by Paul Doherty
‘I have seen the likes before,’ Athelstan spoke up.
‘An evil trick,’ Cranston declared. ‘The saddle is thrown over the horse’s back, the girths and stirrups are fastened. These sharp pebbles might graze the horse and cause some petty discomfort …’
‘But when the rider mounts,’ Athelstan picked up where Sir John had left off, ‘his full weight in the saddle drives the spikes down into the horse, which will rear in agony, certainly throwing its rider.’ Athelstan rolled a spiked ball from one hand to the other. It was sharp to the touch. He recalled the mysterious attack on Lascelles the morning after the murders. ‘I wonder,’ he murmured, ‘if these belong to our good friend, Beowulf, a plot which never came to fruition? Can you imagine …’ He broke off. ‘Never mind, it certainly proves one thing.’
‘Which is?’ Thorne asked anxiously.
‘Nothing for the moment, Mine Host, but I have a question for you. On the afternoon before the murders took place, a Hainault sailor Ruat came into The Candle-Flame. He claimed to have visited a shrine much loved by his fellow countrymen, the Virgin of the Narrow Seas at St Mary Overy. Do you remember him?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Thorne replied. ‘I remember him well, replete with good humour and even better silver. He was about to join his ship at Queenhithe. He drank and drank again, then left.’
‘Did anyone accost him here?’
‘No, the company was jovial.’
‘And what was he talking about?’
Thorne pulled a face. ‘Like all sailors, he was looking forward to going home. He seemed very pleased with himself, like a gambler who has won at hazard or a merchant who has made a good profit from his trade.’
‘Or a man,’ Athelstan asked, ‘who has just been paid for carrying out a task?’
‘Certainly, Brother; as I said, he had a heavy purse. I suspect he had just acquired it because he talked about his family and what he would like to buy them, but that would have to wait until he reached home because his ship was leaving on the evening tide.’
‘Can you remember anyone leaving with him at the same time?’
‘No.’
‘Did he meet anyone here, anyone in particular?’
‘Brother, I assure you he did not. He came in here, ate and drank, grew very jovial then left.’
‘As must we.’ Athelstan caught at Sir John’s sleeve. ‘Darkness is falling and our day’s work is not yet done …’
‘What were you going to say in there?’ Cranston asked once they were free of the tavern, striding through the wet evening.
‘Very simple, Sir John. Thorne was correct,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Someone stole into those stables that evening. They placed those spikes into the woollen flock beneath the saddles – mere pebbles, very difficult to detect. I suspect it was Beowulf. Can you imagine what would have happened the following morning? Marsen and Mauclerc swinging themselves into the saddle, their horses rearing violently, throwing their riders, who could be injured, perhaps even killed, and, just to make sure, somewhere close by is Beowulf with his crossbow all primed. Our two tax collectors would be an easy target. Two of Thibault’s creatures humiliated then killed. Which means,’ Athelstan paused and stared up at the night sky, ‘if Beowulf was already planning his murders, those which took place at the Barbican were, despite that note, not his work. Beowulf was waiting for the morning. Of course Mauclerc and Marsen were killed, but Beowulf wouldn’t let an opportunity slip. Lascelles appeared and Beowulf struck.’
‘I agree, little friar. But who is this mysterious assassin?’
‘I don’t know. Our killer may have already been murdered or indeed one of those slain might have been an accomplice who had to be disposed of. But, I am making progress, Sir John. God help me, but I am. Now, let’s visit the nearby quayside where Sir Robert Paston’s cog, The Five Wounds, lies berthed in splendid isolation.’
