‘Welcome.’ The Raven, Captain of the Upright Men, leaned forward. ‘Welcome, Brother. You have heard the news from the city? Well,’ he laughed throatily, ‘of course you have. The assassin, now called the “Ignifer”, the Fire Bringer, has appeared. Three royal officials burnt to death. Whatever the killer’s reason we welcome such slaughter. Sutler has seen to the hanging of some of our comrades, whilst the justices relish their harsh and cruel sentences against the Sons of the Soil.’ He paused. ‘Eat, drink! Please do. You are our honoured guest.’ Another Upright Man scurried forward, knife flashing in the firelight. He cut strips from the coney and put these on an earthenware platter along with a deep bowled cup of rich red wine. The stranger ate swiftly, as did the Upright Men. Once they were finished, the Raven, wiping his fingers on his jerkin, leaned forward again.
‘Please accept our condolences on your sad loss.’ His guest nodded. ‘You received,’ the Raven continued, ‘the same information we did?’
‘Yes. Where did you get it?’ the stranger asked. ‘That was always regarded as a great secret.’
‘It still is.’ The Raven laughed. ‘But not to us. More importantly, did you understand it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you make it?’
‘I have brought some. I will show you.’ The stranger rose. ‘You must come with me,’ he insisted. ‘Stand well away from the fire and bring everything you have.’ The Upright Men obeyed. Rising to their feet, they followed the stranger into the dark. He leaned down and picked up an earthenware pot where he had left it on his approach. The pot was no bigger than the palm of his hand. The stranger unstoppered the lid then, like a child playing skittles, weighed the pot in his hand as if it was a ball, gauging the distance between himself and the now dying fire. The Earthworms watched intently. Satisfied, the stranger hurled the pot. It shattered against the smouldering embers and the campfire surged up with a roar as fierce as any furnace. The Upright Men clapped their hands exclaiming in surprise.
‘We have our fire!’ the Raven exclaimed. ‘Fire from heaven or, as Gaunt will experience, fire from Hell …’
Cranston and Athelstan, huddled in their cloaks, followed Turgot, his face and head hidden by a deep capuchin, out of the Holy Lamb and along Cheapside turning into Poultry, the richest trading area of the city. Its name was ancient but its purpose had changed. No longer were ducks and capons up for sale; Poultry had become the heart of London’s wealth. The day’s trading was finished. Merchants were now clearing stalls and boarding up shop fronts. Bailiffs and hired mercenaries, drawn blades glittering in the dancing torchlight, patrolled the streets vigilant for any felon lurking in the shadows. Such a close guard was necessary. The goods being stored away were costly cloths from Douai, Bruges, Ypres and elsewhere. There were silks from Lucca, linen and flax from Flanders and wool from the Midlands. Even in the fading light the red, vermilion, rose and scarlet cloths shimmered invitingly. The air was rich with the smell of pepper, saffron and salt, sugar from Syria and the purest wax from Morocco. Barrels of cinnamon were being sealed, a precious spice imported from beyond Outremer, whilst the fragrance of cassia reminded Athelstan how the trees which carried it were allegedly guarded by ferocious winged animals. The friar could only marvel at the wealth being taken out, heaped and checked before being moved to the great arca, or strong boxes, deep in the cellars of the palatial houses either side of Poultry. These were gilded mansions boasting highly decorated and embossed gables, gleaming plaster and, in many cases, windows of the purest glass. Athelstan glimpsed a pile of rubies, lapis lazuli, diamonds, pearls and ivory rings all gathered in the dish of a set of scales guarded by two mercenaries with weapons bristling. Cranston and Athelstan were inspected but never troubled. They turned into Old Jewry, dominated by the dark mass of St Olave’s Church. The houses here were truly magnificent, four storeys high and divided from each other by an alley either side. Turgot stopped at a door and knocked. A servant opened it, introduced himself as Picquart the steward and beckoned them into a stone-paved entrance hall.
