‘True,’ the voice whispered. ‘He was still a priest, a friar just terrified of being caught both in our company,’ he laughed, ‘as well as that of a common whore.’
‘Brother.’ Athelstan walked on, clutching his linen parcel. ‘My pies are getting cold. I am hungry and very tired. Why lurk in the shadows? Come and join me at the table. I could even hear your confession, shrive you, forgive your sins before you also die.’
‘When the Apocalypse comes, the Day of Great Slaughter and the strongholds fall, which side will you be on, Athelstan?’
‘I will do my duty to my parishioners. I will say my prayers.’
‘You will not be on the side of God?’
‘God has no sides.’
‘What about justice, right?’
‘Micah chapter six, verse three,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘“Three things I ask of you, Son of Man, and only these three. To love justly, to act tenderly and to walk humbly with your God.”’
‘We want you to join us.’
‘I will pray for you.’ Athelstan heard the scrape of steel from a scabbard; he stopped, his mouth dry.
‘Pax et Bonum,’ the voice whispered. ‘Fear not, little friar. We are near the end of the lane and we don’t want to be surprised by your fat friend the coroner.’
‘He is my friend and a good one. He does not draw steel on a poor friar or worse, make his supper grow cold.’
‘We know that. Now listen, just ask Sir John who is the prisoner the Flemings brought to the Tower? Oh, and tell Sir John to be more prudent. He should not walk so bold; most of his masters are both bought and sold.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This is the hour of Judas, Friar. Darkness is falling. The poor earthworms stir and the hawk lords survey the field and wonder how all this might end.’
‘What is that to him?’
‘Tell him the tribes of Edom, Moab, Philistia and Egypt are already plotting to divide the spoils.’
‘I do not know. .’
‘He will, Brother, but now, a word of warning to you and yours.’ The voice became a hiss. ‘Among your parishioners, those who serve the Upright Men, walks a true-arch priest Judas — for him there will be no mercy or compassion. The business at the Roundhoop was this Judas’ work. Keep an eye on your flock, Brother. We certainly shall. If necessary we shall impose the ban.’
‘The ban?’ Athelstan felt a deep chill, half suspecting what he meant.
‘You quote scripture, Brother, so do I. .’
‘So did Satan,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘when he tempted Christ.’
Again, the laugh. ‘Consult the Book of Samuel, Brother.’ The figure drew closer and, before Athelstan could react, grasped the friar’s hand and pressed in a small pouch of coins. ‘For the poor. You gave the last rites to one of our comrades at the Roundhoop. What did he say?’
‘You know I cannot tell you what he confessed but he babbled about gleaning; he was searching for someone.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ came the sardonic reply. ‘Farewell, Brother, for now.’ The shadows receded. Athelstan looked back down the alleyway: lantern horns had been lit; candles glowed from upstairs windows. Athelstan shook his head at the power and influence of the Upright Men. This secret war, he reasoned, fought in flitting shadows and murky chambers, would soon erupt and what then?
He reached the priest’s house, went in, put the pies in the small oven built into the side of the small hearth and waited. His two guests arrived shortly afterwards, shuffling into the kitchen in their mud-caked boots. Both Watkin and Pike looked flushed with ale.
Athelstan pointed at the lavarium and told them to wash their hands as he placed three tranchers on the scrubbed kitchen table and served the pies. Athelstan waited till they had eaten then picked up his psalter. He found the verse he was looking for and fought to hide the fear spurting within him. He closed the book. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ Athelstan forced a smile, ‘and so it is written that the prophet Samuel placed Agag and the Amalekites under the ban, to be smitten hip and thigh, no quarter to be shown to man, woman, child or beast. Now tell me,’ Athelstan’s voice thundered, ‘who among us would do what the Prophet Samuel did?’ He paused. ‘Examine yourselves before your priest. Remember, as Christ does, your misdeeds. Make no secret of your sins even though your wickedness might be difficult to confess.’ Athelstan breathed in. ‘To cut to the quick, in a word, I ask you in God’s name, has the ban been imposed on our parish. .?’
