Mooncalf, Nightingale, Thomasinus and all the other tavern servants could only gape in mouth-watering envy as the guests cut, sliced and feasted on the delicious dishes. Mooncalf kept staring at Mistress Martha and William Foulkes. He wondered when that inquisitive friar would discover that all had not been as quiet as it should be on the night of the murders. Worse – and Mooncalf forgot his hunger – what if Athelstan stumbled on the truth? The ostler, Martha and Foulkes couldn’t look for help from Sir Robert: if the whispers were true, he also had a great deal to explain. Mooncalf just wished it was all over. He felt like a guard dog, constantly alert, and, even as he stood there, he abruptly realized something was wrong. So lost in his own hunger and personal worries, Mooncalf became acutely aware of how all the noise from the adjoining taproom had faded. The Dark Parlour was sealed off from this select refectory by a thick oaken door. Nevertheless, all the usual chatter and laughter of a busy taproom had died completely. Something was very amiss. He tried to catch his master’s eye but failed. Mine Host was listening most attentively to his guests’ description of what they thought might have happened on the night of the great slaughter. Brother Marcel, who had made himself very much at home at The Candle-Flame, was now sitting very close to Sir Robert Paston. Mooncalf noticed how the two were often in deep conversation. The ostler drew a deep breath then started at a rapping on the door to the taproom. Due to all the merry noise no one else heard it. Intrigued, Mooncalf decided to settle all his doubts. He quietly opened the door and slid into the taproom, closing the door behind him. He immediately stood, mouth gaping in surprise. Despite the mysterious knocking the Dark Parlour was completely empty. Candles glowed, lantern horns flared, shadows fluttered and merged with the other slivers of darkness, but all the customers had gone. Half-filled tankards and food-strewn platters remained on the tables. The fire-eater, the snake-conjurer, the relic-seller recently returned from Nazareth, the bargemen, the tinkers, the tanners from London Bridge and the fishermen from Billingsgate had disappeared. Mooncalf shivered. The fire still glowed, as did the charcoal turning crimson in the braziers. He glanced towards the door on the other side of the parlour but, in the poor light, that seemed closed. Mooncalf felt the tremblings, as he called them, return. The Dark Parlour lay ominously silent and yet, Mooncalf blinked, there was movement. He was sure someone was there. He caught the sound of heavy breathing, a floorboard creaking, a shutter rattling and the drip-drip of an overturned tankard. A rat scuttled out of the darkness, slithering across a ring of candlelight. Mooncalf moaned quietly. He would have turned and fled back into the refectory but he could only stand transfixed as the shadows shifted. First one, then others merged into the meagre light. They moved soundlessly, boots wrapped in rags, the round oxhide shields they carried daubed a blood red. Swords and axes glittered. Mooncalf felt a blade point prick the side of his neck. He glanced sharply to his right at the nightmare figure, face visored by an ugly crow mask fashioned out of black feathers. The spectre’s hair, stiffened with grease, stood up in long tufts, which gave him the appearance of a frightful demon.
‘Mooncalf, Mooncalf.’ The voice was soft, pleasant. ‘Peace, Brother. It’s not your blood we want, or that of any of your customers or comrades, which is why they have fled.’
Mooncalf swallowed hard. The Dark Parlour now seemed full of these nightmare wraiths. He realized what had happened. The Earthworms had appeared and quietly persuaded everyone to disappear, not that they would need much encouragement.
‘Who is in the refectory?’ the voice whispered.
‘Master Thorne.’
‘Ah, Thibault’s creature.’ Mooncalf was so astonished he turned, gaping. ‘Oh, yes, Mooncalf. Thorne sells taproom tittle-tattle, tavern chatter and ale gossip to Thibault and his brood of vipers. We know that. Don’t be surprised – most of London is now in our pay. Who else is there?’
Mooncalf told him.
‘Now, master ostler,’ the voice continued, ‘the Council of the Upright Men has received good information that the money Marsen stole from others and then had taken from him still lies here. Where?’
‘The angels be my-’
‘Oh, I know!’ the voice replied. ‘You may have no know-ledge of it, but there again, you have no knowledge of us either, eh, Master Mooncalf? Why is that now? Do you have your own secrets, eh?’ The voice had turned ugly. ‘Not of this world, Mooncalf, but of the next. You are a follower of Wycliffe, aren’t you? A member of the Lollard sect. You meet them out on the wastelands, even here along the Palisade?’
Mooncalf could feel the sweat break out on him.
‘There are no secrets from the Upright Men or their riders, the Earthworms. However, our present business is Marsen’s gold. It would be difficult to carry away, which is why my comrades and I believe it still lies hidden here.’
‘You were told this?’ Mooncalf stuttered. ‘Who informed you about that?’
‘Never mind,’ the voice hissed. He paused as a burst of laughter from Friar Roger echoed through the stillness. Mooncalf could only stand and tremble. He was no longer nervous about the Upright Men, just shocked that they knew his secret. How many others knew? Would he be denounced before the Archdeacon’s court or even to that fearsome Inquisitor?
‘Come now,’ the voice urged. ‘Time is passing. Announce us.’ Mooncalf opened the door and was pushed into the refectory, followed by the Earthworms, their grotesque bird masks covering blackened faces. A sudden silence fell, shattered by Martha’s scream as she jumped to her feet in a clatter of plates and goblets. Foulkes half-rose, a platter in his hand. Thorne cursed and seized a carving knife from the saucery. Sir Robert sat like a toper, eyes glazed, mouth half-open, whilst the two friars could only protest. The commotion was silenced by the Crow raising his heavy arbalest and loosing a whirring quarrel to smash into a painted cloth hanging on the far wall.
‘Sit down,’ the Crow ordered. ‘Peace be with you all. Master Thorne, we have business with you. Your customers have gone.’ He paused at sounds from the gallery above. ‘In fact, our business has already begun. We will search this tavern.’ He walked round the table and pressed the now-loaded arbalest against Eleanor’s forehead. She quivered in fear, whispering under her breath. Master Thorne would have lunged forward, but the Raven menaced him with an arbalest and he sat down.
‘If you cooperate,’ the Crow’s voice was almost a drawl, ‘nothing will happen. If you do not …’ He let the threat hang.
‘We are priests,’ Marcel spoke up, ‘clerics with benefit of clergy.’
‘It makes no difference, does it?’ Brother Roger shouted, face all flushed. The Franciscan grasped a goblet as if he wished to throw it at his tormentors. ‘To you we are …’
‘The oppressors, good brother?’ the Crow quipped. ‘As the Bible says, those who aren’t with us are against us. So hush now and let us do what we came for.’