by Paul Doherty
Mine Host was busy in the Dark Parlour adjusting a shutter, helped by Mooncalf. The taverner was short and curt: he informed Athelstan that the guests were about their business and he was busy with his, though the friar was welcome to wander around. Athelstan thanked him and walked out across the wasteland on to the Palisade. He paused at the remains of the camp where the archers had been slain, and recalled his conversation with Hugh of Horsey. He was sure the captain of archers was lying, withholding the truth of what truly happened. Yet that truth may have nothing to do with the gruesome murders. Athelstan believed Hornsey was innocent of those killings but what was he really hiding? Allegiance to Marsen? ‘Nonsense,’ Athelstan whispered to himself. ‘Hornsey is a professional soldier, a mercenary who has seen battle against the French and done his fair share of killing. So why should he have scruples about escorting the likes of Marsen?’ Athelstan fell silent and glanced around. He could hear snatches of conversation on the breeze. He was sure of it, but in this desolate place? The Palisade stretched bleak and stark around him. Ghosts hovered here, the stricken souls of those so brutally slain. A raven, sleek and as black as the night, floated across to perch on a hummock of grass, its raucous cawing shrill and harsh. The day was dying. The breeze from the river brought the stench of rich mud, dried fish and a heavy saltiness. The raven took flight, feathery wings extended, flying up to wheel above the Barbican, which rose sinister and forbidding, a fitting monument to the horrors perpetrated within. Athelstan walked towards it; the door hung open and again he heard those snatches of conversation. Shading his eyes, Athelstan stared up and glimpsed figures against the battlemented walls at the top of the tower. He hurried into the Barbican and climbed the ladder to the upper storey. Now the corpses and baggage had been removed both chambers were neat and tidy, yet this made them seem even more macabre, a silent witness to the murders committed there. He climbed the next ladder leading to the top. He could hear Sir Robert Paston and the harsh carrying voice of Brother Marcel. The conversation died as Athelstan clambered through the trapdoor and, braving the buffeting wind, carefully walked across the shale-covered floor to stand with them against the crenellations. Athelstan greeted them all. Brother Marcel and Sir Robert had apparently come here to enjoy the view of the river, which was not yet cloaked in mist, whilst Martha and Foulkes clustered together, more interested in each other than anything else. Marcel edged closer.
‘Brother Athelstan, Sir Robert was describing the different craft. Splendid sight, is it not?’
Athelstan, who always felt a little giddy on the top of any tower, nodded in agreement. The river was still clear, bustling with a frenetic busyness; Picard whelk boats, fishing craft, fighting hulkes, cogs of war, galleys, caravels, barges, bumboats and wherries moved majestically or scudded across the choppy water like water beetles. Banners, standards and flags fluttered their gorgeous colours in the snapping breeze. Sails of every shape and colour billowed vigorously or ruffled as they were drawn in. The very air was rich with all the pungent smells of the river craft.
‘You served against the French, Sir Robert?’ Athelstan asked more to make conversation than anything else.
‘I certainly did, and little reward it brought me,’ Paston replied hotly. ‘I know these waters and the entire coastline north to the Scottish march. I have written to Gaunt – My Lord of Gaunt,’ he added hastily, ‘for the construction of better ships. You see,’ Paston pointed down at the river, ‘as I told Brother Marcel, not all of those ships are seaworthy …’ His voice trailed off as Martha came hurrying over.
‘Father!’ she grasped Sir Robert’s arm, ‘I am sure the good brother does not need your homily on the king’s ships. You have lectured us long and hard about the fleet, or lack of it, and the weakness of our river defences. It’s growing dark and cold – we should go down.’
‘I certainly must go,’ Marcel replied. ‘Sir Robert, I will accept your invitation to dine with you after the vesper’s bell. First, I must finish my office and change my robes. Look, they’ve become dirty.’ The ever-fastidious Inquisitor made his farewells and carefully walked back to the ladder, followed by Paston’s group. Athelstan stayed. He ensured the trapdoor remained open and stood staring across the river, recalling all he had seen and heard. A deep unease welled up within him. Athelstan felt so agitated he tried to compose himself by searching for the emerging evening star. He watched fascinated as the twilight deepened, the birdsong died and the world prepared itself for the deep hush of night. He knelt down, protected by the battlements, and tried to recite a psalm, but stumbled over phrases such as ‘The wicked brace their bow, who will oppose them?’ He kept thinking about Hugh of Hornsey’s passionate quarrel with Ronseval.
