‘Because Gaunt and Thibault knew about the meeting.’
‘According to Pike, this information may well have come from the Community of the Realm’s cell-house, as they call it, the parish of Saint Erconwald’s. In other words, one of my parishioners, while acting as a fervent supporter of the Community of the Realm, could be one of Gaunt’s informants.’
‘And so we come to Agag and the Amalekites,’ Cranston murmured.
‘In the book of Samuel, Agag and his tribe were defeated by the Israelites. The prophet Samuel put them under the ban; he ordered King Saul to slaughter them all.’
Cranston scratched his forehead. ‘I have heard of this,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘Anyone who betrays the Great Community of the Realm will not only be punished, but all those related to them will be also. Something like that happened near King’s Langley in Hertfordshire. A small hamlet was put to both torch and sword. Ostensibly the work of outlaws, common rumour has it that the hamlet housed a traitor who informed the lords of the shire at Hertford about the doings of the local Upright Men. Very few survived. Men, women, children and animals were killed.’ Cranston grasped Athelstan’s hand. ‘Brother, I say this in all honesty: the same could happen in Saint Erconwald’s. Houses, shops, taverns and alehouses all burnt, people slaughtered. It will be put down to river pirates or wolfsheads from the forests to the south; in truth it will be the Upright Men enforcing their will. Believe me, Brother, if there is a traitor and you discover him, hand him over. The Upright Men are ruthless!’
Athelstan stared across the tavern at the harpist, his long hair hanging over his face.
‘Oh, don’t worry about him,’ Cranston whispered. ‘That’s the Troubadour.’ Athelstan raised his eyebrows.
‘One of my little swallows,’ Cranston tapped the side of his nose, ‘who swoops through the alleys of London collecting all sorts of juicy morsels of information, my spy brother! He watches to see who watches us. Now,’ Cranston leaned across the table, ‘as for the treachery of the hawk lords, I do wonder how many of my so-called masters have been both bought and sold?’ Cranston took a sip of his claret as the harpist ran his fingers smoothly across the harp strings, a beautifully melancholic sound. Cranston grinned. ‘All is safe, Brother. Now, my masters and the so-called tribes of Edom and Moab?’ Cranston rearranged his platter and goblet on the table. ‘Brother,’ he grasped the platter, ‘My Lord of Gaunt.’ He tapped the goblet. ‘The Upright Men.’ Cranston moved the knife. ‘In between these, the Lords of London: Walbrook, Legge, Horne and the other hawks. These control the so-called tribes of rifflers, the gangs who lurk in the shadows of Whitefriars, Newgate and even Southwark. Now these knight errants of Hell organize themselves into tribes after the ancient people of the Bible: Edomites, Philistines, Moabites and so on. Their captains assume fantastic titles such as the Duke of Acre or the Earl of Caesarea. Believe me, Brother, there is nothing fantastical about them. They are the brothers and sisters of the knife, garrotte and the club. They swarm like flies over a turd; they wait for Lucifer’s watchman to blow his horn.’ Cranston gulped from his goblet.
‘In a word, Sir John, when the Day of the Great Slaughter breaks, these tribes will rise to revel in murder and mayhem.’
‘Correct, Brother, but worse. Some of our leading citizens, whom the tribes serve, may well go over to the rebels. Then we shall truly see the Apocalypse. No one will be spared – king, earl, duke or commoner.’ Cranston glanced towards the harpist. ‘Blood will run ankle-deep in Cheapside. For the moment we can only watch and wait. Yet, I assure you, my friend, the arrival of the Oudernardes and their mysterious prisoner, the attacks near the Tower, the bloody affray at the Roundhoop are all part of the gathering storm. But,’ Cranston rose and went to peer at the hour candle; he came back looking rather shamefaced. ‘I’m afraid, Brother, you must come with me.’
‘Must, Sir John?’
‘No less a person than His Grace the Regent,’ Cranston ignored Athelstan’s groan, ‘has insisted on your presence at the third hour in the afternoon.’ Cranston was now grinning at the friar’s surprise. ‘In the Chapel of Saint John the Evangelist at the White Tower,’ Cranston leaned down, ‘His Grace’s own troupe of mummers, the Straw Men, are staging a small masque or mystery play for the delight of His Grace and his special guests. One of whom,’ Cranston pressed his fat forefinger gently against the friar’s slender nose, ‘is you. This will be followed by a collation of juicy meats and the best wine. Brother, all I can say is that I am delighted I will not be supping alone.’
Athelstan crossed himself, murmured Jesu Miserere and followed the coroner out into the icy thoroughfare of Cheapside. He pestered Sir John about why he had been invited and swiftly learnt that the Regent may have been helped in the invitation by Cranston himself, who, as he kept chortling, would not have to suffer alone. The coroner truly hated such occasions and was only too grateful for Athelstan’s company. The friar decided that cheerful compliance was the best course of action and followed the coroner’s great bulk as they turned by the Cross near the Standard, down towards Bread Street. The streets and alleyways, despite the harsh weather, were thronged with traders and hawkers who competed with the many funerals being carried out. The smell of pinewood and rosemary, in which the long-dead corpses had been drenched, mingled with the sweet smells of pastries, bread and
