by Paul Doherty
Cranston and Athelstan agreed, and the landlord showed them to a table away from the rest. He brought them blackjacks of ale, then sent a boy across with a writing-tray, containing a quill, a small pot of ink, a scrap of parchment and some sealing wax.
‘What’s the matter?’ Cranston asked.
Athelstan seized the quill and began to write quickly, his hand racing across the page. He stopped and recalled those scraps of parchment sent to the dead knights.
‘Well, it wasn’t done here.’
‘What wasn’t?’
‘The parchment and ink are different,’ Athelstan explained. ‘I just wondered if the warnings had been written here.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘If we could only find what those two dead men were supposed to remember. Anyway,’ he dipped the tip of the quill into the inkpot and continued his scribbling. ‘I am writing to Father Prior,’ he explained. ‘I have to tell him about our demon in Southwark.’
‘What help can he give?’ Cranston asked.
‘He has the cunning of a serpent and the innocence of a dove.’
‘You mean just like yourself?’
‘Sir John, you flatter. . But, seriously, in a recent letter from our superior, all Dominican priests were warned to study demonic possession more accurately, and have such phenomena investigated.’ Athelstan finished writing, put his pen down and asked the potboy for a candle to melt the wax.
‘You see, Sir John,’ he continued when he’d done this, ‘Pike the ditcher can see all sorts of demons when he’s drunk, but Benedicta is level-headed. You may scoff, but something foul lurked in our death-house that night. I have to be sure. Why, Sir John,’ he blew the candle out, ‘don’t you believe in Satan and all his powers?’
‘Yes, I bloody well do.’ Cranston sipped from his tankard. ‘And a lot of his friends live in Cheapside. However, you surely don’t believe that demons come up from hell to cavort along Southwark’s alleyways? I can think of more suitable, plumper prey across the river.’
‘Whatever it is,’ Athelstan picked up the letter as Banyard approached with their meal, ‘I must report to Father Anselm and seek his advice.’
Once the landlord had placed the steaming platters of food before them, Athelstan handed him the letter.
‘Would you ensure this is taken to Blackfriars?’ he asked. He took a penny out of his purse. ‘I’ll pay for the boy.’
‘Nonsense!’ Banyard replied. ‘There’s no need to pay, Father.’
‘In which case,’ Cranston put his horn spoon down, smacking his lips, ‘one good turn deserves another. Send the lad running, Master Banyard, and come back here. Be our guest.’
Banyard accepted. He returned from the kitchen and sat down, a tankard of frothy ale in his huge fist. Cranston took a silver coin out of his purse and slid this towards him.
‘We would like your advice, Master Banyard.’
The landlord sipped from his ale, but his eyes never left the silver coin.
‘About what?’ he asked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
‘Don’t let’s be children.’ Cranston lowered his voice and pushed the silver coin towards Banyard. ‘Upstairs, sir, you have two corpses, both former customers: that cannot be good for trade.’
‘Death is a sudden visitor, Sir John. The Gargoyle has housed many a corpse.’ The taverner stared up at the smoke-blackened roof beams. ‘It has stood here for many a year. Customers die in their sleep or in a fight. We have also taken in many a corpse fished from the river.’
‘But this is different,’ Athelstan persisted.
Banyard put his tankard down; he stretched out his hand and the silver coin disappeared.
‘I have told you what I know and what I have seen,’ he whispered. ‘However, our noble representatives are not the band of brothers they appear to be. On the night Bouchon was killed, there was considerable discord over a number of matters.’ He pulled a face. ‘Local matters: the buying up of grain as well as the fixing of prices on the Shrewsbury markets.’
‘And?’ Cranston asked.
‘The discussion grew heated,’ Banyard continued. ‘They argued about a ship they’d hired to import grain from Hainault. Apparently this was done on Malmesbury’s advice, but the ship hadn’t fared well and was seized by French pirates in the Narrow Seas. Goldingham, the small dark one who walks like a woman and has a tongue like a viper, declared Malmesbury should reimburse them. Sir Edmund, red in the face, said he would not.’
‘And?’
