by Paul Doherty
‘In Cheapside. Why?’
‘You didn’t go to Southwark?’
‘By the Mass, Sir John, no! Why do you ask?’ Cranston shook his head and looked away. He had caught the tremor in her voice. His heart lurched and he splashed his goblet full to the brim with dark red claret.
In the darkness of the Tower, the hospitaller, Gerard Mowbray, walked along the high parapet which stretched between Broad Arrow Tower and Salt Tower on the inner curtain wall. The night wind whipped his grey cropped hair, bit at his ears and cheeks and clawed at the grey robe wrapped round his body. Sir Gerard ignored the cold. He always came here. This was his favourite walk. He would stand and stare into the darkness trying to see the old ruins of Caesar’s time, but not tonight, the mist was too thick. To the north he could glimpse the beacon light in the Tower of St Mary Grace’s, and to the south the fires and torch flames from the Hospital of St Katherine. Sir Gerard looked up at the sky. The clouds were beginning to break, revealing a storm of stars across the heavens. Strange, he thought. In Outremer the stars seemed closer, the velvet darkness of the heavens so near you felt you could stand on tip-toe and pluck the lights from the sky.
Mowbray leaned against the crenellated wall. Oh, they had been happier times! He remembered the hot burning sands outside Alexandria where he, Sir Brian, Sir Ralph, and the others had been a band of carefree knights only too happy to take the gold of the enemy. Mowbray recalled the climax of their campaign. There had been a revolt in Alexandria and the Caliph’s army, Mowbray’s group amongst them, had massed outside the city: the air thick with the beat of their kettledrums, the wind snapping at the huge green banners, and the silver crescents on the standards dazzling in the scorching sunlight. The city had been besieged for months but at last a breach had been forced in one of the walls. He and Sir Brian had gone in first to stand shoulder to shoulder, their comrades around them, a fighting circle of steel slowly edging into the city. Behind them the massed troops of the Caliph, their battle cries rising and falling like a demoniac chorus. The knights had forced their way through the gap and along the wall to the steps leading to the parapet above the main gate.
Sir Gerard’s mind slipped eagerly back into the past. He remembered the intense heat, the sunlight dancing off sword and dagger points, the roar of battle, the blood which pumped like a thousand fountains as men fell screaming from horrible wounds in head, body or thigh. Slowly he and his companions had edged up the steps, hacking their way through flesh until they reached a point above the main gate. Now who had it been? Of course! As always, Bartholomew. He’d jumped down, engaging in combat with a huge Mameluke. Bartholomew had moved with the grace of a dancer, his sword a silver hissing snake. One false feint to the groin, then up and round in a semi-arc to slice the enemy between helmet and hauberk. Ralph had followed. He had been an honourable knight then.
The great bar to the gate was lifted and the Caliph’s men had poured into the city. What a bloodletting! No quarter was asked and none was given. The narrow, hot streets dinned with the silver bray of trumpets and the shrieks of dying men and women. At least the knights had not been party to the massacre; they had achieved their task and now looked for suitable reward. They eventually found themselves in a huge square where a white marble fountain played in the centre. Nearby stood the banker’s empty house. Oh, the treasure they had found there! Adam had run knee-deep in silver ducats and jewelled goblets full of pearls!
Mowbray suddenly shook himself free from his memories. He thought he’d heard a sound, there towards the end of the parapet at the top of the steps. No, he concluded, it was only the wind. He went back to his memories. Strange, Mowbray pondered, that Adam had not come to see them this Christmas. Perhaps he was too frightened. Had the dead Sir Ralph and the now wealthy burgess Adam known something he did not? What had happened three years ago to frighten the Constable so much?
‘We are all frightened,’ Mowbray whispered to himself. This fear had changed them all. That’s what evil did to you, he thought, it corroded the will, rotted the soul, and fouled the chambers and passageways of the mind. What had been done in Outremer so many years ago had been evil! Bartholomew had been their leader. Half the treasure was rightfully his, and he had trusted them – a terrible mistake. Betrayal! Treachery! The words shrieked like tormented ghosts in the dark recesses of Mowbray’s soul. Ralph had planned it but they had all been party to his evil. Mowbray stirred against the cold. Oh, he had confessed his sins, walked barefoot to the shrine of St James at Compostela and both he and Fitzormonde had become hospitallers to make reparation. He stared out into the darkness.
