by Paul Doherty
‘We realized there was nothing we could do.’ Joycelina took up the story. ‘So we went downstairs. By then of course everyone was roused and fearful. Lebarge had apparently grown very frightened. He pushed past Master Griffin and fled the refectory. Foxley and I went back up the stairs. Lebarge was standing in the death chamber, just staring at his master’s corpse. He was distraught, shoulders shaking. He left, hurrying down the stairs. By then the Golden Oliphant was in uproar. Mistress Elizabeth sent messengers to the Savoy Palace and the Tower to give Master Thibault the news.’ She spread her hands. ‘The rest you know.’
‘And Lebarge?’
‘In all the commotion,’ Mistress Cheyne replied, ‘he simply slipped out, disappeared. I didn’t see him go but he definitely fled.’
‘Yes, he certainly did,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘He arrived in St Erconwald’s carrying nothing. No possessions except a knife and the clothes he was wearing.’
‘Brother, I cannot explain it; he was here then he was gone. We thought he may have locked himself in his chamber or, consumed with grief, gone out into the garden. We were all distracted, especially when Master Thibault and his retinue arrived. He was furious, spitting curses, blaming us and threatening to hang everyone until he had the truth. You arrived and went up to the chamber; only then did the news trickle through about how Lebarge had fled for sanctuary in St Erconwald’s.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Sir John, he is in sanctuary, ask him yourself.’
‘And his baggage is still in his chamber?’
‘No, that’s as empty as a widow’s pantry.’
‘So where is it?’ Sir John asked.
‘Ask Lebarge, we have nothing of his.’
‘We certainly shall, but first we have others to question.’ Cranston tapped the table with his hands. ‘Mistress Joycelina, of your great kindness, ask Masters Griffin and Foxley, together with those two labourers, to come in here.’ The coroner smiled. ‘Quickly now, then we will be gone and you can return to your business.’
She hastened off. Cranston, to break the embarrassing silence, began to question Mistress Cheyne about the Cross of Lothar but she seemed reluctant to answer. Athelstan, whose attention had been caught by the ornately carved mantel above the empty fireplace, rose to inspect it more closely. He scrutinized the two medallions on either end. The one on the left displayed carved initials, ‘IHSV’, the letters wreathed with vine leaves; the one on the right had a sun in splendour with the inscription ‘Soli Invicto’ – to the Unconquerable Sun – carved beneath.
‘Both of these inscriptions …’ Athelstan scratched his head. ‘I am sure I have seen them before.’
‘Reginald’s work,’ Mistress Cheyne called, turning on the settle. ‘For the life of me I don’t know what they signify. Reginald refused to say. You will find the same in his chantry chapel at St Mary Le Bow. Young Matthias has questioned me about them often enough. I wish to God I could explain them, but I cannot. Go around this tavern, Brother Athelstan, and you will find those two roundels carved elsewhere, along with the Golden Oliphant. Reginald loved nothing better than riddles and puzzles. He claimed it reflected life …’
She broke off as the door opened and Foxley entered, a beanpole of a man with a dark, pointed, stubbled face and greasy hair hanging down to his shoulders. He was garbed in a leather jerkin, leggings and boots. Athelstan caught the reek of the stables. Master Griffin, who accompanied him, was a squat tub of a man with deep-set eyes and a ruddy, bewhiskered face, clearly a person who loved his food: he kept smacking his lips and rubbing his swollen belly.
The two labourers reminded Athelstan of Watkin the Dung Collector in their muddy rags, leather aprons and cracked, shabby boots, though their bearded faces and dull-eyed looks were in stark contrast with Watkin’s cunning wit, devious ways and mordant sense of humour. Both men, in deep, gruff accents, confirmed what Athelstan had already been told. Mistress Cheyne had come out into the garden with Master Foxley; they had collected the battering ram and climbed to the top gallery. It was dark and narrow, difficult to swing the ram, but they had succeeded. The door collapsed, their mistress told them to take the log downstairs and inform Master Griffin to confine all the guests to the refectory, though they understood Lebarge had already fled. Despite the poor light they had glimpsed the corpse dangling.
Throughout the labourers’ blunt speech, Foxley and Griffin nodded like two wise men. The Master of the Hall then explained that he had stayed downstairs looking after those who were breaking their fast. They had heard the pounding but he had insisted, on Mistress Cheyne’s instructions, that everyone remain at table.
