The Great Revolt

by Paul Doherty

  Athelstan returned to Brother Roger’s chamber and began to itemise everything the chronicler had collected. Brother John came to report that all the parishioners had left, adding that he had forgotten to hand over Pernel’s clothing and the few tawdry items found on her. Athelstan nodded absent-mindedly and placed the sack on a stool near the door. For a while the friar just sat looking at it. Now and again he would murmur a requiem for the woman’s soul as he idly wondered what would happen to Pernel on her journey into eternity. So many souls in London had taken that long road over the last few days, and the terrors had still not ceased.

  Cranston was busy enough in the city. Both he and Athelstan were amazed by how swiftly the rebellion had collapsed. Its leaders, men such as John Ball and Simon Grindcobbe, were now fleeing for their lives. No mercy, compassion or pardon were being shown. The lords were hiring mercenaries. In the city the likes of Walworth and Brembre were combing the streets looking for former rebels. Grievances and grudges were being settled. Some of the city’s merchant princes wanted a bloodbath, eye for eye and tooth for tooth, pushing for a campaign of revenge and retribution. Brembre had broken into a poorly guarded Newgate. He had dragged out thirty rebel prisoners and, at the dead of night, marched them to Foul Oak in Kent where he’d beheaded them all as a warning to the rest. Villages were being sacked and burnt. Crown spies and royal approvers were pointing fingers. Rewards were being posted and all the Judas men were ready to betray their closest for the usual thirty pieces of silver or, in this case, much less.

  Rousing himself from his chilling, deadening torpor at the way the world had turned, Athelstan got to his feet. He stretched, murmured a prayer and crossed himself, then took the sack containing Pernel’s meagre possessions and emptied them out on to the cotbed. He sifted amongst the now-dry clothes, though the river water had both coarsened and hardened the fabric of the dead woman’s gown, kirtle, stockings and undergarments. Athelstan felt a lump in the shabby, muddy cloak. He put his hand in and drew out a St Dominic Blessing, the remains of the hardened biscuit slightly green after being soaked in the Thames. The friar stared in astonishment at the token. He recalled what he had been told about Pernel, then sat trying to make sense of it, to impose order on his tumbling thoughts.

  He had always accepted that Pernel was somehow involved in the mystery of Edward II but now he could sharpen his suspicions about Pernel’s killer. He placed both the crumbling pieces of the blessing in a small dish and sat staring at it as the day began to die. Dusk appeared at door and window. The first bells for night prayer echoed across the priory. Candles and lanterns were lit. Voices of the brothers chanting the evening psalms carried their own dire message about the devils who prowled the darkness and the demons who lurked in corners and crevices. Athelstan continued to reflect. He did not wish to disturb his own teeming thoughts by grasping pen and parchment, at least not now. He simply wanted, in his own mind, to rework those two converging lines of argument: the actions and fate of the Dunheveds some fifty years ago and the murderous activity which had erupted in and around Blackfriars over the last few weeks.

  Cranston arrived, full of news from the city. The King and his council were now in full control. The Guildhall had exerted its authority. Cohorts of archers and men-at-arms patrolled the streets. Chains had been pulled across the entrances to the main thoroughfares. Mounted men-at-arms and knights gathered at every crossroads. The King’s peace, enforced with the strictest curfew, had been imposed throughout London; the moveable gallows, scaffolds and gibbets manned by Thibault’s mercenaries also enforced it with a rigorous cruelty. Athelstan only half listened. Cranston snorted with laughter. He recognised that this ‘little ferret of a friar’ was now deep in the burrows of an investigation, pursuing some murderer with all the passion of his sharp mind and stubborn will.

  ‘I will be ready to talk when you are.’ Cranston patted Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘Vespers is over. So I will join the good brothers in feeding the inner man. You will join us?’

  Athelstan murmured he would think about it and returned to smoothing out the piece of parchment before him. He was perplexed. He now entertained the deepest suspicions but he could not guess where they would lead him. He dozed for a while, and when he awoke, he realised how hungry he was. He was about to leave for the refectory when the main bell of the priory sounded the tocsin, its ominous clanging proclaiming that some great danger threatened. The tolling pounded like a drum, drawing all the brothers and guests out of the refectory, church and chambers.

