‘What duties, Brother?’
‘Information, any information he could collect on the Great Community of the Realm and the Upright Men.’ Athelstan kept his voice steady. He believed certain records had been taken from Mauclerc’s chancery satchel but what he was saying was really a wild guess. ‘Indeed,’ he continued, ‘Mauclerc would have lists of possible sympathizers, rumours and gossip about who might be involved with the Upright Men?’
Thibault looked as if he was going to object. Brother Marcel now had his head down.
‘I also suspect …’ Athelstan realized this truly was a game of hazard, yet he had nothing to lose.
‘What else do you suspect, Brother?’
‘Well,’ Athelstan sighed, ‘if the Pope’s own Inquisitor is in London what better way of helping him than by providing him with a list of people tainted by the teaching of Wycliffe or even members of the Lollard sect?’
‘Very good,’ Thibault breathed, ‘very shrewd indeed, Brother. Yes, Mauclerc did have a list and yes, that list has probably gone but more than that we cannot say.’
‘And the money?’ Athelstan persisted. ‘Marsen must have boasted about what he had collected. He would be ever so proud of squeezing so much money out of those he taxed.’
‘Very proud, Brother,’ Lascelles replied. ‘When I visited him, he opened the coffer and it was crammed with gold and silver coins.’
‘How much?’ Cranston barked.
‘A king’s fortune. At least two thousand pounds sterling in the finest coin of the realm.’
Athelstan whistled in surprise.
‘Such a sum! Tell me now,’ Athelstan continued, ignoring Gaunt’s gesture of impatience, ‘Mauclerc and Marsen not only collected taxes but information which would be useful to you. Sir Robert Paston, as you have conceded, Your Grace, was – is – not your friend. Were this precious pair collecting titbits of gossip, slander about Paston and his family to, how can I say …?’
‘Blackmail him,’ Thibault interrupted. ‘Let us move to the arrow point, Brother. The answer is yes. I would not call it blackmail but the push and shove of fierce debate. Paston portrays himself as a protector of the people, a partisan of the truth, a merchant who gives to good causes, a master mariner cheated out of his dues.’ Thibault sneered and waved a hand. ‘Paston is no more a saint than I am. If he is going to climb into the pulpit to preach then perhaps he should make sure his own hands are clean.’
‘And are they?’
Thibault just twisted his mouth and stared away.
‘But that’s another reason why you despatched Lascelles to The Candle-Flame, isn’t it?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘You were impatient to find out what had been discovered about our worthy member of the Commons?’
‘Marsen said we would have to wait, that he hadn’t yet finished, whilst Mauclerc dare not oppose him,’ Lascelles replied.
‘And did Marsen know that Physician Scrope was hunting him, demanding justice?’
‘I suspect so.’ Thibault shrugged. ‘Marsen’s past was, as you say, highly unsavoury. He had applied to Chancery for a King’s Pardon for all past crimes and felonies. I told him that I might support this depending on the success he achieved in collecting the king’s taxes. On the night they met, Marsen informed Lascelles that I would be very pleased about what he had learnt.’
‘And Hugh of Hornsey?’
‘Most surprising, Brother. Hugh of Hornsey was a mercenary, a good captain of archers who kept to himself. I suspect he is dead. I cannot see him as an assassin. He is shrewd enough to know that flight is perhaps not the best protection. But,’ Thibault smiled falsely, ‘we all have our little secrets, Brother, only some of us are more successful at protecting those secrets than others …’
PART TWO
‘Via Dolorosa’: the way of anguish.
