by Paul Doherty
‘Watch your back, Lord Coroner.’
He walked up to the mouth of the alleyway then swiftly turned. Shapes further down just as abruptly stepped back into the creeping shadows.
‘St Michael and all his angels.’ Cranston murmured a prayer for protection and walked on. He was determined to meet Vox Populi before the day was through. He turned right into the Shambles, the great fleshing market of London. The butchers and carvers were now unhooking the chunks of beef, chicken, poultry, duck, rabbit, venison and ham. The air reeked of salt, blood and messy entrails; even the cobbles glowed red in the dancing light of torches whilst the butchers and their boys seemed like demons in their gore-splattered leather aprons and hats. Beadles and bailiffs thronged to secure their blood-soaked linen packages of free meat. The poor and the needy also clustered, going down on hands and knees beneath the stalls searching for fresh gobbets of flesh, fighting off the curs and cats which also massed to feast in this place of slaughter. Traders and tinkers, selling the rejected to the rejected, shouted for business. Prostitutes, faces all painted, hair dyed and festooned with gaudy ribbons, sheltered together ready to entice customers into what Cranston called their ‘Temples of Mercenary Love’. Pimps touted for courtesans, even mixing with a small crowd who’d gathered round a Friar of the Sack. The Franciscan stood on a plinth intoning the office of the dead for the Guild of the Hanged, a pious group of men and women who assembled outside Newgate to pray for those inside condemned to death.
Cranston pushed himself through these and the horde of nighthawks, dark-walkers, gibbet lawyers and mountebanks; all assembled before the great iron prison gates hoping to visit friends within, coins at the ready to bribe janitors and turnkeys. Cranston recognized many familiar faces amongst these Pages of the Pit and Squires of the Sewer, who swiftly drew away as he marched up to the postern door and vigorously pulled at the bell. The door flew open. The bullnecked, grey-faced turnkey took one look and hurriedly stepped aside. Cranston entered that antechamber of hell. He met the keeper in the great yard, showed him his seal and demanded to see the Vox Populi. The keeper, dressed in black like a parson with the sanctimonious face to match, swiftly agreed. Cranston had little time for him. The keeper was a born rogue who, Cranston had often confided to Athelstan, was twice as fit for hell as those he guarded. They entered the murky, main gallery of the gloomy prison. Cranston took the proferred rags soaked in vinegar to cover his nose. The air was fetid, damp and reeking of putrefaction. The walls seemed to sweat slime which gathered like sludge over the flagstone floor. The light was poor. Torches flared, giving off trails of pitch and tar. Tallow candles, cheap and nasty smelling, flickered in niches and crevices. A thriving place for rats, cockroaches and other vermin, Cranston tried to ignore the lice crackling under his boots. They passed chambers and cells where prisoners laden with irons stood with hands outstretched, their pleading for alms almost drowned by the horrid howling and screaming which rang out constantly. They reached the condemned cell – nothing more than a filthy box guarded by a heavy oaken door. Inside it reeked like a midden heap, black as pitch with no light or vent for air. The prisoner was crouched in the corner on a palliasse of rotting straw. Cranston breathed in deeply on the rag as he shouted for lights, two stools and a jug of claret.
‘Bordeaux,’ he yelled. ‘I’ve had enough of your bloody vinegar.’
The keeper hurried to obey. Once he’d brought everything, Cranston ordered him out, leaving the door open. He sat on one stool, the prisoner on the other, drinking greedily from the goblet of claret. He raised his head, pushing back his filth-strewn hair to reveal the brand mark on his cheek close to where his left ear had been. Cranston studied the dirty face, the tangled moustache and beard; the eyes, however, were bright, not yet bereft of hope or courage.
‘Geoffrey Portsoken, known as a Vox Populi.’ Cranston lifted his goblet. ‘I salute thee.’
‘Sir Jack Cranston, I toast thee too, you and yours.’ The prisoner took another gulp. ‘I’m for the elms at Smithfield, Jack, condemned I was, beaten up by Gaunt’s henchmen. Anyway, why are you here? Not to gloat! No, that’s not for our Jack, so why?’
‘To offer you life.’
Vox Populi mockingly raised the goblet but his eyes brightened. ‘Gaunt will not let me skip away from this.’
