by Paul Doherty
‘Lord have mercy on us!’ Cranston whispered. ‘The plague is here!’
Athelstan felt the hairs prickle at the back of his neck; one of the great nightmares of London had returned. Every so often the pestilential miasma would seep into the city. Sometimes it would infect every place; at others, like now, just one alleyway, street or quarter would be blighted. When this happened all the inhabitants were locked and barred in their houses, dying in bed together. Children would cry beside the corpses of their parents; priests would refuse to administer the sacraments, doctors decline to visit; even the gravediggers would not touch the dead.
‘The Plague Virgin!’ Alison whispered.
‘The what?’ Cranston asked, staring across at the barricades.
‘A Norfolk legend,’ the woman replied. ‘The Plague Virgin’s a spectre who flies through the air like a bluish flame and stops at the place of her choice. She then takes human form and goes from house to house anointing doors and windows with her feverish poison. Sometimes you can even glimpse her blood-red scarf fluttering in the wind. If you see or touch it, you die within the day.’
‘What does your Richard of Wallingford say about that?’ Cranston asked sardonically.
‘Something similar,’ Athelstan replied.
He made to walk towards the barricades. One of the archers lifted his bow. Athelstan held his hand up in a gesture of peace and stepped back. The friar sighed and made to go on.
‘Richard of Wallingford says something similar,’ he repeated. ‘He talks of black dogs roaming about at night with burning eyes and mangy coats. Every age,’ Athelstan continued, ‘has its own signs and wonders about the plague.’
‘I know,’ Cranston replied, eager to walk beside the pretty young Alison. ‘When I was a lad, knee-high to a cricket, my grandfather said the plague rode a black horse over London Bridge or floated down the Thames in a sombre barge.’
‘In Epping,’ Alison interrupted, ‘the peasants see the plague as a reaper who digs the earth with his scythe and lets out serpents, black blood and repulsive vermin. Last year, when the pestilence visited the town, a dismal wailing was heard from the cemetery. Some people saw ghosts dancing in the meadows. A taverner claimed he had seen thirty coffins in a neat line covered with black palls. On each stood a dark figure, a gleaming white cross in its hand.’
Athelstan stopped and turned to face the young woman. ‘You are very knowledgeable, mistress. You know of Richard of Wallingford, astronomy, astrology, the Plague Virgin.’
‘My father schooled both myself and Edwin,’ she replied, a slight blush to her cheeks.
Athelstan grasped her fingers. ‘But you don’t study your horn book now?’
She smiled coquettishly and glanced at the friar from under lowering eyelashes.
‘No, Brother, I am a seamstress and a very good one.’ She came closer and kissed Athelstan gently on each cheek. ‘I thank you for your generosity and kindness, Brother. When Edwin is buried, and this is all finished, I shall fashion new altar clothes for your church.’
Athelstan saw Cranston grinning eagerly behind him, thoroughly enjoying his discomfiture. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured and coughed in embarrassment. ‘But we really should move on, Sir John. Mistress Alison, there’s really no need for you to accompany us.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t care less about Peslep,’ she replied. ‘But I want to be there when you visit Edwin’s lodgings.’
They continued across the great open expanse of Smithfield. A water-tippler, who had drunk too deeply, staggered about, the buckets slung over his shoulder slopping out, much to the merriment of a group of ragged-arsed urchins.
Athelstan made for the looming mass of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. At first he thought the crowd assembled there was waiting to make their devotions at the tomb of the Blessed Rahere in the nearby priory or, perhaps, seeking sustenance from the hospital until a shriek of pain curdled his stomach.
‘Oh lord, no!’ Cranston whispered. ‘It’s branding day!’
Athelstan walked more quickly. ‘Don’t look,’ he whispered to Alison. ‘When you pass the door of the hospital, turn away.’
