Текст книги "Bloodstone"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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FOUR

‘Jurat: a sworn man.’

On that same Saturday, Sir John Cranston sat in his judgement chamber in the great Guildhall overlooking Cheapside. He eased himself up in his leather-covered throne-like chair and glared around. He’d had tried to make this chamber as comfortable as possible. Triptychs from Genoa celebrating the scenes of the Lord’s Passion rendered in glowing colours hung alongside tapestries displaying the Arms of the city and the livery of the Cranston family. He caught sight of the Cross of San Damiano, a replica of the one St Francis of Assisi had prayed before. Cranston stopped his quiet cursing and blessed himself. He glanced at the claret jug and goblet on the polished dresser beneath the crucifix but shook his head. He would not drink, not now! Sir John opened the thick, leather-bound ledger before him and stared at the litany of human weakness and wickedness drawn up for his inspection by Osbert, his chancery clerk, and Simon the scrivener. One long, cream-coloured sheet listed the weapons seized that week: daggers, blades, cudgels and quarter staves, pike staves, crooked billets, pole-axes and halberds. ‘London’s like a battlefield,’ Cranston whispered.

The next folio contained grimmer entries. The murder of a poor girl by a man and his wife just for the clothes the young woman wore. Elena Hellebore, convicted for smashing a chaplain’s head after he’d called her a ‘tread-foul’, a slang term for a whore. Agnes Houdy, who’d strangled a drunk with his own belt so she could have his boots. Henry Staci, for causing the death of Margaret Privet ‘other than her own natural death’. Next was William Hammond.

‘You’re an interesting one,’ Cranston murmured. According to the entry William’s wife Marisa was burnt to death by a fire caused by the fall of a lighted candle as she and her husband prepared for bed. Both had escaped from the burning tenement but William was so angry at his wife for causing the fire through her own negligence he pushed her back into the flames and tried to flee for sanctuary to St Martin-Le-Grand. Beside each of these entries the scrivener had written ‘susp’ in red ink – ‘ suspenditur– hanged’. The next page listed all the fatal accidents in the city. A robber at St Paul’s wharf who’d been recognized by his victims whom he’d attacked on the Brentwood Road. The outlaw had tried to escape, fallen into the Thames and drowned. Other entries listed victims being killed by a horse, falling timber, scalding water tossed from a window or arrows loosed at Stepney, not to mention the drunk who drowned after jumping into the great sewer near Fleet or the two carpenters who’d tumbled from ladders at the Savoy Palace. The final entry made Cranston groan. He’d returned from St Fulcher’s and presented himself at John of Gaunt’s inner chamber at the Savoy. The Regent had done his best to hide his smouldering temper. Dressed in red, gold and blue velvet boasting the snarling leopards of England, his fingers and chest glittering with gold rings and a jewel-encrusted collar, the Regent had been both magnificent and munificent. He had filled Cranston’s goblet to the rim and personally served the coroner with a dish of sugared fruit and a mazer of sweetmeats. Gaunt had listened attentively, those strange eyes crinkling, full lips pursed, yet his temper was obvious and his message was clear. The Passio Christi had been stolen and he wanted it back. Cranston and Athelstan would achieve that or. .

‘Or what?’ Cranston murmured to himself.

He wondered what Athelstan was doing, as well as the strange secrets that abbey held. The Regent had told him little and Cranston was still bemused by Eleanor Remiet. He was sure he’d done business with her before, but when and why?

‘Sir John, my Lord Coroner?’

Cranston glanced up. Osbert, his plump, cheery-faced clerk stood in the doorway fingering his lank brown hair. Next to him was Simon the scrivener, pasty-faced with ever watery eyes and dripping nose. Both clerks found Cranston a source of many droll stories though in his presence they acted most dutifully.

‘The Deodandum?’ Simon asked. ‘You must decide on the Deodandum.’

Cranston immediately did. He had the case written out on a piece of parchment before him. In brief, Ralph, Megotta Ugele’s husband, had been killed by a runaway horse and cart in Hogweed Lane. Megotta now claimed both horse and cart should not be sold and given to the church, who owned it anyway as a Deodandum, a gift to God, but handed over to her as compensation. Cranston decided with a sweep of his quill pen that the widow’s needs were more pressing than those of Holy Mother Church. Once done he rose to his feet, pushing back his chair.

