by Paul Doherty
‘What is it?’ Cranston asked impatiently.
Athelstan just shook his head as he began to translate the Norman French and dog Latin of some obscure clerk.
‘Oh, Athelstan, for the love of God!’
Cranston went to snatch the parchment, but the friar moved away.
‘A door is beginning to open,’ Athelstan declared. He tapped the parchment and stared across the garden.
‘Well?’ Cranston asked.
‘These are petitions,’ Athelstan replied slowly. ‘They are divided into two, but all of them are about twenty years old. They come from the county of Shropshire. The first is a collection of petitions bearing the seals of men like Sir Edmund Malmesbury, Sir Francis Harnett and Sir Maurice Goldingham, vehemently protesting at the secret covens being organised in the shire by certain peasant leaders. Now, Sir John, you must remember that in 1359 and 1360, Edward III levied taxes to raise a great army to take to France.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’ Cranston narrowed his eyes. ‘There was a great deal of unrest, not only along the Welsh march but in Kent, Essex and elsewhere. Everyone complained, as they always do about taxes.’
‘Ah!’ Athelstan pointed to the parchment. ‘Apparently the peasants in Shropshire did something about it. They actually organised themselves and resisted the tax-collectors. More importantly, they opposed the demands of their masters to work harder for less wages.’
Cranston sipped from the tankard. ‘Ah!’ he sighed, ‘I understand. The burden of the tax levy would have fallen on the wealthy. They, in turn, would try to pass those demands on to their own tenants by making them produce more, or by cutting their wages. But what has that got to do with these murders?’
‘Well listen, Sir John.’ Athelstan glanced further down the parchment. ‘About three years later, another set of petitions appeared; not from the knights or, indeed, from their peasant leaders, but from widows.’ Athelstan pointed to one petition. ‘Such as this from Isolda Massingham. She maintains that a gang of outlaws, cut-throats, wolfs-heads and felons were waging war on isolated farms. She talks of men masked, hooded and cowled, who burst into her house and dragged her husband Walter out. He was later found hanging from the branch of an oak tree some three miles outside the village.’ He glanced up. ‘They disfigured her husband’s corpse by etching red crosses on his face.’
‘So…’ Cranston drank from his tankard. ‘Two of our corpses were similarly disfigured but — ’
‘Ah!’ Athelstan held his hand up. ‘Now Isolda makes no allegations. She points no finger of accusation, but demands that the king’s justices be sent into the shire to discover the perpetrators of this outrage. Isolda, I suspect, was no base-born peasant villein: her husband was of peasant stock but rather prosperous, hence the petition.’
‘True, true,’ Cranston interjected. ‘After the Great Pestilence, labour was in short supply. Properties were left vacant, and the labourers and peasants, particularly the more prosperous, had more ground to till so could demand higher wages. They were also able to sell their own produce in the markets.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s the same thing as today: the prosperous peasants want more freedom to work their own land and sell their produce, but the great lords are determined to keep them tied to the soil. But, Athelstan, what has this got to do with the murders at Westminster?’
‘As I said,’ Athelstan continued, ‘Isolda was a fairly wealthy widow. She probably went to some clerk who drew up this petition and organised its despatch to the king’s council at Westminster.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston answered testily, ‘I understand all that.’
‘Well, I am going to make a leap in logic,’ Athelstan went on. ‘Massingham’s killers were no band of outlaws.’ The friar paused to choose his words carefully. ‘I don’t know whether widows like Isolda Massingham and others knew who was murdering their menfolk, but I suspect it was Sir Edmund Malmesbury and his knights.’ Athelstan rolled up the parchment. ‘Isolda’s petition is important, and I’d love to know what the Crown did about it.’
CHAPTER 13
At first Cranston would not accept Athelstan’s conclusions.
‘You are saying,’ he repeated, ‘that Malmesbury and his companions, the so-called Knights of the Swan, carried out their own private war against these self-styled peasant leaders?’
