The House of Shadows

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Look around you, Sir John,’ Sir Maurice urged. ‘Who is missing?’

  ‘The Judas Man.’ Sir Thomas Davenport spoke up. ‘In fact, I haven’t seen him since this morning. And where is Brother Malachi?’

  ‘Why should we be interrogated,’ Sir Reginald Branson coughed, ‘because a rogue, undoubtedly bound for the hangman, had his pie laced with poison?’

  His words provoked laughter, which Cranston stilled by banging on the table.

  ‘The Judas Man,’ Athelstan asked, ‘is his horse still in the stable?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rolles replied, ‘I saw it there myself. If you want, I’ll check his chamber.’

  They all waited as the taverner left the solar and, complaining loudly, stamped up the stairs. He returned a short while later.

  ‘The door was off the latch,’ he declared, retaking his seat, ‘but the chamber is empty. All his goods, saddlebags,’ he spread his hands, ‘gone.’

  ‘But not his horse?’

  ‘No, Brother, neither his horse nor the harness. Perhaps the Judas Man has hired another chamber?’

  ‘I wouldn’t blame him,’ Sir Thomas Davenport grumbled. ‘Master Cranston, if we want to, we should be able to leave here.’

  ‘Sir John, to you,’ Cranston snapped, ‘and I assure you, sir, that if you leave Southwark, I’ll have you arrested and dragged back at my horse’s tail.’

  ‘Enough!’ Athelstan’s raised voice created a surprised silence. ‘Why this hostility?’ the Dominican continued. ‘Five people have been foully murdered, their souls sent to God before their time. Beneath such murders the events of twenty years ago, the Lombard treasure being stolen, and again five souls disappeared. God knows if they were murdered or not.’

  ‘Brother, that’s a closed book,’ Sir Maurice countered. ‘The truth couldn’t be established then.’

  ‘Surely you know the proverb, Sir Maurice: truth is the daughter of time. If we resolve the mystery of twenty years ago, we shall be able to establish the truth now.’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Cranston. ‘So, none of you left the tavern this afternoon and, therefore, were probably not involved in the murder of the Misericord.’

  ‘Probably?’ Mother Veritable spat out.

  ‘Well, mistress, you may not have left the tavern, but a man you hated lies murdered.’

  Mother Veritable sneered, tapping her fingers on the table.

  ‘Twenty years ago,’ Athelstan continued blithely, ‘the Lombard treasure was stolen. Master Rolles owned this tavern and the Knights of the Golden Falcon were staying here.’

  They all agreed.

  ‘On that particular night you gathered here. The only two persons missing were Richard Culpepper and Edward Mortimer.’

  ‘Brother Malachi wasn’t here.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ‘He had been absent all day visiting Charterhouse and Clerkenwell. He didn’t return until afterwards, when the news of the robbery was all over the city.’

  ‘Very good.’ Athelstan folded back the full sleeves of his gown. ‘Whilst you stayed here, Richard Culpepper fell smitten with the courtesan known as Guinevere the Golden. That is correct?’

  Sir Maurice agreed; Mother Veritable echoed the word ‘smitten’ under her breath.

  ‘Mistress, you find this funny?’

  ‘Yes, I do, Brother,’ came the cool reply. ‘Everybody was smitten with Guinevere, whilst she was smitten with anyone who had gold and silver.’

  ‘Guinevere hinted,’ Athelstan declared, ‘that there was to be a change in her life. Do any of you know what she was referring to?’

  ‘She was a whore!’ Davenport shouted. ‘We can’t be held responsible for what went on in her pretty empty noddle.’

  ‘So none of you were smitten with her?’

  ‘Well of course not!’ Branson spoke up, his face all aflush. ‘Culpepper was our comrade; each to their own, I say.’

  ‘Did Culpepper or Mortimer,’ Athelstan continued, ‘tell you why they had been chosen to receive the Lombard treasure and transport it to the flagship?’

  ‘No.’ Maurice shook his head. ‘We only found that out later. Apparently, as I’ve said, Lord Belvers chose them especially, though rumour claimed His Grace the Regent was responsible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’d both fought in John of Gaunt’s retinue. He was, I suppose, their liege lord.’