‘You are lying,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘You couldn’t give a fig for Marsen.’ Athelstan recalled Ronseval’s rather girlish gestures. ‘Yes, the only logical explanation is that Paston overheard a lover’s quarrel.’ Athelstan crouched for a while as the darkness deepened and the air grew colder. He heard sounds below and realized it was time he was gone. He crept towards the trapdoor and went gratefully down the ladder. The upper storey felt strangely warm and Athelstan paused. He could smell smoke. He hurried to the trapdoor leading down to the storey below but the trapdoor was bolted shut from the other side and the ring-handle was hot to the touch. Athelstan, damp with fear, stared around. Tendrils of smoke curled up between the floorboards and an eerie crackling noise grew louder. A tongue of flame appeared against the far wall, followed by another. The floorboards, thick, oaken planks, were becoming hotter. Grey smoke curled like angry wraiths. Someone had bolted the trapdoor from below and started this conflagration. Athelstan recalled the dry furnishings and bedding. The swift leaping flames would be fanned by the draught through the open door, as they would by the window on the upper storey. Athelstan hurried across, clutching his chancery satchel. He pulled back the shutters, pushed open the window door and propped himself over the ledge, peering down. There was no ladder and the drop was steep and highly dangerous. If he jumped broken limbs would be the least he might suffer. Athelstan fought against the welling panic. These first flames would soon become a roaring fire; the trapdoor was sealed, the walls of thick stone. The only escape was the window. Athelstan glimpsed the iron ring beneath one of the shutters, some relict of when the barbican was a weapon store. He threw his chancery satchel out, took off his cloak and hurried across to the bed, pulling off the linen sheets and blankets. He tied these together, coughing at the smoke now billowing around him. He used his cloak as the last strand, tied one end of the makeshift rope to the iron ring and threaded the rest through the open window. He hauled himself up, turning to clasp the long cord he had fashioned and lowered himself carefully. He brushed the wall, now hot to the touch. Gasping and praying, Athelstan carefully slipped down, resisting the temptation to hurry. He realized the makeshift rope stopped at least a yard from the ground. Athelstan was preparing to jump, only to feel strong hands grasp him. Brother Roger had dragged across a barrel and used this to catch Athelstan. The Franciscan whispered that he was safe, he was there.
They clambered gingerly off the barrel. Athelstan crouched on the rain-soaked ground, head down and gasping for breath as he tried to recite a prayer of thanksgiving. He stared up. Flames now licked the window, whilst the surging plumes of grey smoke had already alerted the tavern. A toscin sounded. Voices carried. Athelstan heard footsteps; hands helped him up. Thorne was shouting at his grooms, servants and scullions to stand back and allow the fire to burn as it was too strong to fight. Athelstan, swaying on his feet, accepted a cloak from Mooncalf, found his chancery satchel and staggered back towards the tavern. In the Dark Parlour he washed himself at the lavarium, tending to the cuts and bruises on his hands, arms and legs. Mistress Eleanor served him a bowl of steaming hot pottage and a deep goblet of Bordeaux. Others came in and gathered round. Thorne, full of apologies which Athelstan gently acknowledged, muttered about candles or lanterns left glowing – some form of terrible
accident. Athelstan kept his own counsel: that trapdoor had been deliberately locked, whilst the speed of the fire could only be explained by arson. Friar Roger came over.
‘I decided to visit the riverside,’ he remarked. ‘I smelt the smoke and saw you at the window. I admit, I hesitated. I was once a mariner. I served at sea. I hate fire. I have a secret dread of it but each man carries own his own special fear deep inside him. I wondered if I should seek help and find a ladder.’ He grinned. ‘But you were as nimble as any squirrel. You escaped the dragon’s breath. Now come, Friar, rejoice you were not fried.’ Athelstan grinned at the pun on his calling. The Franciscan lifted his cup in a toast. Brother Marcel appeared all washed and finely attired for the evening meal. He went back to his chamber and returned with a heavy cloak of the purest wool dyed a deep black.
