by Paul Doherty
Matthias smiled. ‘His Grace predicted you might say that. Two things.’ Matthias held up his hand. ‘First, the captain of his guard brought back to the Tower an indenture, signed by Culpepper. Second, for months after the robbery, the finger of blame was pointed at my master. He took a great oath that he knew nothing about the great robbery.’
‘In a word,’ Cranston replied, ‘your master was furious.’
‘Yes, and he still is,’ Matthias agreed. ‘He has not forgotten what happened twenty years ago, and still makes careful enquiries, yet he has found nothing.’
‘The woman,’ Cranston declared, ‘the courtesan known as Guinevere the Golden. They say she was glimpsed here and there.’
‘Rumours.’ Matthias shook his head. ‘Stories, people eager for the reward. A large reward, Sir John, a hundred pounds, not to mention a pardon for any crime.’
Matthias sniffed.
‘His Grace the Regent has heard about the killings at the Night in Jerusalem, the sudden and mysterious death of Sir Stephen, so his curiosity is pricked. He wants to know if these events are somehow connected with the Lombard treasure. He asks me to ask you to remember that.’
‘Whom does he suspect?’ Cranston asked.
‘He often wonders where Culpepper and Mortimer fled, or where they may have hidden the treasure.’
‘Whom does he suspect?’ Cranston repeated, gripping Matthias’ arm.
‘There’s a man sheltering in St Erconwald’s Church, protected by your secretarius, Athelstan the Dominican. Did you know that twenty years ago the Misericord’s father and Master Rolles were the closest of friends? That the Misericord often absconded from his school master at St Paul’s to frequent Rolles’ tavern? His Grace wonders if the Misericord, a born rogue, knows anything of this twenty-year-old mischief. Is that why someone hired a hunter as ruthless as the Judas Man to track him down and bring him to justice? Is it because the Misericord knows something about the Lombard treasure?’
Matthias got to his feet and picked up his cloak; he pointed at the bread and honey.
‘You should eat that, Sir John. It would be a sin to waste it,’ he leaned down, ‘as it would His Grace’s favour.’
When Matthias had left, Cranston picked up the bread and honey and chewed it thoughtfully. He wondered how much of what he had been told was the truth. The ale-wife came over. Cranston absent-mindedly thanked her, paid the bill and left the tavern, going down to the river to hire Master Moleskin’s barge for passage to Southwark . . .
Athelstan had risen early to collect bracken for the fire from the small copse at the far end of the cemetery. He greeted his parishioners and other members of the posse as charitably as he could, and tried to distract himself by admiring the wind-washed sky, which promised a fine day. He acknowledged their shouts of greeting, although he noticed Watkin and Pike kept their backs to him. He returned to the kitchen, built up the fire, washed his hands and settled down to compose himself for the morning Mass. With Bonaventure crouching beside him, Athelstan recited the ‘Adoro te devote’ of Thomas Aquinas, the great Dominican theologian. A knock on the door interrupted him and, praying for patience, he answered it. However, instead of the Judas Man or one of his parishioners, Brother Malachi stood there in his black Benedictine robe, hood back, and over his shoulders a set of leather panniers.
‘Brother!’ Malachi stepped back. ‘You do not seem pleased.’
‘Brother,’ Athelstan quipped, ‘I thought you were someone else.’
They exchanged the kiss of peace and Athelstan ushered him into the kitchen. Due to the fast before Mass, he could only offer a cup of water, but Malachi shook his head, saying he was only too pleased to warm his fingers above the fire.
‘Did you stay at the Night in Jerusalem?’ Athelstan asked.
‘No.’ Malachi spread his hands out to catch the warmth. ‘I’ve had enough of my companions. I left late in the afternoon, I was ashamed of what they said, those two poor girls lying murdered! Sir Maurice and the rest acting all righteous during the day but slinking out like sinners at night!’
‘Are you shocked?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, yes, I am,’ the Benedictine replied. ‘Oh, I understand the feasting and the drinking. I can understand them being smitten by a tavern wench, but singling out those two girls, it’s callous, cruel, especially as they knew their mother. I am not being self-righteous,’ Malachi made himself more comfortable on the stool, ‘but I do not think I will join them next year. The past is gone, it’s finished.’
‘You have searched for your brother?’ Athelstan raised his hand in apology. ‘I know, I have asked you before.’
‘I have done what I can,’ Malachi replied. ‘My order has houses the length and breadth of Christendom, all manner of travellers rest there. It also does business with both the great and the lowly so it is well positioned to hear things. Oh, I have heard reports, but I know in my heart my brother is dead.’
‘And Guinevere the Golden?’
‘The same.’
‘Did your brother ever hint at what was planned?’
‘He was much younger than I. He was full of knightly dreams and chivalry, of beautiful women, of jousting and tournaments and brave deeds. Oh yes, he could act the merry rogue, but he truly lost his heart and soul to Guinevere. He didn’t see her as a courtesan or a whore, but a beautiful damsel in distress, trapped in a life she was desperate to escape from.’
‘And was she?’
‘She had a face as beautiful as an angel, not an evil heart but a greedy one. Fickle of mind, changeable in mood, yet I might as well have asked your cat to sing the Ave Maria than make my brother realise the truth. The last time I saw him was the day before the treasure arrived. He seemed distracted, perhaps excited.’ Malachi pushed back the stool and got to his feet. ‘But after that, nothing.’