He pulled his cowl over his head, half closed his eyes and recited a prayer. Cranston, walking more leisurely behind, stared over the heads of the crowd to a small platform set up beside the hospital door. Beside it a line of felons from the Fleet and Newgate prisons waited to be branded: an ‘F’ for forger, a ‘B’ for the blasphemer, a ‘T’ for the twice-convicted thief. Pickpockets would have their ears clipped; whores, caught plying their trade within the city limits for the fourth time, had their noses slit. Some bore it stalwartly, others shrieked and protested, crashing their chains about as they were held down by burly city bailiffs.
‘Come, Sir John!’ Athelstan called over his shoulder. ‘This is no place for a lady’
‘It’s no place for anyone,’ Cranston grunted. ‘Now, in my treatise on the governance of this city . . .’ He stopped, closing his eyes. ‘Yes, in Caput Decimus, in chapter ten, “On the inflicting of petty punishments”, I argue that these brandings should be carried out in the prison yard.’
He opened his eyes but Athelstan and the young woman were now twenty paces ahead, going down Little Britain. Cranston hurried to catch them up. Athelstan paused to ask directions from a stallholder, then they continued on until he stopped before a four-storey, well-furnished mansion, which stood in its own small plot of land with an alleyway at either side. He brought the iron knocker down on the door. A young maid opened it, her face thin and white under a small mobcap. Her eyes rounded in fear as she looked at Brother Athelstan and then at the huge bulk of Sir John.
‘Did Luke Peslep live here?’ the coroner boomed.
‘Oh yes, your grace.’ The young maid bobbed and curtsied. ‘He has two chambers on the second floor.’
‘Two?’ Cranston murmured. ‘A wealthy man our clerk. Do you have a key?’
‘The master’s out,’ the maid replied. ‘But,’ she added hastily as Sir John drew his brows together, ‘I have a key here.’
She led them into a sweet-smelling passage, up the brightly polished oaken stairs and into a small recess. She inserted the key and flung open the door. Sir John, followed by Alison and Athelstan, entered.
The room was dark so the maid opened some shutters. As she did so, Cranston whistled and Athelstan exclaimed in surprise. Peslep’s lodgings were no paltry chamber but two rooms, a small parlour and a bedroom. As the maid lit candles and opened more windows, Athelstan could see that Peslep had lived a most luxurious life: damask hangings on the wall; a velvet cloth-of-gold bedspread; tables, chairs, stools and chests. On the far wall were two shelves, one with silver and pewter pots, the other with three books and a collection of rolled manuscripts. On the wall facing the bed hung a small tapestry depicting a scene from the Old Testament showing Delilah seducing Samson. Delilah wore hardly any clothing and stood in the most delightful poses.
‘Even the devil can quote scripture,’ Cranston whispered in Athelstan’s ear.
The young maid hurriedly left.
‘Come back!’ Athelstan called.
The young girl did so. Athelstan pointed to the key. ‘You know Master Peslep’s dead?’
She just stared blankly back.
‘We found no key on his corpse,’ Athelstan explained.
‘Oh,’ the young girl replied, ‘he always left it with me, sir, so I could clean the chamber.’
And he did so this morning?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And no one came here after he had left?’
‘No, sir, they didn’t,’ the maid replied. ‘But I saw Master Peslep go down the street. I was brushing the front step and, as I did so, I noticed someone else, another young man cloaked and cowled, spurs on his boots. He followed Master Peslep as if he’d been waiting for him.’
CHAPTER 4
‘Would you recognise him again?’ Cranston asked.
‘Oh no, sir, just a glimpse then he was gone, Master
Peslep with him.’
The young maid left. They went back to their searches. Alison seemed bored. She sat on a quilted cushion, tapping her foot as if impatient to be gone. At last Athelstan found the dead clerk’s writing box. It was locked, so Cranston prised the clasp loose with his dagger and emptied the contents on to the table. Prominent amongst them was a roll of parchment containing a list of riddles. Athelstan scrutinised this.
‘These clerks really love puzzles,’ he murmured.
‘It’s more than a game.’ Alison spoke up. ‘My brother was always talking about it, asking me to search for fresh ones.’