‘Except Lebarge,’ he concluded. ‘He pushed by me and went through the door.’
‘And you, Master Foxley?’ Athelstan turned to the Master of Horse.
‘I was all troubled. I’d drunk deeply the night before. Anyway, I helped batter the door; it was securely locked and bolted. Eventually it collapsed. Mistress Cheyne ordered me into the room. It was very dark and smelly, all the candles and lamps had burnt out.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Master Whitfield’s corpse just hung like a black shadow. I was, I was,’ he stumbled, shaking his head, ‘deeply frightened.’
‘Did you see anything else amiss in the chamber?’ Athelstan asked.
‘No, except that Master Whitfield looked not so fat in death.’
‘Not so fat?’
‘Slimmer, Brother Athelstan, his belly not so swollen, but, there again, that could have been a trick of the poor light.’
‘And what next?’
‘Mistress Cheyne asked me to open both shutters and window.’
‘Did you notice anything wrong?’
‘No, Brother Athelstan, the shutters, both within and without, were firmly closed. I had to remove the bar from the inside.’
‘That’s right,’ one of the labourers broke in. ‘Just before I left, I saw Master Foxley lift the bar and place it on the ground.’
‘And the window itself?’ Cranston asked.
‘Securely latched.’
‘And the pigskin covering?’
‘Tightly in place.’
‘When we took the battering ram back downstairs,’ one of the labourers affirmed, ‘we went outside and looked at the flower bed beneath the window, but nothing had been disturbed.’
‘Why did you do that?’ Cranston asked. ‘I mean, if the window was shuttered and barred …’
‘You don’t recognize me, Sir John?’ The burly labourer stepped closer. ‘Until Master Foxley hired us, we worked in the Candle-Flame tavern, now in Master Thibault’s hands. I remember the murders there.’ He grinned. ‘The way the window was breached. Everybody discussed how clever you were.’ Cranston, flattered, nodded in agreement.
‘So,’ Athelstan asked, ‘you, Master Foxley, opened both shutters and window and then what?’
‘I turned away. Mistress Cheyne and Joycelina were standing in the room looking at poor Whitfield.’ He spread his hands. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, that’s what I saw.’
‘And Lebarge?’
‘Brother, by the time I had returned to the refectory he was gone. Joycelina and I went looking for him. Mistress Cheyne was concerned. We found him in Whitfield’s chamber, all tearful and trembling.’
‘He said nothing?’
‘No, he pushed past us and left, that’s the last I saw of him.’
Athelstan whispered to Sir John, who had the chamber cleared. Odo Gray was summoned next. The sea captain swaggered into the room. He was weatherbeaten, sloe-eyed under a mop of white hair, his hard-skinned face set in a cynical smile as if he knew the world and all it contained. Dressed in a cote-hardie which hung just above low-heeled boots, he bowed perfunctorily and sat on the settle before Cranston and Athelstan.
‘Well, well, well.’ The coroner rubbed his hands together. ‘Odo Gray, Master of the Leaping Horse, a high-masted cog. Odo Gray, pirate, smuggler and merchant in all kinds of mischief.’
‘Sir Joh
n, I am equally pleased to meet you.’ Gray bowed sardonically at Athelstan. ‘Greetings also to the noble Dominican of whom I have heard so much.’
‘Have you now?’ Athelstan smiled. ‘And why is that?’
‘Whispers, Brother Athelstan, amongst your parishioners. How, when the Great Revolt occurs, your little flock wish me to kidnap you and spirit you away from all the bloodletting.’ He grinned as Athelstan gaped in surprise while Cranston swore beneath his breath.
‘Oh yes, it’s been mooted, Brother. Moleskin the Bargeman would call you away from your church, saying that the Lord High Coroner here wanted words with you. In truth you would be bundled aboard the Leaping Horse and taken out of harm’s way.’
‘And what came of this clever plan?’
‘Brother, I pointed out that once the revolt breaks out …’
‘The Thames will be sealed,’ Cranston broke in. ‘Thibault has already deployed fighting cogs, and he is hiring Breton galleys – wolves of the sea – to prowl the estuary and prevent all ships from leaving.’