  ‘Both of them?’ Cranston queried. ‘Culpepper is a Kentish name, but Mortimer, that’s a name from South Wales, isn’t it?’

  ‘True, Sir John. Mortimer was Culpepper’s friend and comrade – a mercenary who often frequented our company, a good swordsman and a master bowman. Culpepper and Mortimer were like two peas in a pod. During the days before the great robbery they were often absent; they acted rather mysteriously, not telling us where they were going or what they were doing.’

  ‘And you never questioned them?’

  ‘Well, of course, Brother, we were curious, but those were very busy days: the fleet preparing to sail, men seeking out friends and comrades, and, of course, there was always the attraction of Guinevere the Golden.’

  ‘So,’ Athelstan summarised, ‘you know nothing about the Lombard treasure or your two comrades being chosen to accept it; you spent that night here in the tavern, you have no knowledge of why Guinevere hinted that she should soon have a change in station, and you have no knowledge of what happened to the treasure, Culpepper and Mortimer?’

  ‘I speak for us all,’ Sir Maurice abruptly declared. ‘We would also like to know why we are being kept here, and why,’ he added, glaring bitterly at Cranston, ‘two of our comrades, Sir Laurence and Sir Stephen, have been slain, yet their assassin has not been caught.’

  ‘We are searching for the assassin,’ Cranston stood, pushing back the chair, ‘and until we find that person, everyone in this room, not to mention the Judas Man and Brother Malachi, is regarded as a suspect.’

  Athelstan repacked his writing satchel, aware of the ominous silence. Once outside, Cranston put a finger to his lips. He crossed the stable yard and entered the street.

  ‘Is it possible,’ Athelstan pulled up his cowl, adjusting the strap of his writing satchel over his shoulder, ‘that Culpepper or Mortimer, or indeed both of them, could still be alive, and be responsible for these murders? Where is the Judas Man, and Brother Malachi? They have questions to answer.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot to ask them that.’

  Cranston told Athelstan to wait, and strode back into the tavern. The friar waited impatiently, watching two boys play with an inflated pig’s bladder, only to be distracted by two little girls chasing a rat they had disturbed in a rubbish heap. The sun had disappeared. Athelstan felt cold and hungry, and leaned against the gate post.

  ‘It’s time to pray,’ he whispered. ‘To eat and sleep.’

  ‘Well,’ Cranston came striding back through the gate, ‘I asked my question and nobody could help.’

  ‘Yes, Sir John?’

  ‘Did any of them hire the Judas Man? They could tell me nothing, not even his true name. I wonder,’ Cranston tapped his boot on the cobbles, ‘I wonder if the Judas Man was hired, or does he have something to do with those events twenty years ago? I have checked the stables. His horse and harness are still there. I’ll get my searchers out. If necessary I’ll arrest him.’

  ‘Very good, Sir John.’

  ‘You look tired,’ Cranston said kindly. ‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’ He patted Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘Go back to your prayers, monk, I’ll see what the Lady Maud has been doing.’

  Cranston walked off down the street.

  ‘Sir John?’

  ‘Yes, Brother?’ Cranston turned.

  ‘I’m a friar.’

  ‘And a very good one too. Good day to you, Brother.’

  Athelstan returned to St Erconwald’s. Some of the parish children were playing in the cemetery. He walked up the steps to the church and into the gloomy nave. He lit some tapers at the Lady Altar and, picking one up, walked round
the sanctuary. He visited the chantry chapel and noticed the tapers lying on the floor. The missal was gone, and his curiosity deepened when he found it lying down the nave near a pillar. He hurried across to his house. Nothing seemed amiss, but as soon as he turned the key in the lock, he realised something was wrong, though the kitchen was swept and clean, and the fire built high.

  ‘Brother Athelstan, I am sorry.’

  The friar glanced up in surprise as Brother Malachi came down the ladder from the bed loft. The Benedictine looked as if he had been deeply asleep. Warming his hands over the fire, Malachi told Athelstan all about his visit to the church: how he had been attacked and fled to the house for safety.

  ‘Strange,’ he smiled, ‘I never thought a church could be so dangerous. Brother, I had no choice, there was no one around. I forced the shutters and hid; I dared not go out.’

  ‘I saw no sign of your attacker in the church or cemetery.’

