by Paul Doherty
‘And Master Sokelar, our grim-faced harbour master, and his equally grim daughter?’
Philippa laughed like a girl, gloved fingers fluttering prettily to her lips. She drew a deep breath. ‘Master Sokelar is his own man. You know how it is, Ranulf. The city council and the Guildhall hire chambers in this tavern or that for port reeves, harbour masters, collectors of customs and other officials. It’s cheaper than buying properties along the river edge or hiring chambers from a landlord. Master Sokelar works from here, though he has his own house, and his records are dispatched to the exchequer at Westminster.’
‘And does he have much to do with de Craon?’
‘Now, now, Master Ranulf,’ she teased, ‘I am not your spy. Suffice to say that Sokelar dislikes de Craon intensely.’ She paused. The noise from further down the street was growing. The mob was swirling about. The Fraternity of the Hanged, in their earth-coloured robes and white rope belts, were clustered around their leader, the Magister Viae – the Master of the Way – under his billowing standard, a linen cloth emblazoned with a stark black gibbet. The execution carts would be here soon.
Mistress Philippa put a hand on Ranulf’s arm as she heard her name called. She glanced back across the tavern yard.
‘And here he comes,’ she murmured, ‘our noble harbour master.’
Matthias Sokelar was one of the most glum-visaged officials Ranulf had ever met. He had a long, horse-like face under a mop of scrawny hair, deep-set, troubled eyes, angry red spots either side of a fleshy nose, and a mouth constantly drooping in disapproval. He was dressed in the blue and white livery of the city, a badge bearing the royal arms emblazoned on his right shoulder. He carried a white wand of office, which he swung threateningly as he strode towards the gate; behind him, almost running, came his daughter Agnes, a slender, mousy-faced young woman, pretty in a severe-looking way but clearly eaten up with anxiety over her father. She wore a brown smock a little too long that threatened to trip her, whilst her cream-coloured veil hung slightly askew.
Sokelar paused in the gateway and glared at Ranulf. ‘I know why you and your master are here. I have my answers. I am totally innocent of any wrongdoing, both now and in the past. Now, I want to be at the quayside before the rabble arrives.’ He swept into the street, snapping his fingers at his daughter to hasten along with him.
‘Now there goes an agitated man.’
‘Ranulf,’ Philippa grasped his arm and squeezed it tightly before letting go, ‘every official along the quayside is under threat. The ravages of The Black Hogge are notorious. They are staple fare, the chatter and gossip of the riverside taverns and ale houses.’ She pulled a face. ‘Even the brothels. Everybody realises that some malefactor here in London is informing that death-bearing ship of what cogs leave port and when.’
‘But we know it is Master de Craon.’
‘Yes, Ranulf, but how?’ Philippa abruptly started as a flock of birds burst out of a clump of trees near the curtain wall of the tavern. She stared up at them, mouth slightly open, before glancing swiftly at Ranulf. ‘Have you broken your fast? You could …’
She paused at a roar further down the street. The crowd was now surging backwards and forwards. The two execution carts had arrived, pulled by great dray horses caparisoned in black ox hide, their manes all hogged with scarlet ribbons, their reins and leads a full blood red. Executioners, faces hidden behind devil masks, managed the high-sided carts. The four prisoners in each were made to stand so the accompanying mob could hurl both abuse and refuse at them. Shouts and curses dinned the air, followed by a hail of filth and slops. Bagpipes wailed. Drum beats echoed. Trumpets and hunting horns brayed their shrill, discordant blasts. Relatives of the condemned clung to the sides of the carts, shouting to their menfolk. Warlocks and wizards in dirty robes and funnel-shaped hats pushed rags through the slats of the carts to catch some of the prisoners’ bloodied sweat, which they could later use in their midnight ceremonies. Quacks, conjurors and cunning men also tried to keep close; the leavings of men condemned to hang were said to contain certain healing properties.
The carts stopped in a rumble of wheels and a clatter of hooves outside the Merry Mercy, and Ranulf soon realised why the tavern boasted such a name, as Mistress Philippa ordered her steward and master of the hall to serve tankards of frothing ale to the executioners, the condemned men and the city bailiffs guarding the carts. Ranulf, who had retreated further into the yard, could only marvel at the macabre pageant: the prisoners gulping down their drinks and pleading for more; the hangmen, already much the worse for wear, screaming at people to get out of the way whilst beating off in a whirl of clubs those who tried to climb into the carts. The air shrilled with screams, cries and curses. The stench was offensive as the sweaty mass of unwashed bodies pushed and shoved, kicking up the dirt in the filthy lane.
