by Paul Doherty
‘All of them,’ came the murmured reply. ‘Most were killed in the assault. Three were sorely wounded and lowered by chains into the river to slowly drown as the tide changed.’
‘By whom?’
‘A creature called Laughing Jack, a grotesque with a gargoyle face. He and two others are Thibault’s hangmen. They now rejoice, spending their earnings in the Paradise of Purgatory tavern near the house of the Crutched Friars.’
‘Kill them,’ Grindcobbe whispered over his shoulder. ‘Kill them when their bellies are bloated with wine. I do not want them to hear the bells of vespers tomorrow.’ Grindcobbe stared at the row of severed heads: their hair had been combed before they’d been spiked, a truly gruesome sight in the dancing flames of the cresset torches beneath. John Ball the preacher intoned the requiem and the others joined in; a few, including Grindcobbe, just waited for the words to peter out.
‘And the traitor?’ Tyler’s broad Kentish accent did nothing to diminish the menace in his voice. ‘Our comrades were betrayed. Gaunt was informed.’
‘We have our suspicions,’ Grindcobbe murmured. ‘The parish of Saint Erconwald’s may nurse a traitor; their priest Athelstan has been warned.’
‘But he is innocent.’ Jack Straw pulled his cowl further over his head. ‘Magister Thibault, that devil in flesh, just used him. Our brothers,’ he sighed, ‘should have been more vigilant.’
‘Thibault was furious about what we seized,’ Tyler remarked.
‘Perhaps it’s time we returned his property.’ Grindcobbe laughed. ‘But this mysterious prisoner. Who is she? Why does Gaunt place such a value on her? For now that must wait. Oh, yes, it shall, as will why our spy in Thibault’s stronghold failed to inform us that an attack on the Roundhoop was being planned.’
‘Perhaps he did not know.’
‘Or perhaps he did not wish to expose himself further. But one day he will have to – perhaps sooner than he thinks.’ Grindcobbe stared up, watching the tendrils of mist curl round the spiked heads. ‘I wonder who our traitor is?’ Grindcobbe spoke as if to himself. ‘But come.’
They moved from the gateway, making their way up East Cheap. The night was quiet. The Upright Men walked, hoods pulled forward, hands up the voluminous sleeves of their gowns. They were not afraid or wary; their henchmen, weapons at the ready, went before them. To the casual observer they appeared to be a group of friars, yet no beggar or footpad lurking in the slime-filled, dirt-coated doorways dared approach them. Only once did they stop, to allow a group of mounted men-at-arms to ride by. Ball the preacher simply lifted a hand and intoned a blessing which he immediately followed with a curse once they had passed. They turned off into Crooked Lane, flitting like dark shadows past St Michael’s Church and into the Babylon, a decayed tavern with as many entrances, doorways and windows as holes in a rabbit warren. They went up the staircase just within the doorway and along the gallery which reeked of urine, rotting vegetables and human sweat. Rats squeaked and scuttled in corners as a mangy alley cat padded like any soft-footed assassin across the creaking floorboards. A man hooded and masked stood by a doorway. He bowed to the Upright Men, opened the door and ushered them into what once was the tavern’s principal bedroom, now just a square dirty chamber, empty except for one long table with benches down one side and a stool on the other.
The Upright Men sat on the benches, pulled back their hoods and donned their masks before re-covering their heads.
‘The basilisk,’ Grindcobbe ordered.
The guard left and a short while later pushed the basilisk, also cloaked and hooded, into the chamber, where he had to assist as the basilisk’s eyes were blindfolded. Once his guest, as Grindcobbe described their visitor, was seated on the stool, the guard withdrew.
‘Announce yourself to my comrades. What is your name?’ Grindcobbe demanded.
‘Basilisk!’ came the whispered reply.
‘Why?’
‘Because the basilisk is a creature which lies in ambush before it strikes.’
‘You have taken the oath to live and die with us; you have helped us before, but now you are sworn.’
‘I am.’
‘You accept us as your liege lords?’
‘I do.’
‘You will wage war and kill on our behalf?’