‘And the assassin knew that,’ Athelstan replied. He picked up a smaller scroll, undid it and whistled under his breath. ‘Sir John, look at this.’
Cranston grasped it and studied the list of figures.
‘It’s from Orifab, the goldsmiths in Cheapside,’ he muttered. He looked at the total at the bottom near the date, given some two weeks previously. ‘Master Peslep was a very rich man.’ he remarked. ‘So rich I wonder why he worked as a Chancery clerk.’
‘Many of them are from wealthy families,’ Alison intervened. She came across and peered over Sir John’s shoulder. ‘The younger sons of nobles,’ she continued. ‘Their elder brothers either inherited the estates or entered the Church.’
Cranston tossed the roll back into the box. ‘I’ll tell my bailiffs to come and seal the room,’ he declared. ‘Is there anything else?’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘Personal effects but nothing remarkable.’
They left the chamber, Cranston turning the lock and telling the maid he would keep the key himself, and went back down into the street. Alison grew silent, hanging back as Cranston and Athelstan made their way through the midmorning crowds towards the city ditch. At last they reached the house where Chapler had lodged, a shabby, two-storeyed tenement which looked as if it had been pushed between the alehouse on one side and a vintner’s shop on the other. The timbers were crooked, the plaster sagging, the white paint flaking and falling like pieces of snow. A garrulous old woman was the doorkeeper; she smiled rheumily at them, chewing on her gums.
Yes, she gabbled. Master Chapler lived here. And the door to his chamber was open. After all, Chapler’s friend had also called.
‘When?’ Cranston asked.
‘Very early this morning,’ she replied. ‘Just as the bells were tolling for Matins.’
The old woman gave the same description as the maid: a young man, cowled and hooded, spurs clinking on his riding boots. He had kept his face turned away but had given the old crone a coin and who was she to object?
They climbed the rickety stairs, Athelstan wrinkling his nose at the stale odours. Mice scampered before them and the friar wondered what his great tomcat Bonaventure would have made of all this. The door at the top was half open. Athelstan went in first, crossing the room to open the shutters. Despite the house’s decay, this chamber was pleasant, the plaster freshly painted in a light, soothing green. The floor of both the parlour and the small scullery beyond was scrubbed, the furniture was roughly hewn but sturdy and clean. Alison looked around, put her face in her hands and sobbed quietly. Cranston lumbered across. He put one great arm round her.
‘There, there, my girl! There, there! My sister lost her husband. He was killed fighting the Spanish in the Narrow Seas. These things pass. You never forget them. You just live with them.’
Athelstan, sitting on the four-poster bed, caught his breath at Sir John’s words. He felt the same about his brother Francis when, what seemed like an eternity ago, they had both joined the King’s armies in France. Francis had been killed and Athelstan had returned to his novitiate. For his crime of desertion and for having had a hand in his brother’s death, he had paid a terrible price. His parents had died brokenhearted and his order had never forgotten. Now, instead of being a scholar, he was parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, but would he be for much longer?
‘Brother?’
Athelstan shook himself free from his reverie and joined Cranston in his search. They found the usual riddles, letters, lists of provisions, but nothing remarkable. Certainly not the lavish wealth found at Peslep’s. Athelstan came back to where Sir John hugged a quietly weeping Alison.
‘There’s nothing here, Sir John. Nothing at all.’
Cranston dropped his arm and stepped away, catching at Alison’s hand. He cupped her chin gently, lifting her tearful face. ‘I’ll have this room sealed as well,’ he promised. ‘I’ll send a bailiff, a man called Flaxwith, he’s a trusty fellow. He’ll pack all your brother’s possessions away. Store them in chests in the Guildhall.’
The young woman thanked him. ‘I’d best go. As I’ve said, I’m at the Silver Flute on Milk Street. My brother’s possessions should be sent there.’
‘Do you want us to accompany you?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh no. I’ll find my own way.’ She stepped forward and kissed Athelstan lightly on the cheek. ‘If I may, Brother, I’ll come to St Erconwald’s later on to watch over my brother’s corpse.’
