‘Do you know anything fresh?’ Cranston jibed, ‘or are we here to marvel at your wisdom and knowledge? You have power, Duke Ezra, but so do I.’
‘Something else is being planned,’ the gang leader retorted quickly, stung by Cranston’s jibe. ‘What, Sir John, I do not know. There is chatter about a gathering at the Tower, or around it.’ Duke Ezra sipped from his goblet. ‘Tell Gaunt to leave there,’ he continued. ‘The Upright Men will play him hard and fast, make it appear as if he is besieged, driven from his power, frightened of even being in his palace of the Savoy. Also tell him,’ Ezra paused, ‘that despite all his precautions, the secret prisoner, or so the gossip runs, poses a direct threat to him.’
Athelstan leaned forward. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing, for the moment.’
The friar stared at this notorious wolfshead. For a few heartbeats he caught fear in Ezra’s face and voice, as if this self-proclaimed Duke knew how far he could go. Gaunt’s mysterious prisoner seemed to mark the limit. So who was she? Athelstan wondered. If Gaunt thought Ezra would meddle with his prisoner he’d send troops into Whitefriars and hang this outlaw leader from his gatehouse.
‘I will give His Grace the Regent your kind advice.’ Cranston toasted Ezra with his goblet. ‘But you know why we are here. I want to meet the Herald of Hades. If there is mischief afoot, he’ll have snouted it out as swiftly as a hungry hog with a truffle.’
Duke Ezra stared at the blood brimming on the samite cloth.
‘Sir John,’ he did not lift his eyes, ‘the Herald of Hades – you want to speak to him?’ He raised a be-ringed hand, the precious finger stones dazzling in the light. ‘So you shall. But not now.’ Ezra grinned. ‘He has been very busy on my behalf across the Narrow Seas in Ghent. You may meet him the day after tomorrow, on one condition.’ He drew a small scroll from the cuff of his velvet-laced jerkin and held it up. A figure stepped out of the darkness and took this round to Cranston. The coroner unrolled it. Athelstan glanced quickly at the list of names under the heading of ‘Newgate’.
‘My beloveds, Sir John, all intended for the Elms gibbet at Smithfield. I know you have pardons prepared. I want my beloveds back.’
Cranston, fingers to his lips, studied the names. ‘Not these two.’ He tapped the parchment. ‘Crail and Layburn ravished an innocent maid and throttled her; they must hang.’
‘Really, Sir John?’
‘They will hang,’ Cranston declared defiantly, pushing back his chair. ‘I viewed her corpse. Barely twelve summers old, she was. I have seen a cat treat a rat with more respect. God wants them for judgement.’
‘No mercy?’
‘None!’ Cranston shouted. ‘But these three others, the Plungers . . .’
‘Plungers?’ Athelstan queried.
‘Professional cozeners,’ Cranston whispered. ‘One pretends to fall in the Thames, the second pretends to rescue him, and the third organizes a collection for both the so-called victim and his saviour.’ He tapped the parchment. ‘These three,’ he raised his voice, ‘have allegedly dipped into every stream, river and brook in and around London. I know this unholy trinity; they’ve had the gristle in their ears pierced and an “F” branded on their shoulders, yet they still keep plunging.’
‘Old comrades,’ Duke Ezra declared mournfully, ‘Sir John, they truly are my beloveds.’
‘All three will be pardoned.’ Cranston rose to his feet. ‘On one condition: I never see their ugly faces this side of the Thames again.’
‘Then go in peace.’ Duke Ezra also rose. ‘The Lord be with you, Brother Athelstan, Sir John.’
‘And with your spirit too,’ Athelstan quipped back.
‘You will arrange it personally, Sir John, the morning after tomorrow as the execution cart leaves Newgate?’
‘I’ll be there. And the Herald of Hades?’
‘Sir John, he will await you . . .’
In the ruined nave of the derelict church of St Dismas, which stood in a thick clump of trees to the north of the old city wall, Simon Grindcobbe and the other leaders of the Upright Men had gathered their cell drawn from Massingham, Maldon, and other villages of south Essex. This was a safe, deserted place. Once a prosperous village, the great pestilence had swept through with its scythe and reduced both church and village to a haunt of ghosts. Outside the wooden crosses and stone memorials in God’s Acre had crumbled and fallen. Only the towering memorial stone on the top of the great burial pit bore witness to the church’s former history as well as the horror that had silenced it forever. Grindcobbe, Tyler and Straw now sat cross-legged behind the preacher John Ball as he knelt before the crumbling altar and intoned their chant.