The Southwark quayside was deserted when they reached it. The long wharf shone in the light of bonfires torched to burn the day’s rubbish as well as provide warmth for the beggars and ragamuffins who haunted that place. These stood, dark shapes in their tattered clothes, warming themselves or trying to roast scraps of meat collected earlier in the day. Athelstan’s stomach lurched at the smell, which brought back memories of poor Sparwell’s burning. The Five Wounds was also illuminated by these fires as well as by the torches fixed either side of the gangplank, guarded by three fully armed men. The ship itself was handsome; it’s raised prow and stern brilliantly painted, the two masts, fore and main, gilded brightly amidst all the cordage and reefed-white canvas sails. There was a cabin under the stern and the deep-bellied hold meant the cog was both a fighting ship and a merchantman. Cranston strode straight towards the gangplank and, when one of the guards tried to block his path, the coroner drew his sword whilst pulling down the rim of his heavy cloak to display his chain of office.
‘Jack Cranston, Lord High Coroner!’ he bawled. ‘And you must be Coghill, master of this craft?’
‘Yes, yes I am,’ the man spluttered, pulling back his hood to reveal a bearded, weathered face. ‘And I am responsible for the watch on this ship.’ He threw his own cloak back to display the war belt strapped around his waist.
‘Now I wouldn’t do that, my friend.’ Cranston’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘Not against a royal official, surely, who is visiting your craft on royal business? Now get out of my way!’ Cranston shoved the man aside and strode up the gangplank, Athelstan following behind. Once on deck, dark shapes emerged from the gloom. Athelstan caught the glimpse of sword and dagger.
‘Peace! Peace’ Peace!’ Cranston bawled, raising his own sword. ‘Brother?’ he whispered hotly. ‘What are we doing here?’
‘Inspecting its cargo.’
Cranston relayed this to the master and crew now coming up from the hold or their resting places in the shadowy gulleys beneath the taffrail. Coghill, a hard-faced, sober-sided man, realized he had no choice, though Athelstan glimpsed the young boy despatched down the gangplank, probably a messenger hurrying to inform Sir Robert Paston about what was happening. Cranston sheathed his sword and Coghill led him reluctantly down into the hold, which reeked of tar, fish and the sharp tang of saltpetre, used to fumigate it whilst it was in port. Coghill, carrying a powerful lantern, explained how The Five Wounds’ hold, crammed with barrels, had recently returned from Bordeaux with wine and other goods. Athelstan hid his disappointment as he forced his way through the narrow gaps between the cargo. Cranston followed, checking seals on barrels, tapping the wood and, on one occasion, tipping a cask so he could hear the wine within swirl back and forth. Athelstan searched for any apparent concealment or deception. There appeared to be nothing wrong, yet why was such a close guard kept? He could understand the master wanting to protect his cargo but the crew also seemed eager to challenge and impede him. Athelstan glimpsed the padlock on the inbuilt cupboard built beneath what must be the master’s cabin on the deck above.
‘What’s in there?’ he asked.
‘Our weapons store,’ Coghill grated. ‘We are a fighting ship as well. Corsairs, pirates and French warships prowl the Narrow Seas. We carry what is necessary to protect ourselves.’
‘Open it,’ Athelstan urged. Coghill seemed reluctant, but then he shrugged and squeezed between the casks, boxes and barrels and undid the padlock. Athelstan followed and asked for the lantern. This was handed over and the friar entered the musty darkness. He raised the lantern. The dancing light revealed the spears, swords and rounded shields stacked there. He studied the red-painted oxhide covering over a shield close to the door and smiled. He had at least solved one problem.
