âNo Judas sits at my board,' he roared, âdrinks my wine, eats my food and clasps my hand.' Then the mace came whirling down. His victim half turned; he was struck a second blow which sent blood and brains splattering on to the sheer samite cloth. A third blow and the man's head cracked like a shell as he collapsed sideways.
âYou came here to pay your tithes,' Ezra raised the brain-splattered mace, ânot to withhold what is Caesar's. You must render to your ruler what is your ruler's. Now my beloveds, you may go. Take this dog's carcass and bury it beyond the sight and memory of man.' The rest of the company, stony-faced, chilled by the sudden violence, pushed back their chairs and rose. They lifted the corpse of their comrade, bowed to their host and left. Duke Ezra watched them go and leaned his elbows on the table, fingers laced together, smiling benevolently at what he now termed his âspecial guests'.
âNo murder, Sir John.' He pointed at the door. âEdmund Rastner, also known as “Brillard”, also known as “Rummage”, also known as “Deverel”,' Ezra waved a hand, âwanted in Bedfordshire, Lincolnshire, Norwich and Bristol.' Again the airy wave. âI killed a wolfshead according to statute law. But,' he smiled in a show of strong, gleaming white teeth, âwe are not here to discuss that. You would like some blancmange?' He suppressed a grin, âBlood red and laced with nutmeg, no?' He pointed to the wine jugs carved in the shape of water horses. âDo help yourselves. Oh, by the way,' he gestured around the chamber, âit may look as if we are alone but of course, Sir John, we are not. You recognize that?'
âNaturally.' Cranston smiled back. âThe only time you will be really alone with me, Duke Ezra, is when I take your head on Tower Hill.'
The self-styled Duke threw his head back and roared with laughter.
â
Tempus fugit
,' Athelstan murmured.
âTime flies indeed, Brother.' Ezra stopped laughing. He dabbed his eyes with a napkin and drank deeply from his goblet. âAnd thus comes the hour of darkness.' Ezra turned sideways on his throne, peering at Athelstan out of the corner of his eye. âI know you full well, Brother.'
âI wish to God I did.'
Ezra smiled and shook his head. âYour world, Brother, is divided into good and bad.'
âAnd yours?'
âBad and those bad men trying to be good. You and Sir John belong to the latter. I truly believe that. You're trying to make sense of our world. I gave that up years ago, Brother. I simply exploit it. Now,' he turned to face them squarely, âlet's make sense of it. Gaunt's party was betrayed. The attack at Aldgate? They wanted to humiliate our noble Regent, seize those severed heads and, above all, capture that mysterious prisoner, yes?' Ezra didn't even wait for an answer. âMagister Thibault, that weasel in human flesh, now believes that a traitor lurks close to his master. He has you to thank for that knowledge. Thibault certainly has a traitor-spy in your parish, Brother, though I understand that has now been taken care of.
âMurdered,' Athelstan intervened. âThe Wardes were slain in cold blood.'
âMaster Humphrey was certainly Gaunt's spy,' Ezra agreed, âa clever ploy. Warde was betrayed by the Upright Men's spy in Gaunt's retinue â you've probably reached that conclusion yourself. As far as the assault at the Roundhoop is concerned, that was Master Thibault's revenge.' Ezra slurped noisily from his goblet. âReflect very carefully,' he sniffed. âAs for the deaths in the Tower, Gaunt must be furious. The Upright Men are openly claiming that Gaunt and his coven are not safe even at the very heart of their power.' Duke Ezra grinned. âA true mystery, a public mockery! Gaunt's guests attacked in full view of the leading citizens of London. What a shame! As for the assassin, young Barak?' Ezra shook his head, âI do not believe he is the guilty one. The murder of Lettenhove and Eli proves that no one is safe. The assassin is like a fox in a chicken run, he is killing whom he wishes. Gaunt looks weak and helpless, that is what is sweeping the city. Guests killed, severed heads left, a member of his favourite acting group slaughtered mysteriously.'
âDo you know anything fresh?' Cranston jibed, âor are we here to marvel at your wisdom and knowledge? You have power, Duke Ezra, but so do I.'
