‘Well done, Brother, well done.’ He smiled, tapping the side of his nose.
Malachi’s colour had returned, and he drank greedily at the wine but refused to eat anything. Athelstan wondered what had so alarmed the Benedictine. He was, Athelstan reflected, a youngish man, yet he appeared to have aged. His usual cheeriness had crumpled, the furrows around his mouth were more obvious, his skin was pasty, his eyes tired, his mouth slack.
‘Brother Malachi need not tell you. I shall,’ Sir Maurice offered, patting the Benedictine gently on the arm. ‘Twenty years ago the French signed the peace treaty of Bretigny, and the war with France ended, at least for a while. I and my companions… well, Sir Jack, you know how it was, young knights with little land and no wealth? We all came from Kent, we’d fought across the Narrow Seas, but none of us had taken any plunder or ransoms. We became mercenaries. The Crusader, Peter of Cyprus, organised an expedition against the Turks in North Africa. He hoped to seize Alexandria and free the trade routes in the Middle Sea.’
‘I remember it,’ Cranston nodded. ‘An army assembled in London. The King loaned ships, a squadron, berthed here in the Thames, cogs and merchantmen.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Sir Maurice, I think I know what you are going to talk about. The treasure, the Crusaders’ war chest?’
‘The Lombard treasure,’ Sir Maurice agreed. ‘Peter of Cyprus raised a huge loan from the Bardi in Lombard Street. Now the Crusader fleet lay at anchor in the Thames, taking on men and supplies. It became common knowledge that the Lombard treasure was to be taken aboard. It was decided the treasure should be moved by night, and as few people as possible would be told when and how it was to be transported to the flagship, The Glory of Westminster. The leader of the English force, Lord Belvers, a Kentish man, apparently arranged for two of our company, two knights, Richard Culpepper and Edward Mortimer, to receive the Lombard treasure and transport it by barge to the flagship.’ He coughed. ‘We learned all this later.’
He paused as Brother Malachi lifted a hand.
‘My monastic name is Malachi, a famous Celtic saint, but I am Thomas Culpepper by birth. Sir Richard was my brother.’ He sipped his wine. ‘We all came up to London, excited by the prospect of war, glory and plunder. The Pope had promised a plenary indulgence for all those who took the Cross. We called ourselves the Company of the Golden Falcon – that was our emblem – eight of us in all, led by Sir Maurice here, whilst I was their chaplain. We all hoped to achieve great things, to win glory for God and Holy Mother Church. Only afterwards did we discover that two of our company, my brother included, had been chosen for a special task.
‘We all lodged here, not so luxuriously as we do now.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Master Rolles had just bought the tavern from his profits. You, Sir John, were not coroner, and there was no priest at St Erconwald’s. Richard was young and vigorous. He loved to dance, he thrilled to the sound of music. While we waited for the army to assemble and the fleet to sail, he and the rest caroused in the fleshpots of London. We stayed here for some time. Richard became infatuated with a whore, a courtesan.’
‘Guinevere the Golden?’ Athelstan asked.
Malachi nodded. ‘He had known her for months. Lord Belvers had often sent him to London on this errand or that. Guinevere became pregnant, twin daughters. Richard suspected…’ Malachi’s voice trailed off.
‘God in Heaven!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Are you saying those two corpses were your brother’s daughters, your nieces?’
‘Possibly.’ Malachi spat the word out. ‘But there again, Guinevere had many admirers; those children could have been anybody’s. Now the Lombard treasure arrived, it was taken from the Tower by barge and apparently handed over to my brother. He was to transport it by boat to the flagship.’ Malachi fell silent.
‘But neither the barge nor the Lombard treasure ever reached the flagship,’ Sir Maurice explained.
‘Impossible,’ Athelstan said.
Sir Maurice shook his head. ‘Believe me, both the river and the city were searched. Of the boatmen who brought the barge, or the two knights, not a trace was found, nor of the treasure they were transporting. They all vanished off the face of the earth.’
‘I remember this.’ Cranston refilled his wine cup. ‘I was in Calais at the time and returned to London just before Christmas. A thorough search was organised.’
‘And nothing was found?’ Athelstan queried.
‘Nothing.’ Malachi shook his head. ‘My brother and Edward Mortimer… well, it seemed as though they’d never existed. For twenty years I have searched. What is worse is that both were proclaimed as thieves. On the same night the Lombard treasure disappeared, Guinevere the Golden also vanished. Every year we come up to London, every year I make enquiries, but nothing.’
Athelstan rose to his feet, seemingly fascinated by the tapestry mentioned by Rolles, which hung just within the doorway. Costly and heavy, the stitching was exquisite, its red, green and blue thread streaked with gold. The tapestry described the famous fable, the storming of the Castle of Love. Armed knights, displaying the device of a heart, were preparing to swarm into the castle, their catapults and trebuchets full of roses with which to shower the lady custodians, who were ready to defend themselves with baskets of brilliantly coloured flowers. Athelstan ran his hand down it and found the heavily concealed pocket in the bottom right-hand corner of the tapestry.
‘I have seen that device before,’ Sir John called out. ‘In the well-to-do taverns and hostelries of France, a place where favourite
