The Relic Murders srs-6

by Paul Doherty

  'No one ever does. Lord Charon had hired him before.' He grinned. 'Certain rivals who had to disappear when Charon could prove he was elsewhere.' 'How would you hire him?' I asked. 'There must be a way?'

  'Isn't it strange?' Cerberus gasped. 'Very few people claim to know the Schlachter yet it's remarkable how many people use his services. If you want to hire an assassin in London,' he continued, 'you make it known in ale-houses or amongst the market sellers in St Paul's churchyard. However, for the Schlachter, go to Scribes' Corner, a small alcove just within the door of St Paul's. Seek out a clerk called Richard Notley. He's a lean-faced knave. Tell him you wish to hire a slaughterer and say where you reside. The Schlachter will make himself known.' 'And the Orb?' I asked.

  'Lord Charon sold it to the Papal Envoys. It was over and done with in a matter of hours. Charon thought it was most amusing.' 'Did he know it was a replica?' I asked.

  'Neither he nor I gave a pig's turd!' Cerberus scoffed. 'The Italians paid good silver and gold. Charon was content.' He licked his chapped lips. 'That's all I know. Shallot,' he gasped. 'As God is my witness. Now, be a gentle boy, pour the rest of that wine between my lips and, if you don't keep your word, damn you to hell!' I fed him the wine and left. I took Benjamin aside and briefly described what Cerberus had told me. Benjamin immediately ordered a friar to be sent for and told the torturers to desist from any further questioning.

  We went out and sat on a bench at the top of the steps whilst, across the green, the remaining members of Charon's gang were summarily despatched. A ghoulsome sight: four gallows, their long poles forming a square. I saw what Henry's troops did when they crushed the Northern rebellion under Robert Aske. There were corpses hanging on every gibbet and on every tree along the Great North Road. But, on Tower Green, with the sun growing strong and birds whirling against the blue sky, it was macabre to see this square of hanged men. Most hung silent, only a few still twitched and jerked in their death throes. At last Cerberus was dragged out: he was carried across on a door and laid before the judges. They asked him how he was to plead. He told them to go to Hell so they sentenced him to hang but Benjamin intervened.

  'Master Cerberus,' he began. 'Master Cerberus was most cooperative in telling us about these outlaws' depredations. He is not to hang. His head is to be severed from his body.'

  Isn't life strange? Cerberus cackled with laughter when he heard this and began to bless my name as if I had given him a king's pardon. Kempe and the judges objected but Benjamin was obdurate. 'He is not to hang!'

  A squabble would have broken out but Egremont got to his feet, clapping his gloved hands. He said something to one of his retainers. The man ran across and brought back a small log from a pile heaped at the far end of the green.

  'If he is not to hang,' Egremont declared, 'justice will still be done.' He rapped out another order. Two of his liveried servants rolled Cerberus off the door and positioned him so his neck lay against the log. Egremont took off his cloak, drew his sword and positioned himself carefully. He brought the sword up and, in one clean sweep, took Cerberus's head sheer off at the neck.

  Of course, I had walked away, hand to my mouth. I don't like the sight of blood, even if it's not my own. By the time I returned, archers from the garrison had placed Cerberus's body and severed head on the door and were taking them away to be buried in a lime pit in a desolate part of the Tower.

  Egremont looked like a man who has done a good day's work. He accepted Kempe's offer of refreshment but first walked round the scaffold, carefully inspecting the corpses as if he was suspicious that one of them might still be alive. Eventually he conferred with Kempe, then Benjamin, Cornelius and myself followed them across the green and up into the great hail.

  'A satisfactory morning's work,' Kempe announced as he sat at the top of the great table waving us to the benches on either side. 'But the last man,' he continued, 'the one who didn't want to hang: what did he have to say to you? What did he confess?' My master's boot tapped my leg. 'Nothing much,' I replied. 'Come, come.' Egremont beat his wine cup against the table. 'Did he mention the Orb?' Cornelius snapped.

  'He said that the outlaws and wolfsheads had heard about the theft but nothing else.' Cornelius's eyes slid away. He knew that I was lying.

  'Surely,' my master intervened. 'Surely, Lord Egremont, you, too, have made careful searches?'

  'Oh yes, we have.' Lord Egremont took his gloves off and played with the small, leather tassel on one of them. 'Rumours spring as thick as weeds.' His voice took on a harsh tone. 'Such as?' I asked. Egremont didn't even look at me.

  'Rumours that the Orb is in the hands of the French or the Papal Envoys. His Imperial Highness Charles V will not be pleased.'