The leaders of the Upright Men: Wat Tyler, Jack Straw, John Ball the preacher, Simon Grindcobbe and others, disguised in the robes of Friars of the Sack, stood before the gates to the entrance of London Bridge on the city side of the Thames. Capped candles were carried before them. They had, in their pretended role as preachers, permission from the Guardian of the Gates and Keeper of the Heads, Master Burdon, to pray for those slain during the furious bloody affray at the Roundhoop. They all stared up at the heads of their dead comrades now poled on staves jutting above the gate. They were unrecognizable; the crows had already been busy with their eyes, while the heads had been boiled and tarred before being displayed.
‘How many?’ Grindcobbe whispered.
‘All of them,’ came the murmured reply. ‘Most were killed in the assault. Three were sorely wounded and lowered by chains into the river to slowly drown as the tide changed.’
‘By whom?’
‘A creature called Laughing Jack, a grotesque with a gargoyle face. He and two others are Thibault’s hangmen. They now rejoice, spending their earnings in the Paradise of Purgatory tavern near the house of the Crutched Friars.’
‘Kill them,’ Grindcobbe whispered over his shoulder. ‘Kill them when their bellies are bloated with wine. I do not want them to hear the bells of vespers tomorrow.’ Grindcobbe stared at the row of severed heads: their hair had been combed before they’d been spiked, a truly gruesome sight in the dancing flames of the cresset torches beneath. John Ball the preacher intoned the requiem and the others joined in; a few, including Grindcobbe, just waited for the words to peter out.
‘And the traitor?’ Tyler’s broad Kentish accent did nothing to diminish the menace in his voice. ‘Our comrades were betrayed. Gaunt was informed.’
‘We have our suspicions,’ Grindcobbe murmured. ‘The parish of Saint Erconwald’s may nurse a traitor; their priest Athelstan has been warned.’
‘But he is innocent.’ Jack Straw pulled his cowl further over his head. ‘Magister Thibault, that devil in flesh, just used him. Our brothers,’ he sighed, ‘should have been more vigilant.’
‘Thibault was furious about what we seized,’ Tyler remarked.
‘Perhaps it’s time we returned his property.’ Grindcobbe laughed. ‘But this mysterious prisoner. Who is she? Why does Gaunt place such a value on her? For now that must wait. Oh, yes, it shall, as will why our spy in Thibault’s stronghold failed to inform us that an attack on the Roundhoop was being planned.’
‘Perhaps he did not know.’
‘Or perhaps he did not wish to expose himself further. But one day he will have to — perhaps sooner than he thinks.’ Grindcobbe stared up, watching the tendrils of mist curl round the spiked heads. ‘I wonder who our traitor is?’ Grindcobbe spoke as if to himself. ‘But come.’
They moved from the gateway, making their way up East Cheap. The night was quiet. The Upright Men walked, hoods pulled forward, hands up the voluminous sleeves of their gowns. They were not afraid or wary; their henchmen, weapons at the ready, went before them. To the casual observer they appeared to be a group of friars, yet no beggar or footpad lurking in the slime-filled, dirt-coated doorways dared approach them. Only once did they stop, to allow a group of mounted men-at-arms to ride by. Ball the preacher simply lifted a hand and intoned a blessing which he immediately followed with a curse once they had passed. They turned off into Crooked Lane, flitting like dark shadows past St Michael’s Church and into the Babylon, a decayed tavern with as many entrances, doorways and windows as holes in a rabbit warren. They went up the staircase just within the doorway and along the gallery which reeked of urine, rotting vegetables and human sweat. Rats squeaked and scuttled in corners as a mangy alley cat padded like any soft-footed assassin across the creaking floorboards. A man hooded and masked stood by a doorway. He bowed to the Upright Men, opened the door and ushered them into what once was the tavern’s principal bedroom, now just a square dirty chamber, empty except for one long table with benches down one side and a stool on the other.