by Paul Doherty
‘Aye, Brother, came from Dorset. A yeoman farmer like the other mad buggers who took the King’s penny and went to war. When I came back my wife and child were dead, sick of the plague. The manor lord had knocked down the fences, turning plough land to pasture, grazing it with sheep. I hate sheep. Fond of goats but can’t stand sheep.’
‘In the Gospel it’s the other way round,’ Athelstan joked.
‘Don’t be angry, Brother, but I don’t believe in the Gospels. I’m not a Christian.’
‘In which case,’ Athelstan commented, ‘you are in good company. Very few people are, Godbless.’
The beggar man squinted up at him. ‘One day, Brother, I’ll repay you for your kindness.’
Athelstan patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll get you some blankets.’
He made Godbless comfortable, told him there was food in the buttery and climbed the steps to his bed loft. There he washed his hands and face in the water bowl, took off his gown and slipped into his narrow cot bed. He prayed for a while. From below he heard Godbless snoring.
‘Strange,’ the Dominican mused. Godbless was a solitary man. He probably wandered the lanes of England and was used to sleeping in the most godforsaken spots but, tonight, he had been frightened. What had Godbless seen in the graveyard to wake him up, to make him so a-feared? Athelstan drifted off to sleep.
Vulpina sat in her chamber and regarded the cowled, masked stranger.
‘Are you French?’ she asked. ‘Are you a priest?’
‘Don’t ask questions, Mistress.’
Vulpina was assured; his voice was low, cultured. She noticed his hands, for he had removed one of his gauntlets, showing that they were soft and white, not those of a man who dug the earth and grubbed for a living.
‘You have come for some more of the poison?’
‘And I cannot tarry long.’
Vulpina nodded and rose to her feet. She went across to the wooden panelling and pressed a secret place so it opened. From here she took out a large, wicker basket and a leather-bound ledger and brought them across. The stranger undid his purse. Vulpina’s eyes glistened at the silver coins shaken out in a twinkling pile. She glanced sideways at the two bully boys who stood on either side of the door.
‘A good night’s profit,’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands.
Aye and more,’ the stranger replied. ‘I’ll be a constant customer.’
‘Then let’s celebrate this alliance.’
Vulpina clapped her hands again and nodded at one of her bully boys. He brought across two goblets brimming with wine. Vulpina raised hers.
‘To silver and gold and all it brings.’
The man raised his goblet but didn’t sip it. He got to his feet. Vulpina looked up in alarm but the man was moving quickly. The throwing knife he drew from beneath his cloak caught the bully boy’s back as the fellow returned to his position. The other one was so startled, his hand had barely touched the hilt of his dagger when the stranger moved swiftly, bringing the small arbalest hooked on his belt out and up. A click, and the whirling bolt struck Vulpina’s bully boy straight in the face. The poisoner sprang to her feet. She tried to brush by this murderous stranger but he caught her by the shoulder and when she turned, lashing out at his face, this only helped him loop the garrotte more securely round her throat. She struggled and fought like a cat but the garrotte was now like a piece of steel choking off her breath. Vulpina crumpled to the floor. The assassin, bending over her, kept the garrotte string tight until her death tremors ceased. He picked up the wine goblets and poured the contents over her corpse. The bully boy who had taken a dagger in the back was moaning, so the stranger moved quickly to slash the unfortunate’s throat. He picked up the book of poisons, sat down and went through it carefully, turning the pages over. When he was satisfied, he took the basket of poisons and the ledger and pushed them into the hearth. He then went to the saddlebags he had left just inside the door and pulled out the wineskin which he had filled with oil and poured this over the carpets. The fire had already caught at the baskets, the pots exploding, the chamber filling with an acrid smell. The assassin took a fire brand out. He went and opened the shutters and stared down: the crumbling wall provided enough footholds. He threw the firebrand into a pool of oil and eased himself out. Even as he climbed down, the flame caught the oil. Vulpina, her bully boys, her potions and poisons and all the contents of her secret chamber, were caught up in a sheet of raging fire.
