The Godless

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Very good, friar,’ Ambrose purred. ‘Very clever. You have been busy.’

  ‘You both play the role of veterans, an easy enough task with your past. You swaggered into The Prospect of Whitby, cowled and visored, faces almost hidden. You joined those archers, bought them drinks, told each other stories referring to this and that. You acted as two successful mercenaries with bulging purses ready to treat and honour fellow soldiers. The two Tower archers drank deeply. You then enticed them to leave with the prospect of further pleasure perhaps at The House of Delight. Whatever, you and Roughkin take both men to some desolate place. The archers are totally unprepared for death. They are fuddled with drink, tired and fully trusting these two benevolent comrades. Easy victims, killed by crossbow quarrels loosed close. You and Roughkin show no mercy, no compassion. Both archers are decapitated, their heads slung down the sewer in the garden of that dreadful house on the corner of Slops Alley: their corpses stripped naked and sent floating like rubbish into the river. You don their clothes, belts, boots and weapons. You may have concealed your faces with false beards or just used the felt cap such archers wear to cover their heads and the bottom half of their chins.’ Athelstan pushed back his chair. Ambrose immediately straightened up in his, raising the arbalest directly at the friar. ‘I have the cramps,’ Athelstan confessed. ‘I need to move.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Ambrose warned. ‘Soon, you meddlesome little man, you will be past all care and pain. I must concede,’ Ambrose lowered the arbalest, ‘you are skilled, keen and sharp. Do continue.’

  Athelstan stretched out his legs. Again, the arbalest was raised. ‘You have now donned the guise of the two Tower archers.’ Athelstan relaxed. ‘Bramley, of course, allows you on board The Knave of Hearts and you go down into that dark hold: a sombre place where you and Roughkin squat, pretending – as ever – to be what you really are not.’

  Athelstan stared into the dancing fire. He was sure he’d heard sounds different from the rest as the strengthening wind rattled the shutters. ‘Two shadow men,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘both you and Roughkin. You pass the mask of the Oriflamme to each other: sometimes him, sometimes you. You did that when Roughkin visited us both in St Erconwald’s disguised as the killer. You arranged such a visitation in an attempt to terrify me as well as to confuse and mislead. A devious ploy used on other occasions.’

  ‘Your story,’ Ambrose snapped, ‘tell it.’

  ‘Ah well, The Knave of Hearts sailed on the evening tide. A few hours later, the cog was obliterated from the face of God’s earth.’ Athelstan moved in his chair as if trying to rearrange his robe. In fact he was trying to catch any sound, a noise which could mean he was no longer alone with this demon.

  ‘Come on friar, the hour passes.’

  ‘On board The Knave of Hearts you both lurk in that dark hold, squatting outside the arca as the cog sailed downstream, aiming like an arrow for the estuary, its bum-boat, at your insistence with Bramley, still not hoisted aboard. You are going to need that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Bramley object? I mean the cog is going to be destroyed?’

  ‘Ah, but he didn’t know that did he? He thought you were going to steal the gold and flee. Even in his darkest nightmare, he would never dream of what was truly going to happen. Anyway, the cog approaches the great sandbanks of Sodom and Gomorrah. Most of its crew are now forward. Bramley, terrified like a rabbit by two stoats, joins you in the hold. You kill him, open the arca and take out the hand-held coffer.’ Athelstan paused and crossed himself, lips moving as if reciting a prayer for the dead. He just wanted to be sure about what he’d heard.

  ‘Bramley dies,’ Athelstan continued, ‘as would any member of the crew if they were present in the hold. You don your gruesome costume, take the coffer and go up on deck. You are disguised just in case anyone did glimpse your face and survived. You and Roughkin intend to flee using the bum-boat. The crew are still forward, but Master Dorset confronts you. You deal with him and, helped by Roughkin, hurriedly leave. You have no choice, you have to. Before you left that hold, you broached the black cannon powder and lit a long fuse. Both you and Roughkin are former soldiers, skilled in such matters. The two of you clamber off the cog into the boat. You cut the rope and tie the cord above the tiller. You row as fast as you can. Again, you are experienced in that, former members of the crew of Le Sans Dieu.’

