'You have warrants, Sir?'

'I don't need warrants!' Cranston snapped. 'I am the king's coroner. I wish to see a prisoner.'

'Who?'

'Nathaniel Solper.'

Fitzosbert smiled. 'And your business with him?'

'My own.'

Again Fitzosbert smiled though Athelstan had seen more humour and warmth on the silver plate of a coffin lid.

'You must explain, Sir John.' The fellow placed two effete ring-bedecked hands on the desk before him. 'I cannot allow anyone, even the regent himself, to come wandering through my prison asking to see prisoners, especially such as Solper. He's a condemned man.'

'He's not yet hanged and I wish to speak with him, now!' Cranston leaned over the table, placing his hands over those of Fitzosbert and pressing down hard until the keeper's face paled and beads of sweat broke out on his brow.

'Now look, Master Fitzosbert,' Cranston continued slowly, 'if you wish, I will leave now. And tomorrow I will come back with warrants duly signed and sealed by the regent, and accompanied by a group of soldiers from the Tower. Then I will go through this prison, see Solper, and perhaps…' He smiled. 'We all have friends. Perhaps petitions could be presented in the Commons. Petitions demanding an investigation of your accounts. I am sure the Barons of the Exchequer would be interested in the profits to be made in the king's prison, and in what happens to money entrusted to you.'

Fitzosbert pursed his lips. 'I agree!' he muttered.

Cranston stood back.

'And now, Sir, Solper!'

The keeper got up and minced out of the room. Athelstan and Cranston followed him, the friar fascinated by the man's swaying walk. He was about to nudge Cranston, congratulate him on his skills of persuasion, when he heard a sound and turned quickly. Two huge gaolers, with the bodies of apes and the faces of cruel mastiffs, padded silently behind them. Fitzosbert stopped and turned.

'Gog and Magog!' he sang out. 'They are my bodyguards, Sir John, my assistants in case I am attacked.'

Cranston's hand flew immediately to his sword. He pulled out the great blade, tapping the toe of his boot with it.

'This is my servant, Master Fitzosbert! May I remind you that I carry the king's warrant. If anything happens to me, it's treason!'

'Of course.' Fitzosbert's smile made him look more hideous than ever. They walked on, wandering through a warren of tortuous passageways where the noise and stench grasped Athelstan by the throat. He had heard that Newgate was a hell-hole but now he experienced it first hand and understood why some prisoners went quickly insane. There were many who talked and sang incessantly, whilst others, particularly the women, who knew they were not there for too long, refused to clean themselves and lay about like sows in their own filth. Deeper into the prison they walked, past one open chamber where the limbs of quartered men lay like joints of meat on a butcher's stall, waiting to be soaked with salt and cumin seed before being tarred. Deeper into the hell, Athelstan shivered, folding his arms into the voluminous sleeves of his robe. Mad faces pushed against the grilles in the doors, tortured ones begging for mercy. The guilty baying their hatred, the innocent quietly pleading for a hearing. At last Fitzosbert stopped at one cell door and clicked his fingers. One of the giants shuffled forward, a ring of keys in his huge fist. A key was inserted in the lock and the door opened. Fitzosbert whispered something and the giant nodded and pushed his way into the cell. They heard screams, kicks, the sickening thud of a punch, and the ogre roaring Solper's name. He reappeared, grasping the unfortunate by the scruff of his shabby collar. Fitzosbert went up to the prisoner and tapped him gently on the cheek.

'Master Solper, you are fortunate. You have important visitors. Someone I believe you know, Sir John Cranston, and his – ' he looked coyly at Athelstan ' – companion.'

The friar ignored him, staring at Solper. The prisoner was nothing remarkable: young, white-faced, and so filthy it was difficult to tell where one garment ended and another began.

'We need a chamber to talk to this man,' demanded Cranston.

The head keeper shrugged and led them back up a passageway to a cleaner empty cell. The door was left open. Cranston waved Solper to a seat.

'Master keeper!' he called.

Fitzosbert came back into the room and Cranston laid some silver on the table.

'Some wine, bread, and two of your cleanest cups!'

The head keeper scooped up the coins as deftly as any tax collector. A few minutes later one of the giant gaolers pushed back into the cell, carrying a tray with all Cranston had asked for. He placed it on the table and left slamming the door behind him. The young prisoner just sat nervously on a stool watching Athelstan. Cranston took one of the cups and a small white loaf and thrust them into his hands.

Well, Solper, we meet again.'

The man licked his lips nervously.

Cranston grinned wolfishly. 'You have been condemned?'

'Yesterday, before the Justices,' the young man squeaked in reply, his voice surprisingly high.

'On what charge?'

'Counterfeiting coins.'

'Ah, yes! Let me introduce you, Brother,' Cranston said. 'Master Solper, counterfeiter, thief, footpad and seller of relics. Two years ago, Master Solper could get you anything; a piece of cloth from the napkins used at the Last Supper, a hair from the beard of St Joseph, part of a toy once used by the Baby Christ. Master Solper has tried his hand at – well, God only knows! You are marked?'

The young man nodded and puUed down his dirty jerkin. Athelstan saw the huge 'F' branded into his right shoulder, proclaiming him a felon.

'Twice indicted, the third time caught,' Cranston intoned. 'You are due to hang, and yet you may evade justice.'

Athelstan saw the hope flare in the young man's eyes. He squirmed nervously on the stool.

'What do you want? What do I have to do?'

'The Sons of Dives, have you ever heard of them?'

The young man pulled a face.

'Have you or haven't you?'

'Yes, everybody has. In the guilds,' the young man continued, 'there are always small groups or societies prepared to lend money at high interest rates to the nobles or to other merchants. They take names and titles: the Keepers of the Gate, the Guardians of the Coffers.' He shrugged. 'The Sons of Dives are another group.'

'And their leader?'

'Springall, Sir Thomas Springall. He's well known.'

'Now, another matter.'

Cranston delved into a small leather pouch he had taken from his saddle-bag, undid the cord at the neck and drew out a small vase containing the poison he had taken from Springall's house. He unstoppered the jar and handed it over.

'Smell that!'

The young man gingerly lifted the rim to his nose, took one sniff, made a face and handed it back.

'Poison!'

'Good man, Solper, poison. This is the real reason I came, I half guessed who the Sons of Dives were. But if I wanted to buy poison, a rare exotic poison such as belladonna, crushed diamond or arsenic, where would I go?'

The young man looked across at Athelstan.

'Any monastery or friary has them. They are often used in the paints they mix for the illuminated manuscripts.'

'Ah, yes, but you can't very well knock on a monastery gate and say, "May I have some poison?" and expect the father abbot or prior to hand it over without a question. Without taking careful note of who you are, why you asked and what you want it for. So where else? The apothecary, Master Solper?'

Cranston eased his great bulk on the table. Athelstan watched nervously. The table, not being of the strongest, creaked and groaned in protest under his weight.

'Master Solper,' Cranston continued conversationally, 'I have come here offering you your life. Not much perhaps, but if you answer my questions I can arrange for a pardon to be sent down under the usual condition: that you abjure the realm. You know what that means? Straight as an arrow to the nearest port, secure a passage and go elsewhere. Anywhere – Outremer, France, Scythia, Persia – but not England, and certainly not London! You do understand?'