by Paul Doherty
‘I wonder …’ Athelstan murmured, distracted. ‘It truly would be so beautiful if we had some painted glass here.’ He knew his mind was wandering, eager to be diverted from his present troubles. The friar closed his eyes and murmured a prayer for help. Pike the Ditcher would have to wait. Lebarge was more important. He opened his eyes, crossed himself and walked back to Benedicta, who stood in the shadows away from the light thrown by the candles before St Christopher’s pillar.
‘Our sanctuary man,’ Athelstan indicated with his head, ‘Oliver Lebarge?’
‘Terrified, Brother, frightened out of his wits. He trusts you, me and Crim but no one else. Watkin tried to approach him and Lebarge protested loudly. He will only eat and drink what I bring him from your house. On the last occasion he asked me to taste both food and wine.’
‘Has he said anything?’
‘Nothing, Brother.’
‘Very well.’ Athelstan turned away and made his way up the dappled, dark nave through the heavy rood screen and into the sanctuary. He first visited the sacristy and, using all his strength, pulled away the parish chest, which revealed the shaft dropping into the tunnel beneath. He could see the shards of plaster knocked off when Pike and his so-called cousin had entered. Athelstan now entertained the greatest suspicions about that so-called worthy nun. He pushed the chest back and examined the outside of the sacristy door, battered and broken by the weapons of Thibault’s men.
‘Master of Secrets or not,’ he whispered, ‘Great Revolt or not, Master Thibault can pay for these repairs.’ He strode back into the sanctuary and across the enclave where Lebarge sat huddled on the mercy stool, lost in his own thoughts. Athelstan fetched the footrest from the celebrant’s chair and sat down opposite him.
‘Oliver?’
Lebarge looked up.
‘I’ve recently come from the Golden Oliphant. Whitfield is truly dead; his corpse now lies at St Bartholomew’s …’
The scrivener put his face in his hands and glanced up. ‘I will not say anything,’ he hissed. ‘I will say nothing unless I receive a royal pardon for all offences I may have committed or be accused of. If not, I demand that the law of sanctuary be enacted, and that after forty days I be escorted to the nearest port.’
‘In other words, Queenshithe and Odo Gray’s Leaping Horse, as you and Whitfield were plotting to do, yes? I have been to your chambers in Fairlop Lane,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You stripped them of all valuables and moveables. You arranged to pawn or sell these to Mephistopheles at the Tavern of Lost Souls. You were both preparing to flee. You wanted to be out of England for a while to escape the coming fury. You aimed to confuse Thibault. Whitfield even separated articles of clothing which would be found along the Thames with some other items, all pointers to an accident or possible suicide. I have also read Whitfield’s death note and discovered that he was to meet young Camoys and help him with those enigmatic carvings left by his late uncle Reginald, which may or may not indicate the true whereabouts of the Cross of Lothar. And finally,’ Athelstan edged closer on the footrest, ‘I truly believe Whitfield did not commit suicide. He was murdered, wasn’t he?’ Lebarge, now all narrow-eyed with shock, stared in surprise.
‘Well?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘I am correct? You do not contradict me …’
‘I will not speak, Brother, until I receive a full pardon.’
‘For what?’
‘Then I will tell you a secret, a great secret.’
Athelstan stared up at the window. Darkness was thickening; night would soon fall. He felt tired. It was time to sleep. But first he must have some answers to his questions.
‘Then at least tell me,’ he spread his hands, ‘why you also – and I wager you do – believe Whitfield was murdered?’ He paused. ‘What happened yesterday evening?’
Lebarge pulled a face and stared across the sanctuary. ‘Whitfield drank his wine and retired to bed.’
‘Joycelina went with him?’
‘Yes, but she came down shortly afterwards saying Whitfield had drunk enough. I finished mine and went upstairs. Amaury’s door was locked and bolted. I called goodnight and he answered, said he was ready for bed. I was desperate for rest. I fell asleep. I heard or saw nothing untoward. I was roused just after dawn. I remembered that Mistress Cheyne was to prepare my favourite spicy simnel cakes, best served hot. I was very hungry. I heard Master Griffin trying to raise Whitfield but I thought nothing of it.’ Lebarge was talking in a monotone as if he had carefully prepared what he was saying. ‘I went down to the refectory, my simnel cakes were ready.’ He paused at the squealing from the far side of the sanctuary and flinched as a dark shape shot past, claws scrabbling at the floor. ‘Rats!’ he exclaimed. ‘I hate them.’
