by Paul Doherty
The pit was uncovered. First there were the usual diversions. A juggler attempted to spin five cups in the air, but when he dropped one, he was pelted with scraps of food and soiled rushes from the floor. He was followed by the farmyard player, a man who could imitate the quack of a duck or the bray of a horse. He only lasted a few minutes, and was followed by a French dancing master, an old man with straggling grey hair and a nasty cough. His dogs were frightened and refused to dance, so he too was driven from the pit. Crim the altar boy, who had been given a blackjack of ale, silenced the clamour with a beautiful song in his vibrant carrying voice.
Behold Mistress Sweet,
Now you may see that I have lost my soul to thee.
The words were haunting, and the French dancing master, who had agreed to accompany the boy on a flute, created a heart-wrenching sound. For a moment, just for a measure, a few heartbeats, the customers forgot their own ugliness and the hideous circumstances of their lives.
Crim was followed by Pike the ditcher, and Master Rolles was not pleased. Pike was suspected of being a secret member of the Great Community of the Realm, a mysterious society flourishing across London and the surrounding shires. The Great Community was said to be plotting rebellion, to bring about sweeping changes where the noble lords would be pulled down and the Poor Worms of the Earth, as the Community called the peasants, allowed some respite from the incessant demands of both the King’s tax collectors and the Great Lords of the Soil. Pike, his narrow, sallow face flushed with ale, immediately launched into the rousing verses,
When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?
When Adam delved and Eve span, where was then the pride of man?
Such words provoked roars of approval, until the taverner’s bully boys hustled Pike from the pit.
Master Rolles had had enough. He snapped his fingers at the ostler standing next to him, and the fellow lifted a horn to his lips and blew three long, carrying blasts, which stilled all the clamour and noise.
‘Why can’t we have more singing?’ someone bawled.
Master Rolles glowered at his congregation.
‘We are not here,’ he shouted back, ‘to plot rebellion! Who here wants to dance in the air at Smithfleld, a rope round his neck, the other end fastened securely around the branch of an elm?’
His words chilled the fevered crowd. They all knew what he was hinting at. The young King, Richard II, son of the famous Black Prince, grandson of the war-like Edward III, was under the protection of his uncle, the Regent John of Gaunt. A sinister man, Gaunt, with a finger in every pie and a host of spies swarming all over London; even here in this tap room there might be men and women prepared to sell a name or a man’s life for a piece of silver or a paltry groat.
‘Let the rats be brought,’ Rolles shouted.
The crowds stood hushed as the door leading to the stable yard was flung open and the great boxes were brought in. They were taken to the edge of the pit and the lids lifted, and the whitewashed hole came to life with swarming rats, black, grey and brown, some scarred and lean, others young and plump. Many tried to escape, scampering round, desperate to hide from the light and noise. A few of the bolder ones stood up on their hind legs and began to wash themselves, oblivious to their gruesome future. Everyone crowded around the pit, people climbing on tables or up the great wooden pillars supporting the ceiling, eager to catch a glimpse of what would happen next.
Flaxwith went first; he unmuzzled the mastiff Satan and released the dog into the pit. Satan, hungry and ferocious, began a hideous slaughter amongst the rats even as Master Rolles turned the hourglass over whilst his assistant, the horn man, counted slowly under his breath. It took ninety seconds for Satan to reduce the swarm of rats to a mess of bloody corpses. Samson followed. Fresh rats were brought, and the air quickly turned foul with the smell of their corpses and the gruesome tang of blood. Samson was more swift and deadly, accomplishing his task by the time the horn man had reached eighty-five. The tavern crowd watched with bated breath; now it was the rat-catcher’s turn.
The ferret, Pretty, was released into the pit to meet a fresh horde of rats, and Ranulf’s disappointment was obvious when the horn man counted ninety-five before Pretty had finished his bloody work. Those who had wagered on the rat-catcher growled and mumbled under their breath. Everything rested on Precious. More rats were brought. Precious was released and the air was riven with the squeal of the vermin and the scampering of their paws. Precious was a master killer, a true slaughterer, one of the litters of the great Ferox, Ranulf’s prize ferret. He completed his massacre before the horn man had even reached eighty. For a moment there was silence, then Master Rolles rose to his feet as if he were a Speaker in the Commons in St Stephen’s Chapel.
