Behold Mistress Sweet,
Now you may see that I have lost my soul to thee.
The words were haunting, and the French dancing master, who had agreed to accompany the boy on a flute, created a heart-wrenching sound. For a moment, just for a measure, a few heartbeats, the customers forgot their own ugliness and the hideous circumstances of their lives.
Crim was followed by Pike the ditcher, and Master Rolles was not pleased. Pike was suspected of being a secret member of the Great Community of the Realm, a mysterious society flourishing across London and the surrounding shires. The Great Community was said to be plotting rebellion, to bring about sweeping changes where the noble lords would be pulled down and the Poor Worms of the Earth, as the Community called the peasants, allowed some respite from the incessant demands of both the King’s tax collectors and the Great Lords of the Soil. Pike, his narrow, sallow face flushed with ale, immediately launched into the rousing verses,
When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?
When Adam delved and Eve span, where was then the pride of man?
Such words provoked roars of approval, until the taverner’s bully boys hustled Pike from the pit.
Master Rolles had had enough. He snapped his fingers at the ostler standing next to him, and the fellow lifted a horn to his lips and blew three long, carrying blasts, which stilled all the clamour and noise.
‘Why can’t we have more singing?’ someone bawled.
Master Rolles glowered at his congregation.
‘We are not here,’ he shouted back, ‘to plot rebellion! Who here wants to dance in the air at Smithfleld, a rope round his neck, the other end fastened securely around the branch of an elm?’
His words chilled the fevered crowd. They all knew what he was hinting at. The young King, Richard II, son of the famous Black Prince, grandson of the war-like Edward III, was under the protection of his uncle, the Regent John of Gaunt. A sinister man, Gaunt, with a finger in every pie and a host of spies swarming all over London; even here in this tap room there might be men and women prepared to sell a name or a man’s life for a piece of silver or a paltry groat.
‘Let the rats be brought,’ Rolles shouted.
The crowds stood hushed as the door leading to the stable yard was flung open and the great boxes were brought in. They were taken to the edge of the pit and the lids lifted, and the whitewashed hole came to life with swarming rats, black, grey and brown, some scarred and lean, others young and plump. Many tried to escape, scampering round, desperate to hide from the light and noise. A few of the bolder ones stood up on their hind legs and began to wash themselves, oblivious to their gruesome future. Everyone crowded around the pit, people climbing on tables or up the great wooden pillars supporting the ceiling, eager to catch a glimpse of what would happen next.
Flaxwith went first; he unmuzzled the mastiff Satan and released the dog into the pit. Satan, hungry and ferocious, began a hideous slaughter amongst the rats even as Master Rolles turned the hourglass over whilst his assistant, the horn man, counted slowly under his breath. It took ninety seconds for Satan to reduce the swarm of rats to a mess of bloody corpses. Samson followed. Fresh rats were brought, and the air quickly turned foul with the smell of their corpses and the gruesome tang of blood. Samson was more swift and deadly, accomplishing his task by the time the horn man had reached eighty-five. The tavern crowd watched with bated breath; now it was the rat-catcher’s turn.
The ferret, Pretty, was released into the pit to meet a fresh horde of rats, and Ranulf’s disappointment was obvious when the horn man counted ninety-five before Pretty had finished his bloody work. Those who had wagered on the rat-catcher growled and mumbled under their breath. Everything rested on Precious. More rats were brought. Precious was released and the air was riven with the squeal of the vermin and the scampering of their paws. Precious was a master killer, a true slaughterer, one of the litters of the great Ferox, Ranulf’s prize ferret. He completed his massacre before the horn man had even reached eighty. For a moment there was silence, then Master Rolles rose to his feet as if he were a Speaker in the Commons in St Stephen’s Chapel.
‘Master Ranulf has won!’
His proclamation was greeted with shouts of joy and distress. Some who had wagered on the mastiffs tried to leave furtively, but the windows were all sealed whilst the taverner’s bully boys guarded the doors. No one was allowed out into the yard until all debts were settled.
Master Rolles turned in his great chair and stared around the tap room. The contest over, the customers were drifting back to the tables, shouting for drink and food. A pet monkey had broken loose; it had been chased by a greyhound and now sheltered in the rafters, chattering noisily down at its tormentor. The taverner didn’t fear a raid by the constables; in fact, Master Rolles had paid them well to look the other way. He just wanted to make sure that everything was as it should be. Ranulf the rat-catcher was now being brought tankard after tankard by his numerous supporters, and the taverner drew comfort from this. The rest of the night must pass smoothly. He glimpsed Beatrice and Clarice; the two sister whores looked happy enough. Rolles only hoped their friend the Misericord did not become involved in any mischief and have to flee. Absent-mindedly he took the goblet of wine a pot boy brought and sipped at it. The Knights were there, and the Judas Man? Rolles slouched in his chair. Ah yes, he thought, the Judas Man!
In a small chamber two floors above the tap room, the Judas Man sat waiting for his orders. He was of middling height, with a beetling brow, close-cropped hair and wary, shifting eyes in a lean pockmarked face. Many would describe him as pitiless, a man of little mercy, but the Judas Man didn’t care. It was many years since he had darkened the church and mumbled his sins whilst crouched in the shriving pew. Some whispered that he came from Dorset, a farmer whose family had been massacred by the French when they had raided the villages along the south coast. How such bloody deeds had turned his mind, killed his soul, and so he had become a hunter of men.
The Judas Man sat, his Lincoln-green hose pushed into black boots to which the spurs were still attached, his brown leather jerkin unbuttoned to reveal a clean white shirt and round his neck a silver chain bearing a golden ring, allegedly belonging to his dead wife. His cloak, war belt, and small crossbow lay on the truckle bed. They were within easy reach as the Judas Man contented himself, squatting on a three-legged stool playing softly on a penny whistle, a jigging tune, more suitable to a May Day dance than this sombre chamber rented for him. He lowered the whistle; he did not know the name or identity of his hirer. He had simply followed instructions — now he had to wait. He had gathered, from the roars below, how the ratting had ended. Now the raucous sound of a bagpipe echoed through the ceiling.
The Judas Man picked up his wine goblet and sipped carefully. He wanted to remain calm but wished the stranger would come. He felt trapped in London. He did not like its narrow, winding, reeking streets. He preferred to work out in the shires, bringing in the outlaws and wolf heads — those who had been proclaimed ‘utlegatum’ — beyond the law. He would hunt them down and drag them, at the tail of his horse, into some market square before the Guildhall. He would hand the prisoners over to the sheriff’s men and claim the reward. What happened to his captives afterwards was not his concern. Now he had been hired by some mysterious stranger, a generous advance in good coin, with a promise of more to come, once he had captured the Misericord. The Judas Man knew all about the Misericord, a clever thief — the most cunning of men. Rumour had it he was a former priest; they had forgotten his real name. He was called the Misericord because of the small dagger, clasped in a velvet sheath, worn round his neck. The misericord was the dagger used by archers to dispatch a wounded enemy. The Misericord used it to cut purses and prise open locks. He was also an infamous trickster, a man who could sell soil and claim it was gold. No wonder he was wanted dead or alive in numerous towns and shires around London.