by Paul Doherty
Athelstan nodded understandingly trying to control the fear which chilled his heart. Ambrose was a true killer. He enjoyed it, and the friar understood the subtle logic of what this Judas priest was planning. There would be no solution, no resolution to all the murders which had taken place. Nothing except the finger of suspicion being pointed at Mistress Alice Brun who, unfortunately, killed the man who trapped her. Athelstan determined to keep his nerve, to maintain his mask and just hope that time would be his greatest ally. Athelstan smiled thinly, as if marvelling at Ambrose’s cunning.
‘Only I know the truth and that will die with me,’ Athelstan conceded. ‘You, of course, will be going on pilgrimage to Boulogne in the next few days?’
‘Of course,’ Ambrose laughed, ‘and I am never coming back. I will take with me anything valuable,’ he waggled the fingers on one hand, ‘that my greedy little paws can grab.’
‘And her, why?’ Athelstan sketched a blessing in the direction of the dead woman. ‘She was your leman, your lover. Did she know the truth? Never mind the nonsense about whores infecting her late husband. Did you help get rid of her spouse? The solicitous priest kneeling by the sick man’s bedside, offering all sorts of comforts, including poisoned wine.’
Ambrose moved his head from side to side, as if weighing up what Athelstan had said.
‘She fed him potions,’ he replied. ‘I know that. My silence was bought by her splendid performance in both the bed and the buttery. She may have suspected, she may have guessed, but who cares? The stupid bitch is now dead.’
‘You don’t like women?’
‘I hate them, I always have and I always will. I hate women and I hate priests, even though I pretend to be one. As I have said, I don’t believe in anything except myself. So, tell me Athelstan,’ Ambrose smiled falsely, ‘how did you reach your conclusion? It’s important, you know?’ Ambrose’s tone turned patronizing, as if he were some magister in the schools waiting for a scholar’s reply. ‘It is important. I always learn from my mistakes.’ He laughed sharply. ‘And why not? I am the best of teachers.’ Ambrose waved a hand. ‘Now, before you begin, do you want something to drink, a cup of wine, a tankard of ale?’
‘I want nothing from you.’ Athelstan had now recovered from the brutal, sudden slaughter of Alice. He was tempted to tell this demon incarnate that, despite his arrogant certainty, he had already made a number of errors. Athelstan just quietly prayed that the traps this killer had set would spring back on him.
‘I know you,’ Athelstan cleared his throat. ‘Do you realize that, Ambrose? I have reached that conclusion. You are clever but I know you.’
‘Don’t bait me, friar.’
‘As a boy,’ Athelstan blithely continued, ‘you were abused. Your soul was twisted and tortured. An evil root was planted deep inside you to flower in even greater wickedness.’ Athelstan peered at this smooth-faced demon priest. ‘I wager you were the son of French parents. Your mother raised you probably till you were past your tenth year, then you were abandoned by choice or by circumstance. You were left as an orphan, a foundling sent to that dire house on the corner of Slops Alley. You fell into the power of two evil witches who, using the garb of grey gowns, white masks and red wigs, made your life a living hell.’ Athelstan paused. Ambrose’s face had changed, becoming softer, mouth slack, eyes tearful. Athelstan pointed at the dead woman. ‘Was she there in that house? A young girl being trained in cruelty by those two harridans?’
‘Yes, yes she was,’ Ambrose answered dreamily. ‘I remembered her but she didn’t recall me. I revelled in that and made her pay between the sheets. She thought, silly bitch, that I was just another priest eager to get between her legs, like some spring sparrow, hot and lecherous.’ He shook his head. ‘She knew nothing about my upbringing.’
‘A time of great sorrow,’ Athelstan declared. ‘At least for you. God knows where you went next. I wager you were schooled in the transepts of St Paul’s, the halls of Oxford or Cambridge, perhaps even the Sorbonne in Paris. You are highly intelligent. No doubt you travelled to France, you are well-tongued in their language. You are personable and charming. Holy Mother Church is truly desperate for educated priests. Some French bishop ordained you and found you a parish and benefice in Normandy, not far from the river Seine.’ Athelstan paused, as if listening to the wind clattering at the shutters, rattling the loose wood, an eerie sound which only enhanced the dire scene within: the fire crackling, the flames leaping, as if to chase the shadows which fluttered across the hearth. Ambrose slouched, a knowing smile on his face. Beside him, Alice’s crumpled corpse with her gaping, bloody mouth, glassy dead stare and that horrid wound in her forehead. Athelstan closed his eyes and quietly prayed. Surely some passing lord of light would intervene?
