‘Continue.’
‘In the Kilverby household tension smouldered between Sir Robert and Lady Helen but nothing new. Our wealthy Kilverby really truly doted on his daughter. She and her husband, the beloved Edmond, are good, if anyone on God’s earth is good. Lady Helen is a Fartleberg.’ Muckworm opened his eyes.
‘Speak on,’ Cranston whispered.
‘Kinsman Adam is as slimy as a snake but there’s no proof he uses Lady Helen as his left-hand wife. Crispin the clerk has been with Sir Robert since they were both knee high to a buttercup. Finally, Sir Robert was determined to go on pilgrimage.’
‘Why?’
‘God knows. For some time Kilverby had been on his knees under the Star of the Levites.’
‘What?’
‘The power of the priests, especially the monks at St Fulcher’s. I’ll come to those shaven-pates in a short while. Kilverby often went out there. He confided in the French one.’
‘Richer?’
‘Very good, Sir John, or so I’m told.’
‘Why did Kilverby become so religious? What caused his conversion?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps like Dives from the gospel, Kilverby feared for his immortal soul.’
He paused as the door to the tavern flew open and a garishly dressed Salamander King, a fire-eater, entered carrying his basket of implements. Behind him trailed two other characters, a dwarf whom Cranston immediately recognized as ‘Hop-o-my-thumb’, a notorious mountebank, and the other a large, muscular woman, the dwarf’s constant companion who, because of her hulking size, rejoiced in the name of ‘The Horse’s Godmother’.
‘Good day, my lovelies,’ Cranston growled, getting to his feet.
The Salamander King and his two companions paused and gazed in horror across the tap room at their nemesis.
‘Cranston!’ Hop-o-my-thumb screeched. All three promptly turned and fled through the door.
‘Very good.’ Muckworm sniffed. ‘This, Sir John, is no buttock shop.’ He held up a tankard. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire?’
Cranston ordered the blackjack to be refilled.
‘Oh, yes,’ Muckworm continued, ‘Kilverby wanted to atone for his sins but the pilgrimage would have taken years. Crispin was to join him but his eyes are failing so Kilverby secured him soft lodgings at the abbey. Crispin was deeply opposed to this but eventually became reconciled to it. Now Kilverby is gone. Juice of the almond, I hear. Yes, Sir John, I made careful enquires among the leeches and apothecaries — almond juice is costly. No one from Kilverby’s household was observed buying it. I sit and watch, Sir John. I gave the potion sellers careful descriptions of all of Kilverby’s kin. Now,’ Muckworm gabbled on, sipping from his tankard, ‘as for St Fulcher’s. Abbot Walter is a great Lord, over-fond of his niece. No, Sir John, she is his niece, from the same sty or so they say.’
‘Cruel words.’
‘My Lord Abbot waxes fat and well. Those who live under the shadow of the abbey have little love for him, that’s why he goes out to All Hallows Barking.’
‘All Hallows?’
Muckworm glanced round; the tap room was empty except for two costermongers who’d just entered, drained their tankards and fallen asleep in the far corner.
‘The Great Community of the Realm, Sir John. They say its leaders meet at Barking. They call themselves, among other things, “All Hallows”.’
‘All Saints.’ Cranston translated the old English.
‘All Saints,’ Muckworm agreed. ‘They will lead the Community when the earthworms rise up.’
‘Sweet angel,’ Cranston whispered, ‘the fools will all die.’
‘True, Sir John, but they are all very much alive now. They threaten to rise with fire and sword on the Day of Reckoning, when the Angel of wrath pours out the vials of God’s anger and all the castles of hell release their hordes. They’re already drawing up lists of who is friend or foe. .’
‘Protection,’ Cranston interrupted.
‘Agreed. Abbot Walter goes to All Hallows to meet the Upright Men so, when the revolt begins, St Fulcher’s will be spared, which is why the abbot gave the anchorite shelter. He couldn’t find anyone to hang the felons he catches. Nobody wants to be seen as Abbot Walter’s friend. Memories are long. Times are hard. Our Lord Abbot is fey-witted. When the great revolt begins, protection or not, St Fulcher’s will be sacked.’