‘Yes, I am,’ Athelstan replied. ‘They are arrogant men, Sir John, fully aware of their rights and appurtenances. They grew up in a world where every man knew his place, particularly the peasants, but the Great Pestilence ended all that. Whole villages were wiped out. Labour became scarce and the peasants began to enrich themselves, not only through the acquisition of land, but also by selling their labour to the highest bidder.’ Athelstan ran his finger round the rim of his tankard. ‘And what could the Crown do? It needed those peasants for its wars in France, as well as the payment of its taxes, so the likes of Malmesbury took the law into their own hands.’
Athelstan paused and sipped at his ale, staring through the window of the tavern to ensure no one was eavesdropping. ‘Imagine it, Sir John, these arrogant lords of the soil, cloaked and visaged, armed to the teeth. They would swoop on some poor peasant’s house, drag him from his table, and hurry him off to execution whilst they chanted the sequence from the Mass of the Dead, the “Dies Irae”.’
‘And the arrowhead, candle and scrap of parchment?’ Cranston asked.
‘Oh, these knights always sent a warning. The candle is a symbol of their victim’s impending funeral. The arrowhead a sign of a violent death, and the word “Remember” a barbed hint to reflect upon the other murders these men had already carried out.’ He sighed. ‘And the red crosses etched on the faces of their dead victims were a grisly warning to others.’
‘Then what happened?’ Cranston asked.
‘I suppose Malmesbury and his gang had their way. After a number of these peasant leaders had been executed, others became more circumspect. But, of course,’ Athelstan screwed his eyes up against the sunlight, ‘the evil we do, Sir John, never dies. It dogs our footsteps and lurks in the corners of our souls. And so we come to the regent.’ Athelstan lowered his voice. ‘Gaunt holds lands along the Welsh march. He would make careful inquiries about these arrogant landowners. I am sure he discovered their secret sin. He organised their election to this Parliament and gave them a brutal warning: either they supported him or he might send the justices back into Shropshire to publicise their secrets.’
‘But Malmesbury and the rest oppose the regent bitterly.’
Athelstan smiled bleakly. ‘Oh, Sir John. How often have you played a game of chess? You watch your opponent’s pieces being moved. Sometimes you believe his judgement is faulty, even foolish, but at the end, when he takes your queen and traps your king, you realise the subtlety of his design.’
‘In other words, the game is not over yet?’
‘No, no, Sir John, it certainly isn’t.’
‘But the murders?’ Cranston asked. ‘Surely Gaunt does not have a hand in these?’
‘My lord Coroner.’ Athelstan played with the tassel of the cord round his waist. ‘He could do. He might even argue that he is carrying out lawful execution. But, concedo, I think there is little likelihood. No, someone else has entered this game. We have three possibilities. First, Sir Miles: we must remember that Coverdale also comes from Shropshire. Did one of his kinsmen die at Malmesbury’s hands? Or, there again, Father Benedict. He seems very attached to the memory of his dead comrade Antony. Is he the sort of man to carry out God’s judgement? Or. .’ Athelstan paused.
‘Or what?’ Cranston asked, intrigued.
‘Well, I keep talking about the knights as a coven under the leadership of Sir Edmund Malmesbury and, Sir John, believe me, whatever is the truth, Malmesbury is their leader. However, there is one other consideration.’ Athelstan leaned across the table. ‘How do we know the others were involved? Aylebore or Elontius, or both, may be totally innocent of any crime, but might see themselves as angels o
f vengeance.’
‘In other words, Aylebore or Elontius might have suffered because of those judicial murders in Shropshire so many years ago?’
‘Possibly.’ Athelstan stretched and turned his face to the sun. ‘Come, Sir John.’ He smiled at the coroner. ‘St Dominic always said that, after a meal, a man should walk and talk with a friend in a beautiful garden.’
Cranston, his gloom now forgotten, got to his feet and joined Athelstan. They wound their way through the herb plots and flowerbeds. At the bottom of the garden they sat on a stone seat framed by a flower-covered arbour. Athelstan leaned back and listened to the lilting bird-song.
‘It’s at moments like these, Sir John, that I realise why paradise was described as a garden.’ Athelstan lifted his face to catch the sun.
‘Aye,’ Cranston retorted. ‘And, as in Eden, Brother, there’s always a serpent, a canker in the rose.’
