by Paul Doherty
They listened politely to Cranston’s explanation, shaking their heads and murmuring exclamations of surprise or brief prayers for Mephan’s departed soul. These clerks were possessors of great secrets, and as Athelstan studied them, he recalled the stories about the Secret Chancery and the doings of the mysterious Star Chamber close to Westminster Hall. According to Cranston, Thibault and his coven had played a highly dangerous game during the Great Revolt. The Secret Chancery was an office or department within the royal enclosure but its loyalty was not so much to young Richard, but more to the Crown of England and its representative, the regent John of Gaunt. Men such as these made that distinction, and during the revolt which swept the city in a bloody storm, faithfully observed such a separation. Richard of England, apart from loyal councillors such as Cranston, had been left to his own devices as Gaunt, for God knows what reason, took an army north to the Scottish March. Some whispered what would now be regarded as heinous treason; that Gaunt hoped the rebels would sweep his royal nephew away in the murderous mayhem which would engulf the city. Once this had happened, Gaunt could return as the all-conquering hero, crush the rebels and take the crown for himself.
Thibault, Gaunt’s principal henchman, was no better, having secretly withdrawn into the fastness of the formidable keep of Hedingham Castle in Essex. He had, however, made one concession, a great favour to Athelstan in return for the friar looking after Thibault’s beloved daughter Isabella: Thibault had arranged the abduction of all the men from Athelstan’s parish and kept them in comfortable confinement until the revolt was over. Athelstan’s parishioners – the likes of Watkin the dung-collector, Pike the ditcher, Ranulf the rat-catcher and all the others of their conniving coven – had been staunch Upright Men, followers of the Great Community of the Realm, the Parliament of the Peasants. However, when the revolt collapsed, none of these men could be indicted for any crime at a time when indictments were flowing from the Chancery and King’s Bench like snowflakes in a blizzard. Listening carefully to the clerks and how they worked with Mephan, as recently as yesterday, Athelstan realised that the crown, Gaunt in particular, was still pursing the rebels and anyone associated with them as ruthlessly and mercilessly as a starving wolf would its quarry.
Athelstan picked up a stool and came to sit beside Cranston. The clerks now lounged on chairs, stools or the top of chests.
Matthew, the eldest, turned to him. ‘You are Athelstan? We have heard of you,’ he made a face, ‘and many of your parishioners.’
‘I am sure you have,’ Athelstan retorted, edging forward on his stool. ‘And rest assured, I have heard about you gentlemen, but now I would like to learn a little more. They call you the evangelists?’
‘Matthew, Mark, now sadly deceased, Luke and John,’ the youngest replied, ‘but you, as a priest, would know that.’ Athelstan caught the sarcastic tinge.
‘Oh, I live and I learn every day. My condolences on the death of your brother. So you three are all full blood kin?’
‘We are the sons of Adrian Gaddesden,’ Luke replied, ‘and his lovely wife, our mother Margaret. Our father loaned my Lord of Gaunt generous sums when no other merchant would lift a finger to help. Isn’t that true, Sir John?’ Cranston quietly agreed. ‘And we …’ Luke was the largest of the brothers, his belly straining at the belt around his waist. He kept wetting his lips and, quick of eye, glanced around as if searching for something to drink. He was also highly nervous. Athelstan noticed a slight sheen on his forehead and he kept twisting his fingers. Now he was closer Athelstan realised all three brothers seemed unsettled. One of them, John, went to open his belt wallet as if to bring something out but then abruptly changed his mind.
‘You were talking about your family?’ Athelstan queried.
‘There is not much to say,’ Luke replied rather mockingly. ‘My brothers and I were scholars at St Paul’s and from there went to Stapleton Hall in Oxford, where we acquired both our bachelorship and our masters. My Lord of Gaunt and Master Thibault recruited us from the Exchequer of Receipt and appointed us to the courts of Chancery, then the Chancery itself.’
‘And finally the inner sanctum?’ Cranston intervened. ‘The Secret Chancery, the House of Whispers and the Mansion of Secrets?’
‘If you say so, Sir John, and,’ Matthew held up a hand, ‘before you or Brother Athelstan ask, let me remind you we have taken a vow of secrecy, not to discuss the business of the Secret Chancery or the doings of the Star Chamber.’