‘Not skip, my friend, walk to the nearest port. Queenshithe will do, ship abroad never to return under pain of hanging, drawing and quartering. I mean that.’ Cranston clinked his pewter cup against the prisoner’s. ‘Out, never to return!’
‘I’ll need money.’
‘The city will pay for you to be shaved, clothed, booted with a water pannikin and a linen parcel of bread and dried bacon. You’ll also receive a thin purse.’
‘For what – information?’
‘The truth, so shut up and listen!”
Cranston spoke swiftly and succinctly about Kilverby’s murder, the disappearance of the Passio Christi and the slayings out at St Fulcher’s.
‘So,’ Vox Populi murmured. ‘Chalk has gone to his maker, followed by Hanep and Hyde. Chalk will have much to answer.’
‘Why?’
‘He was a defrocked priest, Sir Jack, a curate from the church of St Peter’s-in-the-wood in Leighton Manor in Essex where we all hailed from an eternity ago. It must be,’ Vox Populi paused to cough phlegm, ‘some thirty years ago now. All of us golden boys, archers swinging off down the tree-lined lanes bound for the glory of France.’
‘Very touching.’
‘No, Jack, very true. You know how it was. We were roaring boys. About twenty of us at first who answered the King’s writ from the commissioners of array; few of us are left now, only me and those hard-hearted bastards out at St Fulcher’s.’ He stared at Cranston. ‘I fought with them. In the year of our Lord 1353, we sealed an indenture with the Black Prince to serve him and him only as the Company of the Wyvern.’
‘A small cohort?’
‘By then, Jack, we were all skilled archers, master bowmen; we could bring down any bird on the wing or put a shaft through the narrowest window. Experts in the use of yew, ash, the hempen string, the goose-quill arrow.’ He wagged a finger in mock anger. ‘Some took an oath never to use a crossbow; I still can’t. I’m not too sure whether this is true of my former comrades.’
‘Your duties?’
‘To attend upon the Prince day or night, in peace and war, to be his sworn men and so we were, mounted archers who moved around the battlefield. You’ve seen the likes of us, Jack. Imagine loosing an arrow with every breath. In battle the Prince assigned us a special duty. We were to seek out the enemy commanders, having first learnt their heraldry and livery. A knight, especially the French, is invariably helmeted and visored.’
‘The heat must have been suffocating,’ Cranston added quietly. ‘Especially with the sun strong in the full fury of battle. They’d open their visors to breathe, to catch some coolness.’
‘Aye, Jack,’ Vox Populi leaned forward, eyes gleaming, ‘and we’d be waiting. We would have an arrow notched, two of us, ringed and protected by men-at-arms. One shaft,’ he held a hand up, ‘to the commander’s face, down he’d fall. You know what happened next: his banner carrier, the standard bearer, would raise his visor in alarm . . .’
‘And he would receive the second shaft?’ Cranston nodded. ‘Both commander and standard bearer brought down in a few heart beats. Disarray amongst the enemy would be intense?’
‘And because of that, the Prince loved us, we could do no wrong.’
‘Including ransacking an abbey and the theft of the sacred bloodstone the Passio Christi?’
‘Oh yes, I know about the Passio Christi being held by Kilverby. You do realize he financed the Wyvern Company with loans to the Black Prince? Oh, yes! Kilverby made a handsome profit. The loans carried no interest but Kilverby took a share in the plunder. Little wonder,’ the prisoner scoffed, ‘in his final years Kilverby turned to God.’
‘The Passio Christi?’
‘I was not there, Cranston, when it happened.’ The Vox Populi moved, manacles clinking. ‘I swear that! After Poitiers, noble prisoners were being taken for ransom. The poor French men-at-arms fled to Poitiers town for protection but they closed the gates against them. They were all massacred. I took part in that, God forgive me. My companions, the seven who found lodgings at St Fulcher’s, went on their own campaign of pillage and looting. We later heard the story how they supposedly found a cart full of treasure close to St Calliste Abbey and seized it as the spoils of war.’ He shook his head. ‘What a find! A beautiful bloodstone, precious items, manuscripts, plates, cups and ewers. Of course I don’t believe that. Those seven pillagers probably scaled the abbey walls whilst the shaven pates, who’d learnt about the slaughter at Poitiers, were hiding in their wine cellars. The Wyverns roamed that abbey like Renard would a hen coop. I am sure they quietly pillaged the abbey church, found a cart, loaded their plunder on it and the rest you know. Who could contradict master bowmen, patronized by no less a person than the King’s son?’ Vox Populi paused to finish his wine. Cranston emptied his own goblet into the prisoner’s, who thanked him with his eyes. ‘Naturally the French objected. The Abbot of St Calliste rode out with bell, book and candle to protest but the Prince was not moved. The abbot cursed the perpetrators but that was war Jack, who cares?’ He paused. ‘You’ve met Richer? His uncle was the abbot.’