Athelstan ran his thumb round his mouth. ‘Let’s summarise what we know so far.’ He nudged the coroner. ‘Come on, law officer, you’ve supped and dined well. Now use your razor-like mind.’
‘Well, first, we know that Sir Edmund Malmesbury, and certainly those men who have been murdered, committed terrible crimes in Shropshire. Secondly, our noble regent is using that knowledge to blackmail them, though for what purpose we still have to discover. Thirdly, we know these good knights formed a fraternity or brotherhood of the Knights of the Swan. This broke up after their famous chalice was stolen, though this has now been returned.’ Cranston paused. His hand fell to the wineskin nestling beneath his cloak, but Athelstan playfully knocked it away.
‘My lord Coroner, we are not finished yet.’
‘Well, we know these knights came here and the murders began.’ At the time of their death, each knight received warning tokens. Sir Oliver Bouchon left this tavern and was knocked on the head. We suspect he probably did not leave Westminster; his body was dumped in the Thames and it floated down to the reeds near Tothill Fields. We do not know why he left, where he went or who followed him. Sir Henry Swynford was garroted to death by a man pretending to be a priest.’
‘And, in that, the assassin was most daring,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘All we know is that he appeared in the tavern, executed Swynford and then disappeared. God knows what would have happened if the real chantry priest had arrived: though, having met Father Gregory, I don’t think he would be too difficult to fool.’
‘And, finally, Harnett,’ Cranston declared. ‘We know he left that brothel on Monday evening and went upriver to Southwark looking for the rapscallion Brasenose. Someone used Harnett’s desire to buy that bloody ape to lure him to the Pyx chamber at Westminster. But how the assassin could enter and leave the guarded cloisters, unnoticed, carrying a sword or an axe, is beyond our comprehension.’
‘And then this morning,’ he concluded, ‘we have Sir Maurice Goldingham. He is taken short, hurries to the latrines and dies shitting himself. Again, how the assassin entered and left the cloisters carrying a crossbow remains a mystery.’
‘Unless, of course; the assassin was already in the cloisters,’ Athelstan added, ‘being able to pass through the line of soldiers using his seal and, perhaps, smuggling the arbalest in.’ Athelstan sighed in exasperation, ‘Surely, Sir John, the assassin must have made some mistake? What was that black soil we found under Bouchon’s fingernails?’ He heard a snore and glanced sideways; Sir John, a beatific smile on his face, was now fast asleep.
Athelstan sat back, basking in the sunlight. I should go back to St Erconwald’s, he reflected. He wished he could sit with Benedicta and gossip about the ordinary, humdrum things of everyday life. Athelstan moved on his seat. Yes, he’d like to be in his own house, or teaching the children, or even trying to arbitrate between Watkin and Pike in their interminable struggle for power on the parish council. And, of course, there were other matters. The bell rope needed replacing. He wanted to make sure that the statue of St Erconwald had been replaced correctly on its plinth, and Huddle had to be watched. If the painter had his way, he’d cover every inch of stone with paintings of his own choosing. Athelstan smiled as he recalled Perline Brasenose’s escapade and hoped ‘Cranston the ape’ was safely back in the Tower. Some time in the near future he must have a talk with that young man and Simplicatas: the story must be all over Southwark by now. Athelstan closed his eyes and quietly prayed that none of his parishioners, particularly Crim, ever mentioned the Barbary ape and Cranston in the same breath again. Pike, too, could sometimes have the devil in him; he might even take Huddle for a pot of ale and encourage the painter to draw some picture depicting Perline’ s tomfoolery on the church wall.
Athelstan heard a sound. He opened his eyes, but it was only Banyard carrying two buckets of earth from the compost heap. He placed these down, smiled at Athelstan, and went into the tavern. Athelstan stood up, moving gently so as not to rouse Sir John. He breathed in the fragrance of the thyme, marjoram and rosemary planted in the herb garden.
‘I’ll go back to St Erconwald’s,’ he muttered, ‘when all this is finished.’
A bee buzzed close to his face. He stepped back, wafting it away. What other mistakes, Athelstan wondered, had the assassin made? To be sure Swynford’s murder was impudent, but those of Harnett and Goldingham? And what had been missing from Harnett’s possessions strewn out on the bed? Athelstan yawned and turned back to the bower: he shook Cranston awake.
