by Paul Doherty
‘I’ll stay outside with these two beauties.’ The coroner coughed abruptly as he remembered Sister Catherine. ‘I mean three. Sister, you wouldn’t have some bread and a jug of Bordeaux for a hungry, thirsty coroner?’
‘Of course, Sir John.’
Grabbing the coroner by the arm as if they were long-time friends, Sister Catherine led him out, Cecily, grasping his other arm, tripped cheekily alongside. At the doorway, Benedicta came back. She gripped Athelstan by the shoulder and gave him the kiss of peace on each cheek.
‘They say it was an accident, but . . .’
Then she was gone. Athelstan sat next to Edith on the bench.
‘I came to thank you for what you did. You intimated to Mother Veritable that you wished to join her house.’
‘I promised her the world and everything in it,’ Edith replied quietly, ‘and the old bitch preened herself as if she was Queen of the Night. I kept her for as long as I could, Brother. I tolerated her smell, her presence. This woman who, I knew, had a hand in my brother’s death, who certainly was responsible for hunting him like a dog the length and breadth of this City. She assured me of a fine time, of beautiful clothing, jewellery, the favour of the great and good.’ She leaned her head back against the wall. ‘I could tolerate her no more and said she should rejoin her companions. We left my chamber and reached the top of the stairs. Then she tripped.’ Edith turned her head, her sea-grey eyes all innocent. ‘The Lord works in wondrous ways, Brother, his wonders to behold! That’s my confession and all I will ever say. Eye for eye, Brother, tooth for tooth, life for life.’
Edith sat for a while, eyes half closed as if praying.
‘Whatever you think, Brother,’ she whispered, ‘whatever you say, I truly believe that God had decided to call that wicked woman to Him.’
Athelstan patted her on the shoulder.
‘What will be, shall be,’ he murmured, ‘so come, let’s join the rest.’
They found Sir John in fine fettle, seated at the high table in the refectory, a goblet of claret in one hand, a small manchet loaf in the other. He was busy regaling Benedicta, Cecily and what appeared to be the entire convent with his exploits at Najera in northern Spain. He hardly broke off to greet Athelstan and Edith, but ceremoniously waved them to a seat further down the table. Cranston knew what had truly happened to Mother Veritable but he decided to leave that with Athelstan. As he refilled his goblet, he wryly reflected, before continuing his description of the battle, that the deaths of Rolles and Mother Veritable had saved the City the expense of a hanging. He winked at the friar and continued his graphic description of how the English archers had deployed in a series of wedges to defend themselves. The nuns hung on his every word. Cranston grew suspicious. Athelstan, too, listened attentively, as if he had decided to stay the entire day in the convent. The coroner was about to bring his story to a close when the sound of horses and the jingle of harness echoed through the cavernous, low-beamed refectory, followed shortly by an old porter hobbling in, cane rapping on the paving stones. He breathlessly announced that His Grace, John of Gaunt had arrived!
Athelstan rose swiftly to his feet and Cranston quietly cursed. Now he realised why Athelstan had been waiting, even as he recalled the head ostler riding so swiftly from the tavern in Southwark. He and the friar courteously excused themselves and walked out of the refectory. Cranston stopped on the top step. The convent yard milled with armed men, all wearing gorgeous livery displaying the arms of England, France and Castile. Banners and pennants fluttered in the breeze. Knights of the royal household gathered round Mother Superior and other officials of the convent, placating them and offering the Regent’s excuses for this sudden visit.
‘Satan’s buttocks!’ Cranston whispered. ‘I wonder what the royal serpent wants.’
Athelstan felt a chill as he noticed that each gateway and entrance was guarded by archers, bows unslung, quivers hanging by their sides. A knight banneret, in half armour, his ruddy face gleaming with sweat under a mop of close-cropped blond hair, broke away from the group around Mother Superior and came striding across.
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, His Grace waits for you.’
He led them across to the guest house, opened the door and ushered them in. John of Gaunt, dressed in a simple leather jerkin, open at the neck to reveal the golden double S collar of Lancaster, had already made himself comfortable, war belt slung on the floor, his long legs and booted feet up on the table, gauntlets stripped off. He was enjoying a small jug of beer at the far end of the table. Signor Tonnelli and Matthias of Evesham did not look so relaxed as their master.