At last, more sober voices were heard and a cohort of mounted Tower archers forced their way through, their captain shouting for the carts to move on. The archers ringed the execution party whilst a group of Franciscans in their reddish-brown robes followed, chanting psalms and hymns of mourning. Ranulf glanced around. Mistress Philippa had disappeared back into the tavern. The clerk tightened his war belt and followed the Franciscans as the execution carts wound their way along twisting lanes under crumbling, tumbledown houses that leaned over to block out both light and air. At last the stench of the streets lifted under the wafting of the stiff river breezes, and the procession debouched out of the warren of rat runs on to the cobbled quayside of Queenhithe.
Ranulf seized a vantage point, a crumbling plinth, the only relic of a former warehouse, from which he watched the condemned being fastened with tightened nooses before being tossed over the edge of the quayside, the mob roaring its approval as each victim was dispatched. Once the executions were over, the crowd began to break up. Tinkers and traders appeared selling tipples of water, fruit filched from elsewhere, the skins of cats and dogs for fabric as well as a choice of day-old fish.
Ranulf pushed these street merchants aside. He watched the Fraternity of the Hanged break away from the mob and process from the quayside under their garish banner. He jumped down from the plinth and followed them up Stinking Lane and into the Hanging Tree, a large, ancient three-storey tavern, its gables held secure by sturdy crutches. The taproom was huge, lit by spluttering oil wicks. At one end stood the counter, a board placed over a row of barrels. At the other, an enclave. Here the corpses of those hanged at Tyburn and Fleet were brought to be dressed and prepared for burial. Kith and kin could claim the remains of relatives at a price. Any unclaimed cadavers were dispatched in a cart to St Mary le Bow for swift burial in the poor man’s plot of that church’s sprawling cemetery.
A sign proclaimed the enclave to be ‘The Purgatory Chamber’. Five corpses lay under linen sheets heavily soaked in pine juice, while smoking pots of herbs and incense, as well as the rancid odour of tallow candles, did something to conceal the pervasive stench of corruption. The entrance to the chamber was guarded by two of the self-proclaimed brothers, sturdy and armed with nail-bearing clubs and cudgels. The Magister Viae sat enthroned in the taproom’s one and only window embrasure. Scullions were busy serving him platters of steaming meat and vegetables, as well as deep-bowled goblets of red and white wine.
Ranulf stood waiting in the doorway. The Magister continued to eat, shouting between mouthfuls at minehost, a veritable tub of a man with a greasy leather apron hanging from neck to toe so he glistened like a lump of lard in the candlelight. Ranulf slowly drew his sword, the scraping steel quietening all sound. The Magister looked up, smiled and beckoned the clerk across, indicating the stool facing him. Ranulf resheathed his sword and sat down.
‘Good morrow, master.’
‘Good morrow, Ranulf! How is my learned friend and colleague?’
‘Rest assured,’ Ranulf murmured, ‘my heart leapt like a stag at the sight of your face.’
The Magister’s round, weather-beaten features cracked into a smile, though his watery
blue eyes remained watchful. He lifted a hand, soft and white as a lily, and rubbed his thinning hair, which stood up all spiked.
‘Greetings, Elijah Woodman,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Sir Hugh told me that you are one of the finest mariners this side of heaven.’
The Magister bowed mockingly. He popped a piece of venison into his gummy mouth before yelling at one of the oafs guarding the Purgatory Chamber to ensure the open eyes of one of the corpses be closed with special weights. ‘I thank you for the compliment, but it would seem that there is a better mariner at sea: Gaston Foix, captain of The Black Hogge. However, Master Ranulf, you can tell Sir Hugh that I, along with everybody else who lives along the Thames, am truly mystified at how Foix knows what he does!’
‘I agree, it is a rare mystery,’ Ranulf replied. ‘But the other matters Sir Hugh asked you to search?’
