by Paul Doherty
‘It will change now, little friar.’ Cranston gestured to the near-end of the bridge. ‘The hustle and bustle will fade and,’ he nodded at the spikes above the gate leading into the city, ‘there will be fresh offerings on them tomorrow morning.’
They left the bridge, turning right up the lane leading to St Magnus Church. Men-at-arms had sealed the streets. Chains had been pulled across. Carts closed over the entrance to the twisting alleys and lanes. Knights in chain-mail stood by their war horses. Mounted hobelars, swords drawn, clustered nearby. The air reeked of sweat, leather and horse. Cranston had to leave Flaxwith and the bailiffs at one of the barriers; only he and Athelstan were allowed up the lane to where the Roundhoop stood behind its high curtain wall. Athelstan had visited the tavern before, a strange building, circular in shape, of harsh grey stone with a sloping red-tiled roof. Once it had been a barbican or weapons’ tower until some enterprising ale-master had bought it and reopened its great doors as a hostelry. The main gates to the tavern hung loose, and on either side along the wall stood men-at-arms and archers. Cranston recognized Rossleyn; now and again the captain would edge forward, peer round the open gate then hastily withdraw. On the other side of the gates clustered a group of men, heads together in heated discussion. These broke off as Cranston and Athelstan approached. The friar immediately recognized Thibault, Master of Secrets, the senior clerk of John of Gaunt’s chancery. A born plotter, an inveterate schemer, Thibault dabbled in all the dark, sinister affairs which flowed around his master. Thibault was also a cleric who nursed secret ambitions of a bishopric. Cranston had mocked this, claiming Thibault would make a fine shepherd as long as his flock produced a rich fleece. ‘A man who would merrily give you the shirt off your back,’ the coroner had added. Thibault’s looks belied such barbs: small and plump, his round, smiling shaven face glistened with oil and good living. A fastidious man, Thibault’s corn-coloured hair was neatly cropped in strict accordance with Canon Law to show his tonsure. Master Thibault dressed ever so modestly in a dark fustian cotheardie over a white cambric shirt and Lincoln-green leggings pushed into the finest leather boots from Cordova. Thibault’s blue eyes creased in good humour as he clasped Athelstan’s hand and welcomed him to what he termed ‘this delicate affair’. Other introductions were made. Athelstan nodded at Lascelles, Thibault’s man-at-arms dressed completely in black leather, his dark hair swept back and tied in a queue. Lascelles always reminded Athelstan of a raven with his sallow-pitted skin, pointed face and a nose as sharp as a hook above thin, bloodless lips. A strange soul, Athelstan considered, Lascelles was Thibault’s dagger man and enjoyed the most unsavoury reputation. The Flemings were only known to Athelstan by common rumour. The red-faced Oudernardes, father and son, were Gaunt’s agents in Ghent – powerful merchants, they looked the part with their heavy-jowled features, luxuriant beards and moustaches. Both were dressed soberly although costly in beaver hats, ermine-lined mantles and cloaks of the purest wool. Lettenhove, their man at arms, was a hardbitten veteran, his narrow face and close-cropped head marked with old wounds and cuts. Cornelius, their secretary, was small and round as a dumpling with narrow, blackcurrant eyes which almost disappeared into the folds of his pasty white face. Cornelius’ hand shake was soft and limp, his voice lisping like a girl’s, yet Athelstan caught his shifty, haughty look; how Cornelius’ lips pursed in a smirk as he surveyed Athelstan from head to toe. He then turned away, nodding to himself as if he’d weighed the Dominican in the balance and found him wanting. Athelstan bit back his temper. Cranston coughed and clapped his hands.
‘No movement?’ the coroner barked louder than he intended. ‘Rosselyn, what is happening here?’ The captain of archers on the other side of the entrance edged forward; he stooped and raced across the entrance to the tavern yard. He’d hardly reached the other side when an arrow whipped through the air to clatter further down the lane.
‘In God’s name!’ Athelstan exclaimed.
‘Peer round the gate, Brother,’ Cranston urged, ‘but stoop, be quick!’
Athelstan did so. The cobbled stable yard glistened with bloody, melted slush. The outhouses on either side, the storerooms, smithy and stables looked deserted, though Athelstan heard the whinnying of horses in their stalls. He edged further and gasped. Two corpses hung by their necks from the bars of an upper window, its shutters flung back. The men just dangled there, hands tied behind their backs, booted feet swaying, necks twisted, heads slightly back, faces frozen in a horrid death. Closer to the main tavern door two huge mastiffs were sprawled in a pool of freezing blood; arrow shafts pierced their throats and flanks. One of the shutters in the grey-rounded wall moved. Athelstan drew back as another shaft sped through the air.
‘Sir John, Master Thibault,’ Athelstan demanded, ‘what is going on? Why have I been brought here?’
‘They have asked for you.’ Cranston took a swig from his wine skin.
‘Who have? Sir John, please, what is happening?’ Though remembering Ranulf’s interruption of Mass, Athelstan began to suspect the worst. Cranston leaned against the wall, the others grouped around him. Athelstan sensed there was something very wrong. The coroner would not look him in the eye. He was about to speak when a shout echoed from the Roundhoop.
