by Paul Doherty
‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered to himself, ‘Reginald, my friend, it’s time we disappeared, Master Fleetfoot will assist you. But first, we have a meeting with the hangman.’
Bray reached the iron-gated wall of Newgate prison and pulled hard at the bell hanging under its coping. He pulled again and again, listening to the harsh clanging till the postern door was flung open by the ill-kempt keeper who, by the look on his face, was full of fury and intent on mouthing a whole canticle of curses. Bray, however, simply pulled back his hood and extended his hand, which also held a well-minted piece of silver.
‘My good Reginald,’ the keeper grinned, ‘how wonderful it is to look upon your face. You are most welcome.’
‘My good Carrion-Crow,’ Bray responded. ‘I would like words with Tenebrae, the executioner appointed to hang the felon Zeigler, before the same sinner absconded to places still unknown. Hell must be disappointed, but the devil will have to wait. Tenebrae? I need to see him now.’
Carrion-Crow immediately became more wary. Stepping back into the darkness, he beckoned Bray to join him. ‘A bad business,’ the keeper intoned. ‘Truly bad for business but, I can’t talk about it. Tenebrae’s your man.’
Carrion-Crow took the proffered coin, turned on his heel and walked down the passageway, a sombre, foul-smelling tunnel which seemed to be carved through a wall of rock. The stones above and below, as well as the walls on either side, glistened under their coating of wet filth. The lanterns did little to dispel the gloom. Cockroaches and a myriad of other crawling insects carpeted the cracked paving stones. The vermin clustered so thick they broke crisp and hard under Bray’s booted feet. Rats and mice had made this their home. Cobwebs spanned every corner, stretching out like nets to catch their prey. The ominous silence of the gallery, a sinister stillness, was broken now and again by a shrill scream or some horrid invective echoing harshly through the darkness. They turned a corner. Carrion-Crow stopped before a bolt-studded door and clattered at the ringed handle until it swung open. Tenebrae the hangman, garbed completely in black, his capuchon pulled back, wiped his nose on the tattered shirt he carried in one hand and beckoned them in with the other. Carrion muttered something about being busy elsewhere and left.
The executioner kicked the door shut behind him. He peered at Bray and relaxed when his visitor held up a silver coin. The hangman gestured at Bray to sit on a stool next to him before a weak fire, its flames fluttering in the crumbled hearth. Bray made himself comfortable, refusing the offer of wine and ale. He’d vowed to never eat or drink in such a place, a filthy, sordid chamber with its dirty truckle bed, battered sticks of furniture and a heap of smelly clothes piled high between the two stools.
‘The effects and possessions of those I have had the pleasure to hang.’ Tenebrae grinned. ‘Prerequisites of my high office, as our noble Recorder, God bless his trousers and all within them, describes these pathetic items. Well,’ Tenebrae picked up a blood-stained pair of hose, ‘their last owner won’t be needing these, will he? Eh, Master Bray? I recognised you immediately, that’s why I allowed you in. Steward of the countess, God bless her sweet tits.’ He lowered his voice. ‘My late brother fought for her kinsman, Beaufort, much good it did him. Killed hiding in a haystack. They pierced him like you would lance a fish.’ He nodded at Bray’s clenched hand. ‘I will buy a juicy well-fed pike with the coin you are offering, but first, you want to buy something don’t you? Certainly not this tawdry rubbish, so what?’
‘You recall the morning Zeigler was meant to hang?’
‘Yes.’
The executioner dropped the shirt he held, his face and voice more wary. ‘How can I forget Zeigler? That dyed-in-the-wool son of Cain was more than ready for a hanging and fully set for Hell.’
‘The escape was suspicious?’
‘Of course. The sheriff’s comitatus should have been stronger. Some horsemen would have helped but, there again, they were as surprised as I was at the number of rifflers who appeared. They reminded me of a horde of rats being disgorged by a sewer full of thundering shit. Remember Master Bray,’ Tenebrae kicked the heap beside him, ‘execution days are as common as fleas on a beggar’s arse. The lords of the Guildhall simply underestimated Zeigler’s wickedness and the strength of his hell-born retainers. Zeigler escaped. Others, not many, have done the same.’
‘Now on that morning,’ Bray dug into his purse and brought out another coin, twirling it between his fingers, ‘you do recall events? The execution cart left Newgate, people pressed around. However, on that particular morning, there was a man, a dung collector, his face all masked. He and his companions had fought their way to the front. This dung collector and Zeigler became involved in a furious argument, screaming curses at each other. The masked man, the dung collector, was accompanied by two women, garbed in grey as if they were Minoresses.’
