by Paul Doherty
‘Many others did,’ Cromer spoke up. ‘And we only did what the old King, his son and the other great lords told us to.’
‘Oh yes,’ Cranston agreed, ‘but you did it with relish.’
‘Terrible things.’ Falaise spoke up. He spread his hands. ‘We must all face the truth. We perpetrated hideous acts, so much so that I doubt if men like us can be redeemed, saved even by Christ’s blood.’
‘My husband thought the same,’ Alice said quietly. She smiled tearfully at Cranston and Athelstan. ‘He died a month ago of a wasting sickness. He truly believed God was punishing him for his sins.’
‘God doesn’t punish us,’ Athelstan replied, ‘our sins do.’
‘Well said, Friar,’ Father Ambrose declared, crossing himself. ‘But let me add, true the Flames of Hell waged war, most of us garbed in grey gowns with white masks on our faces and red wigs on our heads. Oh yes,’ he tapped the top of the table, ‘we were under the influence of the Oriflamme, who assumed command of our war barge.’ He pulled a face. ‘Or at least when we wanted him to.’ The priest lifted a hand. ‘However, I must make it very clear that I never went on certain expeditions, even though I became skilled in the French tongue and the Oriflamme asked me to.’
‘Ah yes, the Oriflamme.’ Cranston stared around. ‘Your leader?’
‘Yes and no,’ Falaise, his thin face all set and sour, retorted. ‘We elected our leader. We were a free company and we adopted the articles of war regarding fighting and plundering. Isn’t that true? We fought, we looted and we shared out our booty. True?’ Falaise pointed at Moleskin, who sat all solemn, his plump, bewhiskered face chapped raw by the river breezes, his narrow, close-set eyes screwed up in concentration.
‘That’s true,’ Moleskin nodded vigorously. ‘That’s true,’ he repeated. ‘Every three months we voted for our captain of war.’ He smiled and displayed a row of yellow, peg-like teeth. ‘In fact I was often elected.’
‘And?’
‘Well, Sir John, you know how it is.’
‘No, no Moleskin I don’t, that’s why I am asking you. I fought as a knight in the retinue of the Black Prince, as well as that of John of Gaunt, self-styled regent to our golden boy, Richard, the Black Prince’s son.’ The coroner’s words came in a rush, so passionate they even surprised Athelstan. ‘I was a knight,’ Cranston continued, ‘a warrior. I attacked the French in open battle or along castle walls. I did not—’
‘Plunder like we did?’ Desant, his flat face red with anger, small mouth twisted into a sneer, he showed no fear of the coroner as he glared back. Cranston did not react and Athelstan smiled to himself. The coroner liked nothing better than to provoke his opponent, as angry retorts could often be most valuable in searching for the truth.
‘Sir John,’ Desant continued, ‘you may well have been the perfect knight. We also did sterling work ambushing enemy supply wagons, laying waste their villages, seizing their crops.’
‘Oh, I know what Sir John means.’ Hornsby, a little mouse of a man, though one with strangely long, muscular arms, spoke up. The boatman smoothed his moustache with his fingers then scratched at an angry pimple on the end of his snub nose. ‘We were,’ Hornsby said slowly, ‘the Flames of Hell. We did things we should not have. And why? Because we fell into the hands of a real demon incarnate, the Oriflamme.’
‘How?’ Cranston asked.
‘We manned a war barge. We were mercenaries, a free company,’ Moleskin declared. ‘We sheltered in a tavern, an auberge, La Chèvre Dansante – The Dancing Goat.’ We camped there, ate, drank and divided our plunder. Then, one bright summer’s day, the Oriflamme appeared. He strode into the tavern—’
‘Disguised?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh yes,’ Moleskin replied. ‘He wore a fiery red wig, curled and thickened, hanging down to his shoulders, a white mask covering his face with holes and slits for eyes, mouth and nose.’
‘And his dress?’
‘Why, Brother Athelstan, you have said it. He wore a dress, a woman’s dress, grey coloured, hanging from neck to ankle.’
‘He must have been dismissed as ridiculous. Surely?’ Cranston asked. ‘Mocked and taunted?’
‘Two of our company tried that,’ Desant intervened. ‘We saw it all, didn’t we friends?’
‘Except me,’ Ambrose declared. ‘Remember, I joined your company after the Oriflamme appeared.’