  'My Lord Theodosius, your command of the English tongue is admirable,' Benjamin commented.

  'I studied in the Halls of Cambridge,' Egremont replied. 'The quadrivium, the trivium, logic and metaphysics.' 'And you, Master Cornelius?' I asked.

  'For a while I lived in England,' Cornelius retorted. 'Many years ago I was apprenticed to a cloth merchant, a Hanse at the Steelyard.'

  'What has this got to do with the Orb of Charlemagne?' Egremont snapped. 'Nothing,' Benjamin murmured.

  'In which case-' Egremont got up and, smacking his gloves against his thigh, he bowed to Sir Thomas and Benjamin and strode from the room.

  Cornelius followed as silently as a shadow. Kempe watched them go. 'Are you skilled in tongues?' Benjamin asked him. Sir Thomas narrowed his eyes. 'In French, Italian,' he replied. 'And German?' Benjamin asked. 'Yes.' 'And you have worked in the Empire?'

  Sir Thomas became uneasy. He opened his mouth to reply and looked longingly at the door, as if he wished to be gone.

  'These matters are not your business,' he snapped. 'But to answer you bluntly, yes, I have been a royal envoy to Lubeck and yes, Master Daunbey, before you ask, I have met Lord Egremont and Cornelius on a number of occasions. However, I believe I have got something to show you.' And Kempe strode from the hall. 'Why these questions?' I asked.

  'What,' Benjamin whispered, 'if this is all one plot, Roger? An alliance between Egremont and Kempe, with Cornelius party to it, to steal from both the Emperor and our King and so become rich on the profits?'

  Chapter 11

  We sat and murmured about the possibilities. What proof did we have that this mysterious assassin, the Schlachter existed? Or, even if we did, that he was involved in the theft of the Orb? Our discussion was cut short by a soldier who came in and shouted that Sir Thomas was ready for us. He led us out of the hall and across to Wakefield Tower. Kempe was waiting for us in a chamber on the second storey. He locked the door behind us, opened a chest and, taking out the Orb, held it up. Benjamin almost snatched it from his hands. He ordered me to light a candle and then held the amethyst against the flame. I crouched down and peered as the jewels became brighter. I saw the cross but no figure of the Saviour hanging on it. 'It is a replica?' Benjamin asked. 'Oh yes,' Kempe replied. Benjamin weighed it in his hands. 4 And fashioned by poor Berkeley?' 'Of course.'

  Benjamin handed it back. The chest was closed. We were about to leave when we heard hurried footsteps and a pounding on the door. Doctor Agrippa swept into the room. He took off his broad-brimmed hat and gave a mocking bow. 'I come direct from the court. What news?'

  'You've seen for yourself,' Kempe retorted. "The wolfsheads are hanged but the Orb of Charlemagne is still missing.'

  Agrippa shrugged. He pulled two small warrants out of his jerkin and handed them to Benjamin and myself. My letter was quite simple: it bore the King's personal signature and seal and informed me that the royal ship Peppercorn was due to leave the Thames in ten days time. It was sailing to explore and navigate the waters down the West Coast of Africa: both Benjamin and myself were appointed as officers. Oh, I could have wept! I could have sat upon the ground and howled. I hate water. I don't like the sea and I certainly didn't like the prospect of going on a sea voyage and never returning. Benjamin read his, folded it n
eatly and slipped it into his wallet. 'The King is angry?' he asked.

  'It would be best,' Agrippa replied, 'if you do not show your faces at the court. Egremont is going to leave soon and, if he doesn't have the Orb, the King's wrath will fall on you.'

  With that warning ringing in our ears, Benjamin and I left the Tower and returned to the Flickering Lamp. I was all nervous and agitated, jumping like a grasshopper but Benjamin remained stony-faced. He took me into the taproom and sat me down. He ordered some victuals from Boscombe and began to list the possibilities.

  'Look at me, Roger,' he declared. 'I do not want to go on my travels either.' 'It's vindictive of the King,' I retorted. 'The bastard…!'

  Benjamin brought his finger to his lips. 'Hush now, that's the way of the world, Roger. The King has lost his treasure. Whatever subtle schemes he has been plotting, he has also been publicly humiliated. Someone will have to pay for that and what better victims than the Cardinal's beloved nephew and his rapscallion of a servant? Henry will no doubt plead that it's not his fault: he must show the Emperor that someone has been punished. Moreover, my uncle is no longer as high in the King's favour as he once was. By exiling us from England. Henry gently raps Dear Uncle's knuckles.' He took a deep breath. 'So, we can sit around and moan, or fathom this mystery and discover a satisfactory answer. Now, let's concentrate on what we know.' He leaned closer over the table so no one could hear us. 'First, Henry has the Orb of Charlemagne: the Emperor wants it. Secondly, the King orders Berkeley to make at least one replica.' 'At least?' I queried.