‘Have this, Brother,’ Marcel offered. ‘I travel with a good wardrobe and a clean one. Our founder the blessed Dominic always maintained that dirt,’ he winked at Athelstan, ‘does not mean the same as holiness.’ Athelstan thanked him and the rest and slowly sipped the wine. The shock was now receding. He felt embarrassed and was highly relieved when Cranston bustled into the Dark Parlour, clapping his gloved hands and rubbing his arms against the cold.
‘I went to St Erconwald’s,’ he bellowed. ‘Those rogues you call parishioners said you might be here, as did Flaxwith.’ He paused, his eyes blinking as he caught Athelstan’s glance. ‘You had best come,’ he added quietly. ‘Gentlemen, lady. Come,’ he repeated. Athelstan needed no further bidding. He thanked everyone and followed Sir John out of the tavern, almost running beside him as the coroner strode along the lanes down to the nearby quayside. Moored alongside the wharf was a high-prowed barge lit by torches fixed in their sconces along the deck; brilliantly glowing lantern horns hung just below the standards on both prow and stern. These rippling banners displayed the heraldic device of that eerie harvester of the Thames, the Fisher of Men, an eye-catching insignia displaying a silver corpse, hands extended in greeting, rising from a golden sea.
‘I do wonder,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘why our path and that of the Fisher of Men constantly cross.’
‘Because, my dear friar, murderers in London have what they think is a great disguise, a subtle device at their fingertips, a moving deep pit to hide their nefarious handiwork: Old Father Thames. We and the Fisher of Men know different. The river always gives up its dead. In this case Ronseval.’ Athelstan didn’t reply; he felt slightly sick, distracted at how close Death had brushed him with its cold, feathery wings.
‘You don’t have to tell me but I know something happened, little friar.’ The coroner grabbed Athelstan’s arm. ‘I glimpsed smoke rising above the Palisade as I approached the tavern, whilst the smell of burning curled everywhere. So, little friar, tell me in your own good time.’ He tightened his grip. ‘I should really take you into an alehouse and have you drink some of Cranston’s holy water, but I don’t think this will wait.’ Athelstan, comforted, followed Sir John along the windswept wharf to the waiting barge, where the six oarsmen, garbed in their black-and-gold livery, greeted Cranston and the friar like old friends. Athelstan recognized them all: Maggot, Taffety-Head and the rest, the Fisher of Men’s coven, grotesques and outcasts rejected even by the poor of Southwark because of their repellent injuries. None of these, however, were as strange as the captain of the barge, Icthus, the Fisher’s leading henchman. Dressed in a night-black tunic, Icthus had a distinctive appearance, hence his name, the Greek word for fish. Icthus was completely devoid of any facial hair, be it eyelids or brows, whilst his bald head, bulging eyes, snub nose and protuberant cod-mouth in a completely oval-shaped face made him look extremely fish-like. In fact, he could swim like a porpoise whatever the mood of the river, which Icthus knew like the palm of his slightly webbed hands. The henchman bowed in welcome and waved them aboard to sit on the comfortable cushioned seats under the canopied stern. Once they were settled, Icthus in his eerie, high-pitched voice gave the order to cast off. The oarsmen pulled away in unison, chanting their favourite hymn, taught to them by Athelstan, ‘Ave Maris Stella’, Hail Star of the Sea. The barge rocked and swayed, sometimes pitching dangerously. Athelstan closed his eyes and murmured a prayer to St Christopher. The barge surged on, battling the water. Lanterns on other boats glowed through the murk. Icthus, sitting in the prow, pulled at the bell rope, warning others of their approach. Most barges and wherries were only too eager to pull away from the Fisher of Men’s barque, well known along the river for its grisly work, paid for by the city council to scavenge the Thames for the corpses of those who’d drowned, committed suicide or, as in this case, ‘been feloniously slain’. Cranston was correct, Athelstan mused: London truly was a city of murder, and many of its victims were hidden beneath the rushing waters of this river. Nevertheless, murder will out and corpses regularly surfaced in the sludge, shallows or reed banks of the Thames.
‘Well, little friar?’ Cranston offered him the miraculous wineskin. Athelstan shook his head. Cranston took a generous slurp, sighed noisily and made to share it with Icthus and the rowers. These all chorused back a polite refusal. Icthus added, shouting over his shoulder, how the Fisher of Men would never permit any of them to drink whilst they navigated the Thames.
