by Paul Doherty
The Fisher of Men slouched fast asleep in his great throne-like chair on the prow of his barge. They had combed the river, but found it deserted by both the living and the dead. The only ship they had passed was the war cog, The Knave of Hearts. The Fisher of Men had decided that it was time to rest and, with a chafing dish on a cushion in his lap, he had fallen asleep to dream about his warrior days under a burning sun, fighting in Outremer for the glory of God and the advancement of Holy Mother Church. In his dream, the Fisher could almost feel the cloying warmth of both sun and desert. He relaxed, sinking deeper, when he was roughly awakened. He opened his eyes; his henchman Ichthus was shaking him by the shoulders, pointing back downriver, making signs in the glare of the lanternhorn placed on the deck beside him. The Fisher watched intently until he fully understood what Ichthus was describing.
‘My friend you are claiming to have heard a sound like thunder and seen the brightness of a flash of lightning?’
Ichthus nodded in reply, his fish-like face breaking into a grin. Using his long fingers, he begged his master to turn the barge around. The Fisher peered into the murk behind him. He was tempted to ignore his henchman’s request, but Ichthus was very rarely wrong. The Fisher of Men got to his feet, bellowing at Hackum, leader of the Seraphim, as the crew were called, that they should rest on their oars. The order was passed down and the barge ceased its thrust through the water, rising and falling on the swell, buffeted and pushed by the icy, cold river wind.
‘Turn the barge around,’ the Fisher ordered, ‘we will go back. Ichthus, watch to port. I will look to starboard.’
The barge turned. The Seraphim, bending over their oars, forced the great barge back along the way they had tacked. The Fisher stared into the darkness. Ichthus stood at the rail opposite, watching the waters, ready to detect anything amiss. The Fisher was inclined to dismiss Ichthus’s declaration as a mistake, when he glimpsed a piece of wood, still slightly smoking, clatter into the side of the barge before it drifted away. Ichthus made those strange sounds in his throat and the Fisher glanced over; his henchman had seen the same. The barge ploughed on, its prow cutting the swirling mist; then both fog and night seemed to disappear. The mist parted. The Fisher stared in astonishment at the blazing mass of timbers being swept backwards and forwards by the river. He glimpsed part of a sail, a shattered mast, strips of cordage and planks along which flames still danced above the cold water.
‘In heaven’s name,’ he whispered, ‘The Knave of Hearts – or what it used to be.’
The Fisher heard one of the Seraphim call out, so he crossed to stand beside Ichthus. There was a man in the water, drifting towards the light of the lantern hanging on the side of the barge. The Fisher rapped out orders. Long poles with hooks were brought and the Seraphim skilfully pulled both man and the plank he was clinging to closer, until they could reach down and pluck him out of the water. They laid him gently along the gangway between the rowing benches, Hackum ordering the Seraphim to man the oars and keep their barge as steady as possible. The Fisher crouched down and stared at this survivor. He cleaned the dirt and water from the man’s face and gently turned his head, noticing the grievous wound, a deep cleft in the man’s skull.
‘In heaven’s name,’ the Fisher breathed, ‘it’s Reginald Dorset, master of The Knave of Hearts!’
He asked for the lantern to be brought closer, took the small wineskin from a hook on his belt, and tried to force it between Dorset’s lips, though he sensed the master was past all help, his life-blood trickling out of both nose and mouth. Dorset’s eyelids fluttered as he coughed on the wine. He made to speak but then his body began to shake; the man was clearly dying. The Fisher leaned closer.
‘What happened?’ he whispered in Dorset’s ear. ‘In heaven’s name, tell me. Was it an accident?’
‘The snares of death have me,’ Dorset gasped back. ‘Ghosts from the past.’ He flailed a hand and grasped the Fisher’s wrist just above the gauntlet. ‘You never ever escape your sins,’ Dorset muttered. ‘Do you understand, never! Hell’s own messenger appeared on my ship, a red-haired demon, garbed like a woman with a painted white face. He’s been waiting. Now he has come to take my soul, as he has all the souls who sailed with me.’
