by Paul Doherty
‘Did you see that?’ he whispered.
‘I certainly did, like a chantry chapel!’
They went back and entered the enclave. The floor was cleanly swept. An altar table stood against the far wall, the plaster above it decorated with insignia: a crown in chains and a double-headed eagle.
‘All this has recently been cleaned,’ Athelstan murmured. He pointed to an engraving on the wall. ‘Master Ferrour, can you tell me, the double-headed eagle, what does it mean?’
‘It relates to Peter Gaveston, the king’s lover, his so-called brother. When he was created Earl of Cornwall, Gaveston adopted the double-headed eagle as his escutcheon, his coat of arms. I suspect the crown in chains is a reference to the imprisoned Edward II.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I work for Master Thibault. I am well versed in heraldry. I advise him on who is present at court, which retinue has ridden into the Tower or Westminster.’
Athelstan raised a hand in acknowledgement and stared round the strange little chapel, crudely decorated to the memory of a long-dead king: the shrine was clean, swept and recently tended by some adherent of Edward II. Prior Anselm had declared that Blackfriars had once been a hotbed of intrigue for the deposed king. It was inevitable that this would be reflected in the life and buildings of the mother house, through inscriptions in secret shrines such as this. Nevertheless, Dominican support for Edward II was at least two generations away. Over fifty years had passed, causes were forgotten as memories dimmed. This was different, clear evidence that somebody at Blackfriars still nourished allegiance to Edward II and his memory. Ferrour moved restlessly. ‘Brother Athelstan, what are we doing here? This is a hall of ghosts, a chamber full of the seething past.’
‘And one which has spilled out into murderous activity, Master Ferrour. I agree, it’s time to go, though I now need you in the guesthouse.’
They left the labyrinth and made their way across to the chamber where Alberic had been murdered. At Athelstan’s request a servant brought the concave looking glass wrapped in a velvet cloth from the Prior’s strong box. Athelstan inspected the device, moving it around until he became accustomed to it before peering through the glass, scrutinising the chamber door. The lock and bolts had been replaced, but even so, Athelstan could detect spots of blood, small drops in the grooves of the oaken door.
‘What are you looking for, Brother?’
‘What I’ve found,’ Athelstan replied enigmatically. ‘Master Ferrour, you are a fighting man, yes?’ He edged closer. ‘You are swift in parry and thrust?’ Ferrour, eyes watchful, visibly tensed. ‘So even a thrust like this …’ Athelstan abruptly lunged at Ferrour’s chest. Ferrour blocked the intended blow with one hand, the other immediately falling to the hilt of his dagger.
‘Pax et bonum.’ Athelstan lifted his hands in a gesture of peace. ‘No harm, my friend. You have just proved something I deeply suspect. Anyway, it’s a busy day for you, Master Ferrour. I want you and Flaxwith to escort me to Whitefriars, just a short walk, but,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘still dangerous.’
They left Blackfriars within the hour and entered the deserted, filthy lanes which wound across the ward to the house of the Carmelites. Cranston was correct, Athelstan reflected. A great silence had descended on the city. Windows and doors were firmly locked and shuttered. Men-at-arms and mounted archers patrolled everywhere. Chains had been raised across the entrances to different streets. They passed two crossroads where at least fifteen scaffolds had been erected and from each arm hung a tarred corpse whilst severed heads decorated the nearby signposts.
‘The moths of menace devour all words,’ Ferrour quoted the lines of a poem, ‘and worms have swallowed the song of man.’ As if to challenge such a doleful description, an audacious itinerant leech, garbed in a red and gold spangled gown, a conical hat of the same colour on his head, climbed on to a barrel which blocked the lane to proudly proclaim: ‘Bloodletting is to be avoided for a fortnight before Lammas and for thirty-five days afterwards, because then all poisonous things fly and injure man greatly. This includes poisonous spiders. Now, black snails fried in a hot pan are a great cure, along with this elixir I offer you …’
Flaxwith, frustrated at the wait, pushed his way through the gawping soldiers, kicked the barrel over and attempted to punch the leech. This self-proclaimed miracle worker, however, was as swift as any lurcher. He dodged Flaxwith’s blow and fled up an alleyway.
‘London will soon recover its soul and voice,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Ah well, gentlemen,’ he indicated with his hands, ‘Whitefriars awaits.’
