here?
‘Come on!’ his companion urged him.
A sack came over the wall. Valerian grasped it and put it into the pit. A second one then suddenly the darkness was seared with a light. Valerian scrambled out of the trench.
‘What the…?’ he exclaimed.
From behind the wall he heard the scrape of steel. Figures, shapes loomed out of the darkness. Valerian recognised the little friar. He drew his dagger, adopting the stance of a fighting man, and peered at the rest. These weren’t soldiers! They were city bailiffs, beadles, men with families, timid as mice. Valerian tried his luck. He leapt forward and the bailiffs scattered. He looked over his shoulder. The wall was out of the question but if he could slip through the cemetery, he would soon be lost in the alleyways of Southwark. He was about to step forward again when a broad, massive figure moved out of the darkness. In the torchlight Valerian glimpsed a red, moustached face, cloak thrown back, sword and dagger in the man’s hands.
‘Out of my way, you tub of lard, and I’ll not prick you!’
‘I recognise that voice,’ Sir John boomed. ‘Put down your sword and dagger, my bucko, and surrender to the King’s coroner, Sir John Cranston!’
‘Piss off!’
Valerian darted forward. Cranston was old and fat, he’d prove no obstacle, but the coroner suddenly shifted. Valerian stopped and turned, lashing out with his sword. The coroner blocked this. Valerian drew away, prickles of cold sweat on the nape of his neck. Sir John seemed light as a dancer. In he snaked again, sword and dagger looking for an opening, locked in a whirling arc of steel. Valerian’s dagger was knocked from his hand. He gripped his sword with both hands and came rushing in. Perhaps he could frighten the coroner? His sword sliced the air; Valerian knew he had made a mistake, only seconds before Cranston’s blade dug deep beneath his heart. Valerian felt hot spurts of pain, blood bubbled at the back of his mouth. He fell to his knees; the night sky was whirling, the voices were like a faint roar and, spitting blood, he tumbled to the ground.
Sir John Cranston, chest heaving, wiped his sword on the dead man’s cloak then sheathed it. He told the bailiff to come closer with the torch, turned the corpse over and pulled down the vizard.
‘Satan’s bollocks!’ he swore. ‘It’s Ralph Hersham!’
Athelstan knelt down and pulled back the hood and cowl. He recognised the surly, close-set features of Sir Thomas Parr’s henchman. He gave the man the last rites and, even as he felt for the pulse in the neck, realised the soul had gone out to meet its judgement. He rose at the cries coming from the far end of the cemetery. Sir Maurice and other bailiffs were bundling a figure across. The man’s head was exposed, the vizard pulled off. As he was pushed into the pool of torchlight, Athelstan could see he was badly bruised and terrified out of his wits. The man took one look at Hersham’s face and fell with a groan to his knees, hands extended in supplication.
‘Oh, God have mercy!’
‘What’s your name?’ Sir John barked. He came over and dragged the man’s head back by the hair.
‘Clement, Clement Margoyle!’
‘And are you Valerian?’
‘No, I’m Domitian. Hersham was Valerian.’
‘You brought arrows to St Erconwald’s?’ Athelstan accused. The friar drew close and pressed his finger against the man’s lips. ‘Are you in a state of grace, my son?’ Athelstan glanced over at the coroner and winked.
‘Brother, I don’t know.’
Sir John stood over the man and drew his sword, which he held up by the hilt.
‘Clement Margoyle, you are a felon and a traitor. You have brought arms by night and the only reason must be that you plot treasonable mischief against our sovereign lord the King. You are also hooded and armed, travelling by stealth at night which is specifically condemned by the Statute of Treasons.’
‘No! No! No!’ Margoyle wailed.
‘Therefore,’ Sir John continued, his voice rolling like the peal of a funeral bell, ‘I, Sir John Cranston, King’s coroner in the city and its environs, do sentence you, Clement Margoyle, to death! Sentence is to be carried out immediately. May the Lord have mercy on your soul!’ He stepped back, refusing to meet Athelstan’s eyes. ‘Hang him!’ he barked.
