by Paul Doherty
‘Falaise tried to free himself,’ Athelstan declared, blessing the corpse. ‘But the rope is strong as the flail on a steel whip, whilst the knot forming the noose is cleverly fastened, hard as any link in an iron chain.’ Athelstan prised open the dead man’s mouth, trying to move the swollen, wounded tongue so he could sniff. He caught a rottenness but also the sweet tang of Bordeaux. ‘He drank wine just before he died,’ Athelstan asserted and glanced up. ‘Father Ambrose, what was Falaise like? I mean, what was he doing here?’
‘He was bell clerk to the parish,’ the priest took a deep breath. ‘Falaise did like his wine and often came here with a wineskin or a goblet but,’ the priest shrugged, ‘look around, there is no sign of either.’ He pulled a face. ‘Falaise was a bargeman, a good guild member, a parishioner who kept to himself. I can add little more.’
‘In which case, thank you,’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Father, please join your parishioners, ask them to wait for a while. Oh Father,’ Ambrose turned at the door, ‘when you and Mistress Alice first came here, you glimpsed nothing amiss?’
‘No, Brother. The door to the bell tower was closed, we opened it,’ the priest flailed a hand, ‘and what you see, so did we.’
Athelstan smiled his thanks and asked Ambrose to organize the removal of the corpse to the parish death house.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Athelstan winked quickly at the coroner, ‘I have changed my mind. Sir John and I will be leaving. At this moment in time, we have no questions. But, rest assured, we shall return.’
‘And tell your parishioners,’ Cranston pointed at the priest, ‘including Senlac, that no one summoned here today can leave London or they will be put to the horn as an outlaw, a wolfshead. Do you understand?’
The priest nodded in agreement. He opened the door and stepped aside as Cranston swept through followed by Athelstan. Both coroner and friar ignored those they had questioned in the sacristy and left the church, hurrying along the lanes. Once clear of the parish, Cranston stopped and grasped Athelstan by the shoulder.
‘Little friar, what was all that about, the sudden, dramatic departure? I need to question those suspects as well as issue orders to Flaxwith and the Tower archers.’
Athelstan gently poked the coroner in his generously endowed stomach. ‘Sir John, your questions will wait and so will the bargemen. Let them stew in their own juices. As for Flaxwith and the rest, they know where to find you and such matters will wait. We must talk. So come, let us adjourn to your favourite chapel.’
Cranston grinned, took a generous slurp from his miraculous wineskin and offered it to the friar who drank a good mouthful.
‘You see, Sir John,’ Athelstan declared, handing back the wineskin, ‘we must keep up a pretence. Let us at least act as if we are wise and knowing even though, in truth, I am deeply confused.’
‘I would certainly drink to that,’ Cranston agreed. ‘So, let us go where we don’t have to pretend.’
The coroner surged through the busy streets, Athelstan keeping close beside him. The coroner was soon recognized; greetings were shouted, as well as the usual catcalls from the hordes of counterfeit and cunning men who flooded the different market places hungry for prey. Sir John seemed to know them all, shouting warnings at ‘No Nose’, ‘Rawskin’, ‘Shadow-Dancer’, ‘Moonlight-Man’ and all their tribe garbed in garish rags, though well-armed with knife and stabbing dirk.
By now the day’s trade was in full swing. The air reeked with a score of smells: smoke from the ovens where rancid meat was cooked, grills decorated with all kinds of offal as well as the welcoming sweetness of the pastry shops and tavern kitchens. They passed one such tavern and Athelstan glimpsed whores in their fiery red wigs and his mind turned back to the evil which had thrust its way into his life, like some ravished rat bursting out of its sewer. So immersed was he in his tumble of thoughts, Athelstan startled as Cranston gripped his arm. The friar glanced around. They were now in Cheapside, passing the Standard and Tun. All along the broad thoroughfare ranged hundreds of stalls selling everything, be it Moroccan leather goods to silk from kingdoms far to the East. The crowd swirled backwards and forwards, their voices carrying like a low peal of distant thunder. Bagpipes and trumpets made themselves heard, whilst different groups – be they mourners or the schoolboys of St Paul’s – tried to shove their way through. Athelstan heard a scream and turned. A group of whores found touting beyond Cock Lane were being stripped and caned before being locked in the pillory. On the ground beside them, those hideous wigs. Athelstan tensed as he experienced the onset of that deep anxiety which sometimes assailed him whenever he felt trapped in a crowded or narrow space. Cranston gripped his arm more tightly but Athelstan found it difficult to move. He whispered his apologies until the coroner embraced him gently, coaxing him forward.
