by Paul Doherty
The Nightingale Gallery
( Sorrowful Mysteries of Brother Athelstan - 1 )
Paul Doherty
Paul Doherty
The Nightingale Gallery
INTRODUCTION
The old king was dying. The wind snatched up the rumour and carried it along the Thames. Boatmen whispered about it and the fat-bellied sea-going barges took the rumour further along the coast. Edward was failing; the great, blond- haired conqueror of France, the new Alexander in the West, was dying. Too late for those who had incurred his displeasure, their straggled-haired, blood-caked heads spiked over the gateway of London Bridge, marble white cheeks turning black as the ravens dug for juicier morsels.
The great king, or great bastard depending on your perspective, was reluctantly allowing the spirit to seep from his ageing, smelly body. The court had moved to Richmond in the early summer of 1377 as the winds swung south-west, blowing hard and hot from the dry deserts around the Middle Sea. The plague had appeared in London, men and women dropping as the buboes swelled in their armpits and, bellies distended, they spat out their life's blood. The king was frightened as Death, assassin-like, crept into his court.
Edward braved it well. He tried to paint his sallow face and kept his mouth closed to hide his crumbling, blackened teeth. He dressed in silver and white taffeta trimmed with gold and primped his once golden hair, even though it hung in straggly, sweaty wisps to his bony shoulders. But Death was not appeased. The heat and evil humours from the river wrapped their cloying fingers around his decaying body, and still the king refused to give in. Had he not smashed the armies of France at Crecy and Poitiers? And taken their king captive to ride behind him as he, like a new Caesar, returned to London to glory in his prowess?
Edward sat on cushions in one of his great withdrawing chambers, refusing food and physic. A priest came scuttling round the walls like a small, black spider, a Job's comforter if there ever was one.
'Your Grace,' he insisted, 'you must go to bed.'
Edward turned like an old fox, his lips, twisted by a stroke, curled in displeasure.
'Go away, little man,' he hissed. 'Death will never take me!'
He stayed where he was, staring at his finger where the coronation ring, once so deeply embedded in his flesh, had recently been sawn off. His marriage to the kingdom was dead. He had held the sceptre for fifty years and now must hand it over to another.
He shook his head and glanced at his fingers. Rings of fire seemed to circle them. Death was coming, soft-shoed, shuffling along the corridors. Edward's great heart lurched and fought back. He stood bravely as he had at Crecy thirty years before. He smiled to remember the way the wind had kissed his face as his captains had shouted 'Loose!' and the archers had sent their black clouds of living death into the advancing hordes of French. He would stand like he had then. Death would not take him if he stood. He did so for fifteen hours before sinking to the cushioned floor, his fingers clenched to his mouth. The priests carried him to his bed.
Hysteria gripped the court and the air was thick with gloom and terror. The gilded courtiers whispered about signs and portents; the River Thames, its waters swollen, broke its banks at Greenwich and flooded the palace. A huge, grey fish, the size of a Leviathan, was beached on the northern shores. The sky turned red at noonday and strange creatures were seen in the dark woods to the north. Voices were heard calling in the shadowy streets and ghostly trumpets brayed from the battlements of the Tower of London and Windsor Castle. One of the ladies-in-waiting saw a tarot card bearing the black figure of Death nailed to a royal chair. Another glimpsed the ghost of the dying king's power in the form of a mystic knight, marching along the moonlit gallery, down the stairs to the great palace doorway.
Edward III, the Lion of England, was dying. Old men recalled their grandparents telling them how the Lion, when young, had seized the throne from his mother Isabella and her lover, Mortimer. Now the Lion's day was done.
The king stirred himself. He asked for music, and a young girl in a tawny dress and lace-edged veil played the viol. The king went back in time as the ghosts gathered around his bed. His father, Edward II, done to death in Berkeley. His mother Isabella, beautiful and passionate. Philippa his wife with her dark skin and tender, doe-like eyes, dead these eight years. And one other ghost: his most precious son, Edward the Black Prince, leader of armies, a Pompey to his Caesar. The general who had taken the banners of England across the Pyrenees into Navarre but came back with nothing except a disease which rotted his body away. AH gone! His son was gone.
