Herald of Hell

by Paul Doherty

  Cranston and his party immediately went down on their knees, daggers drawn, points turned towards their hearts, in an act of complete obeisance. The young boy chuckled and in a ringing voice, light and carrying as any chorister, ordered them to resheath their daggers. He added that they were his loyal friends, accepted into the love and protection of Richard, King of England, France and Scotland, Lord of Ireland … The titles echoed through the shrine. Once finished, Richard leaned forward, bidding them to look upon his face. Cranston did and returned the boy-king’s infectious smile even as he secretly wondered at this angel-faced lad with his golden hair, snow-white skin and the strangest light-blue eyes.

  Delicately featured, exquisite in all his gestures, Richard of Bordeaux was almost a fairy-tale prince. Cranston found it difficult to believe that this highly intelligent, intense and sensitive young man was the son of the ruthless warrior, Edward the Black Prince, a chevalier so fierce and fiery, so determined in battle to kill everything and everyone who passed across the eye slits of his war helmet, he had even killed his own destrier when its nodding head caught his gaze in the red mist of battle. Cranston and the other knights of the body who had fought alongside the Black Prince soon learnt never to go before him. Now the Black Prince was dead of some loathsome, rotting disease contracted in Spain, leaving this young boy as England’s future king. As he knelt there listening to Burley’s declaration of loyalty on behalf of them all, Cranston speculated on what would become of this boy-king, so poised in his golden gown with the Lions of England emblazoned across his chest, fingers and wrists shimmering with jewellery, a silver circlet around the gold-spun hair. Sometimes, and Cranston had only confided this to Athelstan, he worried about the stability of this young king’s mind, so taken up with the sacredness of his office and the rights due to him from all his subjects. The coroner shifted his gaze to the woman clothed in dark-blue damask fringed with ermine, sitting on the King’s immediate right. If anyone was responsible for Richard’s sensitivity about his royal office, she was. Joan of Kent, mother of the King, once considered the greatest beauty in all of Europe.

  Joan caught Cranston’s gaze, winked and smiled, pulling back her head to reveal her not so golden hair and a face dissipated by wine, luxurious living and the cares of high office. The lioness and her cub, Cranston thought. So what lay behind this extraordinary meeting at the dead of night, here, close to the Confessor’s tomb? He stared around. Like Cranston, these men were the King’s personal bodyguard who had sworn to be Richard’s men, body and soul, in peace and war. Once Burley’s declaration was finished, Richard delivered a pithy reply and bade them sit on the stools his retainers hastily set out. Cranston looked over his shoulder to see that the lights were being extinguished, candles capped, sconce torches doused, leaving only a shimmering glow around the ghostly tombs.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the Queen Mother’s voice rang out. ‘You have been brought here to renew your oaths of loyalty and be advised of a most sinister conspiracy against your king.’ She paused for effect, before lifting a gloved hand to caress her son’s arm, a gesture which only emphasised his youth and vulnerability. Once again Cranston recalled those sombre words: ‘Woe to the kingdom whose ruler is a child.’

  ‘Listen now,’ the Queen Mother continued, ‘we all know unrest seethes both here and in the surrounding shires, in particular Kent and Essex. Oh, we know the storm will come and, to quote the great Augustine, “We shall bend lest we break.” Now, Sir John, my old friend,’ she smiled dazzlingly, ‘confidant of my late beloved husband, comrade in arms to many assembled here, you are investigating the mysterious death of Amaury Whitfield, creature of Thibault, the so-called Master of Secrets, henchman of His Grace, the King’s beloved uncle, John of Gaunt.’ Despite the smile and the courtly titles, the Queen Mother could hardly conceal her well-known loathing for her brother-in-law. ‘His Grace, the King’s uncle,’ Joan continued, her false smile now fading, ‘has left this sea of troubles to defend our northern march against the Scots. Anyway,’ she pointed at Cranston, ‘have you discovered the truth about Whitfield’s death or the secrets he may have carried?’

  ‘Your Grace,’ Cranston stood up, ‘my secretarius, my friend Brother Athelstan, has not yet resolved it, though he believes Whitfield did not kill himself. As for any secrets he may have held, we have a cipher which at this moment we cannot break. Your Grace, why …?’