‘Only a few more paces.’
Athelstan glanced up, took a deep breath, and walked quickly into the welcoming warmth of The Lamb of God. They were immediately greeted by Minehostess, a bright-eyed, cheery-faced lady who ushered them into Cranston’s favourite chamber, a comfortably furnished solar overlooking the hostelry’s richly stocked garden. Athelstan allowed the coroner to settle in the window seat and greatly welcomed the goblet of wine which thawed the chill of both body and soul. Food was served. For a while, they ate and drank in silence, a period of calm only interrupted by Cranston’s constant shadows whenever he entered the tavern. Leif the one-legged beggar and, behind him, Rawbum, Leif’s comrade-in-crime, a cook who had scalded his backside whilst drunk.
Both worthies crept into the solar all a-flutter, Leif loudly declaring there was trouble brewing along Cheapside. Cranston tossed each a penny and bellowed at them to leave, slamming the door shut behind them. The coroner had barely regained his seat when there was a roar from outside followed by the shrieks of Minehostess. Cranston and Athelstan sprang to their feet, hurrying out across the taproom to join the hostess standing in the richly decorated tavern porch. She daintily stepped down from the chest her servants had brought, inviting both coroner and friar to take her place.
Athelstan climbed up and looked out over the crowd; this now parted to reveal a furious street fight between a fire-eater, a travelling minstrel, and three dwarves who earned their living by juggling. Apparently all three parties had clashed over a space which they claimed as their own. The fire-eater was now acting like some dragon, drawing in the fire from his torch and billowing it out at the dwarves, who retaliated by throwing anything they could whilst the troubadour swung a heavily knotted rope to protect himself. The fight drew closer and closer to the tavern.
‘Satan’s tits,’ Cranston breathed, asking the hostess to fetch his sword, but Athelstan plucked the coroner’s sleeve and pointed to a column of city guards battling through the crowd to seize these disturbers of the peace. The minstrel was now close to the porch, his rope trailing around him. Cranston roared at the fellow to drop the rope, which he did. The affray began to subside and the coroner made to return to the solar. Athelstan, however, stood staring down at the rope lying coiled and knotted on the ground.
‘That reminds me of something,’ he murmured, ‘something I glimpsed in St Olave’s but, for the life of me, I cannot recall it.’
‘Brother?’
Athelstan smiled at the coroner and stepped down from the chest. ‘Sir John, my apologies, I was distracted. Braised beef, sweet capon and spicy veal demand our attention. Let us do justice to our feast.’
Once they had returned to the solar and finished their meal, Athelstan opened his chancery satchel. He laid out his writing implements beside a square sheet of scrubbed vellum, the best the Guildhall could provide.
‘Right, my learned coroner, I shall speak as I scrawl. Interrupt me whenever you wish, so …’ Athelstan dipped his quill pen into the ink and began to write in cipher known only to him and the coroner. ‘Item: during the war in France the free company of the battle-barge now known as Le Sans Dieu were joined by the mysterious Oriflamme, who liked to dress
in women’s garb, his head festooned by a thick red wig, his face always masked. He was joined in his cruel forays by the tavern master Mornay, as well as an anonymous henchman who eventually disappeared. Item: the Oriflamme apparently knew a great deal about the river Seine and the countryside stretching along either bank. He suborned the free company with information which provided them with great plunder, as well as the means for the Oriflamme to indulge in his vicious, cruel pleasure, the abuse and torture of female captives. It would seem, though we only have their word for it, that the rest of the free company were totally in thrall to this monster. They certainly did not participate in his cruelties, but they definitely profited from the plunder they seized. Father Ambrose was one of their company, but he refused to follow the Oriflamme, whilst the rest kept a still tongue in their head as any complaint or grumble was ruthlessly dealt with. Item: the war eventually ended. The Oriflamme and his ilk disappeared whilst the free company returned home and, like Moleskin, settled down as respectable members of this city’s community. In truth, they probably used the plunder to finance their life of civic responsibility. Item: as I have said, one person who did not join the Oriflamme was Father Ambrose. I am sure that others like him could not stomach the malefactor’s wickedness. Nevertheless, it’s apparent that what happened along the Seine weighs heavily on all their consciences. We must remember that the human soul’s hunger to be absolved of unresolved guilt must never be underestimated. I pray Sir John that one or some of those bargemen will provide us with more information. Item: the past is the past, the bargemen hoped it would remain so.
