by Paul Doherty
Justice was also busy. The Carnifex, the Southwark executioner, was performing his grisly trade on the approaches to the bridge. A moveable three-armed scaffold was being pushed along the riverside with a strangled, purple-faced malefactor hanging from each branch of the gallows; notices pinned to their filthy nightshirts proclaimed how these criminals were guilty of committing arson in the royal dockyards. A failed magician, who’d tricked people out of their coins for nothing in return and aptly rejoiced in the name of ‘Littlebit’ was being fastened in the stocks. Former customers had gathered, picking up rotting rubbish and even filth from the sewer running down the centre of the lane, intent on pelting him. A mad woman, her hair painted purple and garbed in rabbit skins, stood on a broken barrel. She proclaimed how once upon a time she had been a luxuriously adorned maiden who used to sit in a hazel grove until Satan had appeared in the guise of a bird-catcher and snared her soul. Next to her, three whores, whose grey, grimy naked buttocks had been soundly birched, were being fastened in the pillary for ‘lechery beyond their threshold’. Athelstan noticed with grim amusement the placards hanging around their clamped necks; these declared how the two younger ones were ‘Mea Culpa’ and ‘Mea Culpa’–‘my fault’ and ‘my fault’, whilst the third, their mother, was named ‘Maxima Culpa’ – ‘my most grievous fault’.
On the corner of the lane a preacher and his travelling troupe had rented the Eyrie, a plot of ground reserved for mummers and their plays. The preacher – Athelstan could not decide if he was acting or genuine – was garbed in horsehide, his sun-darkened face almost hidden by lank hair through which his eyes gleamed feverishly. He had attracted a good crowd. Athelstan, with a start, noticed a fellow Dominican garbed in the black-and-white robes of his order, standing a little forward of the crowd, fascinated by what was being enacted. The crowd was noisy. The air reeked with a fug of odours which mingled with the ever-present stench of stale, salted fish, rotting vegetables and human sweat. Nevertheless, the Dominican, tall and rugged, his black hair neatly tonsured, seemed impervious to his surroundings but listened intently to the rant of the preacher’s most scathing diatribe against the Church. Behind the preacher, the rest of his troupe was assembling cleverly painted panels, each depicting a message. On one a fiend jeeringly pulled the ropes of a prayer bell torturing a damned, fiery-red soul who served as the bell’s clapper. Below that on the same panel, a rat-headed demon was throttling a banker whilst another stabbed a goldsmith with a candle prick. On the second panel, a hare carrying a hunting horn, game-bag and a deer-spear was striding towards a castle with a wench slung by her feet to the spear. At the castle gate, a thorn-beaked lizard devil, dressed as an abbess, waited to welcome them. The third panel depicted the Prince of Hell, Lord Satan, with a gigantic sparrow hawk’s head and a spindle-shank thin body. The master of demons was busy devouring a damned spirit, whose perjured red-hot soul slipped from the Devil’s anus in the form of a swarm of ravens.
Lascelles stopped his cavalcade here. One of his lackies dismounted, pushed through the crowd and whispered to the Dominican; he reluctantly nodded and followed the man back, hoisting himself into the saddle of a spare horse. Athelstan caught his breath; he was sure he recognized that round, serene face from his days in the novitiate at Blackfriars. Athelstan stared again. He noted the sharp eyes, full lips, skin burnt brown by the sun and rather delicate hand gestures and how fastidiously clean this fellow friar appeared to be.
‘Brother Marcel.’ Friar Roger had been watching just as closely. ‘Don’t you recognize him, Athelstan, a man much loved by your order? Some say he will become Minister General of the Dominicans. Brother Marcel of St Sardos – the Papal Inquisitor from our Holy Father in Rome.’
Athelstan closed his eyes. He certainly remembered Marcel, the son of Anglo-Gascon parents born in English-held Bordeaux, a brilliant canon lawyer who particularly excelled in the disputation, the sharp cut and thrust of question and answer so popular in the halls of Oxford and Cambridge. What on earth was he doing in London? Athelstan glanced back at the mummers as Lascelles urged his cavalcade on. Such dramatic presentations were certainly not orthodox and, if what he recalled about Marcel was correct, would certainly be frowned on by the Papal Inquisitor.