  ‘You are here,’ the Queen Mother declared, rising to her feet and pulling back the sleeves of her voluminous gown, ‘because we have received dreadful news. You know the rebel leaders have always proclaimed, sworn and solemnly protested that they have no quarrel with their king, our beloved son, but only with those who try and control him.’ She let her words hang in the air. Everyone knew she was referring to Gaunt and his henchmen, Sudbury of Canterbury, John Hales, Master Thibault and others of their ilk.

  ‘Now, however,’ the Queen Mother’s voice shrilled, ‘matters have changed. We have received information from the very heart of the Great Community of the Realm that some of the Upright Men plot the greatest blasphemy, regicide! The murder of your God-given king and our most beloved son!’ Her words created uproar. Shouts and cries of protest filled the hallowed precincts. Swords were drawn and raised as individuals shouted their defiance against such an outrageous act, even though some like Cranston wondered how true the threat was. The clamour was silenced by the King rising to his feet. Immediately swords were sheathed and the assembled council retook their seats. Cranston remained standing.

  ‘Sir John,’ the Queen Mother declared, ‘you have a question, though I can anticipate it. What source informed us of this? Suffice to say,’ she continued with one hand on her son’s shoulder, ‘that we accept this information unreservedly, as well as the warning of how it will be done.’

  Cranston sat down.

  ‘On no account when the troubles come,’ the Queen Mother continued, ‘and they surely will, must our soveriegn lord agree in any form or guise to meet the rebel leaders. If he does, if he is forced to, if he has no choice, remember this. Your king’s very survival, your survival, our survival, will depend on one thing and one thing only.’ She paused for effect, lifting her right hand as if taking a great oath. ‘You must go armed. You must kill every single rebel leader present at that meeting because if you do not, they will undoubtedly slay your king, God’s Chosen, Christ’s Anointed, as well as anyone else who accompanies him. So swear.’ The Queen’s voice echoed like a trumpet. ‘Here in this hallowed place that what I said tonight will be obeyed. On your souls’ eternal fate …’

  ‘Absolvo te a peccatis tuis – I absolve you from your sins.’ Athelstan crouched by the corpse of Oliver Lebarge sprawled on the sacristy floor. He tried to avoid looking at the dead man’s liverish face all twisted in the agonized contortion of a painful death. Lebarge had been poisoned, Athelstan was certain of that. The dead man’s face was more than proof, especially the dirty white foam drying on his mouth, the bulging eyes, his slightly swollen tongue thrust through half-open lips; his limbs were rigid, head thrust forward as the dying man had fought for his last breath. The friar finished the absolution and hastily anointed the hands, chest and feet of the corpse, aware of his parishioners thronging at the half-open door leading to God’s Acre. Apparently Lebarge had taken the poison, God knows what, how or when, and, realising he was in mortal agony, staggered out of the sanctuary only to collapse here in the sacristy where Mauger had found him.

  ‘How, Brother?’ Benedicta came across and crouched beside him. He turned and stared at her smooth, olive-skinned face. ‘How?’ she repeated. ‘Brother Athelstan, this was a man terrified out of his wits. The only food he would eat was what I brought from your house; nothing was added whilst I fetched him his supper some hours ago.’ She gestured at the door. ‘He distrusted the doxies at the Golden Oliphant, he confessed as much, none of them came here. Moreover, why should he take anything from those he fled from?’

  Athelstan agreed. He clasped shut the
phial of anointing oil and rose to his feet. He took a lighted candle and walked slowly back out into the sanctuary, across to the mercy enclave, studying the floor at every step. He could detect nothing except dried drops of thick saliva which must have come from Lebarge as he staggered across to die. Once in the sanctuary recess, Athelstan put the candle down. Crouching on all fours, he carefully scrutinized the floor but, apart from dried mud, candle grease and some rat droppings, he could discover nothing unusual. How then had Lebarge been poisoned: by food or by some cut or wound? Benedicta and Mauger, having ordered the others to stay back, came across to join him.

  ‘Where’s Pike, Watkin, Ranulf and the rest of their merry crew?’ Athelstan demanded.

  ‘Celebrating in the Piebald.’ Bladdersmith the bailiff, reeking of ale and unsteady on his feet, entered the sanctuary. ‘Now what do we have here, a corpse?’

