by Paul Doherty
‘That’s caused by the river,’ Icthus explained in his high-pitched voice. ‘The body always swells.’
Athelstan was more concerned by the dreadful black-red wound high in the man’s chest, and the feathered crossbow bolt embedded deep.
‘Do you want me to remove that?’ the Fisher of Men said.
‘No, no.’ Athelstan lifted a hand.
For a while, his companions remained silent as he quickly performed the rites for the dead.
‘He was a soldier,’ Cranston observed. ‘You can tell that from the wounds on his body – look at the cuts.’
‘A fighting man,’ Icthus agreed. ‘The muscles on his arms and shoulders are strong.’
‘If he was a fighting man,’ Cranston declared, ‘how was he killed like that? Whoever held that crossbow must have been very close. Where did you find him?’
‘Beneath London Bridge,’ Icthus replied. ‘We were out this morning looking for Sigbert. I saw him, floating near the starlings, the wooden supports. A great deal of rubbish is dumped there, the reeds cluster thick and rich. He was trapped by it, floating face down, pushed up by the reeds underneath, as well as the refuse.’
‘If he was there,’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet, ‘where was he thrown into the river?’
‘He was found just under the bridge,’ the Fisher of Men replied, ‘almost beneath the chapel of St Thomas, so I would guess he was thrown directly over.’
‘But,’ Athelstan gestured at the corpse, ‘he’s stark naked. Even at night the bridge is busy. How does a fighting man allow an enemy to get so close and release that deadly crossbow? If he was killed on the bridge and fell over, then he would still be in his clothes, sword belt on. I find it hard to imagine someone meeting the Judas Man in the centre of London Bridge, killing him with a crossbow, stripping his corpse and throwing it over, without being observed. Are you sure he wasn’t killed elsewhere on the river?’
‘Brother, you know religion,’ the Fisher of Men replied, ‘and I know the Thames. I can’t give you all the answers, but this man was thrown over London Bridge and his corpse trapped in the reeds below.’
Athelstan examined the corpse but could find no other wound, no blow to the head or stab wound to the back. He crossed himself and walked out of the barque, plucking at the Fisher of Men’s sleeve.
‘Tell me now,’ he said, ‘another matter. How many years have you worked here?’
‘I know what you are asking.’ The Fisher of Men shaded his eyes against the bright glow of the setting sun. ‘It’s my business to know everything which goes on along the river. The robbery of the Lombard treasure? I was here then. I and my company.’ He made a face. ‘Though it was different then. Icthus was yet to be born, but his father was just as good. Well, we were paid to comb this river for the treasure. I swear the only thing we found was that barge, many miles downstream, trapped in the reeds where it is very marshy, few people go there.’
‘So do you think the attack took place at the Oyster Wharf?’ Athelstan asked.
‘No, I don’t. I never did. Quaysides are busy places.’
‘So why do you think you were told to look there?’
‘I don’t know. Our orders were to comb both sides of the river as far down as Westminster. Apart from that barge there was nothing else.’
‘And the barge?’ Cranston asked.
‘Empty, nothing but a floating piece of wood.’
‘Tell me,’ Athelstan asked, ‘you know the Thames. If you had to wait at night to take possession of a treasure chest, without others knowing or being seen?’
The Fisher of Men pointed south-east across the river.
‘Somewhere between Southwark and Westminster, where the banks are flat and firm, and you can see both the river and the land behind you.’
‘Is it possible,’ Athelstan asked, ‘for four men to be killed and their bodies to be—’
‘Hidden? Weighted down?’ the Fisher of Men asked. ‘I doubt it. Perhaps one corpse, but four? I know the story, Brother. If those four men were attacked at the dead of night, their assailants would be moving quickly, clumsily. You can tie rocks to a corpse, weigh down its clothes, but time and the river will take care of that. I’ve always said this, and I’ll say it again: if those men were killed by the riverside, their corpses were taken elsewhere.’
‘Buried along the banks?’ Cranston asked.
‘But that would take time,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘You’re not talking of a shallow grave, but a burial pit. I know enough about the river. Earth and soil are shifted; eventually their bodies would be uncovered.’
