Herald of Hell

by Paul Doherty

  ‘I had to come here,’ Grindcobbe declared, ‘as you will learn, Brother Athelstan. I need to have urgent and secret words with you, which is why I met Pike in the first place. Thibault’s spies swarm like fleas over a turd. I thought,’ he grinned, ‘I could pass through here as a rotund but cheery-voiced Poor Clare sister.’

  ‘And we would both have been taken,’ Pike screeched, ‘had it not been for that secret shaft. In the end,’ he shrugged, ‘Godbless did not know what to make of it all, especially when the Earthworms appeared.’

  Benedicta patted Radegund on the shoulder. ‘We suspected we had a spy and you, Radegund, are he. You act the roaring boy, but in truth you are a whore touting for custom, blithely betraying those you eat and drink with.’

  ‘Did you poison Lebarge?’ Athelstan demanded.

  ‘Of course not! I have done nothing wrong!’ Radegund protested. Grindcobbe ordered the relic seller to be searched, and his pockets and wallet, the lining of his jerkin as well as his sack of geegaws were all emptied on to the table. Even before they were seized, Athelstan noticed the freshly minted silver, new from the Tower, and the green-ribboned seal bearing a crown above a portcullis: Thibault’s personal waxed insignia given to protect Radegund if he was ever taken up. All of these were inspected and gleefully passed around. Athelstan stared pityingly at the relic seller. He was already tried, judged and condemned. Behind him Benedicta, so poised and so silent, watched everything closely. Athelstan thought the relic seller would be hustled away, but now the rest of the company thronged about Radegund, punching and tearing at his clothes.

  ‘Guilty!’ a voice cried. ‘Treason!’ another shouted. ‘Traitor!’ The violence deepened. Athelstan tried to intervene but the Earthworms held him back. He watched in horror as the fighting men of the Great Community lifted the screaming Radegund on to his stool, a rope was produced, looped over the roof beam and a noose fastened tightly around Radegund’s throat. The Raven kicked the stool away. Athelstan shouted and struggled to break free but there was nothing he could do. Radegund jerked and choked until the Hangman seized his legs and pulled him down. Radegund convulsed one final time and hung still. For a brief while silence reigned. Athelstan looked for Benedicta, but she was gone. The others, however, were elated, triumphant at the discovery and summary execution of a traitor.

  ‘You may have him now, priest,’ a voice shouted. Radegund was cut down and laid on the table whilst Joscelyn, the one-armed former river pirate, ordered jugs of ale and tankards to be brought. Athelstan walked around the table. He closed his mind to the living bustling about him as, shaking and sweat-soaked, belly lurching, he administered the last rites and commended Radegund’s soul to the mercy of God. Once finished, the friar slumped on a stool and, for a matter of heartbeats, cursed both his life and his calling. He would get out of here! He would plead with his superiors to send him elsewhere. He could not understand, he could not bear this sudden, horrid violence. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Pike pressed a goblet of wine into his hand.

  ‘Drink, Father,’ he urged. ‘Do not judge us. We knew there was a traitor. Radegund would have hanged us all, destroyed our families. He came crying “All hail” when like Judas he meant all harm. But come, Master Grindcobbe needs urgent words with you.’

  Athelstan finished the wine and allowed Pike to take him up to a chamber above stairs. Simon Grindcobbe was already there, hunched over a table with a platter of cheese, bread and dried meats. He waved Athelstan to the stool opposite and filled a tankard, toasting the friar with his own.

  ‘Be at peace, Brother.’

  ‘I am – I was at peace until I saw murder.’ Athelstan swiftly blessed the food and stared around. They were alone. The window firmly barred. The heavy door shut. No fire burnt in the grate. Candle spigots and lanterns hooked to the wall provided light.

  ‘It wasn’t murder, you know that, Brother. Radegund could have had every man, woman and child in this tavern hanged for treason and myself quartered and filleted at Smithfield.’

  ‘I could do the same.’

  ‘But you won’t. Radegund was worse than a common whore in Cock Lane, selling what he knew to anyone who would pay, and to the devil with the consequences. Now, Brother, why I am here?’

  ‘A very good question.’

