer, but Gaunt stretched out his hands and snapped his fingers.
‘No further,’ he warned.
‘Your Grace, the murders?’
‘Ah yes, those two honourable Knights of the Swan, Sir Oliver Bouchon and Sir Henry Swynford. I have been kneeling here, praying for the repose of their souls.’
‘Your Grace, there’s an assassin on the loose. He intends to kill us all.’
‘Not all of you,’ Gaunt purred. ‘Not all of you are guilty men.’
‘We believed we were doing right.’
‘What you believed and what the law decrees are two different things.’
‘Your Grace,’ the knight retorted hoarsely, ‘we must leave London!’
‘Leave?’ Gaunt turned, one eyebrow raised. ‘You and your companions, sir, are elected representatives.’ He turned back. ‘If you leave, I’ll have the king’s justices in Eyre dispatched to Shrewsbury. They will investigate, listen to the whispers, and dig down into all the dirt and refuse of your past. And what will the people say, eh, Sir Edmund Malmesbury? What will the people say? How you swept grandly up to London but fled because two of your companions had been murdered? And why had they been murdered? And who was responsible? They will whisper and gossip outside the church gate.’
Malmesbury pushed back his hood and stretched out his hands. ‘Your Grace, we were young. We made a terrible mistake. We have vowed to go on pilgrimage, pay compensation . . .’
‘Pilgrimage?’ Gaunt snarled, half turning his head. ‘Pilgrimage? This is your pilgrimage, Sir Edmund. This is your penance. You will stay. Cranston and Athelstan will unmask the murderer.’
‘Cranston is a drunken buffoon.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Gaunt replied softly. ‘What you and the rest must do, Sir Edmund –’ Gaunt lifted his hands together as if in prayer – ‘is you must pray. You must really pray that Cranston and Athelstan unmask this assassin amongst you before he strikes again.’ Gaunt snapped his fingers. ‘A sign will be given to you on Saturday morning. On Monday you will know what is to be done. Make sure you do it!’ Gaunt sighed. ‘Of course, that is, if you are still alive. Yet, there again, if you are not, someone else will do it instead. Now go!’
Gaunt heard the man scuffle away, the oratory door closing behind him. The regent looked up at the crucifix and idly wondered who was responsible for the deaths of those two knights.
CHAPTER 6
Dame Mathilda Kirtles’ house in Cottemore Lane was both stately and smart. Built on a foundation of brick, the broad beams which stretched up to the red-tiled roof were painted a glossy black, whilst the plaster in between was a dainty pink. Windows on all three floors were of the lattice type, filled with mullioned or leaded glass. The garden on either side of the pebble path had been tastefully laid out, with small rose-bushes interspersed with raised banks of fragrant-smelling herbs.
‘And this is a brothel!’ Athelstan exclaimed.
Banyard, grinning from ear to ear, pointed at the door-handle of yellow brass carved in the shape of a young, sensuous girl holding a pitcher of water. Athelstan gazed speechlessly at this, then at the end of the bell rope where the weights were carved in the shape of a man’s penis. Cranston, huffing and puffing, not knowing whether to be embarrassed or laugh, pulled at the rope then moved his hand quickly away.
Thank God the Lady Maude can’t see me here, he thought. Oh Lord and all his saints forfend she ever does!
The sweet sound of the bell inside the house was answered by a patter of footsteps and the door swung open. In any other circumstances Athelstan would have thought the young girl was a novice: a white, gold-edged veil covered her lustrous hair, and she was dressed in a high-necked grey gown, but this was flounced at the hem and her nails were painted a deep red. What Athelstan had first thought was a white cloth over her bosom, was instead a rather thin gauze veil over ripe, luscious breasts.
‘Good morrow, sirs.’ The girl smiled at them. She clutched at her gown and raised this slightly, showing the thick white petticoats beneath. She gestured airily to Athelstan. ‘Come in, Father. You will not be the first friar we have had here.’ She fought back the laughter in her voice. ‘And you will certainly not be the last. Any friend of Master Banyard’s is a friend of ours.’
‘Master Banyard is leaving,’ Cranston growled, regaining his wits and pushing by Athelstan. ‘And you, my little hussy, should know that I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the city.’
‘Coroners are also welcome,’ the girl answered pertly. ‘Though the lady of the house –’ she pouted at Cranston’s warbelt – ‘does not permit swords.’
Banyard sniggered, but when Sir John whirled round, pulled his face straight. ‘Sir John, I have to go back.’
‘Dame Mathilda Kirtles,’ Cranston pushed his face towards the young woman. ‘I want to see her now or it will be
the bailiffs. And don’t tell me they’d be most welcome as well!’
