at the carnage.
‘How?’ Benedicta whispered.
‘Never mind.’ Athelstan softened. He picked up a leather sack and thrust this at her with the keys to both church and house. ‘Benedicta, these are Humphrey Warde’s papers: some ledgers and a psalter. Put them in the parish chest, make sure they are safely secure. Please look after everything. I have to accompany Sir John.’
‘King’s business,’ the coroner lugubriously intervened. ‘Despite the late hour, I need Brother Athelstan and, when we are finished, I’m afraid it’s back to the Tower.’
‘Ensure all is safe,’ Athelstan urged Benedicta. ‘Go to Father Walter at Saint Ethelburga’s, ask him as a favour to send his curate to celebrate the Jesus Mass for you tomorrow. Huddle?’ The painter stepped out of the shadows, his stained fingers clutching the skin of his face now whiter than the driven snow, his eyes two large pools of terror. He could not stop staring at the corpses.
‘Huddle,’ Athelstan gently shook the painter’s shoulder, ‘Huddle, what is it?’
‘So gruesome, Father, so savage, so much blood. I was. . I was only talking to them, I. .’ Huddle turned and fled into the street to retch and vomit noisily.
‘Take care of him,’ Athelstan urged Benedicta. ‘Tell him to look after our anchorite; they must continue with their paintings. Now,’ Athelstan forced a smile and sketched a blessing, ‘all of you must leave. Benedicta, do look in on baby Odo, take care of everything.’
Once the chamber was cleared and the shop door closed, Athelstan sat on a high stool and stared owl-eyed at Sir John. ‘So, I am to accompany you?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ the coroner replied evasively. ‘Yea, even into the Valley of the Death.’ Cranston eased himself into the chamber’s only chair. ‘The centre doesn’t hold,’ Cranston murmured as if to himself. ‘All things are falling apart. A violent storm is coming.’ He pointed at the corpses, ‘Do you believe they were spies?’
‘God forgive Gaunt,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘But yes! Warde depicted himself as a spicer who had fallen on hard times, forced to leave his house and shop in Cheapside. Nonsense! That was a sham, a play, a little masque. Your enquiry, Sir John, proved that. The truth is that Warde supplied precious spices to the Royal households. He was Gaunt’s man and cheerfully indulged in this pretence — he came and took root here. A man needed by the community, everyone wants to do business with a spicer, especially in the depth of winter when our meat is old and heavily salted. Nutmeg, mace, cloves and cinnamon are in great demand. Warde and his children would have good custom, at least in theory. They would visit houses, get to know families. Katherine would mingle with other women. All the chatter and gossip of the community would flow around them. They would collect, sift this and pass it on. Precious information, be it who was close to the Upright Men, or even the time and date of meetings like that at the Roundhoop.’ Cranston made to object.
‘Clever and cunning, an entire family acting as a subtle shield for a spy. Sir John, I can guess your objections. According to Thibault’s plan, the Wardes should have settled in Saint Erconwald’s as comfortable as Bonaventure in my kitchen, yet they didn’t. From the very start they were marked down — distrusted, suspected. So, how did the likes of Watkin and Pike who, most of the time, do not know what day of the week it is, realize this was all a subterfuge?’
‘And the answer?’
‘You know it, Sir John. The Upright Men were informed about the Wardes by their spy in Gaunt’s retinue. And yet there is a further problem. If Warde was discovered so swiftly, distrusted so deeply, what real danger did he pose? How could this poor spicer find out about a secret meeting at the Roundhoop? If they were so blatantly Gaunt’s spies, why not just drive them out? Why this?’
‘Punishment? The ban?’
‘Oh, come, Sir John, you and I both know people are buying and selling information on all sides, all the time. What puzzles me,’ Athelstan rose to his feet, ‘is the devastatingly harsh punishment. The Wardes were spies but, and this is the paradox, they also seem to have been protected while they were here. Why? By whom? Well, at least until now.’ Athelstan surveyed the herb and spice jars along the shelves. The spicer was an orderly man: everything was in its place and clearly tagged, except one jar just on the edge of the shelf, pushed the wrong way round while the cork stopper on the top was not fully secured. Athelstan took this down and turned it. ‘Dust of poppy seed,’ he read the tag. ‘An opiate. Why is it out of place, put back wrongly, hurriedly? Did the killer help himself? Was Warde preparing something for him when the assassin struck? Did the murderer ask for an opiate as a pretence? Did he need it? This is where I found Warde. Was our spicer enticed into his shop and silently slain?’ Athelstan held up the jar. ‘As you know, I have been through the house. Apart from this jar, Sir John, there is no real disturbance, no sign of resistance or a struggle.’