‘Ah yes, ah yes.’ Tenebrae rocked himself backwards and forwards on his stool. ‘I certainly do remember that. It’s very rare for such an argument to take place, for insults to be exchanged. Usually it is loved ones clustering to make fond farewell.’ Tenebrae licked his lips as he stared greedily at the coin Bray still held between his fingers. ‘Of course it was obvious that Zeigler and this stranger, masked like a dung collector, truly hated each other.’
‘And?’
‘Well this stranger screamed how Zeigler had taken his face, whatever that means. And now, the masked man yelled, he was going to watch Zeigler strangle, that he would pay me to do it as slowly as possible.’
‘Did he?’
‘The masked man held a pouch up. I was at the back of the cart. I would have loved to have seized that purse, but by then I dared not move. The rifflers were surging all around us and, of course, I was frightened. If I took the purse and Zeigler was free, well he might have killed me before he fled.’
‘And yet Zeigler and the masked man continued their tirade?’
‘Yes.’ He and the masked stranger were full of hate for each other.’
‘So,’ Bray flicked the coin at the hangman who, quick as a fly, neatly caught it, ‘there was definitely bad blood between this mysterious man and Zeigler?’
‘Undoubtedly Master Reginald but, after almost thirty years of war, men have grievances and grudges, a whole great cauldron of them, which they stir and stir: eye for eye, tooth for tooth, life for life. They invoke the blood feud and wage war against each other.’ Tenebrae leaned closer. ‘Look at our great ones, Master Reginald, John De Vere, Earl of Oxford, who has been offered pardon by our present King. You do know De Vere’s reply?’
‘That York killed Oxford’s father and that he intended to never make peace with such enemies.’
‘Precisely, Master Bray, you have it in one. So it is with Zeigler. Now his seizure and imprisonment here caused a great stir amongst the dark dwellers. You know he is half Flemish? That’s his father, but his mother was Breton. Zeigler’s father died early but his mother was seized and killed by freebooters who roamed the Welsh march; their abuse of Zeigler’s family probably accounts for the man’s horrid soul. Zeigler certainly has a special hatred for the Welsh and Tudor in particular.’
‘And those two women?’
‘Mother and daughter, or so I believe. Both garbed in the grey robes of lay sisters of the Minoresses with veil and wimple. They looked terrified but the masked man held them in thrall.’
‘What more do you know about Zeigler?’ Bray demanded. ‘I mean as a hangman? You must listen to the tales and stories from the catacombs of London.’
‘As I have said, Master Bray, Zeigler has Flemish blood. He is a mercenary well patronised by York. Indeed, I was very surprised to learn he’d been taken up, indicted and condemned. After all, he must have powerful friends both in the Guildhall and the palace of Westminster. What I do know is that don’t be taken in by his bulk and bearlike ways. Zeigler is a street fighter, a true dagger man who has seen service both on land and at sea. He is also very cunning, not a master of disguise but he can dissimulate.
One of his favourite games is to dress and act like a Franciscan friar, one of God’s poor men begging for alms. He can become soft-voiced and dewy-eyed but he is still a demon incarnate. Now, he has a henchman Joachim, just as fit for Hell as his master. I glimpsed Joachim in the chaos surrounding the execution cart. I am sure that both of them are now safely and warmly ensconced in some rat-hole.’
‘And the felon Ratstail who sought sanctuary at St Michael’s?’
‘Ah, our fumbled-fingered felon, now gone to God. Ratstail’s hands were not as damaged as people think. He was still adept and skilled at picking a lock or purse. Ratstail was cunning, which is why he survived many a hue and cry. Indeed, he was most fortunate: others better than him have received my attentions at Tyburn. In the end, however, he still died violently.’
‘Could someone like Ratstail have been in the pay of York?’
‘Oh by the holy rope, Master Bray, Ratstail would be in the pay of anyone who gave him a coin.’ Tenebrae then sketched a mock blessing in the air. ‘And more than that, my esteemed visitor, I cannot say.’