The young girl, covering her mouth with her hand, stepped back and led them along an airy passageway and into a sweet-smelling parlour. She told them to wait, closed the door behind her. Athelstan sat in a cushioned windowseat, mouth half open as he stared around.
‘Oh, come, come, Brother,’ Cranston called out. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been in a molly-house before!’
Athelstan quietly raised his hands. ‘Sir John, I swear, I have never seen a place like this.’
The friar stared down at the floor where the boards were so highly polished that they caught the sunlight. Here and there lay thick woollen rugs. The walls were half covered with wooden panelling, above this the plaster had been painted a rich cream shade. Tapestries, full of colour, hung there. Athelstan, craning his neck, studied one. At first he thought it was a young maiden listening to the song of a troubadour, but he blushed as he realised the troubadour was naked, whilst the young lady had her dress split down the middle.
‘Yes, yes, quite,’ he murmured.
‘Have you ever been with a maid?’ Cranston asked.
‘Sir John, that’s for me to think about and you to wonder . . .’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘At first glance, this could have been an abbess’s parlour.’
‘Knowing some of the abbesses I do,’ Cranston growled, ‘you’re probably right!’
‘Doesn’t the city try to close them down?’ As he spoke Athelstan heard a sound from the wall just next to the canopied hearth. He glanced quickly over; he was sure he glimpsed a wooden shutter being drawn closed.
‘Who would shut a place like this down?’ Cranston answered. ‘Dame Mathilda and her “Jolies filles” could sing a song which would embarrass many an alderman.’
‘Aye, and a few others!’
Cranston whirled round. A tall, severe lady, dressed in a white veil and grey dress, stood just within the doorway. Her hair was grey, her face thin and haughty, her eyes sharp and watchful. She walked across, fingering the golden girdle tied round her waist. Athelstan felt like pinching himself: she walked and talked like some venerable mother superior.
‘I am Dame Mathilda Kirtles.’ She stared down at Athelstan. ‘You are the Dominican from St Erconwald’s, aren’t you? One of your parishioners, Cecily, often talks about you.’
Athelstan was too tongue-tied to reply.
‘And you, of course, must be Sir John Cranston: the fattest, loudest and most bibulous of coroners!’ She held a hand out. Cranston grasped and kissed it.
‘Madame, I am your servant.’
‘No you are not,’ Dame Mathilda snapped, ‘you have nothing to do with whores, Sir John, more’s the pity.’ Her eyes softened a little. ‘But they say you can’t be bribed, and that makes you unique.’ Dame Mathilda swept away and sat down on a small cushioned chair before the fireplace.
‘Sir John, you are not here for pleasure, so what is your business?’
Cranston sat down in the windowseat next to Athelstan. For some strange reason he felt like a little boy again, quietly throwing stones into the stewponds and being reproved by one of his elderly aunts.
‘I’d offer you some refreshment,’ Dame Mathilda declared, ‘but I’ll be honest, Sir John, the sooner you’re gone the better!’ She smiled thinly. ‘Banyard cackles like a goose. No one will dare come near the house whilst you are here.’
‘Including the honourable representatives from Shrewsbury?’ Cranston asked. ‘They were here last Monday night, Dame Mathilda. Bellies full, deep in their cups.’
‘Aye, and their purses full of silver. They came here about two hours before midnight.’ She continued. ‘My girls entertained them . . .’ She indicated with her head at the ceiling. ‘Each went their separate ways with the girl of his choice.’
‘All of them?’
‘One left.’
‘Who?’ Athelstan asked.
‘The small, funny one. He sat for a while with one of my girls, boring her to sleep with chatter about animals, beasteries and what he had seen in the Tower. He looked at the hour-candle, gabbled an excuse and left.’
‘And he did not return?’
‘I did not say that. He came back just before the rest left. And, before you ask, Cranston, I don’t know where he’d gone or what he’d been doing: his cloak was damp so I think he had been on the river. Mind you, if he stayed,’ she continued tersely, ‘he’d have been as useful as the rest.’
‘What do you mean?’ Cranston asked.
‘Sir John, these are men of middle years, mature in wisdom, their bellies full. They may still hold their lances straight, but not in the bedchamber.’
‘Yes.’ Cranston glanced quickly at Athelstan, but the friar seemed totally bemused at what Dame Mathilda was saying. ‘And I suppose, good lady, when your guests stay here, you keep an eye on them?’ The coroner gazed round. ‘Even in this room there must be eyelets and hidden peep-holes?’
‘Sir John, you are wiser than you look.’
‘And they talked to the girls?’
‘Sir John, come, come!’ Dame Mathilda clasped her hands demurely in front of her. ‘Do you really expect me to tell you that?’