‘As does Bonaventure,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Now, this morning,’ he insisted, ‘what happened in the refectory?’
‘Joycelina announced Whitfield could not be raised. I became alarmed but Mistress Elizabeth said she did not want people charging through her tavern. She despatched Foxley to fetch the labourers and the battering ram. She also sent Joycelina out to keep the maids quiet once the hammering began. I knew what was going to happen. I stayed for a while. I heard people clattering on the stairs but the tension proved too much. I ignored Master Griffin and stole up to the third storey, hiding in a recess near the steps leading to the top gallery.’
‘Why did Whitfield rent a narrow chamber at the top of the house?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lebarge mumbled.
‘In other words, you do, but you won’t tell me?’
‘I stayed there,’ Lebarge replied. ‘I heard the battering against the chamber door. Foxley was directing them, Mistress Cheyne shouting for Joycelina. I was all a-tremble. I heard the door crash open and the exclamations. I went back downstairs to the refectory – by then everyone was alarmed. The labourers came down to announce what had happened. I stole back up to Whitfield’s chamber. I could not believe what I saw – Whitfield just hanging there. I panicked. I hurried back to my room, collected certain items and fled.’
‘But you came here with virtually nothing.’
‘True, Brother. Empty-handed except for the clothes I stand in.’
‘Did you hide the rest with Hawisa?’
‘Oh, that little mouse,’ Lebarge scoffed, ‘good to romp with on a bed but nothing else. They’re all whores; they’ll sell you for a penny. I hid certain items – I don’t trust anyone. I will say nothing more until I receive a full pardon.’
‘For what offences?’ Athelstan demanded. Lebarge just stared dully back.
‘I am safe here.’ He gestured airily. ‘I’m glad Radegund the Relic Seller has left.’
‘Why?’
‘Full of questions, he was. Anyway,’ Lebarge shrugged, ‘I know about Thibault’s men arriving. I thought they had come for me but it was one of your parishioners, Pike, and the nun he met over there in the sacristy.’ He sniffed noisily. ‘I am sorry, Brother, I will not say anything else. I am tired, I should sleep …’
Lebarge’s voice trailed away. Athelstan realized he would learn nothing further from the scrivener, so he blessed him and left.
The friar walked down the nave, lost in thought. Lebarge was virtually conceding he had done something highly illegal as well as being the keeper of great secrets. Whitfield must have been in the same situation. Yet what did Lebarge mean? Athelstan stood still and stared around. People were still drifting in and out of the church, pausing to light candles before this statue or that, moving shadows in the poor light.
‘Ah, well,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof; time for bed and board. Tomorrow will come soon enough.’
He made himself comfortable in the priest’s house. A small fire, banked with the coal still crackling red, heated the pottage in a fat-bellied cauldron hanging from its hook above the fire. Recently baked bread lay stacked in the small, iron-gated oven beside the hearth whilst fresh ale, butter and cheese had been left in the narrow buttery.
The flagstone kitchen, which served as Athelstan’s solar, hall, dining chamber and chancery office, had been scrubbed, the table too with its leather-backed chair and cushioned stools. Bonaventure came scratching at the door. Athelstan admitted him and served the tomcat some pottage then broke his own fast with a steaming bowl, all the time being scrutinized by the unblinking stare of his one-eyed, constant dining companion.
