by Paul Doherty
‘In God’s name!’ Cranston murmured.
‘Never mind, Sir John,’ the keeper replied merrily over his shoulder. ‘Here we are at what we call our long room.’
The keeper took the huge ring of keys from a hook on his belt and opened an iron-plated door. The room within was low-beamed. Torches, high in the wall, flared and spluttered in the draught of cold air. Beneath these sat a row of prisoners, chained to each other as well as to the wall behind them.
‘The Upright Men,’ the keeper joked with a dramatic flourish. ‘Upright no longer, aye Sir John?’
‘Wait outside Hubert,’ Cranston retorted.
The coroner waited until the keeper slammed the door shut behind him, then he went and squatted before Grindcobbe, sitting in the centre of the group, his comrades manacled either side.
‘Well Jack,’ Grindcobbe cleaned the filth from his dirty, sweaty face, ‘have you come to wish us well, to give us your best regards before we dance in the air at Smithfield?’
‘Simon, my friend, you know that’s not Merry Jack’s way. I heard you want to talk to me.’
‘For a price.’
‘There always is. And?’
‘Our sentences commuted.’ Grindcobbe stirred in a rattle of chains and a gust of sweaty odours. ‘We’ll take exile, Jack. Permanent exile beyond the Narrow Seas. On pain of death, if we dare return.’ Grindcobbe paused as his comrades murmured their agreement, moving backwards and forwards, chains and manacles jangling.
Cranston kept his face impassive. He did not want these men to die. The Revolt was over and Master Thibault had given him the power of life and death in all these cases.
‘Well, well, well,’ the coroner pulled a face. ‘If you are gone from these shores, that might make my work a little easier. I won’t speak for myself, but Brother Athelstan always had great compassion for you and your cause, even though he decried the means you used to achieve it.’
‘Hurling times, Jack. We put all our fortunes on the table. We played the deadly game of hazard, shook the cup and let the dice roll.’
‘True, true,’ Cranston nodded. ‘Anyway, what do you offer?’
‘Information.’
‘Let me hear it.’
‘Now, Jack, you may first wonder how we, all locked and bolted in this hellish pit, would know anything.’
‘The thought has occurred to me.’
‘Come, come Jack. You know the way of the world. News in London is like the air we breathe. It seeps in and through everything, even to a place like this. We’ve heard the news about Falaise found hanging on a bell rope in his church.’
‘And?’
‘Jack, Falaise was one of our company. We gave him gold and silver to arrange our journey across the Narrow Seas to Flanders, Hainault or Brabant. He was the one who knew about our hiding place and what we intended.’
‘So Falaise betrayed you?’
‘No, no,’ Grindcobbe’s reply was echoed by those chained with him. ‘Falaise was an Upright Man, good and true to the marrow of his being. He was one of us, body and soul, but he kept that well-hidden. What I believe is that somehow, that creature from the fiery chambers of Hell, the Oriflamme, must have also discovered our whereabouts as well as our intentions.’
‘And so he informed both the French and myself to draw attention from himself?’
‘Or herself!’
‘Simon?’
Grindcobbe shrugged. ‘Jack, it wouldn’t be the first time some gentle lady is in fact a dyed-in-the-wool killer. But …’ Grindcobbe paused and licked his dry lips, trying to wet them with his tongue. Cranston took the miraculous wineskin from beneath his cloak and allowed it to be passed so each prisoner could take a sip. Once he received it back, Cranston cleaned the mouthpiece and took a deep gulp, rolling the full-bodied wine around his mouth to cleanse it from the filthy humours of this horrible place.
‘Continue,’ Cranston pointed at Grindcobbe.
‘Well, Sir John, it’s obvious. The Oriflamme was very successful, and he certainly made a fool of those Frenchmen.’
‘Never mind them. Do you know of any reason for Falaise’s murder?’
‘The same as you, Sir John. Falaise may have begun to suspect who truly betrayed us. He must have then concluded that the traitor and the Oriflamme were one and the same person.’