‘Oh, sweet Christ!’ he murmured. ‘Wasn’t that enough?’ The hospitaller felt the black demons of Hell closing in around him. What terrors did the pit hold for traitors? To be basted with pitch in a dark pen full of brimstone where adders would suck at his eyes and snakes curl round his lying tongue! What could he do to break free of such phantasms? Tell Cranston? No! Perhaps Brother Athelstan? Mowbray remembered the dark eyes and closed face of the Dominican monk. Mowbray had met such men before; some of his commanders in the knights hospitaller had the same gift as Athelstan of sensing every thought. The friar knew there was something wrong, something evil and rotten, behind Sir Ralph’s death.
Mowbray jumped as a night bird shrieked beyond the Tower walls. A dog howled in protest. Was it a dog? he wondered. Or one of Satan’s scouts calling up the legions of the damned from the abyss of Hell? A bell clanged. Mowbray moaned in fear, caught now in his own fancies. The bell boomed as though it came from the bowels of the earth. He cursed and calmed himself.
The bell was the tocsin in the Tower! Mowbray’s hand fell to his sword hilt as he realised that great brass tongue only tolled when the Tower was under attack. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. Perhaps he had been wrong? Perhaps Sir Ralph’s death had been the work of rebels and now they were back? He ran along the gravel-strewn parapet. He wanted to fight. He wanted to kill, give vent to the fury boiling within him. Suddenly he stumbled. His arms flailed out like the wings of a bird, black against the sky, then he tipped and fell, his mind still gripped by delirium. He was a boy again, leaping from a rock into one of the sweet rivers of Yorkshire. He was the brave young knight storming the parapet of Alexandria, crying out for the rest to join him. Then, darkness.
Mowbray’s body crashed against the earth, his brains spattering as the sharp, icy cobbles crushed his skull. His body twitched then lay still, even as the dying hand edged towards the wallet containing a yellow piece of parchment depicting a crudely etched ship with dark crosses drawn in each corner.
CHAPTER 6
Athelstan stood outside his church and stared in pleasant disbelief at the blue-washed sky and the early morning sun as its rays danced and shimmered over the snow-covered roofs of his parish. The friar took a deep breath and sighed. He had slept well, woken early, said Office, celebrated Mass, broken fast and then swept both his house and Philomel’s stable. He had been to the cemetery. The lepers had gone and none of the graves had been disturbed. Athelstan felt pleased, even more so as the great frost had been broken by this sudden bright snap as if Christ himself wanted the weather to improve for his great feast day. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at Cecily the courtesan as she swept the porch of the church. She simpered back before looking, sloe-eyed, towards a dreamy-faced Huddle, now sketching in charcoal the outlines of one of his vigorous paintings on the wall of the nave.
‘Keep your mind on the task in hand, Cecily,’ Athelstan murmured. He stretched, turning his face up to the sun. ‘Praise to thee, Lord,’ he muttered, ‘for Brother Day. Praise to thee, Lord,’ he continued St Francis of Assisi’s Canticle of the Sun, ‘for our sister, Mother Earth.’ Athelstan sniffed and wrinkled his nose. ‘Even though,’ he whispered, ‘in Southwark she smells of sour vegetables and putrid refuse!’ He suddenly remembered other beautiful mornings at his father’s farm in Sussex and the sun seemed to lose some of its brightness.
�
�You are happy, Father?’
Athelstan grinned at Benedicta. ‘Yes, I am. You left Mass early?’ he queried.
‘I had to, Father, have you forgotten?’
Athelstan remembered the date and winced. No, he hadn’t forgotten Simon the carpenter, one of his more errant parishioners, a florid-faced, thickset man with an evil temper and a long Welsh dagger. Two weeks ago Simon had raped a girl whilst carousing in Old Fish Street then compounded his crime by brutally beating her. He had been tried for his life at the Guildhall and tomorrow would hang. Simon had neither family nor friends and three days ago the parish council had begged Athelstan and Benedicta to visit the unfortunate. The friar had even made a vain plea to Cranston to have the sentence commuted but the coroner had sorrowfully shaken his head.
‘Brother,’ he had replied, ‘I can do very little, even if I wanted to. The girl was only twelve and she’ll never walk again. The fellow has to die.’
