The House of Shadows

crash of stools, the shouts and curses, created an immediate silence in the tap room. Master Rolles’ bully boys came lumbering across, as the Judas Man drew his own sword and dagger.
    ‘Put up your weapons,’ one of the bully boys shouted. ‘I’ll call the Watch.’
    ‘No you won’t.’ The Judas Man shook his head. ‘I have the law on my side. I carry a commission, sealed warrants from the sheriffs of Essex and Kent as well as those of London . I am empowered to bring in criminals, and this man,’ the Judas Man pointed his sword at Red-Hair, ‘is under arrest.’
    The bully boys stepped back, gesturing for everyone to stay out of this confrontation. Red-Hair’s two companions also faded into the crowd, leaving their comrade, much the worse for drink, swaying backwards and forwards on his feet, knife still out.
    ‘I... I... don’t know,’ he stammered, ‘the reason...’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve only stolen petty things.’
    As the man spoke, the Judas Man noticed how his teeth were blackened, his gums sore. He looked closer, a prick of doubt. This man looked unwell; his face was pockmarked, eyes red-rimmed — was this the Misericord? The subtle, cunning man? He lowered his sword, eyes fixed on that silver sheath.
    ‘You are the one known as the Misericord?’ he asked.
    Red-Hair shook his head.
    ‘You are under arrest,’ the Judas Man said gently, taking a step forward.
    The other man panicked, a mix of ale and fear. He lunged drunkenly, his knife speeding for his opponent’s face, but the Judas Man just stepped aside and drove his own sword in, thrusting deep into the man’s stomach...

    The two whores, Beatrice and Clarice, had left the tap room a short while before the Judas Man appeared. They heard the first clamour and outcry but they had other business. Beatrice and Clarice were sisters and served in one of the most luxurious brothels amongst the stews near the Bishop of Winchester’s inn. They had won their reputation by beauty and skill and been given a special invitation to attend the Great Ratting. They had arrived in all their gorgeous finery, gowns of red sarcanet over milk-white kirtles, stockings of pure wool and ankle-high leather boots with silver buckles. They had combed their blonde hair carefully and arranged their jewellery around neck, wrists and fingers. They’d bathed carefully, anointing themselves with perfumed oil, and had delicately painted their faces. They were twins, the daughters of the famous Guinevere the Golden, one of the greatest courtesans of Southwark until she had mysteriously disappeared some twenty years ago. They had been raised by Mother Veritable, one of the most notorious brothel-keepers south of the river. They had been taught how to read and write, and every other skill a courtesan should acquire. They were proficient on the rebec and the lute and could sing the sweetest carol as well as understand Norman French. They had been given places of honour that night and, after the Great Ratting had finished, been told to go to the hay barn which lay at the far side of the stable yard. Beatrice and Clarice had drunk deeply of the coolest, sweetest wines from the Rhine . Master Rolles had been quite insistent.
    ‘I have been given orders,’ he murmured to them, ‘to look after you well. When the Ratting is over you will have a customer,’ he winked lecherously, ‘in the barn.’
    ‘And where will we go?’ Beatrice had asked, light blue eyes all innocent.
    ‘I don’t know.’ The taverner had pressed silver coins into their hands. ‘Perhaps a bishop’s palace, or the silken-hung chambers of some Lord of the Soil.’
    The two sisters now clung to each other, laughing as they walked across the yard. They pulled open the door and stepped inside. A lantern horn had been lit, carefully hooded and placed on top of a barrel, well away from the straw and hay. Clarice wished the band round the veil on her head wasn’t so tight.
    ‘Was that a fight?’ Beatrice asked, sitting down next to her sister.
    ‘I don’t know,’ came the slurred reply. ‘I feel so sleepy.’
    ‘I wonder who it is?’ Beatrice lay back and stared up at the rafters. She tensed as she heard a noise outside, a light footfall. The door swung open. A figure dressed like a monk stepped inside. The brown gown covered the new arrival from neck to toe, while the cowl was deep.
    Beatrice climbed to her feet and swayed from side to side. She hoped the paint on her face