‘But why such a rumour?’ Cranston demanded, intrigued by this royal scandal. ‘King Edward already had three sons – why was it so important to have a fourth?’
The herald pulled a face. He was about to speak when the tavern door opened and two local beggars who plagued Cranston’s life slid into the tap room. Before the one-legged Leif could hop over, accompanied by Rawbum who as usual was loudly complaining about the savage burns to his backside caused by sitting on a pan of boiling oil, the coroner twirled each of them a coin. Both beggars, praising Cranston in his public and private parts to the ceiling, ensconced themselves safely on the other side of the tap room.
‘There was something wrong with the child, wasn’t there?’ Athelstan asked. ‘It must be that. Edward III never lacked sons.’
‘Brother, you can read my mind,’ the herald agreed. ‘Rumours, or so I learnt, claim the child was disfigured by a great purple birth mark here.’ The herald traced the right side of his face from brow to chin. ‘We all know,’ the herald continued, ‘how the Plantagenet brood prides themselves on their golden hair, fine figures and handsome faces. This disfigured child, according to whispers, was regarded as a cuckoo in the royal nest. Philippa, or so the story goes, panicked and changed her disfigured daughter for the lusty son of a peasant. This story is as old as Gaunt, some forty years. However,’ he sipped from the tankard and stared round the tavern, ‘the story was always kept confidential.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Only those in the know but,’ he drew a deep breath, ‘the Upright Men have suborned leading men in both the city and at court.’
‘The Upright Men learnt about this rumour?’ Cranston asked.
‘True, Sir John. The Upright Men sent their agents to Flanders hunting for a possible weakness, above all evidence, eager to sift among the debris of yesteryear.’ He smiled. ‘My master Duke Ezra thought he’d also join the others snouting around this trough of rich, royal pickings, which is why he sent me to Ghent. I’m not too sure if the Upright Men were successful but they certainly found out about the heads and Gaunt’s mysterious prisoner. Can you imagine, Sir John, if this did become public knowledge and was trumpeted abroad. How Gaunt the great Lord, the enemy of the Commons, is no more than a mere peasant himself with no right to any power?’
‘But this is all a lie.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘Scandal, gossip and rumour flourish as thick as weeds about royal births and deaths. Look at the fate of Edward II, supposedly murdered in Berkley Castle. Stories still circulate that he in fact escaped and became a hermit in a monastery in northern Italy.’
‘Ah, yes, but here there is proof. Someone who may claim that she, not Gaunt, is the true child of Edward III – that she was born of a queen who abandoned her in a Flemish convent.’ The herald hunched closer, his voice falling to a whisper, long, bony fingers jabbing the air. ‘I confess,’ he struck his breast in mock sorrow, ‘that this is only hearsay, but remember, Sir John, the mysterious prisoner was hooded and masked. Why is that? Is it because she has more than a passing resemblance to either Edward III, Philippa or both?’
‘True, true,’ Cranston murmured. ‘I knew Philippa very well; I once wore her colours at a tournament. I’d certainly recognize Philippa’s daughter if I met her. Philippa was quite distinctive in her looks, small and dark.’ Cranston’s fingers flew to his lips, ‘Oh Lord and all his angels!’ he exclaimed.
‘What is it, Sir John?’
Cranston tapped the side of his face. ‘If I remember correctly,’ he whispered, ‘I heard a rumour that such a birth defect did appear in Philippa’s family. I’m sure. John of Hainault, who joined our Queen Isabella in her invasion of England in autumn 1326, a redoubtable knight, a fierce warrior, also had that purple birth mark here on his right side going down on to his neck.’
‘Be that as it may,’ the herald continued, ‘that old woman who lost her head, the midwife, was also living proof. She allegedly claimed to be living in the convent at the time as a handmaid to one of Philippa’s ladies. She actually witnessed the exchange.’ He shrugged. ‘Whether that’s true or not, I cannot say. God knows what she intended. However, she gave such information to her son the scrivener, who drew up one of those anonymous hand bills which, as you know, are usually nailed to a church door or a public cross. Was it to be blackmail, disruption for the sake of it or just to arouse public interest? However, the Oudernardes, through their own scrivener Cornelius, heard of this, and both mother and son were arrested and brutally tortured.’
‘How do you know this?’ Athelstan asked.
‘How do you think, Brother? Duke Ezra has his allies in Ghent – they too have gangs. I spoke to no less a person than the torturer Cornelius used to question both mother and son. He’s a mute.’ The herald grinned. ‘But unbeknown to his master, he is a former monk, a Carthusian, very skilled in the sign languages such monks use in their priories.’
‘And you, my friend,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘are just as skilled, if I remember correctly. Anyway, what happened then?’
‘Both confessed and provided the whereabouts of the woman whom they claimed to be the King’s daughter. She was sheltering in the same house she was born in, Saint Bavin outside Ghent. Oudernarde sent urgent messages to Gaunt and, at the same time, seized and imprisoned the woman. She wasn’t ill-treated but the mother and son were no longer needed. They were hustled out to a lonely wood, their tongues plucked out,