oOoOo
At the Bocardo prison, keeper Blanchard was intent on enjoying himself: two buxom young whores had been caught soliciting beyond Taplash alley, the prescribed limit. Both prostitutes had been seized by the bailiffs who were paid by Blanchard for making such arrests and bringing these street-walkers here for his own delectation and delight. Blanchard now sat on
his cushioned stool in the waiting cell just within the main doorway opposite his chancery office. He still seethed with fury at being humiliated by Cranston and that little ferret of a friar. This was his kingdom. This was where Blanchard ruled and now he was being made to dance to the tune of a dung collector and ditcher. Blanchard’s rage bubbled like filthy water in a pot. He would not forget such humiliation! Many of his turnkeys were still absent at the heretic’s burning. Blanchard knew they would be laughing at him behind their hands – he would show them! Blanchard never prayed. He had given that up during his years as a wandering mercenary in France. But now he was tempted to. Blanchard knew all about Lascelles’ death during the affray at The Candle-Flame. There was always the chance that Thibault, in his frustration and fury, would ignore the court’s writs and arraignments and have those two felons dragged off and hanged out of hand. Blanchard sipped the tankard and watched as one whore began to undress the other. If Thibault didn’t act, perhaps he could? Many prisoners died in the Bocardo of one cause or another. Blanchard grinned to himself. Prisoners fell down stairs. A few committed suicide; some were even killed whilst trying to escape. It was just a matter of choice. Those two peasants might luxuriate in the so-called protection of Cranston and their parish priest but they might be in for a very nasty surprise. In the meantime, these two delicious young wenches could strip each other and he would sport with both of them on the nearby bed. Blanchard cradled his blackjack as he watched one whore undo the buttons and clasps of the other’s gown. The young prostitute prettily protested but started in genuine fear at the hammering and shouting from outside.
‘Master Blanchard! Master Blanchard, we have visitors. We have …’ The keeper cursed. He slammed the tankard down on the nearby overturned barrel, lifted a finger to his lips as a sign for silence from his ‘two guests’ and slipped out of the cell, locking the door behind him. Three turnkeys stood gathered around the grille high in the main door. Blanchard pushed them away, looked out and groaned. He reckoned there were five men, all wearing the black-and-white robes of the Dominican order.
‘Master Blanchard?’ The leading friar pressed up his face against the grill. ‘I am Brother Marcel of the preaching order of St Dominic, Papal Inquisitor, despatched by no less a person than our Holy Father. I am his legatus a latere – accredited emissary and envoy of Holy Mother Church. I have sought an audience with Master Thibault and His Grace, the Bishop of London.’ The friar withdrew his face and pressed a warrant against the grill so as to display the scarlet wax seals; this was then withdrawn.
‘What do you want?’ Blanchard slurred.
‘The bodies of two traitors: Watkin the so-called dung-collector and Pike the self-proclaimed ditcher. We have good evidence that these are not only traitors but self-professed heretics, followers of the accursed Wycliffe, sinners who have infected others with their foul contagion. They are to be surrendered into our custody. We hope that you will help us in putting them to the question.’
‘Alleluia! Alleluia!’ Blanchard slurred, indicating to his turnkeys to open the door. The friars slipped through, pulling their hoods close against the freezing cold in the passageway. The leader, Brother Marcel, grasped Blanchard’s hand and pushed two silver coins into his palm.
‘We need your help, Master Blanchard. Those two malignants have the names of others and we must break them swiftly.’
‘But Cranston, his friar?’
‘The coroner is simply a lackey of the secular arm. Brother Athelstan has acted ultra vires – beyond his powers. He is a simple parish priest and should not interfere in matters which are in manus ordinarii – in the hands of the bishop – in accordance with section seven of the Codex Juris Canonici – the Code of Canon Law. Now, the prisoner.’
Blanchard was delighted. He slipped the silver into his purse, collected the keyring from his chancery and, with three turnkeys carrying torches, led the Dominicans down the passageway to the prisoners’ cell. He unlocked the door, swung it open and knocked aside the makeshift stool with its tankards and platters.
‘Release them,’ the Dominican demanded. ‘Then, Brother, we shall need two of your men as an escort. The two prisoners are to be taken to the Tower to be questioned until they confess.’
‘What are you doing?’ Pike screamed, scrambling to his feet in a clatter of chains only to receive Blanchard’s punch to his face. Pike stood swaying, staring at the Dominicans, mouthing protest. Watkin, face between his hands, rocked backwards and forwards, crying like a child.
