by Paul Doherty
‘Co-operate?’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Do you know what it means?’ He’d caught the stumble in Watkin’s voice.
‘That’s what the Great Community of the Realm told us: co-operate or die.’
‘They are bully boys,’ Sir John broke in. ‘And they used you two noddle-pates to store arrows in a churchyard. I suppose there are plots all over Southwark just like this. And, when the graveyard was full, I suspect you’d start storing them elsewhere.’
‘Not in our houses,’ Pike warned. ‘You can’t hide quivers of arrows in the hovels of Southwark.’
‘Do you realise you could be hanged out of hand?’ Sir John barked. ‘Do you realise that, my buckoes? I could take you out, put a rope round that sycamore tree and hang you out of hand as rebels!’
‘But my lord . . .’
‘My lord coroner won’t!’ Athelstan said.
‘They are coming back, aren’t they?’ Sir John continued. ‘There was a storm last night so I suspect these envoys from the Great Community stayed at home. Now the soil is soft, they’ll return tonight, won’t they?’
‘We don’t know,’ Pike mumbled. ‘All they said was to dig the trench.’
‘But you knew what they were hiding there?’ Athelstan demanded.
Watkin nodded and dried his sweaty hands on his leather jacket.
‘We dug the trench then we’d always leave it open. When we came back, we’d fill a part in and continue along.’
‘Did you ever examine the arrows?’
‘I did,’ Watkin replied. ‘I took a sack out one morning when you were saying Mass, Brother. I opened the rope at the top and shook them out.’
‘That’s how we discovered it,’ Athelstan told them.
Both men were now shuffling their feet, wiping their hands and licking their lips.
‘I want to pee,’ Pike muttered. ‘I am sorry, but . . .’
‘Go outside,’ Athelstan ordered. ‘And, when you are finished, both go into the church and stay there. What time will these men return?’
‘We don’t know, Brother! After dark. One night Pike and I, well, we hid outside the cemetery and watched. There were two of them with sumpter ponies. They call themselves Valerian and Domitian. Yes, that’s their names, or so they say.’
‘Educated men.’ Athelstan scratched his chin.
‘What will happen to us?’
‘Well.’ Athelstan rubbed his hands. ‘You two have helped the coroner with his enquiries. We will not betray you to the Great Community.’ He glanced quickly at Sir John who nodded. ‘Nor will we hand you over to the authorities. Nevertheless, you betrayed my trust. In the church you’ll find some brooms and a little oil. They’re kept in the basement of the tower. I’ll lock you in and you’ll clean the church till this matter’s finished!’
‘Can I have a pee first?’ Pike moaned, jumping from foot to foot.
‘Oh, get out! I’ll unlock the church in a few minutes.’
Both men scampered out. Athelstan slammed the door behind them.
‘They are stupid,’ Sir John observed. ‘Yet, they could be hanged.’ He rubbed his face. ‘But, there again, they are poor, their hovels are smoke-filled; they eat hard bread and drink coarse ale. What I’d like to know is who Valerian and Domitian really are? And, more importantly, I want to check on something.’
He hurried out across the cemetery. Athelstan went to the church, where Watkin and Pike stood in the porch. Athelstan gripped each of them by the wrist.
‘Look at me!’ They did so. ‘Nothing is going to happen,’ Athelstan reassured them. ‘However, I want this church swept and I want you out of harm’s way. You must never do that again!’ He unlocked the door.
‘Brother?’
Athelstan turned.
‘We are very sorry, Brother,’ Watkin said contritely. ‘We truly are.’
‘If you get really thirsty,’ Athelstan told them, ‘go into the sacristy, you can each have a little drink of altar wine.’
He closed the church door and locked it behind him. Sir John had returned to the priest’s house, where he was refilling his jug of ale.
‘There must be dozens of sacks there, literally thousands of arrows. I wonder who has the wealth to pay for that? Certainly not peasants.’ Sir John clicked his tongue. ‘You see, what your two noddle-pates said is true. There’s a storm coming. Two or three years ago the Great Community of the Realm was a jest, a little demon who lived out in the countryside, lurking in the woods or the bottom of wells. A creature of the hedgerow and the hay rick: a figure of ridicule and scorn.’
