Satan in St Mary

the wind. Edward rose and peered through the shutters. Beneath the swirling river mist, his capital lay quiet, though Edward knew different. Simon's followers, the covens with their constant plots and secret plans were gathering there scheming murder, treason and rebellion. Rats scampering about in their holes and runnels of the city Edward thought and, whatever they were plotting, was coming to a head like a boil full with yellow pus. His spies had told him this. Everything pointed to an unavoidable crisis. They had already begun to act; the suicide in St. Mary Le Bow was, the King reasoned, somehow linked to these rebels, and it was time that Burnell, his wily old Chancellor, flushed these traitors out into the light of day and destroyed them.
    There was a knock at the door, it opened and the man Edward had been thinking about waddled into the room. Robert Burnell, Bishop of Bath and Wells and Chancellor of England, sketched the briefest of bows to his monarch and heaved himself into the room's one and only chair, dabbing his fat, florid face with the voluminous sleeve of his fur-trimmed gown. "God save your Grace, " he almost wheezed,
    "I cannot understand why you always insist on taking the highest chamber in whatever palace, castle or manor you stay. " Edward smiled affectionately. There was little pomp or courtly graces between himself and his Chancellor. They were old friends united against old enemies. He trusted Burnell as he did his own right arm. The Chancellor, despite his fat pompous appearance, had a brilliantly sharp and cunning brain, whether it be drafting a legal document or searching out the King's enemies, both at home and abroad.
    "You know, my Lord Burnell, " the King jibed, "why I always stay in the highest chamber. It would be a clever assassin who could scale these walls or bypass the guards on the narrow staircases outside. You have heard from your spy?"
    Burnell shook his head. "No, " he replied slowly. "I don't think I ever will. His body was taken from the Thames this morning. His throat was cut from ear to ear!"
    Edward snorted in annoyance. "So, the conspiracies continue!"
    "Yes, " Burnell replied. "However, we do know that there are covens here in the city plotting treason and rebellion. "
    "And the incident at the church of Saint Mary Le Bow could be part of it?" the King asked.
    "Yes, " his Chancellor murmured.
    "How was your spy discovered?" enquired Edward.
    Burnell shrugged. "It is only supposition on my part, " he answered slowly. "But I suspect that there is a spy at the heart of the very chancery!"
    "You mean here?" Edward exclaimed. "A royal clerk involved with the followers of de Montfort, plotting treason against his king?"
    Burnell nodded. "That is the only way, " he replied firmly, "my spy could have been discovered. Somebody, one of a few clerks, passed on confidential information he should not have. It may not be that he is a conspirator but simply did it for greed, for a purse of gold. If he is caught, " Burnell concluded bitterly, "then rest assured he will hang just as high as the rest. "
    "Then what now?" said the King. "What shall we do now?" He walked over to his Chancellor and patted him on the shoulder.
    "Earlier, " Edward said softly, "I compared these conspirators, these rebels, the scum of this city to rats, I see you, my Lord Bishop, as my rat-catcher. You must run these vermin out into the open. "
    The Chancellor coughed and cleared his throat. "I have chosen a man, " he replied, "another clerk who now serves in the Courts of King's Bench. " Burnell stopped speaking and looked fearfully up at the King. "He is, my Lord, probably our last and only hope!''
    "Good, " the King murmured. "But do not inform him of your suspicions that there could be a spy here in the very Palace of Westminster. After all, " he concluded meaningfully, "it could be one of his friends!"
    They always met here, the charnel house of a deserted London church, a rotten mildewed crypt, secretive, closed, hidden from spies and the eyes of the curious. They had intoned their prayer to Lucifer, the Fallen Morning Star, their hands outstretched above a crude stone altar bearing mystical symbols round an inverted cross. Only one torch spluttered and flared against the cold darkness but this revealed nothing of the thirteen hooded figures, the cowls of their cloaks covering their heads, their faces concealed behind crude leather masks. They did not even know each other, only their leader, the