by Paul Doherty
‘For heaven’s sake,’ Athelstan whispered, pinching his own arm, ‘calm down. Watch, observe and recall; only then do you act. Keep your eyes sharp and your tongue quiet.’
Athelstan noticed the piled possessions of the new arrivals. He stooped down to move an ornate chancery coffer, admiring its metalwork coating, the way it was locked and bound. He stared hard and crouched down, staring at what might be another key to resolving these mysteries. The friar glanced quickly around. No one was watching him, so he returned to his scrutiny, whispering a prayer to the lords of light to stay and guide him. Athelstan then rose and inspected other chests and coffers. He was certain about their ownership and thanked God that his deadly opponent had made such a simple yet telling mistake.
Athelstan left the church and returned to the priest’s house. He placed a primed hand-held arbalest on the kitchen table whilst ensuring the windows and doors were shuttered, locked and bolted. He pulled his chair out before the fire, poured himself a stoup of morning ale and sat down staring into the flames. ‘This time,’ he whispered, ‘such reflections are essential.’
Athelstan tried to piece together this murderous tapestry, the various threads which he had to weave together. First, the total destruction of The Knave of Hearts. According to the dying words of its master, the Oriflamme had made his reappearance on that cog with devastating effect. Yet how did he get aboard and then escape? How could he overcome the guards, veteran archers as well as the crew? Why was he there? For revenge? True, Dorset and his henchman Bramley were former comrades on the war-barge Le Sans Dieu, but surely the Oriflamme had better reason than that? Was it the treasure allegedly slipped aboard, though, in fact, The Knave of Hearts only carried munitions. Secondly, what secrets did henchman Bramley hold? Why was he so terrified? Why was his family so brutally threatened? For what reason? Information? Or was Bramley forced to smuggle someone onto the cog? Yet, according to all the evidence, Master Dorset would keep strict watch on whoever came on deck. Again, according to reports, no one did except for Father Benedict from St Mary Le Bow. Cranston explained how this old parish priest had gone on board just before the cog sailed to give both ship and crew a formal blessing. So what did happen on that ship? Why? How, and who was responsible?
Athelstan’s mind moved on. The Oriflamme. Was he a member of the guild who’d decided to resume his murderous career? Yet years had passed since the end of the war and the Oriflamme had remained hidden. So why had he re-emerged now? What part, if any, did Levigne’s arrival in London have in all of this? Athelstan closed his eyes. Levigne had come to London under strict instruction to use whatever means he could to seize the Oriflamme and his principal henchmen. Had that provoked matters? Was the Oriflamme so furious he decided to inflict punishment on any whore favoured by the French delegation? Moreover, Levigne hadn’t helped matters by promising rewards to anyone who gave him assistance in capturing the Oriflamme. Did that killer take the Frenchman’s mission as a personal insult, as well as strengthening his determination to protect himself both now and in the future?
Athelstan leaned down and placed another small log on the fire, pushing it in with the long, blackened poker. And here in St Erconwald’s, further mystery with the reappearance of Senlac and that so-called secret treasure map. Athelstan smiled to himself. He raised the poker and stared at the handle carved in the shape of a monkey.
‘I think I know the truth here,’ he whispered, ‘though only time will tell. Now, poor Godbless …’
Athelstan recalled the beggar’s gruesome murder, his body sprawled on that table like some blasphemous sacrifice with the gory remains of his young goat beside him. Who was responsible for such a disgusting act? And why did Godbless allow his murderer in at the dead of night? Athelstan straightened up in the chair. He recalled how on the morning that Godbless’s corpse was discovered he was certain he had seen or heard something untoward, something out of sequence and illogical. And the other murders? Athelstan sighed and got to his feet. Poor Falaise, tortured, forced to stand, not daring to move as he struggled to loosen that intricate, iron-hard knot. And Hornsby, slaughtered in that arca at St Olave’s, a building firmly locked and bolted from within? Hornsby definitely went in there, though God knows for what reason. He met his assassin, who killed him, then the murderer left, apparently moving through thick stone wall. The door to the arca was found firmly bolted top and bottom, its key turned; the windows were mere arrow-slits whilst the floor was totally undisturbed.
