by Paul Doherty
And why should he be hunted? Of course he had played his part in the suppression of the revolt, taking messages to Gaunt, Thibault and others. Empson had committed many of these messages to memory so no written evidence remained. On reflection, he often wondered about the full truth of what was happening, how some of the messages he carried might, if proclaimed publicly, reflect poorly on Gaunt and his coven. Yet all this had taken place during the hurling time. The days of the Great Slaughter had come and gone. Empson had thought he and others would know peace now. They would return to their normal duties, follow the routine of Master Thibault’s household. Empson would revert to riding here and there with messages, tending to the string of courier horses in the royal stables near Smithfield, settling with the controller of the household every quarter for robes, wages and other necessities. But not now!
On that particular afternoon, the Feast of St Mary Magdalene – the same day that Athelstan had been summoned to Milk Street – Empson sat between two coffins and reflected on the fearful news he had learnt as he slipped shadow-like through the streets. Simon Mephan and two of his household, Finchley and Felicia, had all been garrotted. The whispers and the rumours were rife and only sharpened Empson’s panic. Cowled and masked, he’d hurried back to his hiding place in the charnel house where he tried to calm himself.
‘This is truly perilous,’ Empson whispered into the darkness, his fingers going to his lips. He could hardly believe it. Thibault’s principal clerk and his two companions strangled! Empson knew little about Finchley but he’d heard rumours about Felicia, a young lady who liked to play the two-backed beast and be paid for it. Empson heard a sound and stared around the mildewed hall. The pile of coffins and funeral cloths no longer alarmed him, but he noticed the lanternhorn placed at the far end was still burning.
‘I thought I’d capped that.’ Empson lurched to his feet. Slipping and slithering on shards of bone, pottery and other refuse littering the floor, he carefully made his way down. The lanternhorn stood on top of a cracked, dirty barrel. Empson had bought both lantern and tallow candle in a nearby flea market where the rifflers sold stolen goods. He knelt down to open the lanternhorn, then abruptly froze. That very action sharply reminded him how on his return from the city he had knelt down to cap the candle, so … Empson heard a sound behind him but fear held him in thrall. He tried to move. Too late, the garrotte string swung round, snaring his throat. He was dragged back. The deadly necklace was vice-like. He could not move his hands or legs; they were trapped. He was slipping, dying, falling into the darkness …
Athelstan sat at his kitchen table gratefully eating the broth Benedicta had prepared. He bit into a soft piece of bread and raised his horn spoon in acknowledgement to Benedicta sitting opposite him. She smiled and watched this priest, a man she truly loved, satisfy his hunger with broth, bread, cheese and sliced apple. Athelstan ate as if he was truly famished. Benedicta was tempted to ask when he had last dined but she knew he would not tell her. Athelstan followed a secret fast: if challenged he always replied that an empty belly honed his mind and sharpened his wits.
‘What will you do with Peter the Penniless?’
‘Peter Sandale, actually.’ Athelstan licked the horn spoon clean. ‘I knew him many years ago.’
‘Never!’
‘I knew him many years ago,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘Peter entered the novitiate at Blackfriars to train as a Dominican but realised that the prospect of taking a vow of poverty, not to mention one of chastity, was too much. He left Blackfriars and drifted. He always had a curious mind and became involved in the study of black magic, the demonic rites, the midnight arts, the conjuring of spirits, the summoning of spectres and all the other nonsense. He believed he had made a pact with the devil and sold his soul in order to become a prosperous merchant importing the finest leather from both Spain and North Africa.’
‘Did he make a pact with the devil?’
‘Of course not. Peter was just a very good merchant. The right man in the right place at the right time. Castile is now a close ally of England. John of Gaunt is married to a Castilian princess with a claim to the crown of Castile. English merchants are welcome there and the markets are many; be it fabrics, fruit or leather. God knows what truly went on in Peter’s mind. He definitely changed. As a young man he was generous to a fault: from a soul who would give you the cloak off his back he became a man who would give you your cloak from your own back and make you pay for it.’