âSomething else is being planned,' the gang leader retorted quickly, stung by Cranston's jibe. âWhat, Sir John, I do not know. There is chatter about a gathering at the Tower, or around it.' Duke Ezra sipped from his goblet. âTell Gaunt to leave there,' he continued. âThe Upright Men will play him hard and fast, make it appear as if he is besieged, driven from his power, frightened of even being in his palace of the Savoy. Also tell him,' Ezra paused, âthat despite all his precautions, the secret prisoner, or so the gossip runs, poses a direct threat to him.'
Athelstan leaned forward. âWhat do you mean?'
âNothing, for the moment.'
The friar stared at this notorious wolfshead. For a few heartbeats he caught fear in Ezra's face and voice, as if this self-proclaimed Duke knew how far he could go. Gaunt's mysterious prisoner seemed to mark the limit. So who was she? Athelstan wondered. If Gaunt thought Ezra would meddle with his prisoner he'd send troops into Whitefriars and hang this outlaw leader from his gatehouse.
âI will give His Grace the Regent your kind advice.' Cranston toasted Ezra with his goblet. âBut you know why we are here. I want to meet the Herald of Hades. If there is mischief afoot, he'll have snouted it out as swiftly as a hungry hog with a truffle.'
Duke Ezra stared at the blood brimming on the samite cloth.
âSir John,' he did not lift his eyes, âthe Herald of Hades â you want to speak to him?' He raised a be-ringed hand, the precious finger stones dazzling in the light. âSo you shall. But not now.' Ezra grinned. âHe has been very busy on my behalf across the Narrow Seas in Ghent. You may meet him the day after tomorrow, on one condition.' He drew a small scroll from the cuff of his velvet-laced jerkin and held it up. A figure stepped out of the darkness and took this round to Cranston. The coroner unrolled it. Athelstan glanced quickly at the list of names under the heading of âNewgate'.
âMy beloveds, Sir John, all intended for the Elms gibbet at Smithfield. I know you have pardons prepared. I want my beloveds back.'
Cranston, fingers to his lips, studied the names. âNot these two.' He tapped the parchment. âCrail and Layburn ravished an innocent maid and throttled her; they must hang.'
âReally, Sir John?'
âThey will hang,' Cranston declared defiantly, pushing back his chair. âI viewed her corpse. Barely twelve summers old, she was. I have seen a cat treat a rat with more respect. God wants them for judgement.'
âNo mercy?'
âNone!' Cranston shouted. âBut these three others, the Plungers . . .'
âPlungers?' Athelstan queried.
âProfessional cozeners,' Cranston whispered. âOne pretends to fall in the Thames, the second pretends to rescue him, and the third organizes a collection for both the so-called victim and his saviour.' He tapped the parchment. âThese three,' he raised his voice, âhave allegedly dipped into every stream, river and brook in and around London. I know this unholy trinity; they've had the gristle in their ears pierced and an “F” branded on their shoulders, yet they still keep plunging.'
âOld comrades,' Duke Ezra declared mournfully, âSir John, they truly are my beloveds.'
âAll three will be pardoned.' Cranston rose to his feet. âOn one condition: I never see their ugly faces this side of the Thames again.'
âThen go in peace.' Duke Ezra also rose. âThe Lord be with you, Brother Athelstan, Sir John.'
âAnd with your spirit too,' Athelstan quipped back.
âYou will arrange it personally, Sir John, the morning after tomorrow as the execution cart leaves Newgate?'
âI'll be there. And the Herald of Hades?'
âSir John, he will await you . . .'
In the ruined nave of the derelict church of St Dismas, which stood in a thick clump of trees to the north of the old city wall, Simon Grindcobbe and the other leaders of the Upright Men had gathered their cell drawn from Massingham, Maldon, and other villages of south Essex. This was a safe, deserted place. Once a prosperous village, the great pestilence had swept through with its scythe and reduced both church and village to a haunt of ghosts. Outside the wooden crosses and stone memorials in God's Acre had crumbled and fallen. Only the towering memorial stone on the top of the great burial pit bore witness to the church's former history as well as the horror that had silenced it forever. Grindcobbe, Tyler and Straw now sat cross-legged behind the preacher John Ball as he knelt before the crumbling altar and intoned their chant.
âNations in their greatness, he struck.'
âFor his love endures forever.' The voices of the fifty fighters rolled back like a crashing wave.
âKings in their splendour he slew.'
âFor his love endures forever.'
âSihon, King of the Amorites.'
âFor his love endures forever.' The response grew even stronger.
âOn the earthworms their land he bestowed.'