‘Friar,’ Ambrose placed the arbalest in his lap and softly clapped his hands in mockery, ‘you are almost correct, though some details are wrong. Never mind, do continue.’
‘Rottenness gathers,’ Athelstan resumed. ‘It festers like pus in a wound. So it was with your soul, scarred by those hideous sisters. The seed is sown, the crop bursts forth, and soon it is harvest time. I am sure that in whatever godforsaken plot of Normandy you lurked, there were whores, town and village prostitutes. They would be your first victims, butchered, stripped and festooned with red wigs – or did that come later?’ Athelstan stared at Ambrose who just gazed stonily back.
‘Ah well,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘the war in France also provided you with devilish opportunities for your evil cunning. You allied yourself with an English reprobate, a murderer like yourself, Roughkin, former owner of The Piebald tavern in Southwark and keeper of the death house at St Erconwald’s. He became your henchman. You both learn about an English free company sheltering at a riverside tavern, La Chèvre Dansante. You join their company and, through sheer guile and force, became their captain on expeditions up and down the Seine where you could indulge all your evil ways. You always appeared in that grotesque disguise, the wig, the mask and the gown. You encouraged the war band to do the same. You would be assisted by Roughkin, also disguised, though I suspect you used him for other nefarious duties such as gathering information on places you had chosen to attack, ransack and plunder. Of course, Roughkin could also act as the Oriflamme when you wished to revert to your disguise as an ordinary mercenary, a member of that free company.’
Athelstan paused, straining his hearing for any untoward sound. He glanced swiftly at Ambrose who, like all his kind, was puffed up with his own cleverness. ‘You boasted to me,’ Athelstan continued, holding Ambrose’s malevolent gaze, ‘how, when the Oriflamme planned to visit the company, you were absent. Well, of course you were, as you or Roughkin donned the guise of that demon, to lead the company of Le Sans Dieu on one of their expeditions. Once finished, the Oriflamme would disappear and you could emerge as Goodman Ambrose Rookwood, or whatever name you call yourself.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘A clever ploy. You pose as the Oriflamme’s enemy yet, at the same time, you could also search out any dissension in the group. And so you did. You were the ideal lure. Members of the free company knew your support for the Oriflamme was lukewarm, even non-existent. On reflection, I did consider that to be deeply suspicious.’
‘Why, friar?’
‘Oh yes, you made a mistake,’ Athelstan taunted. ‘The Oriflamme was ruthless. According to what I learnt, he dealt harshly with any objectors, yet you remained untouched. Why?’
Ambrose’s smile faded.
‘God knows what Roughkin’s part in all this truly was.’ Athelstan crossed himself. ‘I cannot question him as he now lies dead, murdered by you, but I shall come to that by and by …’ Athelstan paused. ‘Roughkin died unrepentant. A killer, he has the blood of Godbless on his hands. But, as I’ve said, I will come to that later.’ Athelstan stared into the flames. He had to keep his killer close and under even sharper watch.
‘Friar?’
Athelstan raised his head and gave what he hoped was a weary smile. This assassin mus
t not realize, not yet, the mistakes he had made. Over the years, Athelstan had made a particular study of the sons and daughters of Cain. Men and women who killed not on a spurt of violent emotion, but coolly plotted the destruction of another human being. Athelstan had concluded that they shared a number of characteristics. They were arrogant. They revelled in what they did and loved to play their murderous game to the very end. Most importantly, they seemed to have no conscience, no awareness of sin, no guilt or reproach; except for one: they could not be baited themselves. If they were, that might well incite them to further killing. Athelstan was determined not to provoke Ambrose into a murderous rage.
‘Friar, have you gone to sleep?’
‘Oh no. I am just reflecting on your cunning as well as on the past. You had another henchman, Jacques Mornay, tavern master of La Chèvre Dansante – the Dancing Goat. Mornay was in fact mad, lunatic, moon-touched. He did not hide behind a disguise but he was certainly one of yours.’