‘The years roll by but then matters take a violent turn. A war cog, The Knave of Hearts, is commissioned to take treasure to the English garrison in Calais. In fact, this is only a ploy by Master Thibault to distract attention from the gold and silver being secretly transported by sumpter pony to other ships waiting at Dover. Item: The Knave of Hearts is under the command of Master Dorset and his henchman Bramley.’ Athelstan paused and turned to Cranston. ‘Did you search their houses, their muniments and manuscripts for any information?’
Cranston, sitting, his eyes half closed, nodded. ‘Of course, Brother, but you know how it is. Such men rarely keep records and, in particular, a catalogue of their previous sins.’
‘Very well my friend,’ Athelstan continued writing. ‘It’s a pity because both Dorset and Bramley were former members of Le Sans Dieu. They certainly would have known about the Oriflamme but, of course, we can never probe that. Item: The Knave of Hearts suffered a disaster. Its hold contained barrels of black cannon powder. These caught fire and the cog simply ceased to exist. The crew were slaughtered; none survived except for Master Dorset, who must have been flung into the water after he sustained a deadly head wound. Now, before he died, Dorset babbled about a nightmare figure. According to him, the Oriflamme mysteriously emerged on board his ship. Did he really, or was that a phantasm of Dorset’s muddled soul, a bitter memory of previous sins? I suspect the Oriflamme was on board The Knave of Hearts and that he was responsible for its destruction, but somehow escaped, probably by using the bum-barge which was later found floating on the Thames.
‘Item: the Oriflamme, or someone who certainly knows the workings of that creature’s hellish soul, has recently reappeared in London, intent on inflicting his depravities on poor whores. He slits their throats. He pulls a red wig over their heads and their naked corpses are sent floating in some cockle boat as open testimony to the Oriflamme’s wicked, dead soul. Item: the murdered women have two things in common: they were all members of the household of The Way of all Flesh, the Lady Alianora Devereux. Yes?’ Cranston, half asleep, nodded. ‘Secondly,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the slain whores were all favoured by the retinue of the French ambassador, Monseigneur Derais, and, in particular, by the Candlelight-Master, leader of the Luciferi. And so, my friend, we come to the next item. About two months ago Monseigneur Hugh Levigne made it very clear to the English Crown that they were highly desirous of seizing the Oriflamme and his immediate henchmen. They wanted these outlaws arrested and brought to trial in Paris for their crimes; in particular the violation and murder of a French noblewoman whose father is now a leading member of the Secret Chancery at the Louvre. So, I ask myself. Did this news have anything to do with the resurgence and reappearance of the Oriflamme? If so, how did he know?’
‘Gossip,’ Cranston shook himself awake. ‘Let’s face it, Brother, nothing remains a secret in London for long. Already it is being whispered how The Knave of Hearts was not carrying that gold, which was sent by another route. Don’t forget, little friar, the slaughtered whores were favoured by the French? Perhaps those ladies of the night, comforting and cosseting members of the Luciferi, discovered that they were hunting the Oriflamme.’
