by Paul Doherty
‘Peace, Sir John,’ he whispered. ‘Think of the Lady Maude, the two poppets; this is not your fight. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Hear ye!’
One of the riders surged forward on his grey-black warhorse; the destrier, head shaking, snorting furiously, clattered iron-shod hooves against the cobbles. The rider, like Satan’s own henchman, tall and black in the saddle, cloak billowing out like the wings of some fearsome bird, raised a leather gauntleted hand.
‘So die all traitors to the Great Cause,’ he shouted, pointing at the corpses. ‘Death to all who offend the Upright Men!’ Then the horsemen were gone, clattering back into the darkness of the alleyway as the crowd surged forwards to view the corpses. Cranston bellowed at them to stand aside. Athelstan knelt at the bottom step and, opening his chancery bag, swiftly administered the rites of the dead, closing his mind to everything except the ritual, the anointing and the blessing. As he did so, Cranston turned the corpses over. All three were fairly elderly men with sagging bellies, fat thighs and vein-streaked legs, their faces unshaven, hair unkempt. Athelstan flinched. One of the dead men’s faces was hideous, not just due to the cruel wound inflicted deep into his left side where the dagger had pierced his heart, but his features were distorted by an older, earlier wound across his mouth so his lips seemed to stretch the entire length of that narrow face.
‘Laughing Jack, Thibault’s man.’ Cranston tapped the corpse. ‘Executioner in Billingsgate, from the bridge to the Tower. These are his two assistants, Sinister and Dexter, literally his left and right hand. I wager they were responsible for severing the heads of those slaughtered at the Roundhoop and their poling on London Bridge.’ Cranston sighed, got to his feet and shouted at a group of gathering bailiffs to take care of the corpses.
‘Come, Brother,’ he urged. ‘Our noble Prince, against whom all this is directed, awaits us . . .’
The Upright Men’s assassin, the basilisk, had been very busy. The meeting at the Babylon had ended amicably and the basilisk had prepared. The traitor in Gaunt’s circle had revealed himself, a startling surprise swiftly swept aside by the need for preparations following a heated discussion in the dark recesses of the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. The basilisk had been insistent. Assassination would take place. Weapons had been demanded and prepared, including that leather sack with its grisly contents. They had clasped hands in what both knew to be a deadly contract. They would stand or fall by each other. Now, gowned and hooded, carrying a special pass impressed with the Regent’s purple wax seal, the basilisk had already surveyed the sprawling fortress of the Tower from the Lion Gate through past St Thomas’ Tower, along Red Gulley and under the dark shadow of Bell Tower, with its massive wooden casing on top housing the great bell which marked the passing hours and sounded the tocsin. The assassin noted that and passed on into the inner bailey, clearly marking out the different towers – especially Beauchamp – close to the parish church of St Peter ad Vincula. Only then did the basilisk approach the great White Tower, the central donjon or keep, its soaring walls of Kentish grey ragstone all whitewashed and gleaming in the harsh frost of the winter’s day. Once again the basilisk stared back at Beauchamp Tower, where the mysterious prisoner brought from Flanders was lodged. It was best not to go too close to its approaches, closely guarded by archers and men-at-arms. What, the basilisk wondered, did Gaunt want with such a prisoner? Why all the mystery and secrecy? Who was that woman? Even the traitor in Thibault’s circle knew very little. Why were the Upright Men so keen to seize her? What was the true connection between the prisoner and the leather sack the Upright Men had entrusted to her? Yet the politics of this place were of little concern – vengeance was!
The basilisk shifted and stared at the black-timbered and white-plastered guest house which stood in its own neat square garden, the shrubs and plants held fast in the iron grip of a savage hoar frost. Oh, yes, the basilisk promised, those who sheltered there – the mystery players – would also be visited by Murder. The Regent’s acting troupe, the Straw Men, Master Samuel and his companions, were nothing more than a coven of treacherous Judas people. They, too, would chew on the bitter bread of pain and sup deeply from the poisoned chalice of the rankest wormwood. The basilisk, however, had to be careful. The Tower thronged with Gaunt’s retainers, henchmen, armoured knights, archers, mailed clerks and household minions, all busy scurrying to do their infernal master’s bidding. The basilisk glimpsed the small dovecote near St Peter’s and smiled; they’d all hasten even faster when the hawk appeared above the doves. What was being planned was only just and right. How did the verse of one of the Upright Men’s songs run? ‘God is deaf nowadays. He will not hear us and, for their guilt, grinds good men to dust.’ God needed a little help!
