by Paul Doherty
‘I had forgotten that.’ Cranston snapped his fingers. ‘I meant to take the jewellery for Brother Athelstan to sell and distribute the money amongst the poor.’
‘I don’t want it.’ Athelstan spoke up. Despite this woman’s apparent harshness, he wondered if she was trying to make sense of the horror she had witnessed. ‘Sir John,’ he turned to the coroner, ‘have the jewellery returned here.’
Mother Veritable smiled with her eyes. ‘The singer not the song,’ she murmured and winked at Athelstan. ‘Not many priests would have said that. Did you pray for them, Brother?’
Athelstan nodded.
‘Do you know what happened?’ Cranston insisted.
‘From what Rolles and the others described,’ Mother Veritable sighed, ‘the two girls enjoyed the evening, and quietly left to meet their customer in the hay barn.’
‘And you do not know who this was?’
‘Sir John,’ she glanced coyly at the coroner, ‘if I did, my beautiful boys would have visited him by now. Master Rolles didn’t know. Nobody saw anything.’
‘Did Master Rolles ever . . .’ Athelstan searched for the words.
‘Sample such wine?’ Mother Veritable teased. ‘At his tavern? Not to my knowledge.’ She tapped the tip of her nose. ‘But he’s always welcome here.’
‘You know who resides at the Night in Jerusalem?’ Cranston asked. ‘The Judas Man.’
Mother Veritable shook her head and pulled a face.
‘And the Falconers, the Knights of the Golden Falcon.’
Mother Veritable rested her elbows on the chair and stared down at the floor.
‘Did they ever come here? Maurice Clinton, Thomas Davenport, Reginald Branson, Laurence Broomhill, Stephen Chandler? Did they come here?’ Cranston repeated. ‘Do their names mean anything to you?’
Mother Veritable turned her face away, staring into the fire. She coughed as if clearing her throat, her shoulders shook and Athelstan realised she was crying. The room had fallen deathly silent, the only sound the flames crackling, and the spluttering from one of the braziers. Mother Veritable rose, grasping a cane, and limped over to a side table on which a chaffing dish stood. She opened a small pot and sprinkled herbs, then came back to the chair, wiping the tears from her cheek.
‘My leg was broken.’ She sat down carefully, clutching her stick. ‘Sir Jack will tell you about it, Brother Athelstan. A man I didn’t please came visiting with his bully boys, but to answer your question, yes and no. No, those knights have not been here . . . well, not recently. Yes, I know their names.’ She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. ‘As I said, in the glory days . . . They were friends of Culpepper, weren’t they, and the other one who stole the Lombard treasure and fled.’
‘What makes you so sure they stole it?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Because at the same time Guinevere disappeared. She and Culpepper were smitten with each other, her beauty had turned his head.’ Mother Veritable rested on her stick, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘Glory days,’ she whispered. ‘London was full of young soldiers, knights and squires, preparing for the Great Expedition. The Thames brimmed with ships, cogs from Hainault, war vessels from Flanders, galleys from Venice – all the young lords ready to take the Cross and go out and kill the infidel for sweet Jesus’ sake.’ She paused. ‘Culpepper and the rest stayed at the Night in Jerusalem. He and Guinevere met. Of course the men came here, including Sir Maurice Clinton, who was much taken with me, at least in those days.’
‘Did Guinevere ever tell you about what was planned?’
Mother Veritable shook her head. ‘Oh, she hinted that this life was not hers, that one day things would change, that her knight, like some hero from Arthur’s court, would come galloping along and scoop her up into his arms. Culpepper was deeply in love with Guinevere; she thought she was in love with him.’
‘Thought?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Guinevere’s heart was as fickle as the moon. All she dreamed of was bettering herself, becoming the Grande Dame.’
‘And the father of her daughters?’
Mother Veritable chuckled. ‘It’s a wise man who knows his father. Guinevere made a mistake but, there again, she had many admirers. You’ve been kind, Brother, so I’ll tell you this. On the night she disappeared, well, the afternoon beforehand, she packed all her belongings and stole away. She was all excited. I asked her where she was going.’
‘And?’
‘Why, to your church, Brother.’
‘St Erconwald’s?’
‘That’s what she said. She was never seen or heard of again.’
Mother Veritable leaned over and nudged Sir John, who was beginning to fall asleep. The coroner stirred.
‘What do you think happened, Roheisa?’ He smacked his lips.
‘I’ve heard reports,’ she confessed. ‘And you can check the records, Sir Jack, that a woman fitting Guinevere’s description was seen boarding a cog, a Venetian ship, three days after the crusading fleet left for Alexandria.’ She pulled a face. ‘But that is all.’
‘And her two daughters?’
‘I reared them, two peas out of the same pod. They were so much like their mother. Sometimes I thought Guinevere had returned.’ She put the stick down beside the chair.
‘Can we search their chambers?’