  'Oh yes. We were shown one this morning. We know another was in that chest at Malevel.' Benjamin sighed. 'And, unless we have it wrong, the French have a third.' 'Is that possible?' I asked. 'So it would seem.' 'But why?' I asked.

  'If we knew that,' Benjamin retorted, 'we could solve this. However, let's continue. Thirdly, the Orb was taken to Malevel, where there are no secret passageways or entrances. No one entered or left that house except those two cooks. Yet we know that every man jack of the garrison was brutally slaughtered without the alarm being raised. Fourthly, we know an archer was communicating with Sir Thomas Kempe. We have to accept Kempe's word that nothing untoward was reported. What else?'

  'Fifthly,' I added, 'we know Cornelius had the keys to the house, to let the cooks in and out. Perhaps he was engaged in some subtle stratagem but, there again, why should Cornelius, the most faithful Imperial servant, turn traitor?'

  'Sixthly,' Benjamin intervened, 'we know that, if this Schlachter exists, he certainly sold the Orb stolen from Malevel to the Papal Envoys. Now that poses even more interesting questions. Who sold the Orb to the French? And where is the real Orb?'

  Benjamin paused as Boscombe came back and pushed two bowls of meat on to the table.

  'Somehow, master,' I took out my horn spoon, 'the solution lies at Malevel Manor. I have been wondering what led poor Castor to that cellar? It wasn't the remains of some poor, old woman. What did Castor smell? What was so attractive?'

  Benjamin pointed at his dish of meat. 'Food. Let us say,' he continued, 'the killers sheltered there. How did they escape unnoticed? Were they there with someone's permission?' He sat for a while eating, lost in his own thoughts.

  'We always come back to food,' he remarked. 'Why had the table been cleared away, the kitchen and the blackjacks washed? Food!' he repeated. 'Perhaps it's time we visited those cooks: perhaps they did see something? Tomorrow at first light we'll go there. In the meantime, search out this scrivener at St Paul's. Give him your full name, tell him we're staying at the Flickering Lamp, and say you want to hire the services of a slaughterer.'

  Of course I protested but Benjamin was insistent. So, after a quiet sleep on my bed, I braved the afternoon crowds and made my way up into St Paul's Cathedral. It brought back memories of being hired by Sir Hubert Berkeley. I lit a taper in his memory. As I did so, a serving wench caught my eye: her black curly hair framed the sweetest, prettiest face. She reminded me of Lucy and so I fell to talking. Well, you know how it goes, one things leads to another. We shared a loving cup in a nearby tavern, followed by a most energetic two hours on the bed in a small chamber above.

  It was dusk before I returned to the Cathedral but the scriveners' comer was still busy. I espied Master Richard Notley, a cadaver-faced, wispy-haired man. He sat, legs crossed under the table, lips pursed, pen ready to dictate any messages. I remembered my promise to Cerberus so I sat down and dictated a letter to his parents in Nottingham. Notley acted the professional scribe. He faithfully wrote down my farrago of lies, about how young William had lived, then died, in something akin to the odour of sanctity. Now and again Notley's pen faltered and I wondered if he knew the truth. When he had finished I signed it, paid him a fee, plus an extra coin so that a reputable carrier would take it to Nottingham.

  'Is there anything else, sir?' His close-set eyes studied me curiously.

  'My name is Roger Shallot,' I replied. 'I can be found at the Flickering Lamp tavern.' 'Yes,' he interrupted quickly. 'I know where it is.'

  'I am a farmer,' I continued. 'I am looking for a slaughterer: certain beasts have to be killed before Michaelmas. I want someone skilled, not a butcher's lad.' 'That will be one silver piece, sir, just for my searches.' I paid the coin over. 'And when will I meet him?' I asked.

  "Oh, don't worry, sir. You will be informed as soon as possible. Now-' He pushed back the table and pointed to the hour candle burning in its small glass holder. 'My day's work is done.'

  I thanked him and left. Once outside the cathedral, I remembered poor Berkeley so I went along the lanes and alleyways to his house. His steward let me in. The man's face was tear-streaked, the household still in mourning. All the walls were covered in mourning cloths and the rooms were shuttered; it was no longer the convivial, merry household I had joined. 'You see, Master Shallot, Sir Hubert had no heirs,' the steward explained. 'His will has still to go through Chancery. All work has stopped.