‘I will.’
‘Treachery will be punished.’
‘I know.’
‘By the ban?’
‘I know.’
‘Which means what?’
‘The total annihilation of me and mine.’
‘And if you are captured and unmasked, Basilisk, clever and subtle though you may be, we can do little to assist you against Gaunt and his minions.’ Grindcobbe paused at a strident screech from the alleyway below as some night predator caught its prey. Grindcobbe’s tone lightened. ‘A warning indeed! Gaunt and his henchmen, Thibault in particular, will be ruthless, you understand that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your task,’ Grindcobbe leaned across the table, ‘is to wage war by fire and sword against our enemies, to fight the good fight, to kill, to terrify. Do you understand?’
‘I do.’
‘Not only among Gaunt and his coven but the Straw Men.’
‘I understand.’
‘Once you enter the Tower, everything will be provided. You will not be alone – we have one friend there. He will reveal himself to you – do not be surprised. We have made it very clear that he is to do exactly what you say; otherwise he, too, will be marked down.’ Grindcobbe raised a hand. ‘He will, in particular, help you with a certain sack which the guard outside will give to you before you leave the Babylon. Do not be shocked at its contents, gruesome though they are. I believe you may suspect their origin.’
‘How will I recognize this so-called friend?’ The basilisk’s voice betrayed contempt.
Grindcobbe dug into his purse and took out a scrap of parchment. ‘He will give you this.’ Grindcobbe pulled the candle closer so he could read the script:
‘When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman?
Now the world is ours and ours alone,
To cut the lords to heart and bone.’
Grindcobbe smiled behind his mask. ‘A doggerel verse but, as you know, many of those we lead do not read or write. They certainly understand what this means.’ He pushed the scrap across the table, grasping Basilisk’s outstretched hand. ‘Don’t fail us,’ he warned. Grindcobbe rose. ‘Your escort will see you safely back. As I said, we will supply whatever you need for your first act of terror. Farewell. We may not meet again but go, rejoicing that you do with the full blessing and support of the Upright Men.’
Athelstan sat on the stool close to the inglenook of Cranston’s favourite tavern, The Holy Lamb of God which fronted Cheapside. He pulled off his mittens and unbuttoned his cloak, smiling at Mistress Rohesia, its jolly-faced owner who came bustling across.
‘I will wait for Sir John,’ he assured her. ‘He will not be long.’
Mistress Rohesia, snow-white, apron all fresh, soft napkins over her arm, returned to the kitchens even as she loudly chanted what was on offer. ‘Chicken with cherries, pike in doucettes, beef rissoles, roast coney, and a selection of the sweetest, hottest and softest pies.’ Athelstan half heard her out. He had broken his fast immediately after his dawn Mass attended by a very few. He’d then changed, left the keys with Benedicta and hurried across the frozen bridge to meet Sir John here before the Nones bell rang.
Cranston had sent Flaxwith late the previous evening, about an hour after Watkin and Pike had left. Flaxwith offered his master’s apologies over what had happened at the Roundhoop and asked Athelstan to meet the coroner here in his favourite tavern, which stood directly opposite the Guildhall. Athelstan wondered about his own agitation over what he had learnt the previous evening. Danger certainly pressed on every side. He stared around. The tap room, so clean and welcoming with its host of delicious smells, was fairly empty. A harpist sat in the far corner recit
ing a poem about ‘the Lord of the Ravens’. Two chapmen sifted through their trays in preparation for another day’s bustling trade along Cheapside. A slaughterer from St Nicholas’ shambles bit greedily into an eel pie, his hands and arms stained to the elbow in dried blood. A herald enjoyed a pot of ale while three raggedy scholars from St Paul’s loudly conjugated ‘Mensa’ and ‘Cursus’ before they met their Latin master. They rose, still chanting, to pick food from the horse-saddle table, a few boards placed across trestles and covered with linen cloths on which Minehostess had laid tranchers and pewter dishes piled high with blood-red sausages, cutlets of pork and sliced white bread. For a few coins every morning, customers could fill a platter with these meats, sops of bread and collect a blackjack of ale from the young tapster.