Cranston cradled his empty goblet, very pleased he had come here.
‘And afterwards, what happened to you?’
‘I tell you Jack, from the moment the Passio Christi was taken, those seven became inseparable comrades, a lock within a lock. I remained an outsider, a stranger. A year later whilst on campaign, we surprised a French camp. I was eager for plunder. I cried, “Havoc, havoc!”.’ He raised a hand to touch where his ear had been. ‘You know the rules of war, Cranston. To cry havoc is to proclaim the enemy is defeated so we can turn to plunder. I shouldn’t have done it. The fight was not yet over. The Black Prince said that any other man would have been hanged; instead I lost my left ear, was branded and turned out of the company.’ The prisoner’s voice turned bitter. ‘My comrades gave me little help or comfort. I was in France, wounded, a beggar bereft of everything, and then a miracle occurred. French peasants found me cowering in a ditch. I expected to be hanged or have my throat cut. In fact, they proved to be true Christians, good Samaritans. They tended, fed and clothed me. They healed my wounds in more ways than one, those earthworms, the poorest of the poor! I began to reflect on the kindness of such people to an enemy. I cursed the Black Prince and all his coven. I journeyed back to England. I took refuge in Glastonbury before moving to St Peter’s at Gloucester where I dwelt as a hermit. I forsook the path of war; instead I railed against the rich and the powerful.’ He paused. ‘I became a preacher as powerful as Jack Straw or John Ball. I moved from village to village preaching that our day would come. I moved into London. The Upright Men, the leaders of the Great Community of the Realm, invited me into their company. By all the angels don’t ask me about All Hallows, the Community or the Upright Men. We always met disguised in deserted copses, clearings or ruins as old as the Romans. We’d sit hooded and visored and never named.’ He breathed in deeply. ‘I heard of my old comrades lodging like lords at St Fulcher’s. I sheltered secretly in some rat’s lair near Dowgate. I sent those two rogues Mulligrub and Snapskull out to St Fulcher’s with a plea for help but my old comrades never replied.’ He coughed. ‘Then one night, around All Souls, I was taken by the sheriff’s men during an affray in Poultry.’ He rattled his chains. ‘So, am I free, Jack, or will you play the Judas? Have you come to cry all hail when you really mean all harm?’
Cranston got to his feet, knocking over the stool.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Vox Populi squinted up at him, ‘one last thing. The Great Community have marked you down for death.’
‘Like so many others in my long life.’
‘I know you, Jack. You’ll fight, and you’ll survive, but your monk . . .?’
‘Friar, and he’s not mine.’
‘Athelstan, on him,’ Vox Populi whispered, ‘sentence has not yet been passed.
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Everyone is buying protection, Jack. Kilverby did and so has Abbot Walter. Have you ever wondered why he gave the Wyverns such comfortable lodgings?’
‘He had to, the Crown insisted.’
‘I’ve never yet met a monk who didn’t try to wriggle out of an agreement. No, Jack, Abbot Walter was only too pleased to have master bowmen in the abbey just in case the Upright Men decided not to be so upright. Can you imagine Jack, seven master archers, their bows strung, arrows notched, loosing showers of barbed shafts at any intruders?’ Vox Populi lowered his head. ‘Well then, there were six. Now there are four, that’s better than nothing. Who knows, Jack, the deaths of my comrades Hanep and Hyde could be the work of the Upright Men, removing the guard dogs before they attack.’
Cranston picked up the stool and sat down. ‘Who else would murder them? Some old blood feud?’
‘Well, I doubt if the abbot would kill his own watch dogs. The Frenchman Richer? Does he have the skill? Perhaps his infernal Grace the Regent wants the Passio Christi so badly he killed Kilverby and now he wants to annihilate the Wyverns. Who knows what in this vale of tears?’
