by Paul Doherty
‘Rifflers,’ Urswicke murmured, patting his companion on the shoulder. ‘I suspect they are the same pack Zeigler hunted with.’
‘In which case there could be trouble. Rifflers do not usually watch their comrades hang. I am surprised they have appeared here to be scrutinised and studied by the sheriff’s men.’
Further conversation was stilled by further booming of the great prison bell, a chilling, sombre proclamation of what was about to happen. The iron-studded gates creaked open. The tolling became more incessant, the bell’s clamour echoed by shrill, piercing trumpet blasts as the sheriff’s men filed through the gate. Behind them, a group of executioners led out the death cart, pulled by four great dray horses, caparisoned in black, shiny leather. The cart, decorated with red-black ribbons, was in fact a huge, moving cage, capable of carrying at least a dozen prisoners, but this morning there was only one. A giant of a man, his head and face were completely shaven whilst he was garbed in a filthy white death gown. Many condemned men just crouched and cried, but not this prisoner.
‘Zeigler the riffler,’ Urswicke murmured. ‘He certainly looks the part.’
Zeigler stood grasping the bars of the cage. He greeted the shouts and catcalls with his own litany of abuse. He spat, shook his fists and banged the bars. Urswicke watched the crowd. The rifflers, garbed in their red neckerchiefs, now clustered together like a shoal of fish, pushing their way through the mob close to the rear of the death cart.
The sheriff’s men, no more than a comitatus of sixteen, were also growing alarmed. Some drew swords. The serjeant leading one of the dray horses came back to remonstrate with the growing cohort of rifflers who now threatened to surround the cart completely. At the same time, Urswicke glimpsed a dung collector, garbed in flapping leather, a mask across his face, reach the side of the cart. Urswicke was sure it was Pembroke, yelling curses at the prisoner who now ignored his fellow rifflers to pound against the bars of the cage and scream abuse at his tormentor. The growing clamour drowned what was being said during this furious confrontation. The execution party now turned, going up towards the Inns of Court. The cart slowed down then stopped and the red-garbed rifflers attacked. They swept aside the hapless guard and cohort of executioners. Four of the rifflers, armed with hammers and iron bars, battered at the door of the prison cage. Pembroke, realising what was happening, turned and vanished into the surging crowd, which now panicked as the violence erupted and spread. Urswicke clambered down and grabbed Bray by the arm.
‘Let us leave,’ he urged. ‘There will be no hanging this morning.’
Later that day, Urswicke and Bray squatted in the sacristy of St Michael’s. They sat on the floor, their backs to the great wooden aumbries. Pembroke, dirty and dishevelled after his hasty flight through the city, sat opposite.
‘So you fled Newgate and sought sanctuary here?’
‘Master Christopher, that’s obvious.’ Pembroke’s voice carried a touch of laughter.
‘And your confrontation with Zeigler?’
‘A litany of curses were exchanged. I told him who I was. How I’d pay good money to watch him strangle in the air. He remembered me well, though he mocked that he could not recall my face.’
‘And his escape?’ Bray demanded.
‘I understand it was successful. He must be hiding deep in a cesspit, some city sewer as filthy as he is.’ Pembroke shook his head. ‘What a pity! To watch him strangle would have been some reparation for the grievous wound he dealt me.’
‘Aren’t you suspicious?’ Urswicke queried. ‘I do wonder if he was meant to escape.’
Pembroke just glanced away and, despite the mask, Urswicke sensed the man’s fury at what had happened.
‘Will you pursue him?’ Bray asked.
‘How can I?’ Pembroke beat a fist against his leg. ‘How can I, a fugitive, a sanctuary seeker? I dare not go down amongst the dead men to hire an assassin. I just pray that one day I will meet Zeigler this side of Hell. But, as for his escape?’ Pembroke shrugged. ‘You both know, indeed it is well recognised, that prisoners escape, scaffolds and gibbets are stormed. However, I cannot say if the sheriff’s men were involved in some conspiracy. I, I …’ His voice trailed away.
‘Tell me,’ Urswicke urged, ‘why did you seek sanctuary here? I have asked this before but, bearing in mind what has just happened,’ he gave an abrupt laugh, ‘Zeigler could very well come here.’