  At first all was confusion with bobbing sconce torches illuminating the night. Doors and windows were flung open. People shouted questions. Cranston appeared. He had returned to his usual mood of the roaring boy; sword drawn, he shouted out a spate of questions. Prior Anselm and the almoner Brother Paschal emerged out of the darkness to whisper to Cranston, encouraging the coroner to impose silence and order. This was swiftly achieved. Paschal, his face white as snow, eyes agitated, beckoned with fumbling fingers for the prior and others to follow him down the stone-paved passageways. Anselm led the way. Cresset torches blazed from their sconces on either side of the iron-bound door leading into the guesthouse. Athelstan felt a cold, wrenching dread. Paschal’s face told him everything. Some horror lurked within. The murderous spirit which had taken up residence in Blackfriars had struck again.

  ‘This business,’ Athelstan whispered to himself, ‘will never be over until you are trapped and slaughtered like the wild beast you are …’

  ‘Brother Athelstan, what did you say?’

  ‘It is not relevant now, Father Prior. I simply dread what awaits us.’

  They entered the guesthouse. Paschal opened a door to what Athelstan knew to be Fieschi’s chamber and beckoned them in. Athelstan went first and stared around. Candles burnt fiercely, their flames dancing in the pools of blood creeping across the stone-paved floor. All three Italians lay sprawled in death: Procurator Fieschi on his back, Cassian on his left side and, a short distance away, Isidore, slightly propped up, his head resting against the wall. All three had their eyes open in the glassy stare of death. The sheer horror of the room lay in its hideous contrast: a monastic cell, its walls adorned with crucifixes and painted cloths, a set of Ave beads hanging from a hook above the bed. Coffers and chests stood around, their lids half-open. Candles provided a glowing light whilst perfuming the air with their smoke, yet this was also the devil’s banqueting hall. Three Dominican priests had been struck down, each one hit in the chest by a stout, feathered crossbow bolt.

  ‘To the heart of each,’ Athelstan murmured as, carrying a candlestick, he moved from corpse to corpse. He murmured prayers, trying to ignore the sightless, dead stare of the victims, faces shocked that their lives had been snatched brutally away in a matter of heartbeats.

  Prior Anselm said he would anoint all three corpses once they had been removed. He begged Athelstan to continue his examination and the friar nodded in agreement. Hugh, Matthias and John arrived. Cranston, guarding the doorway with drawn sword, allowed them in. The gatekeeper immediately reported that both he and Hugh had glimpsed intruders garbed like Earthworms near the curtain wall.

  ‘Moving shadows flitting through the dusk,’ Hugh said. He gestured at the victims and shook his head. ‘May heaven curse whoever did this. Shall we—’

  ‘No, leave them here,’ Athelstan instructed.

  ‘Why should Earthworms enter Blackfriars?’ Prior Anselm demanded. ‘The revolt is over, crushed. Why murder three innocent Dominicans, guests from Italy who have nothing to do with the grievances of the English peasantry?’

  Cranston had now joined Athelstan, kneeling on the other side of Fieschi’s corpse. ‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, ‘the Earthworms came looking for someone else, slipping like midnight wraiths through the priory. Perhaps they came here by accident and found the three brothers in council. The Earthworms are not known for their love of foreigners, as a number of poor Flemings found to their cost over the last few days.’ Cranston�
�s face was now only inches from the death-bearing bolt embedded deep in Fieschi’s chest. ‘Moreover,’ he continued, ‘this barb and the others are identical to those used by the Earthworms. Go out into the bailey, you will find similar relics of their attack.’ He got to his feet. ‘They may be fleeing for their lives, but that doesn’t make the Earthworms less bitter or dangerous. They will not have forgotten their defeat here. Who knows, perhaps they thought Thibault’s daughter Isabella, even Thibault himself, still sheltered in Blackfriars.’