‘And?’
Athelstan noticed the sharpness in the question and renewed his resolve not to provoke his opponent too far. ‘Well, of course you know.’ Athelstan spread his hands. ‘Mornay was keeper of that tavern. He could hide you and your disguises, provide you with everything you needed as you passed from being Ambrose Rookwood to the Oriflamme and then back to your own true self.’
‘And you will come back to him by and by as well, eh friar? Oh, I do love this!’ Ambrose crossed his arms. ‘This is better than any game of hazard. You are correct, friar, about my many disguises. Do you remember that scene from the Gospels when Christ is supposed to have exorcized a man who was possessed? The good Lord, or whoever he was, asked the devil by what name was he called? The demoniac retorted that his name was Legion for there were many inside him.’ Ambrose stroked the arbalest. ‘That’s what I feel, friar; all these different individuals inside me wanting to get out, knocking at the door of my soul, peering through the shutters of my mind. Sometimes at night I can hear them whispering, chattering to themselves as they gather in the darkness of this corner or that. Oh, I will lead them a merry dance.’
‘Aren’t you afraid that one day you will be caught and hanged either here or elsewhere?’
‘Aye, and the moon could turn to blood and the sun might dance in the sky. But enough of this,’ Ambrose’s voice turned sharp. ‘Do continue. And I mean continue. Time is passing, soon I must be gone.’
‘The war ended. French commanders began to push the English garrisons back to their coastal fortresses at Boulogne, Harfleur and Calais. The company of Le Sans Dieu disbanded. They returned to England to don the cloak of respectability and assume a trade. You, of course, presented yourself to a bishop here in London with the appropriate sheaf of letters. Heaven knows where you got them from, or how. I admit, there are pieces of this murderous mosaic I have not found. Nevertheless, you are glib and presentable. Church officials such as the archdeacon’s clerk, Master Tuddenham, are desperate to appoint educated priests to London parishes. You charm your way in. You are given the parish you want, the benefice of St Olave’s, only a short walk away from The Leviathan.’ Athelstan held Ambrose’s gaze. He thought he heard a sound outside different from the rest, but the moment passed.
‘Once you were appointed, you did not return to your murderous ways. After all, you have a comfortable sinecure here in Queenhithe as well as the attentions of the comely Alice, now brutally slain. You probably assisted her in ridding herself of a sickly husband. She would cater for all your lustful desires, as well as your revenge for whatever part she played in that hideous house of foundlings on the corner of Slops Alley. Anyway, the years passed and the world’s wheel turns again. You played the two-backed beast with Mistress Alice but you also continued to consort with whores, especially those managed by that queen of the night The Way of all Flesh in her House of Delights along Grope Alley. Through one of these, Mathilde, you learnt about a surprising and, to you, most dangerous occurrence. The French, their secret men the Luciferi, under their leader the Candlelight-Master Hugh Levigne, had arrived in England. They were searching for the Oriflamme, the perpetrator of dreadful crimes in Normandy and, in particular, the horrid abuse and murder of a French noblewoman Madeline de Clisson. The Luciferi were most eager to barter with the English Crown for their quarry to be unmasked, arrested and swiftly despatched to Paris. Once there, he would be tried, found guilty and condemned to die in the most gruesome way possible on the great scaffold at Montfaucon. They were looking for others, but I suspect the Oriflamme was their principal quarry. You must have been frightened, alarmed?’
‘Not frightened.’
‘No, no of course not,’ Athelstan muttered. ‘To be frightened you must have a conscience. You lack that in every way. You are arrogant, Ambrose. You wanted to be left alone. When you appeared in your nightmare form in my house you asked, you demanded, to be left alone, to let sleeping dogs lie. Such a question sprang from rage. The French had not done so. They were prepared to spend treasure and time in hunting you down. So you decided to turn your anger against them. You reverted to perpetrating the same atrocities you had along the Seine, choosing those whores favoured by the French. You used Mathilde to buy sacks of red wigs. I am sure they are stored somewhere in this benighted place. Mathilde was the first to die. She had to. She knew too much, didn’t she?’