Once finished, Athelstan cleared the dining table. He took out his writing tray, a sheet of scrubbed vellum and began to form columns under different headings: the customers of the Golden Oliphant, Whitfield’s plans, Lebarge’s flight, the death scene. Under each heading Athelstan tried to list everything he and Cranston had learnt, all the scraps of information, although they could not be formed into any logical coherence. He also listed his suspicions, the words he had heard and the scenes he had glimpsed. He finished his ale and had just begun to nod off to sleep when a pounding on the door roused him.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
Mauger the bell clerk cried that it was he. He had gone to lock the church for the night and found the sanctuary man, Oliver Lebarge, dead on the floor, foully slain …
Cornelius the corpse collector tugged at Pegasus, his huge dray horse which pulled the high-sided death cart around the filth-strewn lanes of Southwark. The curfew bells had tolled and the beacons been lit in different steeples. Cornelius, eyes down, trudged on. Hood pulled over his face, he was a shambling figure, yet he was keen-eyed for any corpse pushed under a mound of refuse, a midden heap, some filthy laystall or even in the crevices hollowed out of the walls of the ancient, leaning houses which towered above the tangle of alleyways running through Southwark. Nobody bothered Cornelius, the black-garbed figure of death who trundled his cart searching for cadavers. He would collect the mortal remains of some hapless unfortunate and take them to the Keeper of the Dead who presided over Heaven’s Gate, a makeshift mortuary kept on a lonely, moon-washed coffin path leading out of Southwark. If there was anything suspicious about the corpse, the keeper would expose the cadaver for public view on the steps of Heaven’s Gate where, if it was recognized, the relatives of the dead could redeem their kin for proper burial. The others, who the keeper called the ‘Perditi – the lost’, would be soaked in a bath of lavender and stitched into a linen shroud by the Harpies, the Keeper’s nickname for the gaggle of old women he hired for that work. Once ready, the corpse would be given swift burial in the great pit, the common grave which stretched behind Heaven’s Gate …
Cornelius turned a corner and paused, pulling at Pegasus’ halter as he stared down the narrow lane. He was now close to St Erconwald’s, which over the last few days had been a hubbub of excitement. Cornelius always stayed well away from that particular parish. Watkin the dung collector claimed St Erconwald’s as his domain: he was the one who would collect refuse and anything else hidden beneath it. Cornelius was highly wary of Watkin, an Upright Man, a captain of the dreaded Earthworms. The dung collector could, if he wished, whistle up his legions of the dark, and Cornelius wanted no trouble with him. Indeed, the Keeper of the Dead believed the Earthworms would soon rise and the likes of Cornelius would be busy enough harvesting the corpses, but until then … This, however, was different. Cornelius stared down the alleyway. He could make out a figure lying on the ground and another above it pounding the prostrate person with a club or some other weapon. Time and again the blows fell, a sickening thud which prickled Cornelius’ sweaty body with shivers of cold. Pegasus, also alarmed, whinnied and blew noisily, head shaking as the great dray horse caught his master’s fear. Cornelius calmed Pegasus and stared back down the alleyway. All he could see now was the dim outline of the prostrate body. The attacker had disappeared.
Cornelius stared around. This was a deserted area. Certainly no one else had witnessed the incident. Intrigued and smelling profit, Cornelius pulled on Pegasus’ halter and, with wheels rumbling, the death cart and its custodian rattled along the alleyway. The corpse collector stopped just before the mouth of the alleyway. He pulled a spindle-like dagger from its ring on his leather belt and hurried forward to kneel by the young woman’s corpse. He could tell she was young from the texture and colour of her hair, her rounded, silky soft arms and what was left of her face. She had been killed instantly with a dagger thrust to the heart, the bodice of her dress heavily soaked in bubbling blood. Afterwards, the young woman’s assassin had pounded her face with a rock taken from a nearby crumbling wall. Cornelius’ quick, darting gaze took in the bracelets and rings on the young woman’s fingers and wrists; the gold chain around her swan-like neck, the brooch pinned to the neck of her gown; her clothes and leather boots looked costly enough, too.
‘Some pretty little whore,’ Cornelius murmured to himself. ‘No need to display her.’
The corpse collector swiftly stripped the corpse of its gown, petticoat, linen underclothes and boots, the tawdry jewellery disappearing into his cavernous belt wallet. Cornelius then lifted the young woman’s corpse, marvelling that her smooth, marble-like skin was still warm from life and, despite the ragged, bloody mess to her chest and face, exuded a faint perfumed fragrance. Standing on tiptoe, Cornelius tipped the cadaver, her long blonde hair now free of its clasp floating down her back, into the death cart to join the remains of a drunk found drowned in a horse trough and those of a beggar man, crushed by a fall of masonry whilst sheltering in a derelict, rotting tenement. Cornelius wiped his hands on his leather jerkin and froze. Whoever had killed that young woman could well be lurking nearby watching him. The corpse collector breathed out slowly.
