The Nightingale Gallery

went quickly insane. There were many who talked and sang incessantly, whilst others, particularly the women, who knew they were not there for too long, refused to clean themselves and lay about like sows in their own filth. Deeper into the prison they walked, past one open chamber where the limbs of quartered men lay like joints of meat on a butcher's stall, waiting to be soaked with salt and cumin seed before being tarred. Deeper into the hell, Athelstan shivered, folding his arms into the voluminous sleeves of his robe. Mad faces pushed against the grilles in the doors, tortured ones begging for mercy. The guilty baying their hatred, the innocent quietly pleading for a hearing. At last Fitzosbert stopped at one cell door and clicked his fingers. One of the giants shuffled forward, a ring of keys in his huge fist. A key was inserted in the lock and the door opened. Fitzosbert whispered something and the giant nodded and pushed his way into the cell. They heard screams, kicks, the sickening thud of a punch, and the ogre roaring Solper's name. He reappeared, grasping the unfortunate by the scruff of his shabby collar. Fitzosbert went up to the prisoner and tapped him gently on the cheek.
    'Master Solper, you are fortunate. You have important visitors. Someone I believe you know, Sir John Cranston, and his – ' he looked coyly at Athelstan ' – companion.'
    The friar ignored him, staring at Solper. The prisoner was nothing remarkable: young, white-faced, and so filthy it was difficult to tell where one garment ended and another began.
    'We need a chamber to talk to this man,' demanded Cranston.
    The head keeper shrugged and led them back up a passageway to a cleaner empty cell. The door was left open. Cranston waved Solper to a seat.
    'Master keeper!' he called.
    Fitzosbert came back into the room and Cranston laid some silver on the table.
    'Some wine, bread, and two of your cleanest cups!'
    The head keeper scooped up the coins as deftly as any tax collector. A few minutes later one of the giant gaolers pushed back into the cell, carrying a tray with all Cranston had asked for. He placed it on the table and left slamming the door behind him. The young prisoner just sat nervously on a stool watching Athelstan. Cranston took one of the cups and a small white loaf and thrust them into his hands.
    Well, Solper, we meet again.'
    The man licked his lips nervously.
    Cranston grinned wolfishly. 'You have been condemned?'
    'Yesterday, before the Justices,' the young man squeaked in reply, his voice surprisingly high.
    'On what charge?'
    'Counterfeiting coins.'
    'Ah, yes! Let me introduce you, Brother,' Cranston said. 'Master Solper, counterfeiter, thief, footpad and seller of relics. Two years ago, Master Solper could get you anything; a piece of cloth from the napkins used at the Last Supper, a hair from the beard of St Joseph, part of a toy once used by the Baby Christ. Master Solper has tried his hand at – well, God only knows! You are marked?'
    The young man nodded and puUed down his dirty jerkin. Athelstan saw the huge 'F' branded into his right shoulder, proclaiming him a felon.
    'Twice indicted, the third time caught,' Cranston intoned. 'You are due to hang, and yet you may evade justice.'
    Athelstan saw the hope flare in the young man's eyes. He squirmed nervously on the stool.
    'What do you want? What do I have to do?'
    'The Sons of Dives, have you ever heard of them?'
    The young man pulled a face.
    'Have you or haven't you?'
    'Yes, everybody has. In the guilds,' the young man continued, 'there are always small groups or societies prepared to lend money at high interest rates to the nobles or to other merchants. They take names and titles: the Keepers of the Gate, the Guardians of the Coffers.' He shrugged. 'The Sons of Dives are another group.'
    'And their leader?'
    'Springall, Sir Thomas Springall. He's well known.'
    'Now, another matter.'
    Cranston delved into a small leather pouch he had taken from his saddle-bag, undid the cord at the neck and drew out a small vase containing the poison he had taken from Springall's house. He unstoppered the jar and handed it over.
    'Smell that!'
    The young man gingerly lifted the rim to his nose, took one sniff, made a face and handed it back.
    'Poison!'
    'Good man, Solper, poison. This is the real reason I came, I half guessed who the Sons of Dives were. But if I wanted to buy poison, a rare exotic poison such as belladonna, crushed diamond or arsenic, where would I