‘Who is it? Ah, Godbless, you gave me a start!’
The beggar man, Thaddeus trotting behind him, walked into the dim pool of light.
‘What’s the matter, Godbless? Can’t you sleep? Are you hungry?’
The beggar man looked up, his eyes heavy with sleep.
‘There be ghosts in God’s acre.’
‘Ghosts! Godbless, go back to bed! The only ghosts in that graveyard are Cecily the courtesan or Watkin and Pike. You have not met these, have you?’
Godbless shook his head.
‘There are no ghosts. Go back to bed. Lock your door.’
‘Brother, I be really a-feared and so be Thaddeus.’ Godbless looked longingly past Athelstan.
‘All right!’ The Dominican stepped back.
Godbless sped like an arrow through the door, Thaddeus scampering after him. The beggar man sat down in front of the hearth.
‘I always likes a fire,’ he sighed. ‘My wife used to light one.’
Athelstan, curious, put the latch on the door and drew the bolts. Thaddeus, he noticed with some amusement, was crouched next to Godbless.
‘Were you married, Godbless?’
‘Aye, Brother, came from Dorset. A yeoman farmer like the other mad buggers who took the King’s penny and went to war. When I came back my wife and child were dead, sick of the plague. The manor lord had knocked down the fences, turning plough land to pasture, grazing it with sheep. I hate sheep. Fond of goats but can’t stand sheep.’
‘In the Gospel it’s the other way round,’ Athelstan joked.
‘Don’t be angry, Brother, but I don’t believe in the Gospels. I’m not a Christian.’
‘In which case,’ Athelstan commented, ‘you are in good company. Very few people are, Godbless.’
The beggar man squinted up at him. ‘One day, Brother, I’ll repay you for your kindness.’
Athelstan patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll get you some blankets.’
He made Godbless comfortable, told him there was food in the buttery and climbed the steps to his bed loft. There he washed his hands and face in the water bowl, took off his gown and slipped into his narrow cot bed. He prayed for a while. From below he heard Godbless snoring.
‘Strange,’ the Dominican mused. Godbless was a solitary man. He probably wandered the lanes of England and was used to sleeping in the most godforsaken spots but, tonight, he had been frightened. What had Godbless seen in the graveyard to wake him up, to make him so a-feared? Athelstan drifted off to sleep.
Vulpina sat in her chamber and regarded the cowled, masked stranger.
‘Are you French?’ she asked. ‘Are you a priest?’
‘Don’t ask questions, Mistress.’
Vulpina was assured; his voice was low, cultured. She noticed his hands, for he had removed one of his gauntlets, showing that they were soft and white, not those of a man who dug the earth and grubbed for a living.
‘You have come for some more of the poison?’
‘And I cannot tarry long.’
Vulpina nodded and rose to her feet. She went across to the wooden panelling and pressed a secret place so it opened. From here she took out a large, wicker basket and a leather-bound ledger and brought them across. The stranger undid his purse. Vulpina’s eyes glistened at the silver coins shaken out in a twinkling pile. She glanced sideways at the two bully boys who stood on either side of the door.
‘A good night’s profit,’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands.
Aye and more,’ the stranger replied. ‘I’ll be a constant customer.’
‘Then let’s celebrate this alliance.’
Vulpina clapped her hands again and nodded at one of her bully boys. He brought across two goblets brimming with wine. Vulpina raised hers.
‘To silver and gold and all it brings.’
The man raised his goblet but didn’t sip it. He got to his feet. Vulpina looked up in alarm but the man was moving quickly. The throwing knife he drew from beneath his cloak caught the bully boy’s back as the fellow returned to his position. The other one was so startled, his hand had barely touched the hilt of his dagger when the stranger moved swiftly, bringing the small arbalest hooked on his belt out and up. A click, and the whirling bolt struck Vulpina’s bully boy straight in the face. The poisoner sprang to her feet. She tried to brush by this murderous stranger but he caught her by the shoulder and when she turned, lashing out at his face, this only helped him loop the garrotte more securely round her throat. She struggled and fought like a cat but the garrotte was now like a piece of steel choking off her breath. Vulpina crumpled to the floor. The assassin, bending over her, kept the garrotte string tight until her death tremors ceased. He picked up the wine goblets and poured the contents over her corpse. The bully boy who had taken a dagger in the back was moaning, so the stranger moved quickly to slash the unfortunate’s throat. He picked up the book of poisons, sat down and went through it carefully, turning the pages over. When he was satisfied, he took the basket of poisons and the ledger and pushed them into the hearth. He then went to the saddlebags he had left just inside the door and pulled out the wineskin which he had filled with oil and poured this over the carpets. The fire had already caught at the baskets, the pots exploding, the chamber filling with an acrid smell. The assassin took a fire brand out. He went and opened the shutters and stared down: the crumbling wall provided enough footholds. He threw the firebrand into a pool of oil and eased himself out. Even as he climbed down, the flame caught the oil. Vulpina, her bully boys, her potions and poisons and all the contents of her secret chamber, were caught up in a sheet of raging fire.
Murder also made itself felt in another part of the city, as if it were some loathsome shadow which could scurry as swiftly as the wind along its alleyways and runnels. The Golden Cresset Tavern which stood opposite the hospital of St Anthony was a merry, spacious ale-house with a broad taproom and luxurious chambers for wealthy merchants and others who visited the city. Margaret, the chamber-maid, was however puzzled about two of her customers.
First, a young knight, Sir Maurice Maltravers, had come to the tavern saying someone wished to meet him there. Margaret remembered him because he looked handsome yet rather sad and lonely. He’d sat for an hour in the corner cradling a blackjack of ale, absentmindedly watching a juggler who had come to pleasure the customers in return for a hot meal and a goblet of wine, but then he had gone. Secondly, the young woman who had arrived late in the afternoon and hired a chamber above stairs had hardly shown her face. Tobias the tap boy had tried the latch but the door was secure and, when he rapped, no answer was made. Margaret went across to where her father the taverner stood beside the butts.
‘What is it, girl?’
‘Our lady guest,’ she replied. ‘It’s been some hours now, Father.’
The taverner wiped his greasy fingers on his apron. It was late Saturday evening and the taproom was beginning to fill. Young fops with their doxies, travellers staying over till Monday.
‘We’ll be busy soon.’ He sighed. ‘Oh, very well, come on.’
He followed her upstairs and rapped on the door.
‘What name did she give?’ he asked.
‘Mistress Triveter.’
‘Mistress Triveter!’ he called, feeling slightly ridiculous. ‘Mistress Triveter, are you well?’
No answer. He knocked again.
‘Mistress Triveter, I beg you, I must open this door!’
He jangled the keys which swung on a cord from his belt. He fingered through them looking for the master, but when he slipped this into the lock he groaned: the chamber key was still inside.
‘Father,’ Margaret appealed. I think there’s something very wrong.’
‘We can’t force the door.’
They went downstairs out into the cobbled yard. Tobias the tap boy brought across a ladder and, at his master’s bidding, gingerly climbed up.
‘Go on!’ the taverner urged. ‘Open the window!’
Tobias drew back the shutter; the casement window beyond was slightly open and he climbed into the gloomy room. At first he didn’t believe it. The bed looked as if it had been slept in, at least the blankets had been disturbed. Later, he told customers in hushed tones, he first thought Mistress Triveter was standing on a stool but then he gave a low cry. The stool had been kicked away and the young woman, her lustrous red hair falling round her face, was swinging by a rope lashed to one of the rafters above.