They brought back the proclamations about the succession back and the king knew he was dying. Seals were attached. He was leaving. His retainers melted away. 'Is there no faith left in Israel?' Edward whispered. The palace at Sheen became a mausoleum. The king was left to lie in his own sweat and dirt, alone except for Alice Perrers, his mistress. She swept into the death chamber, her fingers fretted with gold wire, her rich red dress engraved with precious stones. She, with her blandishing tongue and beautiful face, who cared for no one because no one cared for her, sat beside her dying lord and lover, hungrily watching him. The king woke from a dream and saw her hard black eyes and voluptuous lips.
'My Lady Sun,' he whispered.
Perrers smiled, her white teeth gleaming as she remembered how she had ridden in cloth of gold up Cheap- side, her head held high, her ears closed to the shouts of "Whore!", "Bawd!" and "Harlot!" Now she sat near the king, like a lioness watching her prey. An old Franciscan priest, John Hoccleve, came in but Perrers hissed and drove him out. The king closed his eyes. His breathing was shallow; a dreadful rattle had begun in his throat. Perrers waited no longer but stripped him of whatever finery he had left and fled.
The old Franciscan came back, grasping the king's hand, holding a crucifix up before the fading eyes. He intoned the Dies Irae and when he reached the verse "And what shall I, frail man, be pleading; When the just are mercy needing?" the king opened his eyes.
'Do you wish absolution?' Hoccleve whispered.
'Ah, Jesu!' the king muttered back, and weakly pressed the Franciscan's hand.
'I therefore absolve you…' the priest said, '… from your sins in the name of…' he continued, his voice growing louder as the death rattle sounded in the king's throat like the beat of a tambour. The king turned, his eyes open. One last gasp and his soul went out into the darkness. Hoccleve finished his prayer and looked down at the grey, emaciated face, remembering the golden days when the king had walked in all his glory. He bowed his head, pressing his brow into the dead king's hand, and wept for the sheer waste of it all. A few hours later in Westminster Palace, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster and eldest living son of the dead king, sat alone before a great, hooded fireplace. He squatted, jerkin open, legs apart, letting the flames of the heated logs warm the chill in his thighs and crotch. The duke had heard the news as he returned from hunting, drenched to the skin after a sudden storm. His father was dead and he was regent but not king. John groaned to himself, clenching a bejewelled fist. He should be king, a man born to the crown with claims to the thrones of Castille, France, Scotland and England. And the only obstacle in his path? A golden-haired ten-year-old boy, his nephew, Richard of Bordeaux, son of Gaunt's elder brother, the feared and fearsome Black Prince.
'A heartbeat away!' Gaunt murmured. Only a short breath between him and the diadem of the Confessor. Gaunt stretched his great frame, his muscled body cracking and straining at the fury within. Regent but not king! Yet the land needed a firm ruler. The French were plundering the southern coats. The Scots were massing on the northern borders. The peasants were surly, demanding an end to incessant taxation. And the Commons, led by their speaker, we
re abusive and strident when they met in the chapel of St Stephen's at Westminster. Gaunt stroked his neatly barbered moustache and beard. Could he take the step? Would he? He chewed his lip and considered the possibilities. His younger brothers would resist. The great lords of the council, backed by the soft but powerful bishops, would take up arms and call down heaven's anger on him. And Richard – pale-faced, blue-eyed Richard – what would happen to him? Gaunt shivered. He remembered the old prophecy – that when the old cat died, the mice must not rejoice for the new kitten would grow into an even more dreadful monster!
Gaunt, who feared nothing, admitted his silent, grave- faced nephew held special terrors for him, as if the age-old eyes in that ten-year-old face read and understood his most secret thoughts. The Commons, too, would watch him and Gaunt had been careless. He had tried to raise money and the proof was there for the asking. The Sons of Dives had him in their clutches. The secrets they held must never be revealed.
