Bloodstone(41)

‘Bordeaux,’ he yelled. ‘I’ve had enough of your bloody vinegar.’

The keeper hurried to obey. Once he’d brought everything, Cranston ordered him out, leaving the door open. He sat on one stool, the prisoner on the other, drinking greedily from the goblet of claret. He raised his head, pushing back his filth-strewn hair to reveal the brand mark on his cheek close to where his left ear had been. Cranston studied the dirty face, the tangled moustache and beard; the eyes, however, were bright, not yet bereft of hope or courage.

‘Geoffrey Portsoken, known as a Vox Populi.’ Cranston lifted his goblet. ‘I salute thee.’

‘Sir Jack Cranston, I toast thee too, you and yours.’ The prisoner took another gulp. ‘I’m for the elms at Smithfield, Jack, condemned I was, beaten up by Gaunt’s henchmen. Anyway, why are you here? Not to gloat! No, that’s not for our Jack, so why?’

‘To offer you life.’

Vox Populi mockingly raised the goblet but his eyes brightened. ‘Gaunt will not let me skip away from this.’

‘Not skip, my friend, walk to the nearest port. Queenshithe will do, ship abroad never to return under pain of hanging, drawing and quartering. I mean that.’ Cranston clinked his pewter cup against the prisoner’s. ‘Out, never to return!’

‘I’ll need money.’

‘The city will pay for you to be shaved, clothed, booted with a water pannikin and a linen parcel of bread and dried bacon. You’ll also receive a thin purse.’

‘For what – information?’

‘The truth, so shut up and listen!”

Cranston spoke swiftly and succinctly about Kilverby’s murder, the disappearance of the Passio Christi and the slayings out at St Fulcher’s.

‘So,’ Vox Populi murmured. ‘Chalk has gone to his maker, followed by Hanep and Hyde. Chalk will have much to answer.’

‘Why?’

‘He was a defrocked priest, Sir Jack, a curate from the church of St Peter’s-in-the-wood in Leighton Manor in Essex where we all hailed from an eternity ago. It must be,’ Vox Populi paused to cough phlegm, ‘some thirty years ago now. All of us golden boys, archers swinging off down the tree-lined lanes bound for the glory of France.’

‘Very touching.’

‘No, Jack, very true. You know how it was. We were roaring boys. About twenty of us at first who answered the King’s writ from the commissioners of array; few of us are left now, only me and those hard-hearted bastards out at St Fulcher’s.’ He stared at Cranston. ‘I fought with them. In the year of our Lord 1353, we sealed an indenture with the Black Prince to serve him and him only as the Company of the Wyvern.’

‘A small cohort?’

‘By then, Jack, we were all skilled archers, master bowmen; we could bring down any bird on the wing or put a shaft through the narrowest window. Experts in the use of yew, ash, the hempen string, the goose-quill arrow.’ He wagged a finger in mock anger. ‘Some took an oath never to use a crossbow; I still can’t. I’m not too sure whether this is true of my former comrades.’

‘Your duties?’

‘To attend upon the Prince day or night, in peace and war, to be his sworn men and so we were, mounted archers who moved around the battlefield. You’ve seen the likes of us, Jack. Imagine loosing an arrow with every breath. In battle the Prince assigned us a special duty. We were to seek out the enemy commanders, having first learnt their heraldry and livery. A knight, especially the French, is invariably helmeted and visored.’

‘The heat must have been suffocating,’ Cranston added quietly. ‘Especially with the sun strong in the full fury of battle. They’d open their visors to breathe, to catch some coolness.’

‘Aye, Jack,’ Vox Populi leaned forward, eyes gleaming, ‘and we’d be waiting. We would have an arrow notched, two of us, ringed and protected by men-at-arms. One shaft,’ he held a hand up, ‘to the commander’s face, down he’d fall. You know what happened next: his banner carrier, the standard bearer, would raise his visor in alarm . . .’

‘And he would receive the second shaft?’ Cranston nodded. ‘Both commander and standard bearer brought down in a few heart beats. Disarray amongst the enemy would be intense?’

‘And because of that, the Prince loved us, we could do no wrong.’

‘Including ransacking an abbey and the theft of the sacred bloodstone the Passio Christi?’

‘Oh yes, I know about the Passio Christi being held by Kilverby. You do realize he financed the Wyvern Company with loans to the Black Prince? Oh, yes! Kilverby made a handsome profit. The loans carried no interest but Kilverby took a share in the plunder. Little wonder,’ the prisoner scoffed, ‘in his final years Kilverby turned to God.’