‘You mean Master Long Face?’ the Magister retorted, chortling at Ranulf’s discomfort. ‘That is your nickname for Sir Hugh, but that too is a secret. So let’s grasp the business in hand.’ He cleared the table in front of him, pushing cups and platters away, leaning so close that Ranulf could smell his spiced breath. ‘I deal with cadavers, Master Clerk, the corpses of the hanged; that’s the only trade I could take up. You know my story. I was a pirate caught for the foulest treachery: I attacked a royal ship by mistake. I should have been hanged, but there were those on the king’s council, the likes of the Earl of Surrey, who recalled my service in the royal fleet. I was pardoned on the sole condition that I never set foot on a ship, domestic or foreign, under pain of arrest for treason, which,’ the Magister shrugged, ‘means hanging, drawing, quartering and disembowelling, something that concentrates the mind wonderfully. I merely mention this as I would be grateful if Sir Hugh would kindly consider appealing on my behalf to the king or, even better, my Lord Gaveston. Tell Sir Hugh I have worked very hard on his behalf.’ The Magister picked up his goblet. ‘Do that and I will give you a good tun of the best Bordeaux.’ He grinned. ‘I will even throw in a couple of corpses.’
‘I would be happy with a goblet of wine now.’
The Magister shouted for Ranulf to be served. Once the clerk had toasted him and sipped at the rich red wine, the Magister leaned forward. ‘Henry Sumerscale and Matthew Fallowfield don’t exist,’ he whispered. ‘No, listen. In January 1308, three and a half years ago, our noble king sailed to meet his bride, the lovely Isabella, in Boulogne. The king’s cogs gathered at London and Dover. The Candle-Bright, under John Naseby, was one of these ships. It berthed at Queenhithe for two weeks, preparing itself. Remember, it was the depths of winter, and a journey across the Narrow Seas has to be carefully plotted. Sumerscale and Fallowfield were part of the crew. I understand they had been so for a number of weeks.
‘Now, just before The Candle-Bright sailed, indictments were levelled against the two men by Gabriel Rougehead. They were accused of treasonable talk about the king and my Lord Gaveston in the taproom of a nearby riverside tavern, a rather seedy place, the Salamander. Rougehead became a king’s approver: in other words, he was pardoned for past offences in return for testimony that would convict. He was supported by three other rogues, professional Judas men. Both Sumerscale and Fallowfield protested their innocence, but the evidence against them stood.
‘Naseby, a good man, a skilled mariner, had no choice but to accept the inevitable decision. Execution was immediate. The pair were taken up on to the deck of their own cog and hanged from the mast, their corpses left to dangle for three days as a warning to others. The bodies were taken down just before The Candle-Bright sailed and were handed over to me. I brought them here and was preparing them for burial in the poor man’s plot when a priest arrived to claim both corpses.’
‘What priest?’
‘Parson Geoffrey Layburn, vicar of Holy Trinity the Little, which stands near the junction of Old Fish Lane and Cordwainer Street. He said he was acting on behalf of someone; he didn’t say who.’ The Magister waved a hand. ‘At the time I didn’t care.’
‘But you said Sumerscale and Fallowfield didn’t exist?’
‘When Sir Hugh entrusted me with the task, I began my searches, but there is very little, if any, information about them amongst the river folk. You know how names and news pass from lip to lip, but these two were unheard of except for their service aboard The Candle-Bright.’
‘I agree,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘I will report the same to Sir Hugh. I found nothing in the records from the Crown, city or Guildhall. It seems Sumerscale and Fallowfield appeared from nowhere, served on that cog, were arrested and executed.’ He paused. ‘You went back to that priest, surely?’
‘Yes, I did. I was told in no uncertain terms to mind my own business and promptly shown the door. Parson Geoffrey would respond better to a royal clerk rather than a humble soul, a public sinner such as my good self. I live in the twilight world. I sit and eat with the midnight folk. As I have said, a truly humble soul.’
‘But this humble soul has further information,’ Ranulf tapped the table, ‘and you are impatient to share it?’
‘Yes, though the prospect of payment would encourage my humble soul even more.’
Ranulf opened his purse and placed three silver coins on the table, which were immediately swept up by the Magister. ‘Master Ranulf, many thanks. Now listen. I confess I was intrigued at finding no reference to Sumerscale and Fallowfield, so I turned on their accuser, Gabriel Rougehead, and for the first time I discovered some involvement by the Templars.’