One of the bailiffs threw a rope over the branch of the sycamore tree. The speed at which they worked surprised Athelstan. One end was formed into a noose and put round the unfortunate Margoyle’s head. Sir Maurice made to protest but Sir John commanded him to shut up. He rapped out an order. Immediately the bailiffs holding the other end of the rope began to tug. Margoyle, choking and coughing, was hoisted into the air, legs kicking.
‘Sir John!’ Athelstan implored him. ‘For the love of God!’
‘Oh yes, I forgot that. Let him down!’
Margoyle was dropped with a thud. He lay for a while on the wet grass coughing and retching. Sir John undid the noose.
‘Maltravers, take him over to the priest’s house. Henry.’ He summoned Flaxwith forward. I want every single arrow removed from the cemetery and carted into the city. Take Hersham’s corpse and give it to the Harrower of the Dead. He can find a burial plot for it. Tell him to send the bill to the Guildhall. Athelstan, let’s adjourn elsewhere and question Master Margoyle.’
They left the confusion behind them and went into the priest’s house. Margoyle sat on a stool, still shaking with fright from his rough handling. Athelstan poured him a goblet of wine and thrust it into his hands. Godbless and Thaddeus tried to enter, but Athelstan asked them to wait outside. He handed the beggar man the keys of the church.
‘Go across,’ he told him. ‘And let those two miscreants out. Tell them to go straight home. There is nothing for them here.’
Athelstan locked the door behind him and sat down opposite Margoyle.
‘Sir John, can this man hang?’
‘He certainly will,’ the coroner answered cheerfully from where he sat at the table. ‘Either at Tyburn or Smithfield, it depends on the Justices.’
Margoyle took a deep sip of the wine.
‘But what happens if he co-operates, Sir John?’ Athelstan saw the hope flare in the prisoner’s eyes. ‘What would you do if Master Margoyle here made a full and frank confession?’
‘That would depend on the song I heard. I do feel in fine fettle: that sword fight brought back memories of skirmishing with French pickets outside Dijon. Did I ever tell you that…’
‘Thank you, Sir John,’ Athelstan said hastily. ‘You have, on many an occasion.’ He studied Margoyle. A bully boy, he thought, but one with a weak face and watery, darting eyes. A bully and a coward, Athelstan considered, a man who certainly wouldn’t die to protect someone else. ‘Master Margoyle,’ he offered, ‘take another drink of wine, then confess. But I tell you this. If you lie, even a little one, Sir John will have you swinging from the branch of that sycamore tree.’
Margoyle drained the cup in one gulp. Athelstan refilled it.
‘I am innocent of murder,’ Margoyle blurted out. ‘I never committed a murder.’ He glanced fearfully at the coroner. ‘I–I don’t see why I should hang for that! Hersham’s responsible!’
‘What?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘The woman at the Golden Cresset.’
Margoyle was trembling so much he had to use two hands to grip the wine cup.
‘Continue,’ Athelstan urged him. ‘You and Hersham were responsible for the death of that woman?’
‘So, I was right!’ Sir Maurice called out. ‘Sir Thomas was involved!’
‘Oh God help us, no he wasn’t!’ Margoyle moaned. ‘I assure you, sir, he wasn’t, that was all Hersham’s idea! He hated you, Sir Maurice. He wanted to discredit you in the eyes of Sir Thomas. The rumours have now reached my master’s household. He’s already sent a messenger down to the nuns at Syon!’
If Sir John hadn’t intervened, Sir Maurice would have thrown himself at the prisoner.
‘For the love of God, sit down!’ Cranston told him. ‘The more this man talks, the better it is.’
‘It was Hersham’s idea,’ Margoyle continued. ‘He hired a whore from Peterkin the pimp and schooled her what to do. She was to go to the Golden Cresset, hire a chamber and lock the door till he came. It was Saturday afternoon. Hersham told me to go into the stable yard and stand guard there. I did so. He was gone a long time;
