‘The Castle of the Fleet and Newgate Dogs. The Tower of Babel. Believe me, Brother, there are more bodies buried in its cellars and streets than in your graveyard. If you cross Duke Ezra, you are not punished, you simply disappear. Be on your guard. This is the place of jabbing daggers and slashing blades. Prepare to enter Satan’s dark pavilions, the tents of Hades, the bowels of Hell; false of heart and sick of soul are its citizens.’ Cranston turned to Flaxwith and the bailiffs. ‘They have given me their word, but remain careful. Do not draw your weapons unless I tell you. Do not wander off even for some glimmering mort or pretty doxy. So sheath your swords and follow Sir John into the Valley of Gehenna.’ Cranston led them across the square. Trumpets bellowed and the great gates swung open, allowing them into the notorious sanctuary of Whitefriars. This was the home of all the greasy, grimed rogues: the cogging naves, the courtesy men, the nighthawks, the nugging maids, the cheaters, shifters, cross-biters, the naps and the foists, the knights of the dusk and the squires of the sewers, the rifflers and the rutters.
Despite its reputation, Athelstan was surprised at how clean the lanes were. The smell of mulled sack hung heavy in the air, wafted out of the brightly lit taverns and ale shops. The houses were mean and shabby but, despite the cold, doors and windows remained open, the streets lighted and warmed by roaring bonfires and crackling braziers. At first glance this beggar’s town was not a hive of dark dens but a busy ward with markets still doing business selling goods – stolen, of course, from elsewhere. The ladies of the night strolled in their tawdry finery under the supervision of their two guardians: the venerable Mother of the Kind Matrons – Athelstan did not dare ask Cranston to explain this – and the Mistress of the Wicked Wenches. Lazarus men, as the coroner described them, kept order in the streets with club and cudgel. They passed a large, shabby house. Flaxwith agreed with Sir John that it was the infamous Cutpurse Manor, where pickpockets were tutored. They passed an ancient chapel, the Church of the Condemned, served by a defrocked priest called the ‘Vicar of Hell’. The crowds in the narrow lane parted before them. Curses were shouted at Cranston but he ignored them. The coroner plucked at Athelstan’s sleeve and pointed to where two old ladies stood in the door light of the aptly named Devil’s Tongue tavern. Athelstan peered at them as he passed; their faces were caked in paint, pursed lips brightly carmined.
‘Nightshade and Belladonna,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Two old ladies who visit to nurse and give their victims poison – eternal comfort, a quiet way to go into the dark. One day, Athelstan, I’ll catch them in the act and hang them out of hand.’
They moved on. Athelstan noted that they had a discreet escort, ‘Tyburn Sprigs’, as Flaxwith described them, hooded and visored with the insignia of a red, three-branched scaffold sewn on to their cloaks. The lane twisted and turned and they entered a square. In the centre rose a huge Pity, a life-size cross bearing a carving of the crucified Christ; a little beyond this a fountain still gurgled despite the freezing cold. Athelstan exclaimed in surprise. The cobbles had been cleared of all slushy dirt so they gleamed in the light of the great flambeaux lashed to heavy poles driven into the ground. Three sides of the square were bounded by outhouses, storerooms, stables, smithies and workshops all closed up for the night. Directly opposite them rose a majestic mansion of Cotswold stone with a sloping tiled roof, smoking chimney stacks and mullioned glass windows lit by glowing lamps, their wooden sills painted a smart blood red. The mansion’s majestic entrance door of shimmering black oak stood at the top of wide, earth-coloured steps lit by merrily burning braziers under a row of cresset torches. Cranston and his party moved across.
‘No further!’ a voice called. Men emerged out of the shadows; mailed and helmeted, they wore surcotes boasting the green and gold cedars of Lebanon.
‘No further!’ the voice repeated. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you may go on. Master Flaxwith, you and your men must stay. They will be entertained. Come, come,’ one of the guards beckoned.
‘Go,’ Cranston murmured. ‘But act prudently.’
Cranston and Athelstan were led up the steps. The great door swung open; shadowy figures welcomed them along the gleaming, oak-panelled gallery, past chambers locked and secured. Pure white candles glowed in their wall clasps. Alabaster oil jars exuded both light and a delicious perfume, the fragrance mingling with the most mouth-watering smells of cooked food. Guards stood discreetly in the shadows. Now and again the gleam of their steel was caught by the light. They reached the end of the passageway and were welcomed into a sumptuous chamber hung with cloth of gold; thick Turkey rugs stretched across a layer of coarse rope matting, carpeting the floor. Tapers glowed by the dozen while lowered Catherine wheels, their rims crammed with perfumed candles, provided more light. A fire leapt vigorously in the black stone hearth to the right of the dining tables. Brilliant white samite cloths covered these tables while their every plate, jug and trancher were of the richest metal, studded with jewels.
‘Welcome, Sir John, Brother Athelstan!’ The towering, bald-headed, bushy bearded man in the throne-like chair at the centre of the high table gestured to the empty seats on his left. ‘Sit, eat and drink.’
Cranston and Athelstan sat down. The goblets before them brimmed with red and white wine and herb-tinged water. Athelstan crossed himself as a servant appeared out of the shadows to serve portions of veal and a ladle of savoury vegetables and herbs. Duke Ezra of Caesarea toasted his guests and then turned back to whisper to