‘Oh, my dear coroner,’ Athelstan gripped Cranston’s arm, ‘in vino veritas – in wine the truth … The Oriflamme must have learnt about Levigne’s intentions through those whores, yet why kill them? To silence them about other customers they may have favoured? To punish the French for their actions? More importantly, how did the Oriflamme, and I am sure it’s he, learn about Grindcobbe and his comrades hiding out in that derelict mansion? He used that information to bait us! That’s what this killer is doing, Sir John. He’s playing a deadly game and enjoying every second of it. He taunts us. He thoroughly revels in this murderous mayhem. He sees himself as master of the masque. Sir John, we have confronted killers before, many of them men and women who’ve slain to protect themselves or for greed, lust, revenge, and all the other demons which prowl the human soul. But this Oriflamme is an archangel demon, a lord of Hell who loves to sup blood. So,’ Athelstan picked up his quill pen, ‘further deaths. First Godbless slaughtered in the old death house which was locked and sealed from the inside. How was that done? By whom? And why? What threat did that old beggar man pose? Why was he so barbarously executed? And, the day before he died, why was Godbless so frenetic, shouting and crying, prostrating himself before the rood screen in St Erconwald’s? Above all, why did he allow the killer into his lonely, desolate cottage at the dead of night? Did the assassin force himself in? And, to return to a question I have listed, who could the killer be? Senlac? He’s a new arrival in our parish, could he be behind all this mischief? Yet I’ve established on the night The Knave of Hearts was destroyed, Senlac was gambling in The Owlpen, as he was during those hours of darkness when Godbless was murdered.’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘And so we move on,’ he continued. ‘The next death is equally mysterious and macabre: Falaise, guild member and former companion on the war-barge Le Sans Dieu. Falaise was murdered in that church tower, a rope tied around his throat. The rope was cleverly fastened. Falaise could only fumble at the knot, wary of missing his step. Eventually he did and the rest we know. Again, our devilish master of revels, who crowned those gargoyles with little wigs in mocking testimony, knew exactly what he was doing. Falaise would struggle, try to save himself, but then make a slip. He was hanged as good and true as any felon on a gibbet at Smithfield.’
Athelstan paused at a knock on the door. Minehostess came bustling in, leading a woman wrapped in a tawny cloak. She pulled back the hood to reveal a lined, grey face redeemed by sad, dark eyes, framed by iron-grey hair under a thin gauze veil. She was clearly agitated, weaving her fingers together, lips slightly parted, eyes watchful.
‘Mistress?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Mistress Margret Bramley. Widow, relict of Master Bramley, henchman on the war cog The Knave of Hearts. I,’ she gazed beseechingly at Brother Athelstan, ‘Brother, I journeyed to St Erconwald’s. They informed me that you were with Sir John Cranston and that I would probably find you here at The Lamb of God.’ She smiled thinly, ‘The widow-woman Benedicta was most helpful.’
‘Yes, Mistress, so you have found us?’ Athelstan gestured at a cushioned chair close to the table. ‘Do you want something to eat and drink?’
‘A little watered ale.’
Athelstan no
dded at Minehostess, who hurried out and promptly brought back a pewter tankard. Athelstan waited until the door was closed again and watched this highly nervous woman settle herself.
‘I am sorry,’ she began, ‘but I need to speak to you.’ She cradled the tankard and then put it on the table, her hands were shaking so much. ‘I am terrified,’ she blurted out, ‘truly terrified.’
‘Hush, Mistress,’ Athelstan soothed. ‘Tell us in your own time. You must be here about your husband and his tragic death aboard that war cog?’ The woman nodded, lips moving soundlessly. ‘Mistress?’
‘A good man,’ she told him. ‘We had two children.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But my husband was like a castle with long, dark passageways and sombre rooms. Sometimes he would hint at the horrors he’d seen, but then falter at describing his own involvement in them. He suffered nightmares, which roused him, screaming and shouting, from his sleep. He did tell me about the Oriflamme, a red-wigged monster and some of the outrages he committed.
‘The years passed. The nightmares receded. We lived a good life, my husband, me and our two children.’ She blew her cheeks out. ‘Then, one night, it must have been about a week before he set sail on The Knave of Hearts, we had a visitor, I don’t know who. Hooded and visored he was. He arrived at our house on Firkin alleyway in Queenhithe. I never really had an opportunity to see him clearly, he was just a moving shadow. Anyway, he and my husband were closeted in our buttery for about an hour. When the stranger left, my husband was deeply agitated. No, no,’ she shook her head, ‘I don’t know the cause, except that he kept muttering about how the past had sprung on him like a demon in the dark. I did not know what he meant. However, the next morning we were woken by a rapping at the door. We hurried down. It was still dark, a thick river mist curled along the alleyway. The person who had roused us had disappeared but he left, what I knew, was a stark warning to my husband.’