‘You are traitors and you are also heretics,’ the Dominican’s voice thundered. ‘At the Tower you will be rigorously interrogated. Master Blanchard will assist us.’ The threats continued to roll out as Blanchard unlocked the gyves. The keeper grinned at Watkin, pulling away the dung collector’s fingers, only then did Blanchard’s fuddled brain sense something amiss. Watkin had not been crying but laughing, his eyes bright with merriment. There was something wrong. If the Dominicans were from the Tower where was their escort? What did that warrant actually say? Blanchard’s hand fell to his dagger but it was too late. The leading Dominican yanked back the keeper’s head and sliced his throat in one deep, clean cut from ear to ear, whilst the others turned on the turnkeys and despatched them with swift dagger thrusts. Pike watched all four men quiver and jerk as they died, their blood spluttering out on to the filthy straw. He smiled and clasped the hands of Simon Grindcobb, Wat Tyler, Jack Straw and the two other leaders of the Upright Men.
‘We borrowed the robes and shaved our faces,’ Tyler murmured. ‘We could not leave our friends here. Thibault and Blanchard cannot be trusted.’
‘And we have always wanted to visit Master Blanchard.’ Jack Straw kicked the dead keeper’s body. ‘We had more than a few scores to settle with him.’
‘And now?’ Watkin asked. ‘Where do we hide?’
‘Oh, you are not hiding.’ Grindcobb laughed. ‘We have the safest place in Southwark for you.’
oOoOo
Athelstan and Cranston knew fresh drama was awaiting them as soon as they turned into the narrow twisting alleyway leading up to St Erconwald’s. The Piebald tavern stood eerily deserted. Merryleg’s pie shop, which, with his large brood of children to assist, usually stayed open until the early hours of the morning, was all shuttered. The Fraternity of Free Love, a group of colourful characters who used St Erconwald’s for their meetings, came hastily up behind them. They wouldn’t even stop to answer Athelstan’s questions but merely shouted that something was happening at the church.
‘God knows that’s true,’ Athelstan groaned. ‘The question is what mischief is brewing now?’ They reached the enclosure before the church to find virtually all the parish had turned out. Gathering in groups, they were shouting at Mauger the bell clerk standing on top of the church steps. Athelstan heard the names Pike and Watkin mentioned. Mauger was shaking his head, throwing his hands in the air and, when he glimpsed Athelstan, cried shrilly as a cockerel greeting the dawn. The bell clerk virtually skipped down the steps, dragging Benedicta with him. He pushed his way through the crowd, almost colliding with Athelstan.
‘Pike and Watkin!’ he gasped, pointing at the open church door. ‘Pike and Watkin!’ he repeated. ‘The Upright Men took them out of the Bocardo. Keeper Blanchard and three of his turnkeys lie slain. Pike and Watkin escaped; they fled here seeking sanctuary.’
Athelstan bit back his angry retort, brushed by Mauger and hastened up the steps into the church; the nave was freezing cold and black as pitch. The Hangman of Rochester had set up guard on the door through the rood screen. Athelstan pushed by him and strode up the sanctuary steps. The two miscreants crouched in the mercy enclave, warming themselves over a bowl of charcoal and sharing a pot of ale and a platter of diced meat, courtesy probably of the Hangman who dolefully followed Cranston into the sanctuary.
‘Ye angels of heaven!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘What in the name of all that is holy?’
‘Nothing to do with us, Father,’ Pike brazenly
declared. ‘The Bocardo was attacked by the Upright Men disguised as Dominicans.’
‘Dominicans!’
‘Yes, Father, we thought they had been sent by you.’ Pike’s grin widened. ‘It just goes to show you, doesn’t it, that you cannot trust anyone. They slipped into the prison, executed Blanchard and his turnkeys for their many crimes against our community. The doors were left open and so we fled here for sanctuary.’
‘Don’t feed me your dish of lies!’ Athelstan snapped, but at the same time the friar felt deeply relieved. Thibault was in a dangerous mood, whilst Athelstan could not forget the real sense of evil from the now dead Blanchard. Pike and Watkin were free of him, close to their families and parish, a clever, subtle move …
‘Sir John?’ a voice called. Athelstan turned. Flaxwith, cloak dripping, stood at the entrance to the rood screen, his ugly mastiff Samson as close to his muddy boots as any dog could get.