by Paul Doherty
‘Clever and cunning, an entire family acting as a subtle shield for a spy. Sir John, I can guess your objections. According to Thibault’s plan, the Wardes should have settled in Saint Erconwald’s as comfortable as Bonaventure in my kitchen, yet they didn’t. From the very start they were marked down — distrusted, suspected. So, how did the likes of Watkin and Pike who, most of the time, do not know what day of the week it is, realize this was all a subterfuge?’
‘And the answer?’
‘You know it, Sir John. The Upright Men were informed about the Wardes by their spy in Gaunt’s retinue. And yet there is a further problem. If Warde was discovered so swiftly, distrusted so deeply, what real danger did he pose? How could this poor spicer find out about a secret meeting at the Roundhoop? If they were so blatantly Gaunt’s spies, why not just drive them out? Why this?’
‘Punishment? The ban?’
‘Oh, come, Sir John, you and I both know people are buying and selling information on all sides, all the time. What puzzles me,’ Athelstan rose to his feet, ‘is the devastatingly harsh punishment. The Wardes were spies but, and this is the paradox, they also seem to have been protected while they were here. Why? By whom? Well, at least until now.’ Athelstan surveyed the herb and spice jars along the shelves. The spicer was an orderly man: everything was in its place and clearly tagged, except one jar just on the edge of the shelf, pushed the wrong way round while the cork stopper on the top was not fully secured. Athelstan took this down and turned it. ‘Dust of poppy seed,’ he read the tag. ‘An opiate. Why is it out of place, put back wrongly, hurriedly? Did the killer help himself? Was Warde preparing something for him when the assassin struck? Did the murderer ask for an opiate as a pretence? Did he need it? This is where I found Warde. Was our spicer enticed into his shop and silently slain?’ Athelstan held up the jar. ‘As you know, I have been through the house. Apart from this jar, Sir John, there is no real disturbance, no sign of resistance or a struggle.’
Athelstan blessed the corpses again.
‘You imply that some other person or group, apart from Thibault, were protecting the Wardes?’
‘Yes, Sir John, I mean here in Southwark. Warde was distrusted so he was isolated; he never posed a real danger because he remained on the outside. Why didn’t Thibault just withdraw him? Why didn’t Warde recognize the truth and leave? More importantly, why didn’t the Upright Men, or their cell here at Saint Erconwald’s, just drive him out? Why did such apparent tolerance abruptly end in a savage massacre?’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Yet Watkin, and I believe him, maintains this is not their work. Are the Upright Men innocent of this? Thibault, surely, would not turn on his own spy — so is there a third party, another group with their own grievances — but who? Those in the Tower are forbidden to leave. Ah, well.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘Where to now, my friend? This Valley of the Shadow of Death?’
Cranston jabbed a finger at the door. ‘Brother, we have a meeting at the Tower of Babel in the Cloisters of Hell, Whitefriars, to be precise. I am — we are — going to do business with Duke Ezra of Caesarea, leader of the rifflers, ruffians and roaring boys. I want to question him and one of his henchmen, the Herald of Hades, about what they know.’ Cranston squeezed himself out of the chair. ‘Gaunt and the Upright Men both pride themselves on their knowledge. Believe me,’ Cranston ran a finger across the spice counter, ‘they know nothing compared to Duke Ezra. All my spies, such as the Troubadour or Muckworm, report only what they have learnt from Duke Ezra and his coven, who speed throughout this city like a colony of rats. They sneak along runnels into the dingy dens, mumpers’ castles and dark dungeons of the counterfeits, the cozeners, the coney-catchers and the Jacob men. You’ll find them in taverns and alehouses, cook shops and bakeries. They thrive in the mansions of the mean as well as those of the wealthy. Palaces, friaries, priories, abbeys and monasteries are not free of them either.’ Cranston donned his beaver hat. ‘And now we go to the very source. Let’s leave all this horror to Bladdersmith and his wardsmen.’
