by Paul Doherty
‘Reynard the Fox?’ Cranston interrupted. ‘Leading emissary of the Great Community of the Realm, a true miscreant who prides himself on slipping in and out of the city as easily as a fox does a hen coop?’
‘Well, this time he was trapped and caught,’ Thibault snapped. ‘Reynard murdered the bell clerk of St Mary Le Bow, Edmund Lacy, and fled. He was recognized and caught in the Hall of Hell – a disreputable tavern.’
‘A veritable mummer’s castle,’ Cranston agreed. ‘Deep in that filthy maze of streets around Whitefriars.’
‘Anyway,’ Thibault hurried on, ‘Reynard was arrested and lodged in Newgate, where he was searched and interrogated. We discovered the cipher on his person but not the alphabet to go with it. Under torture Reynard admitted he was to meet a leader of the Upright Men in London who styles himself the Herald of Hell.’
‘And where is Reynard now?’
‘Recovering in Newgate, he, ah …’ Thibault pulled a face. Athelstan held his gaze. Reynard, or whoever he truly was, would have been harshly tortured, probably crushed beneath an iron door until he began to plead. Thibault’s cruelty was a byword in the city.
‘Master Thibault has shown great compassion,’ Albinus lisped. ‘The traitor Reynard could have been immediately condemned, hanged, drawn and quartered.’
‘Great compassion indeed!’ Cranston murmured drily.
‘Reynard,’ Albinus continued, ‘has been given the opportunity to reflect and mend his ways.’
‘By helping to decipher that message?’ Athelstan intervened.
‘As well as informing us of other secret matters affecting the Crown and its business.’
Athelstan studied this precious pair. Thibault and his eerie henchman were royal officials who could expect no mercy if the Upright Men stormed London and assumed power. The punishments threatened to Reynard would be nothing compared to what the Earthworms would inflict on both these men at Smithfield or Tyburn.
‘And now?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Reynard is still reflecting. We await his answer by Vespers tomorrow evening, Brother Athelstan.’ Thibault thrust both documents back into the friar’s hands. ‘Sir John will be officially commissioned to investigate the mysteries here at the Golden Oliphant. We expect you to assist with this secreta negotia – secret business – and, in doing so, win the approval of the Crown, not to mention its undying gratitude.’
‘Of course, what could be more pleasing?’ Athelstan murmured. Thibault smiled with his eyes.
‘We also ask you, as we know you are peritus – skilled in these matters – to unlock the secret of the cipher and so tell us the messages being carried to this Herald of Hell.’ Thibault wagged a finger. ‘I suspect the other manuscript, displaying the triangles and saints’ names, represents Whitfield’s workings before he died, but what they mean …’ Thibault shrugged. ‘In the end that cipher, I am sure, refers to matters which are most important, crucial to the rebels when they raise the black banner of treason against our sovereign lord …’
‘And that includes yourself and His Grace, my Lord of Gaunt?’
‘But more especially the person of our young king Richard,’ Cranston intervened swiftly, fearful that this little friar might provoke Thibault too far.
‘Traitors, Brother Athelstan,’ Thibault hissed, ‘thrive on their dunghills. I have, and will leave alone, those who burrow deep in certain parts of Southwark.’ He shrugged. ‘What difference does it make now? Why hunt sparrows when more dangerous birds of prey circle overhead?’ He abruptly recalled himself. ‘Unlock the cipher, Brother Athelstan, and you will have my usual gratitude.’
Athelstan held Thibault’s gaze. The Master of Secrets had raised this matter before and, to be fair to him, had kept his word. St Erconwald’s had its own coven of Upright Men – Watkin, Pike and the other miscreants – and, though Thibault knew this, none of them had suffered some violent raid on their dwellings in the dead of night. No mailed horsemen had clattered into yards, damaging property, seizing goods whilst none of the parish’s young men had been seized and hustled away to rot in the Bocardo, Southwark’s filthy prison or those other hellish pits in Newgate, the Fleet or the Tower.
