‘Of course!’ the Judas Man exclaimed. ‘You are the Falconers.’
‘That is the standard we fought under,’ Sir Maurice, the leader of the group, replied. He was harsh-faced, tall, and thin as a beanpole, iron-grey hair parted down the middle. ‘And we lodged at this tavern before we sailed. But what are you doing here?’
‘Business,’ the Judas Man murmured, staring hungrily past the knights at the shaft of light pouring through the doorway leading into the tap room. He stepped aside. The knights had apparently been enjoying the ratting and drunk much. Brother Malachi supported Sir Thomas Davenport, who was rocking backwards and forwards on his feet. The Judas Man made his farewell to the knights. He heard their laughter behind him and tried to recall what he knew of them. Ah yes! The five noble Falconers, all Kentish men; the sixth, the monk, had also been a soldier until he’d taken his vows. Wasn’t there some mystery about them? And where was the fifth? The Judas Man put such questions aside as he stepped into the tap room.
Customers sat round tables. Scullions and slatterns fought their way through with tankards. The great fire was beginning to die, the candles were fading, the bowls of oil drying up. The Judas Man hastily stood aside as a boy pushing a wheelbarrow carted out the corpses of the rats killed in the pit, which was now being washed clean with tubs of scalding water. A sea of faces greeted the Judas Man, some disfigured, others pretty. A whore came sidling up; the Judas Man pushed her away as he walked like a cat round the edge of the tap room, looking intently for his prey. People jostled and shoved, pedlars and tinkers tried to sell trinkets. He was invited to sit in on games of hazard, whilst a pretty slattern asked him what he wanted to drink. The Judas Man ignored all these, eyes ever shifting, moving from face to face. He was looking for a man of medium height with a shock of red hair and a misericord dagger on a lanyard round his neck. At last he found him, seated just near the door, throwing dice with two others. There was no mistaking the silver sheath or that shock of red hair, though the pallid face and scrawny beard and moustache hadn’t been in the description. The misericord dagger, though, was unmistakable. The Judas Man pushed his way through, placed his hand on his victim’s shoulder and squeezed tightly. The man looked up.
‘You are to come with me,’ the Judas Man whispered quietly in his ear. ‘You, sir, are under arrest.’
His words had an immediate effect. The other two gamblers shot to their feet, pulling out knives even as Red-Hair shrugged off the Judas Man’s hand and, as fast as a whippet, kicked the stool back into his legs. Then he sprang up, drawing the knife from the battered belt around his waist. The crash of stools, the shouts and curses, created an immediate silence in the tap room. Master Rolles’ bully boys came lumbering across, as the Judas Man drew his own sword and dagger.
‘Put up your weapons,’ one of the bully boys shouted. ‘I’ll call the Watch.’
‘No you won’t.’ The Judas Man shook his head. ‘I have the law on my side. I carry a commission, sealed warrants from the sheriffs of Essex and Kent as well as those of London. I am empowered to bring in criminals, and this man,’ the Judas Man pointed his sword at Red-Hair, ‘is under arrest.’
The bully boys stepped back, gesturing for everyone to stay out of this confrontation. Red-Hair’s two companions also faded into the crowd, leaving their comrade, much the worse for drink, swaying backwards and forwards on his feet, knife still out.
‘I… I… don’t know,’ he stammered, ‘the reason…’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve only stolen petty things.’
As the man spoke, the Judas Man noticed how his teeth were blackened, his gums sore. He looked closer, a prick of doubt. This man looked unwell; his face was pockmarked, eyes red-rimmed – was this the Misericord? The subtle, cunning man? He lowered his sword, eyes fixed on that silver sheath.
‘You are the one known as the Misericord?’ he asked.
Red-Hair shook his head.
‘You are under arrest,’ the Judas Man said gently, taking a step forward.
The other man panicked, a mix of ale and fear. He lunged drunkenly, his knife speeding for his opponent’s face, but the Judas Man just stepped aside and drove his own sword in, thrusting deep into the man’s stomach…
The two whores, Beatrice and Clarice, had left the tap room a short while before the Judas Man appeared. They heard the first clamour and outcry but they had other business. Beatrice and Clarice were sisters and served in one of the most luxurious brothels amongst the stews near the Bishop of Winchester’s inn. They had won their reputation by beauty and skill and been given a special invitation to attend the Great Ratting. They had arrived in all their gorgeous finery, gowns of red sarcanet over milk-white kirtles, stockings of pure wool and ankle-high leather boots with silver buckles. They had combed their blonde hair carefully and arranged their jewellery around neck, wrists and fingers. They’d bathed carefully, anointing themselves with perfumed oil, and had delicately painted their faces. They were twins, the daughters of the famous Guinevere the Golden, one of the greatest courtesans of Southwark until she had mysteriously disappeared some twenty years ago. They had been raised by Mother Veritable, one of the most notorious brothel-keepers south of the river. They had been taught how to read and write, and every other skill a courtesan should acquire. They were proficient on the rebec and the lute and could sing the sweetest carol as well as understand Norman French. They had been given places of honour that night and, after the Great Ratting had finished, been told to go to the hay barn which lay at