‘Master Ranulf has won!’
His proclamation was greeted with shouts of joy and distress. Some who had wagered on the mastiffs tried to leave furtively, but the windows were all sealed whilst the taverner’s bully boys guarded the doors. No one was allowed out into the yard until all debts were settled.
Master Rolles turned in his great chair and stared around the tap room. The contest over, the customers were drifting back to the tables, shouting for drink and food. A pet monkey had broken loose; it had been chased by a greyhound and now sheltered in the rafters, chattering noisily down at its tormentor. The taverner didn’t fear a raid by the constables; in fact, Master Rolles had paid them well to look the other way. He just wanted to make sure that everything was as it should be. Ranulf the rat-catcher was now being brought tankard after tankard by his numerous supporters, and the taverner drew comfort from this. The rest of the night must pass smoothly. He glimpsed Beatrice and Clarice; the two sister whores looked happy enough. Rolles only hoped their friend the Misericord did not become involved in any mischief and have to flee. Absent-mindedly he took the goblet of wine a pot boy brought and sipped at it. The Knights were there, and the Judas Man? Rolles slouched in his chair. Ah yes, he thought, the Judas Man!
In a small chamber two floors above the tap room, the Judas Man sat waiting for his orders. He was of middling height, with a beetling brow, close-cropped hair and wary, shifting eyes in a lean pockmarked face. Many would describe him as pitiless, a man of little mercy, but the Judas Man didn’t care. It was many years since he had darkened the church and mumbled his sins whilst crouched in the shriving pew. Some whispered that he came from Dorset, a farmer whose family had been massacred by the French when they had raided the villages along the south coast. How such bloody deeds had turned his mind, killed his soul, and so he had become a hunter of men.
The Judas Man sat, his Lincoln-green hose pushed into black boots to which the spurs were still attached, his brown leather jerkin unbuttoned to reveal a clean white shirt and round his neck a silver chain bearing a golden ring, allegedly belonging to his dead wife. His cloak, war belt, and small crossbow lay on the truckle bed. They were within easy reach as the Judas Man contented himself, squatting on a three-legged stool playing softly on a penny whistle, a jigging tune, more suitable to a May Day dance than this sombre chamber rented for him. He lowered the whistle; he did not know the name or identity of his hirer. He had simply followed instructions – now he had to wait. He had gathered, from the roars below, how the ratting had ended. Now the raucous sound of a bagpipe echoed through the ceiling.
The Judas Man picked up his wine goblet and sipped carefully. He wanted to remain calm but wished the stranger would come. He felt trapped in London. He did not like its narrow, winding, reeking streets. He preferred to work out in the shires, bringing in the outlaws and wolf heads – those who had been proclaimed ‘utlegatum’ – beyond the law. He would hunt them down and drag them, at the tail of his horse, into some market square before the Guildhall. He would hand the prisoners over to the sheriff’s men and claim the reward. What happened to his captives afterwards was not his concern. Now he had been hired by some mysterious stranger, a generous advance in good coin, with a promise of more
to come, once he had captured the Misericord. The Judas Man knew all about the Misericord, a clever thief – the most cunning of men. Rumour had it he was a former priest; they had forgotten his real name. He was called the Misericord because of the small dagger, clasped in a velvet sheath, worn round his neck. The misericord was the dagger used by archers to dispatch a wounded enemy. The Misericord used it to cut purses and prise open locks. He was also an infamous trickster, a man who could sell soil and claim it was gold. No wonder he was wanted dead or alive in numerous towns and shires around London.
