by Paul Doherty
‘So Roughkin killed him?’
‘No, you did. On that night Roughkin made great show of drinking and carousing in The Piebald tavern. He would not go into the cemetery and Godbless would definitely not open the door to him. He may have opened it to you, a priest, but there again, I suggest there were two keys to the death house. Godbless had one, the other was still held by Roughkin either on his person or hidden somewhere in God’s Acre. You used such a key to enter the mortuary and murder Godbless. You then deepened the mystery by inserting the dead man’s key in the lock, though not fully, then secured it from the outside taking the second key with you: that’s your soul isn’t it, Ambrose? You kill and kill again, but you love to cloak it in mystery, as if the game is the all-important thing. To you another person’s life is like the flame of a candle, to be snuffed out without a second thought whenever it pleases you.’ Athelstan paused. ‘No one and nothing is sacred to you, be it a poor widow-woman or a statue in my little chantry chapel! You blight anything in your path.’
‘They all deserved to die,’ Ambrose replied dreamily. ‘We couldn’t take that treasure and just row away. The French … well, I did think of striking at Levigne, but the death of those stupid whores was punishment enough. And the same is true of the rest, be it Falaise or Godbless.’
‘You must have worried about Roughkin?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You did, didn’t you? His wits aren’t as sharp as yours. On the morning we found Godbless, Roughkin arrived and made the most curious remark. He didn’t enter the death house, he couldn’t really see the corpse, yet he knew the beggar’s throat had been slit. I later deduced that he was either the murderer or was given that information by the assassin responsible.’
‘You are nearly finished, friar?’
‘Your murder of Hornsby was cold and calculating, perpetrated out of malicious spite more than anything else. There was no real reason for slaying that bargeman. He may have entertained his own suspicions. However, by the time you plotted his death, you were totally immersed in your murderous game. You staged a seemingly mysterious killing in a locked, bolted, sealed chamber, fashioned out of the hardest rock, with no other entrance except for a fortified door sealed from the inside.’
‘And?’
‘Oh, it is as obvious as it is logical. You are the parish priest of St Olave’s. You knew about the stone at the base of the rear of that building, how it could be pushed in and out. Hornsby must have mentioned he’d be working there that day. Or, better still, did you tell him to go there at a certain time? Perhaps check that all was well before he, like the others, joined you at St Erconwald’s? You entered that arca by the secret entrance and you waited. Hornsby arrived. Now the arca is used to store different goods. Hornsby was probably nervous, especially after the death of Falaise, so he locks and bolts the door behind him. In fact he has locked himself in with his assassin: you.’
‘And the reason, friar?’
‘As I have said, you love your murderous games. You enjoy the power, baiting the likes of Sir John, proving yourself to be superior to everyone and anyone, particularly those who oppose you. You are a dyed-in-the-wool killer, a prowling malignant, desperate to protect yourself from the consequences of your sin. Falaise and Hornsby were murdered to silence them and you intended to do the same to all who might prove to be a threat.’
Athelstan cleared his throat. ‘Sooner or later one of your former comrades may have stumbled onto the truth about their priest. You thought it was time to clear the field.’ Athelstan sketched a cross in the direction of Mistress Alice’s corpse. ‘She had to go and so did Roughkin. I suspect your henchman’s death was easy enough. He came to consult with you. You told him to meet you in that desolate part of St Erconwald’s cemetery. He would shelter beneath a yew tree and you made that his tomb. A crossbow bolt to the forehead and another clacking tongue is silenced. Ah well.’ Athelstan heard a click, a quite distinctive sound in the darkness at the far side of the taproom. He turned and glimpsed a bulky shadow move.
‘What are you staring at, friar?’
Ambrose was also alarmed. On the hand he had to confront Athelstan, but he was now wary. He sensed something new, something very dangerous, was creeping through this hall of dancing shadows. The priest rose, his back to the fire, slightly turned so the crossbow was still aimed directly at Athelstan.
‘What is it, friar?’
‘The war in France.’
‘Don’t play games with me, you little shit,’ Ambrose snarled.
