The Godless

by Paul Doherty

  Deeply agitated, she supped at the ale. ‘A sow and its piglets used to roam our alleyway. Sir John, Brother Athelstan: all three had been slaughtered, their heads severed and poled with a cresset torch on the ground between them. On each of the severed heads, a red wig. Truly grotesque! I shall – can – never forget those ghastly heads, the blood glistening in the torchlight and those horrid wigs.’ She broke off, hands outstretched towards Athelstan. ‘A visitor from Hell, Brother, to my husband. Clear enough. The sow and her two piglets were a warning to me and my two children. My husband became a ghost to himself. He told me to stay within. I was not to go out until he left on The Knave of Hearts. And that’s all I know.’ The woman sighed noisily and made to rise, but Athelstan gently pressed her back into the chair.

  ‘You can tell us no more?’ he asked.

  ‘What I know, you now do, Brother Athelstan. My husband lived a troubled life and died a most troubled death. I heard about the murdered whores, the red wigs left on their heads. I thought I should come and tell you what had happened to me. I have done, so now I will be gone.’ She rose.

  Cranston took a sip from the miraculous wineskin, got to his feet and embraced her. ‘Rest assured,’ he murmured, ‘you will have justice.’

  PART FOUR

  Timor mortis conturbat me: The fear of death disturbs me

  Matthew Hornsby, member of the Worshipful Guild of Barge- and Watermen, was truly afraid. He felt guilty about the past but, as the years rolled by, the memories of the bloodshed in France had faded. Now they had returned, full, foulsome and fearsome. The guild had ceased to be a band of brothers; each member nursed their own secrets. Indeed, so deep had the fear grown that Father Ambrose had decided it would be best to leave the parish for a while, seek sanctuary elsewhere before going on their parish pilgrimage to Notre-Dame in Boulogne. Till then, however, there were still tasks to be done, especially by himself as clerk of stores in the parish of St Olave’s.

  Hornsby had come to the arca house, which stood deep in the ancient graveyard of St Olave’s. He’d entered the dark, squat building and quickly lit the lanternhorns, then he drew the bolts on the door, pushing them firmly into their clasps before turning the battered key in the even rustier lock. Hornsby leaned against the heavy, iron-studded door and stared around. The arca was dark and gloomy: nothing more than a square of hard sandstone blocks, similar to those used in castles where Hornsby had served as a hobelar along the Welsh March. The windows of the arca were mere arrow-slits to allow in meagre light and air. The roof was strongly beamed, its outside covered by hard tiles cemented fast together. The floor was of pure rock, probably the foundations of some ancient building which had long disappeared. In all, the arca was a small fortress chamber, where people could shelter or treasures be stored.

  Hornsby felt weak with a clammy fear: he gave a great sigh, sliding down the door to sit on the ground with his back against it. He stared around at the heaped parish possessions: the small tuns of altar wine, pots of holy water, bundles of vestments and linen, small coffers crammed with altar cloths. Once this chamber had been a refuge for the priest and others during times of bloody turbulence such as the recent Great Revolt, when Father Ambrose and others had sheltered here after nightfall. Hornsby slowly got up. Such days had returned! Or at least for him.

  Hornsby clasped the key to the arca, now safely deposited in his belt wallet. He had come to this fortified chamber to do the odd task and, above all, to reflect. Father Ambrose might have plans to move away from the parish for a while, but what was the use of that? If the Oriflamme truly was a member of their community, they would simply be taking that killer with them. Other members of the guild thought the same. Memories were being stirred. People were beginning to recall what happened on that war-barge.

  Hornsby closed his eyes. Falaise had been murdered, that’s what the gossip said. Was that the work of the Oriflamme? Had that sinister assassin, finished with murdering whores, decided to turn on members of the guild? Hornsby picked up a lanternhorn and moved to where sacks of incense were stacked. He needed to fill the small boat in the sacristy. He paused as he heard a sound. At first he dismissed it as vermin scurrying about, but then he recalled how the arca was free of such a nuisance. Again the sound. Hornsby slowly turned and stared in horror at the dreadful apparition which seemed to glide out of the murk. He stood, mouth going dry, so terrified he couldn’t speak as he gazed at this hellish vision: a figure garbed in a grey gown, a warbelt strapped around its waist, a white mask covering the face and a fiery red wig pulled tight over the head, its strands curling out like a host of serpents.