‘My Lord Coroner, Brother Athelstan, come here!’
The Regent gestured at the stools on the other side of the table. Cranston and Athelstan went over, bowed and took their seats. The coroner stared pointedly at the Regent’s boots. Gaunt smiled apologetically, swung his feet off the table, and leaned across, hand extended so that Cranston and Athelstan could kiss the ring on his middle finger.
‘Now we have dispensed with ceremony, let us get to the heart of the matter.’
‘The heart of the matter?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You mean the truth, your Grace. Well, I shall tell you the truth. No Lombard treasure was ever put on that barge. Oh, it may have arrived in the Tower, but it was never sent downriver.’
Cranston gasped and put his hands to his face, peering through his fingers. Gaunt seemed unperturbed, playing with the ring, watching Athelstan as he would a fellow gambler reach for the next throw. Tonnelli and Matthias of Evesham went to protest, but Gaunt waved his hand.
‘An interesting theory, Brother.’
‘The truth usually is, your Grace. You took the treasure, and concocted that farrago of nonsense about outlaws and river pirates. Oh, it was true enough, but it only served as the spice for the meal you cooked. Edward Mortimer was your man, body and soul, a knight who would have gone down to hell for you. He brought Richard Culpepper into your plot. You took the treasure, opened the chest, removed the precious hoard and filled it with bricks and stones, or whatever came to hand. It was then locked and resealed, the keys sent to the Admiral of the Fleet. Mortimer and Culpepper were to take possession of it and, in midstream, would tip it overboard, where it would sink to the bottom of the river. They would then tear their clothes, inflict minor wounds and bruises on themselves, and arrive at the Admiral’s ship with a story about how they were attacked by a group of river pirates. Mortimer prepared for that by giving his sister a cross he did not wish to lose in the darkness on the river. They would be believed. After all, where was the treasure? And they bore wounds to prove their resolute defence. The Fleet would sail. Later on, Mortimer and Culpepper would receive their reward. Nobody was to be really hurt. The Lombard treasure was only a part of the Crusaders’ war chest; they would claim that they could not pay back what they didn’t receive. The Lombard bankers might cry piteously in public, but in private, Signor Tonnelli was part of the plot, as were you.’
Gaunt clapped his hands together quietly.
‘Very good, Brother,’ he murmured.
‘But then something went wrong,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You and Mortimer made one mistake, as did Richard Culpepper. He had fallen in love with Guinevere, a courtesan who sold her favours to the highest bidder. She betrayed him to what I call the company at the Night in Jerusalem. You never knew that. In the end, as in a game of chequers, everyone’s move was blocked. The Crusaders had lost their treasure, but there was more to be had from the Lombards, not to mention the profits of the war. The bankers hadn’t really lost their money and stood to gain more. The Keeper of the Tower was the secret recipient of fresh wealth, whilst the true thieves were the proud owners of a mere midden heap. The real victims were Mortimer, Culpepper and those two innocent boatmen. You knew Mortimer and Culpepper must be dead, but, of course, you couldn’t reveal that without telling the truth, for why should two knights abscond with a chest full of rocks and bricks? Oh, you would make a careful search,
but the game was played, there was nothing to be done. All you could do was sit, wait and watch. Only one person warranted sympathy, poor Helena Mortimer, still hoping, still trusting that her brother would return. You took pity on her. You made sure that every quarter your comrade here, Signor Tonnelli, handed a pension to a London goldsmith for her. This kept Helena’s dreams alive and made sure she didn’t fall into poverty; it was the least you could do to honour Edward’s memory.’
Athelstan’s gaze never left the Regent’s face. Handsome as an angel, he reflected, his light skin burned dark by the Castilian sun. The silver-blond hair, beard and moustache so neatly trimmed, those beautiful blue eyes so frank and direct, except for the glint of mischief; only this time Gaunt looked genuinely sad. For a moment Athelstan caught this powerful man’s deep regret and sorrow at what had happened.
‘Do you believe this, my Lord Coroner?’ Gaunt glanced at Cranston.