Athelstan stared up at the sky. ‘God have mercy on Simon,’ he whispered. ‘And God help his poor victim!’
‘What was that, Father?’
‘Nothing, Benedicta, nothing.’ Athelstan turned to go back into his church just as a young pursuivant turned the corner of the alley, slipping and sliding on the ice as he bellowed the friar’s name. Athelstan groaned. ‘What is it, man?’ As if he didn’t know already.
‘Sir John Cranston awaits you, Father, at the Golden Lamb tavern near the Guildhall. Father, he says it is urgent. You must go there now!’
Athelstan fished in his purse and flicked a penny at the young man. ‘Go tell Sir John to stay where he is and not to drink too much. I’ll be there shortly!’
Athelstan took the keys of the church, tied by a piece of string to the cord round his waist, and pressed them into Benedicta’s soft, warm hand.
‘Look after the church,’ he pleaded.
Her eyes rounded with mock wonderment. ‘A woman in charge of the church, Father? Next you’ll be saying that God favours women more than men because he created Eve in Paradise, rather than before, as He did Adam.’
‘They also say the serpent had a woman’s face.’
‘Aye, and a man’s lying heart!’
‘You’ll lock the church?’
‘Such trust, Father.’
Athelstan smiled. ‘I believe you would do a better job than any of the men. Seriously, Benedicta, make sure Ranulf the rat-catcher doesn’t take Bonaventure. The children are not to play snowballs in the porch. Try to keep Ursula’s pig away from what is left of my garden, and above all watch Cecily! I think she is about to fall in love again.’ He ran down the steps and turned. ‘Oh, Benedicta?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Last night – the delicious meal, thank you. A strange man, Doctor Vincentius.’
Benedicta grinned. ‘Not as strange as some priests I have met!’
Athelstan glowered back in mock anger whilst she turned and skipped like a young girl into the church.
He roused and saddled a snoring Philomel and took the road to London Bridge. He found the stews around the riverside as busy as an overturned ant heap in summer as boatmen, sailors and fishermen flocked down to the river bank to watch the ice thaw. Athelstan gently nudged Philomel through the press around the bridge. He refused to look to either side; crossing the bridge on the pleasantest of days could be a frightening experience and more so now as the ice below split and cracked. Instead Athelstan looked across the river at the ships plying along the quays of Billingsgate and Queenshithe in a scene of frenetic activity. Galleys from Gascony laden with casks of wine, woad ships for Picardy, the whelk boats of Essex, and the great vessels of Alamein and Norway making ready for sea. Fishing boats, barges and lighters were busy around the ships, full of men smashing the ice with picks, hammers and mallets. From the high-stemmed poop of a Genoese cog, a boy sang a hymn to the Virgin in thanksgiving for the change in the weather whilst sailors in a Greek galley chanted their prayer for mercy: ‘Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison, Kyrie Eleison.’ Lord, have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy. The chant was so beautiful Athelstan stopped, closing his eyes to listen, until a rough-mouthed carter flicked his whip, bellowing how some men had to work and couldn’t laze around like stupid priests. Athelstan sketched a blessing in the air at his tormentor, dismounted and led Philomel past the church of St Magnus on the corner of Bridge Street.
They turned into Candlewick, now thronged with carts, pack horses and wagons as virtually every tradesman in the city seized the opportunity afforded by the break in the weather. Athelstan continued into Walbrook. On one side of the street ran a sluggish stream in a deep channel cut through the earth. The water was black, ice-filled, and two youths were fighting with quarter-staffs on one of the shit-strewn footbridges. Athelstan and Philomel pressed forward though, for a while, both were forced into the shadows of the overhanging houses as a group of aldermen rode pompously down the street. A herald went before them, a silver trumpet to his lips, whilst two serjeants-at-arms cleared the way with sharp knocks from their staffs. Above the aldermen the city banner snapped in a glorious splash of bright vermilion, whilst the figure of St Paul, embroidered in gold, seemed to glow with its own special light. At the corner of Walbrook the rakers were out, their great wooden rods moving piles of slush and refuse into high, stinking heaps. A bailiff had found a pig wandering where it shouldn’t and, according to city regulations, had promptly cut the animal’s throat. The blood gushed out in hot, scarlet streams whilst its owner, a little balding man, threatened the official with a stream of horrible oaths. Athelstan remembered Ursula and her great, fat sow and wondered if the bailiff would cross to Southwark. The city parasites were also massing as thick as flies over a turd: smooth-skinned lads, cloak-twitchers, quacks, night wanderers, mimes and petty sorcerers.