‘And now the demon’s grown?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, into a figure of fear and terror. The lords of the soil and the men of power no longer laugh but sit in their counting houses; they scratch their chins and wonder what will happen when this storm breaks.’
‘I must see these arrows,’ Athelstan said.
Both he and the coroner walked out. Athelstan noticed how quickly rumour had spread; some of his parishioners were congregating in front of the church: Ursula the pig woman, Pernell the Fleming, Mugwort the bell clerk, Amisias the fuller and others. They were pretending to talk to each other and looked guiltily up when Athelstan approached them.
‘I know why you are here,’ he said. ‘But you must leave. You are not to come near the church nor the cemetery today and that’s the end of the matter.’
‘What about my painting?’ Huddle cried from the back of the crowd.
‘Huddle, my lad! Don’t lie to your parish priest. The day is drawing on, the light is fading. It will wait until tomorrow.’
The crowd dispersed; Athelstan was at the lych gate when he heard his name called. Sir Maurice came striding across and thrust a scroll of parchment into Athelstan’s hand.
‘Your brothers at Blackfriars send you greetings.’ He patted his stomach and grinned at Sir John. ‘You should have come, my lord coroner: ale thick and rich and pastry soft in the mouth.’
Athelstan opened the letter.
‘What’s wrong, Brother?’ Sir John caught his disappointed look.
‘Simeon says it will take some time. However, he hopes that by tomorrow morning I can have an answer. I was going to look at these arrows but perhaps, Sir John, I’ve done enough for the day.’
‘I think it’s time,’ Sir John declared, ‘we prepared for our visitors tonight. If you don’t mind, Henry Flaxwith and my buckoes will stay? The noddle-pates are locked in the church?’
Athelstan nodded.
‘Good!’ Sir John rubbed his hands. ‘Maltravers, I’ll explain later what’s happening. Anyway, I am leaving you on guard. No one goes into that church or cemetery. You’ve had refreshment and it’s time Athelstan and I did the same.’ He clapped the knight on the shoulder. ‘You can stay and write a love poem, Brother Norbert. And I’ll be raising my goblet to you in the tavern!’
Darkness had fallen over Southwark when the two men, caped, cowled and hooded, sword and dagger clinking in their war belts, led the two sumpter ponies up along the trackway into Southwark. Valerian and Domitian had met the carter in the fields beyond the Tabard Tavern. The sacks had been taken from the cart and loaded on to the ponies. Now they made their way through the gloomy runnels and alleyways. The hovels, the dilapidated houses, rose dark and forbidding on either side, blocking out the night sky. They pulled their mufflers up over their noses against the stench from the midden-heaps and unclean sewers. Cats fought and screeched; rats slithered out from crevices in the walls. Beggars whined on corners. They thrust out their clatter boards but received little comfort from these two dark shadows. Now and again, from behind a closed shutter, faces peered out, eyes glittering, but Valerian and Domitian were known to the gangs who plagued Southwark, who were more terrified of these two men than they were of all Gaunt’s spies and agents. Valerian pulled at the rope and glanced over his shoulder at his companion.
‘It won’t take us long.’
‘How many more?’
‘Perhaps ano
ther four or five nights’ work and then we’ll be finished.’
They walked on, the sumpter ponies docile, their hooves muffled in rags. Valerian and Domitian had also wrapped wool round their boots, so that they seemed to glide like shadows from one dark alleyway to another.
At last the line of houses ended. They crossed the barren wasteland which stretched to the cemetery walls of St Erconwald. Valerian stopped, his hand going to his dagger; he could make out the dark mass of the church, the tall tower soaring up against the starlit sky. He peered at the crenellated top but could see no flame or light which meant that the little friar was not gazing at the stars. He was about to go on but paused. Was something wrong? Last night the fierce thunderstorm would have prevented the friar going up the tower. Surely, on a clear night like this, he would seize the opportunity? Valerian licked his lips; he had to be careful, very careful.
‘What are we waiting for?’ his companion hissed.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is it safe?’
‘Why shouldn’t it be? We can’t very well go back.’
Glaring into the gloom, Valerian led the sumpter pony forward. They crossed the small brook now drying up in the summer heat. They reached the wall. Valerian took a rope and climbed on. He flung one end of the rope round a branch of the sycamore tree, pulled it down, fashioned a slipknot and lowered himself into the trench. Was something wrong? Those fools usually dug to a certain depth; now it seemed shallower. He wished he had a cresset torch. Had the earth been disturbed? Did those two oxen-heads have the temerity to search for what was buried here?