Athelstan turned at a rattle at the door, his name being called. He grasped the arbalest in one hand and unlocked and unbolted the door with the other. Benedicta, garbed in a deep red cloak and hood, slipped into the kitchen.
They exchanged the kiss of peace, Athelstan ushering the widow-woman to the chair whilst he fetched a stool to sit alongside her. Benedicta pulled back her hood, revealing a simple white wimple, beneath which only one lock of her night-black hair escaped the tight band around her forehead. She smiled as Athelstan grasped her hand.
‘You look well,’ he murmured.
‘I feel better after a deep sleep,’ her smile widened, ‘and for seeing you.’ She squeezed Athelstan’s fingers. ‘Brother, do not worry, what is done is done. I am here with news. Listen, I visited St Erconwald’s. I sat with Moleskin and his company. They mentioned a tavern on the Seine where they would moor their war-barge. La Chèvre Dansante.’ Benedicta stumbled over the French. ‘Yes, that’s it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, Father, I am. That’s what Godbless kept shouting on the day before he died. I am sure of it. He was ranting and raving, his speech was never clear at the best of times. Of course he was yelling in Norman French, slurring the words, mixing them up, but that’s what he was shouting.’
‘In sweet heaven’s name,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Was Godbless French, and what did he have to do with that tavern and the free company it sheltered? Godbless acted the fool, but perhaps some of that was a mask, a means of sealing off memories. Was he a member of the free company? I have met men who cannot recall their past, either because they can’t or because they don’t want to.’ Athelstan crossed himself. ‘Do you know Benedicta, Godbless, like quite a few souls here, just wandered into this parish and was embraced by our community. We tried to help. We gave him good lodgings, food, clothing, and invited him to all our celebrations. But we never really learnt who he truly was, where he came from or why he acted as he did.’ Athelstan paused. ‘You’ve been across to St Erconwald’s? Has Mistress Alice, a parishioner of St Olave’s, arrived yet?’
Benedicta shook her head. ‘No,’ she replied, ‘but the Tower archers have.’
‘Good, good. Now listen, Benedicta. Get an urgent message to our captain of archers. He is to seal off and guard the old death house. Send Mauger to Sir John. I need to meet with my learned friend just after the Jesus Mass tomorrow morning. Mauger will take to our good coroner certain requests. So …’
Athelstan was preparing to leave the next morning. He’d celebrated his Mass, excused himself from his parishioners and hurried back to make the final preparations. He had put on his cloak when there was a knock on the door and the handle was tried. Athelstan picked up the small arbalest, winching back the cord over the hook so it was fully primed.
‘Who is there?’ he demanded. ‘I will not open until you identify yourself.’
‘Father, you would not believe my name. I am Robin of the Green Wood, a former Upright Man released from Newgate this morning and bound for foreign parts. I crossed the bridge to Southwark where a cog is waiting. I will be gone by the end of the day, never to return. I mean you no harm. I swear that on everything I hold sacred.’
Something in the strong, carrying voice convinced Athelstan that his visitor bore him no ill-will. He pulled back the bolts, turned the lock and opened the door. The thick river mist still swirled, so dense it looked like boiling steam. Athelstan made out the outline of a man, hooded and cloaked, his hands raised in the air.
&nb
sp; ‘Father, for the love of God, I am cold and I am hungry. I have been released from Newgate through the mercy of Merry Jack Cranston. I am here to return a favour. I have information about the man you hunt, the Oriflamme.’