  Athelstan simply nodded his acknowledgement and stared around the death chamber. ‘Who found them?’ he asked.

  ‘I did.’ Paschal stepped forward. ‘I noticed none of our Italian guests had joined the brothers in the refectory, so I came over here. I knocked. The door was off the latch. I pushed it open and saw what you did, Brother Athelstan. A heinous abomination here in our own mother house. Father Prior, what are we going to say to the Minister General?’

  ‘We shall deal with that in God’s own time,’ Athelstan declared. ‘And I mean God’s own time.’ He fought to keep his poise, to betray no hint of the suspicions bubbling deep in his heart. Life was dangerous enough, he did not wish to entice the demons out of the shadows. ‘Father Prior,’ Athelstan fought to keep his voice strong, ‘I beg you to allow me to do what I must, to go where I wish, to speak to whomever I choose.’ He indicated that Cranston and Anselm should join him outside. Once they had done so, he crossed the yard to the church. It was now empty and dark, the shadows lengthening, the candle flames guttering out in their last burst of life.

  ‘Brother?’

  Athelstan crossed himself. ‘I am in mortal danger. I hunt the pernicious, yes, even the diabolic cause of all the wickedness which has erupted here in our mother house. To be honest with you, the assassin is winning, like a ship making headway against the wind.’

  ‘What do you mean, Brother?’ Cranston queried.

  ‘So close.’ Athelstan held up his forefinger and thumb. ‘So close is this demon in human form to ending all this on his terms rather than ours. Believe me, if I am killed and murdered, everything that has happened here will remain the murkiest of mysteries. I recognise that and so does the assassin. Accordingly, Sir John, I need Flaxwith and his burly boys here with me. Father Prior, only you – and I mean only you – will prepare my food and bring it to me. Do you understand?’ They both agreed.

  ‘This business of Edward II—’

  ‘Father Prior,’ Athelstan interjected, ‘that must be left for now. Disappointed though they may be, the Holy Father and His Grace the King must, someday, try another path into that tangled mystery. Sir John, please ask Thibault if I could have the dedicated services of Master John Ferrour; I need him close to me.’ Athelstan peered through the gloom. ‘Needs must when the devil drives, so it’s best to use the children of this world in situations such as this rather than the children of the light.’

  Both prior and coroner stared at the little friar standing so close to them, though they could see his mind was far away. Athelstan swiftly grasped each of them by the wrist. ‘You are with me on this?’

  ‘We are,’ both answered.

  ‘In which case, let us begin. We have much to do.’

  Athelstan, as he put it, ‘set up camp’ in Brother Roger’s chamber. The prior had seen to the swift repair of the door, securing it with a sound lock, bolts and clasps. A day later John Ferrour came sauntering into the cell, humming a drinking song. Athelstan continued to write. Ferrour sat on a stool then leaned forward. He snatched up a quill pen and tickled Athelstan’s nose as the friar pored over a manuscript listing the names of Dominicans at their house in Oxford. Ferrour noticed that Athelstan had written on the same manuscript, ‘Brother Eadred, chaplain of Newgate’, ‘Brother Eadred at the royal court’, ‘Brother Eadred, prior in Oxford’, ‘Brother Eadred, Provincial of the Order’. These titles had been scored time and time again and Athelstan seemed totally absorbed by them. Ferrour leaned forward and tickled the friar’s nose for the second time. Athelstan sneezed, glanced up and grinned.

  ‘Some wine, Master Ferrour?’

  ‘No, I had best not,’ the sly-eyed clerk replied. ‘God knows what is tainted in this place and what is not.’

  ‘And does that judgement include the human souls who lodge here?’

  ‘We are all sinners before the Lord, Brother Athelstan.’

  ‘And some more than others, Master Ferrour, but, as Aristotle said, what is good for the body is good for the soul, especially exercise.’ Athelstan got to his feet and continued, ‘I was educated here. I came as a scholar, as a postulant, then as a novice, an eager, bright-eyed young friar, and eventually a priest. Blackfriars is my home, but now I have to see it through different eyes. As you know, hideous murders have been perpetrated here by an assassin skilled in swift and silent killing.’

