‘There’s no need for talk like that, Sir John.’
A lady came down the stairs, her blonde hair coifed under a silver-edged linen veil. Her gown was of dark burgundy, a gold chain round her slender waist. She moved slowly, languorously, head held high like a young noble-woman rather than mistress of a house of ill repute. The skin of her face was smooth, almost golden, the eyes big and smiling. It was the mouth that gave her away: sharp, thin lips, slightly sneering.
Cranston bowed again. ‘Mistress Broadsheet, how pleasant it is to see you.’
‘I’d love to return the compliment, Sir John.’
Cranston noticed her voice suddenly rose. She seemed reluctant to come any further down the stairs but stood holding on to the rail.
Sir John stiffened. ‘So, I’m welcome here?’ he asked curiously.
‘Of course you are, Sir John Cranston. You are coroner of the city. My house is your house…’
That was enough for Cranston. He reached the foot of the stairs in two bounds, brushed by her and reached the top. He heard the sounds of muffled footsteps above him. Despite his weight and tiredness, Sir John went up the next flight as nimble as a monkey, so quick he almost crashed into the man standing there; he held a small arbalest, the winch pulled back, the barbed bolt pointed directly at Sir John’s chest. Cranston paused and stared at the smiling face of the young man. He reminded the coroner of Athelstan: gentle eyes and olive skin under a mop of dark, glossy hair.
‘Well I never, the Vicar of Hell!’ Cranston studied the young man from head to toe, dressed as usual in black leather. Behind him, a young woman, a sheet wrapped round her, peered anxiously at the coroner. ‘Go back to your room, sweet one!’ Cranston called, feeling for his dagger.
‘Now, now, Sir John.’ The young man edged a bit closer. ‘You are not to do anything stupid.’
‘I want you,’ Cranston growled.
‘Wanting and having are two different things, Sir John.’
The Vicar of Hell lifted his arbalest. Sir John flinched but, instead of loosing the quarrel, the Vicar of Hell abruptly pushed Cranston, sending him tumbling back down the stairs.
CHAPTER 6
Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, was in a terrible rage. He had been sent crashing down the stairs but his pride was hurt more than his bones. The Vicar of Hell, of course, nimble as a squirrel, had scampered off down the gallery and through a window. Sir John knew any pursuit would be futile.
He now stood raging in the taproom; all the customers had fled, frightened by the coroner’s roaring, a fearsome sight with his red face, bristling whiskers and naked dagger. Flaxwith had come rushing in, followed by Samson snarling and biting any available ankle.
Sir John glared at Dame Broadsheet who, despite all her hauteur and poise, now trembled on a stool beneath the coroner’s fearsome gaze.
‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ Cranston roared, hands on hips.
Dame Broadsheet blinked.
‘I’ll tell you what I’m saying,’ Cranston continued. ‘You, madam, will stand in the stews for two days. Your ladies alongside you. This house will be closed down, sealed and all its goods and appurtenances transported to a cellar in the Guildhall!’
Dame Broadsheet stared into the icy blue eyes of Cranston. She knew there would be no bribery for this man of integrity either in cash or kind. However, she knew his weakness: her lower lip quivered and two large tears ran down her cheeks. Cranston swallowed hard, the sign for Dame Broadsheet to put her face in her hands and sob uncontrollably. Like a chorus in a play her young ladies, in different stages of undress, also began to weep, followed by the bully-boys and cross-biters, the cooks, the scullions and the tapsters. Some of the women even fell to their knees, hands clenched beseechingly. Cranston gazed around. Even Samson put his head back and howled mournfully.
‘Oh woe is us, Sir John!’ Dame Broadsheet let her hands fall away from her face. ‘Woe is the day I was born! Oh, Sir John, we are sorry!’
Cranston stared at the beautiful, tear-filled eyes and his rage began to ebb. The wailing grew even louder and Samson, head back and throat stretched, joined in with relish. Flaxwith looked pitiful. Cranston sat down on a stool.
‘Shut up!’ he bellowed. ‘For all that is holy, shut up!’
The wailing stopped. Dame Broadsheet looked tearfully at Sir John from under fluttering eyelids.
‘You are a minx,’ Cranston said.
‘Sir John, you looked so brave,’ she cooed. ‘Dashing upstairs ready for a battle, lance couched.’ She caught the warning look in Cranston’s eyes. ‘A true knight.’ She added hastily, ‘The Lady Maude must be a very fortunate woman.’ She lifted her hand and clicked her fingers. ‘Some refreshment for Sir John: a small meat pie, my Lord Coroner?’
Cranston’s anger disappeared. He moved across to the window seat, Dame Broadsheet with him. She leaned across the table. Somehow the buttons at the top of her dress had come unloosed so, if he had wanted to, Cranston could catch a glimpse of her soft, luxuriant breasts. He coughed, waved his fingers, and Dame Broadsheet, as prudish as a nun, quickly did up the offending buttons. She watched as Cranston bit into the pie and sipped at the wine.
‘I didn’t know he was there,’ she began as Sir John pushed the platter away.
‘Yes you did,’ Cranston retorted. ‘You know who the Vicar of Hell is, Dame Broadsheet: a defrocked priest, a rapscallion, responsible for more cunning and devilment than a village full of rogues. He steals, he foists, he receives and smuggles!’
‘But he has a heart of gold.’ Dame Broadsheet blinked her eyes. ‘He has a heart of gold, Sir John. He could have hit you with that crossbow bolt.’
‘Well, the Vicar of Hell will have to wait, won’t he?’ Cranston picked up his wine cup and sat back against the wall. ‘But it’s good to hear he’s back in the city. If he’s in London he can be trapped. Last time I heard of him he was organising pilgrimages to St Eadric’s well which, supposedly, lies in the heart of Ashdown Forest: There’s no St Eadric and certainly no well.’
Dame Broadsheet lowered her face to hide her smile.
‘But I’m not here about the Vicar of Hell,’ Cranston continued. ‘And my threats still stand. Your cooperation, madam, or I’ll be back in the morning with the bailiffs.’
‘Cooperation over what?’ she asked archly.
‘Three nights ago,’ Cranston replied, ‘you and some of your ladies were not in residence here but at the Dancing Pig, entertaining clerks from the Chancery of the Green Wax.’
‘Yes, we were there from sunset till dawn,’ she replied. ‘There’s no crime in that. We were guests at a private party.’
‘You are harlots,’ Cranston replied. ‘You say you were there from dawn till dusk?’
She nodded.
‘Well, go on!’ Cranston barked.
‘We arrived before sunset,’ Dame Broadsheet replied. ‘There was myself and four other girls. Roesia, Melgotta, Hilda and Clarice.’
‘I see.’
‘The clerks had hired a private chamber, a large spacious room. A table was laid out and we supped and dined. Afterwards,’ she hurried on, ‘two young boys came up with rebec and tambour. They played tunes and we all danced. This was early on in the evening, it was not yet dark.’
‘And then?’
‘We each went off with our partners. I was with a young man called,’ she closed her eyes, ‘Ollerton.’
‘Ollerton’s dead,’ Cranston declared.
Dame Broadsheet’s eyes flew open in alarm. ‘Dead?’
‘Yes, poisoned by person or persons unknown. And,’ Cranston added flatly, ‘another one, Peslep, was stabbed whilst sitting on the jakes this morning.’