Herald of Hell

by Paul Doherty

  He wandered over to peer through the lattice window of the rood screen. Shapes and shadows moved around. He glimpsed Giles of Sempringham, better known as the Hangman of Rochester, deep in conversation with the tar-hooded Ranulf the Rat-Catcher and Moleskin the Bargeman. Lebarge shivered. A deep chill of ghostly fear gripped him. He had fled here to be safe, free from Thibault’s questioning, protected from the nightmare of Amaury’s corpse swinging by its neck, the pestering of Adam Stretton, the ominous warnings of the Upright Men. He recalled that greasy scrap of parchment with its horrid symbol of the all-seeing eye. Was he being watched by Thibault or the Upright Men? Would someone deal out sudden, brutal death to him, here in this holy place? Lebarge chewed on his nails and stared up at the sanctuary cross. Was it too late, he wondered, to pray for salvation in this world as well as the next …?

  Adam Stretton swaggered into the Exchequer Chamber of the Golden Oliphant. Athelstan recognized the type immediately: the mailed clerk, the henchman, the professional killer, a seasoned soldier who could quote the Sentences of Aquinas as well as wield sword and dagger. Keen-eyed and swarthy faced, a little fleshy, his black hair cropped close on all sides to ease the war helmet he would don in battle. Clean-shaven and sharp in movement, Stretton peered at Athelstan from under heavy-lidded eyes as his be-ringed fingers fluttered above a warbelt with sword and dagger as well as a pouch for ink horn and quill. Stretton slouched down on the settle, flicking at the dust on his murrey-coloured jerkin and hose, moving now and again so the spurs on his high-heeled riding boots clinked noisily.

  ‘Are you preparing to leave?’ Cranston asked. ‘In which case you are most mistaken.’

  ‘My Lord of Arundel …’

  ‘My Lord of Arundel.’ Cranston smacked both hands down on the table. ‘My Lord of Arundel,’ he repeated, ‘will have to wait. You, sir, shall not leave this brothel until we are satisfied as to the truth of what happened here.’

  Stretton licked thin, almost bloodless lips, his slit of a mouth twisted in protest.

  ‘Why are you here, Master Stretton?’ Athelstan asked quietly. ‘Just tell us.’

  ‘For the Cokayne Festival.’

  ‘For the delights of the flesh?’ Athelstan queried. ‘Master Stretton, I doubt that. I believe,’ Athelstan lifted a hand, ‘that you, a mailed clerk, the esteemed henchman of a great lord, did not come here just for revelry.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I wonder, I truly do.’

  ‘What?’ Stretton had lost some of his arrogant certainty.

  ‘Well,’ Athelstan glanced swiftly at Cranston. ‘Master Thibault is Gaunt’s henchman. Amaury Whitfield was Thibault’s creature, his principal chancery clerk. My Lord of Arundel, by his own proclamation, is Gaunt’s heart’s blood opponent. True? Well?’ Athelstan smiled at this arrogant clerk. ‘Did you come here to meet Master Whitfield? To negotiate with him, to suborn him, to learn his master’s secrets?’ Athelstan sat back. He and Cranston had discussed this while they had broken their fast on some delicious simnel cake and a pot of ale. Cranston strongly believed that Stretton was a ‘Master of Politic’ and that it was no coincidence that he had lodged at a brothel along with Thibault’s principal chancery clerk.

  ‘Well?’ Cranston barked. ‘Master Stretton, I could put you on oath and, if you lie, indict you for perjury …’

  ‘I came here,’ Stretton made himself more comfortable on the settle, ‘to revel, but also because I – we – learned that Whitfield also liked to attend such festivities. My Lord of Arundel felt it might be profitable to fish in troubled waters. I did keep Whitfield and his close-eyed scrivener Lebarge under sharp watch.’ Stretton paused as if to collect his thoughts, determined to be prudent about what he said.

  ‘Under sharp watch?’ Cranston queried, taking a slurp from the miraculous wineskin. ‘So, what did he do?’

  ‘Revel, as did Lebarge, with the ladies of the night.’

  ‘Who in particular?’

  Stretton blew his cheeks out. ‘Whitfield with Joycelina, Lebarge with one of the others. I forget now.’

  ‘You forget so you can question her later?’ Cranston tapped the table. ‘I want her name.’

  ‘Hawisa. I think it was Hawisa.’

  ‘How did Whitfield appear?’