‘And why was he chosen?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I’ve told you. Lord Belvers, his commander, trusted him. John of Gaunt also played his part; Mortimer was his man.’
‘Do you truly think he stole that treasure?’ Athelstan asked.
‘In my heart no, but the evidence seems to point otherwise. I’ll pray for him at Mass.’
‘As will I, at mine,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You know my story, Brother Malachi?’
‘I’ve heard about it,’ the Benedictine replied. ‘How, when you were a novice, you and your brother joined the levies bound for France. He was killed there, wasn’t he?’
‘And I came back,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘My order made my novitiate twice as long, every humble task was given to me.’ He opened the door. ‘Let me put it this way, Brother, I know everything there is about the latrines and sewers of Blackfriars.’
They left the house and entered the church by a side door. Athelstan walked to the rood screen, stopped and gasped.
‘Brother?’
‘Where is he?’
Athelstan hastened across into the sacristy. He opened the side door which led out to the small latrine built over a sewer. Across the cemetery, members of the posse were staring at him. Athelstan returned to the church and locked the door.
‘It’s the Misericord,’ Athelstan gasped. ‘He appears to have vanished. Come, Brother, help me.’
They searched the church, the chantry chapel, the sacristy, even the small disused crypt, but of the Misericord not a sign, nothing to mark his stay, except an empty ale pot and a trancher with some stale crumbs. He had vanished along with his weapons. Athelstan scratched his head. He didn’t want to shout the Misericord’s name or raise the alarm. He was surprised, yet slightly relieved. How had the rogue managed to escape? Once again he searched the church, sending Brother Malachi out to walk the perimeter of the cemetery and visit God-Bless snoring in the death house. The Benedictine returned shaking his head.
‘Gone,’ he said, ‘like the snow in spring. Neither hide nor hair of him.’
‘We’ll not raise the alarm,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Not until I’ve celebrated Mass.�
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They busied themselves preparing the altar, lighting the candles, filling the cruets with water and wine. Athelstan vested and celebrated his Mass alone in the small chantry chapel, whilst Malachi did the same at the high altar. Athelstan tried to think only of what was happening, of the Great Miracle, of bread and wine changing into the body and blood of the unseen God, but as he confessed to Malachi afterwards, he was distracted by another miracle. How could a criminal like the Misericord vanish from his church, walk through a ring of armed men ever vigilant to catch him, without let or hindrance?
‘Well,’ Athelstan crossed himself, ‘I might as well proclaim the good news for all to hear.’
He walked down the nave, opened the main door and, ignoring the protests of Pernel and Cecily the courtesan, who had been waiting for Mass, though they confessed they had arrived late, called across the Judas Man from his usual position by the lychgate. This hound and scourge of criminals came swaggering across, sword slapping against his thigh.
‘Good morrow, Brother.’
‘Good morning to you, sir.’ Athelstan forced a smile. ‘I must inform you that our sanctuary man, the Misericord, has disappeared.’
‘What?’
The Judas Man bounded up the steps, almost knocking Athelstan aside, and throwing back the door with a crash ran up into the sanctuary. Athelstan followed, protesting. The Judas Man took the small horn hanging from his belt, opened the corpse door and blew three long blasts. Soon the nave was filled with men milling about, Pike, Watkin and other parishioners included. Athelstan decided to let them have their head. Once again the church was searched but no trace could be found. The Judas Man, chest heaving with fury, came and stood before Athelstan, sweat coursing down his unshaven face, the smell of wine heavy on his breath. He went to poke Athelstan but the Dominican pushed his hand away. The Judas Man stepped away at the threatening murmur from Athelstan’s parishioners.
‘For God’s sake, man,’ Athelstan urged, ‘think about where you are! This is a church; I am its priest. I have nothing to do with the escape of your prisoner. You know that.’
The Judas Man opened his mouth to protest but stopped himself just in time. He brushed by Athelstan and stormed out on to the porch, shouting at the others to join him.
‘An exciting start to the day,’ Malachi murmured.
‘Aye, and it’s only begun.’
Athelstan returned to the house, where he and Malachi broke fast. Athelstan was still distracted and puzzled by the Misericord’s disappearance. He excused himself and returned to the church, where Pernel the Flemish woman was trying to place a chaplet of flowers on the statue of the Virgin in the Lady Chapel. Athelstan helped her. The woman stepped back, fingering her strangely coloured hair, tears running down her parchment-coloured face.
‘Father, will you hear my confession?’
‘Oh no, Pernel, not again,’ Athelstan said.
‘But I’ve slept with men, dozens of them!’
Athelstan grasped her face in his hands, staring into those wild, frenetic eyes.
‘Pernel, it’s all your imaginings. You are a good woman.’
‘Do you think I’ll go to heaven, Father?’
Athelstan let her go. ‘Well, if you don’t, Pernel, no one will.’
‘The ghost has been back at the squint hole.’
‘What?’ Athelstan said.
Pernel pointed down the church.
‘Go outside, Father. When I couldn’t get into church this morning I walked round to have a look. She must have carried a candle.’
Athelstan, intrigued, left by the sacristy door and went along the side of the church. He found the diamond-shaped squint hole, crouched down and peered through. He could see Pernel standing at the entrance to the rood screen, and his fingers touched the piece of wax on the edge of the squint hole. He peeled it off, stared across the cemetery and laughed quietly. He recalled the novice in her voluminous gown coming into the church last night, Pike and Watkin in the cemetery, the darkness, the heavy mist. Athelstan went back into the church.
‘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.’