  ‘To talk to you. I came in disguise to meet Pike to arrange this meeting.’ Grindcobbe shrugged. ‘My features and form are well known. A Poor Clare sister, burly and big, face hidden by a veil, one who came and went within the hour, was probably the safest way. A nun closeted in the sacristy would not provoke as much attention as Pike and I meeting in some market alehouse or tavern where the likes of Radegund swarm like lice.’

  ‘You suspected him?’

  ‘No, we did not. We knew that Thibault had spies but never guessed our notorious relic seller was one of them, except for …’

  ‘Benedicta?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘She also sits high in the Council of the Upright Men?’

  ‘Yes, Brother, she does. A good woman trusted by all, including you.’

  ‘Perhaps not now.’

  ‘Don’t judge her hastily, Athelstan. Sharp and swift as a hawk is Benedicta. She is no hypocrite. Has she hurt anyone in your parish? Does she not care for you and the brethren? Believe me, she has good cause to be one of ours. She hails from the Weald of Kent, where her father was executed for poaching, hunting meat for his starving family. Benedicta’s brother was cut down in an affray over taxes. Her husband had his ship impounded by the crown for the King’s war at sea and, when both he and ship were lost, she received a mere pittance in compensation.’

  Athelstan sipped his drink as he mentally beat his breast. One of my many faults, he considered, I must remember: still waters run very, very deep and behind every soul stretches a life known only to God.

  ‘Why did you want to see me?’ he asked.

  ‘To pass on a warning.’

  ‘I have been warned often enough. I will not join your revolt.’

  ‘Something more serious than that, but, to show you my goodwill, let me help you …’

  ‘And reveal the name of the Herald of Hell?’

  ‘Brother, I will not betray our secrets. I refer to Whitfield’s death.’

  ‘And?’

  Grindcobbe leaned over the table. ‘If Radegund acted like a common whore, Whitfield and Lebarge were no better. Oh,’ Grindcobbe sipped from his tankard, ‘Whitfield was the most skilled of cipher clerks who worked at the very heart of Thibault’s chancery. Heaven knows what secrets passed through his hands, but Whitfield was also very greedy and lecherous, even though he was impotent. We know that from the whores with whom he played so many games. Whitfield needed silver and gold to pay his way and satisfy his appetites. He also had an eye for the future. He feared the coming troubles, especially when he, like so many of Gaunt’s minions, was visited by the Herald of Hell.’

  ‘Whitfield had a great deal to fear.’

  ‘Oh, too true, Brother. You see, Whitfield had sold himself to others, including the Upright Men.’

  Athelstan just shook his head.

  ‘It’s the truth. Indeed we called him “Chanticlere”, the cock which crows so shrilly for all to hear and tries to mount every hen in his filthy yard. In return for good coin, Whitfield, through his scrivener Lebarge, would send us warnings, give us sound advice, not too much to provoke suspicion but enough for us to take precautions when needed.’

  ‘And the gold and silver?’

  ‘It would join the rest of Whitfield’s illicit income.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You have met Adam Stretton, Fitzalan of Arundel’s man, at the Golden Oliphant? A mailed clerk, a true assassin, a killer born and bred who has carried out all kinds of nefarious crimes secretly, subtly, at the dead of night for his master. Stretton is most adept at arranging accidents: a fall downstairs, a fire which abruptly breaks out, a horse which suddenly turns violent and bolts. Did you know he once
trained as an apprentice with the Guild of Locksmiths? A crafty, cunning clerk who can work wonders on bolts, locks and hinges. Oh, by the way, Odo Gray, our jolly sea captain, is no better. Many is the passenger who has disappeared over the side. The member of crew who protested too much tumbling from the rigging or the unwanted guest supposedly falling ill on board and buried swiftly at sea before any physician could examine the corpse and shout poison.’ Grindcobbe licked his lips. ‘To return to Stretton. His master Arundel hates Gaunt, who replies in kind. To be brief, Arundel, through Stretton, was also paying Whitfield for whatever information he could glean about Gaunt, Thibault and the rest of their devilish coven. Stretton had to be careful, so he would come to the Cokayne festivals or any other revelry at the Golden Oliphant. Whitfield attended the last joyous meeting, he always did, and Stretton joined him to discover more, to put pressure on him or …’ Grindcobbe paused. ‘Did Stretton also suspect that Whitfield and Lebarge were preparing to flee across the Narrow Seas for pastures new? Was he there to draw Whitfield into Arundel’s coven? To offer him protection, to discover more information, or, more likely, threaten Whitfield that the Earl of Arundel wanted a richer return on his investment? We certainly did.’