‘And you have answered your own question, Master Christopher. First, despite Cromart’s murder, St Michael’s still enjoys the right of sanctuary. Secondly, as you know, Parson Austin saved me from Zeigler. He has a sympathy and compassion for me which I would be foolish to ignore. Thirdly, Parson Austin, I understand, is to accompany the sanctuary men to the coast and I am pleased to continue under his protection. Fourthly, if matters go awry, St Michael’s stands by the river. It lies at the heart of a tangle of narrow runnels along which, if I have to, I could flee. You know how easy it is to get lost in such a maze. Finally, this is where my good friend and companion Cromart was murdered. I just wonder if he hid something here in a crevice in the wall, a gap between the flagstones – though, I admit, that would be a rare possibility.’
‘And when you reach Brittany?’
‘Gentlemen, let me first check that Ratstail is not eavesdropping.’ Pembroke rose and walked to the door. He drew back the bolts and went into the sanctuary. He returned a short while later, shaking his head. ‘This church,’ he exclaimed, ‘is locked and bolted from within. However, my good comrade Ratstail is certainly not someone who lurks deep in the shadows. He claims to have heard sounds. According to him, he went to investigate. He stood in the entrance to the rood screen, he is certain that he saw a shape flitting between the pillars along the north transept.’
‘And?’ Urswicke demanded.
‘When Parson Austin welcomed me here, he personally assured me that all entrances were sealed. He used the postern at the far end near the font to leave and enter the church. At my insistence, he handed me the key to lock ourselves in. Now, as far as I am concerned, when I safely reach Brittany …’ Pembroke paused at a rapping on the sacristy door.
‘Sweet heaven!’ Bray exclaimed. He rose and opened the door. Ratstail stood there, all a-quiver, pointing back across the sanctuary. In the dim light Ratstail looked a truly pathetic sight and Urswicke wondered if such a witless creature could be in the pay of York.
‘There is someone in the church,’ Ratstail whined, ‘I feel it. I see dark shapes. Master Pembroke, good sirs, I am greatly afeared.’
Urswicke rose.
‘Let’s search the church,’ Pembroke murmured, ‘then we will have peace.’
They crossed the sanctuary. Bray marched down the nave towards the main door and the entrance to the bell tower. Urswicke crossed into the murky transept. Pembroke searched the equally dark south transept, the only light being that piercing the narrow lancet windows along the outside walls. They moved around the church trying the devil’s door, the corpse door and the ancient postern once used for lepers. Yet, like the others, they were secure, their rusty keys thrust deep into battered locks. Urswicke thought he heard a door open and close, but this old church constantly creaked, its timbers groaning as if they found the stone too heavy to support. Urswicke joined Bray outside the bell tower: his comrade had gone up the steps inside so Urswicke checked the main door and returned to the sanctuary. He went around the altar and almost stumbled over Ratstail’s corpse. The felon lay sprawled in a widening pool of blood. Urswicke shouted for the others. He then crouched down and scrutinised the crossbow bolt embedded deep in the felon’s throat, shattering flesh and bone it had gone so deep. ‘And your purse?’ Urswicke whispered. He quickly searched the dead man’s ragged clothing and found his tattered wallet: this contained the penny Urswicke had previously given him, but also, surprisingly, two good silver pieces which Urswicke swiftly pocketed. Pembroke and Bray joined him, both murmuring prayers as they knelt beside the corpse.
‘How?’ Pembroke’s voice was muffled by his mask which he quickly readjusted. ‘How?’ He repeated. ‘None of us is carrying a crossbow and with this mask I would find it hard to prime, aim and loose one.’
Bray just shook his head in disbelief.
‘Ratstail may have been telling the truth,’ Urswicke declared. ‘He believed someone was lurking in the church.’ Urswicke crossed himself. ‘Leave the corpse, Ratstail is beyond our help. Let us search this place.’
They did but it proved fruitless and, once they’d finished, they gathered before the rood screen.
‘No weapon!’ Urswicke exclaimed. ‘No sign of an intruder or anything left by the assassin.’
‘They will blame us,’ Pembroke exclaimed bitterly. ‘One or all of us. We are the only ones here. But look at me,’ Pembroke beat the dirty, deeply stained leathers he wore, sending up gusts of reeking dust. ‘Gentlemen,’ he pleaded, ‘search me, search the church. There is no weapon.’