  ‘Matthew Hornsby,’ the apparition rasped, ‘fearful, are you? Thinking, are you? I bring you peace.’ The Oriflamme lifted the crossbow he had primed and, before Hornsby could even move, the bolt smashed into his forehead, shattering flesh, bone and brain.

  Cranston and Athelstan made themselves comfortable in the parlour of The House of Delight, one of the city’s most ornate and lavish brothels. Athelstan gazed around at the walls, decorated with the finest tapestries from Bruges, a truly gorgeous array of coloured, precious threads celebrating the theme of love, be it Diana of the Ephesians, Lancelot and Guinevere, or the love themes of romantic poetry. The floor of the parlour was cleverly tiled, the high ceiling exquisitely painted, whilst the furnishings were of the finest polished oak, which caught and reflected the delicately beautiful silver and gold ornaments arranged on shelves around the room. Nevertheless, the two women who sat before him and Cranston were a stark contrast to their surroundings. They were garbed in simple brown gowns, white wimples on their heads, with sandals on their bare feet. Both women looked like devout nuns, members of some strict religious order. Nevertheless, the elder woman, despite her hard face and prim ways, was Alianora Devereux, The Way of all Flesh, the greatest whore-mistress in London, whilst the younger, pretty-faced woman was, according to the introductions, one of her favourite novices. The Way of all Flesh was studying Athelstan carefully, though now and again she would glance sharply at Cranston who, as he had proclaimed when they first entered the house, had known The Way of all Flesh for many a year. Athelstan had certainly heard all the rumours about this remarkable woman, whilst this was not the first time he had visited her in pursuit of some malefactor.

  ‘Well, Sir John?’ The Way of all Flesh lifted her hands. ‘Once again you and Brother Athelstan grace my presence. What brought you here? What business?’

  ‘Murder! Treason! Grievous threat. A whole basket of felonies, Mistress, which could send those involved to a hempen necklace or the butcher’s block at Smithfield.’

  ‘Now, now Sir John, you are not intimating—’

  ‘Of course not. I am sure,’ Cranston added wryly, ‘no crime is ever committed within these love-soaked walls. Other things, but not crime. To cut to the quick, Mistress, to move to the arrow point, you must surely know about the murdered whores—?’

  ‘Filles de Joie!’ the woman sharply interrupted.

  ‘Same thing. Young prostitutes, their throats cut, their bodies stripped naked and their heads festooned with red wigs before being despatched to float down the Thames in some skiff or herring boat.’

  ‘Yes, yes I have.’

  ‘They were all members of your household?’

  ‘I take in many a poor girl from wandering the streets and show her great compassion.’

  ‘Quite, quite, but listen my Lady,’ Cranston pointed a finger, his face all severe, ‘do not joust with me, Mistress. All those girls were from this house?’

  ‘They were.’

  ‘And they were all favoured by the French, members of Monseigneur Derais’ household? In particular, Monseigneur Levigne and his Luciferi?’

  ‘Yes, yes that is so.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s strange that all the slain girls had this in common?’

  ‘It’s a thought. But, there again,’ the woman shrugged, ‘they were led and organized by Mathilde Makepeace.’

  ‘On
e of your ladies?’

  ‘Yes, and the first to be slain. She would receive an invitation from the French to organize certain revelries in some tavern or, more usually, in the Maison Parisienne, the French ambassador’s residence.’

  ‘Mistress, I can guess the details but,’ the coroner’s voice turned hard, ‘you are not being as helpful as I wish. We can talk here or I can summon you to the Guildhall.’

  ‘Sir John, Sir John,’ the woman dropped all pretence, the prim, cold smile disappeared and her voice turned businesslike, ‘of course we mourn these deaths. The dreadful murder of young women, their corpses desecrated and mocked. Naturally we realize there must be a connection between their murders and the French envoys here in London. So I ask myself, as you must have, were these slayings punishment, some sort of revenge against Monseigneur Levigne?’

  ‘And why should that be?’