‘Well, this led to other matters. They talked of a goblet which had disappeared. I heard the name “Arthur” mentioned.’ Banyard sipped from his tankard. ‘I was going in and out of the room, but when I returned the conversation had changed. Sir Henry Swynford was saying how they should not oppose the regent so vehemently. He talked of unrest in the shires and the growing attacks upon isolated farmhouses and manors, be it in Kent or along the Welsh march.’ Banyard stopped speaking, cradling his tankard. ‘Then Sir Francis Harnett said something very strange.’ Banyard closed his eyes. ‘Yes, that’s right: he said the old ways were the best ways. Malmesbury leaned across the table and grasped his wrist. “Don’t be stupid!” he hissed. “Stick to your beasteries!”’
‘What do you think he meant by that?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, Sir Francis Harnett is apparently interested in all forms of exotic beasts. When he returned from the Tower, he babbled like a child about the elephants, apes, and even a white bear kept in the royal menagerie.’
‘No,’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I meant about the old ways being the best ways.’
Banyard raised his eyebrows. ‘Father, I am a taverner, not some magician at a fair.’
‘And Sir Oliver Bouchon? He was quiet?’
‘He was silent throughout, never touched his food.’ Banyard got to his feet. ‘That’s all I know; now my customers wait.’
‘You could have told us this before.’
‘Sir John, I sell wine, good food and gossip. All three demand payment.’
‘And will you take us down to Dame Mathilda’s in Cottemore Lane?’ Cranston demanded.
Banyard smirked. ‘You need solace, Sir John?’
‘No, no!’ Cranston replied hastily. ‘The Lady Maude, God forfend her, would be horrified to know that I had visited such a place. I simply need to discover whether all our good knights spent Monday evening there.’
Banyard made a face, playing with the empty tankard in his hands. ‘Sir John, they all came back here after midnight, much the worse for wear.’ He shrugged. ‘When you are ready, I’ll take you.’ He got up and walked back into the buttery.
‘Well.’ Cranston pushed the plate away. ‘All we’ve established is what we know already. The good knights are liars. There is rivalry amongst them.’ He licked his lips. ‘I wonder what this cup of Arthur means, or Harnett’s claim that the old ways were the best ways?’
‘Those knights,’ Athelstan replied, ‘know the significance of the arrowhead, the candle and the word “REMEMBER”. They were killed because of some secret sin committed many years ago. But that begs another question.’
Athelstan cleaned his horn spoon and put it back in his wallet. ‘If these knights are being pursued by the furies from their past, why don’t they panic? Why don’t they flee back to Shropshire?’ He glanced at Cranston and leaned across the table. ‘I mean, Sir John, if you, I and others travelled to Shrewsbury, and let us say we’d committed some secret sin, and suddenly members of our party began to be murdered. What would you do?’
Cranston lowered his tankard. ‘Though I hate to admit it, I’d leave Shrewsbury as quickly as an arrow from a bow.’
‘So, why don’t these knights?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Two of their companions are dead, yet. .’
Cranston stared across the tavern. ‘Oh, well put, little friar.’ He murmured. ‘To flee London, put as much distance between themselves and Westminster would be the natural thing to do.’ He blew his cheeks out and ran his fingers along the bristling moustac
hes. ‘Of course, there’s still time for them to do that, yet the men we met in the chapter-house seemed quite determined to stay.’ He leaned over and nipped Athelstan’s wrist. ‘You pose questions, Friar. Do you have any answers?’
‘Well, first,’ Athelstan replied slowly, ‘they can’t flee immediately. It would look as if they were guilty and wished to hide something. Secondly, they are representatives of the shire. They are duty-bound to stay in Westminster until this Parliament is finished. But,’ Athelstan paused, ‘they could always claim sickness or some urgent business at home.’ Athelstan continued slowly. ‘It’s possible there might be two other explanations. First, not all the knights we met this morning might have some secret sin to hide. Secondly, perhaps there’s a greater fear which compels them to stay.’ He pushed away the plate and writing-tray. ‘But come, Sir John, the day is drawing on.’ He smiled. ‘And we still have to visit Dame Mathilda and her ladies of the night.’
In his small, beautifully decorated oratory at the Savoy Palace, John of Gaunt knelt, head bowed in prayer, at his prie-dieu. Beside him, on a red and gold embroidered cushion, knelt his ‘beloved nephew’, Richard of England. Now and again the young king, his face like that of an angel, ivory-pale framed by gold hair, would blink his light-blue eyes and glance quickly at his uncle. He’d confided so often to his tutor, Sir Simon Burley, how much he hated ‘dear Uncle’ with a passion beyond all understanding. Did Gaunt really pray? the young king wondered. Or was the oratory a place of silence and seclusion, where he could plot? Richard lifted his eyes to the silver crucifix.