The basilisk looked up at the grey, lowering sky and recalled a recent story, now common gossip in Gaunt’s household. How the Regent had gone hawking in the wastelands east of Aldgate. Ever so proud of his new snow-white falcon, Gaunt had released this against an old heron which frequented a misty, tree-fringed mere. The falcon, superb and swift, had climbed above its prey then plunged for the kill but the old heron, desperate in its flight, had turned on the wing and speared the falcon with his dagger-like bill. The story was seen as a possible prophecy and augury of how the hunter could become the hunted. Well, that was one prophecy which would soon come to fruition. Clutching the leather sack, the basilisk moved across the icy bailey, wary of the frozen, slippery cobbles. The guards at the bottom of the wooden staircase acknowledged the pass sealed by Rosselyn, captain of archers. The basilisk continued up and entered the crypt of St John’s Chapel, a long, dark chamber lit by pools of light thrown by the wall torches and warmed by braziers crammed with fiery charcoal. Despite the light and fire, the crypt, which stood on the first floor of the White Tower, was cold and dark. The basilisk peered through the murk at the chink of light from the far window; the crypt was empty except for benches and tables, as well as battered chests and aumbries to store clothing. The basilisk nodded – all was well here, and returned to the narrow spiral staircase. The ingenuity of its builder was fascinating. The staircase constantly twisted so the defenders could use their right arm while attackers would be forced to wield swords with their left. The basilisk promised to remember this in case flight became the only path to take.
Breathing heavily, the assassin emerged through a narrow doorway and into the full glare of the Chapel of St John the Evangelist, pausing just within the entrance. The basilisk stood, studying the ancient Norman chapel intently – not for the first time, but this was different. The real drama to be staged here would be subtle murder; the chance to strike Gaunt at the heart of his power, to wreak vengeance on those who had brought about the hideous slaughter at the Roundhoop. The basilisk drew a deep breath: that would never be forgotten! This place would be where the dish of vengeance was served. Built so its apse projected out of the south-east corner of the White Tower, the chapel was oval shaped with a recess just close to the door. Here the King could sit enthroned directly opposite the elaborately decorated rood screen depicting the crucified Christ. Above its doorway stood life-sized figures of the Virgin and St John painted in brilliant colours of gold, red, blue and silver. The actual entrance to the rood screen was now filled by a grotesque Hell’s mouth carved in the likeness of the gaping jaws of a fearsome dragon’s head. The face was blood red, its eyes large black pools, the irises a sickly yellow, the parted heavy lips smeared purple, a leather tongue jutting out between sharp white teeth. The basilisk thought this piece of scenery very fitting; a nightmare picture which would dominate the drama played out in front of it. The aisles either side of this rood screen had been curtained off with heavy, silver-powdered damask cloths. The nave of the chapel had been set out with elegant leather-backed chairs; those in the front for Gaunt and his special guests had quilted arm rests. Along either side of the chapel ranged six pillars to represent the twelve apostles with narrow galleries or transepts between these and the outside walls
. The gaps between each pillar were now tastefully screened by tapestries of eye-catching colours celebrating the legends of St John and the devotion of the royal family to Christ’s beloved disciple. The figures on the tapestry were all clothed in priestly vestments: rose-coloured chasubles, brilliant blue dalmatics and mauvy-pink amices. The basilisk had seen all this before yet the arrogance of the Plantagenet royal family remained truly breathtaking. The figures were all blond-haired and blue-eyed. St John had been painted likewise as if Gaunt was claiming that the great evangelist was a member of the Plantagenet family. These gorgeous tapestries hung half down; just beneath them stood supper tables, covered in shimmering white damask and groaning under pure gold and silver platters heaped high with deliciously savoury collations for the Regent’s guests. The air, already sweetened with the fragrance from a myriad of beeswax candles and smoking herb pots, was made even richer by the mouth-watering odours of gelatine pie, coras sauce, swan-neck pudding, minced chicken and loach fried in roses and almonds. The basilisk surveyed the scene for the last time watching the servants in their blue, scarlet and gold livery, the knight bannerets, the men-at-arms, the archers, all busy. None of them gave the basilisk a second glance, totally unaware of how this splendid chamber would soon become a place of slaughter. A royal chapel where the power of the Crown would be truly shaken.