‘Of course,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘So now to Master Mephan’s murder and that of his two …’
‘Companions,’ Luke intervened. ‘Master Mephan’s companions.’
‘As you were,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘close colleagues and comrades. Yes?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘So who would murder him?’
‘The Reapers. The Upright Men. The Earthworms. The Great Community of the Realm,’ Luke spat back. ‘All those treasonable, treacherous, hell-bound covens who plotted our total destruction and almost brought it about. Foul, sin-ridden souls who barbarously murdered our brother Mark. Mephan’s death is revenge for the work we did in crushing their diabolical dreams to a bloody dust. Pig-souls, wolf-hearts, demon-witted …’ Luke paused, wiping the spittle from his lips on the back of his hand. Matthew put a restraining hand on his brother’s arm and smiled tactfully at the friar.
‘Was Mephan threatened?’ Athelstan asked.
Matthew opened his belt wallet and drew out a piece of fine twine. He handed it to Athelstan, who held it up against the light.
‘The same cord used by the assassin,’ he murmured. ‘And what is this?’ He shifted the cord through his fingers until he reached the piece of hardened parchment pierced by a hole through which the twine had been threaded. Athelstan peered at the phrase, translating the Latin.
‘Lord Azrael greets you.’ Athelstan looked up sharply at Cranston’s exclamation.
‘I shall tell you later,’ the coroner declared hurriedly, ‘but not now.’
Athelstan held the garrotte string up, making the parchment medallion twist and turn. ‘Azrael,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘The Angel of Death.’
‘Simon received one yesterday,’ Matthew said, ‘as he was making his way out of mass to the Chancery.’ He pulled a face. ‘At the time we didn’t realise its significance. We even thought we’d use the cord when we went bird-snaring across the moor around Perilous Pond near Old Street.’
‘You snare birds?’
‘Always have,’ Matthew gabbled on. ‘Anyway, today as we left our chambers near St Margaret’s in Friday Street, a street urchin stopped us. He said a man had given him a coin to deliver these to us. He thrust three pouches into my hand and left. Each pouch – really just a dusty little leather sack – contained a cord and medallion similar to the one Simon received yesterday. It’s a threat, isn’t it, Brother Athelstan? We are in great danger for what we have done.’
Athelstan sensed the real panic of all three clerks. One of them might be able to hide it better than the other but they were all in mortal fear for their lives. Little wonder, these men had exercised great power and were now set to pay for it.
‘So Master Mephan received his yesterday as he left the Jesus mass?’ Athelstan spoke quietly to divert and distract the clerks. ‘And you received yours …?’
‘About an hour ago on our way to Westminster. We decided to hurry here and seek Master Simon’s advice.’ Matthew shrugged. ‘Then we heard the shocking news.’ He put his face in his hands even as his brothers, clearly agitated, rose to their feet, unable to sit still with the fear coursing through them.
Athelstan plucked at Cranston’s sleeve and they too got up. The friar hurried into the buttery, where he poured three goblets of wine. He stared around. Flaxwith and his bailiffs had sheeted and moved the corpses to the garden, and they were now busy sealing chests, caskets and coffers. Physician sat on a turf seat, lost in his own thoughts as he stared mournfully over the flower beds. Athelstan went over and assured him that he and Sir
John would not be long, then he hurried back to the solar with the tray of goblets. Cranston had soothed the evangelists’ fear, telling them that as long as they were prudent, they’d be safe. Athelstan distributed the wine goblets, and as he did so he established that all three clerks had been at home the previous evening. All bachelors, they’d only left their chambers to have supper at a nearby tavern, the Glory of Galilee. Further questioning elicited little of substance. The evangelists would say nothing about their work and could provide little information about Mephan’s murder or indeed the threats levelled against them.
‘There’s only Empson,’ Matthew added as an afterthought. ‘Roger Empson.’
‘And?’ Athelstan asked.
‘He has disappeared.’