Bray left Newgate and pushed his way through the crowds now milling across the blood-soaked shambles. The fleshers were still busy wringing the necks of geese, ducks, rabbits and other meats for the table. The air was riven with the terrified screams and final cries of these birds and other animals, the only real source of fresh meat during the winter season. The air was permeated with the distinctive tang of freshly spilt blood, the ground underfoot coated with feathers and discarded giblets, which a legion of beggars now fought over. Processions wound their way through the throng. Wedding guests, all festooned in their winter garments, singing, dancing and draining their deep-bowled goblets of wine. These mingled noisily with black-garbed, red-hooded funeral mourners who shuffled along behind different coffins, reciting the responses to the priest’s constant plea for the dead.
Bray moved purposefully. He fully acknowledged he was being followed, if not by some hooded figure then by one or two of the flocks of street sparrows who darted along the narrow gaps between the many stalls. Bray felt an acute sense of danger. He recalled the two murderous assaults on him and wondered if these were all part of a well-laid plot to dig up and destroy the very roots of all those who supported Countess Margaret and her exiled son. Bray then wondered how his mistress and Urswicke were faring. As he crossed Cheapside, Bray glimpsed a finely carved statue of Our Lady of Walsingham standing on its plinth. He murmured a swift prayer to the ‘Fragrantly beautiful Queen of Heaven’ for the safety of the countess and those who served her. Now and again Bray would pause, as if to buy from a stall or listen to a storyteller fresh from Outremer chanting a tale about a strange creature which had the head of a hare, the neck of an ox, the wings of a dragon, the feet of a camel and so on. On this occasion Bray glanced around and caught two men at a nearby stall: they were studying him closely then quickly looked away.
Bray pressed on along Aldgate until he reached the grey stone convent of the Minoresses. He stood by the postern gate and pulled at the bell. The narrow door was flung open, a lay sister with a face as sour as vinegar looked him up and down from head to toe. She inspected his pass, sealed by the countess, before beckoning him in across the yard into the starkly furnished visitors’ parlour. Bray was told to wait there and that the guest-mistress would be with him shortly. Bray had hardly settled himself on the narrow chair when Sister Isabella, as she introduced herself, swept into the room, all a-fluster at this unexpected male visitor. She sat down on a wall bench and peered across at Bray, her pallid face all wreathed in concern.
‘What is this, what is this?’ she exclaimed. ‘What does the steward of the Countess Margaret want with us?’
‘Sister Isabella, you have two ladies lodged here, Welsh women, their family name is Morgan. They were lodged here by …?’
‘Alice and her daughter Beatrice,’ the guest-mistress retorted. ‘Been here for at least seven days. They were brought by their kinsman, a strange creature with a mask across his face. We never decided if it was to hide a most grievous wound or that he was what he appeared to be, a dung collector. Anyway, he said the two ladies had journeyed from their farm in Pembrokeshire. They were to lodge here until he returned to collect them.’
‘And take them where?’
‘Back to Pembrokeshire, I presume.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know. Master Bray, the masked stranger paid good silver, more than we asked. We take many lady guests here; they lodge in our convent and participate in our horarium. They attend chapel to chant the Divine Office and dine with us in the refectory. To ensure everything is appropriate, we insist that if they wish to share with us, they must dress like us.’ She paused and smiled. ‘God bless the two ladies, they are no trouble. They are as quiet and unobtrusive as church mice, which is rather strange because they seem to attract such attention.’
‘Sister Isabella?’
‘Well, Master Bray, you are here. Earlier in the day, just before the Angelus bell, two Franciscan friars, God’s poor men licensed to beg on behalf of the poor. Well, they came here. One of them, the smaller of the two, stayed near the postern gate. Brother Damien, as he introduced himself, a great bear of a man, said he brought the most urgent messages for Mistress Alice and her companion. He was very charming, threading his rosary beads, praising our order—’
‘And?’ Bray interrupted.
‘We escorted him to their chamber in the lady house reserved for our female visitors. In fact,’ Sister’s Isabella’s fingers flew to her lips, ‘I cannot recall him leaving, perhaps he is still there.’ All a-fluster, the nun sprang to her feet. ‘Perhaps yes,’ she nodded at Bray, ‘you’d best come with me.’
