the best of the cream and intends to go back for more.’
What was he so pleased about? Gaunt had a lot to gain, Athelstan reflected. The Commons would be pleased that notorious French privateers were now in prison. He had the ransoms to look forward to while Maltravers was one of his henchmen so the Regent could bask in his reflected glory. And Vulpina? Despite the wine he had drunk, old Jack Cranston had really shaken that woman’s wickedness. She was nervous, eager to give tidbits of information so she could hide the rest. Athelstan put his face in his hands. There were links: Maltravers had taken the two French ships; Gaunt was now furthering Sir Maurice’s cause with the divine Lady Angelica. Sir Thomas Parr partly owned The Great Edward, the ship Sir Maurice had used in his fight against the French privateers. Sir Maurice had bought poisons. He also supplied Hawkmere Manor with food. Why should a knight banneret be engaged in such petty details? True, in a great lord’s household, even a retainer like Maltravers would have a wide range of tasks: some petty, others matters of life and death. But where was all this leading to?
Athelstan got to his feet and stretched. Bonaventure copied him and leapt down from the table. The cat padded over to the door. Athelstan opened it.
‘Good hunting!’ he said.
He was about to close the door again when a voice called, ‘Brother Athelstan!’
‘Who is it? Ah, Godbless, you gave me a start!’
The beggar man, Thaddeus trotting behind him, walked into the dim pool of light.
‘What’s the matter, Godbless? Can’t you sleep? Are you hungry?’
The beggar man looked up, his eyes heavy with sleep.
‘There be ghosts in God’s acre.’
‘Ghosts! Godbless, go back to bed! The only ghosts in that graveyard are Cecily the courtesan or Watkin and Pike. You have not met these, have you?’
Godbless shook his head.
‘There are no ghosts. Go back to bed. Lock your door.’
‘Brother, I be really a-feared and so be Thaddeus.’ Godbless looked longingly past Athelstan.
‘All right!’ The Dominican stepped back.
Godbless sped like an arrow through the door, Thaddeus scampering after him. The beggar man sat down in front of the hearth.
‘I always likes a fire,’ he sighed. ‘My wife used to light one.’
Athelstan, curious, put the latch on the door and drew the bolts. Thaddeus, he noticed with some amusement, was crouched next to Godbless.
‘Were you married, Godbless?’
‘Aye, Brother, came from Dorset. A yeoman farmer like the other mad buggers who took the King’s penny and went to war. When I came back my wife and child were dead, sick of the plague. The manor lord had knocked down the fences, turning plough land to pasture, grazing it with sheep. I hate sheep. Fond of goats but can’t stand sheep.’
‘In the Gospel it’s the other way round,’ Athelstan joked.
‘Don’t be angry, Brother, but I don’t believe in the Gospels. I’m not a Christian.’
‘In which case,’ Athelstan commented, ‘you are in good company. Very few people are, Godbless.’
The beggar man squinted up at him. ‘One day, Brother, I’ll repay you for your kindness.’
Athelstan patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll get you some blankets.’
He made Godbless comfortable, told him there was food in the buttery and climbed the steps to his bed loft. There he washed his hands and face in the water bowl, took off his gown and slipped into his narrow cot bed. He prayed for a while. From below he heard Godbless snoring.
‘Strange,’ the Dominican mused. Godbless was a solitary man. He probably wandered the lanes of England and was used to sleeping in the most godforsaken spots but, tonight, he had been frightened. What had Godbless seen in the graveyard to wake him up, to make him so a-feared? Athelstan drifted off to sleep.
Vulpina sat in her chamber and regarded the cowled, masked stranger.
‘Are you French?’ she asked. ‘Are you a priest?’
‘Don’t ask questions, Mistress.’
Vulpina was assured; his voice was low, cultured. She noticed his hands, for he had removed one of his gauntlets, showing that they were soft and white, not those of a man who dug the earth and grubbed for a living.
‘You have come for some more of the poison?’
‘And I cannot tarry long.’
Vulpina nodded and rose to her feet. She went across to the wooden panelling and pressed a secret place so it opened. From here she took out a large, wicker basket and a leather-bound ledger and brought them across. The stranger undid his purse. Vulpina’s eyes glistened at the silver coins shaken out in a twinkling pile. She glanced sideways at the two bully boys who stood on either side of the door.
‘A good night’s profit,’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands.
Aye and more,’ the stranger replied. ‘I’ll be a constant customer.’
‘Then let’s celebrate this alliance.’
Vulpina clapped her hands again and nodded at one of her bully boys. He brought across two goblets brimming with wine. Vulpina raised hers.
‘To silver and gold and all it brings.’
The man raised his goblet but didn’t sip it. He got to his feet. Vulpina looked up in alarm but the man was moving quickly. The throwing knife he drew from beneath his cloak caught the bully boy’s back as the fellow returned to his position. The other one was so startled, his hand had barely touched the hilt of his dagger when the stranger moved swiftly, bringing the small arbalest hooked on his belt out and up. A click, and the whirling bolt struck Vulpina’s bully boy straight in the face. The poisoner sprang to her feet. She tried to brush by this murderous stranger but he caught her by the shoulder and when she turned, lashing out at his face, this only helped him loop the garrotte more securely round her throat. She struggled and fought like a cat but the garrotte was now like a piece of steel choking off her breath. Vulpina crumpled to the floor. The assassin, bending over her, kept the garrotte string tight until her death tremors ceased. He picked up the wine goblets and poured the contents over her corpse. The bully boy who had taken a dagger in the back was moaning, so the stranger moved quickly to slash the unfortunate’s throat. He picked up the book of poisons, sat down and went through it carefully, turning the pages over. When he was satisfied, he took the basket of poisons and the ledger and pushed them into the hearth. He then went to the saddlebags he had left just inside the door and pulled out the wineskin which he had filled with oil and poured this over the carpets. The fire had already caught at the baskets, the pots exploding, the chamber filling with an acrid smell. The assassin took a fire brand out. He went and opened the shutters and stared down: the crumbling wall provided enough footholds. He threw the firebrand into a pool of oil and eased himself out. Even as he climbed down, the flame caught the oil. Vulpina, her bully boys, her potions and poisons and all the contents of her secret chamber, were caught up in a sheet of raging fire.
Murder also made itself felt in another part of the city, as if it were some loathsome shadow which could scurry as swiftly as the wind along its alleyways and runnels. The Golden Cresset Tavern which stood opposite the hospital of St Anthony was a merry, spacious ale-house with a broad taproom and luxurious chambers for wealthy merchants and others who visited the city. Margaret, the chamber-maid, was however puzzled about two of her customers.
First, a young knight, Sir Maurice Maltravers, had come to the tavern saying someone wished to meet him there. Margaret remembered him because he looked handsome yet rather sad and lonely. He’d sat for an hour in the corner cradling a blackjack of ale, absentmindedly watching a juggler who had come to pleasure the customers in return for a hot meal and a goblet of wine, but then he had gone. Secondly, the young woman who had arrived late in the afternoon and hired a chamber above stairs had hardly shown her face. Tobias the tap boy had tried the latch but the door was secure and, when he rapped, no answer was made. Margaret went across to where her father the taverner stood beside the butts.
‘What is it, girl?’
‘Our lady guest,’ she replied. ‘It’s been some hours now, Father.’
The taverner wiped his greasy fingers on his apron. It was late Saturday evening and the taproom was beginning to fill. Young fops with their doxies, travellers staying over till Monday.