  ‘Most perceptive,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Master Bladdersmith, have the body shrouded and carted. It is to be taken to Brother Philippe at St Bartholomew’s hospital. Ask him, for my sake, to scrutinize the corpse most carefully. Go on, go on,’ Athelstan urged, waving his hands. ‘There are enough of the curious outside to assist you, but first …’ He knelt and went through the dead man’s pockets and belt wallet. He was surprised to find a small, dark green velvet purse fastened with twine containing a number of silver coins. ‘I will give these to Cranston,’ he murmured, ‘with a plea to return them to me for funeral expenses and what’s left for the poor.’ The friar continued his search and discovered a stiletto-like dagger pushed into a concealed sheath on the dead man’s belt. ‘Strange and stranger still,’ he murmured.

  ‘What is?’ Benedicta asked.

  ‘Here was I thinking Lebarge had fled here with only the clothes on his back, yet I now find him armed and monied. Benedicta, Mauger, are you sure no one else approached our sanctuary man?’

  ‘Brother,’ Mauger protested, ‘true, we did not mount close guard on the entrance to the rood screen or the sacristy door, but I’m sure no one met Lebarge.’

  ‘I agree,’ Benedicta added. ‘Master Bladdersmith,’ the widow woman turned to the bailiff, ‘you were sleeping in God’s Acre. You and Godbless were sharing a tankard …?’

  ‘I saw nothing,’ the bailiff slurred.

  Athelstan stared down at the corpse and blessed it one final time. ‘What is strangest of all,’ he declared, ‘is that Lebarge would have nothing to do with anyone except us, yet he dies of poison …’ He thanked them all, walked quickly out of the sanctuary and down the gloomy nave. Benedicta called his name but he walked faster. He needed to think, to be alone. He paused by the entrance to the church tower and glimpsed Crispin’s work-bench and tools. He smiled to himself and slipped through the main door back up to the priest’s house. Athelstan believed he had done enough and fully agreed with the verse from scripture which advised that one should not worry about the morrow as each day had troubles of its own. It certainly had! The friar sat for a while at the table quietly reciting the office of compline from his psalter. He finished, tended the dying coals in the hearth, then started at a rap on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Brother, it’s Pike the Ditcher. I need to speak to you!’

  ‘And I want to speak to you,’ Athelstan shouted back and, without a second’s thought, he unbolted the door and flung it open. The grotesques who pushed him back into the kitchen were frightening to look at: Earthworms, the Upright Men’s street warriors, garbed in cow-skin dyed and daubed in an array of garish colours, their faces blackened, hair tied up in greasy tufts like the horns on some demon goat. They were all armed with oxhide shields, swords, daggers and maces. They crowded in around Athelstan before parting to let a shame-faced Pike and Watkin through.

  ‘I could excommunicate you for this.’ Athelstan tried to hide his fear. ‘Cursing you with bell, book and candle. Denying you the church and all its sacraments. There is no need to come for me like this in the dead of night as if I was some felon.’

  ‘You have been summoned.’ The Captain of the Earthworms, his face hidden behind a grotesque raven’s mask, beckoned. ‘You must come. You have no choice.’

  ‘Please?’ Pike pleaded.

  Athelstan put on his sandals and cloak and stormed out of the house. Immediately the Earthworms surrounded him and he was gently guided down the lane. Athelstan wondered if they were going to some desolate place along the river and hid his surprise when they stopped at the Piebald Tavern. He looked up and down the narrow lane: silence. No foraging cats or swarming rats, no dogs prowled or howled against the sky, nothing but moving shadows. The Piebald, and all approaches to it, would be closely guarded.

  Pike rapped on the tavern door, bolts were pulled, locks turned and Athelstan was ushered in to the tangy warmth of the taproom. This had been transformed into a council chamber with men ranging either side of the long common table. A monstrously fat figure, head and face covered by hood and veil, sat enthroned at the far end. Athelstan glanced at the men. Most were his parishioners: Ranulf, the Hangman, Crispin, Hig the Pig Man, Moleskin and the usual motley crew. He glared at them as he sat down on the chair placed at the near end of the table. Pike and Watkin also took their seats. The Earthworms gathered near the door or fanned out behind those sitting there. The Raven walked to the top of the table and whispered to the veiled figure, who removed the heavy headdress to reveal a fleshy, sweaty face under a balding pate, hungry eyes and a strong mouth over a jutting chin.

