by Paul Doherty
‘Brother, you can read my mind,’ the herald agreed. ‘Rumours, or so I learnt, claim the child was disfigured by a great purple birth mark here.’ The herald traced the right side of his face from brow to chin. ‘We all know,’ the herald continued, ‘how the Plantagenet brood prides themselves on their golden hair, fine figures and handsome faces. This disfigured child, according to whispers, was regarded as a cuckoo in the royal nest. Philippa, or so the story goes, panicked and changed her disfigured daughter for the lusty son of a peasant. This story is as old as Gaunt, some forty years. However,’ he sipped from the tankard and stared round the tavern, ‘the story was always kept confidential.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Only those in the know but,’ he drew a deep breath, ‘the Upright Men have suborned leading men in both the city and at court.’
‘The Upright Men learnt about this rumour?’ Cranston asked.
‘True, Sir John. The Upright Men sent their agents to Flanders hunting for a possible weakness, above all evidence, eager to sift among the debris of yesteryear.’ He smiled. ‘My master Duke Ezra thought he’d also join the others snouting around this trough of rich, royal pickings, which is why he sent me to Ghent. I’m not too sure if the Upright Men were successful but they certainly found out about the heads and Gaunt’s mysterious prisoner. Can you imagine, Sir John, if this did become public knowledge and was trumpeted abroad. How Gaunt the great Lord, the enemy of the Commons, is no more than a mere peasant himself with no right to any power?’
‘But this is all a lie.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘Scandal, gossip and rumour flourish as thick as weeds about royal births and deaths. Look at the fate of Edward II, supposedly murdered in Berkley Castle. Stories still circulate that he in fact escaped and became a hermit in a monastery in northern Italy.’
‘Ah, yes, but here there is proof. Someone who may claim that she, not Gaunt, is the true child of Edward III — that she was born of a queen who abandoned her in a Flemish convent.’ The herald hunched closer, his voice falling to a whisper, long, bony fingers jabbing the air. ‘I confess,’ he struck his breast in mock sorrow, ‘that this is only hearsay, but remember, Sir John, the mysterious prisoner was hooded and masked. Why is that? Is it because she has more than a passing resemblance to either Edward III, Philippa or both?’
‘True, true,’ Cranston murmured. ‘I knew Philippa very well; I once wore her colours at a tournament. I’d certainly recognize Philippa’s daughter if I met her. Philippa was quite distinctive in her looks, small and dark.’ Cranston’s fingers flew to his lips, ‘Oh Lord and all his angels!’ he exclaimed.
‘What is it, Sir John?’
Cranston tapped the side of his face. ‘If I remember correctly,’ he whispered, ‘I heard a rumour that such a birth defect did appear in Philippa’s family. I’m sure. John of Hainault, who joined our Queen Isabella in her invasion of England in autumn 1326, a redoubtable knight, a fierce warrior, also had that purple birth mark here on his right side going down on to his neck.’
‘Be that as it may,’ the herald continued, ‘that old woman who lost her head, the midwife, was also living proof. She allegedly claimed to be living in the convent at the time as a handmaid to one of Philippa’s ladies. She actually witnessed the exchange.’ He shrugged. ‘Whether that’s true or not, I cannot say. God knows what she intended. However, she gave such information to her son the scrivener, who drew up one of those anonymous hand bills which, as you know, are usually nailed to a church door or a public cross. Was it to be blackmail, disruption for the sake of it or just to arouse public interest? However, the Oudernardes, through their own scrivener Cornelius, heard of this, and both mother and son were arrested and brutally tortured.’
‘How do you know this?’ Athelstan asked.
‘How do you think, Brother? Duke Ezra has his allies in Ghent — they too have gangs. I spoke to no less a person than the torturer Cornelius used to question both mother and son. He’s a mute.’ The herald grinned. ‘But unbeknown to his master, he is a former monk, a Carthusian, very skilled in the sign languages such monks use in their priories.’
‘And you, my friend,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘are just as skilled, if I remember correctly. Anyway, what happened then?’