‘We have glimpsed a black and white robe. Is Athelstan the Dominican here?’
‘Yes!’ Athelstan shouted back before anyone could stop him. ‘Yes, I am. What do you want with me?’
‘To talk.’
Athelstan turned to Cranston. ‘Why,’ he demanded fiercely, ‘am I here?’
‘Four days ago,’ Thibault answered, ‘we were attacked on our way to the Tower.’
‘Yes, I’d heard about that – the entire city did.’
‘Our assailants were despatched by the Upright Men, leaders of the so-called “Great Community of the Realm”.’
‘And?’
‘We heard,’ Cranston replied, gesturing at Thibault, ‘how some of the Upright Men were meeting at the Roundhoop. Minehost here, Simon Goodmayes, is known to be sympathetic to their cause.’
‘In other words,’ Athelstan replied abruptly, ‘Master Simon does not want his tavern burnt to the ground when the Day of Judgement arrives; that is what they call it, yes?’
‘True.’ Cranston smiled at the little friar so uncharacteristically angry. ‘Master Thibault has spies among the Upright Men; they alerted us to this meeting.’
‘We surrounded the Roundhoop,’ Thibault declared. ‘The tavern stands behind a square stone wall with a garden at the back. We now have it sealed. Believe me, Brother, escape is impossible.’
‘The Upright Men realized they’d been betrayed,’ Cranston declared. ‘They hanged two of the tavern servants and slaughtered Master Simon’s mastiffs. Everyone else has fled, faster than rabbits under the hawk. The Upright Men now have Master Simon and a few customers held to ransom.’
‘How many Upright Men are there?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Perhaps ten in all,’ Thibault replied. ‘We arrived and they acted swiftly. Doors were barred; two of the servants apparently tried to escape and were summarily hanged. The mastiffs turned nasty; they realized their master was in danger, so they were killed.’
‘And why are you here, sirs?’ Athelstan turned to the two Flemings.
‘Because, Brother,’ Pieter Oudernarde lowered the muffler from around his mouth, ‘we believe these same outlaws organized the attack on us four days ago. We are certain our possessions were stolen.’ The Fleming caught Thibault’s eye; he coughed and pulled a face. ‘We would also like to see justice done.’
‘And your property returned?’
‘Yes, Brother,’ Cornelius piped up, his reedy voice uncomfortable on the ear. ‘To see our property – certain items – returned.’
‘And yet I ask again,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘why am I here? What do you want me to do?’
‘The Upright Men want to negotiate,’ Cranston murmured, holding the friar’s gaze, warning him with his eyes that
all was not what it appeared to be.
‘To negotiate? Why me?’
‘You are well known, Brother,’ Cranston again replied, gesturing at the others to remain silent.
‘Will he talk?’ a voice bellowed from the tavern.
‘What do they want?’
‘Safe passage, probably by river.’
‘And if not?’
‘They will kill the hostages and fight to the death!’ Cranston declared brusquely. ‘Look at the Roundhoop, Brother – built of stone like a castle tower. We cannot burn them out.’
Athelstan ignored the deep unease tugging at his soul. Cranston could say more but this was neither the time nor the place.
‘I will go in,’ Athelstan said wearily. ‘Let us hear what they have to say.’ A bunch of evergreen was brought from a nearby garden lashed to a pole. Athelstan threw this into the gateway.
‘Pax et Bonum,’ he called. ‘I will speak.’
‘Tu solus frater,’ a voice sang out in Latin. ‘You alone, Brother.’ Athelstan, fingering the wooden cross on the cord around his neck, stepped around the gateway. He walked slowly across the cobbles, quietly murmuring the prayers for the dead, trying not to think of himself but the two corpses dangling by their necks, young men hurled violently into eternity with neither prayer nor blessing. The great wooden doors of the tavern swung open though no one appeared.
‘Enter!’ a voice called. Athelstan paused.
‘Enter!’
‘Cut down the hanged men,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Cut them down now. Let me pray over them. God knows their souls may not have left their bodies. Judgement could still await.’
‘Enter!’ the voice screamed. Athelstan took a deep breath. He knelt down on the cobbles, head bowed, ignoring the repeated shouts to enter. Silence fell. A window opened and the two dangling corpses were cut from their ropes to tumble on to the ground. Ignoring the faces frozen in hideous death, Athelstan administered the last rites to both victims. He blessed their corpses, rose to his feet and walked up the steps into the circular tap room, a murky place of shifting shadows. All the windows were shuttered, the only light thrown by squat tallow candles and narrow lantern horns. A figure loomed out of the gloom, head covered by a pointed hood, a red mask hiding his face, his heavy, draping cloak hung loose to reveal a war belt with sword and dagger sheaths. Other shapes stepped into the pools of light, dressed all the same, sinister phantasms of the night, armed and menacing. Athelstan stared round. Minehost Simon lay badly wounded, along with two servants. A Friar of the Sack and a fat, painted whore, a bushy orange wig almost hiding her face, sat like terrified children on a bench against the wall. They gazed owl-eyed at Athelstan, except for the whore, who put her face in her hands and began to sob.