Murder also made itself felt in another part of the city, as if it were some loathsome shadow which could scurry as swiftly as the wind along its alleyways and runnels. The Golden Cresset Tavern which stood opposite the hospital of St Anthony was a merry, spacious ale-house with a broad taproom and luxurious chambers for wealthy merchants and others who visited the city. Margaret, the chamber-maid, was however puzzled about two of her customers.
First, a young knight, Sir Maurice Maltravers, had come to the tavern saying someone wished to meet him there. Margaret remembered him because he looked handsome yet rather sad and lonely. He’d sat for an hour in the corner cradling a blackjack of ale, absentmindedly watching a juggler who had come to pleasure the customers in return for a hot meal and a goblet of wine, but then he had gone. Secondly, the young woman who had arrived late in the afternoon and hired a chamber above stairs had hardly shown her face. Tobias the tap boy had tried the latch but the door was secure and, when he rapped, no answer was made. Margaret went across to where her father the taverner stood beside the butts.
‘What is it, girl?’
‘Our lady guest,’ she replied. ‘It’s been some hours now, Father.’
The taverner wiped his greasy fingers on his apron. It was late Saturday evening and the taproom was beginning to fill. Young fops with their doxies, travellers staying over till Monday.
‘We’ll be busy soon.’ He sighed. ‘Oh, very well, come on.’
He followed her upstairs and rapped on the door.
‘What name did she give?’ he asked.
‘Mistress Triveter.’
‘Mistress Triveter!’ he called, feeling slightly ridiculous. ‘Mistress Triveter, are you well?’
No answer. He knocked again.
‘Mistress Triveter, I beg you, I must open this door!’
He jangled the keys which swung on a cord from his belt. He fingered through them looking for the master, but when he slipped this into the lock he groaned: the chamber key was still inside.
‘Father,’ Margaret appealed. I think there’s something very wrong.’
‘We can’t force the door.’
They went downstairs out into the cobbled yard. Tobias the tap boy brought across a ladder and, at his master’s bidding, gingerly climbed up.
‘Go on!’ the taverner urged. ‘Open the window!’
Tobias drew back the shutter; the casement window beyond was slightly open and he climbed into the gloomy room. At first he didn’t believe it. The bed looked as if it had been slept in, at least the blankets had been disturbed. Later, he told customers in hushed tones, he first thought Mistress Triveter was standing on a stool but then he gave a low cry. The stool had been kicked away and the young woman, her lustrous red hair falling round her face, was swinging by a rope lashed to one of the rafters above.
Athelstan took off his robes, placed them on the table in his small sacristy and bowed to the crucifix. He then knelt on the prie-dieu and recited a short prayer of thanksgiving.
‘Brother Athelstan!’
He turned. Crim the altar boy was dancing from foot to foot.
‘Go outside if you want a pee, boy. I’ve told you not to drink from the water butts before Mass. It’s cold and it’ll go straight through you.’
‘It’s not that, Brother.’ Crim crinkled his face. He’d washed it but the dirt was simply pushed up around his ears. ‘Is it a sin to belch in church?’
‘Why, Grim?’
‘Because I was doing it during Mass. Mother made a stew last night …’
‘It’s n
o sin.’ Athelstan patted him on the head. ‘Always remember, Crim, sin comes from the will. You must mean evil or disrespect and God has mercy on a rumbling stomach. Are you well now?’
‘I will be soon, Brother.’
And the boy dashed out of the side door, heading for the enclosed privy on the outside of the church.
Athelstan walked back into the sanctuary. He ensured all was well and went down the nave; most of his parishioners were thronging in the porch. Watkin’s and Pike’s wives had put up a trestle table and were busy selling church ales drawn from small kegs and barrels placed on stools. Athelstan wondered how much of the money would eventually find its way into parish coffers. Yet he was resigned to such losses. His parishioners weren’t thieves, just very poor and, as he’d remarked to Sir John, it’s easy to be virtuous when you are not tempted.
‘Morning, Brother.’ They all raised their battered, leather black-jacks of ale.
‘It’s a beautiful day, Brother.’ Pernell the Fleming woman spoke up.