‘Of course,’ Athelstan replied.
Alison left. They heard her steps fade away on the stairs.
Cranston rubbed his face. ‘Brother, I need a beef pie: the crust gold and soft, the juices running fresh in my mouth.’ He grasped the friar by the arm. ‘And, by the power given to me, I must ask you to accompany me to the Holy Lamb.’
‘You have no power over Holy Mother Church,’ Athelstan joked.
‘Then come as a friend,’ Cranston whispered.
They found Sir John’s favourite tavern half empty, the air thick with fragrant smells from the buttery beyond. Leif the one-legged beggar was sitting in Sir John’s window seat overlooking the small garden. He leapt up as the coroner came in.
‘Oh, devil’s paps!’ Cranston swore.
The beggar, his red greasy hair pushed back from his white emaciated face, hopped like a grasshopper towards them.
‘Sir John! Sir John! A thousand blessings on you, Brother! Lady Maude has sent me! The table is set. Three cutlets of lamb cooked in rosemary! The twins have been fighting and Gog and Magog have stolen the beef you had hoped to eat this evening. Blaskett your manservant says he needs your key to clean your chamber. Master Flaxwith the bailiff has been looking for you. A young nobleman, Sir Lionel Havant, has called at your house. Two pickpockets have been caught in the market. Osbert your clerk . . .’
‘Shut up!’ Cranston roared, silencing even the clamour in the kitchen. ‘Leif, for the love of God, would you shut up!’
‘Very good, Your Grace.’ Leif bobbed and bowed. ‘I’ll go straight to Lady Maude to tell her you are here but you’ll be home shortly.’
Sir John’s great arm shot out. He grasped Leif’s shoulder. The beggar winced.
‘On second thoughts, Sir John, perhaps if I was given a penny for some ale, I’d sit in the garden and . . .’
He took the penny Sir John thrust into his hand and fled from the taproom. He took his seat above the herb garden, his back half turned; now and again he’d turn the glower in the direction of the coroner. Cranston, however, was now enthroned, rubbing his hands whilst the taverner’s wife fluttered round him like a solicitous chicken.
‘A blackjack of ale,’ Cranston boomed. ‘One of your meat pies, with the onions soft, blending with the meat. A cup of . . .?’ He looked at Athelstan.
‘Watered ale,’ the friar replied.
‘Some ale for my monkish friend and, if you come here, lady, I’ll give you a kiss on those red fat cheeks of yours.’
The landlord’s wife, fluttering and cooing, fled the tap-room for the kitchen.
Athelstan leaned back against the wall. The plaster felt cool on the back of his head. He half listened to Sir John’s chatter. Closing his eyes, he thought of all he had seen this morning. Those two young men: death had sprung like a trap upon them. Alison crying. Those smug clerks of the Green Wax, the sneering faces of Stablegate and Flinstead, and D
rayton’s corpse in that lonely counting house. How had that moneylender been killed?
A servant brought Sir John’s pie and ale. Athelstan sipped at his and let the coroner enjoy himself, exclaiming in pleasure at the fragrance of the beef and the sharp sweetness of the onions. Athelstan just prayed that Cranston would not return to the usual questioning: was Father Prior going to send him away from Southwark? Was it true Athelstan was bound for the Halls of Oxford? So, as the coroner wiped his hands on a napkin, Athelstan took the initiative.
‘I really should be going, Sir John. We have a bubbling pot of mystery here. I am sure Stablegate and Flinstead are as guilty as Judas but how they killed poor Drayton is a mystery.’ He sighed. ‘As for the murder of those two clerks of the Green Wax, their deaths are as puzzling as their lives.’
‘What do you mean?’ Cranston ignored the pun.
‘Well.’ Athelstan cradled the blackjack in his hands. ‘Here we have one clerk knocked on the head and thrown in the Thames; the other is stabbed to death whilst sitting on a privy. Riddles are left with the second corpse. Chapler was poor but Peslep rich. And who is this strange young man who apparently knew both of them?’