‘Both confessed and provided the whereabouts of the woman whom they claimed to be the King’s daughter. She was sheltering in the same house she was born in, Saint Bavin outside Ghent. Oudernarde sent urgent messages to Gaunt and, at the same time, seized and imprisoned the woman. She wasn’t ill-treated but the mother and son were no longer needed. They were hustled out to a lonely wood, their tongues plucked out, their heads severed. Gaunt of course wanted to see their heads as proof. Above all, he wanted to meet that woman,’ the herald spread his hands, ‘so the Oudernardes journeyed to England. Of course, the Upright Men, like the hungry lurchers they are, keenly followed the scent. Gaunt’s other agents were also busy, not just the Oudernardes but the Straw Men as well.’
‘What?’ Athelstan leaned across the table. ‘What are you saying?’
‘The obvious, Brother Athelstan. The Straw Men are Gaunt’s agents. They are his spies, that’s why he patronizes them. They are very good at it. Master Samuel is a collector, a sweeper up of rumour and gossip. They are suited to such work. They travel from hamlet to hamlet, to this village or that; they perform in chapels or churches, castles or manor houses, priories or monasteries. Samuel was once a member of Gaunt’s household. He’s now well placed to listen to the whispers in the shires around London: the power in strength and numbers of the Upright Men, the names of local leaders, what weapons are being collected and where they are stored.’
‘Like the breeze,’ Cranston murmured, ‘you are right. The Straw Men come and go where they please.’ The coroner shook his head. ‘Do the Upright Men know this?’
‘They may well suspect.’
‘Which is why,’ Athelstan spoke up, ‘the Straw Men have suffered.’
‘I have heard about the murders in the Tower.’ The herald picked at the crumbs on Cranston’s platter. ‘Certainly punishment is being meted out to Gaunt and his minions, both Fleming and English, while his authority is publicly mocked.
‘And that includes the Wardes being murdered, an entire family?’
‘Strange.’ The herald raised his hands in a gesture of peace. ‘From the very little I know, the Upright Men were not responsible for those slayings.’
Athelstan nodded his agreement. He entertained his own suspicions about who was spying on whom. The herald drained his tankard and got up. He shook Cranston’s hand. Athelstan rose and they exchanged the osculum pacis — the kiss of peace. The herald stepped back, tears in his eyes. ‘You must think, Brother, that I lost my vocation. The truth is I simply found it. I tell you this, my friend: Gaunt, the Upright Men, the great lords of the soil, the poor earthworms — the revolt gathers pace.’
‘I know,’ Athelstan conceded, ‘as I suspect you are going to warn me.’
‘No, Brother, far from it.’ For a brief second the herald’s face grew soft, losing that sardonic twist. ‘I always liked you, Athelstan. I won’t give you warnings or advice, just a promise.’ He stretched forward, pulled Athelstan closer and whispered in his ear. ‘On the Day of the Great Slaughter,’ the herald hissed, ‘when the strongholds fall, I will protect you.’ He stepped back, hands raised in peace. ‘Pax et Bonum, Brother.’ Then he was gone.
Athelstan picked up his chancery bag.
‘Brother Athelstan?’
‘I am going back to Saint Erconwald’s, Sir John, to confront a Judas.’
PART SIX
‘Deperditio: Destruction’
Athelstan pushed open the corpse door and walked into the musty darkness of his parish church. Bonaventure, sprawled in front of one of the braziers, languidly lifted his head then flopped back. Athelstan, followed by Cranston, entered the nave. The friar crouched to scratch behind the cat’s ears. He knelt, comforting Bonaventure as he stared at the pool of torchlight in one of t
he transepts: the anchorite and Huddle were busy drawing the chalk outline of an angel guarding the gates of Eden with a flaming sword. Both painters stopped their hushed, heated discussion and came out to meet him.
‘All went well at Smithfield and Tyburn?’ Cranston asked.
‘As soft as spring dew,’ the anchorite replied, wiping his hand. ‘But you haven’t come here to enquire about the souls I have dispatched.’
‘No,’ Athelstan declared. ‘I need a word with Huddle about parish business.’
‘About what?’ Huddle’s long, pallid face wrinkled in concern.
‘Oh, this and that.’ Athelstan gently guided Huddle away from the transept and up under the rood screen. No braziers glowed here, nothing but the faint twinkle from the sanctuary lamp and the day’s dying light piercing the narrow windows. It was cold. Huddle began to shiver, so Athelstan went across into the sacristy and brought back one of his robes.
‘Here, Huddle, for a short while be a Dominican.’ The painter swiftly donned it then sat on the sanctuary stool. Athelstan brought two more so he and Cranston could sit before the now very agitated painter.