Athelstan blessed the corpses again.
‘You imply that some other person or group, apart from Thibault, were protecting the Wardes?’
‘Yes, Sir John, I mean here in Southwark. Warde was distrusted so he was isolated; he never posed a real danger because he remained on the outside. Why didn’t Thibault just withdraw him? Why didn’t Warde recognize the truth and leave? More importantly, why didn’t the Upright Men, or their cell here at Saint Erconwald’s, just drive him out? Why did such apparent tolerance abruptly end in a savage massacre?’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Yet Watkin, and I believe him, maintains this is not their work. Are the Upright Men innocent of this? Thibault, surely, would not turn on his own spy — so is there a third party, another group with their own grievances — but who? Those in the Tower are forbidden to leave. Ah, well.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘Where to now, my friend? This Valley of the Shadow of Death?’
Cranston jabbed a finger at the door. ‘Brother, we have a meeting at the Tower of Babel in the Cloisters of Hell, Whitefriars, to be precise. I am — we are — going to do business with Duke Ezra of Caesarea, leader of the rifflers, ruffians and roaring boys. I want to question him and one of his henchmen, the Herald of Hades, about what they know.’ Cranston squeezed himself out of the chair. ‘Gaunt and the Upright Men both pride themselves on their knowledge. Believe me,’ Cranston ran a finger across the spice counter, ‘they know nothing compared to Duke Ezra. All my spies, such as the Troubadour or Muckworm, report only what they have learnt from Duke Ezra and his coven, who speed throughout this city like a colony of rats. They sneak along runnels into the dingy dens, mumpers’ castles and dark dungeons of the counterfeits, the cozeners, the coney-catchers and the Jacob men. You’ll find them in taverns and alehouses, cook shops and bakeries. They thrive in the mansions of the mean as well as those of the wealthy. Palaces, friaries, priories, abbeys and monasteries are not free of them either.’ Cranston donned his beaver hat. ‘And now we go to the very source. Let’s leave all this horror to Bladdersmith and his wardsmen.’
Within the hour, having collected his writing satchel and other items for his continued stay at the Tower, Athelstan joined Cranston in the royal barge, specially summoned for the journey across the Thames from the Bishop of Winchester’s steps to those of the Temple. A perilous, freezing, choppy journey. The night was black as ink. The heavy wherry, despite its careful manning by royal bargemen, shook and shivered as it breasted the swells and turbulent tide pools of the Thames. A sea mist was gathering to block out the north bank so only the beacon lights in church steeples and the flaming bonfires of rubbish heaps lit along the different quaysides pierced the murk. Athelstan sat clutching his writing satchel. Around him huddled Cranston and his bailiffs. The mastiff whined against the cold; Flaxwith, tender as a mother with child, tried to soothe it. The bargemen, hooded and masked against the biting breeze, bent over their oars, pulling in unison to the soft chant of the prowman. The air reeked of salt, fish and sweat. Other barges and wherries swept by, the lanterns on their sterns glowing fiercely. Athelstan wondered about the Fisher of Men, that enigmatic recluse who, from his Chapel of the Dead, harvested the Thames of corpses, assisted by his henchman, Icthus, and other grotesques. Would they be busy on a night like this? The prowman called out an order and the barge turned a little to port, juddering as the river caught it. A bell sounded hollow and sombre in the dark. A barge laden with produce broke from the mist and cut across the bows of their craft. Athelstan tensed, Cranston cursed. The wherry swerved a little. The danger passed and they aimed like an arrow towards the host of torches flaring along Temple steps. They swiftly disembarked. Flaxwith and his companions ringed them, swords and daggers drawn, as they moved into the hideous underworld of the city. They entered a maze of narrow, crooked lanes, alleyways and runnels which snaked around the decaying, crumbling houses. Some of these were beginning to pitch forward, turning the paths beneath into hollow, dark tunnels, the sky blocked out by the leaning storeys and jutting gables. Dungeon-like doors, barred and studded, remained sealed shut, though Athelstan glimpsed light through the eyelets. Above them shutters abruptly opened only to slam shut just as swiftly. Box lanterns glowed on the end of their chains. Now and again a shout would ring out a warning. ‘Cranston,’ a voice called. ‘Cranston and his minions.’
A hunting horn brayed. ‘Let them pass.’