  ‘And my henchman Roughkin? I heard that he was busy drinking in some tavern? You yourself said that.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘People become confused, who was where and when. Roughkin haunted taverns. He would come and go even on that night he might have decided to hurry back and indulge in some drinking. Now both of you escape. The Knave of Hearts is destroyed in a hideous conflagration. You reach your hiding place. You open that coffer. Only then did you realize the truth. It held no treasure, only rusty nails or some other rubbish.’ Athelstan smiled, he now decided to taunt his assassin. ‘I would have paid good silver to see your faces when you discovered Master Thibault’s trickery. How you must have railed and cursed!’ Athelstan laughed, shaking his head as if deeply amused by what he’d said. The wind now seemed to have fallen. A river mist had swept in, a thick, cloying cloud which seeped through cracks and forced its way under doors and shutters. Athelstan, still smiling to himself, rocked backwards and forwards.

  ‘Be careful friar.’

  Athelstan glanced up. Ambrose had raised the arbalest again, no longer smiling, the devil priest glared at Athelstan.

  ‘I knew I was tricked,’ he rasped.

  ‘So you decided to indulge in a little trickery of your own! You spread those rumours that the Oriflamme and his henchmen were hiding in that derelict mansion overlooking the Court of Thieves. You enjoyed that didn’t you? Despatching both the Luciferi and Sir John on a wild goose chase, diverting their attention from other matters. There was something else.’ Athelstan pointed at Ambrose. ‘You wanted those Upright Men silenced, didn’t you? One of them recalled a most bizarre incident during the Great Revolt. A shabby house, on the corner of Slops Alley where its inhabitants, two old women, were found hanging with red wigs pulled over their heads.’ Ambrose smiled, nodding in approval. ‘You know what that house once was? You went there. A foundling home for orphans or children abandoned by their parents. As I said, you Ambrose Rookwood, or whatever your real name, served some time there. The sheer cruelty of your guardians scarred your soul, we at least agree on that? The two sisters were eventually deprived of their living. They moved away but then returned. You learnt about this and used the great disturbance in the city to carry out your vengeance.’

  Ambrose put the arbalest down in his lap and softly clapped in mockery. ‘Very astute friar. I used to visit that house and yes I put those two old crones on trial for their crimes. I took my time because you can imagine how busy I was. I mean, I had to act as judge, prosecutor and jury. Of course, in the end I found them guilty. I thought of cutting their throats but, by then the city was in turmoil. In the end I sentenced them to hang. I became their executioner. I did enjoy their death struggles, watching those wizened, twisted faces turn purple, the life breath hissing from their wicked, filthy mouths.’

  ‘You must have known the Upright Men would learn of this and be puzzled? You certainly thought about that when guildman Falaise informed you in confidence that Grindcobbe and his henchmen were in hiding, preparing to flee, waiting for former comrades to safely row them to some waiting ship. Falaise spoke to you, didn’t he? After all, you were his priest and, I am sure, proved to be sympathetic to the Upright Men. Typical Ambrose, all things to all men. Falaise may have thought he was talking to you under the seal of the Sacrament, but in truth that means nothing to you. You simply used the Upright Men to deepen the confusion. Now Falaise was another matter.’ Athelstan gestured with his hand. ‘He must have wondered sooner or later, who betrayed his former comrades. Perhaps he never really considered it was you. Time would pass and he would reflect that you, the only other person w
ho knew, might be the traitor. Falaise would certainly be troubled. Perhaps he approached you again to get to the truth and you priest, like the deadly beast you are, moved swiftly to the kill.

  ‘Oh come, Brother Athelstan. You are greatly mistaken. Other people must have known about the Upright Men sheltering in the court of Thieves.’

  ‘I disagree. Whatever you may think,’ Athelstan pulled a face, ‘you do not control everything. Sir John visited Grindcobbe in Newgate. The Upright Men were bartering for their lives and my Lord Coroner agreed. According to Grindcobbe, other members of the guild, your poor parishioners, may have the deepest of sympathy for their plight but only Falaise knew where they were hiding and what they intended to do. I understand the Upright Men maintained such secrecy so as to diminish the threat of betrayal. Only those who had to know would be informed. Monkshood told me the same. Falaise had sworn to Grindcobbe that he would share the information with no one. I suspect he kept his word, with one exception, his priest. It would take time for Falaise to realize this, so you murdered Falaise but you did so in a manner that would protect you.’

