The House of Shadows

Mother Veritable was the abbess, this young woman acted as comely and coy as any novice. She brought a stool over and sat beside her mistress, cradling a small leather bag.
    ‘This is Donata,’ Mother Veritable explained, ‘a close friend of the two dead girls.’
    Donata lifted her pale face; her almond-shaped eyes gave her a serene, calm look.
    ‘Donata is resting at the moment,’ Mother Veritable continued, ‘which is why her face and lips aren’t painted. She is also in mourning.’ She touched the black ribbon tied round the girl’s swan-like neck. ‘Donata, this is Sir John Cranston and Brother Athelstan. No, don’t be afraid, Sir Jack has no authority here.’ Mother Veritable smiled. ‘Whilst I have powerful patrons. Tell them what you know.’
    ‘Beatrice and Clarice...’ Donata began.
    Athelstan detected a West Country accent. He noticed how long and slim the girl’s fingers were. He wondered what such a beautiful maid was doing in a house like this, until he recalled the droves of young men and women who trudged in from the countryside looking for work.
    ‘What about them?’ Brother Athelstan asked.
    Donata took a deep breath, her beautiful butterfly eyes dancing prettily.
    ‘We are meant to give every penny we earn to Mother Veritable who looks after us so well,’ she added hastily. ‘But one night, in their cups, they said, well, they said they could earn more gold and silver than I could imagine, that’s all they’d say.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought it was a jest, wine words.’
    ‘Who were their customers?’ Athelstan asked.
    Donata stared serenely back.
    ‘Brother Athelstan,’ Mother Veritable laughed, ‘our customers don’t wear placards around their necks, they come and go like shadows.’
    ‘That’s all they said,’ the girl pleaded. She handed the small sack over to Athelstan. ‘They kept their precious things in there.’
    Athelstan undid the cord and tipped out the contents: some jewellery, trinkets, gewgaws, buttons, hair clasps, a lock of hair and a small roll of parchment, rather dirty and yellow. Athelstan placed the sack down and unrolled the piece of manuscript. The writing was in a deep black ink. The hand looked clerkly, the letters clearly formed; it was a poem written in Norman French, imitating the troubadours of Paris . Athelstan read the opening lines.

    Le Coq du Couronne Rouge est Maigre
    Comment le grand Seigneur, Monsieur Le Coq...

    Athelstan realised it was one of those poets’ clever conceits: the references to a ‘cock’ and a ‘red crown’ were sexual allusions. The writing was cramped, of little significance, so he rolled it up and put it back.
    Cranston made to get up, but abruptly his hand shot out and he grasped Donata’s wrist. The girl started.
    ‘The Knights of the Golden Falcon?’
    Mother Veritable tried to protest; Cranston pressed the fingers of his other hand against Donata’s mouth.
    ‘I’ll have you arrested, girl, and questioned if you do not tell the truth!’
    Athelstan was surprised at Sir John’s roughness. He could tell from Donata’s face how Sir John had stirred up a hornet’s nest.
    ‘They come here?’ Sir John asked. ‘Those great lords from Kent , not together, but perhaps singly. They do, don’t they?’ He tightened his grip. Donata, eyes rounded in fear, nodded. ‘And they asked for Beatrice and Clarice, didn’t they? Which ones?’
    The girl, terrified, shook her head.
    ‘Let her go, Sir Jack.’
    Mother Veritable picked up her stick and beat it on the floor. Cranston released his grip. Donata snatched the sack back. She got up so quickly she knocked over the stool, and fled through the door, slamming it behind her.
    ‘You were too harsh.’
    ‘I told you, I came for the truth,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that five great lords of Kent who have come up to London to celebrate, fill their bellies with wine, ale and good food, do not satisfy their other hungers? That they wouldn’t visit a brothel which they frequented in their youth? Oh, they’ll do it differently now they’re important, won’t they? They won’t come swaggering up the path, carousing, singing a ribald song, but, as you might say, like a thief in the night. Now, if you want, Mother Veritable, I can have this place searched. I can whip up Master Flaxwith.’
    ‘I’ve told you more than I should, Sir John. You know the rules of this house about secrecy! Yes, you are correct. They’ve all been