‘It is Saturday.’ He glared at his two minions. ‘I have other business. Has Muckworm appeared?’

‘No, Sir John,’ both men chorused.

‘In which case,’ Cranston buckled on his war belt, grabbed his cloak and beaver hat and stepped down from the dais, ‘if Muckworm rears his ugly head, tell him he’ll find me in my favourite chantry chapel immersed in my devotions.’

‘The Holy Lamb of God, Sir John?’

‘Very perceptive.’ Cranston nodded at both men and swept out of the judgement chamber, down the stairs and into the bailey. Scurriers and messengers, all booted and spurred, were readying restless horses, the breath of both man and beast hanging like a clear mist in the freezing air. Cranston pushed his way past these as well as a swarm of clerks, ostlers and ragged scholars whose Goliard song caught Sir John’s fancy.

‘My desire is to die in a tavern,

Where wine will stain my dying mouth.

All the choirs of angels will chant,

May God be merciful to this man of drink.’

Cranston dropped a coin in their begging bowl and strolled out under the cavernous arch into Cheapside. Evening was due yet business still thrived. The air was thick with a mixture of smells. The sweet fragrances of the herb and perfume-sellers, vegetable and fruit hawkers mingled with the stink from the ordure-strewn cobbles. The fullers’ stench was still strong, whilst the wind wafted in the foul odours from the fleshing yards. Cranston donned both cloak and hat as he surveyed the busy stalls and booths. He hardly noticed the drab but smart smocks, jerkins and gowns of the tradesmen, the glossy elegance of court fops with pomanders pushed under their nostrils or the wealthy in their velvet, wool-lined cloaks and sheepskin mittens.

‘No,’ Cranston whispered, ‘where are you my lovelies, all you creatures of the dark?’

Two worlds existed here: one apparent, the other had to be closely studied. Cranston surveyed the crowd. Oh yes, they were here, the night-walkers and dark-hawks, soil-caked and dirt marked, who slept on straw pallets stretched out over tamped-down mud. The coin-fakers and cross-biters, the cozeners, the mumpers, the scolders and sneaksmen in their motley garish rags, pointed hoods and scuffed boots were on the prowl. All these were of the same genus – Newgate birds, who would milk a pigeon to get a drink. Some were obvious, others more hidden as they threaded through the crowd, looking for prey. Cranston recognized quite a few of his ‘Lovelies’: Mouse-ears with his twitching nose and stuck-out ears, Frost-face, his skin badly gnawed by the pox, Rats-tooth and Spindle-shanks, could all be glimpsed amongst the mad and the bad, the moon-men and the moon-cursers. At the mouth of alleyways clustered even more, the beggars who ate mouldy bread filled with barley straw and drank watered ale and wine so muddy it made them wry-mouthed.

‘Ah, well,’ Cranston breathed. He moved out from beneath the archway and crossed the broad expanse of Cheapside. He was soon recognized by a gibbet lawyer going down to Newgate to meet an accomplice. ‘Cranston is out!’ The whisper spread through the crowds. Sir John, one hand on the hilt of his sword, watched both the slime-strewn cobbles beneath him as well as the crowds around him. He glimpsed Matilda the mistress of the maids hurriedly disappear down a runnel with a bevy of her ladies of the night. Alleyway mouths also mysteriously cleared. Foists and nips darted off like sparrows alarmed by a cat. The rag traders, the whipsters, mountebanks and miserere men stooped, crouched and ran back to hide in what Cranston called ‘Mumpers’ Manor’ or ‘Castle Conning’, the filthy lairs and bolt-holes of these Cheapside cheats. They all feared Cranston. Parson Dumpling, who looked after these malefactors at his Chapel of the Gibbet deep in the slums of Whitefriars, always warned his congregation that Sir John, when the spirit took him, could whistle up his bailiffs and beadles and sweep like the wind through Cheapside, Poultry and the surrounding wards, netting their quarry as a fowler would his birds. Once done, they’d herd all their captives down to the great yard at the Fleet prison. There, as on Judgement Day, they’d begin to separate one flock of goats, those they wanted to question, from the rest, whom they’d leave to graze for a while. Cranston paused – should he do that now? Yet he had enough business awaiting him. Muckworm would soon appear.

