The House of Shadows

There was no sign of the knights or Brother Malachi. Master Rolles came bustling up.
    ‘You’ve a visitor!’ He pointed to the far corner.
    ‘Oh yes.’
    Athelstan went across and stared down at Ranulf the rat-catcher, the ferrets scratching in the box by his feet.
    ‘Ranulf?’
    ‘Brother, I have come as a messenger from the parish council.’
    ‘What’s the matter?’ Cranston asked, coming up behind.
    ‘Hush now,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Ranulf,’ he warned, ‘I’m busy. I’ll take no nonsense.’
    ‘Oh no, peace has been made.’
    ‘ Deo gratias .’
    ‘Oh no, Brother, not that!’ Ranulf had misunderstood the Latin. ‘We all put it to the vote,’ he smiled triumphantly, ‘on one condition: that everybody agreed to abide by the majority decision. Cecily the courtesan will be the Virgin Mary.’
    ‘Good.’ Athelstan sat down on the stool opposite. ‘Can I buy you a pot of ale?’
    ‘No, no.’ Ranulf seized his precious box and kissed the small bars through which the ferrets pushed their pink snouts. ‘We’re all going to celebrate at the Piebald tavern. Oh, Brother, by the way,’ Ranulf sat down again, ‘Benedicta decided to clean the church. She found this.’ Ranulf undid his leather jerkin, took out a piece of rolled cloth, put it on the table and left, eager to join the celebrations at the Piebald tavern. Cranston took his seat whilst Athelstan unrolled the cloth. He stared down at the thin, wicked-loolcing dagger.
    ‘One of those used against Malachi.’ Athelstan quickly put it into his leather writing satchel.
    ‘I’ve seen that before.’ Cranston leaned across the table. ‘It belonged to the Judas Man.’
    Athelstan was about to reply when the tap room fell strangely silent. He glanced across; mailed men-at-arms wearing the royal livery thronged in the doorway behind a dark cowled figure.
    ‘Sir John Cranston, Brother Athelstan?’
    The cowled figure came forward. Master Rolles pointed to the corner and Matthias of Evesham strolled across, a beaming smile on his face.
    ‘Well, Sir Jack,’ he gave a mocking bow, ‘Brother Athelstan. As Scripture says, you have appealed to Caesar, and to Caesar you will go. His Grace, the Regent, awaits you at his Palace of the Savoy .’



Chapter 12

    The journey to the Savoy Palace was solemn and silent. Matthias of Evesham led the way as men-at-arms garbed in the royal livery grouped around Athelstan and Cranston under standards and pennants displaying the lions of England and the fleur-de-lys of France : thirty soldiers in all, the sight of their drawn swords clearing the streets as they marched down to the quayside and the awaiting royal barge. They clambered in, Matthias in the prow, Cranston and Athelstan sitting under an awning in the stern. The order was given to cast off. The barge drifted away, the rowers lowered their oars, cutting through the icy, misty river. They had hardly reached mid-stream when other boats grouped around them; these were full of royal archers in their brown and green padded jerkins, across their chests the personal escutcheon of John of Gaunt — displaying the arms of France , England and Castile . Athelstan pulled his cloak around him, took out his Ave beads and tried to calm his mind by reciting the Ave Maria.
    Cranston sat strangely silent. Usually he would take a swig from the sacred wine skin, or engage in friendly banter with those about him. The coroner did not like His Grace the Regent and had often clashed with him. Despite his bonhomie, Sir John refused to sell his soul; he obeyed the law and pursued justice without fear or favour. Now Cranston sat like some great surly bear, cape close about him, his beaver hat low on his head, glowering at the various craft, quietly muttering under his breath. The day was dying, the river freezing cold. Occasionally the bank of mist shifted to reveal the spires of St Paul or the crenellated walls of mansions along the north bank of the Thames . Now and again a herald on the prow gave a long, shrill blast on the trumpet, a warning to other craft to pull away. The barge swept past the Fleet river and down towards the quayside of the Savoy Palace . It slipped easily alongside, servants hurrying up to catch the mooring ropes. Cranston and Athelstan were helped ashore; their escort ringed them and led them into the palace proper.
    Athelstan was aware of crossing cobbled yards where the stink of horse muck mingled with more savoury smells from bakehouses and