The House of Shadows

underworld was there; the taverner knew each and every one of them: the pimps and the pickpockets, the quacks, the dice-codgers, house-breakers, bully boys and roaring lads. Where they went, prostitutes of every age and description followed, their hair dyed, faces painted, garbed in cheap finery and smelling richly of the perfumes they used to cover their illwashed bodies. The taverner promised himself to keep a sharp eye on these, as he would the tinkers and petty traders, those who dared to make a profit in his tavern: the sellers of bird eggs, horse bread, old fish, or whatever else they had filched from the stalls in the market across the City. The cranks and the counterfeit men had also arrived. The professional beggars, all surprisingly nimble as they washed off their scars; the leg they had claimed to have lost now miraculously appeared as they undid the straps and heaped their crutches in a corner.

The taverner’s own keepers, ruffians from the alleyways armed with cudgels and knives, moved amongst what Master Rolles called his ‘congregation’ to ensure the peace was kept; ankles were kicked, fingers rapped, and shoulders punched as a warning to observe the proprieties. A relic-seller, who had become drunk and attempted to urinate in the middle of the tap room, was given a beating and thrust into what the taverner termed ‘outer darkness’. Customers lined up for a strip of pork, served on a piece of wood and garnished with stewed leeks and a piece of hard rye bread, liberally covered in a cheap hot pepper which Master Rolles hoped would inspire their thirst.

The ‘congregation’ clustered around the pit. A roar went up as Ranulf the rat-catcher from the parish of St Erconwald, where Brother Athelstan the Dominican was parish priest, appeared in the doorway, carrying his two favourite ferrets, Precious and Pretty, in a reed basket. Ranulf was accompanied by fellow parishioners: Pike the ditcher, Basil the blacksmith, Crispin the carpenter, Mugwort the bell clerk, Mauger the hangman, Moleskin the boatman, Bladdersniff the bailiff and finally, in all her glory, her blonde hair falling around her face like a halo, Cecily the courtesan, one hand resting on Huddle the painter, the other on Crim the altar boy, who was Pike the ditcher’s son. The rear was brought up by Pernel the Flemish woman, her hair dyed a garish black and red. Cecily was greeted with catcalls, whistles and lecherous offers; she just curtsied prettily and made an obscene gesture in the direction of her tormentors.

Ranulf walked to the edge of the pit and sat on a stool whilst the rest of the tavern gathered about. Ranulf the rat-catcher had a pinched, narrow face with bright button eyes, a sharp nose and bloodless lips. Some whispered there was more than a passing likeness between him and the rodents he hunted. Now he sat like a prince, black-tarred hood pulled close to his head, under which his oiled black hair was neatly combed back and tied in a queue. This self-proclaimed scourge of London’s rats cradled the basket in his lap, whispering to the two ferrets inside. Another roar echoed as Master Flaxwith, with his two mastiffs, Samson and Satan, entered the tap room. He too was greeted like a conquering hero, those who had wagered on his dogs crowding round to offer encouragement and advice. Mine host watched the proceedings. He had to be careful with Flaxwith, who was chief bailiff of Sir John Cranston, Lord Coroner of the City, a man with a fearsome reputation for fingering the collars of those who broke both the King’s law and the City ordinances.

‘That’s certainly happening tonight,’ the taverner whispered to himself.

Master Rolles had crossed swords on many occasions with Sir John, an old soldier but a fierce one, with his red face, piercing blue eyes and luxuriant beard and moustache which he would comb with his fingers whenever he questioned the likes of Master Rolles. Cranston acted the bluff, hearty old soldier, the pompous City official, but he had nimble wits and a sharp brain. He was just as quick with sword and dagger, even though he seemed to spend most of his life drinking the best claret from his miraculous wineskin. Even more dangerous was the small, dark-faced Dominican Friar Athelstan, with his soulful eyes and searching looks. Athelstan was Cranston’s secretarius, or clerk, and often accompanied the coroner to his investigations of hideous murders, subtle thefts or, indeed, any infringement of the King’s Peace along the dark lanes and alleyways of Southwark. Master Rolles glanced quickly around the tap room; he just hoped and prayed nothing would go wrong tonight, no mistake occur which might provoke the curiosity of those two sharp-eyed hawks of the law.

‘Let the festivities begin,’ Rolles roared.

The pit was uncovered. First there were the usual diversions. A juggler attempted to spin five cups in the air, but when he dropped one, he was pelted with scraps of food and soiled rushes from the floor. He was followed by the farmyard player, a man who could imitate the quack of a duck or the bray of a horse. He only lasted a few minutes, and was followed by a French dancing master, an old man with straggling grey hair and a nasty cough. His dogs were frightened and refused to dance, so he too was driven from the pit. Crim the altar boy, who had been given a blackjack of ale, silenced the clamour with a beautiful song in his vibrant carrying voice.

Behold Mistress Sweet,

Now you may see that I have lost my soul to thee.

The words were haunting, and the French dancing master, who had agreed to accompany the boy on a flute, created a heart-wrenching sound. For a moment, just for a measure, a few heartbeats, the customers forgot their own ugliness and the hideous circumstances of their lives.

Crim was followed by Pike the ditcher, and Master Rolles was not pleased. Pike was suspected of being a secret member of