‘Not today, my lovelies,’ Cranston murmured.

He walked on, then stopped by a stall to view a vase made out of clay with a dark green glaze, next to this a jug fashioned out of quartz which Cranston quietly promised to mention to Lady Maud. He fingered some Saracen cloth on the next stall, glanced around and moved on. He inspected the cage on the Tun; this was empty except for a drunk who lay snoring on his back. At the nearby stocks, bailiffs were locking in Plugtail, a notorious cunning man who sold philtres no more useful than a cup of dirty water. He greeted Cranston cheerfully. The coroner responded by ordering the bailiffs to ensure Plugtail was released before freezing nightfall. Outside ‘The Holy Lamb of God’ lurked the beggars Leif and Rawbum who, despite the cacophony noise from the market place, insisted upon telling Cranston some tale about a priest in Burton-on-Trent who’d exorcized a demon from a blood-drinker back from the dead. Thankfully both were interrupted by a funeral procession, flanked by acolytes and mourners, the deerskin shroud they were honouring sprinkled with ash. Both men, eager for alms, hopped off like crickets, allowing Cranston to disappear into the warm mustiness of one of his favourite resting places. The coroner ensconced himself in the inglenook, ordered the best of ales, a capon pie, a bowl of diced vegetables and today’s bread fresh from the bake house. He sat and ate, recalling what he’d seen at Kilverby’s mansion and St Fulcher’s Abbey.

‘Sir John?’

He glanced up.

‘ Quomodo non valeat hora, valet mora?’

‘Why is the delay worth so much?’ Cranston translated. ‘When time is worth nothing?’ He extended a hand. ‘Draw up that stool!’ He visitor, thin as an ash pole, freshly shaven face ending in a pointed chin, scampered to obey. Muckworm sat down, beaming at Sir John, his green eyes sparkling with life, his bloodless lips slightly parted to display what Sir John called ‘the blackest teeth in Cheapside’. Yet it was Muckworm’s hair which always caught his attention, flaming red and brushed up into long strands held firm by a handful of cheap nard which could be smelt long before Muckworm ever appeared. Dressed in a long brown gown which gave him his name, rumour had it that Muckworm, before he found his true calling, had been a cleric. Certainly every time he appeared before Cranston he quoted a Latin tag for the coroner to translate. Muckworm, however, had one God-given talent which Cranston treasured. He truly was a worm who could burrow into the secrets of any house, tavern, abbey or palace to nose out both its secrets and scandals.

‘You want a blackjack of ale?’

‘Of course, Sir John, and a warm crust soaked in gravy.’

Muckworm was soon settled, shuffling his booted feet as he gobbled the crust the slattern brought and guzzled noisily at the tankard. He again beamed at Cranston.

‘I bring you news.’

‘Tell it.’

Muckworm closed his eyes like a gleeman about to sing.

‘Sir Robert Kilverby,’ his voice low and soft, ‘was a fine gentleman. One of his stable grooms is a friend of Hog-grubber.’

‘Who? Oh, never mind, continue.’

‘Hog-grubber has been a close comrade of mine ever since we spent a week in the Louse House.’ Muckworm opened his eyes. ‘That’s the Fleet prison to you, Sir John.’

‘Continue.’

‘In the Kilverby household tension smouldered between Sir Robert and Lady Helen but nothing new. Our wealthy Kilverby really truly doted on his daughter. She and her husband, the beloved Edmond, are good, if anyone on God’s earth is good. Lady Helen is a Fartleberg.’ Muckworm opened his eyes.

‘Speak on,’ Cranston whispered.

‘Kinsman Adam is as slimy as a snake but there’s no proof he uses Lady Helen as his left-hand wife. Crispin the clerk has been with Sir Robert since they were both knee high to a buttercup. Finally, Sir Robert was determined to go on pilgrimage.’

‘Why?’