‘Good morrow, Friar.’ Silent as a ghost, despite his breadth and size, Cranston slid on to the stool opposite Athelstan.
‘Once again, my friend.’ Cranston pulled down the muffler and doffed his beaver hat. ‘I had no knowledge about what Thibault intended at the Roundhoop.’
‘I know.’ Athelstan leaned across the table and grabbed Cranston’s gauntleted hand.
‘I heard what you said about the scorpion.’ Cranston chuckled, tossing his cloak and hat on to the empty stool beside him. ‘Brother, I owe you an explanation.’ Cranston paused to order a capon pastry, a pot of vegetables and a goblet of Bordeaux’s best. He waited until Mistress Rohesia served this, whiling the time away by carefully scrutinizing the rest of the customers. ‘You can never be too careful, especially in this vale of tears.’ He sniffed. ‘Life is becoming dangerous, Brother. The Lady Maude, the two poppets, my wolf hounds, not to mention steward Blaskett are all, thank God, in the best of health and safe. Lord knows, I’ve lit enough tapers before the Virgin at Saint Mary-le-Bow in thanks for this. However, once the weather breaks and spring begins to green everything, I’ll send them off to our small manor at Overton.’
‘Matters are so bad?’
‘No, but they will be.’ Cranston thanked Mistress Rohesia for the food and wine, blew her a kiss and lifted the goblet in toast to Athelstan, who declined yet again Mistress Rohesia’s litany of mouth-watering delicacies.
‘You should eat, Brother.’
‘Brother has eaten and drunk enough for the day.’
‘True, and you will feast tonight.’
‘What!’
‘Not for the moment.’ Cranston took a generous bite. Athelstan glanced away; he was fasting and the smell of hot, juicy chicken in a spice sauce might prove to be a temptation too much.
‘Now,’ Cranston dabbed his mouth with his napkin, ‘let me be brief for the hour will soon be upon us. First, you and I know this city bubbles like a bucket of oil over a fire. Secondly, the day will come when the oil and fire meet. The angels be my witness, London will burn. Thirdly, our king, the noble Richard, is only a child. True power lies with his dear uncle, our self-styled Regent John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster etc., etc.’ Cranston waved his hand. ‘Gaunt is also preparing for the evil day. He has brought across his agents in Flanders, powerful Ghent merchants – the city Gaunt was born in – Pieter Oudernarde and his father Guido.’ Cranston pulled a face. ‘The rest are just minions, household henchmen. On the ninth of January last I was told to meet them north of the old city wall near Saint John’s in Clerkenwell. The Upright Men launched an attack. Now,’ Cranston took a sip of his claret, ‘the Upright Men could have easily discovered something was afoot. Many of them are old soldiers; they disguised themselves in white sheets in order to blend in with the snow, an old trick used many times in France.’ Cranston paused. ‘Anyway, the attack was launched but beaten off – there’s the rub. At first, I thought they were trying to kill the Oudernardes – they weren’t. The Flemings had brought a prisoner, I’m sure it was a woman, cloaked, cowled and strictly guarded. The fiercest fighting took place around her and certain bundles on the sumpter ponies. The prisoner was kept safe but some of the baggage was plundered and taken.’
‘And the prisoner?’
‘Escorted down to the Tower. I and my men-at-arms parted company with them at the Lion gate. Rosselyn, captain of archers, together with Lascelles, Thibault’s henchman, were very strict on that. The prisoner, the sumpter ponies and their escort disappeared swiftly inside.’ Cranston pulled a face. ‘More than that I do not know. And you?’
Athelstan told him about his parish, the troubles faced by Spicer Warde and Athelstan’s own eerie meeting with the envoys from the Upright Men the previous evening.
‘I confronted Watkin and Pike,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Sir John, what I tell you now is what you already suspect. Both are members of the Great Community of the Realm. Pike certainly sits high on the councils of the Upright Men.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘They know all about the Roundhoop affair. They’d been instructed once that meeting was over to receive the Upright Men in Southwark and arrange safe passage back into the southern shires.’ Athelstan crossed himself. ‘Of course, all the Upright Men were killed.’