  ‘Frightened and, despite the wine and wenching, he seemed to grow more cowed and withdrawn.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘So why did you say that?’

  ‘Whitfield drank a great deal,’ Stretton replied. ‘He was often by himself. He kept rubbing his stomach as if his belly was agitated. Sometimes he disappeared. He left the tavern, slipping out like a shadow and returning just as furtively. But, why and where he went?’ Stretton gabbled quickly to fend off Athelstan’s next question, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did he have any visitors?’

  ‘None that I saw.’

  ‘And he knew who you were?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Stretton conceded, ‘Whitfield and I had met before. He recognized me for what I am …’

  ‘Fitzalan of Arundel’s man, body and soul,’ Cranston intervened, ‘in peace and war.’

  ‘You have travelled the same road as I, Sir John. Arundel is my liege lord.’

  ‘And Arundel is my Lord of Gaunt’s arch-enemy,’ Cranston jibed. ‘We are correct, Stretton. You came here to suborn and subvert Whitfield.’

  ‘And I failed; the man was too distracted.’

  ‘And yesterday evening?’ Cranston demanded.

  ‘I was with the rest, in the taproom, what they ridiculously call the Golden Hall. Whitfield and Lebarge were present.’ Stretton sniffed. ‘Whitfield left for the stairs, Joycelina went with him, Lebarge continued drinking. Joycelina returned fairly swiftly.’ Stretton’s voice was now monotonous. ‘I retired to bed. I was roused for the morning meal, I came down. Lebarge was already there feeding his face on simnel cake, for which he is so greedy. Eventually Lebarge asked where his master was. The Mistress of the Moppets sent up her chief whore.’ Stretton did not hide the contempt in his voice. ‘She came clattering back all breathless about not being able to rouse Whitfield. Cheyne told us to stay with Griffin; she and Joycelina left the kitchen. We later heard the banging, then those labourers came down.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Oh, chaos ensued.’

  ‘What about Lebarge?’

  ‘He slipped away.’

  ‘Did you go up to the death chamber?’

  ‘Yes, I did, whilst waiting for Thibault and his coven of …’ Stretton licked his lips and grinned, ‘… his henchmen to arrive. I glimpsed Whitfield, cloaked and booted, swinging like a felon at Tyburn.’

  ‘Suicide, in your opinion?’

  ‘Sir John,’ Stretton wagged a finger, ‘Whitfield did not commit suicide. Oh,’ he sat back as if enjoying himself, ‘I cannot tell you anything more – just a feeling. I stared at the corpse of a man dressed for leaving rather than a toper garbed in his nightshirt eager to die. But,’ he shrugged, ‘the full truth of it I cannot say. Am I done now?’

  Cranston glanced at Athelstan, who nodded. Arundel’s man rose, bowed and, with Cranston’s shouted warning not to leave the Golden Oliphant ringing out behind him, sauntered out of the chamber.

  Matthias Camoys came next. He was the opposite to Stretton, almost stumbling in to meet Cranston and Athelstan. He was pinch-faced and slender with a toper’s flushed, swollen nose and constantly blinking eyes. His sandy hair, wispy moustache and beard did little to improve his appearance. The same could be said for his loose-fitting, ill-hung, ermine-lined scholar’s gown. Matthias seemed more like a monk who’d donned a hair shirt, shoulders constantly twitching against some vexatious scratching. To Athelstan he appeared ill at ease in his own flesh: he kept fingering a small cross on a silver chain round his scrawny neck, his fingers all dirty, the nails close bitten. He sat himself down on the cushioned settle. Athelstan peered closer; he was sure the cross Matthias was wearing was a miniature replica of the Cross of Lothar. The q
uestioning began. Matthias’ answers were desultory, like a prisoner forced to admit certain facts. He confessed to enjoying the Cokayne revels, as well as being a frequent visitor to the Golden Oliphant and a patron of a number of what he called, ‘the delicious Moppets’. A scholar from the halls of Oxford, he claimed he was here for the May festivals, though Athelstan suspected the masters of the university had sent him home for lack of study. It soon became obvious that yesterday evening Matthias Camoys had been deep in his cups and could remember very little except being helped up to his chamber by two doxies who had fumbled with him before he fell into a wine-soaked sleep.

  ‘And this morning?’ Cranston asked.

  Matthias’ reply was as banal as the rest. He had awoken all mawmsy and staggered down to the refectory. He confessed to being so inebriated that he’d failed to realize what was happening.