‘Would they turn on each other?’
‘Hardly likely. Wenlock is a cripple, captured by the French. They sheared off his archer fingers. He and Mahant, according to you, were in London when Hanep was killed and still out of the abbey when Hyde was slaughtered. I used my last coins to send a message to them. I don’t know if they came to meet me. Look at me,’ he gestured around the cell, ‘a crust of bread would have been a gift from heaven.’ Vox Populi stared wistfully into his empty wine cup. ‘Now, Sir Jack, your promise?’
Cranston leaned across and seized the prisoner’s beard.
‘I’ll have a word with the keeper. You’ll be moved to the common hold. In two days time Master Flaxwith and my bailiffs will collect you, washed, shaved and clothed with a few pennies to spend. You’ll be taken down to Queenshithe. If I ever see your face again I’ll hang you myself.’ Cranston released his grip. ‘Goodnight, friend, I will not see you again.’
The coroner left Newgate intent on Cheapside. He had learnt enough. He only wished he could share his thoughts with Athelstan. Undoubtedly the Passio Christi lay at the heart of all these mysteries, but how and why? Cranston was certainly determined to question Crispin and intended do so before the end of the day. The coroner gathered his cloak about him and stared around. The harsh early frost and seeping river mist had already cleared the great concourse in front of Newgate. The Fleshers’ stalls had gone, as had all the remains and slops from the day’s trade. Torches, braziers and great bonfires flared, drawing in the poor and homeless, who gathered silently in their ragged cloaks for any warmth. Franciscans appeared, moving amongst the huddled groups, dispensing what physical or spiritual comfort they could. Cranston ignored these, more alert to the twinkling light of naked steel or the shapes flitting along the shadows’ edge. He was certainly being followed but that was normal. Life had a pattern. Cranston was very alert to that pattern being disturbed.
The city now lay silent, sinking deep into the fierce frost which already sparkled in the fading light. The night creatures were out; these kept to the murky mouth of alleyways or grouped close to the makeshift bonfires the bailiffs had kindled to burn rubbish as well as warm the homeless who brought whatever raw meat or fish they’d pilfered to roast over the flames. The Mendicants of Christ, garbed in robes of dark murrey festooned with the Five Holy Wounds, did their nightly rounds with baskets of stale bread and rejected fruit and fish. A pilgrim, absorbed in his own private devotions, came out of an alleyway dragging a cross in reparation for some sin. Cranston noticed this and trudged on, only stopping to greet bailiffs and beadles he recognized. Cranston was cold, hungry and angry. Kilverby’s
family could have been more honest with him and he intended to rectify this.
The coroner reached the dead merchant’s mansion and immediately gained entrance. He strode in and demanded the household meet him in the solar. Cranston only gave the barest apology for dragging them away from their supper, though he sensed that the deep antagonism between Lady Helen and Mistress Alesia probably marred such occasions. They eventually gathered and sat in the comfortable leather-cased chairs near the fire. Cranston drained the cup of hot posset he’d been given, watching their faces, especially the furrowed, anxious-looking Crispin, who kept blinking and wetting his lips.
‘Sir John,’ Lady Helen coughed prettily, ‘you have more questions?’
‘Yes, you,’ Cranston pointed at Crispin, ‘know your master’s business. Years ago he financed the Wyvern Company through loans to the King’s son the Black Prince – yes?’
Crispin nodded.
‘He took a share of the spoils?’
Again, the nod.
‘So he was fervent in his support of such warriors?’
‘Of course, Sir John.’
‘He profited from their plundering. He held the Passio Christi in trust.’
‘Yes.’ Crispin’s nervousness deepened, ‘But that was years ago.’
‘Sir John,’ Alesia intervened, ‘your questions – they’re leading to my father’s recent change of heart.’
‘What change of heart,’ Cranston barked. ‘Why, when?’
‘In the last three years,’ Alesia’s cheeks had turned slightly red, ‘my father grew tired of his life; he wanted to change, to go on pilgrimage, to make reparation.’
‘Reparation for past sins, I presume.’
‘You presume right, Sir John,’ Lady Helen declared. ‘My good husband,’ she darted a venomous look at Alesia, ‘had grown tired of his life.’
‘And his marriage!’ Alesia snapped.