Athelstan closed his eyes in sheer pleasure then opened them and stared around the glorious chapel of St John: the entire place blazed with glory. The eye-catching colours delighted the eye, be it the gold, silver, reds, blues and greens on the tapestries hanging between the pillars or the small walnut tables, legs polished to a shine, bearing cups, goblets, bowls and mazers of the most precious metals studded with dazzling stones. Gaunt and his guests looked similarly magnificent in their houppelands and gowns of many colours, powdered with silver and gold. Finger rings, bracelets, collars and pectorals dazzled in the shimmering light of countless tongues of candle flame. The air was beautifully fragranced, warm and sweet. Such a contrast, Athelstan reflected, to their freezing cold, sombre journey by barge along the north bank of the Thames, the mist curling around the shoreline gallows heavy with the crumbling corpses of river pirates. They had shot through the thunderous water passage under London Bridge then docked at the Tower quayside. They’d entered the mighty fortress and the sheer bleakness of this house of war dulled the spirit with its sinister, silent donjons and fogbound cobbled baileys. Now and again the murky river mist would shift to reveal the great engines of war: mangonels, catapults and battering rams. A place of evil repute was how Athelstan’s parishioners described the Tower, and the friar could only agree. A place of ominous silence broken only by the clatter of weapons, the clanging from its many smithies or the heart-chilling roars and growls from the royal menagerie which, according to Cranston, on a hot day made the fortress reek. Athelstan had glimpsed the long enclosure with the cages on either side where the leopards and lions prowled, gifts from rulers in Outremer. Cranston had even told him about a huge snow bear kept in a special chamber cage close to the moat in which the bear was allowed to swim. Athelstan had rejected the story as fanciful. Cranston had assured him that the animal was a recent gift from the King of Norway, almost three yards high and kept on a long chain which allowed him to swim in the nearby water. Athelstan had quietly promised himself to view such a magnificent spectacle.
The Tower was certainly grim. Athelstan turned on his chair, yet this chapel was an island of beautiful serenity in the fear-filled fortress. He and Cranston had been ushered in and served belly-warming, mouth-sweetening cups of hippocras and slices of spiced toast coated with almond sauce. Gaunt with the face of an angel, his extraordinary blue eyes crinkling in good humour, had welcomed all his guests. He had stood before the brilliant rood screen dressed in cloth of silver and lavished them with his charm. Light danced along the golden ‘SS’ collar of Lancaster around the Regent’s neck while the gorgeous finger rings made every elegant gesture of his hands shimmer in the glow. Gaunt wore cream-coloured, Spanish leather riding boots, and every time he moved the jewelled spurs on the heels jingled like the soft ringing of the sacring bell. He had personally welcomed Cranston and Athelstan, thanking for them for their work at the Roundhoop. The Regent then passed them on to Master Thibault who, dressed in a houppeland and shoulder cape of dark blue murrey brushed with silver, ushered them to their seats. The other guests included a few important clerics, Walbrook the mayor and other leading citizens. Lascelles, garbed as usual like a raven, looked after the Flemings, resplendent in their silver brocaded cloaks. Athelstan noticed how Lettenhove, their bodyguard, seemed ill at ease, plucking at his dagger hilt and staring suspiciously around the luxuriously furnished chapel.
All of this had been swept aside by the drama. Gaunt’s mummers, the Straw Men, appeared from around the rood screen to present themselves – seven in all. Master Samuel, their florid-faced, grey-bearded leader, explained how he and his troupe had no personal names but took those from ancient scripture. He was Samuel; the four young men of varying heights and descriptions were called after the heroes of Israel: Gideon, Barak, Samson and Eli. Two young women were also members of the troupe. Judith, called after Israel’s great heroine who resisted a tyrant, was small, dark and rather plump, her raven-black hair cropped close around an impish face. The woman’s dancing eyes and merry mouth reminded Athelstan of one of his parishioners, Cecily the courtesan. The second woman was young and slim; her pointed, snow-white face only emphasized her tumbling, gorgeous fiery-red hair; she was Rachael of Galilee, named after the woman who had mourned the innocents slaughtered by Herod the tyrant. Cranston chuckled quietly at this and, as he whispered to Athelstan, hoped that John of Gaunt would not be offended. The Straw Men bowed at the applause and then reappeared masked and gowned. They staged the Laon play about Herod’s confrontation with the Magi. Athelstan watched, fascinated. The drama swirled vigorously, the mummers changing masks and gowns as they played out the confrontation before Hell’s mouth. This piece of scenery intrigued Athelstan with its sheer ugly vigour and eye-catching carvings and colours, especially the huge, extended jaws through which Herod came and went. Athelstan quietly calculated how much was in the parish chest of St Erconwald’s and wondered if he could hire the Straw Men to stage a similar drama in his own church.
Once the play had finished with Herod disappearing forever into the gaping mouth of Hell to the flourish of a trumpet, Athelstan remained seated while Cranston, hungry and thirsty as ever, went hunting for refreshment. The friar asked a servant if he could speak to Master Samuel and sat waiting expectantly as the rest of Gaunt’s guests rose and moved about, selecting food and wine from the hovering servants. One of these asked Athelstan if he wished to have something to eat. The friar courteously refused and, when he turned back, Rachael of Galilee was kneeling on the chair in front of him, her red hair now tied back. She was staring at him and Athelstan smiled at the look of tenderness in her face, then she grinned, her green eyes bright with excitement.