‘Dear God,’ he prayed silently. ‘I am thirteen years of age. Three more years, only three, and I will be king in my own right!’
Richard smiled. And what would happen then to ‘dear Uncle’? Yet three years was a long time: anything could happen! Richard, through his tutor, knew all about the peasants seething with discontent at being tied to the soil, at not being allowed to sell their labour in the markets, or bargain for what they were paid. Now a Parliament had convened at Westminster: the lords temporal and spiritual met by themselves; the Commons, assembled in the chapter-house, resolutely argued against levying taxes so ‘beloved Uncle’ could build more ships or raise more troops. Yet, what would happen if a storm broke which swept away not only Uncle but himself? Would the peasant rebels really lift their hands against the son of the Black Prince, their own anointed king? Beside him Gaunt sighed, lifted his head and blessed himself with a flourish. He turned to Richard.
‘Beloved Nephew,’ he purred, ‘it was good of you to join me in prayer.’
‘Dearest Uncle,’ Richard replied just as sweetly, ‘you need all the assistance God can send you.’
Gaunt’s smile remained fixed. ‘In three days’ time, Sire, you are to go down to Westminster. You must walk amongst your Commons, tell them how much you love them. How you need their help.’
‘And will you come, dearest Uncle?’
‘As always, beloved Nephew, I will be at your right hand.’
‘“And, if thine right hand be a cause for scandal,’ Richard quoted from the Gospels, ‘“cut it off.”’
‘Dearest Nephew, whatever do you mean?’ Gaunt eased himself up from the prie-dieu but Richard remained kneeling.
‘In three years’ time, dearest Uncle, I come into my own: King in my own right.’ Richard’s voice hardened. ‘I would like a kingdom to govern, not a realm rent by division and war.’
‘The peasants will, in time, get what they want.’
Gaunt sat down on the altar steps, facing his nephew. ‘I am not liked, Sire, but no man who exercises power is. The French and Spanish fleets ravage our southern coastline. The lords of the soil keep their boot on the peasants’ neck. They, in turn, plot treason and revolt.’
Richard studied his uncle’s leonine, arrogant face. He noticed the lines round the eyes and the furrows running into the silver beard. Am I wrong? the young king wondered. Was Gaunt plotting to seize the crown for himself, as his tutor Simon Burley constantly warned him? Or was he just trying to steer the realm into calmer waters? Gaunt leaned forward and grasped his nephew’s hand.
‘Beloved Nephew, this kingdom is yours but, unless we raise these taxes, we will have neither the ships nor the troops to defend ourselves. Once I have this, I can settle the lords and provide relief for the peasants. When you go to the Parliament, do as I say. Speak kindly to the knights and burgesses. Tell them that my demands are yours.’ Gaunt’s face broke into a lopsided smile. ‘After all, you are the son of the famous Black Prince, grandson of the great Edward III, conqueror of France.’
Richard removed his hand. ‘I am also King of England in my own right.’
Gaunt was about to reply when there was a knock on the door. Sir Miles Coverdale came in and bowed. ‘Your Graces, Sir Simon Burley is here. He insists the young king must return to his lessons.’
Gaunt rose to his feet and helped his nephew to his. ‘Ah yes, your lessons.’ Gaunt smiled. ‘Give Sir Simon my regards, your Grace, but remind him of the famous saying: “It is easier to preach than to act”.’
Richard shifted the gold cord round his slim waist, smoothing down the creases in his blue and gold silk gown. He bowed. ‘Dearest Uncle.’ He smiled back. ‘You should have been a preacher.’
Coverdale stepped aside and Richard of England swept out of the oratory. Gaunt stood and listened to his footfalls fade into the distance.
‘You have come from Westminster, Coverdale? I understand there have been more murders?’
‘Yes, your Grace, but Sir John and Brother Athelstan have matters in hand.’ Coverdale smirked. ‘The coroner has stirred up the knights: they are buzzing like bees.’
Gaunt knelt down on his prie-dieu. ‘But they have made no progress in unmasking the assassin?’ he asked.