Within the hour, having collected his writing satchel and other items for his continued stay at the Tower, Athelstan joined Cranston in the royal barge, specially summoned for the journey across the Thames from the Bishop of Winchester’s steps to those of the Temple. A perilous, freezing, choppy journey. The night was black as ink. The heavy wherry, despite its careful manning by royal bargemen, shook and shivered as it breasted the swells and turbulent tide pools of the Thames. A sea mist was gathering to block out the north bank so only the beacon lights in church steeples and the flaming bonfires of rubbish heaps lit along the different quaysides pierced the murk. Athelstan sat clutching his writing satchel. Around him huddled Cranston and his bailiffs. The mastiff whined against the cold; Flaxwith, tender as a mother with child, tried to soothe it. The bargemen, hooded and masked against the biting breeze, bent over their oars, pulling in unison to the soft chant of the prowman. The air reeked of salt, fish and sweat. Other barges and wherries swept by, the lanterns on their sterns glowing fiercely. Athelstan wondered about the Fisher of Men, that enigmatic recluse who, from his Chapel of the Dead, harvested the Thames of corpses, assisted by his henchman, Icthus, and other grotesques. Would they be busy on a night like this? The prowman called out an order and the barge turned a little to port, juddering as the river caught it. A bell sounded hollow and sombre in the dark. A barge laden with produce broke from the mist and cut across the bows of their craft. Athelstan tensed, Cranston cursed. The wherry swerved a little. The danger passed and they aimed like an arrow towards the host of torches flaring along Temple steps. They swiftly disembarked. Flaxwith and his companions ringed them, swords and daggers drawn, as they moved into the hideous underworld of the city. They entered a maze of narrow, crooked lanes, alleyways and runnels which snaked around the decaying, crumbling houses. Some of these were beginning to pitch forward, turning the paths beneath into hollow, dark tunnels, the sky blocked out by the leaning storeys and jutting gables. Dungeon-like doors, barred and studded, remained sealed shut, though Athelstan glimpsed light through the eyelets. Above them shutters abruptly opened only to slam shut just as swiftly. Box lanterns glowed on the end of their chains. Now and again a shout would ring out a warning. ‘Cranston,’ a voice called. ‘Cranston and his minions.’
A hunting horn brayed. ‘Let them pass.’
Another voice bellowed, ‘Allow those who come to pay service to our Duke safe passage.’ Shadows floated across their path. Ghostly shapes emerged out of doorways and alley mouths. Naked steel would glitter then disappear. Athelstan watched his step but the ground under foot was surprisingly firm and clear.
‘Saltpetre,’ Cranston whispered, ‘they have their own dung carts to clear the muck and spread that. Duke Ezra always looks after his own.’ They left the lanes and crossed a square where a mixture of smells wafted to greet them: the stench of dirty clothes on unclean bodies mingled with odours from the tallow chambers, melting rooms and tanners’ yards which thronged the area. Beggars raced across the square to meet them — ‘ill-looking vermin’ as Cranston described them with their long, dirty beards, their heads covered in old stocking tops. The hunting horn brayed twice again and these promptly scuttled away. They went down a further street, turned a corner and entered another square. On the far side of this rose an ancient gateway illuminated by a veritable forest of torches fastened to clasps above the yawning entrance and along its crenellated wall top; from these broad, silver-edged black banners swirled in the night breeze.
‘The Castle of the Fleet and Newgate Dogs. The Tower of Babel. Believe me, Brother, there are more bodies buried in its cellars and streets than in your graveyard. If you cross Duke Ezra, you are not punished, you simply disappear. Be on your guard. This is the place of jabbing daggers and slashing blades. Prepare to enter Satan’s dark pavilions, the tents of Hades, the bowels of Hell; false of heart and sick of soul are its citizens.’ Cranston turned to Flaxwith and the bailiffs. ‘They have given me their word, but re
main careful. Do not draw your weapons unless I tell you. Do not wander off even for some glimmering mort or pretty doxy. So sheath your swords and follow Sir John into the Valley of Gehenna.’ Cranston led them across the square. Trumpets bellowed and the great gates swung open, allowing them into the notorious sanctuary of Whitefriars. This was the home of all the greasy, grimed rogues: the cogging naves, the courtesy men, the nighthawks, the nugging maids, the cheaters, shifters, cross-biters, the naps and the foists, the knights of the dusk and the squires of the sewers, the rifflers and the rutters.