They crossed the grey cobbled square which stretched in front of the imposing entrance to the priory of the Carmelites. Usually this concourse was the haunt of malefactors, their age-old meeting place which dated back to a legend about three pilgrims who, many years ago, arrived on the site in great poverty and distress and, being about to perish out of sheer want, killed each other. The last survivor buried his fellows and then thrust himself into one of the graves they had prepared. He pulled the tombstone over himself but left it as it still was, ill-adjusted and slightly twisted. All three headstones had been absorbed into the curtain wall of Whitefriars. Legend had it that those who touched these three tombstones would never hang, which was why the place was frequently visited by London’s tribes of malefactors. As customary with every visitor to Whitefriars, Athelstan touched the tombstones for good luck then pulled on the calling bell and waited for the postern door to be opened.
A lay brother welcomed them and assured Athelstan that the guardian, Prior Henry Catesby, was waiting to see him in the Exchequer chamber, a long, low-beamed room not far from the main entrance.
‘Brother Athelstan?’ Prior Catesby extended his hand in welcome. ‘How can I assist?’
‘First, Father Prior, I need to speak to two of your brethren. Secondly, I must meet your apothecary, who I understand is most skilled.’
‘As is yours in Blackfriars.’
‘I need a second opinion, a true judgement,’ Athelstan replied quickly. ‘And thirdly …’ He took a scroll out of the deep pocket of his mantle and handed it to Ferrour. ‘If Father Prior here provided you with two sturdy coursers, how swiftly could you be in Oxford before travelling on to Berkeley and then returning here?’
Ferrour pulled a face. ‘A day here, a day there, then journeying back. It depends on whatever business you wish to pursue, but it should not be long. After all, the weather is good and dry, the lanes and roads will be sound underfoot. The sun rises early and sets late, whilst the roadside taverns are ready for the pilgrim trade. In all, five days, but,’ Ferrour leaned closer, ‘why from here,’ he whispered, ‘why not from Blackfriars?’
‘Because, my friend, that would be highly dangerous to me, to you and the business in hand. Believe me, Father Prior, Master Ferrour, I speak with the full authority of the Crown and Holy Mother Church. What I intend to do with your help is resolve a very grave matter, an issue of life or death. So, Father Prior, if you could furnish Master Ferrour here with provender, two saddled horses and some coins that would be helpful. Rest assured, Sir John Cranston, the Lord High Coroner of London, will reimburse all expense. Master Ferrour, now you truly do become a courier, but you must be back within at least six days.’
A week later on the feast of St Peter and St Paul, founders of the Universal Church in Rome, Athelstan asked for a formal colloquium to be held in Prior Anselm’s parlour in Blackfriars. He had taken both his superior and Sir John into his confidence, even though his revelations had cut the Prior to his heart, so gravely, Athelstan wondered if Anselm would suffer a seizure. But the moment passed and the prior gave his consent for matters to proceed. Certain people were to be secretly brought into the Dominican house and kept waiting in a nearby chamber. Flaxwith and all his bailiffs would be in attendance, as would John Ferrour. Thibault’s man had visited the Dominican house in Oxford before riding on to the beautiful nunnery of St Monica, which lay in the lush cou
ntryside only a few miles from Berkeley. Ferrour had brought back the information Athelstan needed. The friar now believed it was time to move the pieces on the board and so trap his adversaries. He had ensured throughout all his preparations that he’d remained well protected. At the same time, he had publicly peddled the tale that he could not resolve the mayhem at Blackfriars and was only waiting to return to St Erconwald’s once his parishioners considered it safe for him to do so.
Athelstan was now determined to shed all such mummery and move resolutely to a conclusion. He had risen early that morning, washed, shaved, donned fresh robes and celebrated his Jesus mass in the same chantry chapel where he had been attacked. During the consecration he had invoked all the power of the Holy Spirit and lit three tapers in the Lady Chapel. He had then gone to the refectory and, after breaking his fast, had come to the parlour to prepare for the coming confrontation. He laid out the contents of his chancery satchel on the council table.
As the others joined him, Athelstan deliberately avoided either catching anyone’s gaze or greeting them directly. He did not wish to betray himself. All those summoned came in and took their seats: Prior Anselm, Cranston and Ferrour, as well as Hugh the infirmarian, Matthias and John the gatekeeper. At last all was ready. Flaxwith, standing on guard, closed the door. Athelstan rapped the table top and took away a linen cloth which covered a platter with the remains of the ‘St Dominic’s Blessing’ found in the pocket of Pernel’s gown.