âFor his love endures forever.'
âKings in their splendour he slew.'
âFor his love endures forever.'
âOg, the King of Bashan.'
âFor his love endures forever.'
âOn the earthworms their land he bestowed.'
âFor his love endures forever.'
âKings in their splendour he slew.'
âFor his love endures forever.'
âEdward, tyrant of England.'
âFor his love endures forever.'
âGaunt the usurper.'
âFor his love endures forever.'
Grindcobbe turned. The fighters, heads and shoulders cowled and mantled in tarred leather, faces hidden behind black mesh masks, were now in a trance, chanting the responses to John Ball's hymn of destruction. Grindcobbe rose and walked up the crumbling sanctuary steps into the darkened sacristy. âAre you there, Basilisk?' he called out.
âI am.'
Grindcobbe peered through the murk; the far outside door, hanging off its latch, swayed in the breeze. âYou have met our spy in Gaunt's household? You must be surprised?'
âNo surprise, Master Grindcobbe. This entire city seems up for sale.'
Grindcobbe laughed softly. âWhen you decide,' he added, âdeal with him. He has served his purpose. He only feeds us morsels, what he wants to. One day Gaunt will catch him out. The torturers will tug him apart to discover what he knows. More importantly, to protect himself, he might kill you. Anyway,' he continued, âtomorrow, just after the Angelus bell, let all chaos break out. Have the postern gate loosened. You have wreaked great damage. More must be done.'
âWho is that prisoner?' The basilisk's voice was scarcely above a whisper.
âRumour abounds,' Grindcobbe replied evasively. âOnce we seize her, we shall have the truth about Gaunt's shame. We will topple him off his high throne. We will make the people wonder. We will present him as a spectacle, a prince who can't even rule the Tower. Remember, once the Angelus bell has tolled.'
âI shall remember,' came the whisper. The sacristy door swung open and the basilisk slipped like a ghost into the night.
âThere is an assassin on the loose who swept through my parish like some winged demon. This murderer annihilated an entire family.' Athelstan gripped the lectern in the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. The friar had returned to his lodgings in the Garden Tower late the previous day; he'd immediately demanded an audience with Magister Thibault, where Cranston had passed on Duke Ezra's warnings. Thibault had heard them out, tapping fingers against the arm of his chair before informing them that he would reflect on all this and meet them on the morrow.
âThe Straw Men must also be present,' Athelstan demanded.
Thibault had nodded and said he would reflect on that as well. Now Gaunt's Master of Secrets, together with his henchmen and the bland-faced Cornelius, sat on a cushioned bench before Athelstan; on the other side ranged the Straw Men. Judith was openly agitated, her eyes screwed up in fear. She stared at Athelstan, who once again sensed the tension between Judith and her male companions, whose attempts to sit close were brusquely refused. Rachael leaned forward, red hair straggling down, green eyes wide in shock. Master Samuel sat combing his beard with chewed fingers. The burly Samson had the look of a pole-axed ox while the effete Gideon twirled a lock of hair between his fingers. Next to these, leaning against the pillar stood Rosselyn, hood pulled back, his grim face twisted in a look of disbelief.
âI mourn for you, Brother,' the captain of archers spoke up, âbut I swear, nobody here left the Tower yesterday. Ask my men. I was here all day; I can vouch for everyone else. My Lord of Gaunt's instructions, reinforced by Master Thibault, are most clear. None of us are to leave. None of us did.'
âWho was murdered?' Rachael asked, shifting the hair from her face.
âNobody you know.' Athelstan sighed. âA spicer and his family,' he glanced swiftly at Thibault, âthough I believe they were known to you.'
The Master of Secrets just shrugged as if that was a matter of little concern. âWe cannot leave here,' Samson protested. âBrother Athelstan, I thought we were to visit your parish to perform a passage from a mystery play?'
âNot now,' Thibault snapped. âNot till these mysteries are solved. Nobody leaves.'
âI will.' Athelstan voice thrilled with defiance. âI shall. I need to. I must revisit the Roundhoop.'
âWhy?'
âTo refresh my memory.'
âAbout what?'
âI shall know that, Master Thibault, when I remember it.'
âAnd I am the King's own officer.' Cranston, sitting in the sanctuary chair next to the lectern, spoke up. âI shall go where I want. I have business in the city tomorrow. King's business.'