Once vespers were over, the Fisher of Men led Cranston and Athelstan into the Sanctuary of Souls, a long rectangular chamber scrubbed with lime mixed with vinegar. On a dais at the far end stood an altar draped with a purple cloth; above it a huge crucifix. The Fisher’s guests, as he called the corpses, lay on trestle tables, covered by funeral cloths drenched in bitter pine juice. Despite this the stench of death and decay hung heavy. The Fisher gave them each a pomander soaked in rose water, whilst two of his grotesques, swinging thuribles, perfumed the air with sweet incense smoke. The Fisher took them over to one of the tables and pulled back the cloth to reveal the liverish face and bloated corpse of the minstrel Ronseval.
‘We heard about what happened at The Candle-Flame.’ The Fisher’s voice was pleasant, his Norman French as cultivated as any clerk in chancery. ‘I wondered if the waters there might bear fruit. Sir John, I know you have issued warrants for certain individuals who’ve apparently fled. My spies at the Standard in Cheapside and around the Cross at St Paul’s keep me informed. Anyway, late this morning, Icthus and my beloveds discovered this corpse floating in the reeds of Southwark side, not far from The Candle-Flame.’ Athelstan handed the pomander to Sir John, took out the phial of holy oil and anointed the corpse, bestowing absolution for any sins of a soul which may not yet have travelled to judgement. He did so swiftly, trying to ignore all the gruesome effects of violent, harrowing death: the staring eyes; the blood-encrusted, purple-hued face; the body almost swollen to bursting with stinking river water; and the cause of Ronseval’s death, the hard-quilled crossbow bolt driven so deeply into his chest. Athelstan suspected it had shattered the man’s heart. The friar stood back and scrutinized the corpse.
‘Killed instantly,’ he declared. ‘And that is stating the obvious. The corpse is river-swilled. How long would you say it was in the water?’
‘At least a night. We have washed away some of the dirt but, apart from that, made little preparation.’
‘Notice the dagger,’ Athelstan declared, ‘still in its sheath, the cap buttoned, the money purse still on the belt. See how deep the arrow bolt is embedded. Ronseval was killed at very close quarters. He left yesterday evening going out in the dark. He was not the victim of a robbery. Ronseval met someone he trusted down on the river bank, a lonely, secluded place. He allowed his killer to draw very close. He suspected nothing. He didn’t even unclasp the strap on his dagger sheath.’ Athelstan peered closer. ‘The same barb was used against those two archers.’
‘We also found this.’ The Fisher crouched, drew a water-soaked chancery satchel from under the table and placed it on a nearby stool. Athelstan recognized it as Ronseval’s. He took it and shook out the contents: clothing, baubles, a knife, Ave beads, a purse and scrolls of parchment, most of these damaged by water. Whilst Cranston and Fisher discussed the situation in the city, Athelstan attempted to decipher some of the writings but decided he would have to wait until the parchment was dry. Nevertheless, his eye was caught by one scrap of parchment in which Ronseval had attempted the newly structured sonnet coming out of Italy. This piece of parchment had escaped relatively unscathed. Athelstan read it carefully: the poetry, both rhythm and rhyme, were uneven but the content was thought provoking, a love poem from one man to another.
‘Sir John?’ he called out. ‘The Fisher of Men has a claim on all such property, but I need this.’ He held up the scroll of parchment. The Fisher of Men shrugged his acceptance even as Cranston beckoned the friar over.
‘Brother, our friend here has some rather interesting information about our honourable Member of the Commons, Sir Robert Paston.’
‘Not here,’ the Fisher declared. ‘Brother Athelstan, are you finished?’
The friar said he was. Arrangements were agreed about the burial of Ronseval’s corpse and the disposal of his effects, and the Fisher of Men led them into his solar, a comfortable chamber off the Sanctuary of Souls with a mantled hearth and quilted chairs. Hot spiced posset was served, the Fisher toasting Cranston and Athelstan with his goblet.
‘If you use the river as we do,’ he said, smacking bloodless lips, ‘as a way of life, you observe many things.’
‘Be brief, my friend,’ Cranston intervened. ‘Darkness is falling. Night approaches and we must be gone.’
