by Paul Doherty
‘True, true,’ Margaret agreed. ‘But listen, Christopher. First, Oxford’s ship The Glory of Lancaster is well known. Fishing smacks, herring boats and other crafts would have kept him under sharp scrutiny. Secondly,’ she sighed, ‘I might be to blame …’
‘Mistress?’
‘Well, once the members of the Red Dragon Battle Group found sanctuary in churches across London, I visited them. I have that right: their lord is a close kinsman of mine whilst even prisoners awaiting execution can receive visitors. And, of course, I could dispense charity, alms, if not to them, at least to the different parishes providing such former servants shelter and sustenance. Naturally, I met each of the sanctuary men. I spent a day, the very same you and Reginald left London for Walton. I was desperate to give these loyal retainers some hope: whispering swiftly in parables, I told them that Pembroke and three of their party would be making a landfall in Essex within a few days. I informed them of the date, the place and the hour. I trusted all of these men. They had fought valiantly for our house. Yes Pembroke?’
The masked visitor nodded vigorously.
‘One or more of these may be the traitor,’ Bray murmured. ‘If one of them did betray us, they certainly had time enough to inform the Guildhall so the Yorkist lords could despatch a comitatus into Essex. Pride of place,’ he added, ‘was given to your father, Christopher. He must be the guiding hand in all of this.’
Urswicke could only stare bleakly at his mistress.
‘We are all trapped, caught out by the traitor within,’ the countess whispered. ‘And now Jacob Cromart has been murdered.’
‘Who was he?’ Urswicke turned to Pembroke. ‘I mean, you were his comrade. You probably knew him better than any of us here?’
‘A mailed clerk. A true warrior. Jacob was highly skilled in ciphers, secret messages, and all the hidden tricks and clever devices of the chancery. I needed to speak to him. When I returned to London, I bided my time. I found my own hiding place and sirs, with all due respect, I would prefer to keep its whereabouts secret, even more so because of this enemy within.’
‘What business did you have with him?’
‘My business, Master Christopher.’
‘So who would kill Cromart? I mean, if it was one of his comrades they would have to leave sanctuary.’
‘London teems with paid assassins,’ Bray declared, pulling himself up in his chair. ‘One, two or even a legion of them could be hired, though the real responsibility lies with York. Such an explanation is logical. Our enemies have removed a prominent clerk, a fervent adherent of the House of Tudor.’
‘But if they are accused,’ Urswicke replied, ‘that would be highly embarrassing. If the Bishop of London discovered who was responsible; he, she or they, however powerful they may be or whoever patronises them, would incur the full wrath of Holy Mother Church, excommunication with bell, book and candle.’
‘Aye, and that’s the rub.’ Margaret dabbed her mouth with a napkin. ‘Allegations are one thing, proof is another.’
‘Yes, yes, I agree,’ Urswicke replied. ‘Mistress, you told us that Cromart’s belt had been stolen?’
‘Ah,’ Pembroke declared, ‘my Lady, you have told them about the cipher?’
‘My friend, I have.’ Margaret again lowered her head, refusing to meet Urswicke’s gaze.
‘So, it’s this cipher the assassin is looking for? Mistress, don’t you know who holds it?’
‘Christopher, the cipher exists, but God only knows if it’s held by one of the Red Dragon Battle Group or someone else.’
‘Do you know?’ Urswicke turned back to Pembroke.
‘No, I do not. But, my Lady, we must alert my other comrades, otherwise their sanctuaries will become coffin chambers, housing nothing but their murdered remains.’
‘That could be very dangerous for you,’ Urswicke retorted. ‘Where you stay can remain a mystery, but surely you attract dangerous attention with that mask?’
‘Not with this one,’ Pembroke replied, bending down to open the small sack he’d brought with him. He drew out a crudely devised satyr mask and placed this over the mask he always wore. Urswicke smiled, Bray softly clapped his hands.
‘We put on masks,’ Urswicke declared, ‘to face other masks. But you use one to hide the other.’
‘Easy enough.’ Pembroke put the mask back into the sack. ‘Once I leave here, I am a member of the honourable Guild of Dung Collectors who, as you know, wear such masks to protect their faces as well as to proclaim who they are! How many of you would willingly approach a dung collector reeking of filth. No, no, we are left well alone. I have my barrow, my shovel and I can move around streets without let or hindrance.’