  ‘I am Simon Grindcobbe, Brother.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘I am a lord, a master on the Council of the Upright Men.’

  ‘So you have lords already.’ Athelstan’s response provoked grunts of approval and even snorts of laughter from others around the table.

  ‘The Great Community of the Realm demands leadership.’

  ‘And naturally you regard yourself as the logical choice, hence your self-election?’

  Grindcobbe leaned forward, lacing stubby fingers together. ‘In the end, Brother, all my titles mean – and you know this – is that I will die a slower, more painful death than our comrades here.’

  ‘Our comrades?’

  ‘You are with us, Brother Athelstan, or so they say.’

  ‘Those who say so can go hang, Master Grindcobbe. I have chosen my vocation. I am a Dominican priest.’

  ‘And the Lord High Coroner’s Secretarius?’

  ‘He chose me for a task, necessary for good order in our violent community.’

  ‘You have no solidarity with the poor?’

  ‘If I didn’t, what would I be doing here? Master Grindcobbe, I am tired and weary. You have brought me to you at the dead of night, for what reason?’

  ‘To determine if you are a traitor.’

  ‘My allegiance is to Christ and the Church, my Order and the King.’

  ‘And to your parishioners?’

  ‘I have never betrayed them.’ Athelstan stared around at the men gathered there. None dared meet his gaze except Radegund the Relic Seller, who glared sullenly at him.

  ‘You know,’ Grindcobbe pointed at Athelstan, ‘I was to meet Pike the Ditcher in the sacristy three hours after midday.’

  ‘I did not know that. I was informed by Pike that he was meeting a cousin, Sister Matilda of the Poor Clares. He asked for somewhere quiet and reclusive, and suggested our sacristy. I agreed. I had my doubts then; now I realize how true my feelings were.’

  ‘And you told no one else?’

  Athelstan closed his eyes. He recalled meeting Benedicta in the sacristy. He repressed a chill and stared down at the table top. He had told her, he was sure he had.

  ‘Brother, if you told no else – and I certainly didn’t, and Pike the Ditcher wouldn’t – who informed Thibault’s men of the day, the hour and the place?’

  Athelstan closed his eyes. ‘I …’

  ‘He told me.’ Athelstan started in surprise. Benedicta came out of the kitchen at the far end of the tapr
oom. She was shrouded in her cloak, wiping her hands on a napkin. Athelstan stared at her as he realized he did not truly know this woman, not really. He had judged her to be a pious widow, lovely in all aspects, dedicated to good work, the care of the church and the priest’s house. He crossed himself as he secretly confessed to his own arrogance. Benedicta was so different now: her walk, her poise, the simple gesture of carefully wiping her hands on a cloth, the way she was staring at him, the half-smile which faded as she stopped behind Radegund the Relic Seller.

  ‘You told me, Brother, in the sacristy. Radegund here, a veritable bee of busy gossip, in hiding because of an alleged fraud against some lord of the soil, crept across the sanctuary and eavesdropped.’

  ‘I did not.’ Radegund half turned on his stool. ‘I did not!’ he spluttered.

  ‘Oh, yes, you did.’ Benedicta leaned down and whispered hoarsely in his ear. ‘Master Lebarge, then in sanctuary, saw you. He commented on how much you questioned him about this and that, but he definitely saw you and told me so.’ She glanced up. ‘Brother, do you remember when we discussed Pike the Ditcher’s meeting? I went to the sacristy door. I thought I’d heard something – I did. But by then Radegund had hastily withdrawn.’

  Athelstan stared at the relic seller as he recalled how Thibault, that sinister Master of Secrets, had insinuated that he had a spy in the parish of St Erconwald’s. Radegund would be ideal. A man who flitted here and there, a friend to all who could act the merry rogue, a true son of the soil.

  ‘You claimed sanctuary, Radegund,’ Benedicta continued, now addressing the entire company. ‘You claimed that you had offended a great one and so fled for sanctuary …’

  ‘You knew about Lebarge,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘You entered St Erconwald’s and gained his confidence to discover what had really happened at the Golden Oliphant. And when you failed, you decided to leave. You knew you would be closely protected by Watkin, Pike and the others.’

  ‘But he also learnt,’ Benedicta declared, ‘about Pike the Ditcher’s meeting with a mysterious cousin and passed that information on.’