The Judas Man had been at Coggeshall in Essex when he had received the letter, written in a clerkly hand, with a generous purse of silver coins. The instructions were quite simple. He was to be in London by the eve of St Wulfnoth and take lodgings at the Night in Jerusalem in Southwark. Once he had arrived, the Judas Man realised that a trickster like the Misericord would try his luck on the night of the Great Ratting. Nevertheless, he had to wait for the signal. He rose to his feet and walked across the room, staring out of the needle-thin window. He gazed down into the stable yard of the inn; here and there a pitch torch, lashed to a pole, gave off a pool of light, shadows flitted across. The Judas Man didn’t like his chamber. When he had climbed the stairs he had seen how luxurious the rest of the tavern was, but Master Rolles had been very particular. This was the chamber which had been hired so this was the chamber he had been given. Suddenly the door behind him rattled. The Judas Man hastened to pick up his war belt; he strapped this about him and walked carefully across as the door rattled again.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
Again the door rattled. The Judas Man pressed his ear against the wood but he could hear no sound. He loosened the bolts at the top and bottom, lifted the latch and looked out. Nothing, except a lantern horn glowing on the high windowsill at the top of the stairs. The wind rattled a shutter, the floorboards creaked; the Judas Man glanced down and saw the leather pouch lying there. He picked it up and stepped back into the chamber. The pouch contained a scrap of parchment with the scrawl ‘The Misericord is below’ and a small purse of silver coins. The Judas Man counted these out carefully. They were good – freshly minted, ten pounds sterling. He put the pouch carefully inside his jerkin and finished his preparations.
He had left his chamber and was halfway down the stairs when the group at the bottom made him pause. Four knights in all, dressed like Hospitallers in their black and white cloaks, the golden falcon emblem sewn on the left shoulder; next to them a fifth man in the garb of a Benedictine monk. They were preparing to climb the stairs to the palatial chambers on the Oaken Gallery, which ran along the front, back and one side of the tavern. Luxurious rooms with feather-down beds, turkey carpets on the floor and exquisite draperies and tapestries adorning the walls. One of the knights looked up the stairs, staring full at the Judas Man.
‘By the Cross,’ he breathed, ‘and St Veronica’s veil!’
The Judas Man came down the rest of the stairs to be greeted by the knights, who clasped his hands. He knew them all: Sir Maurice Clinton, Sir Thomas Davenport, Sir Reginald Branson and Sir Laurence Broomhill. They asked the same question he asked them.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s our anniversary.’ The smooth-faced Benedictine pushed his way through, pulling back the cowl of his robe. ‘I’m Brother Malachi,’ he smiled. ‘Their chaplain.’
The Judas Man grasped his hand, even as he remembered how these important knights, all great landowners in the shire of Kent, were accustomed to come up to London every year to celebrate how they had once sailed from London to fight under Lord Peter of Cyprus, the Great Crusader who had captured Alexandria in Egypt almost twenty years ago.
‘Of course!’ the Judas Man exclaimed. ‘You are the Falconers.’
‘That is the standard we fought under,’ Sir Maurice, the leader of the group, replied. He was harsh-faced, tall, and thin as a beanpole, iron-grey hair parted down the middle. ‘And we lodged at this tavern before we sailed. But what are you doing here?’
‘Business,’ the Judas Man murmured, staring hungrily past the knights at the shaft of light pouring through the doorway leading into the tap room. He stepped aside. The knights had apparently been enjoying the ratting and drunk much. Brother Malachi supported Sir Thomas Davenport, who was rocking backwards and forwards on his feet. The Judas Man made his farewell to the knights. He heard their laughter behind him and tried to recall what he knew of them. Ah yes! The five noble Falconers, all Kentish men; the sixth, the monk, had also been a soldier until he’d taken his vows. Wasn’t there some mystery about them? And where was the fifth? The Judas Man put such questions aside as he stepped into the tap room.
Customers sat round tables. Scullions and slatterns fought their way through with tankards. The great fire was beginning to die, the candles were fading, the bowls of oil drying up. The Judas Man hastily stood aside as a boy pushing a wheelbarrow carted out the corpses of the rats killed in the pit, which was now being washed clean with tubs of scalding water. A sea of faces greeted the Judas Man, some disfigured, others pretty. A whore came sidling up; the Judas Man pushed her away as he walked like a cat round the edge of the tap room, looking intently for his prey. People jostled and shoved, pedlars and tinkers tried to sell trinkets. He was invited to sit in on games of hazard, whilst a pretty slattern asked him what he wanted to drink. The Judas Man ignored all these, eyes ever shifting, moving from face to face. He was looking for a man of medium height with a shock of red hair and a misericord dagger on a lanyard round his neck. At last he found him, seated just near the door, throwing dice with two others. There was no mistaking the silver sheath or that shock of red hair, though the pallid face and scrawny beard and moustache hadn’t been in the description. The misericord dagger, though, was unmistakable. The Judas Man pushed his way through, placed his hand on his victim’s shoulder and squeezed tightly. The man looked up.