The Fisher of Men clasped Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘If you ever wish to become our chaplain, Brother, you are most welcome. You are correct. If those men were killed, their corpses must have been taken away. Is there anything more I can do to help?’
Athelstan shook his head, clasped the man’s hand and made their farewells to Icthus and the rest of the company.
‘Where to now?’ Cranston asked as Athelstan walked up an alleyway leading from the quayside.
‘Why, Sir John, the bridge.’
Athelstan kept to the alleyways as he and Cranston discussed what they had seen and heard at the Barque of St Peter. The coroner was full of observations. Athelstan, half distracted, kept thinking about what the Fisher of Men had said. How could four strong men be attacked at the dead of night, so swiftly, so deadly, their corpses removed, as well as the treasure?
He was still thinking about this when they reached the bridge and walked along its thoroughfare, stopping every so often to examine the gaps between the houses and shops built on either side. Some of these places were nothing more than short, thin alleyways leading down to the high rails overlooking the gushing water. Athelstan went into the Chapel of St Thomas, but quickly realised no one could bring a corpse in there. He went out, further down, until they came to the great refuse mound, piled high between two wooden slats with a third behind; this served as a drawbridge. Cranston explained how, when the cords were released, the slat would fall, and the be tipped into the river. The front of the lay stall was a high wooden board. Two young boys, pushing a wheelbarrow, loosened the pegs, pulled the board down and, wheeling their barrow in, tipped the rubbish out. The area around the lay stall was free of any encumbrance and the passers-by hurried along, clutching their noses, pulling cloaks up or using pomanders against the awful stench. The rubbish was a dark slimy mass: broken pots, scraps of clothing, the refuse of citizens, piled high to be fought over by rats, cats, and the gulls which wheeled screaming above them, angry at being disturbed from their feasting.
‘Must we stay here, Brother?’
‘That’s where the Judas Man was tossed,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I’m sure of that. Buried deep in the rubbish. When that trap door was lowered, his corpse fell, into the river. Sir John, I’ve seen enough.’
They hurried across the bridge. Athelstan agreed with Sir John to stop at a small ale house to wash, as the coroner put it, the dirt and smell from their noses and mouths. Cranston persisted in questioning Athelstan about the lay stall on London Bridge, but the friar sat on a stool as if fascinated by the chickens pecking in the dust just outside the ale-house door. He seemed particularly interested in the carts which passed, and although Sir John asked him questions, Athelstan replied absent-mindedly; he even began to hum the ‘Ave Maris Stella’ under his breath.
‘I think the Archangel Gabriel is outside the door, don’t you?’
‘I think you’re right, Sir John,’ Athelstan replied dreamily.
‘Brother, you are not listening to a word I am saying.’
‘I would like to go to the Night in Jerusalem.’
Athelstan put his tankard down and, like a sleepwalker, left the inn, leaving Cranston to drain his blackjack.
They made their way through the streets and into the tavern yard. Athelstan looked into the hay barn, then visited the stables, asking the ostlers which was the Judas Man’s horse. He patted this dis
tractedly on the flanks and left, walking across the yard, stopping now and again, trying to memorise every detail before following Sir John into the tavern. Being mid-afternoon, the tap room was busy with all the traders and pedlars chewing on roasted pork from tranchers at the communal table and warming their fingers over the chafing dishes. There was no sign of the knights or Brother Malachi. Master Rolles came bustling up.
‘You’ve a visitor!’ He pointed to the far corner.
‘Oh yes.’
Athelstan went across and stared down at Ranulf the rat-catcher, the ferrets scratching in the box by his feet.
‘Ranulf?’
‘Brother, I have come as a messenger from the parish council.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Cranston asked, coming up behind.
‘Hush now,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Ranulf,’ he warned, ‘I’m busy. I’ll take no nonsense.’
‘Oh no, peace has been made.’
‘Deo gratias.’
‘Oh no, Brother, not that!’ Ranulf had misunderstood the Latin. ‘We all put it to the vote,’ he smiled triumphantly, ‘on one condition: that everybody agreed to abide by the majority decision. Cecily the courtesan will be the Virgin Mary.’
‘Good.’ Athelstan sat down on the stool opposite. ‘Can I buy you a pot of ale?’
