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swore to be his man body and soul, in peace and war. I served him in France, where my brother and I witnessed the aftermath of the massacre at LeCorbeil.’
    ‘You also won numerous ransoms to build your fortune.’
    ‘As did many.’
    ‘You saw Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orleans, burnt in Rouen?’
    ‘I was a stripling at the time.’
    ‘Then you came home to build your empire in London, strongly supported by Beaufort. I mean, until his mysterious death. Suicide?’ Sevigny cocked his head to one side. ‘You must know the rumour? How John Beaufort, first Duke of Somerset, was recalled in disgrace from France and replaced by Richard of York. Some people say he could not accept the humiliation and took his own life.’ Sevigny paused. ‘They also say that a dead crow was found near his corpse, just like your brother’s.’
    ‘I believe Beaufort could have been murdered.’
    ‘Of course you would.’ Sevigny nodded. ‘You would believe the best of him, wouldn’t you, as I do of York. I was the only son of doting parents.’ Sevigny’s face abruptly changed; just for a fleeting moment, a deep sadness softened his hard expression. ‘They held manor and meadow from the Duke of York. During the early, tumultuous days of Beaufort’s regency, the manor was attacked; my parents were murdered. York took me into his household. He hunted down my parents’ murderers and hanged them before Micklegate Bar in York. He also educated me at Fountains Abbey, then the halls of Oxford. So we have a great deal in common, Master Roseblood: both loyal servants to our lords.’
    ‘Put not your trust in princes,’ Eleanor’s voice thrilled from the Swan’s-Nest, ‘nor your confidence in the war chariots of Egypt, nor the swift horses of Assyria. Blessed be the Lord God of Israel who prepares my arms for battle and trains my hands for war…’
    ‘My good sister-in-law, Eleanor,’ Simon murmured. ‘She heard your words. This church has a strange echo.’
    ‘Ah yes, the recluse, the anchorite. Why is she so?’
    ‘Master Sevigny, that is her business, not yours, and I am very busy. I have listened to you long enough. Why are you here?’
    ‘They say you are a dangerous man, Simon,’ Sevigny answered blithely. ‘A taverner, a vintner, an alderman, but also lord of the dunghill and the latrine. The knight of the night soil. You control the scavengers who swarm through the filthy alleys of London. They clean the guts, filth and bloody rubbish of the shambles. They pile the dirt of the city into muck hills and middens.’
    ‘And?’ Roseblood demanded.
    ‘You have spies in every ward, Master Simon. Your minions of the mollocks collect the gossip, spread the rumours and fan the flames. Your adherents jostle, mix and crackle with the rest of the mob.’
    Sevigny wiped the sweat from his upper lip. Simon smiled to himself; this clerk might claim to know a great deal about him, but he did not understand him. Never once had Sevigny managed to provoke him. The clerk turned away. Simon was sure he was trying to compose himself.
    ‘Master Sevigny, I am waiting.’ Simon deliberately kept his voice light. ‘We have danced and curtseyed, flattered and threatened. Now, your business or I walk away.’
    Sevigny opened the door to the chantry chapel. ‘Master Walter!’ he shouted. The scribe hurried out of the shadows, head down, one hand held high. ‘Serve it!’
    The scribe thrust a warrant, folded and sealed, into Simon’s hand.
    ‘Master Simon Roseblood,’ Sevigny declared, ‘you stand accused of treason, robbery, murder and other heinous felonies. You are summoned by lawful writ to present yourself at the Guildhall in two days’ time, before the market bell sounds, when a true bill of indictment will be laid against you.’ Sevigny let the legal terms roll off his tongue. ‘A jury will assemble and you will be indicted to appear before a special commission of oyer and terminer sitting in the same Guildhall. For the moment,’