Athelstan paused as Benedicta laughed. ‘All merriment aside, Peter truly changed. He became a notorious miser, niggardly, penny-pinching, avaricious. He also deepened his interest in the Black Arts and macabre midnight sacrifices. But, thanks be to God, about two months ago,’ Athelstan paused and screwed up his eyes, ‘yes, about two months ago, he changed again. The Great Revolt seriously affected him. Peter was truly shaken by the savagery and slaughter: it made him reflect and he reflected deeply. I like Peter, he is a man of good heart. Something happened when he was a boy, some experience warped his mind and weakened his will. Thanks be to God he decided to repent and not in the sense of crying and beating his breast but practically in his day-to-day life. He visited me here at St Erconwald’s. He made his confession and asked me to shrive him. I was so pleased. Peter became a new man. He gave generous bequests to the poor of this parish. He paid for certain repairs and exercised similar charity throughout Southwark.’
‘And he is married, I met …’
‘Yes, Amelia. A pretty-faced, comely woman who is desperately worried because Peter now believes he has not been forgiven. He maintains the sins of his youth have caught up with him and that he’s actually possessed by demons.’
‘Could he be?’
‘Benedicta, what is possession? I know from others how those who dabble in the Black Arts always suffer for it. I tell you this, Benedicta.’ Athelstan became animated. ‘I don’t believe in monkey-faced devils, but I do believe in Satan and his legion of fallen spirits, beings of pure intelligence and free will in constant opposition to God and his goodness. We are like butterflies. We rest on a flower and we conclude the only reality is that flower: what we see, hear, taste and touch. I truly believe there is another reality entwined with ours, where God’s angels hover, demons lurk and evil spirits hunt for an opening. If you call into the dark, someone or something always answers, and if you look into the pit, the monsters glare back. I feel this very much. If you summon up the powers of darkness, they will not leave you alone. You may conjure up spirits but God knows what will answer. Peter too accepts this: he trained to be a Dominican priest; he studied exorcism, demonology, Satan and the fall of man.’
‘And you really believe this, Brother?’
‘I do. Sir John and I hunt murderers. What is an assassin but an individual who has allowed a demon into his soul? But, to go back to Peter, he really wants to be good, he does not want to be separated from Christ. I do feel his anguish. He’s still mocked as a miser, hence the title “Penniless”. All this has proved too much for him. Twice in the last few weeks he has attempted suicide and tried to hang himself. On the first occasion the rope snapped and he was found unconscious. On the second, an apprentice came into the shed to find Peter dangling from a beam. He promptly cut him down.’ Athelstan popped the last piece of bread into his mouth. ‘I met Master Giole Limut today. I would regard him as a most skilled and experienced physician. I intend to ask for his help.’
‘And our pilgrimage?’
‘Time is passing, Benedicta. Our good neighbour Father Wilfred from St Laurence’s promises to keep matters here under close watch. He will use his own sacred vessels. We will keep ours safe in the secret arca beneath the sacristy floor. Of course, not all of our parishioners will be joining our holy yet merry journey to Canterbury. They can also help here.’
‘Oh, by the way,’ Benedicta announced, ‘Master Tuddenham, the Archdeacon of London’s clerk, visited us while you were gone.’
‘What on earth did he want?’
‘He said a tavern had been raided by city bailiffs. They had received information about a priest and a whore.’
‘Which priest?’
Benedicta fought to keep her face straight. ‘Apparently a Spanish friar.’
‘Oh no, not a Dominican?’
‘No. A friar of the Sack was discovered in one of the bedchambers in flagrante delicto. The friar, whose name is Gregorio, had a choice: either to appear before the Archdeacon’s court, not to mention a convention of his own order …’
‘Or,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘do public penance? And you know what that could be, Benedicta? Walking barefoot in sackcloth and ashes to some holy place and, in this case, Becket’s shrine at Canterbury. Good lord, of course! The Archdeacon will want guarantees that the penance is public and properly performed. I suspect Brother Gregorio is about to join us on pilgrimage.’ Whispering a prayer for help, Athelstan put his face in his hands. Benedicta leaned across and took them away.
‘Athelstan, it could be worse.’ She smiled. ‘According to Master Tuddenham, Brother Gregorio is a most genial friar.’ She grinned impishly. ‘If there can be such a thing?’
Athelstan was about to reply when there was a fierce scratching at the door. ‘Bonaventure,’ he declared, ‘it’s time for his milk.’
