‘I have my orders,’ he yelled and hurried down the steps. Scarisbrick crossed himself, recalling Thibault’s instructions that no prisoner should escape. The Earthworms were fighting their way forward beneath floating banners of scarlet and black, some displaying the crude device of the all-seeing eye. Scarisbrick reached the prisoners. He thrust his sword into Wyvern’s neck then turned, slicing open Hydrus’ stomach. Both prisoners, manacles clasped tight, collapsed in a welter of blood. Scarisbrick did not pause. More orders were screamed. The archers grasped the still juddering bodies of the prisoners, raised them as if they were sacks of flour and hurled them directly into the oncoming enemy. The attack faltered as the captains of the Earthworms realized what was happening. One of their number, his face disguised behind a black, feathery raven’s mask, hurried forward. He knelt beside Wyvern and clasped the dying man’s bruised, bloodied face between gauntleted hands. The prisoner, eyes glazing, shook his head, indicating his companion. The Raven turned to Hydrus who lay on his side, body twitching, and crouched, ear close to the mortally wounded man’s mouth.
‘My jerkin,’ Hydrus spluttered bloodily. ‘We found it on Reynard.’ The Raven stripped off the dying man’s tattered leather jerkin and hurried away, passing it swiftly to a Friar of the Sack who knelt on the muddy cobbles, Ave beads wreathed about his fingers.
‘The stitching,’ the Raven muttered. The friar bundled the jerkin beneath his robe, rose and pushed his way through the noisy throng into the darkness of a nearby tavern. Once inside, he sat on a corner stool and picked at the rough, loosened stitching on the inside of the jerkin. It gave way easily, and the friar plucked out the roll of yellowing parchment, opened it and smiled to himself. He glanced up, pushing back his cowl to reveal a face well known to Thibault, who had proclaimed the likeness of Simon Grindcobbe, leader of the Essex Upright Men, across all the shires of the kingdom. The manuscript was safe. Thibault might have the cipher and any notes Whitfield had made. Gaunt’s henchman might even have passed these on to the Dominican Athelstan, but, Grindcobbe assured himself, he would take care of that very soon. All in all, a good morning’s work. Even if Thibault had the cipher, he did not have its key; otherwise there would have been tumult throughout the city. Grindcobbe pulled back his cowl to cover both head and face; he still had business to do in Southwark.
‘Yes, yes,’ he whispered to himself, ‘a chat with Brother Athelstan might be profitable in more ways than one.’
Cranston and Athelstan had instructed Matthias Camoys to withdraw whilst they, the coroner pithily declared, ‘took a little refreshment’. Joycelina brought them chicken with brewis, a shin of beef generously garnished with onions, parsley and saffron, along with French toast and two blackjacks of ale from the local brewery. Athelstan blessed the food and, for a while, they sat and ate in silence.
‘I wonder,’ Cranston wiped his mouth with a napkin, ‘I truly do.’
‘What?’
‘The attack on Thibault here. The Upright Men have taken a great oath. If Thibault or any of Gaunt’s minions appear in public, each Upright Man has a sacred duty to kill them. We have learnt that from spies, and the evidence is clear to see with members of the Regent’s coven being struck down in public. Some are now so cautious, they stay cowering in their castles or fortified manors.’ Cranston grinned. ‘For all his faults, Thibault is not frightened so easily. He is well protected and would consider himself safe in a brothel in Southwark in the early hours of the day, which means …’ Cranston popped a piece of chicken in his mouth and chewed slowly.
‘The Lord High Coroner is about to share his wisdom with his poor secretarius?’
‘Impudent monk!’
‘Impudent friar, Sir John.’
Cranston grabbed Athelstan’s arm. ‘First, friar, whatever Whitfield was working on must be of vital importance to Gaunt and Thibault, that’s why our Master of Mischief appeared here. Remember he was livid with rage, fair dancing around the maypole, mad as a March hare. Thibault was quite prepared, or at least he pretended so, to have that wench hanged. Secondly,’ Cranston fingered the crumbs on his platter, ‘the attack on Thibault was sudden. True, the Upright Men may have followed him here, but his soldiers surrounded the house, the attack came from the garden, the guard dogs were locked away …’
‘Only someone in the Golden Oliphant would be certain of that,’ Athelstan added. ‘An attacker from outside would have to get in then flee, a very dangerous task with Thibault’s men swarming all over the brothel. Finally the attacker knew exactly which chamber Thibault and Albinus were in.’
‘Which means, my little ferret of a friar, our mysterious bowman is a member of this august household. He, she or they must have seized an arbalest along with a belt box of quarrels, hastened into the garden and chosen some concealed place. Whoever it was realized they had little chance of striking a mortal blow, but at least it demonstrated to Thibault and his kind that they could never be safe. The Upright Men,’ Cranston continued, ‘have now assumed a new insignia, that of the all-seeing eye. They intend to demonstrate that it’s no idle boast. Anyway, Brother, enough of this. Let’s have Master Camoys back in again.’
Athelstan rose, crossed to the door, opened it and beckoned Camoys into the chamber. The young man entered, slack-eyed and shuffling from foot to foot like a scholar before his magister. ‘Whitfield and Lebarge,’ Athelstan asked, ‘they liked the ladies, did they?’
‘Yes.’
‘And they also liked to dress up as ladies?’
Matthias glanced away.
‘Well?’ Cranston barked.
‘Yes, we all did, that’s Cokayne,’ Matthias mumbled. ‘The world turned upside down. Why, Brother?’
‘They never left the Golden Oliphant disguised as such?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘And Whitfield promised to meet you at the Tavern of Lost Souls, when?’
‘Around the time of vespers, I’ve told you that. He claimed to have some idea about the cipher my uncle used, both here and at St Mary Le Bow.’
Athelstan sensed that fear had made this young man more malleable. He beckoned him towards the settle as he winked at Cranston. ‘Why should Whitfield visit the Tavern of Lost Souls?’
‘Why does anyone?’ Matthias stated nervously as Athelstan joined him on the settle, drawing as close as possible, whilst Cranston leaned across the table.
‘I asked a question,’ Athelstan murmured.
‘The Tavern of Lost Souls buys and sells anything.’ Matthias shrugged.
‘And what would Whitfield be wishing to sell or buy?’
‘Brother, I don’t know why he was going there, he just told me he’d meet me as a favour.’
‘A favour?’
‘That’s what he said, but I don’t know what he meant.’
‘You knew Whitfield already?’
‘Father is a goldsmith. Thibault had business with him as he does with others. I have told you this. Whitfield visited our house. Perhaps he wished to please my father.’ Matthias pulled a face. ‘Many people do.’
‘And he claimed he could help you resolve the mysterious carvings left by your dead uncle?’
‘So I thought.’
‘You haunt the Golden Oliphant,’ Cranston interposed, ‘but also St Mary Le Bow?’
‘Yes, my uncle’s tomb and that of his comrade: their chantry chapel is dedicated to St Stephen. I often visit it to study the same carvings found here.’