‘And you refused?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Of course, what was the use? The Leaping Horse is well known to harbour masters from the Thames to Berwick …’
‘And with good cause,’ Cranston retorted. ‘You’ve sailed under the black flag of piracy.’
‘Jealous rivals, Sir John.’
‘And you are known to make landfall with tuns of Bordeaux which the customs collectors never stamp.’
‘Fables, Sir John!’
‘And you are reputed to excel at spiriting away any fugitives who can afford it, before the sheriff’s men arrive.’
‘Tittle-tattle fit for fools, Sir John.’
‘So what were you doing at the Golden Oliphant?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Why, Brother, God forgive me, indulging in the Cokayne revelry. I am,’ Odo crossed himself swiftly, ‘a man of fleshly desires. Often away from hearth and home.’
‘Which is where?’
‘Barnstaple in Devon.’
‘And you frequent this place often?’
‘I am well known to Mistress Cheyne and her moppets in every sense of the word.’
‘And Master Whitfield?’
‘Oh, the clerk who hanged himself?’ Gray shrugged. ‘I talked to him, as I did other guests, but I hardly knew the man or his shadow, the scrivener Lebarge.’
‘Do you know any reason why Whitfield should hang himself and Lebarge flee for sanctuary?’
‘None.’
Athelstan gazed quickly at the hour candle under its metal cap on a stand in the far corner. Lebarge needed to be questioned as swiftly as possible to corroborate all of this. Athelstan was certain that the ship’s master, this wily fox of the sea, was concealing something: his replies were too glib, and why inform Athelstan about some madcap scheme of his parishioners? Athelstan felt warmed by their deep affection, the determination that he would not be caught up in the coming violence. They had discussed what he should do and he had heard rumours about all kinds of stratagems and ploys to protect him. On reflection, what Odo Gray had told him was not so startling. Athelstan was now more intrigued as to why the captain had brought it up in the first place. To distract him, but from what?
‘Brother?’ Cranston’s voice broke into Athelstan’s thoughts. He turned and smiled at the coroner.
‘Sir John, I believe Master Odo Gray is lying.’ The sea captain’s jovial demeanour promptly disappeared – the twinkling eye, the ready grin and the relaxed pose – almost as if the man’s true soul had thrust its way through, aggressive and surly, fingers slipping to the hilt of his dagger. Cranston coughed and the hand fell away.
‘Explain yourself, Brother.’
‘Captain, I would love to but I cannot. I just believe you could tell us more about the nights of revelry, the conversations you had and the words you overheard. Perhaps also the real reason for you being here? So, Master Gray, Sir John here will ensure the harbour masters at the mouth of the Thames do not issue you with clear licence to dip your sails three times in honour of the Trinity and make a run for the open sea. You, like all the rest,’ Athelstan got to his feet, ‘will remain here until I am satisfied that we have the truth.’
PART TWO
‘Mithras: the Roman Sun-God beloved by the Legions until the Emperor Constantine replaced him with Christ’s Cross.’
Oliver Lebarge crouched on the mercy seat in the sanctuary enclave at St Erconwald’s. The scrivener was in mortal fear for his life. The pillars of his humdrum existence had collapsed all about him with the mysterious and unexpected death of his patron, his magister, Amaury Whitfield. Teeth chattering, Lebarge pulled his cloak closer about him. He felt in the pockets of his grease-stained jerkin and fingered the dirty piece of parchment he had found close to the enclave. It was crumpled and stained, but Lebarge still recognized the threat it carried: a crude but clear drawing of a human eye and beneath it in doggerel Latin, the ominous words, ‘Semper nos spectantes – We are always watching.’ Whitfield and he had received similar warnings at the Golden Oliphant, left on the bolsters of their beds or thrust beneath their chamber doors. Like those others, Lebarge would push this one down the jakes’ hole. The scrivener wondered who was responsible, but, there again, that was a measure of his own stupidity. He had fled to St Erconwald’s because its priest, the Dominican Athelstan, was regarded as a man of integrity, the secretarius of Sir John Cranston, who could also be trusted. However, the parishioners of St Erconwald’s were another matter. The Upright Men had their adherents here, high-ranking ones, even captains of their companies. Lebarge had glimpsed different individuals slip through the rood screen and stare up at him. The scrivener picked up the tankard and sipped from it. He was grateful for the Dominican’s kindness. Before the friar had left, Lebarge had begged him that only those whom the priest trusted should feed him, and this had been agreed. Victuals and drink had been brought by either the beautiful widow woman Benedicta, with her black hair and soulful eyes, or that tousle-haired urchin, the altar boy, Crim, who, like Benedicta, insisted on handing the tray of food and drink directly to him.