‘True, true.’ Urswicke smiled at his visitor. ‘A man of great cunning, Pembroke. No one would ever suspect you.’
‘To hide in full sight,’ Margaret declared, ‘to hide in full sight,’ she repeated, ‘one of my maxims because it always proves successful.’
‘My Lady,’ Pembroke patted his leather jerkin, ‘gentlemen, my comrades sheltering in other churches must be warned.’
‘They have been already,’ Margaret replied. ‘I have a trusted courier, a messenger and well-known member of my household. Fleetfoot.’
‘Ah yes,’ Urswicke declared. ‘Well named. Swift and cunning as any lurcher …’
‘He was once a member of a mummers’ guild.’ The countess smiled. ‘A master of disguise. Fleetfoot has been busy on my behalf. He has visited the other five sanctuary men and informed them of Cromart’s mysterious slaying. But, rest assured Master Pembroke, my two henchmen here must also help in the preparations for our departure.’
‘And you,’ Urswicke demanded, ‘Master Pembroke, you cannot continue to hide. There is no profit in it for you?’
‘I certainly don’t intend to.’ Pembroke’s voice became mocking. ‘Indeed, I am going to seek sanctuary myself at St Michael’s. And why not? Parson Austin is friendly to me, very well disposed. You have told them about my former life, mistress?’
‘Of course.’
‘I will be safe there.’ Pembroke patted his jerkin. ‘The good parson will keep special vigil over me. And, who knows, I may have words with Ratstail, discover anything I can about Cromart’s death. But I won’t do this immediately. Once tomorrow has come and gone, I will become a sanctuary man. But first, I intend to watch Zeigler hang on the great gibbet over Tyburn stream.’
‘What!’
‘Oh yes, Master Christopher, the monster responsible for this.’ Pembroke touched his mask with his gloved fingers. ‘Zeigler, that horror from the very bowels of Hell, will be strangled tomorrow morning. I intend to be as close as possible to watch the very last beat of his heart.’
‘How is this?’ Bray leaned forward. ‘I understand Zeigler was a Yorkist captain who enjoyed an infamous reputation for ferocious cruelty?’
‘Once the war ended,’ Pembroke retorted, ‘Zeigler was freed of his indentures. He drifted into the city as a freebooter, a mercenary. He joined a gang of rifflers who, quite recently, attempted to plunder a warehouse in Queenhithe. During the attack two watchmen were killed. Zeigler was captured, summarily tried before the justices at the Guildhall, found guilty and sentenced to hang. He is, at present, languishing in Newgate, but his execution is tomorrow. I will watch him choke to death then I will take refuge in St Michael’s.’
‘And you think you will be safe there?’ Urswicke demanded.
Pembroke rose to his feet. ‘As I said, perhaps I can discover something during my stay in St Michael’s. After all, it won’t be for long, we are to leave soon for the coast. So,’ he extended a gloved hand for Urswicke and Bray to clasp, ‘God willing, we shall meet again just before the Angelus bell in the courtyard of All Hallows by the Tower.’ Pembroke bowed and left, Urswicke closing the door behind him.
‘Now there goes a strange soul, a man with no face so what of his heart?’
‘Full of loyalty to me and mine, Christopher,’ the countess repl
ied. ‘A man who seethes with hate for York and all his works.’ Margaret abruptly rose and Urswicke wondered why his mistress was so agitated and distracted. In fact, she had been for days before she despatched them into Essex. She had just confided in them, showed them great trust, but Christopher believed she was still holding something back and wondered why this was, what business could it be? True, the countess and her son lived in constant danger and the threat and menace against them seemed to be closer and greater …
‘It’s time we left as well.’ Bray rose and picked up his cloak and warbelt. Urswicke did likewise. He was fastening them on when the door was flung open and a maid, all a fluster, her white face framed by night-black hair, bustled into the chamber. She abruptly stopped and stared at the two men.
‘I am sorry, mistress,’ she stammered, ‘but I thought your visitors had left. A man came, a courier from the Guildhall.’
Margaret almost snatched the scroll from the maid’s hand and peremptorily dismissed her with a sharpness Urswicke had rarely seen. The maid fled, slamming the door behind her as the countess broke the blob of red seal wax. She unrolled and read the scroll, crossing over to one of the glass-filled windows. She groaned and let the letter fall into the window seat.
