by Paul Doherty
PART THREE
In media vitae sumus in morte: In the midst of life we are in death
Athelstan sat in his stone-flagged kitchen, which also served as his solar, chancery, meeting room, whatever he wished to call it. Athelstan glanced to his left. He glimpsed the tidy bedloft, the sheets and counterpanes freshly washed, thanks to Pike the Ditcher’s wife. The stone-flagged floor had been scrubbed, as had the table top, as well as every other empty surface. The small priest’s house still reeked of the pine juice his parishioners had so liberally used. Nevertheless, the house was clean, warmed by capped braziers, their smoke fragranced with herbs, whilst the fire roared in the mantled hearth, its flames greedily licking the dry wood and scattered charcoal. Bonaventure loved the fire. The great one-eyed tomcat now lay sprawled as imperiously as any emperor of Rome. Athelstan picked up a sharpened quill pen and stared into the fire. He was not really tired, just agitated by the events of the day. Athelstan constantly reminded his good friend the coroner that every individual man or woman is first and foremost a spiritual being. The friar passionately believed this, as he did that today his soul had confronted true wickedness. This evil now shadowed his spirit and threatened his peace of mind, like some savage animal hiding deep in the shadows but waiting, watching, ready to pounce. So what had caused all this? Athelstan dipped his pen into the night-black ink and began to write.
‘Item: the parish treasure. Years ago Roughkin, owner of The Piebald tavern, keeper of the death house here at St Erconwald’s and parish gravedigger, had mysteriously disappeared. The same could be said for Roughkin’s son Senlac, who allegedly might have joined the King’s array. Apparently Roughkin was an enigmatic, lonely man who had little time for his neighbour. Indeed, the taverner, along with his hostelry, enjoyed a rather sinister reputation, though it was difficult to establish why. Item: Roughkin had been described as a miser, a man who had amassed considerable wealth and, again, according to gossip, hid that wealth either in The Piebald, St Erconwald’s church, or the great stretch of God’s Acre around it. Rumour and parish gossip undoubtedly enhanced the stories about such hidden treasure. Item: all such stories had come to fruition when Roughkin’s son Senlac recently reappeared, vainly searching for a chart or map which was eventually discovered in The Piebald.’
Athelstan opened his chancery satchel and took out the document he’d plucked from Joscelyn’s fingers. He traced the words, ‘Angels stare down at earth’s treasure.’ Athelstan then studied the oval drawings containing those small rectangles in a square ten by ten. Some of these contained triangles. And that was it. A roughly etched chart with doggerel Latin and mysterious symbols. Was it genuine, Athelstan wondered, or just a mischievous jest by the enigmatic Roughkin? ‘Item: Master Senlac. A former soldier who now returned to the parish he’d been brought up in. A secretive, mysterious individual.’
Athelstan truly believed that Senlac had not told him the truth. ‘You are a mummer so there’s more to you,’ Athelstan asserted, glancing up, ‘than meets the eye.’
The friar shook his head. He had the deepest reservations about Senlac. Crim and Harold Hairlip had kept the new arrival under close scrutiny, as the friar had instructed them. However, when Athelstan returned from his meeting with Cranston, both boys could tell him little about the man they had watched for most of the day. Senlac had apparently moved back into Southwark recently. At first he’d stayed at a decaying tavern, The Owlpen, before journeying on to The Piebald.
‘Item: the recent meeting at The Leviathan. The past had certainly caught up with those present. Years ago the bargemen served as a free company on a war barge named Le Sans Dieu – “The Godless”. The company soon assumed a more terrifying reputation, their enemies calling them the “Flames of Hell”. Like all mercenaries, Moleskin and his companions were greedy for plunder, the wealth rather than the lives of their enemy. The mysterious Oriflamme, who assumed leadership over the company, had changed all this. A true killer, deeply feared by his own men, the Oriflamme enjoyed inflicting horror upon horror upon some hapless, female captive; he’d been eager to bedeck them with same fiery red wig he sported himself.’