‘But most of you met the Oriflamme that day?’ Athelstan stared around. ‘What happened then?’
‘It was early morning, Father,’ Falaise replied, ‘I remember it so well.’ He breathed. ‘A hideous apparition. A man garbed like a whore, he and his henchman.’
‘Henchman?’ Cranston demanded.
‘A veritable shadow,’ Moleskin murmured, ‘dressed the same, a mute who never spoke. He accompanied the Oriflamme, but not always. He served with his master in two or three of our expeditions into the countryside and that was all. We later asked the Oriflamme where he had gone? He just laughed, more of a sneer. He said he’d sent his henchman to lead another group, but we wondered if he’d killed him. Believe me Brother, the Oriflamme liked nothing better. He was a true blood-drinker.’
‘You were about to tell us what happened when you first met?’
‘On that first morning, Sir John?’
‘Oh yes!’
Moleskin glanced around and shrugged. ‘Two of our company burst out laughing. They ridiculed the Oriflamme’s appearance, stupid bastards! They were still sottish, mawmsy, after a night’s fierce drinking. Anyway, they got to their feet and continued mocking both our visitors; that was a terrible mistake. The Oriflamme asked them to desist. They refused. Knives were drawn.’ Moleskin snapped his fingers. ‘Sir John, I have seen true dagger men at work. The Oriflamme was the most skilled. He drew both sword and knife. Oh yes, he wore a warbelt around his waist. So swift,’ Moleskin closed his eyes, lost in his memories, ‘the Oriflamme was like a dancer; both those men died within a few heartbeats.’
‘Like lightning,’ Falaise added, ‘which appears in the east and strikes in the west. Faster than a falcon plunging or any bird on the wing. We didn’t do anything. We were not stupid. Those comrades had broken the rules of our free company. They had offered violence with no provocation or reason. They had drawn their weapons first and the Oriflamme simply defended himself, didn’t he?’
Moleskin murmured his agreement as he rocked himself backwards and forwards against the table. He opened his eyes and stared at Cranston.
‘What happened then?’ the coroner demanded.
‘The corpses were removed,’ Moleskin retorted. ‘The Oriflamme paid good silver for drinks to be served, then asked to speak to the entire company, and so he did. He promised to lead us on profitable expeditions and, believe me Sir John, he was true to his word. The Oriflamme seemed to know which churches, villages and châteaux were vulnerable to attack. He was fluent in French and he knew the Normandy countryside as if he was born and bred there.’ Moleskin blew his cheeks out. ‘He soon won our confidence. It was he who gave our war barge its name: blasphemous but true. God certainly wasn’t with us, the Oriflamme certainly was. He would appear once every ten days or so with fresh plans and plots. We were young, headstrong, the blood ran hot. We followed,’ Moleskin added bitterly, ‘like dogs would their master. We even copied the Oriflamme’s appearance: women’s dress, white face masks and those hideous red wigs. We became a truly frightening apparition, which swept through the Normandy countryside. We sailed our barge, closing in at nightfall, attacking at first light. We met some opposition, but the Oriflamme was a true fighter, a brave leader and a skilled swordsman. More importantly for us, he was extremely generous when it came to sharing out the plunder. He seemed to prefer killing to wealth.’
‘Before the Oriflamme arrived,’ Hornsby spoke up, ‘we only plundered. We stole from the French peasants and townspeople, but we let them be.’
‘The Oriflamme changed all that.’ Cromer leaned forward, jabbing a finger at
his companions. ‘We let him emerge as the demon he was, one of Satan’s angels, a true lord of Hell.’
‘Why so?’ Athelstan demanded.
‘He liked nothing more,’ Moleskin replied, ‘than to humiliate and kill any nubile woman who fell into his hands. He would abuse them and we’d find the poor wench hanging from a beam or branch with a red wig thrust down over her head.’
‘We tried to protest,’ Desant murmured, ‘but,’ he swallowed hard and glanced around, ‘let us be honest, he terrified all of us.’
‘Did you ever ask him why, the reason for the slaughter, the mockery, the red wig?’
‘Once I did,’ Moleskin replied. ‘The Oriflamme claimed he was exorcizing ghosts from the deep dark cellars of his own damned soul.’