  ‘Again, Sir John, you must hazard a guess. You may well know the answer to your own question. The Luciferi are in London to hunt down and capture a criminal called the Oriflamme and his immediate henchmen. One of the Luciferi told the same to Mathilde Makepeace. As I have said, she informed me a short while before she was murdered.’

  ‘What you say is very logical and makes sense,’ Cranston bowed mockingly. ‘Mistress Alianora, we walk the same path.’

  ‘Hand in hand?’ she teased.

  ‘If you wish, and then I could lead you onto a different path,’ Cranston retorted. ‘I would love, Mistress, to learn what you know about certain doings in London?’

  ‘Sir John, let us keep to the business in hand.’

  ‘Tell me, Mistress,’ Athelstan demanded, ‘was Mathilde Makepeace, or any of her companions, particularly friendly to someone else?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Members of the Worshipful Guild of Barge- and Watermen, the sept which gathers at The Leviathan in Queenhithe?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘You are sure that neither Mathilde, or any of the other murdered girls, consorted with members of that guild?’

  The Way of all Flesh shook her head and glanced sharply at the novice, who nodded in agreement.

  ‘So,’ Athelstan pressed on, ‘Mathilde must be the key. She may well have unwittingly informed the Oriflamme, whoever he may be, about Levigne’s intentions in London, as well as supplying him with a list of girls the French have enjoyed dalliance with in this city.’

  ‘I would agree with that, Brother.’

  ‘And is there anything else you can tell us?’ Athelstan insisted.

  ‘The red wigs?’ The young novice spoke up.

  ‘Oh yes there is! Well done, Sister Monica!’ The Way of all Flesh patted her companion on the hand. ‘One thing we did learn was that Mathilde bought sacks of garish red wigs fashioned out of coarse horsehair.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘From one of the greatest suppliers in our city. Two brothers, Hengist and Horsa. They ply their trade from an old slaughterhouse in Offal alley. It’s not far.’

  ‘I know it,’ Cranston grinned. ‘Oh yes, I surely do. You can smell it long before you reach it.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’ The Way of all Flesh demanded.

  ‘You have told us everything?’ Athelstan retorted.

  ‘I have and, in which case, gentlemen …’ The Way of all Flesh rose to her feet, so Cranston and Athelstan did likewise.

  ‘Don’t forget me.’ The coroner seized the woman’s proffered hand and raised it to his lips.

  ‘Sir John, how could I ever?’

  Cranston and Athelstan left The House of Delights. The day was already dying, the crowds dispersing. Stallholders were packing away their wares: the fleshers, cooks and taverners laying out their tubs of food, the sweepings of their particular business. Already the legions of poor were gathering to feast. Beggars whined incessantly whilst the shadow-people, the night-walkers, pimps, wolfmen and all the inhabitants from the squalid dens of the city, the catacomb of dark cellars and filthy pits, were crawling out of their lairs, ripe for mischief and hungry for profit.

  The coroner and friar reached Offal alley. Athelstan swiftly realized why Cranston bought pomanders from the stall of a one-eyed chapman just before they turned into the alleyway. The reeking smell was deeply offensive, the stench of corruption became all-pervasive, and it certainly grew worse when Cranston ushered him towards the gates. Here, they paused to take deep sniffs from the pomanders. The coroner led Athelstan forward into a yard where the cobbles glistened with the blood and gore from a stack of slaughtered horses, their bloody carcasses piled high in oaken stalls, the severed heads stuck on a range of poles. Torches, fixed into every available crevice, illuminated the gruesome scene. The severed heads were particularly monstrous, with their popping, glassy eyes and half-opened mouths, lips curled back to reveal long, yellowing teeth.

  Cranston strode towards two bulky figures in long leather aprons who emerged from an outhouse, their arms and hands coloured a brilliant red. Athelstan at first thought this was more blood, then realized it was a coarse dye. The men introduced themselves as Hengist and Horsa and openly acknowledged they knew Sir John, whilst they had heard of Brother Athelstan. Both men were bald as an egg, their long faces almost hidden by bushy moustaches and beards. They raised their hands in greeting, the elder Hengist explaining that they had best not clasp their visitors, as the dye was almost impossible to wash out.