At last they reached London Bridge. A firedrake was performing magic tricks with a torch he had inveigled from the keeper of the gatehouse, Robert Burden, that diminutive dresser of the severed heads of traitors which hung like black balls on their poles against the lightening sky. Burden, dressed in the usual blood-red taffeta, had assembled his large brood of offspring to watch the fire-swallower. Athelstan called out a greeting but Burden, engrossed in the spectacle, simply raised a hand in reply. They entered the lane which cut through the houses and shops which ranged either side of the bridge. As usual, Athelstan found such a journey frightening, literally crossing between heaven and earth. The sights and sounds always disturbed him. The clatter of nearby windmills, the stench from the tanneries, the stink of the lay stalls and that ever-crashing thunder as the river poured through the bridge’s twenty arches, pounding the lozenge-shaped starlings protecting the pillars below. Nevertheless, this was also a busy marketplace where everything was sold: Baltic furs, Muscovite leather, Paris linen, lace from Lieges and cloth from Arras. An apprentice ran up to offer a laver, a tripod pitcher with a nipped-in neck and spinous spout which ended in a dragon’s head. Athelstan examined the inscription around the bowl, ‘I am called a laver because I serve with love.’ In his other hand, the lad offered a shining bronze aquamanile from Lubeck carved in the shape of a naked man riding a roaring lion. Athelstan smilingly refused, though he quietly promised to remember both items as possible purchases by the parish council. He just wished they could just cross London Bridge, but they had to pause for a while as one of the lay stalls, heaped to fullness with smoking-hot filth, had collapsed to the merriment of some and the disgust of many, for the reeking stench crawled like a poisonous snake along the bridge.
Eventually they passed through the towered structures on the bridge’s northern side and made their way up into the city. The reaction to Gaunt’s party became more hostile. Oaths and curses followed them and, at one point, the escort had to draw swords against the flurry of flung filth. They passed under the shadow of high-towered St Paul’s, which, despite its spire being crammed with relics, had been recently struck by lightning. At last they reached the broad trading thoroughfare of Cheape. On either side elaborately hung stalls, shops and booths offered fabrics, precious metals, foodstuffs, footwear and weaponry of every kind. Here the court fops, resplendent in their elaborate headgear, brocaded short jackets, tight leggings, protuberant codpieces and fantastical long-toed shoes, brushed shoulders with the poor from the midden-heap manors and the dank, dark cellars of Whitefriars. The air was rich with a mixture of cooking smells from bakeries and pastry shops. Here also gathered Cranston’s ‘beloved parishioners’, the underworld of London: the Pages of the Pit, the Brotherhood of the Knife, the Squires of the Sewer, the nips and the foists, the glimmerers and the gold-droppers as well as whores both male and female. These surged about like dirt through water, all intent on seeking their prey: a heavy-bellied merchant’s pouch, a drunk’s half-open wallet, a young lady with an untied satchel or some distracted stall-owner. Cranston recognized them all, shouting out their names so everyone else would be wary: Spindleshank the foist, Short-pot the pickpocket, Shoulder-sham the counterfeit, Poison-pate the snatcher and Needle-point the sharper. Most of these disappeared like snow under the sun. Nevertheless, as they passed the great water conduit, the prison cage on its top crammed with more of Cranston’s ‘parishioners’, Athelstan sensed true danger. Mischief was being plotted. The crowd around was growing openly hostile.
A cart abruptly appeared and it stopped just near The Holy Lamb of God tavern. On it stood a puppet booth, narrow and curtained with a small stage on which gloved puppets shouted shrilly. One glance at these told everything. The central puppet had golden hair and a
crown, the second was a plump cleric and the third, a mitred bishop, a clear allusion to Gaunt, Master Thibault and the hated Archbishop of Canterbury, Simon Sudbury. A fourth suddenly appeared, dressed in the mud-coloured garb of a peasant, who promptly began to beat the other three figures with a club, much to the merriment of the fast-gathering crowd. Lascelles’ party was noticed and the mob around them hemmed tighter. A hunting horn brayed and the puppetry immediately ceased. Cranston, swearing loudly, drew his sword. Out of the side streets debouched clusters of horsemen. Faces blackened, they all carried red cowhide shields, spears and clubs. Their hair was heavily greased and rolled up to resemble the horns of a goat.