‘This anchorite?’
‘You know him, my Lord — the painter, the Hangman of Rochester, the one whose wits were tumbled after he hanged that evil witch Alice Rednal.’
‘Oh yes, I remember her. I also recall him. So he’s there. What else?’
‘Prior Alexander has a great love for Sub-Prior Richer, who spends most of his time in the library and scriptorium though sometimes he does meet boatmen from foreign ships.’
‘Why?’
Muckworm became crestfallen. ‘Sir John, I do not know.’
‘How did you learn all this?’
‘Oh, very simple, Sir John.’ Muckworm grinned triumphantly. ‘I have a cousin who is a boatman. More importantly, another cousin is a lay brother at the abbey. He serves in the refectory at the prior’s table. He. .’
‘And Eleanor Remiet?’
‘Nothing, except she looks after the abbot’s niece. Now, as regards the Wyvern Company,’ Muckworm chattered on, ‘the King’s own bully boys? Men of blood through and through. Oh, I know you fought in the King’s wars but they’re different.’
‘Did you discover much?’
‘All candles burn out, Sir John. I had little time except I did visit the tavern Mahant and Wenlock claimed to have visited on the eve of St Damasus.’ Muckworm raised his eyebrows. ‘They certainly did. They arrived just before the market horn blew and stayed there feasting at the long table and enjoying the favours of some of the ladies offered by the mistress of the maids. According to my sources, the next morning they broke their fast, went out amongst the stalls then returned late to their abbey.’ Muckworm noticed Cranston’s disappointment. ‘But I did search out one secret. Two of my comrades, I believe you are acquainted with them: Mulligrub and Scapskull.’
‘Both gentlemen have graced my judgement chamber, not to mention every stock and pillory post in London.’
‘Sir John, they have turned lawful. Do you remember how swift they are?’
‘Like rats down a hole.’
‘Well, they now serve many of the London taverns as messengers including “The Pride of Purgatory”. They said that Mahant and Wenlock were waiting for Geoffrey Portsoken.’
‘Don’t know him.’
‘Oh yes, you do, Sir John, in the bills posted at St Paul’s Cross and elsewhere, he is Vox Populi. .’
‘Vox Populi, Vox Dei.’ Cranston smiled in astonishment. ‘He’s a ditch crawler, a hedge creeper, a man who slinks through London and the surrounding shires preaching rebellion and tradition. He calls himself the “Voice of the People and the Voice of God”. He was attainted, proclaimed ultegatum — beyond the law, a wolfshead.’ Cranston sipped from his own tankard.
‘What does he have in common with the Wyverns?’
‘He used to be one of them. Something happened and he was cut off from their company. Anyway, Sir John, Vox Populi is about to be strangled. He’s already appeared before the Justices in Eyre so he’ll dance at Smithfield.’
‘And now?’
‘Lodged in Newgate Hole where the blackness salutes the darkness.’ Muckworm drained his tankard and stared around. ‘Now, my Lord Coroner, other duties call?’
Cranston dug into his purse and pushed a silver piece into Muckworm’s extended hand. ‘God go with you.’
‘And you too, Sir John.’ Then Muckworm was gone.
Cranston sat for a while, staring into the fire. He’d kept an eye on who came into the tap room and was growing suspicious about the two costermongers in the corner. They had, he remembered, entered just after he had, ordered ale and fallen asleep. Cranston entertained a nagging suspicion that they were ‘faux et semblant — false and deceiving’, just by their position, lying in a way so they could furtively watch him. The tap room’s warm comfort seemed to fade. Cranston rose, buckled on his war belt, donned both cloak and beaver hat then left. Outside he immediately drew his stabbing dirk and, keeping that at the ready, made his way along Cheapside. It was candlelight time. The cold had grown more intense: already the apprentices were busy clearing stalls and booths. He went down Stoat-back Lane, a narrow runnel stretching on to the broad thoroughfare leading to the shambles and the forbidding mass of Newgate.