‘You,’ Athelstan began, pointing at Brother John, ‘are the gatekeeper here at Blackfriars. You informed me that the old woman found drowned, floating near the water-gate, never entered Blackfriars. Now that old woman was Pernel the Fleming; well, that’s what she called herself. You, Brother John, however, knew her true identity, which is why you and your accomplices here drowned her.’ Athelstan paused for effect. ‘You are all about to earn the wages of wickedness. You are men who are springs without water, murderous mists driven by a storm. Believe me, the blackest darkness is reserved for you. You are assassins to the bone. You will kill and kill again to protect yourselves and your secrets. Nothing can change you. About the likes of you the Book of Proverbs is true: you are dogs who return to their vomit, hogs washed clean which go back to wallow in your murderous mud.’
Brother John just sat gaping in astonishment at Athelstan’s passionate outburst. He swallowed hard and raised his hands, fingers fluttering.
‘Accomplices!’ Hugh exclaimed. ‘Athelstan, have you taken leave of your senses?’
‘Pernel was not Pernel,’ Athelstan intoned. ‘Brother John is not Brother John. You are not Hugh the infirmarian, nor you Matthias the secretarius. Brother John,’ Athelstan talked swiftly, taking advantage of the stunned silence, ‘you are Giles Daventry, lay brother in the Dominican order, and you,’ he pointed at the infirmarian, ‘are no less a person than Thomas Dunheved, whilst Matthias here is your blood brother Stephen.’
‘This is ridiculous!’ the infirmarian shouted.
‘Preposterous!’ Matthias echoed. Both men made to rise. Athelstan noticed that Brother John the gatekeeper remained shocked in silence as the pretence and masks, assumed so cleverly decades ago, abruptly and swiftly crumbled.
‘The Dunheveds,’ said Hugh, his face creased in anger, ‘are buried in God’s Acre.’
‘You know that’s a lie. Two prisoners who died in Newgate lie beneath those headstones.’
‘In God’s name,’ Hugh shouted, ‘must we listen to this farrago of lies?’
‘Silence!’ Prior Anselm shouted. ‘Silence,’ he repeated. ‘Brother Athelstan, lay your charge, then we will listen to any reply. Until then, all three of you,’ the prior’s gaze swept the accused, ‘will remain silent.’
‘Oh, by the way,’ Cranston intervened, ‘let us deal with the pretence.’ The coroner tapped his own war-belt lying on the table before him. ‘Those games you indulged in before the rebels attacked Blackfriars, you portrayed yourselves as unskilled and unaccustomed with weapons, be it the crossbow or a sword.’ Cranston smiled grimly. ‘You are experienced enough. You are knowledgeable about sieges: you heard the Earthworms bring in carts and, like any seasoned campaigner, you recognised that these would be converted into battering rams. You said so yourself.’ Cranston pointed at the accused. ‘You are men of war. For the moment, I will not search you for any concealed dagger or hidden knife. However, Flaxwith, myself, and not to forget Master Ferrour here, will strike if violence is offered.’
The three accused refused to meet Athelstan’s gaze but moved restlessly on their chairs. Athelstan realised that all three were in shock. For the first time in years, decades, they were being confronted with who they really were.
‘Athelstan,’ Anselm ordered quietly, ‘proceed with your indictment.’
‘Yes, do so,’ the infirmarian retorted, ignoring Prior Anselm’s objection. ‘Let’s hear this tattle and tale, this legion of lies.’
‘Thomas and Stephen Dunheved, you were born in Warwickshire,’ Athelstan began. ‘You come of good yeoman stock and were selected to serve as pages in the household of Peter Gaveston. You, like your master, were greatly influenced by the Dominican order, a passion shared by Edward of Caernarvon, both as Prince of Wales and as King of England. Indeed, as you may well know,’ Athelstan sifted the documents on the table before him, ‘on one occasion Edward warned an opponent of the Dominican order that if he did not desist in his actions, he would rue it all the days of his life. Anyway,’ Athelstan continued briskly, ‘Gaveston was executed, but you remained firmly locked in your loyalty and allegiance to both the memory of the dead favourite and Edward II. Indeed, Thomas, you were and you are fanatical in such loyalty. This is stronger than any sense of duty to your fellow man, to your order, to your church or to your God. I’ve heard about assassins who live in Outremer, in the mountains of Syria. They owe complete loyalty to their master, the Old Man of the Mountain. Thomas, you are of the same ilk, the same heart, mind and soul.’