Gaunt shifted in his chair. What was he frightened of? The demons in his own private hell stirred and rose from the black pit of memory. Murder! He stared around. The long chamber was deserted, only shadows danced silently against the arras-covered walls. Assassin! The accusation seemed to leap from the flames and Gaunt broke into a cold sweat. The demon rose, twisting in his heart, and the duke gulped greedily from his wine cup, hoping its purple juice would drown the demons in its heavy vapour. Gaunt was right to be wary. After all, Murder was no stranger to London. It stalked the streets, its eyes blind as night as it sought out its hapless victims. Murder tripped along the shit-caked alleys and streets of Southwark, and slid like a cold mist through the half-open doorways of hot, stuffy taverns to squat cold-eyed as men hacked each other to death. Murder lurked in the doorway of the filthy apothecary's house where poisons could be bought: ratsbane, crushed diamonds, belladonna and arsenic. Sometimes Murder would come across the city walls, sneaking along the dark country lanes behind the Tower, but on that night it had chosen a juicier prey and set up camp in Sir Thomas Springall's fine mansion in the Strand: a veritable palace with its tiled roof, black-embossed timbers, gleaming white plaster and freshly painted shield bearing the goldsmith's escutcheon of silver bars, gold trefoils and clasps of gold and silk.
The house itself was silent. In the lofty banqueting hall the fire had died to popping cinders and smouldering ash. The candles were long snuffed though the air still bore the fragrance of sweet-smelling wax. The tapestries, heavy and gold-encrusted, hung on the walls, shifting slightly in the cold night breeze which pierced the gaps in the mullioned- glass windows. The massive table bore the remains of a banquet and its white lawn cloth, grease marked and purple-stained, still shimmered in the fading light of the fire. The silver dishes had been removed but the platters remained, covered with the remnants of fricassee and jig- gets of mutton, as well as the bones of goose, peacock and chicken. Next to these were the deep-bowled cups smattered with the dregs of malmsey, bordeaux and sack. A stout, long-tailed rat prowled amongst the dishes, its red eyes gleaming, its belly full and heavy, so sluggish it hardly squeaked when the ginger house cat pounced and crunched the swollen body in its jaws. Down the hall a dog heard the sound and stirred, lifting its shaggy, sleep-laden head.
Below stairs the servants slept on, their stomachs gorged, their brains dull with the scraps of food and wine they had gulped. In one chamber lay a maid, the hem of her skirts pushed into her mouth, twisting in mute passion under the hot probing loins of a young groom. She need not have worried about uttering any cries. The wide stairs above were deserted, as was the wood-panelled gallery which swept past the master bedrooms. In one a man and woman lay entwined, their skins gleaming with sweat as they writhed and turned under the blue and scarlet canopy of the four- poster bed. A silver candelabra, set on a red- and white-tiled table top, gave the room a golden glow which was reflected in the precious silver thread of the wall hangings as well as the costly silk and lace clothes scattered over the floor. Further along the gallery, in the great bedroom of the master of the house, Sir Thomas Springall, Murder brooded from its ghostly corner. Sir Thomas did not expect it. Oh, no! He ignored the preacher's words: 'In the midst of life we are in death.' Like the rich man in scripture, Springall was planning on destroying his old barns and building new ones, as befitted a merchant who had fingers in every silver pie. Sir Thomas lay between his silken gold-fringed sheets and basked in his wealth. He was pleased the old king was dead. A young boy now wore the crown.
'Woe to the realm where the king is a child!' Sir Thomas whispered, and laughed softly. 'Thank God!' he muttered. The regent needed him and Springall would prosper even more for he knew Gaunt's secrets. Sir Thomas licked his thick red lips. He stared into the darkness, across to the table where the Syrians, his precious chess set, glowed in the moonlight streaming through the casement window. More wealth would come. Springall would have entry to the treasure chambers of the kingdom. And the keys to such riches? The Book of the Apocalypse, 6, Verse 8. And the other? Genesis 3, Verse 1. Springall smiled, rolled on one side and stared down at the cleverly carved bed posts. He thought of his wife, she of the chestnut curls, golden skin and eyes blue as a fresh spring sky. But Springall desired other flesh. He gripped the bed clothes and, at that moment, knew something was wrong. He clutched his throat, but too late. Murder was upon him.