‘The Templars?’
‘Gabriel Rougehead was a former Templar. He was expelled from the order at least twelve years ago for filthy sexual practices, violence and perjury. Rougehead came from London, so he drifted back here. He was an outlaw, a wolfshead eager to obtain both a pardon and a reward. An educated man with a knowledge of languages and, when he wanted, most personable. He was a veritable shadow-master: skilled in deceit and disguise, a true mummer who could act many a part and persuade others to work for him. Rougehead’s father was English, his mother from Nanterre. He may have been involved in the robbery of the royal treasure in the abbey crypt, as he had his crooked fingers in many a pie. Anyway, he claimed to be in the Salamander when Sumerscale and Fallowfield played out their treasonable pageant.’
‘You believe he was lying?’
‘I know he was. Look around you, clerk. These are my henchmen who, when darkness falls, go out across the city and visit the taverns to collect gossip, whispers and chatter like gleaners who follow the harvesters. Two of them were in the Salamander that night. They reported that Sumerscale and Fallowfield were deep in conversation and made no such treasonable comments. Of course, there was no opportunity for any real defence of those two unfortunates whilst the information I learnt came after both men were hanged. Now,’ he continued briskly, ‘Rougehead was joined by Judas men, professional perjurers. They perpetrated their evil and were rewarded. Afterwards, gossip had it that they not only claimed rewards from the Crown but were actively encouraged in their villainy by others.’
‘Who?’
‘No one knows.’
‘Could it have been the Templars?’
‘Master Ranulf, God only knows. But I tell you this. I have also heard about the murders amongst those same Templars at the lazar house of St Giles, and I know that the French envoy de Craon sits ensconced in the Merry Mercy. Gossip has it that the murders are de Craon’s doing, and that the French have a secret ally amongst the Templars. More than that, I cannot say.’
The Magister paused, swilling the dregs of his wine around his goblet. ‘But to return to Sumerscale and Fallowfield, perhaps the Templars did have a hand in their destruction. After all, Rougehead was a former Templar. For all we know, Sumerscale and Fallowfield may also have been members of that order.’ He glanced at the hour candle on its spigot, peering to see how close the flame was to the next red hour ring. ‘I had both their corpses for two days. As usual, we inspected them. One of my henchmen is a leech of some repute
. Anyway, Fallowfield was a much older man, with the grizzled body of a warrior who had fought in Outremer. His skin was deeply burnt, whilst his back was scarred as if he had been the victim of a cruel lashing, although the wounds were old and well healed.’
‘So he could have been captured and tortured by the Saracens?’
‘Or the recipient of severe military punishment such as the Templars inflict on their members. Moreover, he had that order’s cross here,’ the Magister patted his right shoulder, ‘etched with a dagger, self-inflicted, which might indicate he had been admitted as a full Templar.’
‘And Sumerscale?’
‘A very handsome young man, no more than sixteen or seventeen summers old. He had the body of a woman, soft, white, unmarked. Except,’ the Magister drew a deep breath, ‘on the buttocks were small wounds almost healed. In a word, given that he was a beautiful young man, I suspect somebody had tried to brutally sodomise him, though that is just conjecture.’
The Magister sipped from his goblet, indicating that Ranulf also drink from his. ‘I know nothing else about those two unfortunates. As for their nemesis Rougehead and his companions? Well, Sumerscale and Fallowfield were hanged in January 1308, the first year of the king’s reign. Three months later, just before Ash Wednesday, Rougehead and his three accomplices were invited by some mysterious individual to a sumptuous meal in a private chamber at the Salamander. Delicious food and the best wine were served, or so I have learnt. Hours after the banquet began, the alarm was raised. The chamber hired for the occasion had become a raging inferno, which swiftly spread through the tavern, reducing it to a blackened ruin. Everyone escaped except for Rougehead and his confederates; their charred remains were found amongst the wreckage.
‘Justice eh? The four accusers were savagely burnt – isn’t that the ancient punishment for perjury? – whilst the very place Sumerscale and Fallowfield were alleged to have committed their crime was reduced to smouldering ash.’ The Magister lifted his goblet. ‘Proof enough that the mills of God do grind exceedingly small. Now, Master Ranulf, give my good wishes to Sir Hugh.’