by Paul Doherty
The smile on the priest’s face faded. His eyes became hard and Imelda shivered with fear as the other horsemen, their faces concealed by the cowls, urged their horses forward as if Osbert’s greeting posed some threat. The mountebank, however, impervious to this, grasped the priest’s bridle.
‘Father Andrew, don’t you remember me, Osbert? I stopped at your church in Oxford some months ago. You were most kind to me.’
The priest shook the bridle loose and pulled the cowl back over his head.
‘I think you are mistaken!’ he snapped and, giving his reins an abrupt tug, led his party off at a gallop, the sharp hooves of their horses scattering mud and pebbles in every direction.
Osbert watched them disappear into the darkness.
‘Strange,’ he mused. ‘I am sure it was Father Andrew. And yet he was so kind. He and his helpers.’
‘I didn’t know you were ever in Oxford?’ Imelda scoffed. ‘Are you a scholar, Osbert?’
The man scowled up at her. ‘I have been to places,’ he muttered, ‘and seen sights you’ll never see, Imelda!’ And he stomped off.
Imelda poked her tongue out at his retreating back and made her mother comfortable. She climbed off the cart and they continued their dreary journey. Grandmother was still chanting her ancient prayers. Every so often Imelda heard her break off and ask the carter: ‘Have those riders gone? Have those riders gone?’
‘Of course they have!’ the man growled back. ‘Why, what do you expect, more custom for tonight, eh?’ He cackled with laughter but Grandmother went back to her prayers.
Now the carts and wagons were back on the road, Imelda wondered what Osbert was doing in Oxford. She would like to go there and see the sights. Perhaps even glimpse a book, like the one she had seen at that monastery two summers ago. She could have cried at the brilliance of the pictures and the fine strokes of the pen. She’d called it beautiful and tried to stroke the pages but the novice master had just gently closed it. Imelda bit her lip; her father would never go to Oxford. She’d noticed that, how, in their peregrinations up and down the kingdom, he stayed well away from the valley of the Thames and the area around Oxford. Others claimed it was a good source of income. Raquerel just shook his head and murmured about great evil and ancient legends. Imelda smiled to herself, father was full of such tales. She looked up. Darkness was beginning to fall. She watched an eagle owl soar above the gorse, talons outstretched only to be mobbed by a group of raucous crows.
At last her father gave the order to leave the track. They would not reach the village that night: instead they would camp in a small copse where the trees would afford them some shelter against the rain and driving wind. The carts and wagons were pulled in a circle, kindling collected and dried and soon a huge fire roared in the centre. Imelda sat between her father and mother, the latter still moaning at the knocks and jars of the journey. The dozing girl stretched out her hands and revelled in the warmth. She closed her eyes and slept for a short while. When she woke, her father and brothers had set up a huge spit on either side of the fire ready to roast the pheasant and quail they had brought down by slingshot. They had slashed the birds’ throats then hidden them beneath the cart lest they were stopped by some sharp-eyed bailiff or manor steward.
‘Get some more kindling, Imelda!’ her father ordered.
‘I’ll help,’ Osbert cried.
Imelda tossed her head, her long black hair flowing around her. ‘There’s no need.’ Imelda’s lower lip came forward. ‘There’s no need, Osbert.’
The man just laughed. Father was still shouting so Imelda had no choice but to walk into the dark ring of trees and sift beneath the wet fern and brambles for the dry bracken and kindling which lay there. Osbert, too, was busy, chattering away. Imelda heard him gasp but she refused to look up.
‘Don’t play your games, Osbert.’ She moved deeper into the trees and straightened up. ‘It’s so silent,’ she murmured and looked back towards the encampment, the welcoming glow of the fire, the dancing flames, the chatter of her kinsfolk. Here it was so dark and cold.
‘Osbert?’ She stared around but the man had disappeared. She heard the branches above her swish. Imelda looked up and her throat constricted in terror at the dark cowled, pallid face grinning maliciously down at her.
The next morning McBain was aroused by a now alert and vigorous Sir Godfrey.
‘Come on, clerk!’ the knight shouted. ‘The sun’s up, I have packed my saddle bags. I suggest you do the same. Dame Edith insists on joining us. We will leave for London within the hour.’
