by Paul Doherty
‘Christopher? You were saying?’
‘Oh, Reginald,’ Urswicke shifted his gaze from the pedlars and smiled at his companion, ‘our beloved countess. I appreciate she has sustained a grievous setback to her plans. I also realise that her husband, Sir Henry Stafford, lies mortally ill in their manor at Woking. But there is something else nagging at her, disturbing her peace of mind, fretting that great heart of hers. But what? Some other worry she has not shared with us? Is she being threatened? Does some great danger lurk close by?’
‘Of course it does. I am sure Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, is never far from the mind of York. They would love to do her mischief but, to all appearances, she is a noble, lonely woman. She may act like a little cat but, in truth, she is a great lion. She walks a lonely path but, as for what troubles her?’ Bray shrugged and got to his feet. ‘I don’t know, Christopher. However I must first visit the jakes.’
Urswicke watched his companion go. He lifted his tankard, swilling around the dregs of ale and glanced quickly across. Bray had left through a narrow postern door. Urswicke immediately tensed as one of the tinkers rose and ambled across to the same door. A short while later, his companion followed. Urswicke quietly cursed: his suspicions had been aroused and he should have shared these with Bray. He rose, strapped on his warbelt and slipped across the taproom. He quietly opened the postern door on to a deserted cobbled yard which stretched down to the jake’s closets at the far end. There were three of these: those at either end had their doors flung open, the middle one was closed. The two assassins, and Urswicke recognised the tinkers as such, had slung back their cloaks and drawn both sword and dagger. They were waiting for Bray to come stumbling from the closet. They expected him to be fumbling with his points while trying to rearrange belt and cloak. A clever assassin’s trick. Bray would be totally unprepared for the ambuscade awaiting him. He would virtually walk on to the blade points of his killers.
‘Good morrow my friends,’ Urswicke called out. ‘How can I help you?’
Both assassins spun round, going into a half crouch, shuffling forward, sword and dagger out. They separated, one from the other as they edged forward in that macabre dance of professional street fighters, veteran dagger men. Urswicke adopted the same stance, closely watching his opponents. The one on his left seemed to be the most aggressive. Urswicke darted forward, sword blade flickering, dagger ready for when they closed. His assassin blocked the parry and moved slightly away. The other assassin was now creeping closer. Suddenly the door to the jakes was flung open and Bray, realising what was happening, charged out, weapons at the ready. The assailant to Urswicke’s right turned but then slipped and Bray drove his sword deep into the man’s chest. Urswicke closed with the other assailant. He got beneath his guard and slashed with his dagger, a searing cut which deeply gashed the man’s entire belly. The assassin collapsed to his knees, dropping sword and dagger as he toppled silently to one side. Urswicke and Bray immediately searched the belongings of both men but, apart from heavy purses which Bray and Urswicke immediately pocketed, there was nothing else.
‘Hired killers,’ Bray grated. ‘Nothing to show the who, the why or the wherefore.’
One of the attackers groaned and Urswicke turned him over. The assassin was dying, eyes fluttering, teeth chattering. He gagged on his own blood as he glared up at Urswicke. ‘It was not you,’ he whispered. ‘Not you.’ He then shuddered, body trembling as he gave one last deep breath.
‘What did he mean by that?’ Urswicke murmured.
‘God knows, Christopher, but let us leave as quickly and as quietly as we can.’
They left the corpses sprawled in the deserted yard and slipped out of The Rose and Crown. Bray was his usual taciturn self. Christopher felt unreal after the abrupt, deadly violence of the recent affray. He gazed fearfully around. Surely other assassins lurked nearby? They must be followed, pursued by that host of enemies who quietly and incessantly threatened his mistress.