‘No, no.’ Ranulf seized his precious box and kissed the small bars through which the ferrets pushed their pink snouts. ‘We’re all going to celebrate at the Piebald tavern. Oh, Brother, by the way,’ Ranulf sat down again, ‘Benedicta decided to clean the church. She found this.’ Ranulf undid his leather jerkin, took out a piece of rolled cloth, put it on the table and left, eager to join the celebrations at the Piebald tavern. Cranston took his seat whilst Athelstan unrolled the cloth. He stared down at the thin, wicked-looking dagger.
‘One of those used against Malachi.’ Athelstan quickly put it into his leather writing satchel.
‘I’ve seen that before.’ Cranston leaned across the table. ‘It belonged to the Judas Man.’
Athelstan was about to reply when the tap room fell strangely silent. He glanced across; mailed men-at-arms wearing the royal livery thronged in the doorway behind a dark cowled figure.
‘Sir John Cranston, Brother Athelstan?’
The cowled figure came forward. Master Rolles pointed to the corner and Matthias of Evesham strolled across, a beaming smile on his face.
‘Well, Sir Jack,’ he gave a mocking bow, ‘Brother Athelstan. As Scripture says, you have appealed to Caesar, and to Caesar you will go. His Grace, the Regent, awaits you at his Palace of the Savoy.’
Chapter 12
The journey to the Savoy Palace was solemn and silent. Matthias of Evesham led the way as men-at-arms garbed in the royal livery grouped around Athelstan and Cranston under standards and pennants displaying the lions of England and the fleur-de-lys of France: thirty soldiers in all, the sight of their drawn swords clearing the streets as they marched down to the quayside and the awaiting royal barge. They clambered in, Matthias in the prow, Cranston and Athelstan sitting under an awning in the stern. The order was given to cast off. The barge drifted away, the rowers lowered their oars, cutting through the icy, misty river. They had hardly reached mid-stream when other boats grouped around them; these were full of royal archers in their brown and green padded jerkins, across their chests the personal escutcheon of John of Gaunt – displaying the arms of France, and Castile. Athelstan pulled his cloak around him, took out his Ave beads and tried to calm his mind by reciting the Ave Maria.
Cranston sat strangely silent. Usually he would take a swig from the sacred wine skin, or engage in friendly banter with those about him. The coroner did not like His Grace the Regent and had often clashed with him. Despite his bonhomie, Sir John refused to sell his soul; he obeyed the law and pursued justice without fear or favour. Now Cranston sat like some great surly bear, cape close about him, his beaver hat low on his head, glowering at the various craft, quietly muttering under his breath. The day was dying, the river freezing cold. Occasionally the bank of mist shifted to reveal the spires of St Paul or the crenellated walls of mansions along the north bank of the Thames. Now and again a herald on the prow gave a long, shrill blast on the trumpet, a warning to other craft to pull away. The barge swept past the Fleet river and down towards the quayside of the Savoy Palace. It slipped easily alongside, servants hurrying up to catch the mooring ropes. Cranston and Athelstan were helped ashore; their escort ringed them and led them into the palace proper.
Athelstan was aware of crossing cobbled yards where the stink of horse muck mingled with more savoury smells from bakehouses and kitchens. On one occasion he glimpsed two pages carrying across a peacock on a platter which had been de-feathered, roasted and then feathered again, its claws and beak being gilded in gold, so lifelike that Athelstan expected it to rise and give its flesh-tingling scream. A gate opened; they were walking through gardens, their beauty hidden by the mist and cold frost, along a colonnaded walk and into the corridors of the palace. The opulent beauty of this place was famous. Athelstan felt that he was entering a world far different from the poverty and grime of his own parish. The floors were a shiny mosaic of black, white and red lozenge-shaped tiles, rich oaken wainscoting gleamed in the light of countless beeswax candles. Above these glowed tapestries, the work of the best craftsmen in Europe, displaying scenes from the classics, the Bible and Arthurian legend. One in particular caught Athelstan’s eye and made him smile: the ‘Great Beast of Time’, part wolf, which devoured the past, part lion, displaying courage to face the present, part dog, faithful enough to accept the future. Inscriptions carved in gold gleamed above doorways. The Latin poet Terence’s famous quote ‘Without wine and food, Love dies,’ symbolised the life of the palace. The courtiers they passed were dressed in the latest attire from France, the men in doublets and elaborately pointed shoes, the ladies in the finest gowns with lacy bodices, low-slung girdles, their fashionable cloaks inlaid with embroidered silk. They reminded Athelstan of lovely butterflies in a gorgeous garden.