‘God knows. For some time Kilverby had been on his knees under the Star of the Levites.’

‘What?’

‘The power of the priests, especially the monks at St Fulcher’s. I’ll come to those shaven-pates in a short while. Kilverby often went out there. He confided in the French one.’

‘Richer?’

‘Very good, Sir John, or so I’m told.’

‘Why did Kilverby become so religious? What caused his conversion?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps like Dives from the gospel, Kilverby feared for his immortal soul.’

He paused as the door to the tavern flew open and a garishly dressed Salamander King, a fire-eater, entered carrying his basket of implements. Behind him trailed two other characters, a dwarf whom Cranston immediately recognized as ‘Hop-o-my-thumb’, a notorious mountebank, and the other a large, muscular woman, the dwarf’s constant companion who, because of her hulking size, rejoiced in the name of ‘The Horse’s Godmother’.

‘Good day, my lovelies,’ Cranston growled, getting to his feet.

The Salamander King and his two companions paused and gazed in horror across the tap room at their nemesis.

‘Cranston!’ Hop-o-my-thumb screeched. All three promptly turned and fled through the door.

‘Very good.’ Muckworm sniffed. ‘This, Sir John, is no buttock shop.’ He held up a tankard. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire?’

Cranston ordered the blackjack to be refilled.

‘Oh, yes,’ Muckworm continued, ‘Kilverby wanted to atone for his sins but the pilgrimage would have taken years. Crispin was to join him but his eyes are failing so Kilverby secured him soft lodgings at the abbey. Crispin was deeply opposed to this but eventually became reconciled to it. Now Kilverby is gone. Juice of the almond, I hear. Yes, Sir John, I made careful enquires among the leeches and apothecaries – almond juice is costly. No one from Kilverby’s household was observed buying it. I sit and watch, Sir John. I gave the potion sellers careful descriptions of all of Kilverby’s kin. Now,’ Muckworm gabbled on, sipping from his tankard, ‘as for St Fulcher’s. Abbot Walter is a great Lord, over-fond of his niece. No, Sir John, she is his niece, from the same sty or so they say.’

‘Cruel words.’

‘My Lord Abbot waxes fat and well. Those who live under the shadow of the abbey have little love for him, that’s why he goes out to All Hallows Barking.’

‘All Hallows?’

Muckworm glanced round; the tap room was empty except for two costermongers who’d just entered, drained their tankards and fallen asleep in the far corner.

‘The Great Community of the Realm, Sir John. They say its leaders meet at Barking. They call themselves, among other things, “All Hallows”.’

‘All Saints.’ Cranston translated the old English.

‘All Saints,’ Muckworm agreed. ‘They will lead the Community when the earthworms rise up.’

‘Sweet angel,’ Cranston whispered, ‘the fools will all die.’

‘True, Sir John, but they are all very much alive now. They threaten to rise with fire and sword on the Day of Reckoning, when the Angel of wrath pours out the vials of God’s anger and all the castles of hell release their hordes. They’re already drawing up lists of who is friend or foe. .’

‘Protection,’ Cranston interrupted.

‘Agreed. Abbot Walter goes to All Hallows to meet the Upright Men so, when the revolt begins, St Fulcher’s will be spared, which is why the abbot gave the anchorite shelter. He couldn’t find anyone to hang the felons he catches. Nobody wants to be seen as Abbot Walter’s friend. Memories are long. Times are hard. Our Lord Abbot is fey-witted. When the great revolt begins, protection or not, St Fulcher’s will be sacked.’

‘This anchorite?’

‘You know him, my Lord – the painter, the Hangman of Rochester, the one whose wits were tumbled after he hanged that evil witch Alice Rednal.’

‘Oh yes, I remember her. I also recall him. So he’s there. What else?’

‘Prior Alexander has a great love for Sub-Prior Richer, who spends most of his time in the library and scriptorium though sometimes he does meet boatmen from foreign ships.’

‘Why?’

Muckworm became crestfallen. ‘Sir John, I do not know.’

‘How did you learn all this?’