‘Rouse yourself, Sir John.’
Cranston opened his eyes, smacking his lips. The coroner stretched. ‘Where to now, my good friar?’
‘The day is warm,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Let’s return to our chambers, Sir John. Tomorrow we have to be up early when the king and the regent go down to Westminster. What o’ clock will the procession start?’
Cranston lumbered to his feet. ‘I don’t know, but I’ll send a messenger to the Savoy to ask.’ And, grumbling about the regent’s impositions, Cranston shuffled back into the tavern, making his way wearily upstairs.
Athelstan followed. He would have liked to have written down the conclusions he and Sir John had reached, but the sun and ale had made him drowsy. He lay down on his cot-bed; when he awoke later darkness was already beginning to fall. He roused Sir John and they spent the rest of the evening waiting in the taproom for Malmesbury, Elontius and Aylebore to return. It was fully dark when the three representatives came in, huddled together, each with their hands on the pommel of their daggers. They greeted Cranston and Athelstan with a cursory nod and sat at their own table. Their morose demeanour and air of despondency only lifted after Banyard had served them the best his kitchens could offer, placing an unstoppered flask of wine on the table before them.
‘It’s the best Gascony can produce,’ the landlord declared. ‘Come, sirs, fill your cups.’
He opened the flask and poured a generous measure into each of the knights’ goblets. Frightened and anxious, all three drank quickly, refilling their cups, putting fire into their bellies and the arrogance back in their mouths. Cranston whispered that he could watch no longer, and stomped off to his room, but Athelstan, pretending to eat slowly, studied them carefully. As the evening drew on, all three knights returned to their pompous selves, braying like donkeys at what had happened during the afternoon and evening sessions of the Commons. Of course, their voices attracted the attention of everyone else in the tavern: lawyers, clerks, officials from the courts or Exchequer. All congregated round the table, listening solemnly as these three representatives proclaimed what was wrong with the kingdom.
‘Woe to the realm when the king is a child,’ Malmesbury intoned. ‘This — ’ he tapped the table, burping gently between his words — ‘is the cause of all our ills!’
Athelstan, knowing what he did about these men, felt his stomach turn. He would have left them but, fascinated by their hypocrisy, watched and waited. Only now and again did their fear of the murder of their companions show. A clerk, with a snivelling face and lank greasy hair, asked who the murderer co
uld be. Malmesbury glared at him like a frightened rabbit and dug his face into his cup, whilst Aylebore drew the conversation on to other matters. Every so often one of them would go out to the latrines. Athelstan noticed with some amusement how all three knights had hired burly servitors to guard them. As Aylebore returned, hastily fastening his points, Athelstan was waiting for him, just within the door.
‘You have bought yourself protection, Sir Humphrey?’
The knight lifted his beery, slobbery face. ‘Well, much good you are,’ he sneered. He paused to loosen the belt round his girth. ‘Can’t even have a piss without someone watching your back.’
He would have moved on, but Athelstan blocked his way. The sneer died on Aylebore’s face.
‘If you are so frightened,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘why not go back to Shropshire?’
Sir Humphrey glanced away, his face sodden with drink.
‘Or confess your secret sin,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly.
Aylebore’s head swung round, eyes stony.
‘Confess to the murders of those men,’ Athelstan whispered, his gaze not wavering. ‘Do you remember, Sir Humphrey? The peasant leaders who wanted to better themselves, but whom you and your companions executed, or should I say murdered, in the pursuit of your own selfish interests!’
Aylebore’s face turned ugly, yet Athelstan saw the fear in his eyes.
‘Confess,’ Athelstan repeated.
Aylebore pushed his face close to Athelstan, who did not flinch at the burst of fetid breath from the man’s mouth.
‘If I had to confess anything, Father,’ Aylebore hissed, ‘then it wouldn’t be to you. And if I killed, then I did so in the name of a cause you wouldn’t understand.’
Athelstan stepped back. ‘Oh, I understand you completely, Sir Humphrey. It’s a devil I meet every day. It goes under different names: jealousy, envy, anger, the lust for power.’