‘You are to come with me,’ the Judas Man whispered quietly in his ear. ‘You, sir, are under arrest.’
His words had an immediate effect. The other two gamblers shot to their feet, pulling out knives even as Red-Hair shrugged off the Judas Man’s hand and, as fast as a whippet, kicked the stool back into his legs. Then he sprang up, drawing the knife from the battered belt around his waist. The crash of stools, the shouts and curses, created an immediate silence in the tap room. Master Rolles’ bully boys came lumbering across, as the Judas Man drew his own sword and dagger.
‘Put up your weapons,’ one of the bully boys shouted. ‘I’ll call the Watch.’
‘No you won’t.’ The Judas Man shook his head. ‘I have the law on my side. I carry a commission, sealed warrants from the sheriffs of Essex and Kent as well as those of London. I am empowered to bring in criminals, and this man,’ the Judas Man pointed his sword at Red-Hair, ‘is under arrest.’
The bully boys stepped back, gesturing for everyone to stay out of this confrontation. Red-Hair’s two companions also faded into the crowd, leaving their comrade, much the worse for drink, swaying backwards and forwards on his feet, knife still out.
‘I . . . I . . . don’t know,’ he stammered, ‘the reason . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve only stolen petty things.’
As the man spoke, the Judas Man noticed how his teeth were blackened, his gums sore. He looked closer, a prick of doubt. This man looked unwell; his face was pockmarked, eyes red-rimmed – was this the Misericord? The subtle, cunning man? He lowered his sword, eyes fixed on that silver sheath.
‘You are the one known as the Misericord?’ he asked.
Red-Hair shook his head.
‘You are under arrest,’ the Judas Man said gently, taking a step forward.
The other man panicked, a mix of ale and fear. He lunged drunkenly, his knife speeding for his opponent’s face, but the Judas Man just stepped aside and drove his own sword in, thrusting deep into the man’s stomach . . .
The two whores, Beatrice and Clarice, had left t
he tap room a short while before the Judas Man appeared. They heard the first clamour and outcry but they had other business. Beatrice and Clarice were sisters and served in one of the most luxurious brothels amongst the stews near the Bishop of Winchester’s inn. They had won their reputation by beauty and skill and been given a special invitation to attend the Great Ratting. They had arrived in all their gorgeous finery, gowns of red sarcanet over milk-white kirtles, stockings of pure wool and ankle-high leather boots with silver buckles. They had combed their blonde hair carefully and arranged their jewellery around neck, wrists and fingers. They’d bathed carefully, anointing themselves with perfumed oil, and had delicately painted their faces. They were twins, the daughters of the famous Guinevere the Golden, one of the greatest courtesans of Southwark until she had mysteriously disappeared some twenty years ago. They had been raised by Mother Veritable, one of the most notorious brothel-keepers south of the river. They had been taught how to read and write, and every other skill a courtesan should acquire. They were proficient on the rebec and the lute and could sing the sweetest carol as well as understand Norman French. They had been given places of honour that night and, after the Great Ratting had finished, been told to go to the hay barn which lay at the far side of the stable yard. Beatrice and Clarice had drunk deeply of the coolest, sweetest wines from the Rhine. Master Rolles had been quite insistent.
‘I have been given orders,’ he murmured to them, ‘to look after you well. When the Ratting is over you will have a customer,’ he winked lecherously, ‘in the barn.’
‘And where will we go?’ Beatrice had asked, light blue eyes all innocent.
‘I don’t know.’ The taverner had pressed silver coins into their hands. ‘Perhaps a bishop’s palace, or the silken-hung chambers of some Lord of the Soil.’
The two sisters now clung to each other, laughing as they walked across the yard. They pulled open the door and stepped inside. A lantern horn had been lit, carefully hooded and placed on top of a barrel, well away from the straw and hay. Clarice wished the band round the veil on her head wasn’t so tight.