  ‘You have Upright Men at the Golden Oliphant?’

  ‘Of course, as we do in all the wards, streets, taverns, alehouses and brothels of London. The Golden Oliphant is no different, you know that. When Thibault arrived there, the Upright Men, whoever or whatever he, she or they may be, seized the opportunity to loose those crossbow bolts.’ Grindcobbe chuckled. ‘Of course we did little hurt or harm but it served a powerful warning to our demon enemy.’

  ‘And you intervened again outside St Mary Le Bow?’ Athelstan asked. His surprise had now faded, replaced by a deep curiosity. He had served at St Erconwald’s for many a day. The Upright Men had become part of the fabric of his life and that of the parish, but now he was being drawn into the very heart of their machinations.

  ‘Yes, it was us outside St Mary Le Bow. We intended you no harm. We guessed that Thibault had handed you the cipher that Whitfield held, the one seized, or at least part of it, when that arrogant madcap Reynard allowed himself to be captured. We only wanted to hold you as a threat against Cranston, whilst we emptied or filched your chancery satchel. Of course we, or rather they, made a stupid mistake. Cranston, despite his bulk, is still as fast as a lunging viper.’

  ‘Good Sir John.’ Athelstan toasted Grindcobbe with his tankard. The captain of the Upright Men stared back, smiled and grudgingly responded to the toast.

  ‘At least Cranston is not corrupt. He has not sold his soul,’ Grindcobbe murmured. ‘Which is why I am here tonight, but I will come to that by and by. Now, to return to the Golden Oliphant. Naturally we were deeply concerned by Whitfield. He had taken our money, we wanted more information and were not happy about the prospect of him disappearing.’

  ‘Especially with the cipher?’

  ‘We needed that back. We certainly didn’t want Whitfield to translate it.’ Grindcobbe turned and glanced at Athelstan out of the corner of his eye. ‘They say Whitfield was found fully dressed as if about to leave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was,’ Grindcobbe grinned. ‘He was supposed to leave the Golden Oliphant in the early hours and meet me.’

  ‘Why? Oh, of course,’ Athelstan answered his own question. ‘To return the cipher.’

  ‘Correct, but he failed to appear. We knew him to be a toper so we thought we would wait for another occasion.’

  ‘One small mystery is solved,’ the friar conceded. ‘I wondered why Whitfield was dressed in the early hours. So, in the end, he agreed to hand the cipher over?’

  ‘We threatened him. If he did, we would let him go, if he didn’t we would take action.’

  ‘So the cipher is important?’

  ‘Have you translated it?’

  ‘No, is that why you wanted this meeting?’

  Grindcobbe shook his head, swilled the dregs of ale around his tankard, promptly drank them and refilled it. ‘The cipher is obviously important,’ he conceded. ‘It is related to what is about to happen. Do not worry, we will not search you or your house. You have undoubtedly made copies of it. Another little task performed in the Lamb of God.’ Grindcobbe leaned across the table and grasped Athelstan’s hand. He squeezed and let it go. ‘Brother, believe me, in a short while it will not matter. The day of wrath will soon be upon us.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Within the week at the very most.’

  Athelstan went cold. The room grew darker; even the candlelight seemed to dim at Grindcobbe’s sombre tone.

  You are not lying, Athelstan thought. You are warning me.

  ‘Brother?’

  ‘I recall the words of the prophet Amos, Master Grindcobbe: “Israel, prepare to meet your God.” When, how will this all begin?’

  ‘As scripture says, Brother, it will come like a thief in the night and ye know not the day nor the hour.’

  Athelstan took a deep breath. ‘So,’ he declared, ‘back to Whitfield and the Golden Oliphant. Desperate, wanting to escape, fleeing from his own master, hounded by you and Stretton. Who knows, perhaps he did commit suicide?’

  ‘No, no.’ Grindcobbe shook his head. ‘Whitfield was plotting to flee, but not only him – the villainous Odo Gray was also hired to take Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne, Joycelina and all their household out of London to the …’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Think of the Golden Oliphant, Brother! You have only seen some of the chambers. Believe me, Mistress Cheyne has packed up her valuables and movables, or most of them. The Golden Oliphant was to be boarded up and left under the protection of hired ruffians. Mistress Elizabeth and her moppets would soon adjourn abroad. There is a profitable market for English flesh as well as English wool in Flemish towns, and, when the troubles were over, back she would return.’