‘No need,’ Urswicke replied, patting Pembroke on the shoulder, staring into the fear-filled eyes peering through the slits in the mask.
‘A true mystery,’ Bray whispered. ‘There must be, there has to be another entrance into this church. What other explanation can there be?’
‘There’s no logic to it,’ Urswicke agreed. ‘We saw or heard nothing untoward. No click of the arbalest, no cry or indication of any resistance by Ratstail, yet he was murdered – why?’ Urswicke demanded. ‘Why was it so important to kill that pathetic little man?’ He pointed at Pembroke. ‘You say that Ratstail may have been an informer, a spy in the pay of York?’
‘Ratstail was a master of deceit and …’
Pembroke fell silent at a rattling down the nave, a pounding on a door followed by cries and shouts. Urswicke excused himself and hurried down the church, the hammering came from the devil’s door in the north transept. He hastened across, turned the key and the door was flung open as Parson Austin, accompanied by a group of men armed with cudgels, swept into the church.
‘Good morrow, Father,’ Urswicke stepped back raising both hands. ‘Pax et bonum. Why all this tumult?’
‘Why indeed.’ Parson Austin, carrying a morning star, a battle mace, stepped closer. He lifted the ugly spiked club. ‘Being a priest,’ he declared, ‘I cannot carry a sword, but this will be defence enough against any mischief. Well,’ he indicated with his head at the shabbily dressed men thronging around him, ‘we believe there is mischief. Is all well here?’
‘Ratstail has been murdered, a crossbow bolt to his throat.’ Urswicke’s reply provoked an outcry from the parish council, which Parson Austin stilled by raising his hand.
‘And the perpetrator?’
‘God knows,’ Urswicke retorted and, beckoning the priest closer, told him exactly what had happened. The parson heard him out, nodding in agreement, gesturing at his parishioners to remain silent, now and again shifting his grip on the morning star.
‘Ratstail may have been correct,’ the parson declared. ‘I was meeting my council in the parlour of the priest’s house, its windows overlook God’s Acre. Two of my parishioners glimpsed movement in the cemetery. It usually lies desolate but, according to them, a door swung open and closed. Perhaps it was the corpse door; they also glimpsed a figure running at a half-crouch through God’s Acre. So,’ he lifted his club, ‘I donned boots and cloak and told my parishioners to join me. Ah well, I’d best see the corpse.’
Ordering his parishioners to stay where they were, the parson accompanied Urswicke up the nave. The priest nodded at Bray and Pembroke then went to stand over the corpse. Parson Austin sniffed then crossed himself before going into the sacristy where he put on a stole and took the phials of sacred oil and holy water from their coffer. He returned and swiftly administered the last rites, anointing Ratstail on the forehead, above his staring eyes and the corner of his bloodied lips. Urswicke watched closely. Parson Austin, he sensed, was certainly not what he appeared; the ageing, venerable, even ascetic parish priest. He carried that morning star like a veteran and, on occasions such as this, walked with the slight swagger of a seasoned soldier. Parson Austin, he reasoned, had been a man of blood. The priest glanced up and caught Urswicke’s stare.
‘A grim business, my friend.’ The priest got to his feet and raised the morning star. ‘You were watching me intently?’
‘I was just wondering, you are a former soldier?’
‘Master Christopher, you know what I am. I once wore York’s livery. I served the present King’s parents, Duke Richard and his wife Cecily, the duchess.’ The priest’s harsh face broke into an icy smile. He walked forward and clasped Pembroke on the shoulder. ‘I left York’s service shortly after I rescued my comrade here from Zeigler.’
‘You call him comrade?’
‘And rightly so. I relieved a soul in distress. I helped him to become his handsome self. Didn’t I, Gareth?’
Pembroke, chuckling to himself, just bowed in mocking deference.
‘And now Zeigler has escaped,’ Bray declared, joining Urswicke. ‘Rumour says he might take sanctuary.’
