‘It seems a pity to punish the bear,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘it looks so tired and old.’
The gaoler followed his gaze, scratching the stubble on his cheek.
‘What do you suggest, Brother, a blessing?’
‘No.’ Athelstan pressed a coin into the man’s hand. ‘Make sure it’s fed and watered and looks a little happier before we leave.’
The gaoler agreed, then escorted them into the foul-smelling prison. They walked along narrow, badly lit passageways, down mildewed steps, into what the gaoler called the Netherworld, a narrow, sombre passageway with dungeons on either side. They were introduced to its keeper, a burly, thickset man with a leather apron around his waist. He recognised Sir John and swiftly handed back the coroner’s seal of office which Cranston always carried to identify himself.
‘The Misericord is along here.’ He gestured with a sturdy finger. ‘The Judas Man paid me well to keep him secure.’
He led them along the corridor. Occasionally Athelstan heard a groan, a scream, or raucous abuse hurled at them through the small grilles at the top of each door; occasionally he glimpsed mad, gleaming eyes staring out at them. The Misericord’s cell was at the end, built into what used to be the foundations of the ancient Roman wall, one of the most secure cells in the prison, the keeper explained, inserting a key and scraping back the rusting bolts. The dungeon inside was small, with no window or gap for air or light. It reeked like a latrine and the rushes on the floor had turned to a muddy slime. The Misericord, sitting in a corner, sprang to his feet. The keeper beckoned Athelstan in and handed him the small tallow candle he was carrying.
‘Brother, I thought…’
‘You thought I was the Judas Man.’
The Misericord agreed and slunk back into the corner, gazing fearfully at Sir John.
‘Let’s make your guests as comfortable as possible.’
The keeper took the candle from Athelstan and placed it on a rusty iron spigot jutting out of the wall. He brought in two stools for Cranston and Athelstan, then closed the door, but not before explaining that he would keep it unlocked; if they needed help, he would be just outside.
‘Why have you come?’ the Misericord asked. ‘Did my escape embarrass you?’
‘I know how you escaped.’ Athelstan sat down. ‘Time is short, the Judas Man will be here soon.’
‘He can’t hurt me, he dare not.’
‘He won’t hurt you,’ Cranston explained. ‘He simply wants to see you hang.’
‘I’ll quote the Neck Verse.’
‘Ah!’ Athelstan replied. ‘The first lines of Psalm 50. You’ll claim Benefit of Clergy and demand to be handed over to the Church courts. The Judas Man will still hunt you down. So tell me,’ Athelstan leaned forward, ‘why is he hunting you so ruthlessly? Who hired him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re lying. You may be a felon, but London is full of Misericords.’
Athelstan noticed how the prisoner’s face was bruised above his right cheek, whilst his jerkin was torn and rent.
‘You were manhandled, weren’t you?’
‘The bailiffs certainly weren’t Franciscans.’ The Misericord smiled. ‘But why are you here?’
‘I could offer you a pardon.’ Athelstan gently nudged Cranston’s boot. ‘The Regent could give you an amnesty for all crimes committed, on condition you leave London, and tell me everything you know.’
The change in the Misericord was remarkable. He stared open-mouthed at the coroner, who sat pinching his nostrils against the foul smell.
‘You can really do that?’
‘Of course. The Lord Coroner here will personally arrange it, full pardon and clemency. You’ll be given a letter to show to all sheriffs, port reeves, bailiffs and mayors for safe passage.’
The Misericord put his face in his hands.
‘The truth,’ Cranston demanded. ‘The full truth.’
‘Who hired the Judas Man?’
The Misericord lifted his face. ‘I don’t know, Brother.’ He raised his hands to plead as Cranston snorted in derision. ‘I don’t know. It may have been Mother Veritable, even the Judas Man doesn’t know.’
‘Why should Mother Veritable hire him?’
‘For a number of reasons. As you know, Brother, I sold a potion, a powder, which I claimed could increase a man’s potency between the sheets. Now, I often visited Mother Veritable’s house. I became firm friends with Beatrice and Clarice. No, no, it’s true, I enjoyed their company, they enjoyed mine. They said I wasn’t like the rest. I showed them dignity and treated them as ladies. They would tell me about their customers, their strange lusts and desires. They weren’t supposed to. Mother Veritable keeps a strict house. They told me about the knights, particularly the small fat one who drank poison and died.’
‘Sir Stephen Chandler?’
‘Yes, the same. He visited the girls every time he came to London, not just when the Knights of the Golden Falcon met for their annual feasting. Sir Stephen had great ambition in matters of the bedchamber but not the potency to match it. I persuaded the girls to sell my miraculous powder to their lordly customer. They did, and made a pretty penny.’
‘But it didn’t work?’
‘Of course not, Brother. The girls laughed, and I made up a poem about Sir Stephen.’
‘I found that,’ Athelstan exclaimed, ‘amongst their few possessions. Something about a red crown, a cock, losing its power. I’ve seen such songs composed by scholars when they want to mock a master.’
‘Why the red crown?’ Cranston asked. ‘I don’t see the significance.’
‘Chandler had red hair,’ Athelstan replied, ‘whilst Stephen, in Greek, means crown.’
‘And cock,’ the Misericord finished the explanation, ‘was a nickname given to Chandler when he was young. He truly portrayed himself as a lady’s man. Now, I gave my poem to the girls but I also sold copies in certain taverns in Kent. Somehow Sir Stephen discovered that. He complained to Mother Veritable. She beat the girls, took what gold they’d hidden and banned me from her house.’
‘So Sir Stephen, as well as Mother Veritable, had great