  ‘You think I am a killer, don’t you?’ Ferrour retorted, staring at Athelstan out of the corner of his eye. ‘I can see that. You hunt murderers, assassins. Sometimes I catch you watching me, Brother, as if you are weighing me in the balance. You suspect I am a dagger man?’

  ‘If the cowl fits, Master Ferrour, wear it. To be honest, I don’t know who you really are or what you might be. You are a changeling, aren’t you? You are all things to all men.’ Athelstan leaned closer and peered into this cunning man’s eyes. ‘I wager you kill because you are paid to. You see yourself as a retainer, your masters’ servant. In this case, John of Gaunt and his henchman Master Thibault.’

  ‘Voluntas Principis habet vigorem legis,’ Ferrour replied. ‘The will of the Prince has force of law, is that not so?’

  ‘Whatever your masters want?’ Athelstan queried. ‘Thibault wanted you here and at the Tower during the revolt, didn’t he?’

  ‘Of course, Brother.’

  ‘Gaunt and Thibault were not averse to certain members of the council being purged, carted off and executed, slaughtered like cattle. You and your masters did nothing to prevent that.’

  ‘Master Thibault mourns their deaths but he is no hypocrite. In a way men like Legge and Hailes deserved to die: their insistence on the poll tax led to these present troubles.’

  ‘Ah!’ Athelstan replied. ‘I was correct when we spoke before. I truly see which way this is proceeding. The revolt is crushed. Thibault and his master are now returning to London. They will cast themselves as leaders of reform. Very, very good.’ Athelstan shook his head in mock wonder. ‘You watched all that develop and, of course, you had to keep a sharp eye on young Isabella, not to mention Henry of Derby. Tell me, how did you gain such influence amongst the Upright Men? Of course,’ Athelstan tapped the side of his head, ‘you posed as their champion – Thibault’s creature, but the spy who really worked for them. You have a talent for intrigue, Master Ferrour.’

  ‘I love it more than any game of hazard, Brother.’

  ‘Beware of mistakes! The devious throw of a loaded dice.’

  ‘It’s all part of the game, Brother, the sheer thrill of living by your wits and yet, at the same time, controlling matters. You are no different. You love danger, don’t you? The hunt, the satisfaction of reaching a logical conclusion.’

  ‘True, but most importantly, of seeing justice done. Well,’ Athelstan gestured around, ‘as I said, this is my house, it’s as if I have forgotten it. I want to walk Blackfriars again but I need you to guard my back.’

  He led Ferrour into the great priory kitchen, a hive of activity with servants busy at oven, chopping board, spit and churn. Athelstan opened the cellarer’s door and led Ferrour down the steep, slippery steps into the catacomb of cellars, dungeons and passageways which ran beneath Blackfriars.

  ‘A relic of earlier years,’ Athelstan declared, glancing over his shoulder at Ferrour trailing behind him. The friar took a tinder out of his belt wallet and lit two pitch torches. He watched the flames greedily take hold before handing one of the sconces to Ferrour, then led him deeper into the darkness. Athelstan felt comfortable. Fe
rrour was a street fighter, a man of war skilled in combat. Ferrour was the best protection, Athelstan quietly reassured himself, against the murderous spirit which haunted Blackfriars and would strike at Athelstan if given the opportunity. They went deep into the labyrinth of tunnels, Athelstan explaining that these rooms and caverns had now been abandoned and lay unused due to the constant encroachment of river water and development of buildings above ground.

  ‘Like a walk through the underworld,’ Ferrour declared, his voice echoing eerily along the groined, vaulted passageway where cobwebs stretched like nets and all kinds of vermin scurried underfoot. If he was honest with himself, Athelstan found it a truly soul-chilling place. They passed caverns lit by the dancing flames of the torches, strange sounds echoing as if ghosts flocked behind them, watching their every move, and enclaves where goods and purveyance had once been stored, now full of broken, rotting items. Athelstan passed one opening and hurriedly stepped back.