‘Earthworms!’ Cranston shouted. ‘The Upright Men!’ The horsemen forced their way into the throng whilst the few footmen who followed opened the necks of the bulging grain sacks they carried to release an entire warren of rabbits loose in the crowd. Chaos and confusion immediately descended. Dogs snarled and broke free to pursue the rabbits, as did the horde of beggars who saw them as free fresh meat for the pot. The legion of ragged urchins who always frequented the market joined in the mad hunt. Horses skittered. Stalls overturned. Carts and barrows crashed on to their side. Apprentices tried to defend their masters’ goods from wholesale pilfering; others tried to rescue themselves from the cutting press. The real danger to Athelstan’s party were the fearsome Earthworms. Cranston, who had now taken over the cavalcade, ordered shields up and swords out but fresh danger emerged: more horsemen were spilling out of the side streets on the far side of Cheapside. Cranston urged the cavalcade forward. The Earthworms drew closer. One hurled his spear, which bounced off a raised shield; another followed, narrowly missing Lascelles, shattering against the helmet of one of his escort. Friar Roger snatched a club from an apprentice and grinned at Athelstan.
‘Let us go forth!’ he shouted. ‘Furnished with fire and sword to fight as long as the World Candle shines.’ Athelstan was about to follow suit, leaning down to grasp a staff, when trumpets shrilled and the crowd before them abruptly broke. A schiltrom of pikemen, kite shields locked in the testudo formation, long-axe spears jutting out, were advancing down the centre of Cheapside under the flowing banners of the royal standard. The mail-garbed, shield-protected footmen were fearsome enough. However, the real threat was the billowing royal banner. Anyone carrying arms in a hostile fashion when this standard was unfurled were traitors to be punished with summary but gruesome execution. The schiltrom reached Lascelles’ cavalcade and parted to gather them into its steel protection. They paused, turned and advanced back. A short while later they passed under the yawning, arched gateway of the Guildhall into the great bailey which stretched beneath the entrance portico dominated by the towering statues of Justice, Prudence and Truth. The schiltrom now broke up. Lascelles led them across the frozen cobbled yard, the air savoury with the mouth-watering smells from a nearby bakery. Friar Roger made his hasty farewells and left. Athelstan followed the rest as they were ushered up steps across floors, shiny mosaics of black, white and red lozenge-shaped tiles. Walls covered in oak panelling reflected the light from a myriad of candles glowing in alabaster jars of different colours. Beautifully embroidered tapestries proclaimed the history and glory of London city since its foundation by King Brutus. They reached a small buttery, where Lascelles told them to wait. White wines and waffle cakes were served. Only then could they relax after the hurly-burly of their journey. Athelstan waited until the servants had left and then walked over to Marcel to exchange the kiss of peace. Marcel grabbed Athelstan close before standing back.
‘Time is the Emperor of Life,’ he declared. ‘Yet you, Athelstan, have not changed.’
‘And you, Brother, look as studious as ever, but what are you doing here? I heard you were assigned to the Papal court, the Holy Father’s personal adviser?’
‘I am very busy in France, Athelstan, rooting out the weeds of heresy.’
‘So why are you here? The Inquisition has no power in England.’
‘I am here to observe, Athelstan, as a hawk does a field. You have your heretics, Wycliffe the Leicestershire parson and the Lollards, who object to the power of us priests.’
‘And mummers who perform near London Bridge!’
Marcel laughed deep and throatily. ‘I have been in London for about ten days, Athelstan. I have visited the Tower and all along the riverside. I watch and I listen.’ Marcel dropped all pretence of merriment. ‘Don’t you find such weeds in that little seedy parish of yours? Don’t you swim against a tide of heretical filth and radical aspiration?’
‘Marcel,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘I serve in a parish which is as poor as Nazareth, where a carpenter called Crispin tries to raise his family free of the tyranny of Herod.’ Marcel’s face turned harsh, mouth twisted in objection. ‘I work with poor people, Marcel, the lowest of the low. Yet, perhaps in the eyes of Christ, they are princes. Do you remember our vows Marcel, the vision of our founder? How Christ can be found amongst the poor? Marcel, you are a brilliant scholar, I recall your disputations. Don’t you remember arguing how Christ seemed happiest when he and others met for a meal with the outcasts of society?’