‘Hush now man.’ The Fisher prised Dorset’s tight grip from his wrist. ‘We will take you back to Queenhithe. A good leech or physician …’ The Fisher tried not to look at the deep cleft in the man’s skull as he attempted to comfort the dying Dorset with a lie, ‘A leech, a skilled physician,’ he repeated, ‘will tend to your wounds.’
‘I need a priest,’ Dorset blurted back. ‘I want a priest to shrive my soul as I am bound for judgement.’
‘In which case,’ the Fisher replied, ‘let us recite the Mercy Psalm. “Have mercy on me oh God,” he intoned, “in your great kindness. In your infinite compassion …”’
The Fisher continued to move from verse to verse, but he was only halfway through, reaching the line ‘in guilt was I conceived, a sinner I was born’, when Dorset began to tremble and shake in his death throes. The Fisher hastily sketched a cross on the dying man’s cheek, then held his hand as Reginald Dorset, master of the King’s cog, slipped into death.
Once he was certain the man was dead, the Fisher rose to his feet, telling the Seraphim to sail round the paltry wreckage and keep their eyes keen for any more survivors, or indeed anything from the doomed cog. They spent hours doing so, but the Fisher and his crew failed to detect anything except shards of burning wood, their flames dying as the river washed over them. The Fisher could only stand on the prow, staring into the dark, and wonder how a war cog like The Knave of Hearts, could be obliterated as if fire had erupted from the bowels of hell to engulf the entire ship.
The grotesque known as the Oriflamme walked along the stinking, dirty passageway of the derelict house on the corner of Slops Alley. Dawn was about to break, the first light appearing against the darkness. The Oriflamme measured his steps carefully. He felt tired after his return from the Thames, but he needed to think, to reflect. He tried to curb the rage seething within him. He had been tricked and duped but, in his tangled mind, the game was not yet over. He walked along the narrow, paved gallery, garbed in his nightmare costume; the red wig pulled tight over his head, a white mask hiding his face, and a woman’s grey gown disguising his body. He carried an arbalest just in case, though he knew few people would come to this ruined house which, most deservedly, had the horrid reputation of being haunted by malevolent ghosts.
‘And you are correct,’ the Oriflamme agreed as he entered the shabby, derelict solar and stared up at the beams, ‘it is truly ghost-ridden.’ He lifted the lanternhorn he carried and glimpsed the shards of rope, still clinging to the wood, where he had fastened the nooses. He recalled that day, the sheer enjoyment of watching those two bitches choke to death. They had so much to answer for! The Oriflamme crouched, still staring up at the rafters, ears keen for any sound. He closed his eyes and recalled those glorious days in Normandy. He’d thought such times were finished but they were not. He opened his eyes, staring through the gaps of his mask and felt a fresh stab of rage. The French were in London. There were rumours about why they were here and whom they were hunting. He now regretted his mistake. He should have cut that châtelaine’s throat; with one swift slash she would have been silenced forever. But now what could he do? He’d taken his revenge and would do so again, though he’d be careful. De Clisson had been a mistake and so had The Knave of Hearts. He’d been misled and duped.
The Oriflamme heard a sound and stiffened. Was there someone else in this haunted house? He had not told anyone to meet him here. Again the sound from one of the chambers upstairs. The Oriflamme rose to his feet. The arbalest he carried was primed. He left the solar, ignoring the squeak and scurry of the rats and other vermin. Softly he climbed the stairs. The sound was now distinct. The place was cloaked in darkness, yet he knew every inch of this damnable house. He paused at the top of the stairs and listened. He was cor
rect. Snoring, snuffling sounds came from the chamber to the right, its door hanging crookedly on battered hinges. The Oriflamme slipped across the dusty gallery and into the room. He glimpsed a shape in the far corner; someone struggling to rise. The Oriflamme, lithe as a cat, hurried across and crouched down. Despite the poor light, he made out the wizened features of a beggar woman.
‘Who are you?’ the old crone whispered hoarsely.
The Oriflamme did not reply. Instead, he rose to his feet and pulled back the battered shutter across one of the windows. The darkness thinned and he studied the old crone, now standing, shoulders hunched, hands hanging down by her side.