  ‘Did you know Whitfield?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Sir John. My father mentioned him and, of course, he often came to our house on his master’s business. I also met him at festivities held in the Royal Chambers both at the Tower and Westminster. I recognized him as a skilled cipher clerk, that’s the real reason I came here.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Athelstan replied.

  ‘Oh, yes, Brother. I like the wine, the sack, the roast, spice-laced pork and the ladies, but …’ Now all animated, Matthias sprang to his feet and walked over to the mantelpiece and pointed at the carvings, ‘IHSV’ and the Sun in Splendour with its inscription, ‘Soli Invicto’. ‘I have always been fascinated by these.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘When Uncle Reginald was alive, he showed me the Cross of Lothar. Brother, Sir John, believe me, I have never seen anything so beautiful. Beautiful,’ he repeated, returning to the settle. ‘Uncle promised …’ The young man brushed the tears brimming in his eyes.

  ‘What did he promise?’ Athelstan demanded.

  ‘He said he would bequeath it to me but I would have to strive and search for it. These riddles are the key, that’s why I come here. I thought Amaury would decipher them. He promised he would, but …’

  ‘But what?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘Amaury arrived all frightened and closeted himself against the world. He took part in the revelry but he was distracted. I asked him about the symbols my uncle had left. Amaury claimed he could decipher them but there were more pressing matters …’

  ‘Did he say what?’

  ‘He and Lebarge hid behind a cloak of secrecy.’ Matthias thrummed his lips with dirty fingers. ‘He left, I think, to go to the Tavern of Lost Souls.’

  Athelstan glanced at Cranston. The Tavern of Lost Souls lay in the dingiest and darkest part of Southwark, close to the treacherous mud flats along the Thames, a place where, according to popular legend, anything could be bought or sold, including human souls.

  ‘Why should he go there?’

  Matthias scratched his head. ‘I don’t know, but what I find most strange is this. I pestered him about “Uncle’s great mystery”, as I called it. I told him about the insignia here where Reginald once lived and in his chantry chapel at St Mary Le Bow. I admit I drove Amaury to distraction. He kept fobbing me off and went to sit in a corner whispering with Lebarge whilst trying to avoid Stretton. He seemed very frightened, cautious. He was desperate to forget his fears immersing himself in the revelry, with bowls of wine and trysts with Joycelina.’

  ‘Do you know why he should commit suicide?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘No. I was very surprised.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He told me last night, before he supped, that he was leaving the Golden Oliphant today but that he would meet me at the Tavern of Lost Souls, just around vespers.’

  ‘What?’ Athelstan and Cranston chorused.

  ‘That’s what he said. He believed he could resolve the mystery of Lothar’s Cross for me.’ Matthias pulled a face. ‘I confess, this morning I was muddled, still deep in my cups after last night.’ He blinked. ‘Nevertheless, Whitfield’s death shocked me. I can’t see why he should commit suicide …’

  The execution ground next to Tyburn stream was crammed with all the denizens of the dark, mildewed tenants of the city. Ribaldry, debauchery, lewdness, drunkenness and flaunting vice were both master and mistress of the day. The executions had begun after the great bell of St Sepulchre had tolled ominously across the city, summoning the mob to converge on the muddy fields around Tyburn to watch the gruesome spectacle. The soaring execution platform, black against the sky, had already witnessed the grisly decapitation of a traitor. The yellow-and-red masked executioner, drunk and staggering, had held up the traitor’s head but his hands, slippery with gore, had fumbled. He’d dropped the severed head and was immediately greeted with catcalls of derision and cries of ‘Butterfingers!’

  All the mummers and grotesques of the city flocked busily around; conjurers and cross-biters rubbed shoulders with Friars of the Sack and members of the Guild of the Hanged, who ministered to felons condemned to die. The air was rancid with the sweat of unwashed bodies and the different odours from the mobile stoves where meats of doubtful origin were grilled, stewed or roasted before being sold along with hard bread, beakers of wine and stale ale. Smoke billowed up from makeshift fires to mingle with the fragrance of incense streaming out of the censers belonging to the pious groups who attended execution day to offer spiritual comfort to anyone who needed it. Itinerant story tellers stood on makeshift platforms ready to pontificate on all matters, be it a horde of yellow-skinned warriors massing in the east under lurid dragon banners; the signs and portents seen recently in the sky over Rome; or that troop of devils prowling the lanes north of London. Friars of every order moved amongst the crowds chanting psalms, hymns and songs of mourning. Leeches and hedge-physicians offered the most miraculous cures, while relic sellers, hawkers, pedlars and costermongers pushed their barrows of tawdry items through the crowd. Puppet masters, stone-swallowers and fire-eaters had set up stalls. Prostitutes of every kind, garbed in their tawdry finery and heaped, dyed wigs, shoved and pushed their way through, fingers fluttering out, carmined lips mouthing the most solicitous offers.

