The House of Shadows

gathering point for petty tinkers and traders who sold a variety of goods. Most of the great field was dedicated to the horse fair, drawing in people of every kind and quality, from powerful nobles in their silks and ermine-lined capuchins, to travelling people in their sheepskin jackets and shaggy caps. All the entertainers of the City flocked here, not just the whores and the acrobats but the goliards, the storytellers and singers. Pedlars offered relics, cage-holders sold white birds which, if they looked directly at you — or so their owners bawled — could cure you of the malady known as yellow skin. Soldiers from the Tower in their brigadines brushed shoulders with archers from the garrison at Westminster , distinctive in their capeliens, their small iron scull caps, and brilliant blue and gold tabards. Beggars whined for alms from the pretty daughters of powerful merchants, who drew away in disgust. Cranston , one arm across his friend’s shoulder, guided him through the swirling throng, eye ever keen for the rogues and pickpockets who swarmed as thick as crows on a dung hill.
    ‘How are you, old comrade?’ Cranston gave Bohun a squeeze.
    ‘Happy as a hog’s turd.’
    ‘Thirsty?’
    ‘Always!’
    Cranston steered Bohun over to a makeshift ale shop set up under one of the trees, selling hot cups of posset, and tankards of lambswool, strong ale enriched with roasted apples, raw sugar, grated nutmeg and ginger, with tiny sweet cakes floating on the top. He ordered two of these, and he and his comrade sat on a nearby bench, sipping appreciatively at the rim of the leather blackjacks.
    ‘I used to come here,’ Cranston murmured, gesturing at the crowds. ‘My father was a fearsome man, Keeper of the Horses at the Royal Stables, at Clerkenwell. He would collect me from St Paul’s school and, if the master said I had done well, would bring me here to sip some lambswool. Fine days, eh, Bohun? I didn’t become a philosopher or a lawyer,’ he continued, ‘but first and foremost a knight. I enjoyed the glory days.’ He sipped from the tankard again.
    ‘Sir John,’ Bohun sighed, ‘I have known you for many a year; our friendship runs deep.’ He placed the blackjack on the ground between his feet and cocked his head, half listening to a group of scholars standing nearby, sweetly singing the hymn ‘Alma Mater Dei’. ‘I was Serjeant of the Tower, responsible for the Garde Manger and Garde Au Vin, supervisor of the food and wine. I suspect you have not brought me here to go back through the Gates of Ivory and Horn into the realm of dreams, of what might have been?’
    ‘Sharp as ever.’ Cranston plucked at the ganache, the over-robe Bohun wore, tied round the middle with a ribbon. ‘You’ve lost weight?’
    ‘ Bellum intestinum ,’ Bohun whispered, picking up the tankard. ‘War within! There’s something wrong with my gut, Sir John. By noon I’m tired and the pain returns, that’s why I’m impatient. So, why have you brought me here?’
    Cranston stared at Bohun’s sad face and pitied him. Some of his old friends had already gone; Cranston always feared that some day he would even lose the friendship of Athelstan, whose order could send him to any house in the kingdom.
    ‘The Lombard treasure,’ he began. ‘Twenty years ago the bankers sent a casket of treasure into the Tower. It was meant for Peter of Cyprus’ crusade against Alexandria . You remember? England had signed a peace treaty with France, so many knights and fighting men flocked to Lord Peter’s banner. An English fleet assembled in the Thames . The bankers provided this treasure, which could later be exchanged for gold and silver, in return for which, as usual, they would receive their loan back with interest as well as a portion of all profits. The treasure was delivered to the Tower, a secure place where our noble Regent, John of Gaunt, was Keeper. He was fearful that it might be stolen if he sent it along the riverbank, or across London Bridge , so it was apparently taken from Tower Quay, across the river, along the south bank of the Thames, under London Bridge to the Oyster Wharf in Southwark. Here it was to be handed over to two knights, Richard Culpepper and Edward Mortimer. They, helped by two boatmen, were to take the treasure across to the Fleet’s flagship, anchored mid-river somewhere between Queenhithe and Dowgate. The treasure was delivered; Culpepper sealed an indenture for it, but since that night, there’s