  ‘How wrong you are!’ Ambrose shook his head. ‘I am sorry but, little meddler, you think you have the truth. I learnt about Falaise through that silly bitch.’ He pointed at the dead Alice. ‘The Upright Men needed feeding. Falaise hadn’t the sense or time to secretly buy purveyance for a cohort of desperate hungry men. He approached the taverner of The Leviathan to purchase food under some stupid pretext or other. She told me. I followed Falaise when he pushed his wheelbarrow to Thieves’ Square. Both the silly bitch and myself talked to Falaise: it became fairly obvious what mischief he was involved in and the rest was simple.’

  ‘Very clever,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘you were most cunning even to the end when Falaise was murdered. After all, at the very moment the alarm was raised, you and your confidante Mistress Alice were closeted with me and Sir John. Poor Falaise! Rendered helpless by the drugged wine you probably forced him to drink, he was trapped and bound, forced to stand on the step of that bell tower, desperate to undo the clever knot which kept the noose so tightly and securely around his throat.’

  ‘Oh, you are sharp,’ Ambrose interrupted. ‘I really did think I would fool you.’

  ‘No you did not.’ Athelstan retorted brusquely. ‘Falaise would pluck and pick at the knot, wary of making a mistake. Eventually he did. He slips, loses his footing, the noose tightens and Falaise is gone. And who could point the finger of suspicion at you closeted with me in your sacristy?’

  Athelstan smoothed down the folds of his robe. He had to bait, taunt and challenge this killer, keep him absorbed in this deadly game as the hour candle burnt lower and lower. He raised his hand. ‘In murdering Falaise, you made another stupid mistake.’ Athelstan steeled himself against the spasm of fury which twisted Ambrose’s face, but the mood passed. The priest’s arrogant curiosity was getting the better of him.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he breathed. ‘That was a silly mistake.’ He laughed sharply. ‘Being betrayed by a knot. I realized that later. I watched you, like the little, nosy friar you are, sifting amongst the chests and sacks brought by my dear parishioners. You stopped when you came to mine, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course. You had tied your coffer with rope. I glimpsed a similar knot on your chancery satchel when I first visited The Leviathan, the same again on that coffer and, of course, the deadly knot on the noose around poor Falaise’s throat. Finally, I saw it on board the bum-boat which was found floating on the Thames after The Knave of Hearts was obliterated. You’d tied the tiller to a bench, hadn’t you? Such knots, seaman’s knots, require a certain skill and you with your service as a bargeman would be expert in fastening ropes and cords.’

  ‘Someone else could do the same!’

  ‘Yes, they could except that through elimination you become the only suspect.’ Athelstan leaned forward patronizingly. ‘Why don’t you admit your terrible error?’ Athelstan pointed at Alice’s sprawled corpse. ‘I wonder, I truly do about her role in all of this but she is past all caring and has to answer to a higher court.’

  ‘You are playing for time friar but the hours burn away, soon you too will be despatched into nothingness. I don’t believe there is anything there so it’s futile to rage against the gathering dark. Do you know what it feels like friar to know there is nothing?’

  ‘I believe you are in for a most unpleasant surprise as your accomplice Roughkin has surely discovered. Roughkin your accomplice …’

  ‘Are you sure it was he, not his son?’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter does it? I think it’s Roughkin. Only the angels know what truly happened to his son. Perhaps Senlac discovered the truth about his father and had to be silenced. However, in the final weaving of this terrible tapestry, Roughkin must be depicted as an assassin, a murderous soul who returned to St Erconwald’s. Roughkin was your accomplice. He must have been furious to discover there was no treasure on board The Knave of Hearts. Desperate, he recalled his days as keeper of the mortuary at St Erconwald’s. How he had murdered some of his guests who stayed at the miserable Piebald, burying both their corpses and their wealth beneath the old death house. He’d left himself a memorandum, a clumsy cipher to show where these corpses and their looted treasure lay hidden, a special mark on particular stones so he would know which ones to lift. After all, Roughkin had been forced to hurriedly flee St Erconwald’s years ago when Sir John Cranston came investigating.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Roughkin ran the risk of being arrested for one felony or another: pretending to be his son Senlac was a clever disguise which gave him the freedom to wander St Erconwald’s and The Piebald tavern.’ Athelstan stared into the flames. He glimpsed the poker lying to one side and wondered if that could prove a suitable weapon. He picked it up and pushed it into the flames.

