‘Not today, my lovelies,’ Cranston murmured.
He walked on, then stopped by a stall to view a vase made out of clay with a dark green glaze, next to this a jug fashioned out of quartz which Cranston quietly promised to mention to Lady Maud. He fingered some Saracen cloth on the next stall, glanced around and moved on. He inspected the cage on the Tun; this was empty except for a drunk who lay snoring on his back. At the nearby stocks, bailiffs were locking in Plugtail, a notorious cunning man who sold philtres no more useful than a cup of dirty water. He greeted Cranston cheerfully. The coroner responded by ordering the bailiffs to ensure Plugtail was released before freezing nightfall. Outside ‘The Holy Lamb of God’ lurked the beggars Leif and Rawbum who, despite the cacophony noise from the market place, insisted upon telling Cranston some tale about a priest in Burton-on-Trent who’d exorcized a demon from a blood-drinker back from the dead. Thankfully both were interrupted by a funeral procession, flanked by acolytes and mourners, the deerskin shroud they were honouring sprinkled with ash. Both men, eager for alms, hopped off like crickets, allowing Cranston to disappear into the warm mustiness of one of his favourite resting places. The coroner ensconced himself in the inglenook, ordered the best of ales, a capon pie, a bowl of diced vegetables and today’s bread fresh from the bake house. He sat and ate, recalling what he’d seen at Kilverby’s mansion and St Fulcher’s Abbey.
‘Sir John?’
He glanced up.
‘ Quomodo non valeat hora, valet mora?’
‘Why is the delay worth so much?’ Cranston translated. ‘When time is worth nothing?’ He extended a hand. ‘Draw up that stool!’ He visitor, thin as an ash pole, freshly shaven face ending in a pointed chin, scampered to obey. Muckworm sat down, beaming at Sir John, his green eyes sparkling with life, his bloodless lips slightly parted to display what Sir John called ‘the blackest teeth in Cheapside’. Yet it was Muckworm’s hair which always caught his attention, flaming red and brushed up into long strands held firm by a handful of cheap nard which could be smelt long before Muckworm ever appeared. Dressed in a long brown gown which gave him his name, rumour had it that Muckworm, before he found his true calling, had been a cleric. Certainly every time he appeared before Cranston he quoted a Latin tag for the coroner to translate. Muckworm, however, had one God-given talent which Cranston treasured. He truly was a worm who could burrow into the secrets of any house, tavern, abbey or palace to nose out both its secrets and scandals.
‘You want a blackjack of ale?’
‘Of course, Sir John, and a warm crust soaked in gravy.’
Muckworm was soon settled, shuffling his booted feet as he gobbled the crust the slattern brought and guzzled noisily at the tankard. He again beamed at Cranston.
‘I bring you news.’
‘Tell it.’
Muckworm closed his eyes like a gleeman about to sing.
‘Sir Robert Kilverby,’ his voice low and soft, ‘was a fine gentleman. One of his stable grooms is a friend of Hog-grubber.’
‘Who? Oh, never mind, continue.’
‘Hog-grubber has been a close comrade of mine ever since we spent a week in the Louse House.’ Muckworm opened his eyes. ‘That’s the Fleet prison to you, Sir John.’
‘Continue.’
‘In the Kilverby household tension smouldered between Sir Robert and Lady Helen but nothing new. Our wealthy Kilverby really truly doted on his daughter. She and her husband, the beloved Edmond, are good, if anyone on God’s earth is good. Lady Helen is a Fartleberg.’ Muckworm opened his eyes.
‘Speak on,’ Cranston whispered.
‘Kinsman Adam is as slimy as a snake but there’s no proof he uses Lady Helen as his left-hand wife. Crispin the clerk has been with Sir Robert since they were both knee high to a buttercup. Finally, Sir Robert was determined to go on pilgrimage.’
‘Why?’
‘God knows. For some time Kilverby had been on his knees under the Star of the Levites.’
‘What?’
‘The power of the priests, especially the monks at St Fulcher’s. I’ll come to those shaven-pates in a short while. Kilverby often went out there. He confided in the French one.’
‘Richer?’
‘Very good, Sir John, or so I’m told.’
‘Why did Kilverby become so religious? What caused his conversion?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps like Dives from the gospel, Kilverby feared for his immortal soul.’
He paused as the door to the tavern flew open and a garishly dressed Salamander King, a fire-eater, entered carrying his basket of implements. Behind him trailed two other characters, a dwarf whom Cranston immediately recognized as ‘Hop-o-my-thumb’, a notorious mountebank, and the other a large, muscular woman, the dwarf’s constant companion who, because of her hulking size, rejoiced in the name of ‘The Horse’s Godmother’.
‘Good day, my lovelies,’ Cranston growled, getting to his feet.
The Salamander King and his two companions paused and gazed in horror across the tap room at their nemesis.
‘Cranston!’ Hop-o-my-thumb screeched. All three promptly turned and fled through the door.
‘Very good.’ Muckworm sniffed. ‘This, Sir John, is no buttock shop.’ He held up a tankard. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire?’
Cranston ordered the blackjack to be refilled.
‘Oh, yes,’ Muckworm continued, ‘Kilverby wanted to atone for his sins but the pilgrimage would have taken years. Crispin was to join him but his eyes are failing so Kilverby secured him soft lodgings at the abbey. Crispin was deeply opposed to this but eventually became reconciled to it. Now Kilverby is gone. Juice of the almond, I hear. Yes, Sir John, I made careful enquires among the leeches and apothecaries — almond juice is costly. No one from Kilverby’s household was observed buying it. I sit and watch, Sir John. I gave the potion sellers careful descriptions of all of Kilverby’s kin. Now,’ Muckworm gabbled on, sipping from his tankard, ‘as for St Fulcher’s. Abbot Walter is a great Lord, over-fond of his niece. No, Sir John, she is his niece, from the same sty or so they say.’
‘Cruel words.’
‘My Lord Abbot waxes fat and well. Those who live under the shadow of the abbey have little love for him, that’s why he goes out to All Hallows Barking.’
‘All Hallows?’
Muckworm glanced round; the tap room was empty except for two costermongers who’d just entered, drained their tankards and fallen asleep in the far corner.
‘The Great Community of the Realm, Sir John. They say its leaders meet at Barking. They call themselves, among other things, “All Hallows”.’
‘All Saints.’ Cranston translated the old English.
‘All Saints,’ Muckworm agreed. ‘They will lead the Community when the earthworms rise up.’
‘Sweet angel,’ Cranston whispered, ‘the fools will all die.’
‘True, Sir John, but they are all very much alive now. They threaten to rise with fire and sword on the Day of Reckoning, when the Angel of wrath pours out the vials of God’s anger and all the castles of hell release their hordes. They’re already drawing up lists of who is friend or foe. .’