Benedicta rose and opened the door.
‘Athelstan, look!’ Caught by the fear in Benedicta’s voice, Athelstan turned. Bonaventure came padding across the kitchen. The great one-eyed tomcat often brought his kills to share with his friend, but this time he had been given something. A dead magpie was thrust between Bonaventure’s jaws; the garrotte string, tied tightly around the bird’s throat, was looped over Bonaventure’s neck. The cat padded dutifully towards Athelstan and sat down, the dead magpie still held in his mouth. Athelstan gently removed this, carefully undid the garrotte and stared at the stark message scrawled on the square of parchment: ‘Lord Azrael greets you …’
Athelstan finished his dawn mass and stared around his meagre congregation Crim the altar boy; Bonaventure, of course, keeping a sharp watch for any church mice darting across the sanctuary; Benedicta, looking particularly resplendent in her dark-green robes edged with a silvery thread and a snow-white veil and wimple.
Three days had passed since Bonaventure had brought that sinister message. Athelstan had had no choice but to explain its meaning to the widow-woman. She admitted she had heard news about the slaughter in Milk Street, since Master Tuddenham had referred to it in his brief visit to the parish. She had not seen any strangers in the parish or glimpsed anything untoward, but she agreed with Athelstan that this Azrael must have followed him across the river. Benedicta also made the sharp observation that Bonaventure, the great tomcat, was a greater recluse than Athelstan. He stayed well away from most parishioners, some of whom he seemed to positively detest, such as Ursula and her massive sow. Indeed, Bonaventure would allow few men to come close, being more of a ladies’ man than anything else. Athelstan agreed and wondered how Azrael the assassin, as the friar now called his murderous quarry, had got so close to this most solitary of cats.
Athelstan had since reflected on the threat, uncertain whether he was being warned off investigating the slaughter in Milk Street, or was being threatened with murder himself. In the end, the friar decided that he had better things to worry about and threw himself into preparations for the parish pilgrimage. The Archdeacon’s man had not yet returned but Peter the Penniless had certainly kept Athelstan busy. The sanctuary seeker had become calmer. He had been visited by Master Giole Limut, who had listened very carefully to Peter’s confession and come away shaking his head.
‘I do not know,’ he confessed. ‘In many ways the patient is lucid and as settled as yourself, Athelstan. The blood beat in his throat and wrist is quite steady and calm. The pupils of his eyes are the normal size. He is breathing clearly and I could detect no malignancy within him. Nevertheless, the patient does believe he is being haunted by demons. However, since taking sanctuary, he claims his humours have become much calmer.’ The physician had settled himself on the wall bench near the baptismal font and peered up at Athelstan. ‘Will you take Peter with you to Canterbury?’
‘Certainly,’ Athelstan said. ‘I can’t leave him here, which is another reason, Master Giole, for you and your family to accompany us. For one reason or another we will certainly need your skill and expertise. Now, can I pay you?’
The physician got to his feet. ‘Brother, if you even try to do that, I will join Peter in sanctuary.’
Athelstan smiled. ‘Could it be something Peter eats or drinks?’ he queried. ‘Is he being given some noxious potion?’
‘It’s possible,’ the physician replied. ‘But this would need someone very close to him who knew different opiates, their measurement and their effect, enough to unbalance the patient’s humours without causing more serious injury or even death. You have to be very skilled in managing such infusions. Indeed, it’s like many a cure or remedy. I can use certain herbs and potions to good effect but, if I give too much, the cure can become the killer. I did question him closely about his domestic arrangements.’ The physician’s dark, sad eyes crinkled in concern. ‘But what do we have there? Peter told me about them: a housewife, poor Amelia, and Robert, a simple clerk who is used to listing figures in a column. Never once has Peter seen them with any powder or herb, or indeed anything medicinal. Brother, I am sure all three know nothing about potions or powders. Oh yes,’ the physician smiled ruefully, ‘I also made sure that Master Peter was not poisoning himself, eating and drinking, either deliberately or by accident, what might be causing his ill humours. I could discover nothing amiss.’