‘You have won yourself a stay of execution,’ Cranston edged closer. ‘But I can tell from your eyes, Simon, you have not yet finished your hymn. What fresh news?’
‘Fresh news indeed,’ Grindcobbe nudged the man next to him, his long, blond hair, moustache and beard smeared with filth, though the light-blue eyes were clear enough. ‘Tell him,’ Grindcobbe urged. ‘Tell him what you told us.’
‘My name is Robin of the Green Wood.’ The man’s voice was thickened by a strong burr. ‘I am Robin of the Green Wood,’ he repeated.
‘I am sure you are,’ Cranston peered closer. ‘But in the warrants issued for your arrest, you are also named as Robin Goodfellow, Little John,’ Cranston waved a hand, ‘and so on, and so on. Never mind who you are, what’s your story?’
‘I was a captain of the Earthworms when our leader Wat Tyler invaded London. We plundered and pillaged certain houses and other places, the property of our enemies, the rich dwelling places of the Lords of the Soil—’
‘Such as Regent Gaunt’s Palace of the Savoy?’ Cranston interrupted. ‘And, thanks to you, a palace no longer. Nothing but blackened ruins, though I understand Master Thibault dances on these because they cover a huge cellar where many of your comrades were burnt alive.’
‘Such is war, Sir John.’
‘I call it criminal but continue.’
‘I was commissioned to search the streets and alleyways of Queenhithe ward. We were looking for foreigners as well as those indicted by the Commons and the Upright Men. Now there was an old house on the corner of Slops Alley, one of those crumbling tenements, a mixture of plaster and wood. Nothing remarkable yet, unlike other tenements along that runnel, it had not been ransacked, pillaged or plundered. Instead we found the corpses of two old ladies hanging by their necks from a roof beam, frail, fairly emaciated. Nevertheless, someone had hated those two so much, they had invaded the house and cruelly hanged them. Now,’ the prisoner lifted a manacled hand, ‘this will certainly interest you, Sir John. The corpses were dangling, hands and ankles tied, but the thickest coarse red wigs had been pulled over their heads.’ The prisoner paused. ‘I have been a soldier. I’ve journeyed the length and breadth of this kingdom, but I have never seen anything like that, nor had any of my comrades. My curiosity was pricked. You see, Sir John, there was nothing in the house to plunder. Dirty, desolate and derelict. The furnishings were shabby. The floor was covered with a mess; even the dead women’s garb was frayed and moth-eaten.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I cast about to discover who was responsible for inflicting such deaths on two harmless old women. I knew it wasn’t one of our own company. In the end I discovered that perhaps both women were not so harmless.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Both old crones used that house to care for foundlings—’
‘Ah yes,’ Cranston intervened. ‘The council pay well, or at least used to. And these two?’
‘Well, they managed that house of foundlings. They also had a fearsome reputation for ill-treating the poor unfortunates committed to their care: beatings, lack of food, cruel punishment. Eventually the house was closed down. The women, two sisters, disappeared but re-emerged shortly before the Great Revolt; I reckon that must have been about nine months ago. They had apparently moved away to escape their sins but then returned due to a lack of sustenance elsewhere.’ The Upright Man paused. ‘Someone, a former foundling, now a man, decided to use the chaos to settle scores and, apart from that, Sir John, Robin of the Green Wood can say no more.’
‘Oh, I think you can,’ the coroner declared. ‘But I will take your word and that of Master Grindcobbe. One further matter …?’
‘W
hat?’ the rebel leader demanded.
‘You must have lurked around London before moving to that derelict mansion in the parish of St Olave’s. Who knew you were there? I mean, amongst the guildsmen, those parishioners.’
‘I think we’ve answered that, Sir John, but let me repeat it. Falaise was the only person. He swore to keep confidence. My Lord Coroner, what we did was common to the Upright Men. The more people who know our plans, the greater the danger of betrayal. Oh, I admit, the likes of Moleskin and others might have suspected, but the actual details were known only to Falaise. If he had been captured, he could betray none of his companions. Yet, in the end, it would appear that he did inform somebody.’