  ‘Once I was in here,’ Brother Malachi declared, ‘there was no further attack. I think my assailant fled.’

  Athelstan reassured him that he had done the right thing, whilst trying to control his anger at the way the attacker had used his church for murder and sacrilege.

  ‘He threw knives? You are sure of that?’

  ‘Very sure, Brother. Two narrowly missed my face; they were long, thin and ugly. I thought I would die from fright. I went into the church to think, to make my devotions. I do not like that tavern. I am now highly distrustful of my companions. My days with them are ended.’

  He held up his maimed hand.

  ‘I have known them for longer than I care to think. I have eaten, drunk, lived, slept and fought with them.’

  ‘Do you think one of them was your assailant?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Malachi rubbed the side of his face. ‘And yet, I know those knights. My assailant moved swiftly, a dagger man, and unless I am mistaken, that is not a skill shared by any of those knights.’

  ‘Let us see, let us see.’

  Athelstan took Malachi back into the church. They lit candles and carefully searched but, apart from the splintered wood in the entrance to the chantry chapel, Athelstan could find no sign of any knife.

  ‘I’ll get Crispin the carpenter to see to the wood.’ Athelstan patted Malachi on the arm. ‘If you wish, you can stay with me. You would feel safer, wouldn’t you?’

  The Benedictine nodded. ‘I’ll go back later to collect my belongings. If you could shelter me, Brother, when this is all over, before I leave,’ he offered, ‘I’ll make good any damage or inconvenience I may have caused.’

  Athelstan walked him back to the house, describing what had happened that day. He talked whilst he prepared the evening meal, laying out the tranchers. From its hook in the buttery he brought a roll of cured spiced ham, yesterday’s bread, small pots of butter and honey and a pitcher of ale. He recited the Benedicite and sat down.

  ‘Did you know the Misericord?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘I remember him vaguely as a lad, a cheeky-faced boy who had the run of Master Rolles’ tavern, nothing significant. I’m sorry for his death. God assoil him and give him good rest. Brother, I was not in Cheapside today.’ Malachi grinned. ‘I can tell from your eyes you must be suspicious about everyone.’

  ‘The Judas Man?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Athelstan, I know nothing of him either, nor do I know anything about Master Rolles or Mother Veritable. The knights? I thought they were honourable men, boisterous when young, valiant warriors in war, respectable and upright in their mature years.’

  ‘Do you think they could have killed your brother and stolen the treasure?’

  ‘How could they?’ Malachi glanced away. ‘On the night the treasure was taken, they were drunk. I was across the river visiting brethren at Charterhouse. The next morning I saw them; they were totally dispirited, indeed, irritable. Brother Athelstan, I went to Outremer with these men, I slept beside them on ship, on shore, in the desert. I fought with them before the walls of Alexandria. I heard their confessions. If they owned the treasure it would have been obvious. The mice in your church are richer than they were. They were pressed for money, even to eat and drink. When the ship docked at Genoa to take on supplies they had to pawn some of their own weapons and beg loans from their comrades.’

  ‘But couldn’t they have stolen the treasure and hidden it until their return?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ The Benedictine pushed away his trancher, picked up a piece of cheese and chewed on it slowly. ‘My order has houses the length and breadth of this kingdom, from Cornwall to the mountains of Scotland. I made enquiries through them; sometimes our abbots act as bankers. I have also circulated lists to the guilds of goldsmiths and jewellers in London, Bristol, Nottingham, Carlisle and even in the Cinque Ports. I promised rewards for any sign of the Lombard treasure being found.’

  ‘How did you know the description of that treasure?’

  ‘I went to see Teodora Tonnelli, head of the Lombard banking house in London. He still does business here. He gave me a complete list of what was stolen. He, too, offered a reward.’

  Athelstan put his face in his hands. He tried to visualise the Oyster Wharf at night, the cresset torches burning, Culpepper and Mortimer, the two bargemen.

  ‘How was the treasure transported?’

  ‘According to Tonnelli, in an iron-bound coffer with three locks. The keys had been given to the captain of the flagship.’