‘Why London?’ McBain sleepily asked, swinging his legs off the bed and softly cursing the knight’s boisterous cheerfulness.
‘I have already sent one of Dame Constance’s couriers to the Admiral of the East Coast based at Queenshithe. I have asked for a war cog, the fastest ship in the Thames, to take us north to Whitby. We can either blockade the port or, if necessary, go in pursuit.’
Alexander agreed and stripped and shaved, teeth chattering at the coldness of his chamber. He dressed carefully in vest, shirt, woollen jerkin, hose and his special fur-lined travelling boots. He threw his belongings into the saddle bag, including the journal he had taken from the Trinitarian friary, and went downstairs to break his fast. Dame Edith had already been across and then left with Sir Godfrey to prepare their horses at the stables. Alexander ate hungrily and stared around the small, white-washed guest house. He knew he was finished here. He had a feeling he would never return and this made him uncomfortable as he remembered Emily’s golden ringlets, blue sparkling eyes and the warm silken sheen of her hand. He leaned against the table and thought of the last tumultuous days – his arrival in Oxford during the rain, the dreadful scenes he had witnessed, the apparent holiness of Father Andrew, the growing silence of Dame Constance and the utter collapse of Proctor Ormiston. He sighed, finished his tankard of warm ale, blessed himself and went out to join the rest.
The horses were being saddled. Dame Constance had agreed to lend her own palfrey, a gentle but sturdy cob, to Dame Edith, and two of her stable boys would ride with them until they entered London. Saddle bags were thrown on to the backs of the sumpter ponies, girths, stirrups and reins checked. All three took their leave. The abbess seemed relieved that her convent would now be free from the strange guests and the wicked business they had been investigating. Although neither admitted it, both Sir Godfrey and McBain hoped that the lady Emily would appear and the knight was about to ask Dame Constance for her permission to say farewell to her when an exhausted-looking Beauchamp rode into the convent. The sheriff almost fell out of the saddle. His once rubicund face was now white and drawn and great black shadows ringed his eyes. He looked a man who could do no more. He walked slowly towards them, rubbing his thighs and quietly groaning at the pain of spending so much time in the saddle.
‘You are leaving?’ he asked abruptly.
‘For London,’ Sir Godfrey replied. ‘We intend to pursue Father Andrew, his coven and the nightmare creature they took from the crypt.’
‘Then I wish you well.’
Beauchamp put both hands in the small of his back and stretched, then rubbed his unshaven face.
‘I sealed off the church,’ he said, ‘claiming that the whole edifice is now unsafe. My soldiers, the few mercenaries I lead, have already dug up corpses from the cemetery. I believe they are the missing students.’
The sheriff turned and, not bothering about Dame Constance’s presence, hawked and spat.
‘They are not a pretty sight,’ he added hoarsely. ‘They are like the rest, throats slit from ear to ear, bodies drained of blood. Some are already rotten. They were slaughtered like pigs and buried in shallow graves.’
‘And Proctor Ormiston?’ Alexander asked.
The sheriff tapped the side of his head. ‘Proctor Ormiston is witless, with a sickness of the mind. He sits in his chamber mumbling to himself, moving the papers on his desk. He is terrified of leaving, even to relieve himself. His days o
f scholarship are over. God send him good fortune!’ Sir Oswald’s red-rimmed eyes stared at the knight.
‘Wickedness!’ the sheriff breathed. ‘Sheer wickedness! I tell you this, sir knight—’ His eyes moved to McBain and Dame Edith. ‘—and you others, I have been in the Valley of Death.’ He licked his lips. ‘Another courier is already on his way to London. If God wills, and the king agrees, I will be out of Oxford within the week.’ He clasped the knight’s hand and that of McBain, then gently kissed Dame Edith’s fingers. ‘God speed and farewell!’
He went back to his horse, mounted, grabbed the reins in his hand and looked once more at them. ‘Farewell, I hope we do not meet again.’ And, turning his horse’s head, he galloped out of the convent gates.