  Cranston heartily agreed, refusing any offer of refreshment. He pointed around the great slaughter yard.

  ‘You bring the corpses of horses here?’

  ‘We buy horses past their use. We slaughter them, sever their heads and tails, then we fashion, or rather our wives do, wigs from the hair.’

  ‘Who buys these?’

  ‘Well, Sir John, every pimp, whore mistress and prostitute in the city. They all come here.’ Hengist became expansive, ‘We enjoy a fine reputation. We only sell the very best. No one—’

  ‘Yes, quite.’ The coroner steadied himself against the slopping swill seeping out over the cobbles.

  ‘We use the mane and the tail,’ Hengist continued, ‘they provide the best. You see the coarser they are—’

  ‘Again, I understand,’ Cranston testily retorted, ‘but have you recently made a large sale of your wigs to any particular individual?’

  ‘Oh yes, a few weeks ago. Mathilde, a girl who works for The Way of all Flesh, arrived in our yard with good pounds sterling. Mathilde wanted to buy sacks of wigs and have them transported to a place she indicated …’ Hengist paused.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I loaded them into an old dung cart and took them, with Mathilde leading the way, to a derelict warehouse along a deserted alley in Queenhithe. I unloaded the cart and left her to it. A few days later, I learnt about Mathilde’s murder. I hurried back to the warehouse but all the sacks were gone.’

  ‘You haven’t told them about the conversation you had with her,’ Horsa declared, nudging his brother.

  Athelstan tried not to flinch at the gust of sweaty odours which seemed to cling to both these men.

  ‘Come on lads,’ Cranston stamped his feet, ‘I am a coroner investigating hideous murder. Mathilde was cruelly slaughtered. Consequently, what she may have said in the days before her death is important.’

  ‘When I led the cart down, Mathilde trotted beside me. She chattered like a sparrow on the branch about one of her customers, who liked to tumble her in an alleyway, pressing her up against the wall. She said she was used to all kinds of revelry when it came to playing the two-backed beast. She didn’t mind as long as they paid her good coin and gave her something to eat and drink. This one paid well. Anyway,’ Hengist hurried on, ‘this customer who wanted the wigs, liked to wear a white mask with a hood over his head. Mathilde never knew what he looked like.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Cranston demanded. ‘Didn’t she ever ask to see the man’s face?’

  ‘Sir John, Mathilde was a whore. She was there to please.’
/>   ‘Surely she would wonder why he wanted to buy so many wigs?’

  ‘Ah, Mathilde did ask! He’d replied how he hoped to open his own house of delights and, if he did, Mathilde would be his whore mistress.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Athelstan declared. ‘This character seduced and traduced poor Mathilde, weaving dreams about her becoming a lady in her own right equal to The Way of all Flesh.’

  ‘Mathilde said the same,’ Horsa declared. ‘She was full of plans about managing her own domain with its retinue of whores.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, Sir John, I promise you. Nothing at all. All I can guess is that Mathilde handed over those wigs and, a few days later, she was murdered. I suspect that customer must be her killer.’

  ‘Very true, very true,’ Athelstan half whispered. ‘My friend, I believe you are correct.’

  Cranston and Athelstan left the slaughter yard and made their way back along the alleyway. The coroner paused halfway up, took a generous swig from the miraculous wineskin before walking on, one hand on Athelstan’s shoulder.

  ‘Do you know my little friar, I do wonder …’

  ‘What, Sir John?’

  ‘Well, the Luciferi may be the envoys of the French King, but they are also assassins. I keep thinking about Falaise. Was he murdered by the Oriflamme?’

  ‘Remember those red wigs, Sir John? They are almost the personal seal of this killer.’

  ‘True, Brother. But what if the Luciferi have decided to carry out their own execution of anyone associated with that war-barge, Le Sans Dieu, and the depredations of the Oriflamme? Why not seize a man like Falaise and arrange matters so he hanged himself and leave those red wigs as a taunting insult?’ Cranston scratched the side of his face and took away his hand. ‘It’s just a thought, little friar. I do wonder if we are dealing with one or two killers. But, only time and the truth will tell.’