‘Oh, very simple, Sir John.’ Muckworm grinned triumphantly. ‘I have a cousin who is a boatman. More importantly, another cousin is a lay brother at the abbey. He serves in the refectory at the prior’s table. He. .’

‘And Eleanor Remiet?’

‘Nothing, except she looks after the abbot’s niece. Now, as regards the Wyvern Company,’ Muckworm chattered on, ‘the King’s own bully boys? Men of blood through and through. Oh, I know you fought in the King’s wars but they’re different.’

‘Did you discover much?’

‘All candles burn out, Sir John. I had little time except I did visit the tavern Mahant and Wenlock claimed to have visited on the eve of St Damasus.’ Muckworm raised his eyebrows. ‘They certainly did. They arrived just before the market horn blew and stayed there feasting at the long table and enjoying the favours of some of the ladies offered by the mistress of the maids. According to my sources, the next morning they broke their fast, went out amongst the stalls then returned late to their abbey.’ Muckworm noticed Cranston’s disappointment. ‘But I did search out one secret. Two of my comrades, I believe you are acquainted with them: Mulligrub and Scapskull.’

‘Both gentlemen have graced my judgement chamber, not to mention every stock and pillory post in London.’

‘Sir John, they have turned lawful. Do you remember how swift they are?’

‘Like rats down a hole.’

‘Well, they now serve many of the London taverns as messengers including “The Pride of Purgatory”. They said that Mahant and Wenlock were waiting for Geoffrey Portsoken.’

‘Don’t know him.’

‘Oh yes, you do, Sir John, in the bills posted at St Paul’s Cross and elsewhere, he is Vox Populi. .’

‘Vox Populi, Vox Dei.’ Cranston smiled in astonishment. ‘He’s a ditch crawler, a hedge creeper, a man who slinks through London and the surrounding shires preaching rebellion and tradition. He calls himself the “Voice of the People and the Voice of God”. He was attainted, proclaimed ultegatum– beyond the law, a wolfshead.’ Cranston sipped from his own tankard.

‘What does he have in common with the Wyverns?’

‘He used to be one of them. Something happened and he was cut off from their company. Anyway, Sir John, Vox Populi is about to be strangled. He’s already appeared before the Justices in Eyre so he’ll dance at Smithfield.’

‘And now?’

‘Lodged in Newgate Hole where the blackness salutes the darkness.’ Muckworm drained his tankard and stared around. ‘Now, my Lord Coroner, other duties call?’

Cranston dug into his purse and pushed a silver piece into Muckworm’s extended hand. ‘God go with you.’

‘And you too, Sir John.’ Then Muckworm was gone.

Cranston sat for a while, staring into the fire. He’d kept an eye on who came into the tap room and was growing suspicious about the two costermongers in the corner. They had, he remembered, entered just after he had, ordered ale and fallen asleep. Cranston entertained a nagging suspicion that they were ‘ faux et semblant– false and deceiving’, just by their position, lying in a way so they could furtively watch him. The tap room’s warm comfort seemed to fade. Cranston rose, buckled on his war belt, donned both cloak and beaver hat then left. Outside he immediately drew his stabbing dirk and, keeping that at the ready, made his way along Cheapside. It was candlelight time. The cold had grown more intense: already the apprentices were busy clearing stalls and booths. He went down Stoat-back Lane, a narrow runnel stretching on to the broad thoroughfare leading to the shambles and the forbidding mass of Newgate.

‘The hour of the bat and the screech owl,’ Cranston muttered. He just wished Athelstan was with him, not for bodily protection but that strange little friar was always balm for the soul with his shrewd observations and humorous asides. A man in the world but not of it, Cranston reflected, Athelstan was a priest as cunning as a serpent with the innocence of a dove. Cranston made the resolution to seek out the friar as soon as possible and walked on. Lanterns glowed on door posts. Candles flamed behind latticed windows or between the chinks of shutters; these threw some light on the filth-strewn cobbles as well as the narrow doorways and alley enclaves where the destitute sheltered. The coroner made his way around the slime-drenched mounds of refuse where dogs, cats and rats all foraged for morsels. Ahead of him trundled the dung cart and the evening breeze wafted back a smell so putrid Cranston had to cover both nose and mouth behind the folds of his cloak. Despite the poor light he was soon recognized and strident calls echoed like a ball bouncing up the runnel before him.