Athelstan recalled Cranston’s description of his visit to Newgate, about the house of foundlings and what the Upright Men had discovered during the Great Revolt. Satisfied, he ordered his visitor to come in. The stranger entered and made straight for the fire. He crouched down, hands out to welcome the heat from the leaping flames. Athelstan waited until his visitor had warmed himself, then he invited him to sit down at the table where he served him a bowl of hot, steaming porridge laced with honey, a jug of morning ale and some bread that Benedicta had brought the previous day. He watched as the man wolfed both food and drink. Robin, as he styled himself, was a man just past his fortieth summer. He had a long, harsh face, but the eyes seemed kind, the mouth ever ready to smile. He had been freshly shaved and barbered, but not too gently, the skin on his cheeks and skull nicked raw by a sharp blade. He was dressed in threadbare jerkin, hose and cloak. Athelstan recalled how he had a fairly new robe, a gift from a pilgrim to St Erconwald’s. He rose, took this from a chest beneath the bedloft, and insisted that his visitor take it, along with two pennies for his journey.
‘I know of you,’ Athelstan retook his seat opposite his visitor, ‘you are well-known to Merry Jack, as you call him, but your hurling years are over.’
‘True, true, Father, and they passed soon enough. So, I will be brief and to the point, for you have another visitor waiting for you. Moleskin.’ The man answered Athelstan’s questioning look. ‘He said he’d wait in the church for a while, allow me to introduce myself. He wishes to talk to you alone.’
‘Then you’d best tell me, though I am curious why you didn’t speak first to Sir John.’
‘Father, I am and I was an Upright Man. I gave the coroner information about what I discovered in that house on the corner of Slops Alley. What I didn’t tell him, hence my visit to you, is that when we burst into that house, we found Moleskin there. He was sitting on a stool, cradling a wineskin, fairly drunk, and smiling up at those two corpses dangling by their necks from a roof beam. Now I knew Moleskin of old. I recognized him immediately. An Upright Man from Southwark who had taken many a comrade back and forth across the Thames. He recognized me. I asked him what he was doing there and he said that, like me, he was with a cohort of Earthworms; this was before matters got out of hand and Moleskin fled for his life.
‘You may recall Father,’ Robin added drily, ‘how quite a few of your parishioners found they could not support the violence which broke out when Wat Tyler invaded the city. Anyway, Moleskin said he’d heard how these two harridans had returned to London and decided to pay them a visit. I asked if he was responsible for their deaths? He replied he was not, though he would give free passage back and forth across the Thames for life to the person who had hanged them. I asked him about the red wigs. Moleskin became surly – you know, sullen and withdrawn, a common mood with him. He said he had said enough, got to his feet and fled the house. I did not want to tell the coroner that Moleskin was a comrade, one of ours. It is best if such information is not handed directly to an officer of the law. Nor did I want Moleskin to be taken up as a suspect, even accused, of being this Oriflamme.’ The man got to his feet, pushing back the chair. ‘Father, I have made my confession. Let Moleskin tell you for himself.’
‘In which case,’ Athelstan got to his feet and clasped the man’s hands, ‘God speed you, Robin. May his angels keep you in his care. But do one thing for me, go back to my church and tell Moleskin I will see him now.’
The Upright Man left whilst Athelstan readied himself, walking up and down the kitchen, half smiling to himself as he realized how little he truly knew about his parishioners. Benedicta often referred to that. Men and women who drifted into St Erconwald’s because they sought sanctuary, a way of sealing off the past and starting a new life.
A sharp knock on the door roused Athelstan from his reflections. He drew back the bolts and a crestfallen Moleskin slipped through the door, cloak pulled tight, its large hood concealing the boatman’s face and head.
‘Moleskin, you look as if you are hiding. Sit down. Do you want some ale, some oatmeal?’
Moleskin pulled back the hood, loosened his cloak and shook his head, making himself comfortable on the proffered stool.
‘Moleskin,’ Athelstan sat down on the chair opposite his visitor and leaned forward so he could hold the bargeman’s gaze, ‘as I have said before, you are like a man who has lost a pound and found a penny. I also think you could have been more honest with your priest. True, you are a member of the guild and once served on that war-barge along the Seine. But there are other matters, aren’t there?’ Moleskin just tearfully looked back. ‘Those two harridans found hanged in their dirty, shabby house during the Great Revolt: you were there, weren’t you? Did you have a hand in their deaths?’