The Vault of Hell was a much decayed though magnificently constructed tavern at the heart of the deepest darkness around Whitefriars. Here one of the most notorious captains of the slums, a true Knight of the Knife, a Lord of the Dunghill, Humphrey Wasp, held court on behalf of even more sinister overlords. Sharp as a tooth on a finely honed saw was Humphrey Wasp. He usually sat enthroned on a velvet-draped throne chair, formerly a bishop’s but appropriated during a recent riot in Norwich and despatched south for Humphrey’s use. Indeed, most of the costly goods stolen from the shops and stalls along Cheapside and elsewhere were brought to the Vault of Hell – the finest plunder: rolls of velvet and damask from Venice, lace from Lille, leather from Castile, wood and furs from Cracow. Here the most elegant pieces of art and craftsmanship, filched from their owners, were offered for sale: leather caskets cleverly embossed with symbols brought to vivid life by incised scroll-work, ivory tablet covers from Paris, delicate bone caskets from Cologne carved at the seams with the legend of Tristram and Isolde. All these were offered for sale along with jewel-studded brooches with inscriptions such as ‘You have my heart’ or ‘Love conquers all’. Humphrey was particularly keen to collect mazers fashioned in Flanders from a rare speckled wood known as Bird’s Eye Maple and set on a silver-gilt stand. Naturally such plunder glowed as fierce as any beacon light, attracting in all the rogues: the children of the horn-thumb, the trillibubs, the cackling cheats, cock-pimps, tart-dames and other land pirates, the Fraternity of the Filch and the Foist, not to mention the Brethren of the Block, who rejoiced in names such as Blow Blood, Tickle Pitcher and Jack Pudding. They all assembled at the Vault of Hell to eat and drink the finest food, wine and ale stolen from the best establishments.
A sumptuous banquet had been laid out along the common table of the great taproom called the Hall of Darkness, even though it was brightly lit by a myriad of pure beeswax candles stolen from churches the length and breadth of the city. The chamber was warmed by a great roaring fire in the massive hearth carved like a cathedral porch, as well as by clusters of braziers which crackled as merrily as the coals of Hell. However, on the night of 17 February, the eve of the feast of the Blessed Simeon bishop and martyr, there was a difference. Humphrey Wasp’s herald, the red-haired Chanticleer, had brayed for silence and no one dare disobey. The Earthworms had appeared, at least two score of them, dressed in dark leather and with their faces blackened, their hair dyed red and stiffened into plaits which stood up from their heads like devil’s horns. They were well armed with rounded shields, bows, clubs and arrows, and led by captains known as the Rook, the Jackdaw, Magpie, Hawk and Falcon. Fearsome in appearance, ruthless in reputation, the Earthworms were the envoys from the leaders of the Upright Men: Simon Grindcobb, Jack Straw, Wat Tyler and others. They had soon brought the midnight revelry at the Vault of Hell to an abrupt close. Their leader, the Crow, now stood on the dais next to a drunken Humphrey Wasp and drew out from a bucket of red wine the severed head of Grapeseed, former rope-dancer and mountebank, well-known for his drunken boasts that he had no fear of the Upright Men. The Crow just stood there grasping the roughly cut head whilst his companions around the Hall of Darkness nocked their bows.
‘Listen Ye!’ the Crow proclaimed. ‘Marsen’s death at The Candle-Flame is now well known, despatched to Hell as he deserves.’ He paused at the stifled cheer. ‘The plunder Marsen carried, the fruit of his wickedness has disappeared. Look on Grapeseed’s head and be warned. The Upright Men will not be trifled with. The treasure Marsen was taking to his satanic master Gaunt belongs to the people and the Upright Men are the true and only guardians of the people. Such treasure is ours and should be, must be, handed over.’ The Crow shook the severed head. ‘Know Ye also that Hugh of Hornsey, former captain of archers at the Tower and Marsen’s erstwhile helpmate in wickedness, has fled. Information about the stolen treasure, good, sound information, will earn you the protection of the Upright Men and five gold pieces. The apprehension of Hugh of Hornsey alive will bring you firmly within the love of the Upright Men as well as a reward of seven gold pieces. I have left with your self-proclaimed squire, Master Wasp, a description of the fugitive.’ He dropped the severed head to splash noisily into the bucket of bloody wine, wiped his hands and held them up. ‘I have now chanted my own vespers. I leave you our peace until the next time …’