‘Who is he?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Master Thibault’s principal messenger and most trusted courier,’ Cranston intervened. ‘Before the revolt when my Lord of Gaunt went north to the Scottish March, Empson rode back and forth keeping both Gaunt and his henchmen fully appraised of what the other was doing.’ Cranston took a generous swig from the miraculous wineskin. ‘A good man, Empson. I can see why Thibault used him. Empson’s also a skilled man-at-arms. He has to be. On a number of occasions he was attacked on the open road. If it comes to sword and dagger play, Empson could hold his own, be it out on the open heathland or some stinking Cheapside alleyway.’
‘I agree.’ John, the quietest of the evangelists, spoke up. ‘Roger always carried documents safely, he is an excellent horseman. He was frightened too.’
‘Of what?’ Athelstan asked. Despite the warmth and light pouring through the solar window, the friar also felt the fear cloying the hearts of these men.
‘Revenge,’ Luke said. ‘Roger often took messages not only to my Lord of Gaunt and Thibault but to commanders of the royal forces. He also laid indictments against those who attacked him.’
Athelstan sat down on a stool and stared at the evangelists. ‘I am shocked,’ he exclaimed. ‘The revolt is over, it is crushed. It’s the Upright Men who should be terrified, not leading clerks of the Royal Chancery. I can understand Master Thibault being wary, but why strike at you?’
‘We’ve thought the same,’ Matthew agreed. ‘But surely, Brother Athelstan, it’s a matter of logic. My Lord of Gaunt and Master Thibault are surrounded by guards, professionals, mercenaries. We have to go back to our ordinary lives. I cannot move amongst the stalls of Cheapside behind a screen of Hainault mercenaries.’
‘Then what about Sir John?’ Athelstan enquired. ‘He crushed the rebels! Indeed, he executed one of their leaders.’
‘It’s different,’ Matthew retorted, ‘or I think it is. The Reapers see Sir John as a soldier, a loyal royal knight carrying out orders. He does not have, how can I put it, the personal vindictiveness of Master Thibault. Sir John was not responsible for the poll tax or all the other executions which led to the revolt.’
Athelstan got to his feet, ave beads slipping through his fingers.
‘And what has happened to Roger Empson?’
‘He disappeared about three days ago,’ Matthew replied, ‘though I understand he has been seen cowled and cloaked amongst the stalls of Cheapside. But he has gone into hiding. Why and where I cannot tell you.’ Matthew spread his hands. ‘We have to leave now. Brother Athelstan, we may have words with you on other matters, or rather Master Thibault will …’
A short while later, Physician Limut led Athelstan and Cranston out into Milk Street. Both he and the friar had to wait a short while outside the doorway as Cranston gave Flaxwith more instructions about the removal of the corpses to St Mary’s and the sealing of the house and its contents. The coroner also informed the evangelists, who had followed them out, that they could pay their respects to Mephan and his two companions at St Mary le Bow after the Jesus mass the following morning. Athelstan and the physician engaged in desultory conversation, and Limut once again referred to some matter he wished to discuss with the friar. Eventually Cranston joined them, and the physician led his guests off through the surging crowds.
The weather was fine, the sun growing stronger. Londoners had poured out of their mildewed tenements to bask in the sun, do business or carry out any mischief they could. Athelstan felt uneasy as he often did when he first entered the crowded city streets. Yet he also sensed a change; the soul of London was commerce, bartering, buying and selling, be it human flesh or oranges from Seville. The Great Revolt was over, the rebels crushed and milled to nothing. The scaffolds might be heavy with cadavers, the lumbering execution carts and corpse barrows a common sight. The quartered remains of traitors, all tarred and bloodied, decorated a forest of stakes on every available gateway, but the revolt was definitely over. The city was desperate to repair as swiftly as possible the damage to buildings and, above all, to return to its usual frenetic trading. The rebels and their proclamations were now dismissed as part of a phantom dream, gone like a watch in the night. No longer did the Earthworms swarm through the Cheapside crowds, but instead the liveried, armoured retainers of the city council and the great lords, all buckled for war, swaggered along the runnels and alleyways.