‘Good, good.’ Thibault clapped his hands like a child, rocking backwards and forwards on the bed. Athelstan glanced quickly at Albinus and was surprised. Thibault’s henchman was gazing sadly at him with those pink-rimmed, glass-coloured eyes, then he winked slowly and pulled a face. Athelstan went cold. Albinus, for his own private reasons, was warning him that Thibault may well leave the parish of St Erconwald’s alone because he did not need to bother himself. Thibault already knew what the Upright Men were plotting there, which meant that the Master of Secrets had a traitor, someone deep in the parish. Shocked and yet certain of the warning given, Athelstan abruptly rose to his feet and walked across to the window. He leaned against the ledge, watching the tattered pigskin flutter in the breeze as he recalled Albinus’ warning. Athelstan knew Thibault’s henchman was most amicable towards him: the friar had done good work for Gaunt and never indulged in the cheap insults others directed Albinus’ way, either about his strange looks or sinister status. Nevertheless the possibility of a spy in St Erconwald’s would have to wait. Other matters demanded his attention.
‘I will need to question this Reynard,’ Athelstan pushed himself away from the ledge, ‘as I do Oliver Lebarge, Whitfield’s scrivener who fled from here this morning to seek sanctuary at St Erconwald’s.’
‘So he is definitely there,’ Thibault murmured, glancing swiftly at Albinus. ‘We wondered why he should shelter in your church. According to Mistress Cheyne, Lebarge fled as soon as Whitfield’s corpse was discovered. He had the chamber next to this.’
‘And his possessions?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Also gone. Why, Brother, you look surprised.’
‘Because Lebarge came with nothing, Master Thibault, a true fugitive. No possessions except for the clothes on his back. What do you know about the man?’
‘Amaury Whitfield’s one and only friend,’ Albinus whispered. ‘Both bachelors with no close kinsmen. Lebarge and Whitfield occupied the same lodgings in an old ironmonger’s shop in Fairlop Lane. Whitfield was a senior clerk; he would deal with secreta negotia – secret business. Lebarge was his personal scrivener, skilled in his own right.’
Albinus paused as the captain of archers entered the room and bowed.
‘Master Thibault, we have searched the brothel, its outhouses and gardens. We’ve found no trace whatsoever of the attackers. I understand three bolts were found, which means,’ the man scratched his bearded face, ‘a trained archer, perhaps one of the Earthworms who might have followed us here, or someone sheltering in the brothel itself. But,’ he held up a leather-mittened hand, ‘we have no proof of that. The Golden Oliphant is now ringed with archers. Sir John, your chief bailiff Flaxwith and others have arrived. They too have taken up position.’ The captain coughed apologetically. ‘Oh, Sir John …?’
‘Yes?’
‘Your bailiff Flaxwith is accompanied by the ugliest mastiff I have ever seen!’
‘Keen-eyed, you are,’ Cranston grinned, ‘and, what is worse, the ugly bugger thinks I am his bosom comrade.’
The captain left, chuckling to himself as he clattered down the stairs.
‘So,’ Athelstan resumed, ‘Whitfield and Lebarge, two bachelors, came here to participate in the Festival of Cokayne, the topsy-turvy world, a stark contrast to the rigours and the discipline of the royal chancery at Westminster on the Tower. Then the festival turns fatal …’
Athelstan took a set of Ave beads from his pocket and threaded them through his fingers, a common gesture which always reminded him of other realities hidden from the human eye.
‘And you suspect murder?’ Thibault demanded, getting to his feet.
‘Yes, but I could be wrong.’ Athelstan pointed at the corpse. ‘Whitfield’s remains will begin to swell and stink: his cadaver should be taken to Brother Philippe in St Barth
olomew’s at Smithfield. He must perform the most scrupulous search of the corpse and report his conclusions to me and the coroner as soon as possible. In the meantime, Master Thibault, Sir John, nobody must leave this tavern. I will need to meet the guests who resided here yesterday evening. Though,’ Athelstan pulled a face, ‘I am sure they are now as eager to depart this place as Lebarge was.’
The friar walked over and stared down at the corpse. ‘And this Herald of Hell?’ he asked. ‘What do we know of him?’
‘Nothing more than a title,’ Thibault replied. ‘Whether he truly exists or not cannot be proved. My sparrowhawks have skimmed the streets and shelter under the eaves and gables. They report that the leader of the Upright Men in London has assumed such a title. The only fact that I do know is that this herald mysteriously appears outside the dwellings of God-fearing citizens to deliver his warnings.’