CHAPTER 1
Brother Athelstan sat on a plinth of stone before the rood screen of St Erconwald's church in Southwark. He stared despairingly up at the hole in the red-tiled roof then at the dirty puddle of rain water which shimmered on the flagstones two yards away from his sandalled feet. He stroked his clean-shaven face and glared down at the small scroll of parchment in his hand.
'You know, Bonaventure,' he murmured, 'and I say this in the spirit of obedience, so don't repeat my words if he ever comes, but Father Prior's remarks about my past cut like barbs.'
He folded the parchment neatly into a perfect square and slipped it into the battered leather wallet on his belt.
'I daily atone for my sins,' he continued. 'I observe most strictly the rule of St Dominic and, as you know, I spend both day and night in the care of souls.'
God knows, Athelstan thought, tapping the flagstones with his feet, the harvest of souls was great; the filthy alleyways, the piss-soaked runnels and poor hovels of his parish sheltered broken people whose minds and souls had been bruised and poisoned by grinding poverty. The great, fat ones of the land did not care a fig but hid behind empty words, false promises and a lack of compassion which even Herod would have blushed at. Athelstan stared around the empty church, noting the dirty walls, peeling pillars, and the fresco of St John the Baptist. Athelstan grinned. He knew the Baptist had been beheaded but not whilst he was preaching! Someone had scrubbed the painting, removing St John's head as well as those of his attentive listeners.
'You have seen my house, Bonaventure? It's no more than a white-washed shed with two rooms, a wooden door and a window which does not fit. My horse, Philomel, may be an aged destrier, but it eats as if there is no tomorrow and can go no faster than a shuffling cat.' He smiled. 'I mean no offence to present company, but he drains my purse. Now, I am not moaning, I am just mentioning these matters to remind ourselves of our present state, so I can advise my prior that his paternal strictures are not necessary.' Athelstan sighed and went over into the small carrel built into the wall near the Lady Chapel where he had been penning his reply to the Father Prior. He picked up his quill, thought for a while and began writing.
As I have said, Reverend Father, my purse is empty, shrivelled up and tight as a usurer's soul. My collection boxes have been stolen and the chancery screen is in disrepair. The altar is marked and stained, the nave of the church is often covered with huge pools of water for our roof serves as more of a colander than a covering. God knows I atone for my sins. I seem to be steeped in murder, bloody and awful. It taxes my mind and reminds me of my own great crime. I have served the people here six months now and I ha
ve also assumed those duties assigned by you, to be clerk and scrivener to Sir John Cranston, coroner in the city of London.
Time and again he takes me with him to sit over the body of some man, woman or child pitifully slain. 'Is it murder, suicide or an accident?' he asks and so the dreadful stories begin. Often death results from stupidity: a woman forgets how dangerous it is for a child to play out in the cobbled streets, dancing between the hooves of iron-shod horses or the creaking wheels of huge carts as they bring their produce up from the river; still a child is slain, the little body crushed, bruised and marked, while the young soul goes out to meet its Christ. But, Reverend Father, there are more dreadful deaths. Men drunk in taverns, their bellies awash with cheap ale, their souls dead and black as the deepest night as they lurch at each other with sword, dagger or club. I always keep a faithful record.
Yet, every word I hear, every sentence I write, every time I visit the scene of the murder, I go back to that bloody field fighting for Edward the Black Prince. I, a novice monk, who broke his vows to God and took his younger brother off to war. Every night I dream of that battle, the press of steel-clad men, the lowered pikes, the screams and shouts. Each time the nightmare goes like a mist clearing above the river, leaving only me kneeling beside the corpse of my dead brother, screaming into the darkness for his soul to return. I know, Reverend Father, it never will. Athelstan scrutinised the words he had written, replaced the quill beside his letter and walked back to the chancel screen. He looked across as Bonaventure rose and stretched elegantly.
'I intend no offence, Bonaventure,' he said. 'I mean, Sir John, despite his portly frame, that plum-red face, balding pate and watery eye, is, you will agree, at heart a good man. An honest official, a rare fellow indeed who does not take bribes but searches for the truth, ever patient in declaring the real cause of death. But why must I always be with him?'