‘Of course.’ Cranston grasped the harpist by the shoulder and pulled him into the pool of shifting torchlight. ‘Brother Athelstan, let me introduce the Troubadour, former cleric, former soldier, a teller of tales and quite a few lies.’ Athelstan, staring at the hollow eyes and pinched, sallow features beneath an untidy mop of hair, could well believe Sir John’s description. The Troubadour, or whatever his real name, looked crafty and devious – indeed, the ideal choice to play Renard the Fox in any mystery play.
‘Yet a most skilled harpist.’ Cranston took out a silver coin and handed it over. ‘He plucks the strings and they pluck at your heart. But, my friend, it’s your eyes I need now. What have you seen?’
The Troubadour bit on the coin and slid it beneath his robe. ‘I have wandered the Tower, when I can. Thibault has taken it over. There’s great secrecy over the prisoner kept in Beauchamp. I tried to draw as close as I could. I even spent some money but to no avail. Those archers are Thibault’s men in peace and war, body and soul. No one will speak about the prisoner – well, not openly.’
‘And yet you have discovered something?’
The harpist grinned; his teeth were remarkably white and even. ‘Definitely a woman, Sir John – she still has trouble with her monthly courses according to a servant who empties the slop jars. Another says she spends her days embroidering and requires needle, thread and thimble.’
‘And?’
‘She is definitely Flemish. She finds London food not to her taste, though she is partial to eel pies and lightly grilled fish cakes. However, she is no damsel in distress; she’s not fair of face or lovely of form.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Again, servants have glimpsed her with her veil pulled back. Sir John, they say she reminds them of someone, but they cannot actually place her.’
‘Someone? Someone who?’
‘This was an old servant who has worked here for many a year; she glimpsed the prisoner’s face, it sparked a memory, but she cannot say which.’ The Troubadour spread his hands. ‘More than that I cannot say.’
‘And the severed heads?’ Athelstan asked.
The Troubadour’s strange eyes blinked. ‘Again, Brother, very little. I heard a whisper, just a rumour, that the heads really belonged to Master Thibault and were taken from his care when the Upright Men attacked him on his journey to the Tower. They also say that Thibault was looking for something, perhaps the severed heads, when he laid siege to the Roundhoop.’
‘And the attack in the chapel?’
‘Again, very little, Brother except, immediately after the second attack, the Flemings’ secretary, the Mousehead?’
‘Cornelius?’
‘Yes, he and Thibault’s bully boy, Rosselyn, abruptly left the chapel as if they were pursuing somebody. Remember I was with the minstrelling in the recess. They went down the stairs then Cornelius hurried back.’
‘Why, where did they go?’
‘I don’t know, Sir John. I suspect that they went out to ensure Beauchamp Tower was still kept secure.’
‘Ah, of course!’ Athelstan declared. ‘They wondered if the attack could be linked to an attempt to free this mysterious woman.’
‘Perhaps. I tell you this, the squires of the shadows…’
‘Thibault’s spies?’
‘Yes, Sir John. They’ve been very busy throughout the city, as if they were searching for something, or listening to rumour.’
‘They could be looking,’ Athelstan answered, ‘for what was plundered when the Flemings were attacked on their journey to the Tower – the severed heads. They would also be very interested in discovering if the news that Gaunt holds a special prisoner here has become common knowledge.’
‘And so we, too, must get very busy,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Look, my friend, tomorrow you will be allowed to leave – I shall vouch for you. Thibault will see no danger in you. Now, once you have gone, seek out Muckworm. Tell him Sir John, sometime soon, desires to meet the leader of the tribes at the Tower of Babel.’
‘Sir John, you wish to go there?’
‘I have to. Now, my friend,’ Cranston opened the door and Athelstan peered out; the snow was still falling. The troubadour slipped through and they adjourned to their chamber, all shuttered and closed, the braziers a mound of glowing bright coal, the fire in the hearth built up and roaring. A short while later, the servant who’d been waiting brought bowls of steaming hot chicken broth, slices of cold beef and pots of heavily spiced vegetables. Athelstan blessed the food and watched as Sir John cleared the platters and swiftly downed his wine. Afterwards the coroner, kicking off boots and loosening belts, clasps and buttons, stretched out on one of the cot beds. ‘Well, little friar, what have you learnt?’
‘A little, Sir John, but first, Limoges?’
Cranston raised his head off the bolster; abruptly realizing he was still wearing his beaver hat, he tore this off and tossed in on to the floor. He lay half propped, listening to the bell clanging from the top of Bell Tower above the constant growling from the animal pens. ‘I must take you there, Brother, see the cages…’
‘Limoges, Sir John!’
‘Ten years ago, or just over, I was with Gaunt and his brother the Black Prince at the siege of Limoges.’
‘Ah,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘I remember this. De Cos the bishop?’
‘Yes,’ Cranston sighed, ‘he refused to surrender the city. When it was taken, the Black Prince nearly had him killed – his flock certainly were. You may have heard the stories?’
‘Garbled, tangled,’ Athelstan replied, ‘difficult to believe.’
‘Then believe me, Brother, whatever you heard, never mind how dreadful it is, the truth is more heinous. I was there. I turned my horse at the Porte de Saint Marcel and rode back to camp. A nightmare, awful to see, horrible to hear! Unarmed men, women and children, brutally butchered, the streets