‘I came here,’ she whined, ‘I came here because I used to clean here.’
‘Of course you did.’ The Oriflamme murmured. ‘Brunhild, aren’t you? You are Flemish? You worked for the wicked harridans who managed this house? Free with your hands. You used sharp-quilled brushes to smack the poor children. Do you remember Brunhilda?’
The old woman took a step forward. ‘Cold I was.’ She moaned. ‘Always cold. Very few people come here so I thought I’d take some warmth. Who are you? Why are you dressed like that? It brings back memories.’ She staggered back as the Oriflamme raised the arbalest.
‘I should hang you,’ he muttered, ‘but the hour is passing and a new day awaits. I have certain business to attend to. Important matters to be settled. However, I will send you to a warmer place.’
Lifting the arbalest a little higher, the Oriflamme pointed it directly and released the catch, watching the barbed quarrel hiss through the air to catch the old woman deep in her throat. She crumpled to the floor as the blood gushed out. The Oriflamme watched her shake and tremble before turning her over with the toe of his boot. He peered down at her glassy, dead stare. ‘One small comfort,’ he whispered, ‘at least the night has not been totally without profit. Now I have that other business …’ The Oriflamme primed the crossbow with a fresh bolt, left the chamber and hastened downstairs. He went up and down the passageways checking other rooms – the squalid kitchen, the filth-ridden buttery – before returning to the solar and the basket he’d hidden away there. He opened this and stared at the severed heads of the two men he’d killed the previous day. ‘So it’s time for you to go,’ he murmured. He picked the basket up and walked back through the kitchen, out into the derelict overgrown garden at the back of the house. The entire place reeked of the midden heap, a rank stench from the great, open sewer at the far end of the garden, which cut across the alleyway beyond. The Oriflamme emptied the basket then kicked both heads, as if they were pieces of dirt, into the mouth of the sewer, forcing them further down with a pole he’d found lying close by. Once satisfied, the Oriflamme threw the basket into the darkness. He wiped his hands on his grey gown and stared up at the lightening sky. ‘Ah well,’ he whispered, ‘it’s time to return.’
Athelstan, Dominican parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, braced himself for another day as he sat staring at his parish council. Sometimes Athelstan believed he served this parish because of his many sins, yet in truth he loved the people seated before him. A real paradox, as he had confessed to his good friend and companion, Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London. Athelstan firmly believed that he was in for a memorable day. He could sense that in the heart of his being. He’d glimpsed mischief in the faces of his flock and wondered what was about to be revealed. He had risen early that briefly beautiful but chilly morning. He had recited a prayer, crossed himself, washed and shaved at the lavarium, then dressed in his Dominican robes. He had gone out into the dark and opened the church, before returning to the priest’s house to feed both himself and his constant dining companion, the great, one-eyed tomcat Bonaventure, who had adopted Athelstan as his lifelong friend. After breaking his fast, Athelstan had returned to the sanctuary of his church and, with Bonaventure crouching beside him, had softly chanted matins and lauds. Once finished, the friar had prepared to celebrate his Jesus Mass. The church bell had tolled its summons and his parishioners duly assembled yet, even as they trooped through the door, Athelstan felt trouble was brewing. During the Mass, the parishioners remained in a tight knot around Watkin the dung-seller, leader of the parish council, and his not so loyal henchman, the narrow-faced Pike the Ditcher. Both of these worthies flanked Joscelyn the one-armed former river pirate, now the honest minehost of The Piebald tavern. This rather majestic hostelry stood close to the church and, in Athelstan’s view, was the fermenting pot of a whole host of mischief in the parish. Mischief! Mischief! The friar grimaced, that’s what he could sense. A pot of mischief was being swiftly brewed and brought to the boil.
Athelstan had prepared himself against the approaching tumult by concentrating on his Mass and the sacrifice of Christ’s body and blood. The parishioners had celebrated the Eucharist, listened to the readings and bowed their heads for the final blessing. Now the liturgy was over, the parish council had gathered to do business. Watkin and his coven squatted on benches either side of Athelstan, who sat enthroned in the ornately carved celebrant’s chair. The door to the rood screen behind the friar had been deliberately left open. Athelstan wanted to remind his parishioners that they were in God’s holy place, and across the sanctuary winked the pyx light burning to signify Christ’s bodily presence amongst them.