‘Father,’ Huddle glanced fearfully at Cranston, ‘what is this? Why is My Lord Coroner here?’
‘You have nothing to fear,’ Cranston replied, kindly hiding his own curiosity about what Athelstan really intended.
‘Sir John is my witness.’ Athelstan leaned forward. ‘I will whisper, Huddle. I mean you well. I have come to save your life if not your soul.’
Huddle’s terrified eyes spoke more eloquently than any words. ‘Father, what do you mean?’
‘You are the Judas man here in Saint Erconwald’s,’ Athelstan accused. ‘You, Huddle, who cannot resist a game of hazard, the roll of dice or the spin of a coin. Deep in debt, aren’t you, and just as deep in the counsels of the Upright Men? Your fellow parishioners thought Humphrey Warde the spicer was a spy. He was nothing more than a clever distraction, a catspaw; after all, who would really trust a newcomer, a former resident of Cheapside? My parishioners blamed him for betraying their cause to Gaunt but Warde was only a conduit, wasn’t he? A man who was visited by the real spy, namely you, the parish painter who had to purchase certain mixtures for his frescoes, not to mention those small oyster shells which you use as your colour dish. Or, then again, you need certain spices which are used to preserve paints and brushes. You, Huddle, had every excuse to visit Warde and you certainly did. Much safer, more logical than meeting some stranger dispatched by master Thibault, who’d soon be noticed here in Southwark or, even worse, you, Huddle, being seen with him.’ Athelstan paused. ‘And even more dangerous, Huddle, having to cross London Bridge to be glimpsed in that tavern or this, entering or leaving the Tower or Gaunt’s palace of the Savoy.’ Athelstan grasped Huddle’s paint-daubed hands. ‘No, Huddle, you were the spy and you passed the information on. You visited Warde quite regularly to buy this or that, be it lime or resin or some other ingredient. He could take you into the back of his house where you could talk. You delivered your information which he then dispatched to his masters at the Savoy. God knows how he did that — in a package of spices, a small tun of fresh herbs, a pannier of condiments?’
Huddle simply licked dry lips.
‘It was only a matter of time before suspicion was quickened — how there must be a traitor in the parish of Saint Erconwald’s.’
‘But Warde was never accepted into the community,’ Cranston murmured.
‘No, but he was a spicer; he lived here, he could listen to the gossip and chatter which flow like God’s own rain along the crooked lanes and runnels of my parish. And you helped that, didn’t you, Huddle? It diverted attention from the true traitor; you’d fan the fires of suspicion while acting all righteous. Who knows, you probably offered to place a special vigil or watch on Warde through your regular visits to him.’ Athelstan squeezed Huddle’s hands. ‘You certainly did visit him. Warde’s bills testify to that but. .’ Athelstan picked up his chancery bag and took out the psalter; Huddle quietly moaned and closed his eyes. Athelstan leafed swiftly through the pages and thrust the book towards the painter who opened his eyes and stared at the page which Athelstan tapped with his finger.
‘A unique picture, Huddle: Lucifer falling from Paradise. Now most artists depict Satan as a grotesque with a monstrous head, scaly body and the wings of a giant bat, dragon or some other monster. But this is most original. Look, Lucifer is still God’s light-bearer, a beautiful young man.’ Athelstan pointed towards the transept where the anchorite was still busily working. ‘You copied such a unique idea for the wall painting you and the anchorite have just completed. You did not visit Warde to watch but to talk; you became his friend though a traitor to your own kind. You provided precious information about the Upright Men and received your thirty pieces of silver, or whatever.’ Athelstan fell silent. Huddle, despite the robe, shivered so much his teeth rattled. ‘Warde became your friend,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘so much so he let you read his psalter.’
‘If Watkin and Pike discover your treachery,’ Cranston had now overcome his surprise, ‘friend or not, they will hand you over to the Upright Men. They will take you to some desolate place. It might be days before you die.’
‘I didn’t kill Warde and his family,’ Huddle blurted out. ‘I had nothing to do with that but, there again,’ Huddle swallowed hard, ‘neither did the Upright Men. Watkin and Pike swore that the Wardes had not been placed under the ban.’
‘Why not?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I am curious.’