‘Come on!’ his companion urged him.
A sack came over the wall. Valerian grasped it and put it into the pit. A second one then suddenly the darkness was seared with a light. Valerian scrambled out of the trench.
‘What the . . .?’ he exclaimed.
From behind the wall he heard the scrape of steel. Figures, shapes loomed out of the darkness. Valerian recognised the little friar. He drew his dagger, adopting the stance of a fighting man, and peered at the rest. These weren’t soldiers! They were city bailiffs, beadles, men with families, timid as mice. Valerian tried his luck. He leapt forward and the bailiffs scattered. He looked over his shoulder. The wall was out of the question but if he could slip through the cemetery, he would soon be lost in the alleyways of Southwark. He was about to step forward again when a broad, massive figure moved out of the darkness. In the torchlight Valerian glimpsed a red, moustached face, cloak thrown back, sword and dagger in the man’s hands.
‘Out of my way, you tub of lard, and I’ll not prick you!’
‘I recognise that voice,’ Sir John boomed. ‘Put down your sword and dagger, my bucko, and surrender to the King’s coroner, Sir John Cranston!’
‘Piss off!’
Valerian darted forward. Cranston was old and fat, he’d prove no obstacle, but the coroner suddenly shifted. Valerian stopped and turned, lashing out with his sword. The coroner blocked this. Valerian drew away, prickles of cold sweat on the nape of his neck. Sir John seemed light as a dancer. In he snaked again, sword and dagger looking for an opening, locked in a whirling arc of steel. Valerian’s dagger was knocked from his hand. He gripped his sword with both hands and came rushing in. Perhaps he could frighten the coroner? His sword sliced the air; Valerian knew he had made a mistake, only seconds before Cranston’s blade dug deep beneath his heart. Valerian felt hot spurts of pain, blood bubbled at the back of his mouth. He fell to his knees; the night sky was whirling, the voices were like a faint roar and, spitting blood, he tumbled to the ground.
Sir John Cranston, chest heaving, wiped his sword on the dead man’s cloak then sheathed it. He told the bailiff to come closer with the torch, turned the corpse over and pulled down the vizard.
‘Satan’s bollocks!’ he swore. ‘It’s Ralph Hersham!’
Athelstan knelt down and pulled back the hood and cowl. He recognised the surly, close-set features of Sir Thomas Parr’s henchman. He gave the man the last rites and, even as he felt for the pulse in the neck, realised the soul had gone out to meet its judgement. He rose at the cries coming from the far end of the cemetery. Sir Maurice and other bailiffs were bundling a figure across. The man’s head was exposed, the vizard pulled off. As he was pushed into the pool of torchlight, Athelstan could see he was badly bruised and terrified out of his wits. The man took one look at Hersham’s face and fell with a groan to his knees, hands extended in supplication.
‘Oh, God have mercy!’
‘What’s your name?’ Sir John barked. He came over and dragged the man’s head back by the hair.
‘Clement, Clement Margoyle!’
‘And are you Valerian?’
‘No, I’m Domitian. Hersham was Valerian.’
‘You brought arrows to St Erconwald’s?’ Athelstan accused. The friar drew close and pressed his finger against the man’s lips. ‘Are you in a state of grace, my son?’ Athelstan glanced over at the coroner and winked.
‘Brother, I don’t know.’
Sir John stood over the man and drew his sword, which he held up by the hilt.
‘Clement Margoyle, you are a felon and a traitor. You have brought arms by night and the only reason must be that you plot treasonable mischief against our sovereign lord the King. You are also hooded and armed, travelling by stealth at night which is specifically condemned by the Statute of Treasons.’
‘No! No! No!’ Margoyle wailed.
‘Therefore,’ Sir John continued, his voice rolling like the peal of a funeral bell, ‘I, Sir John Cranston, King’s coroner in the city and its environs, do sentence you, Clement Margoyle, to death! Sentence is to be carried out immediately. May the Lord have mercy on your soul!’ He stepped back, refusing to meet Athelstan’s eyes. ‘Hang him!’ he barked.