‘But never here?’
‘Why should he, Brother? Though this house has its own mysteries. It was once owned by Sir Reginald Camoys. I believe his brother, Sir Everard, is a former shield companion of yours, Sir John? Sir Everard has recently been visited by the Herald of Hell but, as for the Golden Oliphant, all I can say is that this is a strange house with an even stranger history. Who knows, Sir John, you may even find Lothar’s Cross here. Now,’ Thibault beckoned at Albinus, ‘we must be gone.’ And both men swept from the room, Thibault shouting for his entourage to be ready.
Athelstan waited until the clatter on the stairs faded. Cranston moved across to the bed. He took out the miraculous wineskin, drank a generous mouthful and offered it to Athelstan, who shook his head. The coroner sat cradling the wineskin in his arms, staring moodily at the damaged door.
‘Thibault did not really tell us much,’ he remarked. ‘But, there again, Gaunt’s henchman never opens his soul to anyone.’
‘Sir John, you are quiet, withdrawn, querulous?’
‘I always am when Thibault is within spitting distance. I don’t trust him or his royal master John of Gaunt, our dear king’s loving uncle. I am sure Gaunt nurses a deep ambition to be king. Richard is only a boy, a mere child. Gaunt wouldn’t really mourn if his nephew died without an heir, leaving only him and the House of Lancaster to occupy St Edward’s throne and wear his sacred crown.’ He glanced quickly at Athelstan, ‘The preacher is correct: Vae regno ubi rex est puer.’
‘Woe to the kingdom whose king is a child!’ Athelstan translated. He paused as a clerk of archers came up the stairs and into the chamber, accompanied by four Tower guards carrying a makeshift stretcher. They waited whilst Athelstan once again searched the corpse, but he could find nothing. The clerk lit a candle, took a sheet from the bed and used it as a shroud, sealing the linen cloth with blobs of wax from his writing satchel so the corpse and other items could not be interfered with. Whitfield’s baggage was then scrupulously searched. Athelstan declared himself satisfied that he had overlooked nothing and repeated his instructions: Whitfield’s remains and all his possessions were to be taken to Master Philippe at St Bartholomew’s for further scrutiny and examination. The busy-eyed clerk of archers promised all would be done and, with a little help from both Cranston and Athelstan, the corpse and the other impedimenta were taken out on to the gallery.
‘So bleak and empty.’ Athelstan gestured around.
‘Why, little monk, what did you expect?’ Cranston teased.
‘Pictures, paintings depicting love, lust and all the other fascinating things and, by the way, Sir John, I am a friar, not a monk.’
‘And one apparently acquainted with brothels?’
Cranston, his face all curious, came over and gently poked the Dominican in the chest.
‘Oh, yes,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘I visited one in Perugia, Italy. I was studying at Pavia but, in the summer months, I journeyed round the northern cities. One glorious afternoon, I was walking across a sun-washed piazza in Perugia. The square was a sea of brilliant colour. Beautiful young men and women dressed in multi-coloured silks and taffeta milled back and forth. Children were selling the freshest fruits. Open air, portable stoves cooked the most appetizing food: cheese and herbs on flat savoury bread with strips of quail and other meats grilled to perfection. A group of musicians played heart-plucking melodies. Anyway, I was there, all agog, when a beautiful nun, her face framed by a wimple, approached me and grasped my hand. She had the most brilliant smile. Although I could not understand her, she talked so softly, so prettily; she pulled at my hand, urging me to come with her.’ Athelstan paused. Cranston was now sitting on the stool, face in his hands, shoulders shaking. ‘She took me across the square to what she called her Domus, her convent.’ Athelstan ignored Cranston’s snort of laughter. ‘A truly exquisite place. The outside stone was honey coloured, the walls within covered in rich paintings, a shimmering black and white tiled floor reflected the light. Only when I entered what I thought was the convent parlour did I suddenly realize that something was very wrong.’ Cranston was now sobbing with laughter. ‘There was a painting of a young man, supposed to be Adonis, attended by two graceful young ladies, naked as when they were born …’
Athelstan smiled as Cranston, shaking with laughter, his eyes brimming with tears, rose and clapped him on the shoulders.