Athelstan paused in his writing and listened to the noises of the night. There was a roar in the wind which had persisted since darkness fell. Athelstan felt an abrupt jab of fear, as if some malevolent spirit had passed by, brushing his soul. He imagined the Oriflamme with his white mask and macabre wig. Such an apparition seemed to haunt him. The friar found it difficult to ignore this visitor from Hell. Why?
Athelstan abruptly glanced up at the crucifix nailed above the hearth. He’d seen such an apparition in his past, something similar. What was it? Athelstan racked his memory, then sighed, smiling to himself. That was it! Athelstan recalled meeting a Coptic priest who had made pilgrimage through Egypt into Ethiopia, a much-travelled man who loved to collect whatever took his fancy. Athelstan had met similar wanderers. Indeed, it was becoming fashionable for people to travel here and there, bringing back wonders; be it objects they’d collected or descriptions of what they’d seen. This particular traveller owned an ancient manuscript, which he’d brought to England and presented as a gift to Father Prior at the Dominican motherhouse of Blackfriars across the Thames. The librarian there had allowed a curious Athelstan to pore over the manuscript, explaining how the parchment was rare, some form of papyrus, strong and lasting so it could resist the corruption of the years. The librarian also explained, as far as he could, some of the mysterious drawings, winged bulls and other exotic creatures. One drawing had immediately caught Athelstan’s attention, and he became fascinated by the librarian’s explanation of it. The picture in question depicted a black-skinned man with silver-sandaled feet, his body adorned with the most gorgeous necklaces, rings and pendants. This creature had staring, bulbous eyes and, though his skin was black, his face was snow-white, his hair thick and red as any whore’s wig in London. The librarian explained in hushed tones how this was Seth, the ancient Egyptian God of the Underworld, the left-handed destroyer, hence the blood-red hair and white face. The forerunner, or so the librarian explained, of Holy Mother Church’s teaching on the Lord Satan and the powers of Hell.
Athelstan now recalled this, and wondered if the same knowledge, or something like it, had inspired the Oriflamme, whoever he might be. Or was it something else? A scar on the soul inflicted during childhood? The great Augustine argued how every human soul housed a collection of emotions, experiences and memories, be they good or bad. More importantly, these hidden feelings would eventually manifest themselves. Did this explain that hideously bizarre figure that had appeared in that French tavern, The Dancing Goat, so many years ago? A truly evil soul who drew others, such as the owner of that hostelry, into his web of wickedness? But that was the past. Had the Oriflamme survived to crawl like the monster he was out of the darkness again? But why? And why now? Was the grotesque’s reappearance connected to the presence in London of the Luciferi and their desire to seize the Oriflamme so he could be punished for his horrid crimes? Indeed, the slaughter of young whores and the degradation of their corpses almost seemed a challenge both to the power of France and that of the English Crown. Surely, it was more than a coincidence that the Oriflamme had re-emerged at the very time the French began their hunt for him? It almost seemed as if this killer was mocking them; that he revelled in what he was doing and what he had done.
Athelstan recalled the corpse he and Cranston had inspected and repressed a shiver. Yes, there was something deeply frightening about what he’d seen and heard today. A cloying fear now clung to him. He had experienced the same as a young boy in his father’s cellar. He’d go down and crawl amongst the shiny, wax-sealed pots as he searched for a particular one. He was always mindful of the silvery gleam of the bats which nested close by, hanging from the beams, watchful and waiting, ready to take flight.
‘You are frightening yourself,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘I must calm my soul, soothe my mind.’ He pushed away the memorandum he’d
been drawing up and pulled across the ledger of the parish council. He opened the leather tome and sifted through its parchment leaves. Mugwort the parish bell clerk had a good hand, and he’d already listed the items for the following day. Athelstan mentally groaned as he reached an entry about Judith the Mummer wanting to stage an Advent mystery play around the life of Herod the Great! Such mummery always brought out the worst in his parishioners, as they fought each other over the different roles and tasks. Watkin and Pike would certainly vie for the part of Herod.