‘Cranston, here! Wary! Wary! Coroner, here!’

He walked on gripping his dagger, shadows slunk away. He was almost at the top of the alley when a beggar woman pushed her ragged boy towards him, his little arms outstretched for alms. Something in the boy’s eyes pricked Cranston’s suspicions. He dug into his belt wallet and thrust a coin into the boy’s scabby hand. The child stepped back and Cranston heard the whispered warning from the shadows.

‘Watch your back, Lord Coroner.’

He walked up to the mouth of the alleyway then swiftly turned. Shapes further down just as abruptly stepped back into the creeping shadows.

‘St Michael and all his angels.’ Cranston murmured a prayer for protection and walked on. He was determined to meet Vox Populi before the day was through. He turned right into the Shambles, the great fleshing market of London. The butchers and carvers were now unhooking the chunks of beef, chicken, poultry, duck, rabbit, venison and ham. The air reeked of salt, blood and messy entrails; even the cobbles glowed red in the dancing light of torches whilst the butchers and their boys seemed like demons in their gore-splattered leather aprons and hats. Beadles and bailiffs thronged to secure their blood-soaked linen packages of free meat. The poor and the needy also clustered, going down on hands and knees beneath the stalls searching for fresh gobbets of flesh, fighting off the curs and cats which also massed to feast in this place of slaughter. Traders and tinkers, selling the rejected to the rejected, shouted for business. Prostitutes, faces all painted, hair dyed and festooned with gaudy ribbons, sheltered together ready to entice customers into what Cranston called their ‘Temples of Mercenary Love’. Pimps touted for courtesans, even mixing with a small crowd who’d gathered round a Friar of the Sack. The Franciscan stood on a plinth intoning the office of the dead for the Guild of the Hanged, a pious group of men and women who assembled outside Newgate to pray for those inside condemned to death.

Cranston pushed himself through these and the horde of nighthawks, dark-walkers, gibbet lawyers and mountebanks; all assembled before the great iron prison gates hoping to visit friends within, coins at the ready to bribe janitors and turnkeys. Cranston recognized many familiar faces amongst these Pages of the Pit and Squires of the Sewer, who swiftly drew away as he marched up to the postern door and vigorously pulled at the bell. The door flew open. The bullnecked, grey-faced turnkey took one look and hurriedly stepped aside. Cranston entered that antechamber of hell. He met the keeper in the great yard, showed him his seal and demanded to see the Vox Populi. The keeper, dressed in black like a parson with the sanctimonious face to match, swiftly agreed. Cranston had little time for him. The keeper was a born rogue who, Cranston had often confided to Athelstan, was twice as fit for hell as those he guarded. They entered the murky, main gallery of the gloomy prison. Cranston took the proferred rags soaked in vinegar to cover his nose. The air was fetid, damp and reeking of putrefaction. The walls seemed to sweat slime which gathered like sludge over the flagstone floor. The light was poor. Torches flared, giving off trails of pitch and tar. Tallow candles, cheap and nasty smelling, flickered in niches and crevices. A thriving place for rats, cockroaches and other vermin, Cranston tried to ignore the lice crackling under his boots. They passed chambers and cells where prisoners laden with irons stood with hands outstretched, their pleading for alms almost drowned by the horrid howling and screaming which rang out constantly. They reached the condemned cell – nothing more than a filthy box guarded by a heavy oaken door. Inside it reeked like a midden heap, black as pitch with no light or vent for air. The prisoner was crouched in the corner on a palliasse of rotting straw. Cranston breathed in deeply on the rag as he shouted for lights, two stools and a jug of claret.

‘Bordeaux,’ he yelled. ‘I’ve had enough of your bloody vinegar.’

The keeper hurried to obey. Once he’d brought everything, Cranston ordered him out, leaving the door open. He sat on one stool, the prisoner on the other, drinking greedily from the goblet of claret. He raised his head, pushing back his filth-strewn hair to reveal the brand mark on his cheek close to where his left ear had been. Cranston studied the dirty face, the tangled moustache and beard; the eyes, however, were bright, not yet bereft of hope or courage.