‘Sir John Cranston was once a knight of the royal household,’ Athelstan replied forcefully. ‘Despite his bulk, he could steal through the darkness like a slithering snake. He could penetrate the enemy camp and inflict grievous damage on his opponents. Sir John may be fat, bulky, gross in your eyes but, in truth, he is swift and silent as a shadow. And do know, priest, I believe he is here. Not too far from us …’
PART SEVEN
Dies Irae: The Day of Wrath
Ambrose turned. Athelstan lunged at him but the priest, lithe and swift as a lurcher, twisted away. He pulled at the catch on the arbalest but the bolt tumbled to the ground. Ambrose used the crossbow as a club, knocking Athelstan aside. He then fled across the darkened taproom into the buttery, slamming the door behind him. Athelstan, his shoulder bruised from the blow, struggled to his feet and almost collided with Cranston, who slipped – swift and soft as a hunting cat – from the shadows. The coroner resheathed both sword and dagger and swept the little friar into a crushing embrace, not releasing him until Athelstan gasped that he couldn’t breathe and that his shoulder was hurting. The friar sat back in the chair as Cranston, now joined by Flaxwith and his bailiffs who’d forced a door, hurried across to the buttery, Athelstan shouting that the criminal had fled there. The door, however, had been locked and bolted from the inside and, by the time these clasps were prised loose, the buttery was empty. Ambrose had pulled back a wall bench as well as a strip of coarse floor matting to reveal a hidden passageway, the trapdoor to it resting against a stool. Cranston bellowed at Flaxwith and his company to go down in pursuit, as well as to take care of Alice’s corpse. Once he’d imposed some sort of order, the coroner came back across the taproom, pulling a chair to face Athelstan squarely.
‘Thank God,’ the friar leaned over and grasped the back of Cranston’s gauntleted hand. ‘Thank God,’ he repeated, sitting back, sketching a blessing in the direction of Alice’s corpse, now sheeted and ready to be taken away.
‘Satan’s tits,’ Cranston breathed. ‘I heard a little of that, Athelstan. I realized you were confronting Ambrose. So what happened?’
The friar swiftly summarized what he called his bill of indictment against the priest. The coroner heard him out, shaking his head, cursing under his breath. For a while the coroner just sat, staring into the middle distance. Athelstan excused himself and, opening his chancery satchel, took out his holy phials. He rose and, pushing aside the makeshift shroud, hastily blessed and anointed the dead Alice. He pressed his fingers against her cold, hardening flesh, sketching crosses on her bloody face and gaping lips whilst he mouthed the requiem, pleading with Christ to shrive this woman of any sin. He’d hardly finished when Flaxwith came stomping in with Samson his mastiff, all excited after his journey along the secret passageway.
‘Sir John,’ the chief bailiff pulled back the hood of his cloak. ‘We went down and followed the tunnel. It leads into nave of St Olave’s, just before the rood screen.’
‘And?’ Cranston demanded tersely.
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you won’t believe this. The fugitive priest Father Ambrose is already claiming benefit of clergy, that he is a cleric, not subject to the King’s justice but that of the church. More importantly,’ Flaxwith added lugubriously, ‘he is also claiming sanctuary. Apparently, St Olave’s has that right for someone being pursued by royal or city officials. There were a few parishioners in the church. The priest is already protesting his innocence, his privileges as a cleric …’ Flaxwith pa
used. ‘Don’t be angry, Sir John. We couldn’t do anything to stop this, but the fugitive has already despatched two of his parishioners to Lambeth to speak to the archdeacon’s man Master Tuddenham. Remember what you told me, Sir John? We never cross swords with the Holy Mother Church, especially in a church. In a word, there is bugger-all we can do about him.’
Cranston groaned, putting his face in his hands, even as he shoved Samson away with the toe of his boot.
‘Finally Sir John,’ Flaxwith snapped his fingers at the mastiff, who reluctantly left the coroner to squat beside his master, ‘when we entered the tunnel, we passed a hidden enclave. One of my men stumbled and his hand hit a wooden barrier – an aumbry built into a wall cleft. We opened it and …’ Flaxwith turned and bellowed into the darkness. One of his men hurried forward and gave Flaxwith a sack, which was promptly emptied onto the floor. Athelstan and Cranston stared at the pile of coarse hair wigs dyed a deep, sinister red.