Now and again, Urswicke would pause and gaze back down the ill-lit, slime-ridden runnel, searching for some dark shape or darting shadow. Bray would pluck at his sleeve whispering that they were safe, yet Urswicke remained wary. The places and people he passed seemed unreal, as if in a dream; flitting images like dark clouds before his eyes: a whore being pilloried in the stocks to raucous shouts and insults. A bailiff playing his bagpipes as a woman stood in a pillory being pelted with muck and rotten fruit. Next to this, a tooth-drawer pulled with his pliers whilst his patient, tied to the chair, screamed in agony. A group of men-at-arms dragged a felon along the street, tugging at the ropes as if the man was a horse. The ghostly white faces of beggars and cripples touting for alms seemed to reflect his own fears with their popping eyes and gaping, toothless, red-gummed mouths. A lunatic danced frenetically in a tavern doorway, shouting abuse at a puppet master who was trying to stage the gruesome murder of a merchant in Lothbury. Shouts and cries echoed eerily. Chants and curses mingled, as did the different processions making their way through the streets: wedding parties, funeral corteges and the pompous rituals of different guilds as they processed all solemn to their favourite shrine. Urswicke’s mood did not lighten when they reached St Michael’s, a dark stone, ancient church, forbidding and sombre with its narrow lancet windows, crumbling cornices and crudely carved gargoyle faces. They went up the mildewed steps towards the battered main door. City bailiffs guarded the entrance. Bray and Urswicke showed their passes ‘issued by the Chancery at the intercession of Margaret Countess of Richmond’. They entered the musty porch; Urswicke gazed around and shivered.
‘A haunt of ghosts,’ he whispered, ‘and here comes its keeper.’
Parson Austin, thin and bony, his pallid face all puckered, came hastening down the nave. He introduced himself in a gabble of words, gesturing around as if the murky nave really did house a true menace waiting to spring. ‘Never before,’ he gasped, ‘never before has this happened.’
‘What, Father? What did truly happen here the night before last?’ Urswicke nodded towards the crudely carved rood screen, its entrance now guarded by city bailiffs.
‘I am concerned,’ the parson wailed, ‘you see these bailiffs, sirs, they will be gone soon. The Guildhall says they can’t afford a constant watch.’
Urswicke nodded understandingly. ‘But, Father, my question still stands, what did happen here?’
‘Well, well.’ The priest rubbed sweat-soaked hands on his black robe. Urswicke noticed that this was of the finest wool. Silver rings gleamed on the parson’s fingers whilst the collar of the white shirt was of the best linen. A shepherd who looked after himself, Urswicke reflected, though, this was also the man who’d saved the hapless Pembroke from Zeigler’s cruelty. The parson kept turning round. Urswicke touched him gently on the hand.
‘Ah yes, ah yes.’ The priest licked his lips. ‘Well, the church was locked and bolted that night and, before you ask, sirs, my sexton accompanied me. He saw me turn the keys in every lock as well as draw the bolts.’ Parson Austin led them back to the main door and the postern gate beside it. ‘I held the key to the main entrance. I locked it and when the alarm was raised, the bell tolling the tocsin, I came in,’ he pointed at the main door, ‘through there. I confess I was all fearful but I am no coward, sirs. I served as a royal chaplain in the Duke of York’s array.’
‘Yes, yes I understand you did. We learnt from the Countess Margaret that you saved a Welshman from a bear pit. Some cruelty plotted and planned by a miscreant called Zeigler.’
‘Ah yes him.’ The priest rubbed his hands together. ‘Zeigler was and is a great sinner. I am pleased to learn he has been taken up and lodged in Newgate. He’s ripe for hanging and ready for Hell.’
‘And you saving that poor Welshman?’
‘God save us, Master Urswicke, you would have done the same. I was also accompanied by a cohort of Cheshire archers. Zeigler did not wish to clash with them. I did what I could. I drew the poor man out of the pit and lodged him wit
h a leech, a local wise woman. After all,’ he smiled thinly, ‘I am a priest, I could not pass by.’
‘Of course, but let us go back to the night Cromart was murdered.’
‘Ah well. I opened the door, locked it behind me and hurried over here.’ He led them over to the narrow entrance to the bell tower. ‘I went in to see who was tolling the tocsin. But …’
‘The bell had stopped tolling?’
‘Yes it had. A real mystery because there was no one, no one at all, so I hurried down to the sanctuary. Ratstail was cowering in the corner, Cromart lay sprawled in a puddle of his own blood on the sacristy floor. I clearly remember checking the door leading out to the jake’s pit, it was both locked and bolted from within.’
‘Impossible!’