‘Geoffrey Portsoken, known as a Vox Populi.’ Cranston lifted his goblet. ‘I salute thee.’

‘Sir Jack Cranston, I toast thee too, you and yours.’ The prisoner took another gulp. ‘I’m for the elms at Smithfield, Jack, condemned I was, beaten up by Gaunt’s henchmen. Anyway, why are you here? Not to gloat! No, that’s not for our Jack, so why?’

‘To offer you life.’

Vox Populi mockingly raised the goblet but his eyes brightened. ‘Gaunt will not let me skip away from this.’

‘Not skip, my friend, walk to the nearest port. Queenshithe will do, ship abroad never to return under pain of hanging, drawing and quartering. I mean that.’ Cranston clinked his pewter cup against the prisoner’s. ‘Out, never to return!’

‘I’ll need money.’

‘The city will pay for you to be shaved, clothed, booted with a water pannikin and a linen parcel of bread and dried bacon. You’ll also receive a thin purse.’

‘For what – information?’

‘The truth, so shut up and listen!”

Cranston spoke swiftly and succinctly about Kilverby’s murder, the disappearance of the Passio Christi and the slayings out at St Fulcher’s.

‘So,’ Vox Populi murmured. ‘Chalk has gone to his maker, followed by Hanep and Hyde. Chalk will have much to answer.’

‘Why?’

‘He was a defrocked priest, Sir Jack, a curate from the church of St Peter’s-in-the-wood in Leighton Manor in Essex where we all hailed from an eternity ago. It must be,’ Vox Populi paused to cough phlegm, ‘some thirty years ago now. All of us golden boys, archers swinging off down the tree-lined lanes bound for the glory of France.’

‘Very touching.’

‘No, Jack, very true. You know how it was. We were roaring boys. About twenty of us at first who answered the King’s writ from the commissioners of array; few of us are left now, only me and those hard-hearted bastards out at St Fulcher’s.’ He stared at Cranston. ‘I fought with them. In the year of our Lord 1353, we sealed an indenture with the Black Prince to serve him and him only as the Company of the Wyvern.’

‘A small cohort?’

‘By then, Jack, we were all skilled archers, master bowmen; we could bring down any bird on the wing or put a shaft through the narrowest window. Experts in the use of yew, ash, the hempen string, the goose-quill arrow.’ He wagged a finger in mock anger. ‘Some took an oath never to use a crossbow; I still can’t. I’m not too sure whether this is true of my former comrades.’

‘Your duties?’

‘To attend upon the Prince day or night, in peace and war, to be his sworn men and so we were, mounted archers who moved around the battlefield. You’ve seen the likes of us, Jack. Imagine loosing an arrow with every breath. In battle the Prince assigned us a special duty. We were to seek out the enemy commanders, having first learnt their heraldry and livery. A knight, especially the French, is invariably helmeted and visored.’

‘The heat must have been suffocating,’ Cranston added quietly. ‘Especially with the sun strong in the full fury of battle. They’d open their visors to breathe, to catch some coolness.’

‘Aye, Jack,’ Vox Populi leaned forward, eyes gleaming, ‘and we’d be waiting. We would have an arrow notched, two of us, ringed and protected by men-at-arms. One shaft,’ he held a hand up, ‘to the commander’s face, down he’d fall. You know what happened next: his banner carrier, the standard bearer, would raise his visor in alarm. .’

‘And he would receive the second shaft?’ Cranston nodded. ‘Both commander and standard bearer brought down in a few heart beats. Disarray amongst the enemy would be intense?’

‘And because of that, the Prince loved us, we could do no wrong.’

‘Including ransacking an abbey and the theft of the sacred bloodstone the Passio Christi?’

‘Oh yes, I know about the Passio Christi being held by Kilverby. You do realize he financed the Wyvern Company with loans to the Black Prince? Oh, yes! Kilverby made a handsome profit. The loans carried no interest but Kilverby took a share in the plunder. Little wonder,’ the prisoner scoffed, ‘in his final years Kilverby turned to God.’