‘And so what happened?’ Cranston asked.
‘He disappeared,’ Ambrose declared. ‘I joined the company of Le Sans Dieu,’ the priest glanced around disdainfully, ‘I refused to join any expedition led by the Oriflamme. In the end, he disappeared, and we were happy to be rid of him. We’d had a glut of his wickedness. Sick to the heart we were.’ The priest paused as Mistress Alice stretched across and squeezed his hand. Athelstan caught the look of deep tenderness in her eyes; a passing glance, though one not missed by the priest, who smiled back.
‘My husband,’ Alice withdrew her hand, ‘my late husband cursed the Oriflamme to his dying day.’ She dabbed her eyes, and again Athelstan caught her swift glance of tenderness at the priest. Athelstan smiled to himself and mentally beat his breast as he recalled his own deep affection, even love, for the beautiful Benedicta – so who was he to judge?
‘The Oriflamme was truly terrifying,’ Moleskin continued. ‘He seemed to be able to read our minds. If he sensed trouble was brewing in the company, he could sniff it out, isolate the grumblers and dissenters.’
‘And?’
‘He would kill them. Lawful execution, he termed it, in accordance with the articles of war. No one dared challenge him. As we have said, he gave our war barge its name and he ordered us to wear the same hideous garb as himself.’
‘And then he disappeared?’
‘Yes, Sir John, he did. Eventually the tide turned,’ Falaise explained. ‘French troops flooded into Normandy. Flotillas of French war barges crammed with soldiers and armed with culverin, cannon and slingshot appeared along the Seine. Our old King was falling into senility, his eldest son the Black Prince sick to the point of death, our generals young and inept. So we all came home. God knows where the Oriflamme or his henchmen, including the taverner – the one who owned The Dancing Goat – went. They just disappeared. We didn’t care. We desperately wanted to be back in London, safe and sound.’
‘Once home,’ Ambrose declared, ‘each to their own. I decided to enter the church, being accepted for ordination by the Bishop of London. Once a priest, I petitioned for the parish of St Olave’s, a small ancient church, a mere walk from here.’
‘It’s now the chapel, the meeting house of the Queenhithe sept of the Worshipful Guild of Barge- and Watermen,’ Mistress Alice declared proudly.
‘A happy place,’ Ambrose spread his hands. He drew a set of ave beads from his wallet, ‘I love my work, I—’
‘The Dancing Goat,’ Cranston brusquely declared, cutting across the priest whose serene expression swiftly soured as he glared at the coroner.
‘What about it?’ the priest snapped.
‘Its tavern master?’
‘Oh, Jacques Mornay.’
‘Yes, Master Moleskin. Tell me about him.’
The bargeman rubbed his hands. He glared blearily at his companions before turning back to the coroner. ‘Jacques Mornay,’ he began, ‘otherwise known as the Goat, a true devil of a soul, he always accompanied the Oriflamme’s expeditions into the Normandy countryside. A hideous-looking man, his head and face almost hidden by long hair and bushy moustache and beard. He was as cruel and as vicious as his master.’ Moleskin took a sip from his blackjack. ‘Some claimed his wits were turned, but he proved to be a nasty creature with evil heart and foul lusts. He hid his face as he did his soul.’
The company now sat silent. Athelstan repressed a shiver. Old sins, ancient crimes never disappeared, they simply bided their time and waited for harvest to come to fruition. Malignant roots with malevolent fruits and poisonous flowers. So it was with these prosperous guildsmen, trusted barge masters who had been privy to deep, dark wickedness. They could act all innocent, but their previous, unatoned sins were creeping like shadows out of the past, ready to embrace those responsible for them. The bargemen sat, Mistress Alice included, mouths slightly open, staring fixedly at the coroner who, like a herald, was summoning up their past.
‘I assure you,’ Moleskin spluttered, ‘we had nothing to do with the Goat. A midnight soul, close to the Oriflamme. When his master disappeared, so did he. But Sir John, why are we here? Why are we discussing these matters now?’
‘Well, we have these poor dead whores,’ Cranston replied. ‘Logic dictates that their murder might well be the work of the Oriflamme, who must have returned to London and be hiding here. Just as importantly, there’s the business of The Knave of Hearts, a royal cog and its crew utterly destroyed except, of course, for its master.’