Athelstan sighed, blessed himself, and intoned the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’. Once finished, he forced a smile as he stared at his parishioners, who simply gazed back. They were wary of this gentle little friar with his nut-brown face, full mouth and large soft eyes. They truly loved their priest. He had proved himself to be a true pastor who cared for his flock, not just the fleece. A man who revelled in their lives. True, he had his strange, eccentric ways. A friar who climbed to the top of their church tower to study the stars. Yet, at the same time, he was a priest who would spend nights by a parishioner’s sickbed. Athelstan was a cleric who quietly mocked himself and lived the true life of a poor brother.
Nevertheless, there was another Athelstan. The Dominican who was Sir John Cranston’s chancery clerk. He accompanied the larger-than-life Cranston on all his forays to unmask and trap those sons and daughters of Cain. Murderers and assassins who struck others down, then tried to hide from the consequences of their hideous sin. The parish council had heard of their little priest’s exploits, as they had learnt about his fiery temper, when a red mist would descend and Athelstan would give vent to the anger boiling within him. Occasionally, though very rarely, they had glimpsed the same here in St Erconwald’s. They were always vigilant about that. As Watkin had once declared, ‘If you unleash the tempest, we must face the storm.’ On that cold November morning, with the church turning warm in the glow of the braziers, the parishioners wondered how their priest would accept their latest revelation.
‘Well!’ Athelstan decided to break the silence. He raised a hand. ‘Our parish council is now in session. Oh, by the way.’ Athelstan pointed towards Cecily the courtesan, who sat all pert and coy next to her equally voluptuous sister Clarissa. ‘I am aware of your concerns,’ Athelstan reassured her, ‘but now is not the time. We have other matters.’
‘But the corpses?’ Cecily wailed. ‘Stripped naked, cruelly stabbed, and those wigs all flaming red. It’s disgusting. We sisters of the night—’
‘Listen to Father,’ Mauger the bell clerk thundered. Parish clerk and keeper of the purse, Mauger nursed a deep dislike for Cecily and her sister. Athelstan secretly suspected that the bell clerk had made advances to both these ladies of the twilight and been rejected. Two women who spent most of their time, or so Mauger would have him believe, lying down in the cemetery more often than many a corpse. Others now joined in the argument being waged over whether Cecily should be allowed to speak or not. Athelstan stood up and clapped his hands until he had the silence he demanded.
‘Let there be order,’ he declared. ‘Now,’ the friar pointed at Mauger, ‘what is the first item of business on the council scroll?’
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��Roughkin,’ Mauger snapped, still glaring at Cecily. ‘Roughkin,’ he repeated. ‘Once taverner in this parish, former owner of the The Piebald, mortuary-keeper to our former priest who is now the permanent resident of plot 306 in God’s Acre outside.’ Mauger’s declaration caused general amusement and Athelstan heaved a sigh of relief as the tension lessened.
‘And so what now?’ Athelstan demanded.
Mauger sat down as Watkin, shuffling his muddy boots, rose to his feet, fat thumbs stuck in the broad dung-collectors’ guild belt strapped around his bulging stomach. Face flushed, lips jutting, he stepped forward.
‘Senlac,’ Watkin rasped. ‘Senlac, Roughkin’s son, arrived in our parish three days after All Hallows. He lodged all friendly at the The Piebald, which made us suspicious.’
‘Why?’ Athelstan demanded.
‘Because, Brother, he also lodges in Catskill Street, which lies within this parish.’
‘So he took up residence here, though he is not a gospel greeter?’
‘In a word, yes, Father. Apparently Senlac was a former soldier in the Earl of Arundel’s array, but who gives a damn about his past? Senlac has now returned from his travels abroad.’
‘And so?’
‘Well, Father. Shortly after he lodged at the The Piebald, we became most curious when Senlac was glimpsed walking the tavern examining little crevices and hidden places.’