droves of young men and women who trudged in from the countryside looking for work.
‘What about them?’ Brother Athelstan asked.
Donata took a deep breath, her beautiful butterfly eyes dancing prettily.
‘We are meant to give every penny we earn to Mother Veritable who looks after us so well,’ she added hastily. ‘But one night, in their cups, they said, well, they said they could earn more gold and silver than I could imagine, that’s all they’d say.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought it was a jest, wine words.’
‘Who were their customers?’ Athelstan asked.
Donata stared serenely back.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Mother Veritable laughed, ‘our customers don’t wear placards around their necks, they come and go like shadows.’
‘That’s all they said,’ the girl pleaded. She handed the small sack over to Athelstan. ‘They kept their precious things in there.’
Athelstan undid the cord and tipped out the contents: some jewellery, trinkets, gewgaws, buttons, hair clasps, a lock of hair and a small roll of parchment, rather dirty and yellow. Athelstan placed the sack down and unrolled the piece of manuscript. The writing was in a deep black ink. The hand looked clerkly, the letters clearly formed; it was a poem written in Norman French, imitating the troubadours of Paris. Athelstan read the opening lines.
Le Coq du Couronne Rouge est Maigre
Comment le grand Seigneur, Monsieur Le
Coq . . .
Athelstan realised it was one of those poets’ clever conceits: the references to a ‘cock’ and a ‘red crown’ were sexual allusions. The writing was cramped, of little significance, so he rolled it up and put it back.
Cranston made to get up, but abruptly his hand shot out and he grasped Donata’s wrist. The girl started.
‘The Knights of the Golden Falcon?’
Mother Veritable tried to protest; Cranston pressed the fingers of his other hand against Donata’s mouth.
‘I’ll have you arrested, girl, and questioned if you do not tell the truth!’
Athelstan was surprised at Sir John’s roughness. He could tell from Donata’s face how Sir John had stirred up a hornet’s nest.
‘They come here?’ Sir John asked. ‘Those great lords from Kent, not together, but perhaps singly. They do, don’t they?’ He tightened his grip. Donata, eyes rounded in fear, nodded. ‘And they asked for Beatrice and Clarice, didn’t they? Which ones?’
The girl, terrified, shook her head.
‘Let her go, Sir Jack.’
Mother Veritable picked up her stick and beat it on the floor. Cranston released his grip. Donata snatched the sack back. She got up so quickly she knocked over the stool, and fled through the door, slamming it behind her.
‘You were too harsh.’
‘I told you, I came for the truth,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that five great lords of Kent who have come up to London to celebrate, fill their bellies with wine, ale and good food, do not satisfy their other hungers? That they wouldn’t visit a brothel which they frequented in their youth? Oh, they’ll do it differently now they’re important, won’t they? They won’t come swaggering up the path, carousing, singing a ribald song, but, as you might say, like a thief in the night. Now, if you want, Mother Veritable, I can have this place searched. I can whip up Master Flaxwith.’
‘I’ve told you more than I should, Sir John. You know the rules of this house about secrecy! Yes, you are correct. They’ve all been here, one at a time. They all asked to see Beatrice and Clarice, sometimes one, sometimes both together.’
‘Ah!’ Cranston sighed. ‘And so it’s not beyond imagining that, on the night of the Great Ratting, one, or two, or all of those stalwart knights asked for Beatrice and Clarice?’
‘But why meet them in the hay barn?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Mother Veritable knows the answer to that, don’t you?’ Cranston rose and stood over the brothel mistress. ‘Whoever hired them wouldn’t dare
‘What about them?’ Brother Athelstan asked.
Donata took a deep breath, her beautiful butterfly eyes dancing prettily.
‘We are meant to give every penny we earn to Mother Veritable who looks after us so well,’ she added hastily. ‘But one night, in their cups, they said, well, they said they could earn more gold and silver than I could imagine, that’s all they’d say.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought it was a jest, wine words.’
‘Who were their customers?’ Athelstan asked.
Donata stared serenely back.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Mother Veritable laughed, ‘our customers don’t wear placards around their necks, they come and go like shadows.’
‘That’s all they said,’ the girl pleaded. She handed the small sack over to Athelstan. ‘They kept their precious things in there.’
Athelstan undid the cord and tipped out the contents: some jewellery, trinkets, gewgaws, buttons, hair clasps, a lock of hair and a small roll of parchment, rather dirty and yellow. Athelstan placed the sack down and unrolled the piece of manuscript. The writing was in a deep black ink. The hand looked clerkly, the letters clearly formed; it was a poem written in Norman French, imitating the troubadours of Paris. Athelstan read the opening lines.
Le Coq du Couronne Rouge est Maigre
Comment le grand Seigneur, Monsieur Le
Coq . . .
Athelstan realised it was one of those poets’ clever conceits: the references to a ‘cock’ and a ‘red crown’ were sexual allusions. The writing was cramped, of little significance, so he rolled it up and put it back.
Cranston made to get up, but abruptly his hand shot out and he grasped Donata’s wrist. The girl started.
‘The Knights of the Golden Falcon?’
Mother Veritable tried to protest; Cranston pressed the fingers of his other hand against Donata’s mouth.
‘I’ll have you arrested, girl, and questioned if you do not tell the truth!’
Athelstan was surprised at Sir John’s roughness. He could tell from Donata’s face how Sir John had stirred up a hornet’s nest.
‘They come here?’ Sir John asked. ‘Those great lords from Kent, not together, but perhaps singly. They do, don’t they?’ He tightened his grip. Donata, eyes rounded in fear, nodded. ‘And they asked for Beatrice and Clarice, didn’t they? Which ones?’
The girl, terrified, shook her head.
‘Let her go, Sir Jack.’
Mother Veritable picked up her stick and beat it on the floor. Cranston released his grip. Donata snatched the sack back. She got up so quickly she knocked over the stool, and fled through the door, slamming it behind her.
‘You were too harsh.’
‘I told you, I came for the truth,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that five great lords of Kent who have come up to London to celebrate, fill their bellies with wine, ale and good food, do not satisfy their other hungers? That they wouldn’t visit a brothel which they frequented in their youth? Oh, they’ll do it differently now they’re important, won’t they? They won’t come swaggering up the path, carousing, singing a ribald song, but, as you might say, like a thief in the night. Now, if you want, Mother Veritable, I can have this place searched. I can whip up Master Flaxwith.’
‘I’ve told you more than I should, Sir John. You know the rules of this house about secrecy! Yes, you are correct. They’ve all been here, one at a time. They all asked to see Beatrice and Clarice, sometimes one, sometimes both together.’
‘Ah!’ Cranston sighed. ‘And so it’s not beyond imagining that, on the night of the Great Ratting, one, or two, or all of those stalwart knights asked for Beatrice and Clarice?’
‘But why meet them in the hay barn?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Mother Veritable knows the answer to that, don’t you?’ Cranston rose and stood over the brothel mistress. ‘Whoever hired them wouldn’t dare
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