‘Yes, yes I agree,’ the coroner said. ‘And can you tell me more?’
‘Nothing, Sir John.’
‘And that goes for all of you.’
A chorus of agreement echoed through the cavernous chamber.
‘Well, Sir John,’ Grindcobbe rattled his chains, ‘what now?’
‘For you, my friend, and your comrades, a shave, a bath, some strong boots and a thick cloak. You will be given two pence, a fresh loaf, a pannikin of water and licence to board any cog crossing the Narrow Seas.’ Cranston got to his feet. ‘You will be released tomorrow. Bugger off and don’t come back!’ The coroner readjusted his warbelt. ‘If you do, I will hang you myself.’
‘God bless you, Sir John.’
‘God bless you too,’ Cranston replied and, with the cheers of the Upright Men ringing behind him, Cranston left the hellhole of Newgate for necessary refreshment in The Lamb of God.
Cranston’s pleasure at leaving the Newgate was short-lived. He swept through the huge iron gates onto the great cobbled area which stretched in front of the prison. The daily execution procession was assembling. The hangmen busily preparing their carts to carry the condemned either to Smithfield or Tyburn Stream. The prisoners, chained and manacled, were pushed into the carts around which friends and relatives piteously jostled, desperate to make their farewells to those who, as one executioner shouted, would not be making the return journey. The Guild of the Hanged Men were busy offering jugs of ale both to the condemned and those milling around the carts. A Friar of the Sack stood on a barrel, intoning songs of mourning as well as a psalm for the dead. The great dray horses which pulled the carts, scraped iron hooves on the cobbles, impatient to be gone. A few of the prisoners recognized Cranston and shouted abuse, promising they would wait for him on the other side.
‘I doubt it,’ the coroner murmured to himself as he shouldered through the throng, nudging aside a gaggle of witches and warlocks garbed in black, dusty robes, who gathered in the hope of collecting some items from those about to die. Cranston hated these dark shadows from the underworld who lived around the gibbets and gallows of London. These malignants were desperate to cut the corpses of the hanged in the firm belief that such gruesome relics contained the most magical properties. Cranston wondered whether, in his great treatise on the governance of the city, he should recommend that these children of the night be put to the horn and regarded as outlaws.
A swift movement to his side caught the coroner’s eye; glancing quickly to his left, Cranston recognized the Sanctus man, London’s notorious relic seller, who sold the most astonishing array of objects: be it a comb used by Samson, the foreskin of Goliath or the robe worn by Naaman Syrian when he was cleansed of his leprosy in the Jordan. The Sanctus man, who had the innocent, cherubic face of an angel, raised a hand in greeting and promptly disappeared into the crowd.
‘Not today,’ the coroner whispered to himself, ‘not today, but you, sir, are another one on my list.’
At last Cranston broke free from the throng and entered the great fleshers’ yard where the butchers of London slaughtered the stock they had bought at Smithfield. They gutted and cleaned them before hanging the bleeding chunks on great makeshift scaffolds whilst their apprentices shouted for custom. The place reeked of blood and offal. The ground underfoot was slippery with grease and gore and the sight of row upon row of slaughtered geese, chicken, rabbits, pigs and ducks turned Cranston’s stomach. The coroner pinched his nose and closed his mouth firmly against the rank, fetid stench. He glimpsed the beautifully gilded tavern sign of The Lamb of God and heaved a sigh of relief. He was about to push himself through a gap in the stalls when he heard his name being called. Cranston groaned and turned to meet Oswald and Simon, his clerk and scrivener from the Guildhall; between them stood two individuals Cranston immediately recognized. He pointed a finger at them.
‘My cup overfloweth,’ he rasped. ‘What on earth does the Sicarius and his constant companion Wrigglewort want with me?’
‘They came looking for you, Sir John,’ Oswald declared mournfully. ‘They have been hanging around the Guildhall, refusing to go until they see you.’