‘None, your Grace.’
Gaunt stared at the angel painted in the window high above the altar. ‘I will stay here for a while,’ he murmured. ‘There will be two visitors. Keep them separate. Neither must know about the other’s presence.’
Coverdale nodded and left. Gaunt returned to his meditations, calculating how the taxes, raised in the present Parliament, could be spent. He heard a tap on the door and glanced sideways as his hooded, masked visitor stepped into the oratory. By the sour smell, the mud on the hem of the man’s ragged cloak, and his scuffed boots, Gaunt knew who it was.
‘Every good dog finds its home,’ he murmured.
‘Your Grace,’ Dogman declared, falling to his knees, ‘am I not your most obedient servant?’
Gaunt’s hand slipped to the dagger pushed into his belt, though he had no real fear. Dogman was a pathetic little traitor, terrified of being hanged. In any case, in the choir-loft behind him, two master bowmen stood hidden in the shadows, arrows notched to their bows.
‘Stay where you are, knave,’ Gaunt whispered, ‘and do not move.’
Dogman folded his arms and knelt, trying to control the trembling which ran through his body. If the Great Community of the Realm knew he was here they would flay him alive as a warning to other traitors. Yet the Dogman was truly terrified of Gaunt: some time ago the Dogman had realised that, for all their secret names, hidden covens and close conspiracies, John of Gaunt knew exactly what the Great Community of the Realm was plotting. Dogman wondered how many others of the rebel leaders were in the regent’s pay, yet he had no choice. He had been caught and given a choice: either be a Judas or be hanged, drawn and disembowelled at Tyburn as a traitor. Dogman had made his choice very quickly. He had agreed to what the regent’s agents had offered. He now had no choice but to dance to their tune.
Gaunt turned. ‘Well, well, Dogman, in three days’ time, on Saturday morning, between the hours of eleven and twelve, my nephew and I will ride down to Westminster with a cavalcade of knights, squires and pages. The king will distribute alms and confer the King’s Touch on the sick and infirm. You will be there. .’ Gaunt smirked. ‘The Hare is as scabby and scrofulous as ever?’
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Dogman nodded eagerly.
‘And still hates those who ride on palfreys and clothed in silk?’
Again the fevered nodding.
‘Make sure he’s armed.’
Gaunt heard Dogman gasp, so he rose and walked over to him. ‘What are you frightened of, Dogman?’
‘The Hare will attack,’ Judas whispered. ‘Strike at the Lord’s anointed.’
‘Well, isn’t that what you plotted in your covens and secret meetings in Southwark and elsewhere?’ Gaunt dug a fingernail into the man’s dirty cheek and laughed. ‘Mad as a March hare. Just ensure he is there.’ Gaunt patted the man’s greasy hair. ‘Oh, your comrade the Fox has been caught.’ He spun a coin on to the floor. ‘Your information was correct.’
‘What will happen to him, my Lord?’
‘I told my judges to give him a fair trial then hang him.’ Gaunt turned back. ‘I must pray for his soul.’
Dogman grabbed the coin and scuttled out. Gaunt moved over and picking up a jug of water, held his fingers over a bowl, and let the rose-scented water pour over them. He wiped his hands on a napkin and returned to his prie-dieu. He turned abruptly, glared up into the shadowy choir-loft and, narrowing his eyes, caught a glint of mail and knew the archers still waited there.
Gaunt returned to his meditations. Cupping his chin in his hand, he thought about the murders at the Gargoyle tavern. Would Cranston, he wondered, be able to unearth the mystery? Gaunt stared at a fly walking along the crisp white altar cloth. Some men dismissed the coroner as a fat, drunken buffoon, but Cranston’s looks belied his wit. And that friar, Athelstan, with his smooth, olive face and wary dark eyes! Gaunt closed his eyes and smiled. In any other circumstances he would place a wager that they would succeed, but whom could he tell?
There was another knock on the door. ‘Come in! Come in!’
This time the visitor was cloaked and cowled, but the cloth was pure wool and the boots peeping out beneath were costly Burgundian leather.
‘You may be a knight of the shire. .’ Gaunt murmured. He pointed to the pyx; the gold, jewel-encrusted casket which hung from a silver chain just above the altar. ‘. . but, in the presence of Christ our King, not to mention his lawful representative on earth, you should kneel.’