Athelstan agreed; he had been out for a walk before Mass. He’d left Godbless and Thaddeus in the cemetery and checked on Philomel. The old war horse never seemed to age and ate as if his life depended on it. Athelstan walked to the door of the church. Parishioners sat on steps enjoying the sunlight. Children ran around, dogs yapped. Ursula the pig woman’s huge sow came rumbling up, heading straight for Ranulf the rat-catcher who had a stack of apples between his feet. He was snapping them with his hands, sharing them out to his brood of a family, all dressed the same in their little black jackets with hoods and cowls like their father’s. Athelstan went back into the church where a small crowd now thronged round Godbless.
‘There’s ghosts in the cemetery,’ Watkin declared sonorously.
‘Ah yes.’ Athelstan looked waraingly at Cecily who was combing her long, blonde hair with her fingers: the minx stared innocently back. ‘Who was in the cemetery last night?’
A chorus of: ‘Not me, Brother!’ greeted his question.
‘Well, someone was. Godbless here definitely heard something.’ He looked questioningly at the beggar man, Thaddeus standing proudly beside him. ‘What exactly did you see, Godbless?’
‘Shapes and shadows in the moonlight,’ Godbless replied mournfully. His eyes looked troubled. ‘I do not mean to cause any trouble but I know what I saw.’
Athelstan excused himself and went outside. The cemetery was quiet except for the buzzing bees and a host of butterflies which swarmed like miniature angels over the green grass. A peaceful, serene place with its crumbling headstones and decaying wooden crosses.
Athelstan followed the path to the death house and looked in. Godbless had certainly made himself at home. In fact, Athelstan had never seen the place look so clean and homely. He closed the door and glimpsed the pile of earth on the rim of the ditch Watkin and Pike were digging along the cemetery wall. He walked across. The earth was dry and powdery, baking under the summer sun. Athelstan stared down at the ditch: it must be three to four feet deep but he could see nothing untoward. He walked round the cemetery but discovered only a faded pink ribbon. He smiled and picked it up.
‘Brother, are you hiding?’
Athelstan jumped. Sir John was standing near the church, Sir Maurice Maltravers beside him.
‘Lord save us!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘It must be trouble.’
Sir John never bothered him on a Sunday. Indeed, it was becoming customary for Moleskin to row Athelstan across the river so he could spend the afternoon with Jack and his family, especially on a day like this. They would sit in an arbour in Sir John’s garden. The coroner would sup his ale and pontificate upon everything and everyone, Athelstan listening quietly beside him. The poppets would stagger around, the two great mastiffs doze in the shade.
‘What’s wrong, Sir John?’
Athelstan walked towards them. Sir Maurice looked pale, even sickly, his face haggard, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Sir John, on the other hand, looked the picture of health. He was dressed in his Sunday best, a purple doublet over a cream satin shirt, tied at the neck with a silver collar. He opened the wallet on the shiny belt round his great girth, took out a small scroll and thrust it into Athelstan’s hand.
The Dominican sat down on a gravestone and studied it. The writing was small, the letters imperfectly formed.
To my beloved, I have journeyed up from Dover. I have begged to see you but you have refused. So, what is life without love? You have used me. You have forsaken me so I have forsaken life. Signed: Anna Triveter.
‘What is this?’ Athelstan asked.
‘You’d best come with us,’ Sir John said. ‘Our young knight here has a great deal of explaining to do.’
Athelstan returned to the church where Benedicta was sitting on a stool talking to Bladdersniff the bailiff. The young widow woman looked up.
‘Lock the church,’ Athelstan told her. ‘Keep an eye on the house and Godbless. Oh, by the way.’ He thrust the piece of faded pink ribbon into her hand. ‘Tell Cecily the graveyard is for the dead to lie in, not the living!’
Sir John and Sir Maurice were waiting impatiently at the corner of the alleyway. Sir John marched as if he were advancing towards an enemy, his whole body bristling with anger. Athelstan looked across at Sir Maurice but the young knight was like some tired dog lost in his own sea of troubles.