‘True, true,’ Marcel’s eyes softened, ‘but we have all grown older. Life turns colder. Christ’s banqueting hall has to be defended against the wild dogs which would invade it.’ The conversation was cut off by Lascelles entering, indicating that Athelstan and Cranston follow him out along the gallery into a warm, wood-panelled chancery office deep in the Guildhall. Two people sat at the long polished table. John of Gaunt, Regent and uncle of the king, slouched in a throne-like chair. Gaunt always reminded Athelstan of an artist’s depiction of Lucifer before he fell, golden-haired, steely blue eyes and perfectly formed features slightly kissed by the sun. In all things Gaunt was so elegant, be it his neatly cropped hair, moustache and beard or the high-collared gold and scarlet jerkin over the purest cambric shirt. Around Gaunt’s neck hung the SS collar of Lancaster. On his fingers dazzled rings, whilst the wall behind him proclaimed the banners of kingdoms Gaunt lay claim to: Portugal, Castile and Aragon. Thibault, sitting on Gaunt’s right, was dressed in the dark robes of a monk, though these were of the costliest wool, whilst the sapphire on his chancery ring glowed like a mini-ature candle. Thibault, with his corn-coloured hair and smooth round face, looked as cherubic as any novice sworn to God. Athelstan knew different. Thibault, despite his innocent appearance, was a highly dangerous man, totally dedicated to his dread master. Athelstan and Cranston bowed. Lascelles directed them to the stools at the far end of the table and sat with them. For a while there was silence. Athelstan watched the candlelight gleam and shift in the waxed, polished wood around him.
‘So,’ Thibault whispered, ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, what say you? What has happened?’ He pulled a face. ‘I am sorry that your journey here, how can I say it, was eventful.’
‘Yes, you can say,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Very eventful.’
‘My henchman,’ Thibault smiled at Lascelles, ‘has informed us about your quick thinking and courage at The Candle-Flame. My grateful thanks.’ His smile faded. ‘Beowulf shall hang at Smithfield. I shall be there to see his body ripped open, his entrails plucked out and his severed head balanced on a pole. Then we shall discover who has been found wanting.’
‘What do you know of him?’ Athelstan asked.
‘A traitor.’ Gaunt took his hand away from his mouth – even that was a delicate, studied movement. The Regent just sat staring at Athelstan with those strange blue eyes, as if he was trying to break into the friar’s very soul.
‘Your Grace,’ Athelstan leaned forward, ‘Beowulf’s origins … Who gave him that name?’
‘He assumed it himself,’ Thibault snapped, ‘at his very first murder. He left a message, “From Beowulf to Grendel, his enemy”. I suppose this Beowulf sees himself as a mixture of the pagan and the Christian, an Anglo-Saxon hero who can quote the sombre verses of the prophet Daniel from the Old Testament.’
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��Very good, very good,’ Athelstan mused.
‘What is, Brother?’ Gaunt snapped.
‘Well, Beowulf is a man who bestrides two traditions.’
‘He is a contagion, a pestilence.’ Gaunt’s voice thrilled with hatred. ‘He and his damnable proclamation appear here and there, as far north as Colchester and as far south as Richmond.’ Gaunt’s eyes slid to Thibault. ‘So far he has evaded capture. You, Brother, you and Sir John will trap him. Once you have, I shall kill him. So, what have you learnt?’
Athelstan faithfully reported all that happened: the mysteri-ous murders, the locked entrances, the plundered exchequer chest, the disappearance of Hugh of Hornsey and the murder of Scrope. He conceded that all the killings defied logic and explanation. Now and again he would turn to Cranston for confirmation. The coroner sat, eyes half-closed, calm and confident. Athelstan quietly prayed that he would remain so. There was bad blood between Gaunt and the Lord High Coroner of London stretching back years, when Sir John had been the Black Prince’s bannerman, body and soul. Cranston had resisted all approaches from Gaunt, be it through fear or favour. Sir John openly distrusted the Regent. On one occasion, deep in his cups, Cranston had confided to Athelstan how he suspected Gaunt secretly cherished and nursed dreams of seizing the crown. Sometimes the coroner feared for the safety and welfare of the young king.