Athelstan, leaning against the altar, broke from his reverie. He stared over his shoulder at Peter sitting in the enclave, hands joined together in prayer, ave beads lacing his bony fingers. Athelstan forced a smile and turned back as Benedicta coughed, as she always did, to startle him from his constant habit of daydreaming. The friar joined his hands together and bowed towards his little congregation.
‘Ite, missa est finis – Go, the mass has ended.’
‘Deo gratias – thanks be to God,’ Benedicta sang back.
Athelstan had no sooner disrobed in the sacristy than he was joined by a breathless Tiptoft, Cranston’s eerie-looking messenger. A tall, lanky man; Tiptoft’s narrow, snow-white face was crowned by fiery-red hair heavy with a greasy nard so it stood up like Hubert the hedgehog’s quills.
‘You must come, Brother,’ Tiptoft blurted out. ‘You must come now! I realised you were saying mass so I kept to the shadows, but Sir John, at the behest of my Lord of Gaunt and Master Thibault, requires you at the Tower.’
‘For what reason?’
‘The usual, Brother Athelstan. Gruesome murder.’
PART THREE
The Sooty Stink of Satan
Athelstan arrived at the Tower just as trumpets and horns brayed the message that the dawn watch was over. The great fortress was busy, bristling with armaments and ready for war. As Tiptoft led Athelstan along Red Gulley, the friar stared around. The crenellated walls and turrets of the different towers were manned by Cheshire archers and Hainault men-at-arms. Knights, dressed in half-armour, clustered at entrances, their warhorses in the Tower stables all harnessed and ready for their riders. The royal standard was planted along the walls overlooking the river, whilst off the water-gate, through which traitors were brought, war barges crammed with bowmen displaying the King’s personal emblem, the White Hart, kept constant watch.
Tiptoft had to use his warrant to force his way through the press of soldiers, not to mention the men, women and children of the Tower garrison. The narrow passageways which snaked around the different towers were busy as any Cheapside street. At last they entered Tower Green, the great, grassy bailey dominated by the White Tower, resplendent after its recent fresh coat of paint. The young king himself had ordered this following the suppression of the revolt. During the great tumult, the peasant a
rmies had stormed and taken the Tower. They had seized and barbarously executed leading officials of both Crown and Church, including Sudbury the Archbishop of Canterbury and Hailes the Treasurer who, many of the rebels believed, were responsible for the hated poll tax. Now that peace had been restored, young Richard had immediately ordered that his fortress be purged, purified and cleansed. He had also issued a proclamation saying that the royal standard would be kept unfurled at the Tower whether he was in residence or not: a stark warning that any violence in the Tower would subsequently be construed as treason.
Tiptoft explained all this as he led Athelstan down the outside steps of the White Tower into one of its cavernous cellars: a grim, forbidding chamber ill lit by tallow candles flaring in wall crevices and lanterns placed around the corpse table. On the latter stretched a cadaver beneath a stained canvas sheet which covered most of the corpse except for the hands and booted feet. Tiptoft begged Athelstan to wait in the dark whilst he hurried off and returned with a solemn-looking Cranston. The coroner threw both cloak and miraculous wineskin at Tiptoft to hold and instructed his messenger to wait outside. He then gave the friar a fierce hug before leading him over to the corpse table and pulling back the makeshift shroud.
‘I wish you Christ’s peace, Athelstan, but this, I am afraid, must be the first business of our day.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Roger Empson, former courier and messenger for Gaunt and Thibault. Azrael’s most recent victim.’
Athelstan murmured a requiem, nostrils pinched against the sickening smell, as he scrutinised Empson’s mortal remains.
‘A fine horseman, Roger,’ Cranston added. ‘He did good service with Sir Walter Manny …’
‘So a soldier,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘but a former one.’
‘Very much so, Brother.’
Athelstan inspected the corpse. Empson was a balding, lean-faced man, though his stomach was now bulging and swollen from the corruption within. The dead man’s face was loathsome, hideously discoloured and twisted, his blackening tongue pushed through purplish lips. Empson’s eyes, still popping with death-fright, were beginning to sink into their darkened hollows. Athelstan asked Cranston for his dagger and used this to cut the garrotte string tied tightly around the dead man’s throat. He read the usual macabre warning, ‘Lord Azrael greets you’, and threw it on the floor.