At that moment the green jewel caught the light of a candle, and in that sudden flash Gunter glimpsed a great bonfire like that which gives the alarm. He blinked. It was gone. Yet he believed in the efficacy of dreams and visions. Some revelation concerning Miles Vavasour had been granted to him.
“Shall we go to eat?” The sergeant led his guest into the hall; on a dais, covered in a cloth of estate, was a large table with a chair at either end. Along one side of the hall was Vavasour’s livery cupboard, with all his plate displayed in the torchlight and candlelight. There was a low oak chest on the opposite side of the hall, with papers lying upon it; above it was a tapestry portraying the history of the King of Love. On his summons a servant entered, did obeisance, and then proceeded to serve the meats. The meal was soon over and, after their toast to the fistula, Gunter observed in passing that he had seen the body of one Hamo Fulberd lying in St. Sepulchre. Vavasour replied that he had marvelled that one young man could nourish such hatred against God’s church. The physician wondered out loud whether any more heretics would be found as a result of Hamo’s death. They are as mad as wild bullocks, Vavasour replied, and God would send them such worship as they deserved. So there were more of them? Gunter noticed the slightest unease cross the sergeant’s face as he claimed that he had not meddled in the matter.
“But some, Sir Miles, talk of a secret confederacy. A coivin of unknown men.”
“I know a good name for its leader then.” The sergeant’s eyes widened slowly as he spoke. “It should be John Destroy All.”
“I was hugely astonished to learn . . .” the physician continued, looking steadily at his host across the gleaming oak table, “. . . I was astonished that these troubles and commotions may be governed by the sign of five.”
“Who told you this?” The question came rapidly and suspiciously.
“I see wonder on your countenance, sir.”
“Wonder only at such horrible and abominable deeds. What is this about the five?”
“It was rumoured to me.”
“In the old books it is a sign of the ancient church. But in these new times –”
“It does not signify?”
“Not at all.”
The subject was then changed; the two men discussed the bad harvest and the price of bread, the new law restraining the length of shoes, the recent birth of a child with an eye in the middle of its forehead, until the conversation touched once more upon the miseries of the king.
Vavasour excused himself for a moment, to visit the latrine in his yard, and Gunter took that opportunity to walk over to the chest. There were two small parchments left there accidentally or hastily by the sergeant, and they concerned a court case at Westminster; Gunter could read the sentence, “In cuius rei testimonium presentibus sigillum meum apposui,” but the rest was obscure. But then he noticed some words scrawled in ink on the back of one of the documents. They comprised a list, or table, one entry after the other:
Oratorium. St. J.
Powles.
St. Sep.
St. M Le Q.
Giles.
The oratory in St. John’s Street had been fired. So had St. Sepulchre. There had been a killing in Paul’s. Would St. Michael le Querne follow? And Giles. Could that be St. Giles in the Fields?
Thomas Gunter was already in his seat when the sergeant returned. They were served more wine but parted soon after, at the time of the curfew bell. The sergeant apologised for the fact that he still had urgent business to conduct.
As the physician left, he could hear Vavasour calling for his horse.
Gunter now knew that his host was better acquainted with recent events than he had been prepared to admit. His list was of the churches. The conclusion was clear. Vavasour had a counterfeit face. He was disguised in manners. And where was he riding after curfew? Thomas Gunter determined to follow him on horseback.
Under cover of night and darkness, ducking under the overhanging signs, keeping his horse to the straw and the mud, whispering gently in its ear to guide it, he kept Vavasour in sight. The sergeant was a great man, and would not be hindered or questioned by the watch; Gunter was a known apothecary, on his way to administer to someone’s pain, and would pass unmolested. They were two figures enclosed by the darkness of the city. Vavasour rode south-eastward along Fetter Lane and Fleet Street, down Addle Hill with its deserted porters’ stalls like great bulks in the shadows.
Gunter stopped at the corner of Addle Hill and Berkley’s Inn, dismounted, and tethered his horse to a weather-beaten gate by the side of a tenter-yard; he had seen Vavasour ride up to the round tower north of Castle Baynard. Gunter concealed himself behind the ruin of an old postern gate, just as Vavasour knocked upon the door of the stone tower and was admitted.
A few moments later Gunter observed two cresset lights approaching, attached to spear-headed poles; a hooded figure came up to the door and, by the light of the torches, Gunter could plainly see the visage of Sir Geoffrey de Calis. Then a chair, pulled by two horses, emerged from the darkness; Gunter recognised William Swinderby, the canon of Paul’s, being helped from the vehicle. He was followed by an under-sheriff. Here was a wonder indeed, a wonder to pass all wonders. Why had the high men of the city come to this place by night? What had Bogo said of those who stayed in concealment and who walked in evil ways? “They use quaint craft,” he had told Gunter. “The world is brittle.”
Gunter found himself gazing at the round tower. He knew it to be of great antiquity; in the torchlight he could see the blocks of rough stone in the mortar at its base. If Brutus had founded
