by Paul Doherty
‘Strange.’ He touched the corpse’s throat. ‘Yes, that’s what I thought I saw.’
‘Brother?’
‘Empson’s throat is marked with a deep, blue-red laceration, this is his death wound. But look, Sir John, a little further up.’
‘I see it, Brother, another wound, similar but not so deep. This was beginning to heal when the second laceration was inflicted.’ The coroner straightened up. ‘Empson’s corpse was found yesterday evening in a charnel house near All Hallows-on-the-Wall. The place is a real abomination, disused and derelict for decades. They say ghosts, ghouls and spectres constantly haunt both the house and the surrounding garden. I have ordered the entire place to be torched. I’ve also made some enquiries. Apparently Empson disappeared a few days ago, before Mephan was murdered. The courier was glimpsed in the city markets. Hooded and visored, he tried to disguise himself, but there is very little which escapes the hawk eyes of my street spies led by Master Muckworm, whom I believe you have met?’ Cranston did not wait for an answer. ‘He glimpsed Empson not far from the charnel house buying up supplies. So how did this all happen?’
‘Two wounds, Sir John. One much lighter and half healed. I believe Azrael attacked Empson some time ago but the courier managed to escape. Terrified out of his wits, Empson fled the Chancery and his own lodgings for what he thought was a safe refuge: a disused, decayed and abandoned charnel house. After the first attack failed, the cunning killer followed his prey and took careful note. He would wait. Then at an hour chosen by him, he attacked and finished what he’d begun. But why was Empson’s death so necessary? We have no evidence that he received Azrael’s usual warning, because it would have meant very little to him.’
Athelstan covered the corpse and went to sit down on a stool. He looked up at Sir John, who looked all trim in his nut-brown cotehardie, dun-coloured hose and low-heeled walking boots. Athelstan went on reflectively, ‘We know that Gaunt and Thibault sit in their chambers plotting – it’s all about power and Gaunt’s grasp of it. The chain between this precious pair is not only comradeship and a common goal but five other people: Simon Mephan, the Evangelists and Roger Empson. Two links in this chain have now been broken, whilst the other three links are threatened, as am I for being involved. Immediately I ask who is responsible, and why? It could be the Reapers, but that seems unlikely. Yes, we may have disaffected rebels thirsty for revenge, but this is too skilled, too well plotted for the Upright Men: they are now more concerned about saving their own skins rather than wringing the necks of their enemies. And why me and not you, most powerful colleague? More importantly, why not the Reapers’ true opponents, Gaunt and Master Thibault?’
‘You will have your chance to ask them both,’ Cranston broke in. ‘They want to meet us in the council chamber, just close to the chapel of St John the Evangelist.’
‘My happiness is complete,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Truly, I am not looking forward to that. Oh, by the way …’
He told Cranston all that had happened since they’d last met. Cranston heard him out and whistled under his breath.
‘So Azrael, the wicked bastard, followed you to Southwark?’
‘On his certain journey to Hell,’ Athelstan retorted. He still felt angry at how the assassin had used his good comrade Bonaventure to issue his blood-chilling threats.
‘And no one saw him?’
‘Nobody, Sir John. But there again, people can move about disguised. My concern is why Bonaventure let Azrael draw so close.’
Cranston continued: ‘And then there’s your good friend Master Tuddenham from the Archdeacon’s court, leaving word of Brother Gregorio, our disgraced Friar of the Sack, and the prospect of this Hispanic sinner joining us on our pilgrimage to Canterbury. Brother Gregorio is another reason for your summons here. The Archdeacon has also been in contact with me: they need my help. To cut to the quick, Master Tuddenham is bringing Brother Gregorio to the Tower. I have summoned him to appear here.’
‘I thought Gregorio would be imprisoned?’
‘You know the way of the world, Brother. If Gregorio does not wish to face up to his sin and flees then he is just another fugitive, one more defrocked priest who can join the rest of his kind begging for a living. However, if Gregorio does penance for his sins then his order will welcome him back with open arms. From what I gather this is the bond Gregorio has entered into. He is to stay in a certain place and, when summoned, he must be there on time. Now Athelstan, believe it or not, there is a connection between Gregorio’s sin and the fiend Azrael. But first, let’s leave Master Empson to the cold darkness and, while we wait, enjoy a moment in the sunshine.’