  ‘And Whitfield and Lebarge would go with her?’

  ‘Yes. Secretly, though. The accepted wisdom is that Whitfield was probably planning some pretend accident along the Thames: a slip down the steps, a fall from the quayside, a tumble from a barge, which would be portrayed as a possible suicide of a man whose wits gave way, whose soul fractured due to all his worries.’

  ‘And Lebarge?’

  ‘No one really worried about Lebarge, a mere servant, although I know he was more than that to Whitfield. In the end, he was just another man frightened out of his wits. I understand he too has died, poisoned whilst hiding in sanctuary.’

  Athelstan nodded.

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Heaven knows,’ Athelstan murmured, holding up a hand, ‘and that is the truth.’ The friar closed his eyes. Grindcobbe was being honest, at least about what concerned Whitfield, though he was being very cautious not to betray any secrets of the Upright Men. Athelstan opened his eyes. ‘So, Whitfield was pestered from every side?’

  ‘At first he told us not to bother him, that he was frightened; he had done enough for our cause. I am sure he made Stretton the same response. Don’t forget, Whitfield was wary of Arundel but he feared Thibault the most. He was terrified that Gaunt’s Master of Secrets would discover what he was going to do.’

  ‘You could have threatened to expose him.’

  ‘We did. Whitfield threatened us back with the cipher he held, not to mention other secrets. We compromised. We would let him go unscathed, providing he returned the cipher. I suspect he was planning to do this when death, in some form, brutally intervened.’ Grindcobbe leaned across the table.

  ‘Brother, Whitfield was not just a frightened clerk with a boot in either camp. I mentioned earlier about the flow of secret information across his chancery desk. I am sure he responded in kind to any threat from Stretton.’

  ‘Like some chess game,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘pieces thrust against each other.’

  ‘Precisely, Brother, and all Whitfield had to do was wait a short while, perhaps not more than a day.
Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne would finish moving whatever else she wanted to take with her, and ensure all the moppets and the rest of her household had their secret instructions on what to take – not that such ladies have much to carry.’

  ‘And the members of your coven, the Upright Men would have gone with them?’

  Grindcobbe just wagged a warning finger. ‘That does not concern you, Brother.’

  ‘But then Whitfield dies. Lebarge flees, panic-stricken, and it all comes to nothing. Mistress Elizabeth and everyone in the Golden Oliphant is now under strict instruction by the Lord High Coroner to remain where they are.’

  ‘True,’ Grindcobbe agreed, ‘Mistress Cheyne is deeply furious.’

  ‘Let her rage, Master Grindcobbe. Other matters do puzzle me. First, here’s Whitfield anxious, agitated, fearful, bound up with himself, so why did he offer to help Matthias Camoys try to discover the whereabouts of the Cross of Lothar?’

  ‘I have heard of that,’ Grindcobbe declared, ‘and of the mysterious carvings at the Golden Oliphant, but I cannot help; such a mummery does not concern me or mine.’

  ‘I wonder …’ Athelstan tapped on the table. ‘Those inscriptions, “Soli Invicto” and “IHSV”, are familiar. Yet, for the life of me, I cannot specifically recall why or what they are. “IHSV” is a Greek abbreviation for Jesus Christ, Son of God and Saviour. But why should Sir Reginald …?’

  ‘What else?’ Grindcobbe broke in testily.

  ‘Well, it’s obvious. If you are correct, and I accept that you are, Amaury Whitfield must have earned a great deal of silver and gold from you, Stretton and whoever else he did business with. Yet we found nothing of that treasure either on him or in his room, which makes me reflect on another problem. Whitfield hired a bleak chamber at the top of the house. He could have housed himself in more comfortable quarters on one of the galleries below. I am sure Mistress Cheyne has more luxurious accommodation for select guests. Whitfield, however, chose to climb very steep stairs – the one to the top gallery is especially long and arduous – why? To protect himself? To conceal something against an intruder who might find a lower chamber easier to break into through door or window? Was Whitfield guarding his ill-gained wealth, and if so, where is it now?’