They left the visitors’ parlour. A river mist had closed in to shroud the buildings, its wispy tendrils trailing across the pebble-dashed path they followed around to the guest house. They entered its welcoming warmth. Sister Isabella consulted the visitors’ book displayed on a lectern. She then led him up the stairs, along the polished wooden gallery to a chamber at the far end. The door was on the latch. Sister Isabella pushed and swung the door open. She glanced in, then turned with a scream, a heart-chilling sound as the old nun sank to her knees. Bray brushed by her into the chamber to view the gruesome scene, two women flung back against the far wall to sprawl either side of the window. They lay like discarded dolls, their robes drenched in blood from the wounds in their chests, an arbalest bolt, embedded so deep only the stiffened feathers protruded. Sister Isabella scrambled to her feet and, hands waving, fled back down the gallery. Bray let her go. He swiftly inspected the corpses and stared around the chamber – panniers and coffers had been opened and searched. As the bells of the nunnery began to toll the tocsin, Bray expertly sifted through the documents and letters but found nothing of consequence. The assassin would have already combed whatever manuscripts the two women had brought with them, anything important or significant would have been removed. Bray stood listening to the bell as he studied the two corpses; they must be mother and daughter, comely in life but now …
Bray crossed himself, took a deep breath and left the chamber. The entire community had now been roused and Sister Isabella’s panic had spread. Bray found it easy to shoulder his way through the throng. He reached the postern gate and slipped through it out of the nunnery. Once he’d walked some distance away, Bray stopped and looked back. The mist had thickened and provided good concealment, it would seriously deter those who dogged his every footstep. Bray was certain about what had happened at the Minoresses’. Two assassins had visited the convent. One had stood guard near the main gate, the other had tricked himself into that chamber and summarily murdered those two hapless women. He concluded, from what Tenebrae had told him, as well as from the brief description provided by Sister Isabella, that the two assassins were Zeigler and his henchman Joachim.
Bray, still trying to make sense of what was happening, slipped into a nearby tavern, allowing himself to relax in th
e warm darkness in the corner of the taproom. He bought a stoup of ale, sipped carefully, then wrapped his cloak about him; eyes half closed, he reviewed what he’d learnt. He was certain the killer was Zeigler yet that malefactor, despite the threat of being recaptured, had emerged from his hiding hole to commit murder and sacrilege. Zeigler was moving with confidence, displaying an arrogance, a certainty that he was protected, which meant his escape had probably been arranged but by whom? Had Zeigler been sent to murder those two women? Again, by whom? Or were the deaths of both women a logical continuation of his blood feud with Pembroke? That would be easy enough; Zeigler knew the city, he could find his way through the labyrinth of streets. On the morning of his planned execution, he must have also seen the two women garbed in the dress of a Minoress and so realised where they were lodged.
Bray supped at his ale. He recalled Archdeacon Blackthorne. York and his minions were determined not to upset that powerful churchman who would soon be informed of the sacrilegious murder of two innocent women sheltering in a London convent. ‘Yes, yes,’ Bray whispered to himself, ‘York would not want to be tainted with the slaughter of such innocents in a sacred place. Zeigler the demon was acting on his own. So, what will he do now?’ Bray took a deep breath then drained his tankard. ‘A mist of mystery and murder.’ He continued in a whisper. ‘I am fogbound, like a vessel buffeted by both wind and sea.’ Bray recalled those two Flemish carracks moving into berth at Queenhithe. And then, where would they go? Bray closed his eyes as he imagined Urswicke and the countess moving slowly towards the coast. A storm was gathering and he must prepare for it. ‘It’s best if I disappear now,’ Bray murmured. He peered between the locked shutters. ‘The day will soon be done,’ he whispered, ‘and we will all be for the dark.’
Bray rose, adjusted his cloak and warbelt; fingers tapping the pommel of his dagger, he left the tavern. He didn’t tarry but strode through Aldgate and down a maze of reeking alleys to Queenhithe quayside. The river port was still busy with fishermen coming in before darkness fell and ships preparing to leave on the evening tide. Justice had also been busy and the three great gallows which soared up against the sky were decorated with the corpses of pirates and thieves sentenced earlier in the day. They’d hang there for the turn of three tides. The air stank of corruption, fish, salt, sweat and manure. The cobbles underfoot were slippery with all sorts of filth. Bray, his hood now pulled close and a muffler concealing the bottom half of his face, cautiously made his way along the quayside to where the two Flemish carracks, The Sea Hawk and The Gryphon, were berthed one after the other. Cresset torches had been lit along the quayside, braziers crammed with blazing charcoal provided more light and warmth. Despite the gathering dark and shifting mist, Bray had a very clear view of both the two-masted carracks with their high stern and poop. The steward had served in similar craft as a mercenary in the Middle Sea. The carracks were swifter than cogs, hulks and other merchant ships. ‘Sleek wolves of the sea’ was how one sailor had described them. Bray could only agree, yet he also recalled how vulnerable both vessels could be because of the armaments they carried.