Despite its reputation, Athelstan was surprised at how clean the lanes were. The smell of mulled sack hung heavy in the air, wafted out of the brightly lit taverns and ale shops. The houses were mean and shabby but, despite the cold, doors and windows remained open, the streets lighted and warmed by roaring bonfires and crackling braziers. At first glance this beggar’s town was not a hive of dark dens but a busy ward with markets still doing business selling goods — stolen, of course, from elsewhere. The ladies of the night strolled in their tawdry finery under the supervision of their two guardians: the venerable Mother of the Kind Matrons — Athelstan did not dare ask Cranston to explain this — and the Mistress of the Wicked Wenches. Lazarus men, as the coroner described them, kept order in the streets with club and cudgel. They passed a large, shabby house. Flaxwith agreed with Sir John that it was the infamous Cutpurse Manor, where pickpockets were tutored. They passed an ancient chapel, the Church of the Condemned, served by a defrocked priest called the ‘Vicar of Hell’. The crowds in the narrow lane parted before them. Curses were shouted at Cranston but he ignored them. The coroner plucked at Athelstan’s sleeve and pointed to where two old ladies stood in the door light of the aptly named Devil’s Tongue tavern. Athelstan peered at them as he passed; their faces were caked in paint, pursed lips brightly carmined.
‘Nightshade and Belladonna,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Two old ladies who visit to nurse and give their victims poison — eternal comfort, a quiet way to go into the dark. One day, Athelstan, I’ll catch them in the act and hang them out of hand.’
They moved on. Athelstan noted that they had a discreet escort, ‘Tyburn Sprigs’, as Flaxwith described them, hooded and visored with the insignia of a red, three-branched scaffold sewn on to their cloaks. The lane twisted and turned and they entered a square. In the centre rose a huge Pity, a life-size cross bearing a carving of the crucified Christ; a little beyond this a fountain still gurgled despite the freezing cold. Athelstan exclaimed in surprise. The cobbles had been cleared of all slushy dirt so they gleamed in the light of the great flambeaux lashed to heavy poles driven into the ground. Three sides of the square were bounded by outhouses, storerooms, stables, smithies and workshops all closed up for the night. Directly opposite them rose a majestic mansion of Cotswold stone with a sloping tiled roof, smoking chimney stacks and mullioned glass windows lit by glowing lamps, their wooden sills painted a smart blood red. The mansion’s majestic entrance door of shimmering black oak stood at the top of wide, earth-coloured steps lit by merrily burning braziers under a row of cresset torches. Cranston and his party moved across.
‘No further!’ a voice called. Men emerged out of the shadows; mailed and helmeted, they wore surcotes boasting the green and gold cedars of Lebanon.
‘No further!’ the voice repeated. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you may go on. Master Flaxwith, you and your men must stay. They will be entertained. Come, come,’ one of the guards beckoned.
‘Go,’ Cranston murmured. ‘But act prudently.’
Cranston and Athelstan were led up the steps. The great door swung open; shadowy figures welcomed them along the gleaming, oak-panelled gallery, past chambers locked and secured. Pure white candles glowed in their wall clasps. Alabaster oil jars exuded both light and a delicious perfume, the fragrance mingling with the most mouth-watering smells of cooked food. Guards stood discreetly in the shadows. Now and again the gleam of their steel was caught by the light. They reached the end of the passageway and were welcomed into a sumptuous chamber hung with cloth of gold; thick Turkey rugs stretched across a layer of coarse rope matting, carpeting the floor. Tapers glowed by the dozen while lowered Catherine wheels, their rims crammed with perfumed candles, provided more light. A fire leapt vigorously in the black stone hearth to the right of the dining tables. Brilliant white samite cloths covered these tables while their every plate, jug and trancher were of the richest metal, studded with jewels.
‘Welcome, Sir John, Brother Athelstan!’ The towering, bald-headed, bushy bearded man in the throne-like chair at the centre of the high table gestured to the empty seats on his left. ‘Sit, eat and drink.’
Cranston and Athelstan sat down. The goblets before them brimmed with red and white wine and herb-tinged water. Athelstan crossed himself as a servant appeared out of the shadows to serve portions of veal and a ladle of savoury vegetables and herbs. Duke Ezra of Caesarea toasted his guests and then turned back to whisper to his companions. Cranston sat and ate, as comfortable as if he was in the Holy Lamb of God. Athelstan simply pretended. He glanced swiftly around; there were about a dozen other men present, lean, pinched faces staring out of pointed hoods. Gang leaders, Athelstan concluded, men summoned to render their account at this robber’s exchequer. Eventually the hushed conversation ended. Duke Ezra rose from his seat and walked around the tables arranged in a square, going behind the seats, praising his disciples. He reminded them of their oaths of loyalty. Abruptly he paused behind one of his captains. Athelstan stiffened as he glimpsed the battle mace Ezra clutched. The duke’s burly face had turned puce red; spittle bubbled at his lips.