‘Because Gaunt and Thibault knew about the meeting.’
‘According to Pike, this information may well have come from the Community of the Realm’s cell-house, as they call it, the parish of Saint Erconwald’s. In other words, one of my parishioners, while acting as a fervent supporter of the Community of the Realm, could be one of Gaunt’s informants.’
‘And so we come to Agag and the Amalekites,’ Cranston murmured.
‘In the book of Samuel, Agag and his tribe were defeated by the Israelites. The prophet Samuel put them under the ban; he ordered King Saul to slaughter them all.’
Cranston scratched his forehead. ‘I have heard of this,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘Anyone who betrays the Great Community of the Realm will not only be punished, but all those related to them will be also. Something like that happened near King’s Langley in Hertfordshire. A small hamlet was put to both torch and sword. Ostensibly the work of outlaws, common rumour has it that the hamlet housed a traitor who informed the lords of the shire at Hertford about the doings of the local Upright Men. Very few survived. Men, women, children and animals were killed.’ Cranston grasped Athelstan’s hand. ‘Brother, I say this in all honesty: the same could happen in Saint Erconwald’s. Houses, shops, taverns and alehouses all burnt, people slaughtered. It will be put down to river pirates or wolfsheads from the forests to the south; in truth it will be the Upright Men enforcing their will. Believe me, Brother, if there is a traitor and you discover him, hand him over. The Upright Men are ruthless!’
Athelstan stared across the tavern at the harpist, his long hair hanging over his face.
‘Oh, don’t worry about him,’ Cranston whispered. ‘That’s the Troubadour.’ Athelstan raised his eyebrows.
‘One of my little swallows,’ Cranston tapped the side of his nose, ‘who swoops through the alleys of London collecting all sorts of juicy morsels of information, my spy brother! He watches to see who watches us. Now,’ Cranston leaned across the table, ‘as for the treachery of the hawk lords, I do wonder how many of my so-called masters have been both bought and sold?’ Cranston took a sip of his claret as the harpist ran his fingers smoothly across the harp strings, a beautifully melancholic sound. Cranston grinned. ‘All is safe, Brother. Now, my masters and the so-called tribes of Edom and Moab?’ Cranston rearranged his platter and goblet on the table. ‘Brother,’ he grasped the platter, ‘My Lord of Gaunt.’ He tapped the goblet. ‘The Upright Men.’ Cranston moved the knife. ‘In between these, the Lords of London: Walbrook, Legge, Horne and the other hawks. These control the so-called tribes of rifflers, the gangs who lurk in the shadows of Whitefriars, Newgate and even Southwark. Now these knight errants of Hell organize themselves into tribes after the ancient people of the Bible: Edomites, Philistines, Moabites and so on. Their captains assume fantastic titles such as the Duke of Acre or the Earl of Caesarea. Believe me, Brother, there is nothing fantastical about them. They are the brothers and sisters of the knife, garrotte and the cl
ub. They swarm like flies over a turd; they wait for Lucifer’s watchman to blow his horn.’ Cranston gulped from his goblet.
‘In a word, Sir John, when the Day of the Great Slaughter breaks, these tribes will rise to revel in murder and mayhem.’
‘Correct, Brother, but worse. Some of our leading citizens, whom the tribes serve, may well go over to the rebels. Then we shall truly see the Apocalypse. No one will be spared – king, earl, duke or commoner.’ Cranston glanced towards the harpist. ‘Blood will run ankle-deep in Cheapside. For the moment we can only watch and wait. Yet, I assure you, my friend, the arrival of the Oudernardes and their mysterious prisoner, the attacks near the Tower, the bloody affray at the Roundhoop are all part of the gathering storm. But,’ Cranston rose and went to peer at the hour candle; he came back looking rather shamefaced. ‘I’m afraid, Brother, you must come with me.’
‘Must, Sir John?’