‘Well…’ Sir John stretched out his legs and folded his arms. ‘You can either tell me here or I could ask the bailiffs to accompany you to the Guildhall tomorrow.’
‘They boasted, Sir John, like all men do: what barns they had, what granges, how fat their sheep, how high their own standing . . .’
‘And what?’
‘How they were members of the Commons and would not lift a finger to help the regent unless he met their demands.’ Dame Mathilda got to her feet. ‘And that, Sir John, is all I can tell you, either here or in your Guildhall.’ She walked towards the door then turned. ‘Brother Athelstan, have you found out where Perline Brasenose is?’
‘Why no.’ The friar got to his feet. ‘You know him?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Dame Mathilda came back. ‘Years ago his mother worked here. Perline was, how can I put it, an unexpected result of a night’s work here.’
‘He’s a member of my parish, he’s married to Simplicatas.’
‘Oh, is that what she’s calling herself now?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Athelstan smiled and stared down at his hands.
Perline and his mother had come to Southwark a few years ago, then Simplicatas had suddenly appeared in their household. Perline had always claimed she was a very distant kinswoman. When he had married her at the church door of St Erconwald’s, all Athelstan had been concerned about was that there was no kinship of blood between them, as laid down by canon law. He closed his eyes and recalled Simplicatas’s pale, elfin face, her blonde hair and green smiling eyes.
‘Well I never,’ he murmured. He glanced up. ‘You know Perline is still missing?’
‘Yes, yes, I do.’ Dame Mathilda opened the door. ‘It’s a small world, Brother Athelstan, especially if you are a whore. Simplicatas has asked for our help.’ The woman glanced impishly at Sir John. ‘There is little that happens in London that we whores do not know about. Now, Sir John, I really must insist . . .’
Once outside the house, Cranston put his arm round Athelstan’s shoulders and roared with laughter. He held the small friar away. ‘Brother, Brother.’ He swallowed hard and blinked his popping blue eyes, watering after laughing so much. ‘Don’t you know anything about your parishioners?’
‘Apparently not, Sir John.’ Athelstan’s shoulders sagged. ‘Simplicatas seemed so demure.’
‘And so she is,’ Cranston linked one arm through Athelstan’s and walked back into Cottemore Lane. ‘If you are a woman, poor and lonely in London, being a whore is better than starving. Simplicatas is not a prostitute. She probably earned her dowry and left as soon as she could. But,’ he asked, ‘now her husband has fled?’
‘Yes, and it’s not like him,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Perline is a madcap but he loves Simplicatas. No one seems to know where
he is. He liked his job as a soldier in the Tower. He was paid and well fed.’
‘And if he’s not back soon,’ Cranston muttered, ‘they’ll hang him for desertion.’
At the end of Cottemore Lane, Athelstan withdrew his arm and stared back towards the riverside.
‘You look tired, Brother,’ Cranston remarked, staring at the dark circles under the friar’s eyes.
‘I am worried, Sir John – about Perline, Simplicatas, the devil loose in Southwark, not to mention Pike the ditcher whispering about the great revolt in the corners of taverns. He thinks he’s so clever, yet the tapboy who serves his ale could be the regent’s spy.’ Athelstan pointed to the soaring towers of Westminster. ‘And now there are these murders.’
He allowed Cranston to steer him up a narrow alleyway leading towards Fleet Street. ‘And what do you make of this business?’ Cranston asked.
‘Well . . .’ Athelstan paused to collect his thoughts. ‘We know our noble representatives are lying, Sir John. The knights have got a great deal to hide, but I suspect they are frightened men and cluster together, except for Sir Francis Harnett. The night Bouchon died, he left Dame Mathilda’s and went upriver. Now, whether it was to meet Bouchon or on some other business, I don’t know. What I also keep wondering about,’ he continued, ‘is why should the killer chant the “Dies Irae” as he throttled Swynford’s life out?’
‘Do you think he could be a priest? Or even a monk?’
‘Such as Father Benedict?’ Athelstan recalled the tall, severe Benedictine monk. ‘But why should he hate Swynford or Bouchon? The only connection between him and those knights is that a former friend, Father Antony, once served in the same Shropshire abbey where these knights once held their Round Tables.’
Athelstan blew his cheeks out. ‘So far, Sir John, we haven’t learnt enough. If we returned to the Gargoyle, Sir Francis would spin us a story which would neither prove nor disprove why he left the brothel. I am sure that one of his companions would solemnly swear that Sir Francis was telling the truth.’ He nudged the coroner. ‘What we have to do, Sir John, is wait. There will be another murder.’ He sighed. ‘And there’s little we can do to stop it.’