  ‘Ah!’ Athelstan sighed. ‘Further precaution, eh? I can’t imagine someone trying to force that chest on the quayside or on a barge on the river at night.’ He closed his eyes again. ‘I’m trying to imagine, Malachi, how it happened? Did your brother and Mortimer kill the boatmen and disappear into the darkness with the treasure? Or did the boatmen help? If that was the case, surely someone would have seen them, two or four men staggering through the darkness with a heavy chest? Yet, if they were attacked, all four men were well armed; surely they would have defended themselves? The crash of swords, the yells, the cries. Someone must have heard! And how would they get so close?’

  Athelstan rubbed his fingers around his lips, wiping away the crumbs.

  ‘Of course, it is possible a master bowman, perhaps two skilled archers, slipping through the darkness, brought down all four men with well-aimed shafts. But there again, the treasure hasn’t been found, nor the remains of any of the corpses. And if blood was shed . . .’ He opened his eyes. ‘The Oyster Wharf was inspected the following morning, wasn’t it?’

  Malachi nodded.

  ‘I went down there myself, Brother, not a sign. My brother was a fighting man, he had been entrusted with an important task. He would be wary. How could his attackers even get close?’

  ‘So you can tell me nothing about your brother?’

  ‘What I know,’ Malachi replied, crossing himself, ‘is what you know.’

  ‘Do you think your brother and Mortimer survived?’

  ‘And attacked me in your church? No.’ Malachi picked up a piece of cheese and broke it into two with his fingers. ‘I believe my brother and Mortimer are dead.’ He touched his chest. ‘Just a feeling here.’

  Athelstan studied the Benedictine carefully – Malachi seemed very agitated, as if trying to control his temper.

  ‘No one left that tavern today.’ Athelstan put his thoughts into words. ‘Yet who murdered the Misericord? Who would want you dead?’

  ‘There’s the Judas Man.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Athelstan brushed the rest of the crumbs off and went to refill the ale jug. ‘I’m afraid,’ he called from the buttery, ‘he’s disappeared and is becoming the scapegoat for every awful act.’

  ‘I know nothing of him,’ Malachi called back. ‘Why should he attack me?’

  ‘Tell me about Mortimer,’ Athelstan asked, coming back.

  ‘A Welshman, related to the great family. You know the kind, the youngest son of the youngest brother; all Mortimer owned was a weapon and a horse. A dark, swarthy-faced man with r
aven-black hair down to his shoulders. A skilled dagger man, good with a bow. Mortimer and Richard met during the wars in France and became the closest of comrades. I felt as if Richard had acquired another brother.’

  Athelstan sensed the hint of jealousy in Malachi’s voice.

  ‘I know what you are thinking: I’m jealous of Mortimer. Somehow he always made my brother laugh. Mortimer was close, secretive, he’d often disappear for days and nights, shifty-eyed but trustworthy enough. He had a sister, a quiet little mouse of a woman.’

  Malachi rose from the table.

  ‘It’s growing dark, Brother, I can say no more. It’s time for vespers, but I will not go alone into your church.’

  ‘Let’s pray together,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘For strength against the demon who prowls like a lion seeking whom he may devour.’

  Chapter 9

  The two knights were preparing to charge, a surging, united passion of man and horse eager to ride their opponent down. The herald, in the centre of the lists – a long stretch of multicoloured canvas just over a yard high down the centre of Smithfield – raised his white baton, hard to distinguish against the light blue morning sky. All eyes watched him, fascinated by this blue-, red- and gold-liveried herald who would begin the tournament. At either end of the lists trumpeters waited to give clarion blasts on their silver trumpets. Above them, stiffened pennants and loose-tied banners spread out in the early morning breeze. Vividly coloured cloths displayed the arms and heraldic devices of the two opponents: a silver half-moon above red gules and golden scallop shells; and a light grey boar ready to charge against a dark blue field, above that a strip of silver stars against a red background. The two knights waited at either end of the lists in their silver-edged armour, ready to joust; their war destriers, eager to charge, snorted and pawed the ground, resplendent in gorgeously caparisoned cloths and gleaming black harness. The knights sat, heads slightly down so that they could peer more clearly through their visor slits; from each helmet elegantly plumed feathers ruffled in the breeze. The noise of the horses, the creak of harness and the harsh clatter of armour carried across to the spectators, intensifying their excitement.