‘Brother Athelstan, I’ve heard of you.’ Gervase spoke just above a whisper, as his eyes wandered to the destruction behind him.

‘So, Mistress Vulpina’s gone to meet her maker, has she? Then God assoil her, she’ll need all the mercy she can. A wicked woman…’

‘Gervase, it’s Sunday, you should be in your garden, tending your roses or singing one of your songs. A fine voice has Gervase,’ Sir John explained.

‘I’m still choir master in the church of St Oswald.’ Gervase’s hands disappeared up his sleeves. ‘But move away, Sir John, the smoke here sours my mouth and spoils my throat.’

Sir John and Athelstan followed him across to the mouth of an alleyway. One of the soldiers immediately wandered up the runnel to ensure all was safe. The other two stood between their master and the crowd of curiosity-seekers.

‘Gervase is Master of the King’s Secrets,’ Sir John explained.

Athelstan nodded. He’d heard of such an office, staffed by chancery clerks with a house just off Fleet Street. These clerks governed the spies and agents of the English court both at home and abroad. They listened to sailors and merchants, piecing together scraps and tidbits of information.

‘You’ve to come with me, Sir John, and you, Brother Athelstan. My Lord of Gaunt is waiting for you at the House of Secrets.’

‘Sir John groaned. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

‘No, I am afraid not, Sir John. My lord Regent will tell you all. Sir Maurice!’ he called out. ‘You too!’ His cherub face creased into a smile. ‘I’ve heard about the death at the Golden Cresset,’ he whispered. ‘Is Maltravers involved?’

‘A farrago of lies,’ Athelstan retorted. He was curious about this little man and what the Regent should want with him and the coroner on a Sunday morning.

Gervase took off in a quick walk, almost a trot, his bodyguards all around him.

‘What’s this, Sir John?’ Athelstan asked, plucking at the coroner’s sleeve.

‘I don’t know. But something has happened. Gervase loves his roses and very rarely misses an opportunity to sing in the choir on a Sunday morning. Therefore it must be serious, indeed. My Lord of Gaunt should be out with his hounds hunting the deer.’

They left Whitefriars, entering the more salubrious areas around Fleet Street. The lanes here sloped towards the sewers in the middle. Athelstan quietly thanked God that it hadn’t rained for the slope was quite precarious and the sewers brimmed with dirt. At the same time Athelstan kept an eye on the signs which hung out over the shops and could deal the unwary a nasty rap on the head. The ‘Cupid and Torch’ of the glazier, the ‘Cradle’ of the basket-maker, a naked ‘Adam and Eve’ for those who sold apples and ‘Jack in the Green’ for the brewers. On the corner of Bride Lane the collectors of dog turds, armed with small shovels, were filling their baskets for sale to the tanners and curers of skins.

‘For some people,’ Sir John observed, ‘there is no Sunday or day of rest.’

He stopped a water tippler and paid for a ladleful from his bucket but he threw the ladle back and spat noisily.

‘Your water’s brackish!’ he shouted at the small, mean-faced man. ‘Empty it in the sewer and obtain some fresh or I’ll have you whipped at the cart’s arse!’

The man hurried off, the bucket bouncing across his shoulders, its water slopping out.

‘In my treatise on the governance of the city…’

‘Come on, Sir John!’ Gervase Talbot stood on a corner of an alleyway.

‘Yes, quite!’ The coroner hurried on after him.

The House of Secrets stood in Rolls Passage which ran off Chancery Lane. It was a tall, narrow house with a red-bricked base, black beams and plaster on the upper stories. The windows were glazed with iron bars protecting the outside. The door was narrow but reinforced with great iron-studded nails. Gervase pulled at the bell. The door swung open and a clerk ushered them in. Inside the passageway was paved and clean swept. The walls were covered with polished panel work, above which coloured cloths and painted canvas sheets hung. The air smelled sweet with the smell of parchment, candles, sealing-wax and ink. On the ground floor were small chambers, most of them closed; but one was open and Athelstan espied the high stools and desks of the clerks, the latter covered in green baize cloth.

John of Gaunt was lounging in a room at the back of the house. He was sitting on a stool, sifting among the manuscripts on the floor. He smiled as they came in.

‘My lord coroner, my apologies, and you, Brother Athelstan. However, as you can see,’ Gaunt indicated his hunting jacket, leggings and boots, his spurs clinking at his every move, ‘I, too, was preparing for other business but Gervase here said that he had matters to share with me.’ He looked across at the hour candle beneath its glass. ‘Come then, let’s not waste time.’

Gervase called a clerk, more stools were brought in, their seats covered in quilted cushions. White wine was served, with fruits and nuts in small silver dishes. While Gervase was making his preparations Athelstan looked at his surroundings: there was a small mantelled hearth but virtually every wall in the room was covered in shelves and on these leather pouches, neatly tagged, were arranged in tidy piles. The large window at one end provided light. The candles in bronze brackets on the wall had hooded caps, protection against any spark.

‘This is my second home,’ Gervase remarked, following Athelstan’s gaze and sitting down. ‘Here, Brother, we have the gossip of the courts. Who’s in favour at Avignon? Which cardinal will take bribes? Who’s been elected to the Council of Ten in Venice? Which courtier is in the ascendant in Paris?’ He lifted his goblet. ‘I give you secrets.’

‘Before we begin,’ Gaunt interrupted, ‘Sir Maurice, I heard about the business at the Golden Cresset.’ He smiled. ‘Or rather, Master Gervase told me. Sir Jack, you’ve been there?’

‘I have, my lord, and Sir Maurice is as innocent as a newborn babe. A subtle, nasty trick to bring him into ill favour with his beloved.’

‘That is not the style of Sir Thomas Parr.’ Gervase spoke up. ‘I have heard of your troubles, Sir Maurice.’ He smiled sympathetically.

‘It may have something to do with this,’ Gaunt said. The Regent wagged a finger playfully at Sir Maurice, his handsome face crinkled into a smile, eyes narrowed. ‘You are not in favour with the French, Sir Maurice. The St Sulpice and St Denis were two of their finest ships.’

‘Do you think the French could have arranged the business at the Golden Cresset out of spite?’ Sir Maurice asked hopefully.

‘Perhaps, perhaps. But let’s listen to what Master Gervase has learned.’

‘I was disturbed early this morning,’ Gervase began. ‘Pompfrey was so excited. My spaniel,’ he explained. ‘A merchant had arrived from France, his name and status do not concern you but he’s a good limner, a sniffer out of secrets. He often drinks in the taverns in the Ile de France and brushes shoulders with the clerks from the French chancery.’

‘He’s also well paid,’ Gaunt interrupted harshly.

Gervase forced a smile which never reached his eyes.

‘Of course, my lord. However, the man does risk life and limb. Silver and gold do not make up for legs and arms broken on the wheel at Montfaucon or bring you back from the gallows when your neck has been wrung.’

Athelstan lowered his head to hide his own smile. He rather liked this soft, gentle-spoken man who seemed as wary of the Regent as himself.

‘Now, my friend from Paris was all excited. He’d left that city some days ago and travelled to Boulogne then on to Calais. We have a truce with France but he had to make sure that he wasn’t being followed. Now the French have a master spy. We know something of him. He calls himself Mercurius, after the Greek god. He’s well named. Secretive, sly, able to change his appearance. He’s not only a spy but a very good assassin. We have heard of his exploits in the north Italian cities, Pisa, Genoa, Venice. Last year he was in Germany performing certain tasks for his masters back in Paris.’