‘Good morning, Giles.’ Athelstan deliberately used the anchorite’s real name. ‘God have mercy on you.’
‘Soon done, soon finished,’ came the hoarse reply. ‘I’ll visit Tyburn first then a city courier will escort me across to Smithfield.’
‘You’ll go back to your cell at Saint Erconwald’s?’
‘And to my painting, Brother.’
‘You and Huddle?’
‘Father,’ the anchorite leaned down, eyes gleaming through his mask, ‘we could transform your church. I mean…’ He broke off as cheers and cries broke out. Athelstan glanced down the line of carts. The three plungers had been taken off the death tumbrils. Manacles and chains removed, they grasped their pardons and danced like fleas on a hotplate. Athelstan realized why Duke Ezra had insisted it be so – a public demonstration of his influence and protection for those he called ‘his beloveds’. The three plungers were suddenly enveloped by a small mob who hurried them away lest any official might change his mind.
‘You must go,’ Athelstan grasped the hangman’s black gauntleted hand, ‘to make sure their deaths are swift and painless. God have mercy on them all.’
‘In the twinkling of an eye,’ the hangman replied, ‘from this vale of tears to Heaven’s gate before they realize.’
The mounted men-at-arms now imposed order, beating away the crowds and ordering the carts to go their appointed route. Cranston seized Athelstan’s wrist and pulled him aside. They walked briskly. Cranston pushed his way through the crowds, stepping around puddles and pits of refuse, knocking away the grasping hands of apprentices and beggars who importuned for trade or alms.
‘God knows,’ Cranston growled, ‘when the Herald will make his appearance, but it’s the Holy Lamb for us, Friar, a tankard of ale and the juiciest, freshest mince beef pie.’
They reached the tavern and revelled in the sweet warmth of the tap room, the fragrance from herb-strewn pine logs mingling with the savoury tang of hams, cheeses and vegetables hanging in snow-white nets from the black beams. The ruddy-cheeked Minehost ushered them to Sir John’s favourite window seat. They’d hardly sat down when Athelstan heard his name called and a lean, hatchet-faced man dressed in black robes like those of a Benedictine monk stepped out from the shadows of the inglenook. Athelstan stared at that sharp face, the foxlike eyes, the cropped auburn hair, the lips twisted ready to mock, talon-like fingers splayed as he stretched out a hand to clasp that of Athelstan.
‘You forget so soon, Athelstan?’
The friar stared in disbelief. ‘Eudo!’ Athelstan clasped the newcomer’s hand. ‘Eudo Camois, or Brother Luke as I knew you in the novitiate. I heard…’
‘You probably heard right, Brother. Luke the Dominican priest who became a forger and a counterfeiter, defrocked and rejected by the followers of Saint Dominic, yet greatly appreciated by the noble Duke Ezra.’
‘You are the Herald of Hades?’
‘And a little more,’ came the sardonic reply.
Athelstan stared at this former Brother who had won a reputation as an astute scholar and a brilliant calligrapher even though this had proved to be his path to perdition. Luke had fallen from grace. Athelstan could well understand the temptation: forged licences, letters, charters and memoranda were a constant and very rich source of gold and silver. Cranston introduced himself then turned away to order. The herald went back into the shadowy inglenook to collect his small chancery pouch and rejoined them just as the scullion served their table.
‘The business in hand?’ Cranston demanded, making himself comfortable.
‘Ah, yes. The business in hand.’ The herald sipped from his tankard and stared around the tap room. ‘I have to be careful.’ He grinned. ‘Gaunt or the other gang leaders would pay well for what I know. Anyway, Duke Ezra has told me all. Now,’ he lowered his voice, ‘the Oudernardes? They have been very busy in Ghent, the city of Gaunt’s birth.’ He sipped from his tankard. ‘There have been great stirrings there… rumours.’
‘About what?’ Athelstan asked.
‘As you know, the Flemings are Gaunt’s allies; he needs them to threaten France’s northern border. He also needs Fleming money but that’s politics. The rumours are different. I heard about those severed heads; that of an old woman and young man, yes?’
Cranston agreed.
‘Tongues plucked out?’
‘So I believe,’ the coroner replied.
‘Decapitation is punishment enough. The removal of a prisoner’s tongue beforehand signifies the victim has committed slander.’
‘And?’ Athelstan asked.
‘They were mother and son.’ The herald continued to whisper. ‘She was a midwife, he a scrivener attached to the cathedral in Ghent, a letter writer, a drawer up of bills and memoranda. Now, according to rumour, she claimed that in the year of Our Lord 1340—’
‘The year of Gaunt’s birth?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Yes, remember Edward III and his wife Philippa of Hainault were in Ghent. Philippa’s pregnancy was reaching its fullness. The accepted story is that she gave birth to the Prince who now calls himself Regent and uncle to the King. But there is another story,’ the herald laughed sharply, ‘repeated by the former owners of those two severed heads, that Queen Philippa did not give birth to Gaunt but to a female child. No, no, no,’ the herald raised a hand to still their protests, ‘that’s what rumour dictates. The hush