Sir Godfrey and his party finished their farewells. They were almost level with the gate when Dame Constance reappeared, her arms linked through that of Lady Emily, who looked as fresh as a summer-filled May morning. Alexander made the usual courtesies, stretching down to kiss her hand, which he held a little longer than he should have done. Lady Emily then went to stand beside Sir Godfrey. She put her hands gently on his muscle-hard thigh and stared at the knight’s face, made all the more forbidding by his chain-mail coif.
‘Sir Godfrey,’ she whispered, ‘you will return?’
The knight grasped her hand awkwardly. ‘Aye, perhaps.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you for the lovely poem.’
Sir Godfrey drew his eyebrows together.
‘The poem,’ she insisted. ‘The one you composed and asked Master McBain to write out.’ She shook her head slightly. ‘It was beautiful.’
Sir Godfrey looked up across her head at Alexander, who smiled, winked and shrugged. Sir Godfrey stared back at the young woman, grasped her hand, stooped down and kissed her passionately on the cheek.
‘God willing,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘I shall return.’
The girl stood back and Sir Godfrey led his small party out into the winding lanes of Oxford. Within the hour they were free of the city and deep in the countryside, following the ancient Roman routes back to the capital. The sky was cloud-free, the air cold but the roads were good and hard. Dame Edith proved to be a skilled horsewoman and posed no hindrance to their progress. By nightfall they had reached Bishopsgate, where they thanked and dismissed Dame Constance’s porters. Sir Godfrey then insisted that they must ride on through the city, to the admiral’s quarters in the Vintry, just north of Queenshithe docks.
Admiral Sir Clement Chaucer had already received their message. A small, portly man with a weather-beaten face and light blue eyes, he was an old acquaintance of Sir Godfrey’s. He greeted him cordially and his two companions without question.
‘I have already received orders from the chancellor,’ he boomed, leading them into a small dining hall on the ground floor of his three-storeyed house.
‘I have a ship ready for you. The Star of the Sea, a three-masted war cog, under a good captain, Humphrey Grandison. You will sail at first light. But now you must break your journey. Some good food, eh? Beef roasted in pepper and mustard, wine and the softest bread? And feather-filled mattresses?’
Sir Godfrey and Alexander could not object and Sir Clement proved to be an excellent host. He chattered about the sea, hardly asking them any questions, while paying Dame Edith the courtesies due to any lady. All three ate their fill. Sir Godfrey fell asleep at the table and had to be aroused by servants. Alexander saw Dame Edith to her own quarters at the back of the house and, within minutes of his head touching the bolster in the chamber he shared with Sir Godfrey, he was fast asleep, snoring as loudly as Sir Godfrey beside him.
Servants woke them just before dawn and they broke their fast. Sir Clement promised to look after their horses before leading them through the still dark streets and down to the quayside of Queenshithe. The river was full of shipping – small skiffs, barges, cogs and the huge, heavy-bottomed stems of Hanseatic merchantmen. Already the quayside was busy as ships prepared to catch the early-morning tide. Small cranes were depositing barrels, chests and huge leather bags in ships’ holds. There was a confusion of sound, strange oaths, cries and orders. Sir Clement paid no heed, leading his small party along the quayside, ordering people aside and ignoring the catcalls and oaths that followed him.
Eventually they found the Star of the Sea, a large ship with a bluff hull and darting bowsprit, its sides rising high above the quayside, its stern crowned by crenellated fighting platforms to protect archers and soldiers during battle. Sir Clement hailed the ship and a broad, greasy gangplank was lowered. Sir Clement went first. Alexander helped Dame Edith, who stoutly refused Sir Godfrey’s half-hearted invitation to remain behind, and the knight brought up the rear. On board, bare-foot sailors moved about, jostling each other; some stopped and watched Dame Edith curiously. Sir Godfrey heard their muttered curses and dire warnings about a woman being on board ship.
‘Just ignore them,’ Sir Clement whispered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Sailors love any excuse for dark prophecies. It’s another matter when it comes to bringing their whores on board!’
The ship moved slightly and Alexander’s stomach heaved as he looked up at the soaring rigging and towering masts. He stared around the deck, full of coils of rope and leather buckets. Under canvas sheeting stood two large catapults. Beside one of them, Alexander glimpsed a patch of dried blood. He guessed the ship must have been in one of the many skirmishes that took place at sea; beyond the mouth of the Thames, the ships of various nations, Norway, Denmark, England, Scotland and France fought a long and bloody war.