‘Father,’ Moleskin rubbed his face, ‘I confess I could have been more truthful, but you don’t know what it’s like, the past.’
‘Yes I do,’ Athelstan snapped. ‘I too, have a past, Moleskin. I would like to shut the door on it but I find it better to open that door, to confront the ghosts and so deal with any troubles they bring; either by prayer, alms-giving, or some other good work of charity. You were a soldier, you served in France. You have the blood of others on your hands?’
‘But I didn’t follow the Oriflamme,’ the bargeman spluttered, ‘I … I never did.’ He glanced away. ‘I did other things,’ he mumbled, ‘and I am sorry, Father.’
‘Very well. Let us go back to that shabby house and the execution of those wicked sisters. Did you have a hand in their deaths?’
‘No Father, you remember the Great Revolt. We were all swept up in it. Many of us here were Upright Men. We thought we’d build a New Jerusalem, a true community governed by law and justice but, of course, we were mistaken. Many of the rebels were no better than the great Lords of the Soil. As you know, Father, not many of your parishioners had the opportunity to join the rebels. Master Thibault swept us all up and kept us secure as a favour to you. Now, at the beginning of the revolt, I was as eager as anyone for mischief. More importantly,’ the boatman now relaxed, eyes half-closed, as he recalled the events earlier that year, ‘during my journey back and forth across the Thames, I learnt how those two sisters, who had supervised the house of foundlings, had returned to their lair on the corner of Slops Alley. Father, I hated them. I had petitioned the council but nothing was done. I decided to use the troubles to visit them.’ Moleskin spread mittened hands. ‘I confess, God knows what I would have done if I’d found them alive, but they were not.’ He licked dry lips. ‘Father, if I could have some ale?’
Athelstan poured him a tankard, Moleskin sipped gratefully from it.
‘There was chaos everywhere,’ he continued. ‘Earthworms roamed the alleyway, they had been joined by all the felons of London. Nobody really bothered about a derelict house. I found the door open and slipped in.’
‘Was there anyone else there?’
‘No one, Father. Nothing but crawling insects and squeaking mice and rats scratching against the wood. The sisters had a small solar. I just found their corpses hanging by the neck from the ceiling beams. I pressed their flesh; it was cold, bodies and faces beginning to bloat. They must have been executed many hours earlier, if not the previous day. I searched the house but there was no one so I returned to the solar. I just wanted to stare at two bitches who had inflicted such cruelty on me and others. I admit I was lost in the past, so immersed in my own thoughts, I never even realized the Upright Men had arrived. I told them who I was, I showed them my medallion, the token that I was one of theirs, and I left.’
‘Moleskin, I am your priest, is that the truth?’
‘Father, it is, I swear.’
‘So you were placed in that house of foundlings, for how long?’
‘
Between my eighth and eleventh summer, before I was taken in by kindly folk, a bargeman and his wife. He introduced me to his trade; he even sent me for schooling until, like so many others, I was picked up by the King’s arrayers and journeyed to France, hungry for plunder and glory.’
‘What was life like in that house?’
‘Cruel, vicious. They had nasty souls and wicked hearts. They would eat and drink and make us watch, we poor children, hungry and thirsty. They loved to beat us. One punishment they prized above all others. If you were caught doing wrong, if you objected or protested, you would be stripped naked, a red wig put on your head, then beaten to make you dance. I hated them, Father, I still do.’
Athelstan refilled the boatman’s tankard. ‘Tell me, Moleskin, other members of your guild, those at St Olave’s or, indeed, anyone who served with you in France?’
‘Yes, Father?’
‘Well, did any of them attend that house of foundlings?’
‘Father, you must remember I was very young. People change, faces are forgotten, especially when you try to forget the past.’
‘But you chatter and gossip with your companions. Surely you must have learnt if any of those also suffered in that house?’