A short while later Thibault, accompanied by his new henchman Albinus, strode into the Dark Parlour. Athelstan lowered his head to hide his smile. Thibault was taking no chances. Both he and his henchman carried kite-shaped shields for protection and both wore long coats of chainmail, which fell beneath the knee. Thibault pushed both helmet and shield into Albinus’ hands, nodded at Cranston and Athelstan then sat down in the judgement chair, peeling off his leather gauntlets.
‘I’ve seen the corpse. I understand the Pastons have left and the guards are laughing at the antics of an ostler who is so terrified he’s soiled himself. A Franciscan priest lies under arrest, likewise a Dominican. In God’s name, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, what has happened here?’
Athelstan told him. He had anticipated this so he chose his words carefully. He made little reference to the Pastons except that Sir Robert now believed he should withdraw from public life in all its aspects. He would reside quietly in his manor, tending his lands and supervising his trade across the Narrow Seas. Thibault seemed slightly amused by this; he grinned over his shoulder at Albinus, a strange-looking man with snow-white hair and reddish skin, his icy-blue eyes ringed by pink.
‘My Lord of Gaunt will be very pleased,’ Thibault murmured, ‘to see the back of Sir Robert both literally and metaphorically. And the creature Mooncalf?’
‘He shouldn’t have meddled where he did,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Now he has seen the error of his ways, I suspect he will be leaving Southwark to seek employment in a tavern just south of the Scottish march.’
Thibault nodded and glanced down. Athelstan had noticed he had done the same when he described the treachery of Marcel and the murderous nature of Brother Roger. Athelstan recognized that gesture. Thibault, despite his innocent-looking face, was quietly seething with fury. The Master of Secrets breathed in deeply through his nose and brought his head back. Athelstan flinched at the fury raging in those eyes.
‘Brother Marcel will be sent back to France.’ Thibault played with his gauntlet. ‘His Grace the king will despatch a letter to the Holy Father and copy it to the Minister General of your order, Athelstan. He will demand that Brother Marcel be rigorously punished on bread and water for two years in some stinking monastery out in the wilds where he can learn true poverty, humility and obedience. I don’t think our Holy Father will need much persuading when he discovers that his own Inquisitor was being used as a French spy in this kingdom. The papacy needs English gold and support. As for Friar Roger,’ Thibault stared past Athelstan as if he was watching something else, ‘I will personally ensure that he is escorted back to Assisi. One of my sea captains, Eudo Tallifer, a kinsman of my henchman Albinus, will supervise his passage.’
‘Eudo Tallifer?’ Cranston asked. ‘The privateer, once a pirate off Goodwin Sands?’
‘And now the Crown’s most loyal subject,’ Thibault retorted. ‘His ship, The Dapifer is due to sail tomorrow.’ Thibault glowered knowingly over his shoulder at Albinus. ‘I am sure,’ he added caustically, ‘the Franciscan will be most royally welcome aboard. As for the rest, Thorne is now past judgement. I presume his wife is innocent and that he submitted a full confession? The felon escaped the penalty for treason and so his property cannot be forfeited. I will offer Widow Thorne a reasonable price; she can rejoin her kinsman on the Canterbury road. Now we come to the crux of this matter.’ Athelstan gestured at the door. ‘You trust Albinus?’ he asked.
‘With my life.’
‘You will find Marsen’s treasure,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘hidden deep beneath the garderobe in the Barbican. An ancient sewer runs there.’ Athelstan pointed to his papers still strewn across the table. ‘Thorne confessed as much before he died.’ Thibault clicked his fingers and pointed at the door.
‘Take two trusted guards,’ he ordered Albinus. ‘Seize whatever tools you need. I want every penny of that treasure.’
Once the henchman had left Thibault sat drumming his fingers on the table. ‘There is more, Brother Athelstan?’
‘You know there is, Master Thibault.’ Athelstan drew a scroll of white parchment from the pocket of his gown. ‘This is a charter issued by the king granting full and complete pardon, without any reservation, to Watkin the dung collector and Pike the ditcher now in sanctuary at St Erconwald’s in Southwark. A full pardon, Master Thibault! Indeed, both men are under royal protection and brought within the king’s love.’
Thibault spread his hands.
‘You must have seen copies,’ Athelstan continued, ‘on roll in the Chancery, the Exchequer and King’s Bench?’
‘His Grace the king thinks highly of you, Brother Athelstan.’
‘And I have the same high regard for His Grace.’
‘Your parishioners are safe.’ Thibault shrugged. ‘What does it matter if two more rogues are welcomed back by their kith and kin?’
‘In which case,’ Athelstan got to his feet, Cranston likewise. The friar had reached the door when Thibault called his name. He turned; the Master of Secrets beckoned him back.
‘Sir John, I implore your kindness. I would like a word alone with Brother Athelstan.’ Cranston pulled a face and left. Athelstan walked back to the table and stood staring down at Thibault, who put his face in his hands, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers. He took his hands away. Athelstan was surprised at the tears brimming in the eyes of this hard-souled man.
‘Brother Athelstan, you did good service. Very good service. You and Sir John. I assure you both the king and His Grace, My Lord of Gaunt, will be appraised of it.’
Athelstan sketched a bow. Thibault pushed back the chair and rose. Resting his hands on the table top he leaned across; the usual sly, sardonic look had disappeared. ‘Brother Athelstan, I have a great favour to ask. The Day of the Great Slaughter is fast closing upon us. The strongholds will fall and London will be riven by revolt.’
‘And?’
‘When that day of wrath arrives, I will send my daughter Isabella to you. I want your promise that she will be kept safe, unharmed. She will carry a letter giving you precise details of what I would like to be done should I not survive that terrible day.’
‘She would be safe in the Tower or sanctuary at Westminster Abbey?’
‘No, Brother Athelstan. You will be her tower, her sanctuary, her church. Just give me your promise. For God’s sake, Brother, she is only a child. You know what will happen to her if she falls into the hands of the mob.’ He extended a hand. ‘Please?’ he urged. ‘I am begging.’ Athelstan clasped it. Thibault relaxed and stepped back. ‘Thank you.’
‘Sir John is waiting,’ Athelstan declared. ‘And I am sure my parish is brimming with excitement.’ He sketched a blessing in Thibault’s direction. ‘You have my word. Believe me, Master Thibault, you are correct. The time of great tribulation will soon be upon us.’