‘Who told them which chamber Master Thibault was in?’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet.
‘Brother,’ Cranston shrugged, ‘the Upright Men’s spies are as thick as lice on a Newgate cloak. They know Master Thibault’s here and the reason for it: their assassins must throng in and around this blessed place.’
‘More like the sty of a filthy sow,’ Thibault retorted, sitting down on the bed. The Master of Secrets began to brush his clothes and whisper to Albinus. Athelstan walked to the door window. There were shutters both within and without. These had now been flung open, the bar to the inside one lying on the floor; the window was narrow but big enough for a slender man to enter. Athelstan stepped closer to continue his scrutiny. The pigskin covering, now in tatters, had been stretched out and fastened over small hooks. The hinges of the door window were of the hardest leather, the wood and paint tarred against the elements, and the handle was a clasp which fitted neatly into a metal socket on the frame. The window looked stout and in good repair except for the damage done by the crossbow bolt.
Athelstan pressed on the latch and pushed; the door window swung open on the outside. He peered down at the sheer drop to a well-cultivated flower bed, rich with spring flowers and ripening roses. Revelling in the fresh, breezy air, sweetened with fragrant garden smells, Athelstan turned his head to catch the strengthening sunlight and closed his eyes. This reminded the friar of his father’s farm and the sheer delight of a summer’s morning. Athelstan was convinced that such beauty could not be matched in any other kingdom, even in this place of ill-repute! He opened his eyes. The brothel was a wealthy house and its garden reflected this: the vegetable plots with sorrel, cabbage, spinach, lettuce, peas and broad beans; the numerous herb beds which undoubtedly produced marjoram, sage, snakeweed and rosemary amongst others. He glimpsed gooseberry and raspberry bushes as well as cherry, plum and apple trees. The garden was dissected by high walls against which black, wooden-trellis fencing was in the process of being fixed: long, narrow poles, the horizontal and vertical creating squares across which vines and rambling rose bushes would grow. Athelstan watched the soldiers move carefully through the garden, swordsmen first, a line of archers behind, the shouts of their officers clear on the morning air.
‘Brother Athelstan?’ He turned away from the window.
‘Do you think my clerk committed suicide?’
‘At a guess, Magister,’ Athelstan replied swiftly, ‘I would say not.’
Thibault gave a loud sigh. Albinus walked to the door to shoo away the guards. Cranston moved to the window as Athelstan took a stool before Thibault, who was still sitting on the edge of the bed.
The Master of Secrets leaned forward. ‘Begin, Brother.’
‘No.’ Athelstan pointed at Thibault. ‘You tell me, Magister. First, Amaury Whitfield?’
‘A graduate from the schools of Cambridge, a scholar skilled in the Quadrivium and Trivium. A shrewd clerk who trained himself in cipher, secret alphabets and other chancery matters. He was highly skilled.’
‘Loyal?’
‘Undoubtedly.’ Thibault’s face turned more cherubic as he smiled to himself.
‘Magister?’
‘I have my spies, Brother. I call them my sparrowhawks and I loose them along the lanes and runnels of London. Naturally they collected information about Whitfield, a bachelor with comfortable lodgings in Fairlop Lane near the Great Conduit in Cheapside. A clerk who liked games of hazard and the soft flesh of whores. Oliver Lebarge was his scrivener, who lodged with Whitfield and shared his pleasures. They were both constant visitors here. Mistress Cheyne proclaimed that the Golden Oliphant would hold the Festival of Cokayne, so, naturally, Whitfield and Lebarge were included. I understand they arrived three days ago.’
‘He was missed at the Chancery?’
‘Of course, but, according to the indenture he sealed with me, Whitfield was granted Saturdays and Sundays as boon-free along with other such days in each quarter.’
‘You suspected nothing wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ Albinus replied, moving to sit beside his master.
‘Nothing?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘Except the summons from the so-called Herald of Hell that frightened him, yes?’
‘We thought he had taken his boon days to recover,’ Albinus pulled a face, ‘to wallow in his filthy pleasures and so forget all threats and menaces.’
‘You have visited his chambers in Fairlop Lane?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Do not,’ Athelstan declared. ‘If you want me and Sir John to investigate this matter, then we need the truth as we find it. Yes?’ Thibault just shrugged.
‘The recent attack,’ Athelstan gestured at the window, ‘nothing or no one was found?’
‘If they had been,’ Albinus jibed, ‘they would have met the same swift fate as Whitfield.’
‘And the other guests?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Cheshire archers now ring the Golden Oliphant. No one is allowed in or out without permission.’
‘Good,’ Athelstan breathed. ‘I need to question Mistress Cheyne, her servants and the guests, as well as study those manuscripts. What are their origins?’
Thibault rubbed his hands. ‘Thank you, Brother, for finding them. As for their provenance, the Upright Men have a messenger who calls himself Reynard. God knows his true name; some claim he is a defrocked friar of the Order of the Sack.’
‘Reynard the Fox?’ Cranston interrupted. ‘Leading emissary of the Great Community of the Realm, a true miscreant who prides himself on slipping in and out of the city as easily as a fox does a hen coop?’
‘Well, this time he was trapped and caught,’ Thibault snapped. ‘Reynard murdered the bell clerk of St Mary Le Bow, Edmund Lacy, and fled. He was recognized and caught in the Hall of Hell – a disreputable tavern.’
‘A veritable mummer’s castle,’ Cranston agreed. ‘Deep in that filthy maze of streets around Whitefriars.’
‘Anyway,’ Thibault hurried on, ‘Reynard was arrested and lodged in Newgate, where he was searched and interrogated. We discovered the cipher on his person but not the alphabet to go with it. Under torture Reynard admitted he was to meet a leader of the Upright Men in London who styles himself the Herald of Hell.’
‘And where is Reynard now?’
‘Recovering in Newgate, he, ah …’ Thibault pulled a face. Athelstan held his gaze. Reynard, or whoever he truly was, would have been harshly tortured, probably crushed beneath an iron door until he began to plead. Thibault’s cruelty was a byword in the city.
‘Master Thibault has shown great compassion,’ Albinus lisped. ‘The traitor Reynard could have been immediately condemned, hanged, drawn and quartered.’
‘Great compassion indeed!’ Cranston murmured drily.
‘Reynard,’ Albinus continued, ‘has been given the opportunity to reflect and mend his ways.’
‘By helping to decipher that message?’ Athelstan intervened.
‘As well as informing us of other secret matters affecting the Crown and its business.’
Athelstan studied this precious pair. Thibault and his eerie henchman were royal officials who could expect no mercy if the Upright Men stormed London and assumed power. The punishments threatened to Reynard would be nothing compared to what the Earthworms would inflict on both these men at Smithfield or Tyburn.
‘And now?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Reynard is still reflecting. We await his answer by Vespers tomorrow evening, Brother Athelstan.’ Thibault thrust both documents back into the friar’s hands. ‘Sir John will be officially commissioned to investigate the mysteries here at the Golden Oliphant. We expect you to assist with this secreta negotia – secret business – and, in doing so, win the approval of the Crown, not to mention its undying gratitude.’
‘Of course, what could be more pleasing?’ Athelstan murmured. Thibault smiled with his eyes.