The House of Shadows

prisoners, shivering in their rags and unshod feet, waited to be taken down to the cells, whilst a tired-looking bear sat chained in a corner. One of the gaolers explained how its keeper had become drunk and attacked a spectator.
    ‘It seems a pity to punish the bear,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘it looks so tired and old.’
    The gaoler followed his gaze, scratching the stubble on his cheek.
    ‘What do you suggest, Brother, a blessing?’
    ‘No.’ Athelstan pressed a coin into the man’s hand. ‘Make sure it’s fed and watered and looks a little happier before we leave.’
    The gaoler agreed, then escorted them into the foulsmelling prison. They walked along narrow, badly lit passageways, down mildewed steps, into what the gaoler called the Netherworld, a narrow, sombre passageway with dungeons on either side. They were introduced to its keeper, a burly, thickset man with a leather apron around his waist. He recognised Sir John and swiftly handed back the coroner’s seal of office which Cranston always carried to identify himself.
    ‘The Misericord is along here.’ He gestured with a sturdy finger. ‘The Judas Man paid me well to keep him secure.’
    He led them along the corridor. Occasionally Athelstan heard a groan, a scream, or raucous abuse hurled at them through the small grilles at the top of each door; occasionally he glimpsed mad, gleaming eyes staring out at them. The Misericord’s cell was at the end, built into what used to be the foundations of the ancient Roman wall, one of the most secure cells in the prison, the keeper explained, inserting a key and scraping back the rusting bolts. The dungeon inside was small, with no window or gap for air or light. It reeked like a latrine and the rushes on the floor had turned to a muddy slime. The Misericord, sitting in a corner, sprang to his feet. The keeper beckoned Athelstan in and handed him the small tallow candle he was carrying.
    ‘Brother, I thought...’
    ‘You thought I was the Judas Man.’
    The Misericord agreed and slunk back into the corner, gazing fearfully at Sir John.
    ‘Let’s make your guests as comfortable as possible.’
    The keeper took the candle from Athelstan and placed it on a rusty iron spigot jutting out of the wall. He brought in two stools for Cranston and Athelstan, then closed the door, but not before explaining that he would keep it unlocked; if they needed help, he would be just outside.
    ‘Why have you come?’ the Misericord asked. ‘Did my escape embarrass you?’
    ‘I know how you escaped.’ Athelstan sat down. ‘Time is short, the Judas Man will be here soon.’
    ‘He can’t hurt me, he dare not.’
    ‘He won’t hurt you,’ Cranston explained. ‘He simply wants to see you hang.’
    ‘I’ll quote the Neck Verse.’
    ‘Ah!’ Athelstan replied. ‘The first lines of Psalm 50. You’ll claim Benefit of Clergy and demand to be handed over to the Church courts. The Judas Man will still hunt you down. So tell me,’ Athelstan leaned forward, ‘why is he hunting you so ruthlessly? Who hired him?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘You’re lying. You may be a felon, but London is full of Misericords.’
    Athelstan noticed how the prisoner’s face was bruised above his right cheek, whilst his jerkin was torn and rent.
    ‘You were manhandled, weren’t you?’
    ‘The bailiffs certainly weren’t Franciscans.’ The Misericord smiled. ‘But why are you here?’
    ‘I could offer you a pardon.’ Athelstan gently nudged Cranston’s boot. ‘The Regent could give you an amnesty for all crimes committed, on condition you leave London , and tell me everything you know.’
    The change in the Misericord was remarkable. He stared open-mouthed at the coroner, who sat pinching his nostrils against the foul smell.
    ‘You can really do that?’
    ‘Of course. The Lord Coroner here will personally arrange it, full pardon and clemency. You’ll be given a letter to show to all sheriffs, port reeves, bailiffs and mayors for safe passage.’
    The Misericord put his face in his hands.
    ‘The truth,’ Cranston demanded. ‘The full truth.’
    ‘Who hired the Judas Man?’
    The Misericord lifted his face. ‘I don’t know, Brother.’ He raised his hands to plead as Cranston snorted in derision. ‘I don’t know. It may have been Mother Veritable, even the Judas Man doesn’t know.’
    ‘Why should Mother Veritable hire him?’
    ‘For a number of reasons. As you know, Brother, I sold a potion, a powder, which I