‘Master Bray, I agree. All the doors were locked and bolted, apart from the main one. There is no tunnel or secret passageway, no hidden door here in St Michael’s. So it’s all a great mystery.’ The priest, still muttering to himself, led them down the nave, through the rood screen and around the high altar to the place of sanctuary in the apse. The ruffian whom Parson Austin introduced as Ratstail was a shabbily dressed little man with thick uncombed hair and straggling moustache and beard. He simply lifted a hand in greeting from where he sat on a stool in the shadows. Urswicke glimpsed the mangled finger stumps of each hand.
‘That man,’ he whispered to Bray, ‘would find it difficult to turn a key, let alone prime and loose an arbalest.’
Parson Austin, still whispering to himself, beckoned them forward. They left the enclave of mercy and crossed to the sacristy, a long, dusty chamber with tables down one side and battered aumbries on the other. Parson Austin hurried to the far end. He unbolted and unlocked the door, flinging it open so they could see the tangled gorse and bramble of God’s Acre. Urswicke walked out and stared across the ancient cemetery, a sea of wooden crosses and stone plinths hiding behind and beneath the wild scrubland which seemed to cover this mournful house of the dead. Urswicke turned and stared at the jake’s pit dug into an enclave between a buttress and wall of the church. He then returned to the sacristy where Bray and Parson Austin were in deep conversation about the murder.
‘According to our good priest here,’ Bray patted Austin on the shoulder, ‘he did the same as we have done now. He came into the sanctuary and around the altar. Ratstail, or whatever he likes to call himself, was cowering in the enclave. Cromart lay dead in the sacristy. More importantly, Ratstail knows nothing because he claims he neither saw nor heard anything amiss.’
‘It’s possible,’ Urswicke tapped his boot on the floor, fingers playing with the hilt of his dagger, ‘but let us see.’ Urswicke went and crouched beside Ratstail. The felon peered back through matted hair, wiping his dripping nose on the back of his dirty hand. He acted frightened and cowed but Urswicke held the man’s stare, catching the gleam in those cunning, narrow eyes. The clerk was not convinced of this man’s innocence. Ratstail was a typical child of the slums. In his world, only one person existed, namely himself.
‘What happened here, Ratstail, the night Cromart was murdered?’
‘I was asleep,’ the man grated. ‘I have told everyone the same. I was fast asleep until that bloody bell began to ring loud and noisily. I awakes and up I jump. I was frightened. I shouted for Cromart. No answer at all. So,’ Ratstail became even more excited, though Urswicke still suspected the man was a mummer and all this a mere game he played, ‘I could not find him so I went into the sacristy then I saw him, he just lay soaked in his own blood. Of course,’ Ratstail’s shorn fingers fluttered to his lips, ‘I was afeared so I came back here and crouched, waiting until Parson Austin arrived.’
‘No, no, no.’ Urswicke edged closer, glancing over his shoulder at Bray who was deep in conversation with the priest about the doors and windows to this church. Urswicke turned back. He pushed his face closer. ‘Ratstail, I don’t believe you. You saw a man lying dead. I suspect you are a sneak thief amongst sneak thieves. Didn’t you go through his possessions, his wallet, his purse? Now, if I accused you of that, others would accuse you of breaking sanctuary, and where would that leave you? Eh?’ Ratstail gazed fearfully back. Urswicke took a penny from his own belt wallet and held it up. ‘All I want is the truth. Tell me it and you can have this, as well as my solemn word not to say anything.’
‘I found him there. I went through his pockets but found nothing. See, it was missing …’
‘What was?’
‘Cromart’s belt, he wore one of good leather, broad and finely stitched with a purse wallet and an empty dagger sheath. But sir, I swear this here in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament, the belt was gone and I did not take it.’
‘Did you tell the priest?’
‘Of course not! He’d only accuse me of stealing it.’
‘And that evening, after nightfall, when Parson Austin locked this church. Did you notice anything amiss, out of the ordinary?’
‘No, no. Cromart kept to himself. Though, on that night, he seemed very restless, complaining of belly pains but,’ Ratstail shrugged, ‘apart from that, nothing.’