‘No less a person than His Grace the Regent,’ Cranston ignored Athelstan’s groan, ‘has insisted on your presence at the third hour in the afternoon.’ Cranston was now grinning at the friar’s surprise. ‘In the Chapel of Saint John the Evangelist at the White Tower,’ Cranston leaned down, ‘His Grace’s own troupe of mummers, the Straw Men, are staging a small masque or mystery play for the delight of His Grace and his special guests. One of whom,’ Cranston pressed his fat forefinger gently against the friar’s slender nose, ‘is you. This will be followed by a collation of juicy meats and the best wine. Brother, all I can say is that I am delighted I will not be supping alone.’
Athelstan crossed himself, murmured Jesu Miserere and followed the coroner out into the icy thoroughfare of Cheapside. He pestered Sir John about why he had been invited and swiftly learnt that the Regent may have been helped in the invitation by Cranston himself, who, as he kept chortling, would not have to suffer alone. The coroner truly hated such occasions and was only too grateful for Athelstan’s company. The friar decided that cheerful compliance was the best course of action and followed the coroner’s great bulk as they turned by the Cross near the Standard, down towards Bread Street. The streets and alleyways, despite the harsh weather, were thronged with traders and hawkers who competed with the many funerals being carried out. The smell of pinewood and rosemary, in which the long-dead corpses had been drenched, mingled with the sweet smells of pastries, bread and grilled meats. Thankfully the hard ice under foot had frozen the ordure and waste and provided some grip. Nevertheless, Athelstan remained wary of the sheets of puddle ice, not to mention the legion of Trojans, as Athelstan called the petty cheats and cozeners who scurried fast as ferrets from the mouths of alleyways and lanes. The apprentice boys were also busy, darting like sparrows from beneath their master’s stalls to offer, ‘cloth of Liege, tin pots from Cornwall, pepper mixers and boxes of cloves’. Prisoners manacled together, shuffled like one monstrous being; recently released from the debtors’ house at the Marshalsea, they begged for alms while moaning at the freezing cold which had turned their bare feet purple. A group of whores caught soliciting on the steps of All Hallows were being marched up to the stocks. They were forced to hold their skirts over their heads, revealing dirty-grey flabby buttocks, so they could be thrashed with white split canes by the escorting beadles. Every so often these officials made their prisoners stop at a horse trough to receive a drenching from buckets of icy water. Athelstan closed his eyes at the sheer misery. Head down, cowl pulled close, the friar wondered at the evil which throbbed inside every soul and expressed itself in such cruelty. He felt Cranston clutch his arm. They had stopped outside St Mary-Le-Bow. A dispute had broken out over a corpse sprawled out on a coffin-stretcher, its left eye still open. Passers-by had glimpsed this and were demanding that such a sign of ill-luck be covered, the eye pressed down with a coin. A fresh disturbance distracted the mob as a group of flagellants, naked except for loin cloths and hoods daubed with a huge red cross, pushed their way through, flailing their backs with three-thonged whips, each of the knots pierced with a sharp needle. The whips went backwards and forwards, splashing blood and staining the padded paltocks, close-buttoned hoods and long-toed Cracow shoes of a group of fops. These loudly objected but the flagellants ignored them, whipping themselves even more fiercely as they chanted a hymn and followed their cross-bearing leader. They moved in a shower of blood which splattered and streaked everyone. The court fops became belligerent; daggers and swords were loosened. Cranston pushed Athelstan aside when abruptly a horn sounded: a powerful wailing blast and horsemen burst out of nearby Weasel Lane. Cloaked and hooded, faces blackened, the horsemen cantered down, scattering the crowd to rein in at the bottom of the steps of St Mary-Le-Bow. Hooves clattering, the horses snorted and reared in a creak of harness and steel. The intruders carried small hand arbalests, already primed. The horsemen moved backwards and forwards. Three naked corpses, skin all blotched, throats gaping in a dark, bloody slit, eyes staring, were slung across the saddle horn of some of the horses. These were tipped down to sprawl at the foot of the church steps. Cranston made to go forward. Athelstan grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back.