Cranston coloured with embarrassment and shuffled his feet. Mother Veritable leaned forwards and placed her jewelled white fingers over Cranston’s great paw.
‘You remember the glory days, Jack?’ Her voice was soft and sweet. ‘Guinevere loved, I loved, you loved, the City was full of young knights with their fair damsels. It wasn’t so hard then. My heart hadn’t turned to stone. I hadn’t accepted the world for what it is, cruel and harsh. Do you remember the man I loved, Jack?’
‘Killed,’ Cranston replied. ‘Killed outside Bordeaux, wasn’t he?’ He withdrew his hand as if suddenly remembering why he was here.
‘Beatrice and Clarice?’ The woman sat back and shrugged. ‘Master Rolles, as usual, had sent for them, left a message in the tapestry of the Castle of Love; somebody wanted to hire them both. So they bathed and perfumed themselves, donned their best robes and went off to the Great Ratting. Oh, by the way, I’ve destroyed Rolles’ message.’
‘And you agreed?’ Athelstan asked. ‘To send two of your women out into the night?’
‘I had already received a silver coin, a token of what was to come.’ She held Athelstan’s gaze. ‘They didn’t come back. I thought they had been hired for the night. This is the only place they know. They would have returned and brought their silver with them.’
‘Every penny?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Little priest—’
‘Friar,’ Athelstan corrected. ‘I’m a Dominican friar.’
‘Whatever you are,’ she snapped, ‘I tell you this: woe betide the girl who returns here and holds back what she owes.’
Her gaze shifted, staring at a point behind Athelstan’s head. The Dominican turned: two great oafs dressed in leather jackets, hose pushed into high-heeled boots, sword belts strapped round their waists, stood silently at the door grasping cudgels.
‘Tell your lovely boys to go away,’ Cranston demanded. Mother Veritable gestured with her head. Cranston heard the door close behind him.
‘Master Rolles sent a message this morning. How the two girls had been found in the hay barn. Killed by a cross-bolt and dagger, wasn’t it? I went down to view the corpses,’ Mother Veritable continued matter-of-factly, as if describing a visit to a market stall. ‘Still beautiful, but dead.’ She half smiled. ‘Master Rolles had taken their jewellery.’
‘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
