‘You forget so soon, Athelstan?’
The friar stared in disbelief. ‘Eudo!’ Athelstan clasped the newcomer’s hand. ‘Eudo Camois, or Brother Luke as I knew you in the novitiate. I heard . . .’
‘You probably heard right, Brother. Luke the Dominican priest who became a forger and a counterfeiter, defrocked and rejected by the followers of Saint Dominic, yet greatly appreciated by the noble Duke Ezra.’
‘You are the Herald of Hades?’
‘And a little more,’ came the sardonic reply.
Athelstan stared at this former Brother who had won a reputation as an astute scholar and a brilliant calligrapher even though this had proved to be his path to perdition. Luke had fallen from grace. Athelstan could well understand the temptation: forged licences, letters, charters and memoranda were a constant and very rich source of gold and silver. Cranston introduced himself then turned away to order. The herald went back into the shadowy inglenook to collect his small chancery pouch and rejoined them just as the scullion served their table.
‘The business in hand?’ Cranston demanded, making himself comfortable.
‘Ah, yes. The business in hand.’ The herald sipped from his tankard and stared around the tap room. ‘I have to be careful.’ He grinned. ‘Gaunt or the other gang leaders would pay well for what I know. Anyway, Duke Ezra has told me all. Now,’ he lowered his voice, ‘the Oudernardes? They have been very busy in Ghent, the city of Gaunt’s birth.’ He sipped from his tankard. ‘There have been great stirrings there . . . rumours.’
‘About what?’ Athelstan asked.
‘As you know, the Flemings are Gaunt’s allies; he needs them to threaten France’s northern border. He also needs Fleming money but that’s politics. The rumours are different. I heard about those severed heads; that of an old woman and young man, yes?’
Cranston agreed.
‘Tongues plucked out?’
‘So I believe,’ the coroner replied.
‘Decapitation is punishment enough. The removal of a prisoner’s tongue beforehand signifies the victim has committed slander.’
‘And?’ Athelstan asked.
‘They were mother and son.’ The herald continued to whisper. ‘She was a midwife, he a scrivener attached to the cathedral in Ghent, a letter writer, a drawer up of bills and memoranda. Now, according to rumour, she claimed that in the year of Our Lord 1340—’
‘The year of Gaunt’s birth?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Yes, remember Edward III and his wife Philippa of Hainault were in Ghent. Philippa’s pregnancy was reaching its fullness. The accepted story is that she gave birth to the Prince who now calls himself Regent and uncle to the King. But there is another story,’ the herald laughed sharply, ‘repeated by the former owners of those two severed heads, that Queen Philippa did not give birth to Gaunt but to a female child. No, no, no,’ the herald raised a hand to still their protests, ‘that’s what rumour dictates. The hush and push of a whisper which crept from the birthing room at the convent of Saint Bavin in Ghent where Philippa had settled some months before her confinement.’
‘But why such a rumour?’ Cranston demanded, intrigued by this royal scandal. ‘King Edward already had three sons – why was it so important to have a fourth?’
The herald pulled a face. He was about to speak when the tavern door opened and two local beggars who plagued Cranston’s life slid into the tap room. Before the one-legged Leif could hop over, accompanied by Rawbum who as usual was loudly complaining about the savage burns to his backside caused by sitting on a pan of boiling oil, the coroner twirled each of them a coin. Both beggars, praising Cranston in his public and private parts to the ceiling, ensconced themselves safely on the other side of the tap room.
‘There was something wrong with the child, wasn’t there?’ Athelstan asked. ‘It must be that. Edward III never lacked sons.’
‘Brother, you can read my mind,’ the herald agreed. ‘Rumours, or so I learnt, claim the child was disfigured by a great purple birth mark here.’ The herald traced the right side of his face from brow to chin. ‘We all know,’ the herald continued, ‘how the Plantagenet brood prides themselves on their golden hair, fine figures and handsome faces. This disfigured child, according to whispers, was regarded as a cuckoo in the royal nest. Philippa, or so the story goes, panicked and changed her disfigured daughter for the lusty son of a peasant. This story is as old as Gaunt, some forty years. However,’ he sipped from the tankard and stared round the tavern, ‘the story was always kept confidential.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Only those in the know but,’ he drew a deep breath, ‘the Upright Men have suborned leading men in both the city and at court.’