‘Well,’ the friar asked, ‘what now?’
‘We trust you, Athelstan. The earthworms say you are not one of us yet you are sympathetic.’ The voice of the masked figure confronting him scarcely rose above a whisper.
‘The earthworms?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You mean my poor parishioners who, according to you, will spin Fortune’s wheel and change the power of Heaven.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Gaunt will burn this city before he allows that to happen.’
‘We shall burn it for him – an easy enough task.’
‘Gallows and gibbets are just as easily erected.’
The masked figure laughed softly.
‘Why did you hang those two poor unfortunates – aren’t they earthworms too?’
‘They tried to escape; that can only mean they were either spies or intent on raising the alarm. They had to be punished; a warning to the rest.’
Athelstan stared around the gloomy tap room. He glimpsed about six Upright Men – others, he reasoned, must be in the galleries above. He also noticed their war belts and quivers, the arbalests, maces and clubs and, in his secret dread, Athelstan sensed this would end in bloodshed.
‘So what must I do now?’ Athelstan tried to keep his voice calm.
‘We are near the river.’ The Upright Man went on to demand, ‘We want one of the royal war barges from the Tower. We—’ He abruptly paused. Athelstan heard a whooshing sound followed by a scream in the galleries above; something hot and fiery smashed into the shutters of the Roundhoop. The Upright Man drew his sword. Athelstan gestured at the hostages.
‘Run!’ he screamed. ‘Run!’ He hastened over and dragged the friar and the whore to their feet. She kept her face down, her voice squeaky, muttering curses in the patois of the London slums. Athelstan pushed them both towards the door. He glanced swiftly around; more fiery missiles smashed into the wooden shutters. Smoke billowed down the stairs. Athelstan hurried towards the door. An Upright Man emerged out of the murk, pulling the red mask from his bearded face. He gazed wild-eyed at the friar and raised his sword threateningly, moving sideways as Athelstan tried to avoid him. More missiles smashed into the walls. Thick smoke curled. The air was shattered by screams and yells. The Upright Man lowered his sword, an almost beseeching look in his eyes.
‘I didn’t know!’ Athelstan yelled at him. The whore close to the door collapsed to her knees, sobbing in terror.
‘I didn’t know,’ Athelstan repeated.
The young man let his sword arm droop then abruptly lurched forward, mouth open. He tried to speak but gagged on his words. He staggered towards Athelstan before collapsing to the floor; the yard-long shaft had pierced him deep in the back between his shoulder blades. The stricken man rolled to one side, stretching his head back as if searching for someone. Athelstan knelt beside him as royal archers and men-at-arms surged through the door, knocking aside Athelstan and the other hostages in their rush to engage the Upright Men. The smoke was thickening, reducing individuals to mere shapes. More soldiers charged in. Swords and daggers flashed in the light. Blood snaked across the floor, trickling over the green supple rushes. The friar and the whore, on all fours, crept out on to the steps. Athelstan was tempted to follow but he could still feel the Upright Man’s body warm against his shaking hand. He turned the man over on to his side; he was dying, the fluttering eyes dulling, blood bubbling out of nose and mouth.
‘Thank you,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘You did not strike. God be my witness, I did not know the attack would be launched.’
‘Father, shrive me of all my sins.’ The dying man tried to speak but the blood gathering at the back of his throat choked him. Athelstan whispered the words of absolution even as he watched the life light die in the stricken man’s eyes. He gave a gasp summoning up his last energy, what Aquinas called the ‘last leap of the soul’ before it left the body. He grasped Athelstan’s hand.
‘Your name?’ the friar asked gently.
‘No name.’ The dying man sighed. ‘Tell my beloved to continue gleaning.’
‘Gleaning?’ Athelstan leaned over the man. ‘What do you mean?’
The Upright Man tried to rise and twist his head as if searching for someone or something. ‘Tell her to glean; I won’t see her.’ His grasp on Athelstan’s hand tightened and relaxed. He sighed out his soul, body trembling; he coughed blood then lay still. Athelstan sketched a blessing and rose to his feet. The attack was now deep in the tavern, the Upright Men retreating into the upper galleries. The tap room was like a battlefield across which echoed screams and yells, the strident screech and scrape of sword on sword yet the struggling shapes, the fire licking at the shutters and the noise of battle seemed eerily distant as if muffled by a sound like that of pounding waves in a storm. Athelstan stared around, trying to make sense of the confusion. The smoke was now thinning, drifting out through the main door. The Friar of the Sack and his whore had disappeared. Minehost Simon and his two servants lay stretched out on the cobbles, corpses stiffening, their throats slit, a mess of blood congealing at neck and chest. Athelstan went out and administered the last rites but he fumbled and forgot the words. He paused, took a deep breath and began again. He whispered the words of forgiveness and that final petition to the Lords of Light to g
o out and greet all these souls: ‘Lest they fall into the power of the enemy.’ He felt a hand on his shoulder. Cranston stood there, holding his chancery satchel. Athelstan had never seen the coroner look so sad; his ruddy face was pale and those glaring blue eyes dimmed. Even the glorious white whiskers seemed to droop.