‘The Upright Men themselves were not sure about Warde, were they?’ Cranston plucked at the front of Huddle’s gown. ‘They too began to wonder how a spicer, distrusted by the local community, could learn so much — not just parish chatter, gossip and rumour but important matters. How did Thibault learn that an ambush was being planned on a freezing, snowbound January morning near Aldgate? Or even worse, that meeting of the Upright Men in the Roundhoop.’ The coroner let go of Huddle’s robe; the artist put his face in his hands and quietly sobbed.
‘It’s true,’ he whispered, taking his hands away. ‘Father, I confess. I love the roll of the dice, the chance of hazard. At the beginning of Advent I visited the Crypt of Bones.’
‘A cozener’s paradise,’ Cranston whispered.
‘At first I won my wagers.’
‘Of course you would,’ Cranston jibed. ‘They always let you win, at first, to lure the bait, to set the trap and so catch the coney.’
‘I played against Lascelles, Thibault’s man.’
‘Lascelles!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘Oh, Huddle, they must have been hunting you.’
‘Lascelles is well known,’ Cranston declared, ‘for carrying cogged dice. Despite his funereal looks, Lascelles is a roaring boy and a very, very dangerous one. He would have Minehost at the Crypt of Bones in the palm of his hands.’ The coroner narrowed his eyes. ‘I am sure you were given the best claret, fine foods, the attentions of some buxom wench.’ Huddle just nodded mournfully in agreement. ‘And so the stage is set,’ Cranston declared. ‘You have won! You are celebrating, you are fuddled, you play again and you are trapped.’
‘I lost heavily,’ Huddle agreed. ‘Lascelles turned nasty.’
‘So what did he offer?’ Cranston asked.
‘To cancel my debt and receive his winnings. I became desperate. He offered me a path out of all my difficulties. I agreed but pleaded that I would need some protection. I explained how the cell at Saint Erconwald’s was fast and secure. Lascelles promised that I would be given help. He told me that Warde was Gaunt’s man, body and soul. He had been promised great rewards, an indenture to have the monopoly of the sale of spices to the royal wardrobes at the King’s palaces of Sheen, Woodstock and Westminster.’
Cranston whistled under his breath. ‘A veritable fortune!’
‘Warde said he had done this before. He came to Southwark to receive information as well as report on anything untoward.’
‘Such as?’
‘The massing of armed men, especially along the approaches to the bridge.’
‘Naturally,’ Cranston declared. ‘When the revolt breaks out, the bridge will be the one stronghold vital to any successful enterprise.’
‘Anything else?’ Athelstan insisted.
‘Oh, to discover where weapons might be stored.’ Huddle glanced away. ‘I informed Warde how our bows, clubs, swords and daggers were all buried with Watkins’ father.’
Athelstan closed his eyes and shook his head.
‘You see, Brother, the plan worked. Well, at least for a while. The others never suspected. I explained how I visited the spicer to buy my own materials and used that to keep him under close watch.’
‘Instead you betrayed the Upright Men at Aldgate and the Roundhoop.’
‘Yes, on both occasions, the Upright Men stayed here in Southwark the day before and then moved across the bridge in disguise.’ Huddle shrugged. ‘Master Thibault could make of that what he wanted.’
‘And the most recent attack,’ Cranston demanded. ‘On the Tower?’
‘After the Roundhoop,’ Huddle confessed, ‘the Upright Men became very suspicious and wary of the cell at Saint Erconwald’s but it was too late for them. I culled rumours about fighters being brought in from Essex. Provisions had to be bought, hiding places secured before they crossed the bridge.’ Huddle’s voice faltered. ‘I passed the information to Warde that the Upright Men were gathering for an attack. That’s the last time I saw Warde alive.’ The artist’s voice broke. ‘Humphrey was a good man. He had been promised so much by Gaunt. He didn’t deserve to die. .’
‘Why,’ Cranston demanded, ‘didn’t the Upright Men drive Warde out, visit him at the dead of night, terrify him into confessing? I mean,’ Cranston gestured at the friar, ‘my good friend here was perplexed about that — almost as if the Wardes were protected?’
‘They were,’ Huddle asserted himself, ‘by me — let me explain. Lascelles informed me how Humphrey Warde’s stay in the parish had not been successful. He’d discovered only what everyone knew. I mean, father, it’s common knowledge about Pike, Watkin and Ranulf, isn’t it?’