‘All in all,’ he whispered reassuringly to himself, ‘a good night’s work.’
He tapped his now heavy wallet and wondered what he should do. If the assassin was still close by and watching, he would surely not object to what Cornelius had done. Nevertheless the corpse collector realized he was vulnerable. He could not run away, leave Pegasus, the cart and its grisly load. He licked dry, cracked lips and made his decision.
‘To you who dwell cloaked in the darkness.’ Cornelius paused; he liked that, recalling his early days as a stroller, a mummer who played his part in the miracle plays. ‘What you have done,’ Cornelius continued, ‘is a matter between you and God. Your victim lies dead, her face unrecognisable, and now she lies stripped of all raiment.’ He patted the sacks hanging from the slats along the side of the cart. ‘Her corpse will be taken to the Gate of Heaven, soaked in lavender, sheathed in linen and buried in the common grave unclaimed and unnamed.’ Cornelius paused, eyes and ears straining into the dark. Satisfied, he grasped Pegasus’ halter and slowly moved on, shoulders hunched, belly pitching. Nothing occurred. Cornelius relaxed. He stopped and looked over his shoulder at the dark mass of St Erconwald’s rising against the night sky. Did the killing he’d witnessed have anything to do with what was happening there? he wondered. Had not a royal scrivener called Lebarge taken sanctuary in St Erconwald’s? Murder and mystery were certainly active in that parish. After all, why should someone kill a young woman, pound her face into an unrecognizable, blood-splattered mess, but not filch her trinkets? Cornelius pulled a face. In the end that was not his business, and the corpse cart, carrying the naked cadaver of the young whore Hawisa, trundled into the gathering night.
Sir John Cranston was thinking about Oliver Lebarge as he strode, and now again stumbled, down the street leading to his house. Cranston had stayed at the Lamb of God to be entertained by Mine Hostess with more wine and the most succulent strips of pheasant meat. Now he intended a good night’s sleep, even though after the events of the day his mind continued to tumble like dice in a hazard cup. He reached the door of his house. He was fumbling for the key on his belt when he heard the hiss of steel and, quick as a twirling coin, he brought sword and dagger slithering from their sheaths to confront the mailed men who emerged out of the blackness. Two of them carried torches. Cranston glimpsed the White Hart, the King’s personal emblem, the insignia of the Cheshire archers.
‘Peace, Sir John.’ A figure strode through the mailed men and took off his helmet, pushing back the mailed coif beneath to reveal the sallow, lined face of Sir Simon Burley, the King’s personal tutor and close advisor. Others also stepped forward to be recognized, including Walworth, Mayor of London. Cranston resheathed his weapons.
‘Simon, gentlemen, this is no way to call on a comrade in the dead of night.’
‘Jack, my old friend,’ Burley replied, ‘this truly is the very dead of a night that stretches out before us all. Great danger lurks in the darkness! Treachery, betrayal, the breaking of oaths and the deadliest treason. You must come with us.’
‘Must!’ Cranston exclaimed. ‘Must? I am the King’s own officer. I have knelt, placed my hands between his and sworn a personal oath of fealty to King Richard.’
‘Sir John, it is the King and his mother, the Princess Joan, who demand to see you …’
Within the hour, Cranston and the rest disembarked at King’s Steps and made their way up the narrow lanes which brought them under the magnificent, soaring turrets and towers of Westminster Abbey. They entered by the south door close to the cavernous crypt. The abbey, despite the late hour, was lit with torches, creating a shimmer of light and dancing flame against the great drum-like pillars that guarded the resplendent sanctuary, which also served as the royal mausoleum, housing the tombs of the Plantagenet kings. At the centre of this mass of carved stone rose the gloriously decorated shrine of Edward the Confessor, erected above and around the magnificent marble sarcophagus of the saintly king whom the Plantagenets regarded as the ancestor and patron of their royal house. Nearby stood the Confessor’s throne and beneath it the Stone of Scone, once used to hail the kings of Scotland, until it was seized by Edward I and hurried south to become part of the coronation regalia of the kings of England. In the fluttering candle-flame the great wooden throne with its elaborately carved jewelled back and armrests seemed to dwarf the young boy sitting on the purple-cushioned, gold tasselled seat.