‘Satan’s tits,’ Cranston whispered. ‘The devil’s handiwork. Well done, Flaxwith. Clear them away. Take that woman’s corpse to the death house of another church. Oh, and mount a strong guard on both St Olave’s and our sanctuary, man. Do this now. Despatch your swiftest courier to the constable at the Tower. I need twenty Cheshires down here as soon as possible.’ Cranston clapped his hands. ‘Swiftness is of the essence. Oh Flaxwith, one of your comitatus is called the Badger?’
‘True, Sir John, he can dig anything out.’
‘Good. Ask him to search the priest’s house, turn everything over and give it a good shake. Knowing the little I do about that cunning bastard, I doubt very much if you will find anything suspicious, but you and your lads have done well. The priest’s possessions and belongings are not covered by sanctuary, they are forfeit to the Crown. I want you and your lovely boys to make an honest list and I will give you a share.’
‘That’s very kind, Sir John.’
‘It’s my middle name, my friend, so off you go.’
Cranston and Athelstan sat in silence whilst Flaxwith and his cohort clattered about, removing Alice’s corpse as well as bringing the coroner and friar freshly brewed ale and a platter of food from the kitchen. Both men ate and drank whilst the taproom emptied. Once it had, Athelstan blessed himself and pushed the platter away.
‘Sir John, my friend, once again I thank you. You suspected something was wrong, yes? Ambrose made a terrible mistake. No one, apart from Benedicta, ever sends messages on my behalf across river to you, especially a courier you do not know.’
‘Precisely, my little monk.’
‘Friar, Sir John.’
‘Precisely,’ Cranston repeated. ‘Why should Ambrose act on your behalf? Why tell me to wait in Southwark and not travel as swiftly as God’s angels permit to meet you here if it were so important. No, no.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘The courier, some ordinary parishioner, seemed innocent enough. He just repeated what he’d been told, adding that you were now with the priest when the message was delivered. Moleskin then arrived. He told me what he knew and I suspected something was very wrong. Deeply suspicious, I hastened across, ordering Flaxwith and his comitatus to follow. Now,’ Cranston’s face broke into a grin, ‘during my long and not-so-glorious career, I have done business with some of the most skilled picklocks, naps and foists in this kingdom. They taught me their tricks as well as one incontrovertible truth.’
‘Sir John?’
‘In every dwelling place, there’s always a downstairs shutter or door which can be breached, picked or prised open. I found a window with shutters begging to be forced and so here I am.’ The coroner sighed deeply. ‘I wish I could have seized that murderous soul. Now he is going to use the King’s law and that of the church to protect himself and walk scot-free. Come, Brother. Let us at least confront the bastard.’
They both rose. Cranston adjusted his warbelt and cloak and helped Athelstan collect his chancery satchel. The friar was still weak and tired after his baleful confrontation with the Oriflamme, but he also felt a growing determination that such a sinister sinner did not elude God’s justice or the King’s. They crossed to the buttery and went down the secret passageway. The dark, freezing tunnel was hollowed through the rock, reinforced with stout timbers and carefully constructed pillars. Athelstan reckoned that the needle-thin passageway had once been some form of escape from either church or tavern during those hurling times which often swept London. Torches fixed in crevices and sconces had been lit, the flames hungrily licking the tar and pitch, the darting fire creating wide pools of light. The air was musty but not too uncomfortable, whilst the ground underfoot was dry and hard. Two of Flaxwith’s bailiffs patrolled the tunnel and, when they climbed the steps into the nave, more bailiffs were guarding the entrance through the ancient rood screen.
Athelstan and Cranston went up the steps into the sanctuary, the icy coldness of the old church wrapping itself around them. Braziers had been lit. Bailiffs, together with a group of curious parishioners, were busy warming themselves. The hour was very late but the news that something was wrong in St Olave’s had spread along the runnels and narrow alleys of the parish. Flaxwith hurried over, he whispered to Cranston, and led both coroner and friar across the sanctuary. Every candle, lantern and cresset had been lit. Flaxwith pointed towards the sacristy door.
‘Two of my lads are within. They will guard the prisoner should he want to use the jakes’ hole.’
Athelstan glimpsed a wall painting on a pillar to the right of the sanctuary, its brilliant colours catching the light.
‘That’s freshly done,’ he observed. ‘Sir John, just let me have a look.’
Intrigued, Athelstan walked across and stared at the fresco. The scene was one of Hell, with sinners bound to fiery pillars with a sea of flame lapping around them up to their chins, red-hot chains in the form of snakes circling their waists. The faces of the damned blazed in torment; hosts of demons gathered around them, armed with fiery clubs.