The merchants and traders had returned, their stalls piled high with goods and produce; they were doing a bustling trade whilst the dusty air rang with the shouts and cries of apprentices touting for business. Market beadles and bailiffs patrolled carefully, their white canes of office ready to slice at any tinker, trader or itinerant cook who crept out from the needle-thin alleyways to ply their unlicensed trade. Pigs, cats and dogs roamed backwards and forwards. Half-naked children scurried over midden heaps, sending the vermin fleeing back to their holes. Whores in their bright yellow gowns and orange wigs, faces daubed white, red and black, scurried backwards and forwards across the thoroughfare, one hand holding a pomander, the other all gloved ready for some customer. Around these swirled the lords of the sewers, the barons of the gutter, the earls of the dagger and the bolt as well as the pimping pontiffs who looked after their shoals of whores as shepherds would their flocks of sheep.
A myriad of smells drifted; the foul, noxious fumes seeping from midden heaps and lay stalls mixing with the sweet fragrances of freshly baked bread, and ripe, bloody meat sizzling under different coatings of spiced vegetables. Cries, shouts, curses and prayers were raised. Accidents happened: wheelbarrows tipped and burst, baskets were dropped, barrels overturned, casks split. A dog was caught under the wheel of a cart, its dying screams drowned by the screech of bagpipes as bailiffs led a long line of doleful curfew-breakers down to the stocks. Soldiers and men-at-arms made their way through. Priests carrying the viaticum for the dying, hurried along mouthing their prayers as an altar boy raced before them, capped candle in one hand, tinkling bell in the other. Processions of the Blessed Sacrament, cloaked in thick mists of the sweetest incense, mingled with the drunken revelry of both wedding and funeral parties. Guests and mourners shoved and pushed whilst a corpse slipping from its bier nearly caused a riot.
Athelstan and his companions hurried up under the dark, forbidding mass of St Paul’s, its spire packed with holy relics as a defence against lightning. Athelstan always thought the spire looked like a finger of accusation pointing towards heaven. They passed through the Shambles, which reeked of all the bloodied, fetid odours of the slaughter house. The fleshers’ stalls were close to the grim, grey fastness of Newgate, a prison bulging with fortified gates, shuttered windows, crenellated walls, iron-studded doors and steel-barred portcullises. They reached the more peaceful area of St Andrew’s and the tavern Amongst the Tombs, a square of grey ragstone wall pierced by a magnificent gateway on its southern side.
They entered its spacious cobbled yard and passed the stables and many outhouses into the tavern proper. Athelstan marvelled at the sheer elegance of the place. The large kitchen was well stocked; Athelstan glimpsed pipes of Spanish wine and cured legs of ham richly coated with a yellow mustard sauce. The taproom even had small, closet-like chambers where guests could sit an
d dine by themselves. The woodwork, beams, balustrades and furniture were of the finest oak and polished to a shimmer. No rushes lay strewn on the clean-swept floor, nothing but the finest rope matting. The walls were decorated with tapestries, fine square paintings and triptychs, all reflecting the theme of how wine gladdens the heart of men. It was still mid-morning and people were drifting in from the local churches to break their fast.
Cranston, at Athelstan’s urging, asked for a private chamber. Physician Limut ushered them into a room at the rear of the tavern. Fine linen-wooden panelling covered its walls, and the polished floor was spread with turkey rugs. The room was well lit by a wide casement window, and fragranced not only by the delightful smells from the kitchens which stood nearby but also the heavy sweetness of dried herbs stored in pots placed around the room. The chamber boasted a table, two high stools, a chair and a bed, all cushioned and comfortable.
Once Cranston and Athelstan were settled, physician Limut brought in his family. Beatrice his wife was clearly proud of her Castilian heritage, lapsing into Spanish because she was so excited, as she confessed, ‘at meeting the Lord High Coroner of London and the famous Dominican Athelstan’. A small, vigorous woman with a strong, slightly harsh face framed by black, wiry hair, Beatrice bustled back and forth, hands emphasising what she said as she delivered a spate of questions to her husband but hardly waited for an answer. Athelstan swiftly concluded that Lady Beatrice was the cornerstone of the family: her two children, Felipe and Maria, watched their mother with a benevolent expression. Felipe was in his early twenties, a sombre-faced, dark-haired young man, rather stony-featured with his unblinking eyes and stubborn mouth and chin. He was apparently very devoted to his sister Maria, a pretty, wide-eyed, black-haired woman of about eighteen summers. Slender and svelte, Maria talked with her expressive eyes and Athelstan imagined she could likely shift her mood in the blink of an eye.