At last Athelstan found the Golden Lamb, a little tavern on the corner of an alleyway. The dark taproom was dominated by a morose Cranston, who sat slumped on a bench with his back against the wall. The empty ale-jacks scattered on the table before him made the coroner look like an angry Bacchus surrounded by votive offerings. Athelstan walked across and Cranston’s eyes swivelled to meet him.
‘Where have you been?’ the coroner snapped.
‘I came as fast as I could.’
‘It wasn’t fast enough!’
Athelstan silently prayed for patience and sat down on the stool opposite Sir John. He didn’t like the appearance of the coroner one bit. Cranston was a drinker but was usually a jovial soul, conscious of his own sins, faults and failings, and so tolerant of those of others. Now he looked positively sinister, his eyes continually flashing around as if seeking a challenge. His lips moved wordlessly and even the white whiskers bristled with some inner fury.
‘Do you want some wine, Priest?’
‘No, Sir John, I don’t, and I think you’ve drunk enough.’
‘Sod off!’
Athelstan leaned forward. ‘Sir John, please, what is wrong? Perhaps I could help?’
‘Mind your own business!’
Athelstan coughed and backed away. ‘This,’ he murmured, ‘is going to be a very trying day. You said the mayor and the sheriffs wished to see us?’
‘They have seen me. They got tired of waiting for you!’
‘And what did they say, Sir John?’ Athelstan asked sweetly.
The coroner shook himself, sat up and smiled shamefacedly at Athelstan. ‘Forgive me, Brother,’ he mumbled. ‘A bad night, and I’ve got an aching head.’
‘And a filthy temper to boot,’ Athelstan thought, but decided to keep his own counsel. Sir John would talk soon enough.
Cranston chewed his lip and glared into a corner where a huge rat gnawed at a bloody globule of fat glistening amongst the dirty rushes. ‘Is it the black or brown rat which carries infection?’ he suddenly asked.
Athelstan followed Cranston’s gaze and shuddered in disgust
‘Both, I think, so I’m not eating here, Sir John, and I suggest that neither s
hould you. Anyway, tell me what’s happened.’
‘There’s been more bloodshed in the Tower. Sir Gerard Mowbray, who also received a death warning, slipped from a parapet and fell.’
‘Anything else?’
‘About the same time that Mowbray died, the great tocsin of the Tower sounded, convincing the garrison it was under attack.’
‘But there was no attack?’ Athelstan replied. ‘And, I am sure, no sign of a bell ringer?’
‘Apparently.’
‘And the business of the Mayor?’
Athelstan jumped as a fierce torn cat slunk out of the shadows, grasped the rat by its leg and pulled it squealing into the centre of the room.
‘For God’s sake!’ Cranston bellowed at the taverner.
The fellow wandered over waving a broomstick and the cat, its quarry still swinging from his mouth, fled up the spiral, wooden staircase. Cranston lifted the ale-jack, remembered the rat, and slammed it back on the table.
‘The business of the Mayor, my dear Athelstan, is that Sir Adam Horne, burgess, alderman and close friend of the late Sir Ralph, has received a drawing of a three-masted cog, together with a flat sesame seed cake.’
‘And where is Horne now?’
‘At his warehouse along the Thames. Horne did not tell the mayor about this, his wife did. Both message and cake were delivered anonymously to her. She handed them over to her husband and was terrified by his reaction. He became pale and ill as if taken by a sudden seizure.’
‘When was this?’
‘Earlier today. The wife immediately went to see one of the sheriffs. The rest you know.’
‘Lady Horne acted very quickly?’
‘Yes, the mayor himself is suspicious. He still believes Lady Horne knows more than she claims.’
Athelstan stared towards the door as a group of pedlars, battered trays slung round their necks, bustled in, raucously shouting for ale. A one-eyed beggar followed and, for a penny, agreed to do a dance. His skeletal body clothed in dirty rags looked grotesque as he hopped from foot to foot, to the mocking laughter of the tinkers.