Athelstan stared at the infirmarian. Only then did he notice a shift in those clever eyes, as if the real soul of this fanatic was on the verge of breaking through.
‘Indeed, in many ways, what a waste! I recognise that. You were once my master, my teacher. Thomas Dunheved, I will not insult you. You are highly intelligent, deeply gifted and most resourceful. Little wonder you won the attention of a king. You entered the Dominican order and excelled yourself in both philosophy and logic. A master of the schools, you were ordained as a Dominican priest and immediately selected and confirmed as King Edward II’s confessor and spiritual advisor. Despite your youth, you advanced rapidly in royal favour. I reckon that when your master was deposed, you had barely reached your twenty-first summer, a young, very vigorous man totally devoted to your king. You were, of course, joined by your brother Stephen as well as your faithful shadow, the lay brother Giles Daventry, known to us now as Brother John the gatekeeper.’
‘You are very much mistaken,’ the secretarius protested.
‘Silence!’ Anselm warned.
‘I shall cut to the quick,’ Athelstan explained, ‘and proceed swiftly to the heart of this matter. Thomas Dunheved, you were absent from this country in 1326 when Mortimer and Isabella toppled your master. However, you returned with a vengeance and organised a coven deep in the woods around Berkeley. You received support and sympathy from others, and from one place in particular, the nunnery of St Monica deep in the Vale of Berkeley.’ Athelstan gestured at Ferrour. ‘I made simple enquiries there, and yes, stories and legends abound about how the infamous Dunheved brothers sheltered there in 1327. Apparently, a young novice Agnes Tyrell fell in love with you and fled the nunnery in your company.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘She received little in return, didn’t she?’ The infirmarian simply blinked and glanced away, yet, for a few heartbeats, Athelstan caught a glimmer of sadness in his opponent’s eyes. ‘To return to the mystery of Berkeley, in a word, you three knew the truth of the situation. Edward II did escape that fortress. However, tha
t does not really concern us now. What is relevant, in the most deadly fashion, is your ruthless opposition to the fate of Edward II being open even to discussion.’
‘Why? Why should I object to it? Why should anybody object to it?’
‘Because, Brother Thomas, and that’s who you really are, you and your companions see yourselves as the keeper of the secret. You cherish it as you would a shrine. You also cherish the true whereabouts of Edward II’s burial place. Do you know what I suspect?’ Athelstan pointed to all three of them. ‘That you find it rather amusing that people visit St Peter’s Abbey in Gloucester, go on pilgrimages there, and yet it is all a sham, a charade.’
‘And where is he buried?’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Brother, I shall come to that by and by.’ Athelstan glanced around. Everyone in the room was now listening intently to this twisting, tortuous tale which had brought about the violent deaths of so many people. ‘Edward II definitely escaped. You took him from his captors, Isabella and Mortimer, and buried a look-alike in his stead, which accounts for why no royal official or physician was allowed near the corpse, and why the dead king’s remains were not transferred to the royal mausoleum at Westminster.’
‘But there was speculation,’ Ferrour intervened, ‘there is speculation, even I know that, about the true whereabouts of Edward II.’
‘Ah yes,’ Athelstan replied, ‘but only as a tantalising mystery. What the Dunheveds would regard as unacceptable is the King’s escape being proved to be a matter of fact.’
‘It would only be a matter of time,’ Cranston intervened, ‘before people began to ask: if Edward II is not buried in Gloucester and there is no tomb to him in Sancto Alberto di Butrio, where is he actually buried?’
‘Precisely,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘Anyway, in 1327 you freed Edward II and took him out of this kingdom. You wandered Europe but eventually settled in or around the abbey of Sancto Alberto di Butrio in the diocese of Vercelli in northern Italy.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘We know the details about that, the meeting with Fieschi’s uncle and the constant rumours that Edward had escaped there. Now, Brother Thomas, for reasons best known to yourselves, you came back to England in 1330. I suspect the reason for this was money.