‘I have always admired both your courage and your cunning, your Grace. A source of wonderment for me, as it was for your blessed father and elder brother.’
Gaunt laughed quietly to himself.
‘You may have suspected the other knights,’ Athelstan declared, ‘but you could never prove the truth, which hangs in a delicate balance and, as I have said, like a two-edged sword, cuts both ways. You kept the treasure, the years passed, Signor Tonnelli would arrange for it to be broken up and sold elsewhere in the cities along the Rhine or even in the lands of the Great Turk. One person remained keen in the hunt for the truth: Brother Malachi, a Benedictine monk, Sir Richard Culpepper’s brother. He approached you, didn’t he? Asking questions, some of which you could answer, others you had to ignore. Malachi was dangerous, an intelligent man, a scholar and, above all, a Benedictine monk. I do wonder,’ Athelstan deliberately picked up the Regent’s goblet and sipped from it; Gaunt did not object, ‘I do wonder what he said to you.’
Gaunt leaned his elbows on the table and cupped his face in his hands, tapping his boot against the floor as he scrutinised this friar.
‘You’re a very dangerous man, Athelstan.’
‘Is that why you have spies in my parish?’
Gaunt smiled.
‘You do have spies in the Night in Jerusalem. The head groom, for one.’
‘True, true,’ Gaunt quipped. ‘I have a legion of spies in Southwark. I watched the Night in Jerusalem like a hawk surveys a field.’
‘You know what happened there today?’
‘Of course, but I would like to hear it from you, Brother.’
Athelstan quickly described the events of the last few days and the violent, bloody confrontation in the tavern solar. Gaunt listened, eyes closed, now and again interrupting with a short sharp question. At the end he turned to Matthias of Evesham.
‘Tell the good sisters to bring some wine, nothing too heavy, the juice of the Rhineland, so we can all slake our thirsts.’
Matthias hurried off. He brought back a tray of mugs and cups and Gaunt insisted on serving everyone. He then retook his seat, lifted his goblet and toasted both Athelstan and Cranston.
‘Tu dixisti, you have said it, Brother. Twenty years ago I was Keeper of the Tower. I had barely reached my twenty-first year. As Jack Cranston knows, I’d campaigned in France, but not long enough to harvest any wealth. In the May of that year the Treaty of Bretigny was signed. There would be,’ Gaunt sighed, ‘for the foreseeable future, no more armies in France, no more ransoms or plunder. My father and elder brother kept me on a tight rein. To put it bluntly, I hadn’t two sous to rub together. Then the crusading fleet arrived and Signor Tonnelli collected the Lombard treasure; the rest you know. I would take the treasure and return it to Signor Tonnelli for a secret loan, the bankers would take the treasure elsewhere, and nobody was to be really hurt. Signor Tonnelli considered it was a good business agreement. We advanced monies to Mortimer and Culpepper. They were sworn to silence and promised, in time, a lavish reward. My friends the Lombards would not lose their treasure, the crusading fleet wouldn’t have to repay a loan they had never received, but they would still give their bankers a percentage of their profits, whilst I, and Culpepper and Mortimer, became richer men. On the morning of the twenty-first of September 1360, the Feast of St Matthew, I accepted that something dreadful had happened. As God is my witness, Brother, I didn’t care about the treasure, but I scoured the City and the kingdom for Mortimer and Culpepper, even though I was forced to accept both were dead. I kept my vow and looked after Helena. The years passed, times changed and the Lombard treasure was forgotten.’
‘Until Brother Malachi appeared.’
‘Yes, he came to my palace at Sheen, and later to the Tower. He never dressed as a Benedictine but in the robes of a clerk; he always insisted that I call him by his family name, Master Thomas Culpepper. He told me about the ring, and questioned me most closely. He pricked my suspicions and, I think, suspected the truth. I told him to do what he had to and let me know the outcome.’
‘But you must have been concerned?’
‘Of course I was. If Culpepper’s comrades were guilty, they might, in court, describe what they found when they opened that chest.’
Gaunt laughed abruptly.