Urswicke studied Ratstail’s face. He believed the felon was telling the truth but he did wonder if there was more. Urswicke tossed the coin, patted Ratstail on the shoulder and rose to his feet. He walked back around the sanctuary where Bray joined him.
They thanked the priest and slowly made their way down the ghostly nave. Now and again, Urswicke paused to gaze into the murky transepts or to study the vivid wall paintings depicting Michael Archangel’s constant battle against Satan and the powers of Hell. One scene caught his attention, two fiery-haired demons pursuing a soul along a deep, flame-filled gully.
‘Pursuit and capture, Reginald,’ Urswicke murmured. ‘Just like us and all the mystery which surrounds our lives. We are about to enter our own dark valley.’
‘Christopher?’
‘Reginald, we have, God forgive us, just killed two men, albeit in self-defence. We do not know why they attacked us, though we know that this city houses a legion of those, great and small, who hate our mistress. Anyway, now we are here in this church where one of the countess’s most loyal henchmen, a member of the Red Dragon Battle Group, has been mysteriously murdered.’ Urswicke’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Ratstail has confirmed what the countess told us. Cromart’s belt was indeed stolen, but,’ he stared around to make sure they were truly alone, ‘that is only part of the mystery. Why was it stolen? Is our assassin searching for the so-called Dragon Cipher?’ Urswicke pursed his lips. ‘How did the assassin enter and leave a church which, according to all the evidence, was firmly locked both within and without? Who did sound the tocsin? The assassin? And, of course, why was Cromart killed now, close to the day when he was supposed to be exiled from England? So many questions but one thing really puzzles me.’
‘The involvement of York?’
‘It’s logical. Cromart was important, he may have carried the cipher. York would love to seize that, as well as kill one of the countess’s loyal retainers. Is that why the assassin cloaked Cromart’s murder in such mystery? To confound and confuse? Yes, that may be the answer. The finger of accusation can be pointed at York. However, for my father or anybody else, it’s a case of much suspected and nothing proved. True, Archdeacon Blackthorne may be angry and suspicious, but there is no real evidence that York is responsible, apart from the mere logic of the situation. Nevertheless, York was running a risk, though perhaps it was worth it …’ Urswicke broke off at the rising clamour from outside. The postern door crashed open and Sir Thomas Urswicke, Recorder of London, garbed in the finest livery of the Guildhall, swaggered in: the silver bells on the spurs of his brocaded riding boots tingling like bells to announce his presence.
‘Christopher, my beloved son.’ Sir Thomas took off his gauntlets and – his jovial, smooth face all smiles – extended his hand for Christopher to grasp: Bray he totally ignored. ‘My beloved son. Despite the circumstances, so good to see you. I
heard you were here.’
‘Dearest father, I am sure you can guess why, and you?’
Sir Thomas tapped his boot against the paving stone until the bells on his spurs jingled. ‘Do you know something, dearest son, I hate this benighted church. But come, our masters await …’
Urswicke made himself comfortable on the narrow chair he’d been ushered to around the fine oak table in the council chamber of the great White Tower. Next door was the Chapel of St John the Evangelist; this was the very heart of London’s formidable fortress and the centre of royal power in the city. His father, who now sat opposite him, had been most insistent that his son join him. On their journey to the Tower, Christopher didn’t even bother to ask his father how the Recorder knew that he was in St Michael’s – those bailiffs guarding the church must have informed the Recorder immediately. He glanced across. Sir Thomas was full of himself, constantly preening, touching his chain of office as he smiled across at the countess who also had been summoned. Christopher had met her in the atrium below and she had warned him with her eyes to be prudent, quickly lifting a finger to her lips as a sign to say as little as possible and be wary about what he did. Not that Christopher would ignore such advice. He was now in a house of war where Edward of York slouched in his throne-like chair playing with the rings which dazzled his fingers, or touching his finely coiffed golden hair and neatly cropped moustache and beard. Standing at over six foot, a superb horseman and God’s own warrior, Edward, with his golden hair, glowing skin, full mouth and merry blue eyes, certainly deserved the compliment of being the handsomest man in the kingdom. He was fresh from the hunt and dressed in a costly leather jerkin, leggings and cambric shirt, his silver-stitched warbelt slung over the newel of his chair.