  This tumultuous assembly had already been entertained with stories about the execution of the traitor who, whilst the gore-stained, butter-fingered executioner was trying to disembowel him, had struggled up to strike his tormentor. Such gruesome detail only whetted the appetites of those who flocked here to witness and indulge in every form of mischief. This execution day, however, turned different.

  The death carts came and went, delivering their condemned human cargo, men and women, roped and manacled, to be pushed up the narrow siege ladder to the waiting noose. The Hangman of Rochester from St Erconwald’s parish had despatched at least eight felons. Now he was waiting for his last two final victims: Wyvern and Hydrus, condemned felons who’d murdered a fellow inmate just before they had been seized and dragged from Newgate. The hangman watched the cart, drawn by two great dray horses, black plumes nodding between their ears, trundle ominously through the smoky clouds. Others, however, had also entered the execution ground: the Upright Men had arrived! Their foot soldiers, the Earthworms, were snaking through the mob, long lines of men, faces daubed black and red, greasy hair twisted up into demon horns. They were dressed in tawdry armour; ox hide shields in one hand, lances in the other. They were moving like stains through water towards the execution platform.

  The hangman glanced at John Scarisbrick, Captain of the Tower archers, his bearded, sweaty face framed by a coif and almost hidden behind the broad nose guard of his conical helmet. Scarisbrick plucked nervously at his chainmail jacket as he stared out over the crowd, nose wrinkling at the disgusting stench and gruesome sights on the execution platform.

  ‘They are intent on mischief!’ the hangman shouted.

  ‘But when?’ Scarisbrick yelled. He walked towards the edge of the platform. The execution cart was drawing closer.

  ‘They won’t attack the cart,’ he bellowed at his men. ‘It is too high-sided and movi
ng. Here!’ Scarisbrick pointed to the steps and bellowed orders at his archers to fall back and gather there. The columns of Earthworms were moving faster through the throng. Scarisbrick sensed the trap: his archers dared not loose; innocents would be killed and the rifflers and the roaring boys would whip the crowd into a murderous riot. Scarisbrick screamed at his men to unstring their staves, push them under the execution platform and draw sword and dagger. They did so. The death cart arrived at the foot of the steps, its tailgate slammed down. The Newgate turnkeys almost threw Hydrus and Wyvern, ragged, dirty and bruised, out on to the ground. Once they were out, the tailgate was lifted, the gaolers eager to be gone. Archers pinioned the condemned men, now struggling in a rattle of chains. The Earthworms were closing in, the crowd breaking up like shoals of fish before them. Yells, catcalls and curses dinned the ear. Daggers and swords were drawn in a clatter of steel. Women screamed and clutched their children, desperate to escape the coming conflict. The breeze thickened. A billow of thick black smoke gusted from the braziers on the execution platform and swept the killing ground. The Earthworms attacked, throwing themselves at the screed of archers. Scarisbrick glanced at the hangman who had now come up behind him.

  ‘I have my orders,’ he yelled and hurried down the steps. Scarisbrick crossed himself, recalling Thibault’s instructions that no prisoner should escape. The Earthworms were fighting their way forward beneath floating banners of scarlet and black, some displaying the crude device of the all-seeing eye. Scarisbrick reached the prisoners. He thrust his sword into Wyvern’s neck then turned, slicing open Hydrus’ stomach. Both prisoners, manacles clasped tight, collapsed in a welter of blood. Scarisbrick did not pause. More orders were screamed. The archers grasped the still juddering bodies of the prisoners, raised them as if they were sacks of flour and hurled them directly into the oncoming enemy. The attack faltered as the captains of the Earthworms realized what was happening. One of their number, his face disguised behind a black, feathery raven’s mask, hurried forward. He knelt beside Wyvern and clasped the dying man’s bruised, bloodied face between gauntleted hands. The prisoner, eyes glazing, shook his head, indicating his companion. The Raven turned to Hydrus who lay on his side, body twitching, and crouched, ear close to the mortally wounded man’s mouth.