‘That must have been a soul-chilling shock for them. Oh, I knew about the knights gathering every year. I decided I would watch the events in the Night in Jerusalem very carefully. I heard about the murders.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, you know how it is, Brother? The names Cranston and Athelstan appeared. There, I thought, now the hawk will fly.’
‘And so it did,’ Cranston remarked. ‘What will you do, your Grace? You have two knights of the shire guilty of the most heinous crimes. If you bring them to trial before the King’s Bench at Westminster, they will hang, but they will also confess to what they found in that treasure chest.’
Gaunt stared up at the black rafters. ‘Do you know, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, we live in very strange times. They say great armies are moving in the east. Some people claim the Church has lost its mission; there are even people,’ his eyes rounded in mock innocence, ‘who claim that all men are equal, that Watkin the dung collector and Moleskin the boatman should enjoy the same rights as John of Gaunt.’
‘Jesus said the same, your Grace, and was crucified for it.’
‘True, but as you know, my relationship with the Spanish kingdoms is very close. They dream a great dream, of becoming united, of driving the Moors out of Spain, and in their conversations, the princes of Aragon, Castille and Portugal talk of sending ships into the great unknown seas down the west coast of Africa. Some people claim there are lost kingdoms, full of gold and silver. Anyway,’ Gaunt drained his cup, ‘I shall have Sir Maurice and Sir Reginald brought to the Office of the Night in the Tower, where we shall reach an agreement. I am going to send them as envoys to the Court of Lisbon. They are to join an expedition, a seaborne expedition, to charter unknown lands. They will, in fact, be given a choice: to go to Portugal under strict guard, or wait for trial at Westminster.’ Gaunt steepled his fingers. ‘I shall remind them about how many people die of prison fever, or even eating poisoned pies.’
‘And Brother Malachi?’
‘He doesn’t know the full truth about the treasure. I understand that the Order of St Benedict have a monastery, a small community, outside St Ives in Cornwall. I will personally ensure that he spends the rest of his days there. Holy Mother Church owes me a favour or two.’
He got to his feet, scraping back his chair, gesturing at Tonnelli and Matthias of Evesham to follow.
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, a good day’s work. The Night in Jerusalem will be sold by the Crown; after all, Master Rolles was a traitor and a thief, so all his property is forfeit. I think I will give it to the chief ostler on a lease. I will ensure that some of the profits go to the chantry chapel at St Erconwald’s.’
He bowed to both of them and swept through the door. Matthias of Evesham patted Athelstan’s and Cranston’s shoulders as he passed.
For a
while, the friar just sat staring at the wall.
‘Do you know, Sir John, one of the great differences between good and evil is that good is so necessary and evil isn’t. Look at those assassins. When did they make the decision to rob and kill their friends? An afternoon? An evening over their cups? And when they did, they planted an evil, a malevolent shrub which took root and spread out to blight so many lives. Yet it was so unnecessary. They never got the treasure, and within a few years they were all rich, powerful knights of the shire.’ He crossed himself quickly. ‘All those hideous deaths for nothing.’
‘Come on, Brother.’ Cranston rose to his feet. ‘I’ll treat you to a pie and a blackjack of London ale in the Lamb of God, and we’ll take those two beautiful women for company.’
‘Why, Sir John, are you leading me into temptation?’
‘No, Brother, just delivering you from evil.’
Author’s Note
The character of John of Gaunt is, I believe, accurately depicted in this novel. A man of great cunning, Gaunt was regent of the kingdom during the 1380s. The repressive policies of his government did eventually lead to a great revolt and the rebels burned down his beautiful palace at Savoy. A Crusade under Lord Peter of Cyprus did sail into the Mediterranean and meet with varying success, and although the great robbery is a matter of fiction, such outrageous crimes were not uncommon in medieval London. Many of the street scenes and the infringements of the law described in the novel spring directly from primary sources. The role of the Night in Jerusalem characterises the activity of many London taverns, which were often the centre of a great deal of law-breaking. Little wonder that, until the late twentieth century, the taverns, inns and pubs of England were constantly under the close scrutiny of magistrates. The Misericord reflects the myriad confidence tricksters who through the centuries have made London their home, whilst the bounty hunter (true historical characters like Giles of Spain) was as common in medieval England as in the Wild West.