‘Oh Lord have mercy on us,’ she whispered. ‘I suspected as much.’ She picked up the letter and beckoned her henchmen closer. ‘It’s from your father, Christopher. Sir Thomas Urswicke, Recorder of London, he will definitely escort the sanctuary men from All Hallows to Thorpe Manor. After that, they are to make their own way to any waiting ship. Secondly, Sir Thomas has, in his infinite wisdom, decided that not only will our five sanctuary men be escorted into exile, but certain other malefactors and miscreants will join them and so rid this city of troublemakers. God’s teeth,’ she breathed, ‘your father, Christopher, is cunning! Only he knows what mischief he will arrange along the way.’
‘It certainly gives him the opportunity to watch Pembroke and the rest,’ Urswicke added bitterly. ‘Heaven knows what spies and assassins will join our unholy pilgrimage, if you can call it that.’
‘It makes sense, mind you,’ Bray declared. ‘I can see the cruel logic in Sir Thomas’s decision. In his eyes, Pembroke and his coven are dyed-in-the-wool traitors. Your father would love to curry favour with York by annihilating Pembroke and his coven once and for ever; perhaps he plans to do this on the journey to Thorpe.’
‘Mistress?’ Urswicke queried. ‘You have gone silent.’
‘Of course I have, Christopher. I have made my decision. I must get a message to Adam Blackthorne, Archdeacon of London. Yes, yes, I will ask for his permission to accompany these sanctuary men across Essex to Thorpe Manor. After all, those who sought sanctuary were retainers of both my late dead husband and my close kinsman Lord Jasper Tudor. I doubt if Blackthorne will refuse. I mean no harm. I pose no threat and he will be the richer for it.’
‘What happens,’ Bray demanded, ‘if we get these people safely aboard ship? If Sir Thomas has spies and assassins joining our sanctuary men, they will not be too happy at a long voyage through the Narrow Seas down to La Rochelle. Moreover, they could still pose a danger …?’
‘True, true,’ the countess agreed. ‘What we must do is ask the master of The Galicia to keep a close eye on this cohort and let them go ashore at the first available port along the coast of France. So gentlemen,’ Margaret rose, ‘we are finished for the while.’
PART TWO
‘See Fulfilled The Angel’s Warning!’
Urswicke and Bray left the countess’s riverside mansion. Cloaked and hooded, hands not far from the hilts of their swords, they pushed their way through the surging city crowds. Despite the weather with all the signs of approaching winter, the streets were thronged with sellers and buyers as well as those who flocked through the city gates for a day’s distraction. The dung carts were out. The week’s trade was drawing to a close so as much filth as possible was being cleared from the streets in preparation for the day of rest. Cesspits, lay stalls and jake’s pots had to be emptied. The filthy, reeking sludge was being loaded on to great carts which would empty their vile contents into the cavernous sewers close to the Fleet and Walbroke rivers and, if these were full, the deep-dug cesspits beyond the city walls. The stench was truly offensive and the nosegay sellers were doing a roaring trade so the good citizens could thrust their faces into the soft, wet herbs, a welcome relief from the reek of the streets.
Bray and Urswicke walked purposefully, yet wary of the swinging shop and tavern signs creaking just above their heads. They were also vigilant about the upper windows of the dwellings on either side and the rain of slops hurled from these into the streets below. People cursed and shoved each other for the safest path through this midden heap of sheer foulness. Merchants, guildsmen, prosperous priests and clerics garbed in taffeta, damask, thick furs and the finest leather, rubbed shoulders with bare-arsed beggars, whining whores and complaining cripples. Apprentices, hot-pot girls and boys, spice scullions and pastry patters threaded their way through the crowds offering trays of different foods. People bought items, clinking coins into the tray, ignoring the bailiffs whipping a meat-pie man who had tried to sell cat meat as the juiciest beef. Alehouses, taverns, beer booths and wine shops offered a range of different drinks. Tavern masters and their scullions bawled for trade, competing against the raucous din of the streets and the constant clanging of church bells. Others had flocked into the city eager to make a pretty penny. A conjuror stood on a plinth boasting how he could make his pet monkey disappear for a coin. The conjuror became involved in a furious shouting match with a city wit who offered two pennies if the conjuror could follow his monkey. Curses were exchanged, blows threatened, but the King’s peace was strictly maintained. City bailiffs in their coloured liveries patrolled with clubs and whipping canes. Turnkeys led lines of boisterous miscreants, now sobered up after being doused in the freezing water of a horse trough. These peace-breakers, soaked and shivering, were being dragged down to the city clinks, gaols or stocks.