  I expressed my condolences and accepted his offer of white wine and some marzipan wafers.

  'It's about his work I've come. Are Sir Hubert's accounts here?' 'Oh no, sir. Sir Thomas Kempe came and took them all away.'

  'What was Sir Hubert working on?' I asked. ‘I mean, what different artefacts?'

  'None of us know,' the fellow replied. 'For the last year Sir Hubert was hired by the court. He worked by himself without any of his apprentices. God knows what he was doing!' 'Did Sir Thomas Kempe come here often?'

  'Yes, he did, sometimes carrying clinking saddlebags. We suspected they contained gold to be melted down. Only once,' the steward continued, 'did I catch a glimpse of Sir Hubert at work. I was in a chamber upstairs.I looked down into the garden, and saw that Sir Hubert had taken a lantern out: he was holding something precious up against the light. I caught a glint…' he faltered. 'A jewel?' I asked. 'Yes, probably a jewel, some precious stone.' I finished my wine, once again expressed my condolences and left. Darkness had fallen. A watchman stumped along the lane.

  'Nine o'clock!' he bawled. 'And the night is fine! Pray to God for grace divine!'

  The villains who stood in the doorways of the inns and taverns slunk away at his approach, though these did not bother me. Old Shallot can easily act the ruffler, cloak thrown back, sword and dagger hanging from my belt, chest out like a cock of the walk. Thank God we cannot judge a book by its cover. I was strutting along, thinking about what I had learnt, when two shadows came out of an alleyway, cloaked and hooded. My hand was seized before I could grab my dagger and I was dragged into the doorway of a tumbled-down house. I was getting ready to plead for mercy, to offer my assailants anything I carried, when one of the figures pulled back his hood. Cornelius's heavy-lidded eyes studied me. 'Going for an evening stroll, Master Shallot?' 'Yes, yes,' I snarled. 'Taking the night air.'

  'A busy, busy man,' Cornelius retorted. 'Writing letters for poor old William Doddshall; asking for a slaughterer to kill some beast; then down to the late lamented Sir Hubert Berkeley's ho
use. To find out what?'

  Oh, I could have kicked myself. However, you must remember those were my green days. I had not yet learnt to crawl about the streets and so give the slip to any pursuer. Cornelius, his companion standing behind me, grasped my jerkin and pulled me closer.

  'Every step you take, Master Shallot, I am there. When you meet the Slaughterer, you will thank God. In Germany we have a proverb: "He who plans to sell the bearskin, even before he goes hunting, often ends up as the bear's dinner".'

  'And we have a proverb in England,' I retorted. '"A stitch in time saves nine.'" He looked at me curiously. 'And what does that mean?'

  To be quite honest I didn't know either, but it sounded clever! I pulled myself away and strolled off down the alleyway. (Always remember that: if you are ever in doubt, say something enigmatic and walk away. People will think you are wise and cunning. It's a device used by the playwrights. I have never understood certain lines in Marlowe's Edward II. I was going to invite him to supper to ask him what they meant but then poor Kit was killed in a lodging house on the Isle of Dogs, stabbed in the eye by that bastard Poley!)

  I reached the Flickering Lamp and found Benjamin in his chamber, lying on his bed looking up at the ceiling. I told him all I had done, including my visit to Berkeley.

  'Why did you come here in the first place?' he asked abruptly. 'I mean, to the Flickering Lamp?'

  I told him about the relic-seller I had met whilst he was on his travels in Italy. Benjamin just nodded. 'Why?' I asked. 'And Boscombe gave you licence to sell relics?' 'Yes,' I replied. 'But the Lord Charon had other ideas. I was too successful.'

  We heard laughter from the taproom below so we went down for our supper: Iamb cutlets in rosemary sauce, followed by quince tarts. It was a merry evening: Boscombe was dressed up as a bawdy man and he had brought others in for some entertainment. These were the most fantastical-looking creatures: men and women who were known as 'Bawdy Folk'. They were dressed in the skins of animals, mostly otter and fox, whilst some of them wore masks of bears and wolves on their heads. They didn't wear hose but instead had leather aprons across the groin. The men were otherwise naked, crotch to neck. The women had soft woollen bands to cover their generous breasts. They all wore bangles on their ankles and wrists. Large earrings hung from their ear lobes whilst they had painted their faces grotesque colours.