Lebarge did not trust anyone, not now. After Amaury had died in such a mysterious fashion, what was the use of going back to that narrow garret in Fairlop Lane, or worse, being dragged down to the dark dungeons of the Tower to be questioned by Thibault and his henchmen? He and Amaury had shaken the dust from their feet and drunk the cup to its dregs. No, it would be best, Lebarge reflected, if he sheltered here for the statutory forty days then allowed himself to be escorted to the nearest port and shipped to Dordrecht or some other port in Hainault or Flanders. Once there, he could offer his skill as a scrivener, settle down and begin a new life.
He drew comfort from such thoughts as he recalled what had happened at the Golden Oliphant. He could not truly understand it. Amaury had been so determined. They had discussed what to do after that mysterious figure, the Herald of Hell, had delivered his warning. They had stripped their chambers, made ready to leave, then both he and Amaury had joined the revelry of Cokayne at the brothel. Odo Gray had appeared and all was settled. He and Whitfield had both visited the Tavern of Lost Souls and completed their business. So why had Amaury allegedly killed himself? Or was it, as Lebarge suspected, murder? There had been no warning the previous evening. Lebarge had been in the taproom, the Golden Hall, roistering with the rest, whispering with Hawisa, Whitfield with Joycelina. Then Amaury, much the worse for wear, even though Lebarge suspected he had other secret business to attend to, had staggered upstairs with Joycelina, saying that he needed an early sleep. She had returned almost immediately, claiming Amaury was intent on sleep. Lebarge followed suit at least an hour after the chimes of midnight. He had tried Whitfield’s door but it was secure, the eyelet sealed as was the keyhole when he peered through it. Lebarge had taken a goblet of wine up, drunk it and enjoyed a refreshing night’s sleep until roused by Master Griffin announcing that victuals were being prepared in the kitchen. He needed no se
cond invitation. Mistress Cheyne had promised him his favourites; simnel cakes, fresh and hot from the oven smeared with butter and honey. Lebarge had been feasting on these when he noticed Amaury had not appeared. Joycelina had left to rouse him and the nightmare had descended. He could not believe the dire news which trickled down. Even Hawisa could provide no comfort.
Lebarge shifted on the mercy seat and peered across the sanctuary, alert to the sounds beyond the rood screen. He started as a shadow flittered, only to sigh with relief: Bonaventure, the one-eyed tom cat, bosom friend of the Dominican Athelstan. The cat waged unceasing war on the vermin which apparently plagued this church, or so Radegund had informed him. Lebarge again supped from the tankard of light ale resting on the floor before him. In fact, where was Radegund? The relic seller had taken sanctuary, apparently fleeing from some irate customer. Radegund had proved to be a thoroughgoing nuisance, asking Lebarge a litany of questions, flitting like a bat around the sanctuary until two leading parishioners had appeared, Pike the Ditcher and Watkin the Dung Collector. From snatches of conversation which Lebarge overheard, Watkin, Pike and Radegund had been gleeful at the news that the relic seller’s most recent victim had been one of John of Gaunt’s household. They offered to shelter him and the relic seller, cloaked and cowled, had slipped out of sanctuary. As he left, Radegund had thrown dagger glances at Lebarge, and the scrivener now wondered why. He thought he would be safe here – after all, it was not far from Hawisa and the Golden Oliphant …
To distract himself, Lebarge rose and walked around the sanctuary, studying the different paintings. Some of these looked eerie in the half-light pouring through the lancet windows. Hellish scenes: the Garden of Eden after the fall with a giant mollusc shell ready to snap shut on Adam and Eve. A tainted paradise illuminated by the colour of dangling jewels, yet the gemstones were sharply spiked, whilst deep in the foliage berry-headed half-demons hunted a hawk-billed raven perched on a huge apple. Lebarge stared. He recalled a recent story from Annecy in France about an apple which emitted such strange and confused noises that people believed it was full of demons and belonged to a witch who had failed to give it to someone. Lebarge glanced away. He must keep his wits sharp and not allow his imagination to drag him deeper into fear.