‘Well now they have seen me.’ Cranston glared at the two hooded figures, dressed so simply they looked like Cistercian friars.
‘Sir John, they claim to have information.’
Cranston sighed, dug into his belt wallet and flicked a coin at Oswald, who caught it neatly. Cranston snapped his fingers.
‘Simon, Oswald, back to the Guildhall.’ The coroner stamped his feet. ‘Buy a pie and a pot of ale to warm yourselves. You two,’ he gestured at his visitors, ‘follow me.’
Simon and Oswald hastened off, crowing with delight. Cranston pushed his way through the few remaining stalls and into the welcoming warmth of The Lamb of God. Minehostess welcomed him and swept Sir John into his solar. The coroner doffed his cloak and promptly sat down in the great throne-like chair before the fire, indicating that his two guests, as he called them, should sit on stools facing him. Only when Minehostess had served blackjacks of strong ale and a platter of diced, spiced chicken sprinkled with herbs and vegetables, did Cranston’s visitors pull back the hoods which concealed head and face.
Cranston, his eyes on both, lifted his tankard and silently toasted them. He knew these two of old. The Sicarius, with his lean, bony face and narrow, watchful eyes, was a henchman of Master Thibault’s household: his assistant and constant companion, the perpetual shadow Wrigglewort, looked exactly the same, though was of smaller stature. The Sicarius enjoyed a most unsavoury reputation as an eavesdropper, a spy and, at times, a subtle assassin: one of those malignants of Master Thibault’s household who lived in the twilight world of both court and city. The Sicarius shared his name with others of his ilk – the Sicarii – dagger men who could be hired for all types of murderous mischief. His companion and comrade, Wrigglewort, slender as a wand with ever-blinking eyes and pointed features, looked like the ferret he truly was. A young man who enjoyed a chilling reputation as a searcher-out of other people’s secrets. Wrigglewort took his name from his considerable skill at being able to sidle into any situation or, indeed, room or chamber, to gather intelligence for his master, who now sat clutching the young man’s hand as they both sipped at their drink, eyes all watchful. Cranston took one last mouthful and put his tankard down.
‘Well, well my beauties. And what have you come to tell me?’
‘My friend and constant helpmate,’ the Sicarius raised Wrigglewort’s hand, ‘has heard about the slaughtered whores. We established that they all came from The House of Delight in Queenhithe. We also know,’ he added in a soft, sibilant whisper, ‘that Master Thibault is now deeply interested in such murders.’
‘So far you have told me nothing that I don’t know already.’
‘Well, well Sir John, listen to this. My good friend here was out a few days ago, busy down near Queenhithe quayside, when he glimpsed Meg Tumblekin being accosted by a stranger.’
‘Who?’
‘Sir John, if we knew, we wouldn’t call him a stranger, would we?’
‘Less of your sauce and more of the meat,’ Cranston snapped.
‘Well, the light of my life here followed both stranger and whore across to some steps which led down to the very edge of the river. A murky, gloomy da
y, Sir John. Wrigglewort could move and hide without being detected.’
‘I am sure he did.’
‘Sir John, the bosom of my heart watched the stranger slit the whore’s throat. There was nothing he could do to prevent it. The assassin then stripped the corpse, fastened the red wig on her head and sent her adrift in a narrow cockle boat.’
‘I know all this.’
‘Ah, Sir John, but as he did, he softly sang, as if he was enjoying himself.’
‘And what song was this?’
‘Sir John, the “Song of the Sea”. You know what that is, the official hymn of the Worshipful Guild of Barge- and Watermen. And, as he pushed the cockle boat out, he paused in his soft singing to wish Le Sans Dieu happy sailing.’
‘So the assassin could well be a member of that guild. I already suspect that.’
‘Very good, Sir John, I am sure you do. But now we come to our second tasty morsel. The French are in London, yes? They seek the Oriflamme and would love to take his head adorned with that red wig. Did you know they have offered rewards for any information leading to that killer’s arrest, but they have also promised that anyone who kills the Oriflamme and brings his head to them will be rewarded?’