‘Oh Lord save us,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Why on earth did Judith choose Herod?’ He returned to the ledger, noting with wry amusement how Mugwort had commented on Watkin, Pike and others. These parish worthies had drifted away from their various daily tasks to survey God’s Acre and carefully inspect different headstones and funeral crosses. ‘Treasure hunters,’ Athelstan whispered. Mugwort had also described how Watkin and company had become embroiled in a rather strident confrontation with Godbless. Apparently, the beggar man had wailed long and loud about the past breaking through. How ghosts had come to confront him and that he and his pet goat should be left alone. In the end, Godbless was reduced to screaming and shouting in a gibberish no one could understand, before retreating back into the old death house, slamming the door shut in the face of other parishioners.
Athelstan rose, stretched, and went to crouch by Bonaventure, still toasting himself by the roaring fire. Athelstan listened to the wind rattling in the chimney stack. He recited an ave, stroked Bonaventure and went back to the parish ledger. Mugwort’s entry about Godbless was echoed by Benedicta’s concern at the beggar man’s behaviour. She had been waiting for Athelstan to return and informed him immediately. Apparently, Godbless had wandered into the nave of the church and prostrated himself before the rood screen, shouting words which Benedicta couldn’t understand. Eventually she had managed to calm the poor soul, bringing him a jug of ale and a platter of bread from The Piebald. Athelstan decided that tomorrow he would meet Godbless and question him closely. He pushed the ledger aside and grasped his psalter. He would finish his divine office and then take a well-earned sleep.
‘The devils are coming,’ Godbless confided to his sole bosom friend, Thaddeus the Younger. The goat simply kept on eating, crouching close next to its master. Godbless ran his dirty fingers across the coarse skin of the young goat. ‘Doors are bursting open,’ Godbless continued. ‘All sorts of doors, Thaddeus: gateways to the past. Tunnels along which demons can slink. Holes where monsters fall through.’ Godbless ran his tongue around his dry, cracked lips as he stared up at the eerie, much faded paintings on the ceiling of the death house. Godbless often studied those, but he could not make out what they meant. Nevertheless, he was certain that demons nestled there, like a horde of bats waiting to take flight. Godbless wondered if that would happen tonight. After all, everything else was breaking down. The beggar man was deeply worried. He was trying to recall where he had come from, where had he been born? What had happened to his life? Why the memories, and why did strange words echo through his poor, tangled brain? Why did he think, as he always did, that some of the people he met in St Erconwald’s, he had seen before in a previous life? Sometimes he could hear voices speaking a language he could not understand, and yet he should. Deeply frightened, Godbless clutched Thaddeus so tightly that the little goat whimpered.
‘I hold on to you, Thaddeus, and I stay here in my cottage, I will be safe.’
Godbless nodded to himself. He must guard this old death house; his great friend and protector Brother Athelstan had told him to do that. The friar had instructed him to be most vigilant so that witches and warlocks did not flock here like carrion crow, to dig up old graves and use the bones of the dead for their midnight rites. Godbless extended his hands towards the fire crackling in the small hearth. He now felt warm. The cemetery outside provided enough kindling and bracken, both for the fire and for the two rusty old braziers glowing either side of the chimney stack. Godbless patted his stomach and stared at the empty platter and tankard on the floor beside him. Benedicta had brought them earlier in the day, both tankard and ale jug were now empty. Godbless was grateful. He closed his eyes. What had he done today? He recalled Benedicta staring anxiously at him, but he couldn’t tell her why he was so agitated, with so many voices and faces appearing from the past. Nevertheless, Godbless was grateful for her concern. He felt calmer even though he kept remembering disturbing visions, about sailing on choppy waters or walking through woodland flanked either side by flitting shadows. Who were they? Where was that place? Why did he keep seeing that ghost, or one of them, wandering around St Erconwald’s?