‘Oh, little monk!’
‘Friar, Sir John!’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I explained that she had me wrong. I was there to see the sights …’
Cranston threw his head back and roared with laughter.
‘I asked if she would like to accompany me, did she wish to be shriven? I …’
Sir John turned away and slumped back on the stool.
‘She became very angry.’ Athelstan drew a deep breath. ‘So I thought it best to leave.’ He went and stood over Cranston.
‘I often think of her, Sir John, her exquisitely decorated chamber, the bed with its snow-white sheets …’
‘Have you ever been with a woman,’ Cranston asked, ‘having lain with one?’
Athelstan coloured and turned away. ‘I know what it is to love, Sir John, to love and lose and nurse a broken heart. As for the sex act, strange to say, my good friend, and you can ask many a priest, it’s not the coitus, the little death of the bed which haunts your soul. No, being celibate, remaining chaste bites deeper than that. It’s the loneliness, Sir John, the yawning, empty solitude. Bonaventure, not my cat but the great Franciscan theologian, had it correct. He claimed the greatest friendship in the world should be that between husband and wife.’
‘And the good Lord does not fill that emptiness, Brother?’
‘We worship a hidden God, Sir John, an elusive one. We search for him, the hidden beauty, and that search can lead us down many strange paths. In the village where I was born an old widow woman lived in a well-furnished cottage surrounded by a garden overlooked by a small rose window filled with coloured glass. Turtle doves nested beneath this. Now the old woman lived by herself. Her husband had left an eternity ago to fight in Normandy. He promised he would return: the first she would know about it was when he tapped at that rose window. He never came back, killed by a crossbow bolt at Crécy. Nevertheless, every evening that old lady, just as dusk fell, waited for the turtle dove to begin its passionate pattering against the darkening glass. Love, Sir John, manifests itself in so many strange ways. The human heart is a hungry hunter; it starves for love, for acceptance and deep friendship, and the road it follows twists and turns. Sometimes it can bring you to a place like this. They say a man who knocks on the door of a brothel really wants to knock on the door of God. He is searching for that hidden beauty and joy.’
‘You are a strange one, friar.’
‘Then I am in good company, Sir John.’
‘You deal with sin but never commit one?’
‘I did not say that, my portly friend. Yes, I sit in the shriving chair and listen to souls pattering their sins. However, the more you listen, the more you realize that you and your penitent have so much in common.�
�� Athelstan laughed. ‘They often confess what you would love to do yourself, which, Sir John, brings us back to Perugia and what I saw there compared to what we have here, a stark bareness, which is not what I expected.’
‘Brother, any house openly proclaiming itself a brothel would be condemned, raided and closed. So the Golden Oliphant masquerades as a wealthy tavern.’
‘Where other appetites are discreetly served?’
‘Precisely, little friar. Now we should go down and meet those other guests.’
‘They will wait, they have to,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘It’s good for their souls. Rest assured, Sir John, The Golden Oliphant now houses the deep, curdling mystery of Whitfield’s death. Logically therefore it also holds the solution which, I suspect, is already known to one or more of its occupants. So, let us get the measure of this place.’
Athelstan crossed to the door then came back.
‘Thibault claimed there was a story to this house. He mentioned an old comrade of yours, Sir Everard Camoys, his brother Reginald and the Cross of Lothar. I have heard of the latter; an exquisitely beautiful, bejewelled cross of great antiquity. Come, Sir John, there is a story behind the Golden Oliphant?’
The friar gazed expectantly at the coroner, who just stared back. You are, Cranston thought, a little ferret, you gnaw away at a problem until you reach the truth. The coroner half-cocked his head, listening to the sounds from below: the archers leaving, Whitfield’s cadaver being loaded on to a sled, the clatter of pots, all drowned by the deep growling of dogs.
‘What are those?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Hunting dogs, mastiffs, Mistress Cheyne lets them loose at night to roam the gardens. Well, there is one less now, thanks to Master Thibault.’
‘So those mastiffs must have been prowling last night?’
Cranston raised his eyebrows. ‘Brother, we should go down and begin the questioning.’
‘In a while, Sir John. Thibault said that you have a story and, as I have said, I want to hear it. I need to capture the very essence of this place. We must summon up all our wit.’