‘A moment, Sir John.’ Athelstan rose, pulling his hood up over his head, and took a stole from his chancery satchel, along with a small leather case which held three phials for the oil, water and chrism taken from the stock sanctified the previous Holy Saturday, Easter Eve. He pulled back the filthy shroud sheet and deftly conducted the last rites, Cranston murmuring the responses. Once Athelstan had finished, Cranston assured the friar that a similar anointing had been done by the priest at St Mary le Bow for the three corpses taken from Milk Street. Athelstan placed the phials back in his chancery satchel and followed Cranston out into the sunlight.
They sat on a bench watching children play around the great engines of war: the monstrous mangonels, catapults and trebuchets which rejoiced in names such as ‘Flesh-Shatterer’, ‘Bone-Breaker’ and ‘Skull-Crusher’. The Tower was certainly busy, its community immersed in myriad tasks like any village or town. There were a number of markets, each containing a range of stalls selling goods, from local merchandise such as flour from the mills near the Tower, to oranges, dates and other fruit brought in by the cogs berthed along the Thames. A fleshing yard was busy slaughtering pigs, chickens and other livestock. The air was thick with the stench of blood and riven by the strident calls of the animals being herded to the slaughter sheds. Archers, soldiers and servants mingled with the washerwomen pushing barrows and handcarts piled high with dirty linen, eager to reach the wells and water outlets. Wandering troubadours, minstrels and mummers had been allowed in along with chanteurs, storytellers, relic-sellers and other tinkers and traders. A tall, garishly dressed fire-eater proclaimed himself the Salamander King: this mountebank included everyone in his constant patter, as he claimed to hold the sandal that had slipped off Jesus’ feet as the Lord was arrested, and described a building in Jerusalem called the House of Evil Council, where the chief priests and others had plotted against Christ.
Athelstan turned to his companion. ‘Now, my Lord Coroner, please tell me everything you have discovered about Empson. You have been busy, I can see that.’
‘Empson was Thibault’s special courier. Remember, Athelstan, not all messages are written, but often they are committed to memory. Envoys, ambassadors and others in that walk of life must not only be physically able and good horsemen but have an excellent memory for what cannot be put in writing. Remember what Scripture says, Brother? “Put not your trust in princes nor your confidence in the war chariots of Egypt or the swift horses of Syria.”’
‘I certainly do,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘and I never forget that other verse by the disillusioned psalmist: “I said in my excess all men are liars.”’
‘Very true,’ Cranston agreed. ‘Men like Gaunt and Thibault do not like to render themselves vulnerable to the truth. Remember, treason is only treason if it fails. Gaunt’s abiding desire, his great dream, is the Crown of England, but he must never betray this. Now Empson, whether he realised it or not, carried messages which, if written down and seized by the young king’s advisors, would send Gaunt and his coven to the scaffold on Tower Hill. Empson therefore was an important person in Thibault’s household. He would be hated by the Upright Men and a quarry for the Reapers, though I am beginning to suspect that the Reapers have nothing to do with our fiend Azrael.’
‘I would agree, Sir John, but do continue.’
‘Now what I have lear
nt, Brother, comes from rumour and tavern gossip, but, more importantly, from the sightings of my street spies, the likes of Leif, Rawbum, Muckworm and the Sanctus Man. From what these tell me …’ Cranston paused at the shrill screams from the slaughter shed where the hogs were having their throats cut. Athelstan stared across the grassy bailey. The Salamander King had been joined by others of his troupe allowed into the Tower to entertain the garrison: the horde of mercenaries lodged there as well as the wives and children of officers and clerks.
‘You’ve learnt what, Sir John?’
‘Empson was a bachelor with lodgings in Cheapside. According to rumour, he liked young boys, so he frequented a tavern known as the Lute Boy – a clean swept, grandiose, even majestic hostelry with one difference. The tavern is simply a veil for what happens in its warren of spacious cellars, underground chambers built God knows when or why. The owner is a Mistress Alianora Devereux, more publicly known as the Way of all Flesh. Brother, I leave it to your imagination why she is called that. Anyway, Mistress Alianora caters for every possible lustful appetite you have listened to in confession and a few more you certainly haven’t. She has male and female whores, and a few in between. She feeds human depravity until it’s gorged. I shudder to think what goes on in those underground chambers.’
‘And she is allowed to do this?’
‘You can imagine the reason why, Athelstan. She has powerful friends in the Guildhall, on the King’s council and even more so at court. Anyway, Empson was one of her customers, assaulted close to the Lute Boy. According to a group of revellers who came out of a secret drinking den, they emerged just as Empson was being attacked. They are certain it was he. The assassin had vanished, Empson was on his hands and knees gasping and sobbing. They helped him to a nearby tavern. Once he’d recovered, Empson fled his usual haunts and went into hiding.’