‘Dorset,’ Moleskin broke in, ‘Reginald Dorset. He was also a member of our company. A good tiller-man. He, and his henchman Bramley, who served alongside him, once the war was over they returned to London, very skilled and experienced; they soon gained preferment at court.’
‘Patronized by no lesser a person,’ Cranston declared, ‘than Thibault, my Lord of Gaunt’s Master of Secrets, who entrusted Dorset and his cog with a special task.’
‘Which was?’ Father Ambrose asked.
‘That’s secret business,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Anyway, Dorset was the only survivor found floating, grasping a piece of charred timber. He died soon after the Fisher of Men’s retinue plucked him out of the water. However,’ Cranston eased himself in the chair, ‘before he died, Dorset gabbled about some hellish apparition wearing a white mask and a fiery, red wig which appeared on board The Knave of Hearts.’
Cranston poured some drink. Athelstan stared round; he was completely caught up in the twisting lines of the mystery the coroner was now describing whilst, at the same time, more than aware of the deepening fears of this group. They were desperate to discover the true reason for the Lord High Coroner’s questioning, and the possibility that they might have to confront the sins of their youth.
‘So,’ Cranston continued, ‘to go back down the passage of the years. The free company, your free company, retreats from Normandy. Le Sans Dieu was probably burnt and abandoned. You gather your plunder and flee. The Oriflamme and his two henchmen, one of whom was Jacques Mornay, vanish. Well, not exactly,’ the coroner added grimly. ‘I have received fresh intelligence about that felon’s activities during the great English retreat towards Calais. The Oriflamme and his henchmen perpetrated more outrages. For all I know, these may have included some of you. The Oriflamme apparently attacked a remote château, one of those great houses out in the woods of Normandy, hidden from view and only approached by twisting lanes. Now its châtelaine was a young, beautiful countess, Madeline de Clisson. The Oriflamme and his henchmen cruelly violated both her and her maid after they had slaughtered the few old retainers who resisted.’ Cranston drew a deep breath. ‘Madeline survived long enough to tell everything to her father, the Vicomte Pierre de Clisson, who is now a high-ranking member of the French King’s Secret Chancery.’
‘Oh sweet heaven,’ Father Ambrose breathed.
‘I was not there,’ Moleskin protested. ‘None of us were, were we?’
A chorus of agreement rang out.
‘Whatever,’ Cranston continued drily, ‘the Vicomte now directs the Luciferi, the servants of the French King’s Secret Chancery, led by a mutual friend of mine, or he is now, Hugh Levigne, the Candlelight-Master. Now my friends,’ Cranston continued sarcastically, ‘Levigne is
in London. Let me make this very clear. He is not interested in you or others, but he has petitioned my Lord of Gaunt, and Master Thibault in particular, that if the Oriflamme and his henchmen, especially the taverner Jacques Mornay, be hiding here in England, that all such criminals be arrested and handed over to the French Crown. Once in Paris, these criminals would be tried and punished for their dreadful crimes, in particular the rape and murder of Madeline de Clisson. Now the depredations of the free companies in France are notoriously well known. The Luciferi have no mandate to pursue you, but they are determined that the Oriflamme should hang on the great gallows at Montfaucon.’
‘But is the Oriflamme in London?’ Moleskin demanded. ‘Is he here with his henchmen? Sir John, you do not know, neither do we.’
‘Ah yes, but once he was your leader, Master Moleskin. Perhaps he will drift back to you. But, there again, as I have said, the Luciferi do not pursue you, though they might show a deep interest in who you are and what you do. They are mailed clerks, skilled in the matters of the chancery, but also in the use of arms, be it on the tournament field or dagger play along the alleyways. Monseigneur Levigne is not threatening. Indeed, he has said that he will reward any help you may wish to give.’ Cranston paused. ‘You are in no danger. You are followers rather than leaders, yet walk carefully. The secret chancery at the Louvre is hot in its desire to capture the Oriflamme and his henchmen. They have offered gold as well as the release of English prisoners if the criminals they hunt are handed over. Master Thibault, as he says, is aware of the grander picture. Neither he nor his master wants war with France and, if Englishmen have to be hanged in Paris, so be it. Gentlemen,’ Cranston scraped back his chair, ‘be careful, be prudent, for you live in very dangerous times.’