‘They should have left me alone,’ Ambrose, his eyes half closed, shifted the arbalest so Athelstan could clearly see it was primed: the wicked bolt with its small, sharp feather flight and jagged points was aimed directly at him. ‘They should have left me alone,’ Ambrose repeated. ‘I was happy.’ He lifted a hand. ‘My house is comfortable, my parish small, I had all the joys of bed and board. Oh, by the way, friar, I know you haven’t searched my house but there is nothing there. Do continue.’
‘You were also furious at the way the English Crown was prepared to cooperate with the French. Such measures interfered with your well-laid plans to flee the kingdom for pastures new. But, of course, you need treasure for that. Now you are the parish priest but also the chaplain to the sept of the Worshipful Guild of Barge- and Watermen here in your parish. They are all former members of the war barge, Le Sans Dieu. You must have known Bramley, certainly met him, Dorset’s henchman on the cog The Knave of Hearts and also a former member of that English free company. Somehow, you learnt of the rumours about Master Thibault wishing to send gold to Calais on board that war cog, so you and Roughkin plotted to steal it and flee.
‘Why should Bramley cooperate? Dorset was the master.’
‘No, no,’ Athelstan corrected, ‘you know the company of Le Sans Dieu, their memories, their fears, their remorse. You are, after all, a priest, a chaplain to the guild, a man they could confide in. I am sure Bramley did. He confessed to you, the two-headed Janus – ostensibly a caring priest, in truth a killer to the bone.’
‘You do not know what fashioned me, friar. Not really. What truly formed me.’
‘I agree, not entirely. But, I recognize the essence of your soul. You kill and you love to do so. You don masks and take them off whenever it so pleases you. The caring priest disappeared. The Oriflamme emerged to terrify Bramley and his family. Now,’ Athelstan tapped the arms of his chair, ‘what happened next truly intrigues me. I concede I can only indulge in guesswork.’ Athelstan paused, still listening keenly, still hoping.
‘Friar?’
‘Heaven knows how you learnt about The Knave of Hearts: perhaps from Bramley, perhaps from the whores employed by The Way of all Flesh, maybe even from river gossip. Now, you were already alarmed by the determination of the French to hunt down and capture the Oriflamme and his henchmen. You resumed your evil alliance with the principal one, Master Roughkin. This villain had returned to London, pretending to be his own son. He would certainly realize the real danger posed by Levigne. He would definitely be greedy for that treasure allegedly aboard The Knave of Hearts. Both you and Roughkin are twins of evil. You can be the Oriflamme and, when it su
its you, put as much distance as possible between your role as a caring priest and your secret life as an assassin. If the Oriflamme is needed but you are unavailable or unable to assume that guise, Roughkin would take up the mantle. After all, you had perfected that deadly game in Normandy. Your face and head hidden behind a mask and wig, your body beneath a woman’s grey gown, whilst I suspect you altered your voice by inserting small sponges in your gums.’ Athelstan waved a hand. ‘You are well-versed in such trickery. Very cunning, very subtle. Two killers playing the same role, shifting the mask whenever it suits you, like actors in a mummers’ play: that’s what happened along the Seine, didn’t it? By the way, how did you meet Roughkin?’ Athelstan forced a smile. ‘Though, there again, there is no need to tell me. Like attracts like, doesn’t it?’
‘Be careful, friar,’ Ambrose touched the arbalest. ‘You can leave whenever I decide.’
‘Of course,’ Athelstan soothed. ‘But you were together in this venture, weren’t you? You both decided to plunder The Knave of Hearts, utterly destroy it and flee. Bramley was the key. On your orders, Roughkin terrified that poor soul, his family, his wife and children. It must have been him, as Bramley would recognize you.’ Athelstan stared at the priest. ‘Well, never mind,’ the friar continued, ‘we know that Bramley, terrified by the Oriflamme, provided you with as much detail as possible, especially about the guard being despatched to the The Knave of Hearts, those two Tower archers. I do not know the precise details, though I can guess what happened. Through Bramley you learnt those archers’ names, the time of their arrival at Queenhithe. Bramley may have even sent them coins to drink in The Prospect of Whitby. It’s logical enough. The two archers were not members of the crew, just the guard. They would be eager for refreshment before they set sail, perhaps a stoup or blackjack of ale, then you and Roughkin, disguised as fellow bowmen, joined them.’