The house was comfortably warm. Candles glowed in spigots fastened above linen panelling, whilst soft rope-matting washed in herbs and spices covered the floor. On the left, a half-open door revealed a rich furnished chamber, an arras hanging on the wall and finely polished oak furniture, tables, chairs, chests and cushioned stools. They passed a great open kitchen where servants scurried about. A yawning hearth built into the wall dividing it from the hall gave off gusts of sweet warmth. Picquart led them into the solar, where others were waiting seated around an oval table which glittered in the light of a myriad candles placed along the rims of three lowered Catherine wheels. The hall was furnished with gleaming dark oak panelling but the lights, the candelabra and the flames from the roaring fire in the bell-like hearth made it a place of merry cheer and relaxing comfort. A woman rose from the top of the table and walked gracefully towards them. She was dressed like a Cistercian nun in a light-grey gown and veiclass="underline" her patrician face, framed by a starched white wimple, emphasized the authority of her commanding dark eyes, and her nose was sharp above a firm mouth and chin. Athelstan reckoned she was a woman past her fortieth summer.
‘Good evening,’ she murmured. ‘Welcome to my house. I am Lady Anne Lesures.’ She smiled at Athelstan and winked quickly at Cranston. She then clasped the friar’s hand and bowed her head for his blessing. Athelstan delivered this and was almost knocked aside by Sir John as he scooped Lady Anne up in his arms, half raising her to kiss her lips and forehead before lowering her gently down.
‘Oh, if I was a bachelor!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Lady Anne, it is so good to see you. Come.’ They exchanged the full kiss of peace followed by Cranston’s spate of questions which Lady Anne, her face beaming with pleasure, said she would answer some other time as they had to meet the others. She led the coroner and friar around the table. Each of her guests rose, scraping back their chairs to clasp hands and receive Athelstan’s hasty blessing. The first was Sir Henry Beaumont, the late Sir Walter’s brother: he was fat-faced and rather corpulent, his thinning hair combed forward to cover a balding pate. Sir Henry was dressed in a costly blood-red jerkin with hose to match; his cambric shirt was snow-white, the collar open. Athelstan glimpsed the precious bejewelled crucifix on its silver chain. Sir Henry struck the friar as most eager to please, highly nervous and rather apprehensive. Rohesia, Sir Henry’s wife, was pretty in a severe sort of way: auburn haired, eyes constantly narrowed, head slightly tilted back, lower lip jutting out as if judging all who came under her scrutiny. She was dressed rather soberly in a brown veil and an old-fashioned gown of the same hue with white bands at the cuff and neck. Edward Garman, prison chaplain of Newgate, was of medium stature; bald, his clean-shaven, oval face burnt a deep brown by the sun of Outremer. He was light and swift in movement; his large eyes looked troubled, his fleshy lower lip slightly quivering as if he was preparing to protest. Garman was dressed simply in a mud-coloured robe, stout sandals on his feet, a set of small Ave beads circling his left wrist, a white-rolled cincture around his waist. Nicholas Falke the lawyer was blond-haired and earnest-faced; his small eyes screwed up against the light, a snub nose above rather pretty, womanish lips which constantly twitched. Falke was dressed in a dark-blue jerkin and hose, the high stiffened collar of his undershirt jutting up just under his chin. Buckholt, Sir Walter’s steward, looked what he was: the stolid, stout, reliable house retainer who let nothing pass him by. He was square-faced with a strong mouth and jaw of a stubborn man, an impression heightened by deep-set, guarded eyes. He dressed demurely in a long old-fashioned houppelande which fell beneath the knees of his dark woollen hose. Rosamund Clifford, now apparently Lady Rohesia’s personal maid, was garbed in a Lincoln-green gown, her dark hair hidden by a tightly clamped veil. She was petite and pretty with ever-darting eyes and puckered lips. Athelstan could not decide whether she was fey-witted or just acting the part.