‘Sir Robert Paston is a wool merchant,’ the Fisher declared. ‘He owns The Five Wounds, a handsome, deep-bellied cog which takes his wool to Flanders.’
‘And?’ Cranston insisted.
‘The Five Wounds empties its cargo then sails down the west coast of France to Bordeaux.’
‘To collect wine and import it,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘a prosperous and very lawful trade.’
‘Sir Robert,’ the Fisher countered, ‘seems very inquisitive about other cogs. We often see him in a special barge hired at a La Reole. He stops at certain ships.’
‘Which ships?’
‘Brother, you name any standard and I’m sure Sir Robert knows it. He often goes aboard to confer with their masters.’
‘And?’
‘He is not so keen on others being as equally curious about his own cog, The Five Wounds, when it berths at quaysides on either side of the river: wherries, tilt boats and barges are warned off whilst on shore, its master Coghill maintains a strong watch over the boarding plank.’ The Fisher paused and held his hand out. Cranston sighed, dug into his purse and counted enough silver to cover the fee for Ronseval’s corpse as well as extra for this information. ‘Thank you, Sir John. More posset – no? In a word, My Lord Coroner, Sir Robert Paston is not the perfect gentle knight but a grubby merchant with dirty fingers in many filthy pots.’
‘Such as?’
‘He is a bosom friend of the Mistress of the Moppets at The Golden Oliphant. I just wonder, Sir John, if Paston exports more than wool.’
‘You mean young women for the flesh markets of Flanders?’
‘And beyond. The settlements along the Rhine are garrisoned by soldiers. Buxom young wenches can demand a high price – it’s just a suspicion. Sir Robert is a very skilled mariner and his knowledge of the sea and the English coast is second to none.’ The Fisher smiled. ‘All the attributes for a king’s admiral as well as those of a professional smuggler.’
‘And Master Simon Thorne?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Strange man. Former soldier. Married again after the death of his first wife. Mistress Eleanor is the daughter of a taverner who owns a hostelry on the Canterbury road. Apparently she is not just a pretty face but has a good business head and keeps careful ledgers, or so I understand. I have also heard rumours that Thorne would like to deepen the waters along that lonely quayside which serves his tavern. Again, a man who knows the river.’
‘And the murders there?’ Cranston asked.
‘I know nothing, Sir John,’ the Fisher whispered, ‘except Satan’s own misty messenger certainly visited that place.’
Mine Host Simon Thorne had prepared a sumptuous meal. The taverner had proclaimed how he wished his guests to be feasted like any king at court. Mooncalf’s empty belly strained at the savoury smells and mouth-watering odours curling out of both kitchen and buttery. The tavern refectory had been especially prepared. Fresh greenery had been brought in to bedeck the woodwork, along with pots of winter roses and jars of crushed spices and herbs. The sweetness of a summer garden mingled with that from the slender beeswax candles in their spigots along a table, covered by a silver samite cloth, with the tavern’s gold-encrusted nef standing in pride of place at the centre. The best pewter platters and silver-chased goblets had been brought up from the arca in the tavern’s strongrooms below ground. Snow-white napkins had been laid out for every guest and the best jugs gleamed, all brimming with water fresh from the spring, the richest reds of Bordeaux as well as tongue-tingling white wine, Lepe and Osey from Castile as well as that from the Rhineland. The gilt-edged maple-wood mazers were filled, and the chamber guests could look forward to an appetizing array of dishes from the cooks: roast chicken in jelly, goose with sauce and onions, venison in black crushed pepper, aloes of highly spiced beef and other mouth-watering dishes. Mine Host had invited the Pastons and Master Foulkes, Brother Roger and the Inquisitor Marcel together with himself and Mistress Eleanor. The taverner had declared that, despite the heinous slayings, this was a banquet of reparation for the inconvenience, as Master Thorne so tactfully put it, ‘caused by the dead on the living’. Now Thorne, with his comely wife sitting on his right, welcomed them all to feast on this cold February evening, with the winter’s wind still beating against the shutters and a fire leaping as merrily as it did in mid-winter.