‘Just a rumour,’ the parson retorted. ‘Tittle-tattle spread by Zeigler’s criminal companions. I believe the villain will be hiding deep in the filthy shadows of this city. Ah well, I have a fresh corpse to take care of as well as a further report for Archdeacon Blackthorne. Indeed, apart from myself, I wager he will be the only one to mourn poor Ratstail, another soul slain in sanctuary …’
Urswicke and Bray made their farewells and left the church. Pembroke assured them that he’d be safe enough, though Parson Austin insisted that until Pembroke joined the rest at All Hallows on the following Monday, three of his parish council would stand guard in the church whilst others would mount close watch on all doors. Urswicke and Bray walked across to the lych gate. They were busy discussing what had happened when a dirty-faced Friar of the Sack, his ragged robes flapping, came slipping and slithering over the frost-hardened grass. The friar waved his clacking dish then paused to do a brief dance, moving from foot to foot as he extended his begging bowl towards them.
‘Alms for the poor,’ he whined, lips curled back to reveal blackened teeth. ‘Have pity, good sirs. Just one penny for a loaf, stale though it might be?’ Urswicke opened his belt purse. ‘Oh do put the coin in, Master Christopher.’ Urswicke glanced up in surprise. The friar pushed his face closer. ‘Our mistress needs you.’
‘Lord and all his angels,’ Urswicke grinned at the false friar and turned to Bray, ‘you don’t recognise him?’ Bray just gaped.
‘Fleetfoot. It’s Fleetfoot.’ Urswicke studied their unexpected visitor from head to toe. ‘Fleetfoot, my friend, you are a master of disguise.’ Urswicke dropped the coin into the clacking dish. ‘And this time you have truly surpassed yourself. I would never have guessed.’
‘As those do who try to watch and follow me,’ Fleetfoot murmured. ‘They are truly confounded and confused. They wait for me and never see me. This morning I am a simple Friar of the Sack begging for alms. So sirs, give me another coin and I will be gone.’
Now Bray dropped a penny into the dish.
‘And your message?’ Urswicke demanded.
‘Simply this. Our mistress needs to have urgent words with you in her secret chamber.’
‘Why?’
‘I simply deliver messages, Master Christopher.’
‘What is wrong with our mistress?’ Urswicke stepped closer, with another penny for the outstretched clacking dish.
‘I simply deliver messages.’ Fleetfoot raised his hand in benediction and walked away.
Urswicke and Bray watched him go then strode down the tangled runnels leading to the river. They hired a powerful wherry with six oarsmen and a tiller guide and clambered on to sit in the canvas-covered stern. The barge cast off, keeping close to the bank as its crew skilfully plotted their way along the busy river lanes. Here, fishing smacks, bum-boats, skiffs and other wherries fought the powerful current as the tide surged backwards and forw
ards. Banks of dense mist rolled and retreated, parted then closed again, to block sight and deaden sound. Beacon lights glowed in the poop and stern of most vessels. Vigilance had to be sharp and constant. The Thames was now a surging tide of ice so any mishap would be fatal. Urswicke tried to relax, peering round the canopy, staring out across the waters. Two Flemish carracks caught his eye; both vessels, formidable warships, were now coming in to dock at Queenhithe. Urswicke watched the great carracks turn, one after the other. If he served at sea, Urswicke would be most wary of such ships. The Flemings, despite the banners they raised proclaiming they came from this port or that, were close allies of York. In a word, they were pirates who often waged war on York’s behalf, leaving Edward and his council to protest their complete innocence over any outrage the Flemings caused. He wondered if the two carracks now closing in on the quayside were the same ships which had tried to trap The Glory of Lancaster? Did their presence in a London port signify more danger?
Urswicke chewed his lip. Soon the countess would leave London, the sanctuary men going before her across the lonely fields of Essex to Thorpe Manor and then on to meet The Galicia. Urswicke realised the journey would be fraught with dangers, but once they took ship, what then? Urswicke sat back in his seat. The barge was now struggling against the turbulent river. To distract himself from the sickening rise and fall, the violent lurching of the wherry, not to mention the pervasive stink of rotting fish, Urswicke crossed his arms, closed his eyes and reflected on what he’d seen at St Michael’s. The church locked and bolted from within, Ratstail sprawled with that ugly wound to his throat. Other memories stirred. Vavasour, fingers splayed against his blood-encrusted face, that horrid sound, the grunting from his shattered mouth. ‘So much death,’ he whispered. ‘So much treachery.’