The House of Shadows

long marches during the day, watching your comrades die! The freezing cold of desert nights, and above all, the enemy, dressed in white, astride nimble horses, appearing out of nowhere with ululating war cries, so swift a man had hardly time to arm. The patter-patter of arrows, the sudden surprise of a night attack, the hideous embrace of hand-to-hand combat as you fought for your life and tried to silence the enemy gasping beneath you.
    Sir Stephen moved uneasily in the bath, his feet feeling strangely cold. And the sieges! The long ladders against the wall, the dizzying climb, rocks being hurled down, the splash of boiling oil, worsened by fire arrows which turned comrades into living, screaming human torches. Oh yes, Sir Stephen told himself, he had done his duty, he had received the blessings of popes and bishops, so now he should comfort himself and forget past sins. He moved his legs, becoming alarmed. The feeling of coldness was creeping up his body. He wanted to get up but his legs felt paralysed, as if encased in the heaviest steel armour. He stretched out for the wine cup and took a deep draught, not realising he was swallowing his own death.
    He began to panic. Pains fired in his lower stomach, and he felt as if he was slipping away, as if the bath water was turning cold and rising to swallow him. He thrashed about, but in vain. His throat felt strangely dry, the chamber seemed to be moving, the tapestries on the wall rippling as though shaken by some unseen hand. He caught one scene, the arm of the Lady of the Lake coming up to grasp Excalibur. The water was turning black and swollen, like the water on the river so many years ago. He made one last effort to rise, only to slip back, his head hitting the side of the wooden tub. Sir Stephen Chandler, Knight of the Golden Falcon, landowner of Kent, knight of the shire, and former Crusader, slipped quietly to his death...

    Cranston was holding court in the outhouse. Athelstan had made himself comfortable on a stool. The leader of the knights, Sir Maurice Clinton, had joined them. He had come looking for the taverner and stayed out of curiosity. The Judas Man was at first reluctant to answer Cranston’s questions.
    ‘You can, sir...’ Cranston took a swig from the miraculous wine skin and popped it back beneath his cloak. ‘You can, sir, either answer my questions here or at the Guildhall. You arrived at Master Rolles’ tavern yesterday and three murders occured.’
    ‘Two murders,’ the Judas Man answered. He pointed to Toadflax’s corpse. ‘I killed him in self-defence.’
    ‘Right.’ Cranston went across and sat down on a bale of straw. ‘Master Rolles, do the same for yourself and for him.’ He pointed at the Judas Man.
    ‘Is he always like this?’ Brother Malachi whispered to Athelstan.
    ‘Sir Jack has his own way,’ the Dominican murmured. ‘Like the Holy Spirit,’ he smiled, ‘he works secretly, his wonders to behold.’
    ‘I heard that, Brother.’
    Cranston took off his beaver hat and threw it down between his feet. Loosening his sword belt, he made himself comfortable. Once the Judas Man was seated on the bale of straw, the questioning was resumed.
    ‘You were hired to capture the Misericord. By whom?’
    ‘I don’t know. Look.’ The Judas Man held up a hand. ‘Whilst working in Essex I received a letter along with a purse of silver. I was given the Misericord’s name and a slight description. I was told to be in London at this tavern by the eve of the Feast of St Wulfnoth.’
    ‘Why were you hired? To capture the Misericord or kill him?’
    ‘The Misericord is an outlaw — he is wanted dead or alive. I would have given him the chance to surrender.’
    ‘Why were you hired?’
    There was a pause as Sir Maurice Clinton went over and secured the outhouse door, which was banging in the cold breeze.
    ‘I’ve told you,’ the Judas Man retorted. ‘The Misericord is a villain, he is wanted dead or alive. He has probably offended someone who is tired of dealing with sheriffs and coroners and wants to see him hanged at Smithfield .’
    ‘So you came here. Oh, by the way,’ Cranston jabbed a finger, ‘I would be grateful if you would treat the office of coroner with more respect.’ He jabbed his finger again. ‘You lodged at this tavern?’
    The Judas Man shrugged in agreement.
    ‘How did you know the Misericord was in the tap room?’
    ‘I received a message, left outside my chamber along with another purse of