They didn’t take a wherry. Sir John was too impatient. Instead they strode across London Bridge. Athelstan quietly murmured a prayer of thanks that Master Burdon, the diminutive keeper of the bridge gate, did not espy them, for he always loved to chat to Sir John. Athelstan averted his eyes from the poles jutting out over the bridge bearing the severed, rotting heads of traitors. The alleyways between the shops and houses built on either side were quiet. They passed the chapel of St Thomas. From inside Athelstan heard singing as the community of the bridge attended their Sunday Mass, then they were across, going up through the quiet streets.
‘What is the matter, Sir John?’
Cranston stopped and wiped the sweat from his brow.
‘We are going to the Golden Cresset. It stands opposite St Anthony’s hospital in Bishopsgate. Last night,’ he tapped his wallet where he had returned the scroll, ‘or yesterday evening, a young woman, Anna Triveter, hired a chamber. She locked and bolted the door, closed the shutters and promptly hanged herself.’
Athelstan closed his eyes.
‘She must be twenty summers old,’ Sir John continued. ‘She had apparently come from Dover. Her palfrey is still in the stable. Apparently a young woman of some repute.’
‘And what is she to do with you, Sir Maurice?’
‘Well, our young Hector here, when he was in Dover, formed a relationship with a Mistress Triveter.’
‘What sort of relationship?’
‘You saw the scroll.’ Sir John pulled it out.
Athelstan read the line on the reverse side.
‘Oh heaven protect us!’ he whispered. I didn’t see this: “To my husband Sir Maurice Maltravers”.’
‘She is not my wife!’ Sir Maurice retorted.
‘Did you know Mistress Triveter?’
‘I have never met her in my life.’
‘Have you seen the corpse?’
He shook his head.
‘Have you ever been married before?’
Again the shake of the head.
‘Was there a woman in Dover?’
Sir Maurice looked away.
‘Well?’ Sir John asked sharply. ‘Answer the question, Sir Maurice! ’
‘There was a woman,’ he replied. ‘A young wench. One of the many who hung around our camp near the port. She was comely enough.’
‘And her name?’
‘Anna, that’s all I remember.’
Athelstan breathed in and closed his eyes.
‘Yet,’ he said slowly, ‘we now have a woman who has committed suicide and left this letter for you.’
‘Hell’s teeth!’ Sir John cursed. ‘Sir Maur
ice, I trusted you.’
‘And you still can!’ the knight retorted. ‘I am a soldier, Sir John. Like other young men, I drink ale and ogle the wenches but that was before Angelica!’
‘So why should a young girl commit suicide in a London tavern?’
‘I don’t know, Sir John! I really don’t!’
They continued up into Cheapside, crossing Carfax. Here the streets were not so empty now. The cage on top of the great water conduit was full of all the rabble apprehended the previous evening by the city watch. Some lay in the great wooden stockade still suffering from drinking too much. Others shouted greetings to friends, a few cursed as Athelstan and Sir John passed.
At last they reached the Golden Cresset. The taverner was waiting for them in the taproom surrounded by his scullions and servants, white-faced and anxious.
‘Where’s the corpse?’ Sir John demanded.
Athelstan could see that the coroner was very, very angry. He didn’t even bother to seek any refreshment.
‘You haven’t touched anything, have you?’ he asked as the taverner stepped forward.
The man, dressed in his church attire, shook his head. He looked awkward and ill at ease in his rather large polished boots.
‘Have you been to Mass?’ Athelstan asked kindly.
‘Oh yes, Brother. I don’t know your name?’
‘Brother Athelstan. I am parish priest at St Erconwald’s. I’m also secretarius to my lord coroner here.’
‘We’ve been to Mass but I left Tobias the tap boy. He guarded the chamber. I didn’t want those piddling beadles in…’
‘Take us up!’ Sir John ordered.
They climbed the stairs to the gallery. The young boy seated with his back to the door pressed down the latch and swung the door open.
‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ Sir Maurice gasped.
‘I know you.’
Athelstan turned. A young woman stood in the doorway pointing at Sir Maurice.
‘You were here yesterday evening, in the taproom!’
He just slumped down on the stool and put his face in his hands.
CHAPTER 8
‘Come on!’ Sir John urged. ‘Help us cut the poor woman down!’