Bray and Urswicke turned into a crossroads where soldiers wearing the colours and insignia of York, be it the royal arms, the Bull of Clarence or the White Boar of Gloucester, milled about a three-branched scaffold. Apparently felons guilty of breaking the King’s peace by rifling a merchant’s house had been summarily tried and hanged. The dangling bodies still quivered, in their final death throes. At the foot of the scaffold friends and relatives waited to take the corpses. Others had also gathered: robbers hoping to snatch the dead men’s belongings, pathetic though they may be. These shoved and pushed at the wizards, witches and warlocks who also clustered close as they regarded those who had been hanged, be it their flesh or their clothing, as a source of great power in their dark rites. A macabre nightmare scene. Urswicke just stood staring at the gallows as he recalled those two unfortunates, their bodies dangling on the gibbet at Walton. Urswicke plucked at Bray’s sleeve.
‘Come,’ he whispered. ‘Let us rest for a while. This tangle of streets has jarred my mind.’
Bray glanced at Urswicke and noticed how the young clerk’s face had paled. Sharp of wit and keen of mind, Bray realised that Urswicke sometimes found it difficult to thread the streets of London. A dark maze, as he once called them, fraught with danger and the haunt of nightmare souls. On occasion, Urswicke would even panic, and Bray believed that such anxieties had now surfaced.
‘Follow me,’ he whispered.
Bray led his companion down a narrow street to The Rose and Crown, a smartly decorated tavern with a pillared entrance where a watchman stood on guard. He let them through into the sweet-smelling taproom; its beams decorated with white sacks containing meats and other foodstuffs so they could be dried by the smoke curling from the great-mouthed hearth as well as the savoury fragrances from the kitchen to the right of the roaring fire. A young spit-boy sat in the inglenook. Now and again he turned the spit and basted the meats roasting there with spices and herbs. Urswicke and Bray, their mouths w
atering at the savoury smells, took a table in the corner where they could keep a sharp eye on both the taproom and its different doors. They ordered a capon cooked in white sauce, with strips of crispy pork from the great hunk of meat decorating the spit, along with blackjacks of home-brewed ale. They ate and drank in silence. Urswicke, now much restored, leaned across the table as he cleaned his horn spoon on the napkin.
‘Reginald, our mistress …’
‘What about her?’
‘Well, I concede her troubles have deepened. We left London some days ago. We travelled into Essex, sheltered there for a while before going down to Walton. Well, you know what happened. We returned to London to report nothing but failure. Our mistress is truly distraught. Two of her most loyal retainers have been executed. Two others fleeing for their lives, whilst another has been mysteriously murdered in sanctuary at St Michael’s. More importantly, and indeed this is vital, a traitor, an assassin lurks deep either in her household or that of her kinsman Lord Jasper Tudor.’
‘Or in both.’
‘True, Reginald. And yet there is something else troubling her. I know that.’ Urswicke paused and sipped at his ale whilst warning Bray with his eyes. Two dung collectors had wandered in, their faces hidden behind the usual grotesque masks. The men took these off and began to argue with the watchman who’d followed them in. Both men claimed they didn’t care if they stank, they were hungry officials of the city and demanded to be served, only then would they leave. Minehost became involved and, during the ensuing altercation, two pedlars slipped into the taproom. Both men were young and shabbily dressed, each had a tray of geegaws on a cord slung around their necks. Urswicke ignored the dung collectors, who had followed minehost out of the taproom, whilst he closely scrutinised the new arrivals, the deep hoods on their cloaks now pushed back. The pedlars sat down whispering to each other. Urswicke’s wariness deepened. Never once did these men look across at either him or Bray. Pedlars, wandering tinkers, were always hungry for trade, and would accost anyone, anywhere at the drop of a hat. He also noticed how their cloaks were bulky and wondered if both men wore warbelts beneath.