  ‘I am waiting, friar.’

  ‘Roughkin knew full well where the treasure chart was, but he couldn’t go directly to it. He really had no right to wander the tavern. More importantly, the chamber on the top gallery, which I suspect was an old chancery, was locked, the key held by Master Joscelyn. Roughkin therefore pretended to be an honest searcher but, really and truly, like you he was a mummer, his mouth crammed with lies.’ Athelstan pulled out the poker.

  ‘Put it back, friar.’

  Athelstan shrugged and dropped the iron bar, letting it clatter to the ground.

  ‘I admit,’ Athelstan decided to placate his opponent, ‘there are gaps in the tapestry I weave, in the story I tell. I am not too sure who was the Oriflamme at any particular time. I do suspect that Roughkin terrified Bramley in ways and at certain times we don’t even know about. He probably also sent the information regarding the Upright Men to both Cranston and the Luciferi. He must have broached with you a second possible source of treasure in my parish. I concede,’ Athelstan raised his hands, ‘you are very, very cunning but, there were obstacles. Roughkin’s plans were seriously disrupted when he realized that the mad beggar Godbless lived in the old death house along with his pet goat. Now Godbless was completely moonstruck, but he was also very possessive. He regarded that mortuary as his home, as any lord would his manor house. But further shocks awaited.’ Athelstan chewed the corner of his lip, even as he strained to hear any sound from the darkness around him.

  ‘What shock, friar?’

  ‘You know full well. Godbless was a lunatic, as mad as a box of baby frogs. He was an old wizened man with no brain, no wits and certainly no past. At least not until you and Roughkin arrived. Both of you realized that Godbless was no lesser person than Jacques Mornay, Master of La Chèvre Dansante, The Dancing Goat, a tavern on the banks of the Seine in Normandy, the former camp of the English free company, Le Sans Dieu. Mornay, lunatic and mad as a march hare, was also one of your henchmen. Over the years he’d slipped down the greasy pole of life, wandering England as a beggar, learning what he could of the tongue until he arrived at St Erconwald’s, desperate for a place in our community, which we gave him. The
poor soul never referred to his past. Indeed, except for the salutation ‘Godbless’, he hardly spoke sensibly to anyone.’

  ‘You are sure it was Mornay?’

  ‘To quote you back, don’t play games, priest, this is the truth. Now Godbless was moon-touched in every sense of the word. However, I do suspect he recognized Roughkin from his days along the Seine; he may have also recognized you.’

  ‘Recognise, recognize.’ Ambrose retorted in a singsong voice. ‘If Godbless was that tavern keeper, surely members of the guild would recognize him as he would recognize them?’

  ‘You know the answer to that,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘It’s almost twenty years ago since that free company left France. People change, they grow older, alter their appearance. Roughkin did that, and Godbless certainly did. The only description we have of the taverner at La Chèvre Dansante is that he had thick hair with a bushy moustache and beard. You know he did. Now the years passed. Godbless grew thinner. Bereft of hair on head or face, he was virtually unrecognizable. Of course, his wits wandered, though I don’t think he would forget his fellow henchman Roughkin.’

  ‘Godbless was mad.’

  ‘On rare occasions he could be lucid enough. Godbless hadn’t forgotten La Chèvre Dansante, which explained his keeping of a pet goat. I also suspect the poor madcap recognized faces from his past. The day before he was murdered, Godbless was heard shouting La Chèvre Dansante, repeating it time and time again in his usual lunatic style. In your eyes, Godbless had to be silenced. First, to shut his mouth, and secondly so that Roughkin could seize the plunder he’d hidden away beneath the paving stones of that sombre death house.’