‘No Judas sits at my board,’ he roared, ‘drinks my wine, eats my food and clasps my hand.’ Then the mace came whirling down. His victim half turned; he was struck a second blow which sent blood and brains splattering on to the sheer samite cloth. A third blow and the man’s head cracked like a shell as he collapsed sideways.
‘You came here to pay your tithes,’ Ezra raised the brain-splattered mace, ‘not to withhold what is Caesar’s. You must render to your ruler what is your ruler’s. Now my beloveds, you may go. Take this dog’s carcass and bury it beyond the sight and memory of man.’ The rest of the company, stony-faced, chilled by the sudden violence, pushed back their chairs and rose. They lifted the corpse of their comrade, bowed to their host and left. Duke Ezra watched them go and leaned his elbows on the table, fingers laced together, smiling benevolently at what he now termed his ‘special guests’.
‘No murder, Sir John.’ He pointed at the door. ‘Edmund Rastner, also known as “Brillard”, also known as “Rummage”, also known as “Deverel”,’ Ezra waved a hand, ‘wanted in Bedfordshire, Lincolnshire, Norwich and Bristol.’ Again the airy wave. ‘I killed a wolfshead according to statute law. But,’ he smiled in a show of strong, gleaming white teeth, ‘we are not here to discuss that. You would like some blancmange?’ He suppressed a grin, ‘Blood red and laced with nutmeg, no?’ He pointed to the wine jugs carved in the shape of water horses. ‘Do help yourselves. Oh, by the way,’ he gestured around the chamber, ‘it may look as if we are alone but of course, Sir John, we are not. You recognize that?’
‘Naturally.’ Cranston smiled back. ‘The only time you will be really alone with me, Duke Ezra, is when I take your head on Tower Hill.’
The self-styled Duke threw his head back and roared with laughter.
‘Tempus fugit,’ Athelstan murmured.
‘Time flies indeed, Brother.’ Ezra stopped laughing. He dabbed his eyes with a napkin and drank deeply from his goblet. ‘And thus comes the hour of darkness.’ Ezra turned sideways on his throne, peering at Athelstan out of the corner of his eye. ‘I know you full well, Brother.’
‘I wish to God I did.’
Ezra smiled and shook his head. ‘Your world, Brother, is divided into good and bad.’
‘And yours?’
‘Bad and those bad men trying to be good. You and Sir John belong to the
latter. I truly believe that. You’re trying to make sense of our world. I gave that up years ago, Brother. I simply exploit it. Now,’ he turned to face them squarely, ‘let’s make sense of it. Gaunt’s party was betrayed. The attack at Aldgate? They wanted to humiliate our noble Regent, seize those severed heads and, above all, capture that mysterious prisoner, yes?’ Ezra didn’t even wait for an answer. ‘Magister Thibault, that weasel in human flesh, now believes that a traitor lurks close to his master. He has you to thank for that knowledge. Thibault certainly has a traitor-spy in your parish, Brother, though I understand that has now been taken care of.
‘Murdered,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘The Wardes were slain in cold blood.’
‘Master Humphrey was certainly Gaunt’s spy,’ Ezra agreed, ‘a clever ploy. Warde was betrayed by the Upright Men’s spy in Gaunt’s retinue — you’ve probably reached that conclusion yourself. As far as the assault at the Roundhoop is concerned, that was Master Thibault’s revenge.’ Ezra slurped noisily from his goblet. ‘Reflect very carefully,’ he sniffed. ‘As for the deaths in the Tower, Gaunt must be furious. The Upright Men are openly claiming that Gaunt and his coven are not safe even at the very heart of their power.’ Duke Ezra grinned. ‘A true mystery, a public mockery! Gaunt’s guests attacked in full view of the leading citizens of London. What a shame! As for the assassin, young Barak?’ Ezra shook his head, ‘I do not believe he is the guilty one. The murder of Lettenhove and Eli proves that no one is safe. The assassin is like a fox in a chicken run, he is killing whom he wishes. Gaunt looks weak and helpless, that is what is sweeping the city. Guests killed, severed heads left, a member of his favourite acting group slaughtered mysteriously.’
‘Do you know anything fresh?’ Cranston jibed, ‘or are we here to marvel at your wisdom and knowledge? You have power, Duke Ezra, but so do I.’