A young, red-haired man dressed simply in a leather jerkin, dark hose and boots came up and introduced himself as Humphrey Grandison, captain of the ship. Sir Clement made the introductions and handed the captain a small leather packet. ‘These are your orders, sir,’ he said tersely. ‘You are in command of the ship but under the direct orders of Sir Godfrey. You are to sail north to Whitby and act on Sir Godfrey’s instructions.’
The captain nodded, then, rolling his tongue round his mouth, he pointed at Alexander.
‘I can see Sir Godfrey’s been at sea,’ he declared in a broad, flat accent. ‘But the clerk’ll be sick before we clear the Thames. And who is she?’
‘My name is Dame Edith Mohun,’ the exorcist tartly replied. ‘And I have been on more ships than I care to count. In northern waters and the Middle seas. I was bobbing on the waves when you were dangling on your mother’s knee, young man!’
The captain stared speechlessly at her, stroked his sparse beard then burst into laughter which drowned all the clamour from the ship. The captain glared round and, in a stream of filthy oaths, told the sailors to continue with their work. He then took Dame Edith’s hand and raised it gallantly to his lips.
‘Madam, no offence.’
‘Sir, none taken.’
Sir Clement took his leave and Grandison began to issue orders. Quayside ropes were released, the decks were cleared of all impedimenta. Sailors climbed like monkeys up the rigging, unfurling the great sails. The ship turned and lurched. Alexander was sent sprawling, much to the amusement of the sailors. Grandison helped him to his feet, grinning from ear to ear.
‘You’d best get out of here.’
He took the three of them down to a small cabin under the forecastle, a small, dingy room smelling of tar and salt containing a simple cot bed, a table and a number of stools.
Alexander, unused to the gentle rocking of the ship, banged his head as he straightened up. The pain was intense and, though the captain laughed at his discomfort, he offered McBain and his companions cups of surprisingly good wine to ease the pain and ‘strengthen their stomachs’ for the coming voyage.
‘Dame Edith can stay here,’ Grandison explained. ‘But, gentlemen, I’m afraid you’ve got to share below decks with the rest.’
And, whistling merrily under his breath, Grandison left them to their own devices.
Within the hour the Star of the Sea h
ad cleared the river and was sailing north by north-east through a cold, choppy sea. The pain in Alexander’s head subsided, only to be replaced by a growing sense of nausea as the ship rolled in the water.
Sir Godfrey sat, amused by the poor clerk’s discomfort, until McBain’s face took on a greenish tinge.
‘Come on, Alexander,’ he said jovially. ‘Dame Edith, stay here. If our clerk is going to be sick, it’s best if he did it elsewhere.’
Alexander, muttering curses, followed Sir Godfrey up the ladder and on to the deck. The sails billowed and snapped in a strong southerly wind. Grandison came up, hanging on to the halyards.
‘Do you feel sick, clerk?’
Alexander nodded.
‘Then let me give you some advice. Try not to think about the motion of the ship but busy yourself.’
Alexander grimaced, then promptly fled to the side to vomit his breakfast into the choppy, grey sea. He felt better afterwards and leaned against the rail, drawing in deep breaths and staring out at the receding land, listening to the smack of the sails and the creak of timbers.
Grandison glimpsed the pleasure in the clerk’s face.
‘Aye, she’s a bonny ship!’ he shouted. ‘Goes straight and true as an arrow.’
He dug inside his jerkin and brought out a brown roll of parchment. He unrolled this, spreading his legs to steady himself against the roll of the ship. The captain pointed with a stubby finger at the crudely drawn map.
‘We should reach Whitby by tomorrow evening,’ he said. ‘And then what?’
‘We are hunting for four fugitives, possibly five,’ Sir Godfrey explained. ‘They will take ship from Whitby.’
‘And what then?’
‘If they haven’t left we will blockade the port.’
‘And if they have?’
‘Pursue them with all speed.’
‘And?’
‘Destroy them utterly.’
Sir Godfrey pointed to the large catapults farther down the deck under their canvas covering.
‘At my orders, Master Grandison, they are to be loaded and fired. No prisoners are to be taken.’