‘We also ask you, as we know you are peritus – skilled in these matters – to unlock the secret of the cipher and so tell us the messages being carried to this Herald of Hell.’ Thibault wagged a finger. ‘I suspect the other manuscript, displaying the triangles and saints’ names, represents Whitfield’s workings before he died, but what they mean …’ Thibault shrugged. ‘In the end that cipher, I am sure, refers to matters which are most important, crucial to the rebels when they raise the black banner of treason against our sovereign lord …’
‘And that includes yourself and His Grace, my Lord of Gaunt?’
‘But more especially the person of our young king Richard,’ Cranston intervened swiftly, fearful that this little friar might provoke Thibault too far.
‘Traitors, Brother Athelstan,’ Thibault hissed, ‘thrive on their dunghills. I have, and will leave alone, those who burrow deep in certain parts of Southwark.’ He shrugged. ‘What difference does it make now? Why hunt sparrows when more dangerous birds of prey circle overhead?’ He abruptly recalled himself. ‘Unlock the cipher, Brother Athelstan, and you will have my usual gratitude.’
Athelstan held Thibault’s gaze. The Master of Secrets had raised this matter before and, to be fair to him, had kept his word. St Erconwald’s had its own coven of Upright Men – Watkin, Pike and the other miscreants – and, though Thibault knew this, none of them had suffered some violent raid on their dwellings in the dead of night. No mailed horsemen had clattered into yards, damaging property, seizing goods whilst none of the parish’s young men had been seized and hustled away to rot in the Bocardo, Southwark’s filthy prison or those other hellish pits in Newgate, the Fleet or the Tower.
‘Good, good.’ Thibault clapped his hands like a child, rocking backwards and forwards on the bed. Athelstan glanced quickly at Albinus and was surprised. Thibault’s henchman was gazing sadly at him with those pink-rimmed, glass-coloured eyes, then he winked slowly and pulled a face. Athelstan went cold. Albinus, for his own private reasons, was warning him that Thibault may well leave the parish of St Erconwald’s alone because he did not need to bother himself. Thibault already knew what the Upright Men were plotting there, which meant that the Master of Secrets had a traitor, someone deep in the parish. Shocked and yet certain of the warning given, Athelstan abruptly rose to his feet and walked across to the window. He leaned against the ledge, watching the tattered pigskin flutter in the breeze as he recalled Albinus’ warning. Athelstan knew Thibault’s henchman was most amicable towards him: the friar had done good work for Gaunt and never indulged in the cheap insults others directed Albinus’ way, either about his strange looks or sinister status. Nevertheless the possibility of a spy in St Erconwald’s would have to wait. Other matters demanded his attention.
‘I will need to question this Reynard,’ Athelstan pushed himself away from the ledge, ‘as I do Oliver Lebarge, Whitfield’s scrivener who fled from here this morning to seek sanctuary at St Erconwald’s.’
‘So he is definitely there,’ Thibault murmured, glancing swiftly at Albinus. ‘We wondered why he should shelter in your church. According to Mistress Cheyne, Lebarge fled as soon as Whitfield’s corpse was discovered. He had the chamber next to this.’
‘And his possessions?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Also gone. Why, Brother, you look surprised.’
‘Because Lebarge came with nothing, Master Thibault, a true fugitive. No possessions except for the clothes on his back. What do you know about the man?’
‘Amaury Whitfield’s one and only friend,’ Albinus whispered. ‘Both bachelors with no close kinsmen. Lebarge and Whitfield occupied the same lodgings in an old ironmonger’s shop in Fairlop Lane. Whitfield was a senior clerk; he would deal with secreta negotia – secret business. Lebarge was his personal scrivener, skilled in his own right.’
Albinus paused as the captain of archers entered the room and bowed.
‘Master Thibault, we have searched the brothel, its outhouses and gardens. We’ve found no trace whatsoever of the attackers. I understand three bolts were found, which means,’ the man scratched his bearded face, ‘a trained archer, perhaps one of the Earthworms who might have followed us here, or someone sheltering in the brothel itself. But,’ he held up a leather-mittened hand, ‘we have no proof of that. The Golden Oliphant is now ringed with archers. Sir John, your chief bailiff Flaxwith and others have arrived. They too have taken up position.’ The captain coughed apologetically. ‘Oh, Sir John …?’
‘Yes?’
‘Your bailiff Flaxwith is accompanied by the ugliest mastiff I have ever seen!’
‘Keen-eyed, you are,’ Cranston grinned, ‘and, what is worse, the ugly bugger thinks I am his bosom comrade.’
The captain left, chuckling to himself as he clattered down the stairs.
‘So,’ Athelstan resumed, ‘Whitfield and Lebarge, two bachelors, came here to participate in the Festival of Cokayne, the topsy-turvy world, a stark contrast to the rigours and the discipline of the royal chancery at Westminster on the Tower. Then the festival turns fatal …’
Athelstan took a set of Ave beads from his pocket and threaded them through his fingers, a common gesture which always reminded him of other realities hidden from the human eye.
‘And you suspect murder?’ Thibault demanded, getting to his feet.
‘Yes, but I could be wrong.’ Athelstan pointed at the corpse. ‘Whitfield’s remains will begin to swell and stink: his cadaver should be taken to Brother Philippe in St Bartholomew’s at Smithfield. He must perform the most scrupulous search of the corpse and report his conclusions to me and the coroner as soon as possible. In the meantime, Master Thibault, Sir John, nobody must leave this tavern. I will need to meet the guests who resided here yesterday evening. Though,’ Athelstan pulled a face, ‘I am sure they are now as eager to depart this place as Lebarge was.’
The friar walked over and stared down at the corpse. ‘And this Herald of Hell?’ he asked. ‘What do we know of him?’
‘Nothing more than a title,’ Thibault replied. ‘Whether he truly exists or not cannot be proved. My sparrowhawks have skimmed the streets and shelter under the eaves and gables. They report that the leader of the Upright Men in London has assumed such a title. The only fact that I do know is that this herald mysteriously appears outside the dwellings of God-fearing citizens to deliver his warnings.’
‘But never here?’
‘Why should he, Brother? Though this house has its own mysteries. It was once owned by Sir Reginald Camoys. I believe his brother, Sir Everard, is a former shield companion of yours, Sir John? Sir Everard has recently been visited by the Herald of Hell but, as for the Golden Oliphant, all I can say is that this is a strange house with an even stranger history. Who knows, Sir John, you may even find Lothar’s Cross here. Now,’ Thibault beckoned at Albinus, ‘we must be gone.’ And both men swept from the room, Thibault shouting for his entourage to be ready.
Athelstan waited until the clatter on the stairs faded. Cranston moved across to the bed. He took out the miraculous wineskin, drank a generous mouthful and offered it to Athelstan, who shook his head. The coroner sat cradling the wineskin in his arms, staring moodily at the damaged door.
‘Thibault did not really tell us much,’ he remarked. ‘But, there again, Gaunt’s henchman never opens his soul to anyone.’
‘Sir John, you are quiet, withdrawn, querulous?’
‘I always am when Thibault is within spitting distance. I don’t trust him or his royal master John of Gaunt, our dear king’s loving uncle. I am sure Gaunt nurses a deep ambition to be king. Richard is only a boy, a mere child. Gaunt wouldn’t really mourn if his nephew died without an heir, leaving only him and the House of Lancaster to occupy St Edward’s throne and wear his sacred crown.’ He glanced quickly at Athelstan, ‘The preacher is correct: Vae regno ubi rex est puer.’