Godbless recognized the world he now lived in; he was aware that it was different from others. All kinds of dire apparitions appeared to him. Cruel, bold and big-headed maggots prowled around him, slimy creatures hunted by yellow, great-jawed monsters. Sometimes at night he glimpsed bent, bony wasps swarming in hordes over sharp-snouted flies and inky-black scorpions. Faces came and went. Voices called in tongues Godbless did not understand. Sometimes he did, as he stumbled across the blighted landscape of his soul, with its fiery streams pouring across a bare, burning plain under a black-red sky. Yet he was safe here. Brother Athelstan had told him that. The death house stood on consecrated ground. Was that true? The beggar man stared down at the ancient paving stones which covered the floor of his cottage. Godbless knew each of them. He could tell the differences between some and others which bore strange etchings on the corner. He wondered what these symbols meant. Godbless scratched his head. Now it was night. The cemetery outside lay quiet. No sound could be heard, except for the usual screeching and rustling of the night birds and the small, slithering creatures which crawled out once darkness fell. No warlock or witch had lit their hellish fires. Godbless could hear no chanting or murmured invitations to the sinister Lords of the Air. Abruptly frightened, as if caught by an icy breeze, Godbless stretched down and rubbed one of the paving stones. He wondered if the strange carvings were warnings against demons and other evil spirits, especially those blue-faced, red-eyed hags who sometimes winged their way through here and floated out across the cemetery.
Godbless recalled his promise to Brother Athelstan that he would guard the cemetery. He tweaked the nape of Thaddeus’s neck and walked to the thick wedge of oak which served as a door. He took the key from its wall cleft and undid the two locks. He opened the door and immediately pushed away the visions which swept in with their dark, wicked faces. Godbless flinched at the bitter, wintery wind. He stepped outside. He was aware how baleful spirits floated like owls over the cemetery. He wondered if those ceiling paintings in the death house and the etchings on the paving stones kept him safe. Godbless blinked and shook his head. Why did he think of a tavern? The memory had afflicted him all day. It wasn’t The Piebald but somewhere else, a true house of demons. Godbless closed his eyes and began to sing a song in a language he really didn’t understand, a voice within him which he didn’t recognize. Godbless opened his eyes. But why now? Why did ghosts from the past come swarming in here?
Godbless retreated back into the death house, slamming the door shut. He feverishly checked the window shutters, everything was in place. Perhaps it was time he slept. He went back to squat before the hearth. All was quiet, yet those voices were calling him, a name he recognized in a tongue he knew but it was all so confusing. Thaddeus was also agitated. The young goat stumbled to stand and bleated at a gust of billowing coldness, as if the door to the death house had quietly opened and shut. Godbless sprang to his feet. He turned and gaped at the ghastly apparition which stood leaning against the door.
‘You have returned,’ the beggar man whispered, yet he did not understand why he said that. ‘You have come back to claim me, haven’t you?’ Godbless retreated, knocking into Thaddeus, who bleated and scampered away as the apparition closed in on his master, one hand raised, the dagger it held winking in the light …
Athelstan was wakened early the nex
t morning by a furious pounding on the door. He clambered out of the bedloft and hastened down, asking who it was.
‘Watkin, Father, Watkin and Pike.’
Athelstan paused as the bells of St Erconwald’s began to toll the tocsin, a warning that something terrible had happened, as well as a summons to the people of the parish.
‘What on earth …?’ Athelstan unlocked the door and drew back the bolts at top and bottom. As soon as he opened the heavy door, a mist swirled in, as if eager to draw the priest into its cold embrace. Watkin and Pike, wrapped in thick cloaks reeking of the sewer, shouldered by him to warm their hands over the weak fire.
‘Build it up,’ Athelstan declared. ‘But what is the cause of all this? Never mind. Let me first change.’
The friar went into the enclave beneath the bedloft, shivering with cold; he drew off his nightshirt and swiftly dressed in fresh linen underwear over which he drew his thick woollen black and white robes. He walked back to the fire, rubbing his unshaven face, and stared at his two parishioners who rose to meet him.
‘Well?’
‘Godbless.’
‘Oh no.’
‘No Father, don’t groan. We are concerned. We entered God’s Acre. Pike and I wanted to discover if there is a pattern of gravestones and funeral crosses …’