One of the bailiffs threw a rope over the branch of the sycamore tree. The speed at which they worked surprised Athelstan. One end was formed into a noose and put round the unfortunate Margoyle’s head. Sir Maurice made to protest but Sir John commanded him to shut up. He rapped out an order. Immediately the bailiffs holding the other end of the rope began to tug. Margoyle, choking and coughing, was hoisted into the air, legs kicking.
‘Sir John!’ Athelstan implored him. ‘For the love of God!’
‘Oh yes, I forgot that. Let him down!’
Margoyle was dropped with a thud. He lay for a while on the wet grass coughing and retching. Sir John undid the noose.
‘Maltravers, take him over to the priest’s house. Henry.’ He summoned Flaxwith forward. I want every single arrow removed from the cemetery and carted into the city. Take Hersham’s corpse and give it to the Harrower of the Dead. He can find a burial plot for it. Tell him to send the bill to the Guildhall. Athelstan, let’s adjourn elsewhere and question Master Margoyle.’
They left the confusion behind them and went into the priest’s house. Margoyle sat on a stool, still shaking with fright from his rough handling. Athelstan poured him a goblet of wine and thrust it into his hands. Godbless and Thaddeus tried to enter, but Athelstan asked them to wait outside. He handed the beggar man the keys of the church.
‘Go across,’ he told him. ‘And let those two miscreants out. Tell them to go straight home. There is nothing for them here.’
Athelstan locked the door behind him and sat down opposite Margoyle.
‘Sir John, can this man hang?’
‘He certainly will,’ the coroner answered cheerfully from where he sat at the table. ‘Either at Tyburn or Smithfield, it depends on the Justices.’
Margoyle took a deep sip of the wine.
‘But what happens if he co-operates, Sir John?’ Athelstan saw the hope flare in the prisoner’s eyes. ‘What would you do if Master Margoyle here made a full and frank confession?’
‘That would depend on the song I heard. I do feel in fine fettle: that sword fight brought back memories of skirmishing with French pickets outside Dijon. Did I ever tell you that . . .’
&
nbsp; ‘Thank you, Sir John,’ Athelstan said hastily. ‘You have, on many an occasion.’ He studied Margoyle. A bully boy, he thought, but one with a weak face and watery, darting eyes. A bully and a coward, Athelstan considered, a man who certainly wouldn’t die to protect someone else. ‘Master Margoyle,’ he offered, ‘take another drink of wine, then confess. But I tell you this. If you lie, even a little one, Sir John will have you swinging from the branch of that sycamore tree.’
Margoyle drained the cup in one gulp. Athelstan refilled it.
‘I am innocent of murder,’ Margoyle blurted out. ‘I never committed a murder.’ He glanced fearfully at the coroner. ‘I – I don’t see why I should hang for that! Hersham’s responsible!’
‘What?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘The woman at the Golden Cresset.’
Margoyle was trembling so much he had to use two hands to grip the wine cup.
‘Continue,’ Athelstan urged him. ‘You and Hersham were responsible for the death of that woman?’
‘So, I was right!’ Sir Maurice called out. ‘Sir Thomas was involved!’
‘Oh God help us, no he wasn’t!’ Margoyle moaned. ‘I assure you, sir, he wasn’t, that was all Hersham’s idea! He hated you, Sir Maurice. He wanted to discredit you in the eyes of Sir Thomas. The rumours have now reached my master’s household. He’s already sent a messenger down to the nuns at Syon!’
If Sir John hadn’t intervened, Sir Maurice would have thrown himself at the prisoner.
‘For the love of God, sit down!’ Cranston told him. ‘The more this man talks, the better it is.’
‘It was Hersham’s idea,’ Margoyle continued. ‘He hired a whore from Peterkin the pimp and schooled her what to do. She was to go to the Golden Cresset, hire a chamber and lock the door till he came. It was Saturday afternoon. Hersham told me to go into the stable yard and stand guard there. I did so. He was gone a long time; the place was as busy as a beehive. I kept walking in and out of the gate. No one ever noticed me. Then the shutters opened up. I heard my name being called. Hersham told me that, when the yard became deserted, I was to whistle. I waited a while and, when the opportunity presented itself, Hersham cut through the shutters. He climbed on to the stonework, pushed the shutters close and dropped into the yard. He was almost dancing with glee. Only later did he tell me what had happened.’