‘What’s the matter, little friar?’ Cranston whispered.
‘A vision of Hell,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Common enough in old churches. At first glance nothing suspicious.’
‘But?’ the coroner asked.
‘There’s usually some form of deliverance, a harrowing by the good Lord, his angels being closely present, to demonstrate that Hell itself is part of his dominion. Look, Sir John, there is no such reference here. If I had come to this church a month ago, I would have made nothing of it but now, knowing what I do …’ Athelstan plucked at the coroner’s sleeve and led him back. ‘Where is the prisoner?’ Athelstan asked.
Flaxwith led them into the apse behind the high altar, a narrow passageway which ran past an enclave where Ambrose slouched on the mercy chair as if he hadn’t a care in the world. On the small table beside him stood a jug of wine, a goblet and a platter of dried fruit, along with a small lantern and a pot of candles. Nearby glowed two wheeled braziers providing both light and warmth. Ambrose hardly moved, except to point at the blanket-covered paillasse on the floor behind him.
‘I shall be retiring soon,’ he declared.
‘It’s a wonder that you can sleep,’ Athelstan rasped.
‘I do hope you are not here to threaten?’ Ambrose rose swiftly to his feet. ‘I have appealed to all my parishioners.’ The priest’s powerful voice echoed around the sanctuary and two parishioners appeared, coming round the far end of the high altar, almost as if they’d expected such a summons. They walked towards the enclave to join their priest but Cranston thundered at them to go no further.
‘Our priest,’ one of the parishioners, an old man in faded, stained clothes bleated, ‘our priest has been falsely accused. He—’
‘That is not a matter for you,’ Cranston boomed.
‘Stay,’ Ambrose shouted. ‘Stay near to the entrance to the rood screen. If my sanctuary is violated, cry “Harrow” and raise the alarm. Do you understand?’ The parishioners chorused they would before allowing Flaxwith to shoo them away. Ambrose watched t
hem go, then sat down on the mercy chair, crossed his legs and smiled up at his two visitors. ‘The chickens,’ he murmured, ‘still don’t believe that the fox is deep in the hen coop. They still regard me with their usual stupid devotion, as if I was the cock Chaunticleer, not Reynaud but,’ he sighed noisily, ‘this fox will soon be gone.’ His smile faded as he glared up at Cranston and Athelstan. ‘Need I remind you that I am Ambrose Rookwood, a true cleric, a priest validly and legally ordained by Richard Bishop of London, and formally assigned to the parish of St Olave’s here in Queenhithe?’ He tapped his wallet. ‘I have the necessary letters. Accordingly, I am not subject to royal justice, be it English or French. Arrest me and arraign me before any justice in this kingdom and I will plead benefit of clergy. Master Tuddenham and his archdeacon will have me surrendered to the jurisdiction of Holy Mother Church.’ Again the smile. ‘I know what you are thinking.’ He stared at Cranston. ‘Church courts do not have the power of life and death. I will get my bottom smacked and sent on my way. I will dance away free and innocent as any maypole maiden.’
‘You are a false priest,’ Cranston crouched down, peering close at Ambrose. ‘You are a drinker of human blood. You feast on death.’
‘Sir John, I agree with you. But who cares about that? Concentrate on the problem in hand. I have claimed sanctuary here at St Olave’s, my own church, which extends the ancient right to those fleeing from royal justice, of safe and secure sanctuary. You know the law, Sir John. In forty days’ time, I, Ambrose Rookwood, a recognized cleric, will leave this church. I will be protected by the sheriff’s men, not to forget Master Tuddenham’s escort. On a cold winter’s day, dressed, cloaked and booted, food in my sack and money in my wallet, I will trot down to the nearest port which is,’ Ambrose raised his eyes, ‘Queenhithe. Once there, I will board a ship for foreign parts. I will escape. Though,’ he pointed at Athelstan, ‘you never know when I might return. Oh, it could be a year, two years; perhaps I will return as a monk.’ His face grew serious. ‘A monk, a soldier or merchant, and I will lurk deep in the shadows around your pathetic little priest house or that dark, cold church of yours. You will get a surprise shared only by you and me.’ Ambrose began to laugh, fingers fluttering to his face as he stared up at his two visitors.