Matthias of Evesham first took them to a buttery in one of the main halls, a comfortable chamber with polished walnut furniture and tiled floors, linen panelling covering most of the walls. Edible bread platters of delicate red rose, tinged with the green of parsley, were placed before them, on which a scullion served a ladle of spicy lamb, accompanied by the finest wastel bread and goblets of cool white wine. The coroner regained his good humour and did not take long to finish the bread and wine. Matthias had to hurry his own food before leading them into the gorgeous meeting chamber, its walls decorated with resplendent samite cloths, each displaying the six principal colours of heraldry. They were told to sit together on a cushioned settle, to the right of the mantled hearth; they had hardly done so when the far door opened and two men entered. The first, John of Gaunt, the Regent, was easily recognisable in his gold and red silk and soft boots. His narrow, intelligent face with its sharp nose and flinty blue eyes was a sharp contrast to his soft silver-blond hair and neatly clipped moustache and beard.
‘Your Grace.’ Cranston and Athelstan went to kneel.
‘Oh, sit down,’ Gaunt declared wearily. ‘I’m tired of bobbing courtiers.’
He grasped a stool, brought it forward and sat down in front of them, one elbow on his thigh, chin cupped in his hand. He gestured with his other hand for his companion to do likewise. Now, up close, Athelstan could clearly study the other man’s swarthy face, fringed by long dark hair. He was not as relaxed as the Regent; his large soulful eyes were watchful, one beringed finger scratching at a bead of sweat which ran down into the close-cut moustache and beard. He was dressed soberly in a dark blue cotehardie; rings glistened on his fingers, a single gem dazzled on the gold chain around his neck. A secretive man, Athelstan thought, who kept his own counsel, but the way that he sat next to John of Gaunt, and the look which passed between them, showed intimacy and affection.
‘Signor Teodoro Tonnelli, may I present Sir J
ohn Cranston, Coroner to the City, and his secretarius, Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark.’ Gaunt smiled. ‘You all know who I am.’
Athelstan gazed steadily back at this scion of Edward III, regent of the kingdom during the minority of his nephew Richard, son of the Black Prince. A man many called the Viper, who was feared by the Church and loathed by the peasants and their secret society, The Great Community of the Realm. Nevertheless, Gaunt was also personable, capable of dazzling charm and extraordinary generosity.
‘Well, Brother,’ Gaunt studiously ignored Cranston, ‘you and the Lord Coroner have questions for us?’
‘The Lombard treasure, a chest of jewellery worth at least ten thousand pounds,’ Athelstan replied.
‘Double that,’ Gaunt whispered, ‘double that, and half as much again.’
Cranston whistled under his breath.
‘There are dreadful murders at the tavern the Night in Jerusalem,’ Athelstan declared.
‘I have heard of them.’ Gaunt looked at Cranston. ‘Is it not time, my Lord Coroner, that you arrested someone?’
‘The treasure,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘how was it composed? What happened to it? I mean, before it was stolen?’
‘I have brought a list.’ Tonnelli’s English had only a tinge of an accent. ‘You may study it, you may keep it.’ He pulled a scroll from his sleeve and handed it to Athelstan, who unrolled it. The jewellery was very carefully listed.
Item 1 A pelican brooch: the pelican stands on a scroll, on the breast of the golden pelican lies a ruby and on the scroll a glowing amethyst.
Item 2 The Swan Jewel: the swan is of gold and studded with precious gems.
Item 3 A silver Cross studded with rubies and amethyst . . .
Athelstan moved the document so that Cranston could also study it. A hundred items were listed there, as well as pouches of silver and gold minted in Genoa, Pavia and Milan. The jewellery was of every type imaginable: rings, crosses, brooches, chains, pendants, bracelets and even precious buttons taken from robes of gold.