‘I’ve done that already. There’s nothing much.’
‘Can we see it?’ Athelstan insisted.
‘Will their jewellery be given back to me?’ she asked.
‘You have my word,’ Cranston assured her.
Mother Veritable got to her feet and, leaning on her cane, walked towards the door. She whispered to the servants outside and returned to her chair, sitting serenely like an abbess in a convent. A short while later a young woman entered the room, her auburn hair caught up behind her. She was dressed in a Lincoln-green smock, a white girdle around her waist. If Mother Veritable was the abbess, this young woman acted as comely and coy as any novice. She brought a stool over and sat beside her mistress, cradling a small leather bag.
‘This is Donata,’ Mother Veritable explained, ‘a close friend of the two dead girls.’
Donata lifted her pale face; her almond-shaped eyes gave her a serene, calm look.
‘Donata is resting at the moment,’ Mother Veritable continued, ‘which is why her face and lips aren’t painted. She is also in mourning.’ She touched the black ribbon tied round the girl’s swan-like neck. ‘Donata, this is Sir John Cranston and Brother Athelstan. No, don’t be afraid, Sir Jack has no authority here.’ Mother Veritable smiled. ‘Whilst I have powerful patrons. Tell them what you know.’
‘Beatrice and Clarice . . .’ Donata began.
Athelstan detected a West Country accent. He noticed how long and slim the girl’s fingers were. He wondered what such a beautiful maid was doing in a house like this, until he recalled the droves of young men and women who trudged in from the countryside looking for work.
‘What about them?’ Brother Athelstan asked.
Donata took a deep breath, her beautiful butterfly eyes dancing prettily.
‘We are meant to give every penny we earn to Mother Veritable who looks after us so well,’ she added hastily. ‘But one night, in their cups, they said, well, they said they could earn more gold and silver than I could imagine, that’s all they’d say.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought it was a jest, wine words.’
‘Who were their customers?’ Athelstan asked.
Donata stared serenely back.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Mother Veritable laughed, ‘our customers don’t wear placards around their necks, they come and go like shadows.’
‘That’s all they said,’ the girl pleaded. She handed the small sack over to Athelstan. ‘They kept their precious things in there.’
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 unrol
led 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.
‘Well, Athelstan.’
Cranston stood in the tavern doorway, beckoning him over. Athelstan hurried across, grateful for the sweet warmth of the inn. Rolles was busy in the kitchen, but the coroner was most insistent on meeting the knights, and a short while later, Cranston sat at the head of the long walnut table in the solar, Master Rolles, Brother Malachi and the four knights ranged down either side. Athelstan sat at the far end. He brought his writing tray out, uncapped the ink horn and had a sharp quill ready.
‘I must protest.’ Sir Thomas Davenport spoke up. ‘My Lord Coroner, we intended to visit Trinity, guests of the Alde
rmen at the Guildhall.’
‘I couldn’t care if the Lord God Almighty was your host,’ Cranston snapped. ‘I have more questions for you.’
Davenport pulled a sullen face. Sir Reginald Branson, with his long grey hair tied in a queue, made to leave, scraping back his chair, his black and white cloak draped over one arm.
‘If you leave, sir, I’ll have you arrested for murder.’ Cranston pounded the table with a ham-like fist. ‘And the same goes for you, Master Rolles, busy as you claim, even if you had Mary and Joseph in the stable outside, though, knowing you, you wouldn’t even give them that!’
Cranston’s anger stilled all protest.
‘Master Rolles, you hire girls from Mother Veritable?’
‘I’ve told you.’ The taverner’s fat face glistened with sweat; his piggy eyes screwed up in annoyance, he breathed noisily through his nose and gestured at the tapestry. ‘A letter left there, a silver coin with the name of the girl wanted.’ He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘Sometimes that’s just left for me, other times I put it there for Mother Veritable’s messenger—’
‘How many coins?’ Athelstan interrupted.
‘Whatever the arrangement, it’s a deposit of two coins; one for me, one for Mother Veritable.’
‘Isn’t that against the City ordnances?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Tell him, Sir John.’
‘Southwark lies beyond the jurisdiction of the Corporation. As long as Rolles doesn’t actually house the girls in question, he is breaking no law. So, these wenches simply arrive and their customers are waiting?’
‘Yes,’ Rolles agreed. ‘The note will designate where they are to come, to the tap room or to a chamber.’
‘Or a hay barn?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Where is your note,’ Cranston asked, ‘inviting Beatrice and Clarice?’
‘I understand Mother Veritable has destroyed it.’
‘You saw them arrive?’
‘Yes,’ Rolles agreed. ‘On the night of the Great Ratting they came into the tap room. They were to meet their customer once that was over, about the second hour after midnight. There are hour candles in the tap room. The girls wouldn’t miss such an assignation. I saw them there until just before the fight, when the Judas Man killed Toadflax thinking he was the Misericord.’