‘Wise man,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Now, little friar, tell me what happened or I will bore you to death with an account of my history of this waterway.’
‘Terror indeed!’ Athelstan exclaimed. He then told the coroner exactly what had happened in the Barbican.
‘No accident!’ Cranston’s anger was as palpable as the strong breeze. ‘A murderous soul plotted that fire. He, she or they recognized your skill, little friar. Beowulf, or whoever slaughtered Marsen and the others, plotted a very devious and subtle design, certainly one which would baffle myself, my bailiffs, the sheriff and his people but not you, little friar, hopping around like some bright-eyed sparrow. This child of Cain recognized a true adversary, and what better way to silence you than trap the sparrow and kill it?’
‘Some sparrow, Sir John.’
‘Aye, and much faster than the hawk, Athelstan,’ Cranston squeezed his companion’s arm, ‘but for God’s sweet sake and mine, be careful.’
Any further conversation was frustrated by the cries of Icthus and the oarsmen. The barge shuddered as it turned swiftly on the swell and came along a quayside just past La Reole. The wharf looked deserted except for the moving shadows which leapt out of the dancing pools of light thrown by the flaring torches lashed to poles. Cranston and Athelstan disembarked. From the shadows, hooded, cowled figures clustered silently around and escorted them towards the grey-bricked, red-tiled house of the dead called a variety of names: ‘The Barque of St Peter’, ‘The Chapel of the Drowned Man’ or ‘The Mortuary of the Seas’. This building stood a little further back on the quayside, flanked by the wattle and daub cottages of the Fisher of Men and what he called ‘his beloved disciples’. On the right side of the mortuary door hung the great nets, stretched out like massive cobwebs, used by the Fisher of Men to harvest the deep. To the left of the door the usual proclamation, finely inscribed, listed the fees for the recovery of the corpse of a loved one or relative. Athelstan noticed how the price of a murder victim had risen steeply to three shillings. The Fisher of Men himself came outside to greet them. The Fisher’s bald head and skeletal face were framed by a shiny leather black cowl edged with lambswool; a heavy military coat, made of the purest wool, hid his body, hanging down to elegantly spurred, high-heeled riding boots. He clasped their hands and, as usual, asked Athelstan to deliver his most solemn blessing. Icthus sounded the horn to summon all the Fisher’s beloved disciples to gather on the cobbles. Once the eerie congregation was assembled, Athelstan intoned St Francis of Assisi’s blessing followed by the ‘Salve Regina’ – Hail Holy Queen.
Once vespers were over, the Fisher of Men led Cranston and Athelstan into the Sanctuary of Souls, a long rectangular chamber scrubbed with lime mixed with vinegar.
On a dais at the far end stood an altar draped with a purple cloth; above it a huge crucifix. The Fisher’s guests, as he called the corpses, lay on trestle tables, covered by funeral cloths drenched in bitter pine juice. Despite this the stench of death and decay hung heavy. The Fisher gave them each a pomander soaked in rose water, whilst two of his grotesques, swinging thuribles, perfumed the air with sweet incense smoke. The Fisher took them over to one of the tables and pulled back the cloth to reveal the liverish face and bloated corpse of the minstrel Ronseval.
‘We heard about what happened at The Candle-Flame.’ The Fisher’s voice was pleasant, his Norman French as cultivated as any clerk in chancery. ‘I wondered if the waters there might bear fruit. Sir John, I know you have issued warrants for certain individuals who’ve apparently fled. My spies at the Standard in Cheapside and around the Cross at St Paul’s keep me informed. Anyway, late this morning, Icthus and my beloveds discovered this corpse floating in the reeds of Southwark side, not far from The Candle-Flame.’ Athelstan handed the pomander to Sir John, took out the phial of holy oil and anointed the corpse, bestowing absolution for any sins of a soul which may not yet have travelled to judgement. He did so swiftly, trying to ignore all the gruesome effects of violent, harrowing death: the staring eyes; the blood-encrusted, purple-hued face; the body almost swollen to bursting with stinking river water; and the cause of Ronseval’s death, the hard-quilled crossbow bolt driven so deeply into his chest. Athelstan suspected it had shattered the man’s heart. The friar stood back and scrutinized the corpse.