‘In other words,’ Athelstan declared, ‘Empson believed Azrael was hunting him. But how did Azrael know Empson frequented such a hostelry? Though, there again,’ he conceded, ‘the assassin could have been keeping Empson under close watch and followed him there that night. Such careful planning would frighten a man like Empson. He would realise this was not just some street affray, but that he’d been marked down for assassination. He fled to that charnel house near the London Wall but our black-winged angel, the Lord Azrael, caught up with him and finished what he had begun.’
Cranston leaned closer. ‘However, there is more, Brother Athelstan – a link with the slaughter in Milk Street. You recall the housemaid at Mephan’s lodgings, the young Felicia? Well, before Azrael caught up with her, Felicia was a lithe, toothsome wench who was not above earning extra coin at the Lute Boy under the strict supervision of the Way of all Flesh. Now our Brother Gregorio, whom you are going to meet very soon, the Spanish friar of the Order of the Sack, was residing at a tavern in Farringdon, close to Milk Street and not all that far from the Lute Boy.
‘Sir John, what on earth was Gregorio doing there or, indeed, in London in the first place?’
‘Well, you can ask him that yourself, but from what I gather, something about the Minister General of his order, who apparently resides in Castile, being deeply concerned about the fate of his brothers in London because of the troubles here.’ Cranston spread his hands, lowering his voice: ‘You recognise that is a legitimate concern, Athelstan. The rebels were not amicable to foreigners, as the Flemings found to their cost. Now Gregorio is a linguist, much travelled and, I understand, extremely charming. Young Felicia apparently thought so too. Gregorio, desirous of a little human company, met Felicia in the cellars of the Lute Boy by courtesy of the Way of all Flesh. Apparently, they were much taken with each other and, as often happens in such brothels, arranged a second assignation at another tavern, the Mitre in Nutkin Lane, Cheapside.’
‘Where Brother Gregorio had taken lodgings?’
‘Precisely, little friar. I think Gregorio takes to fornication as a bird does to flying.’ Cranston picked up his miraculous wineskin which Tiptoft had left close to the bench. The coroner took a generous mouthful and persuaded Athelstan to do the same.
‘So Gregorio was betrayed?’
‘Yes, I believe he was. Gregorio didn’t reside at any of the friaries of his order and those he was visiting must have become suspicious.’ Cranston waved a hand. ‘You know how the story goes. They knew where he lodged, they could watch who came and went, and they notified the city bailiffs, that’s what I have learnt from Flaxwith and his lovely lads. Brother, we have walked the streets of London. How many times have we seen a priest caught in fornication, seated on a horse facing its tail, being taken down to the public pillory to the raucous shrilling of bagpipes and the catcalls of onlookers? The city bailiffs just love to catch a priest fishing where he shouldn’t. The Mitre was raided, and Gregorio acted all courteous. He protected Felicia and she escaped, but he was taken up and handed over to the Archdeacon’s court. The bailiffs suspected it was Felicia, but of course they had no proof, as she had fled.’
‘And I know the rest.’ Athelstan laughed quietly. ‘Gregorio is to join us on our pilgrimage …’
He broke off at the shrill call of trumpets. People were now streaming up from the Lion Gate, running before the outriders, all garbed in the gorgeous livery of the self-proclaimed regent, John of Gaunt. Banners, standards and pennants floated in the breeze, an array of brilliant colours from azure to vert with a host of heraldic insignia and devices proclaiming Gaunt’s status as a prince, a great duke, the heir to the English throne as well as a claimant to the ancient crown of Castile. The horsemen cantered onto the great, grassy bailey which stretched around the formidable White Tower. A mounted cohort of Sherwood archers in their Lincoln green jackets and earth-coloured hose followed next, deadly warbows slung across their backs, quivers of goose-feathered arrows slapping against their rough leather saddles. These cleared the way for Gaunt’s personal party, his household knights dressed in half-armour and their master’s livery.
The horsemen debouched onto the great bailey followed by Gaunt’s chamber priests and his principal henchmen. Thibault was prince amongst these and the Master of Secrets looked resplendent in his blue and gold surcoat, blonde hair fashionably crimped, his innocent, choirboy face fixed into that gracious smile which had duped even the most cunning of observers. Gaunt came last, alone, very much the great prince in his cloth-of-gold cotehardie and silver hose. The regent’s wrists gleamed with precious bracelets, a magnificent silver Lancastrian ‘SS’ gorget circled his throat, and a chapelet of gold adorned his corn-coloured hair, which he grew long so it fell to rest on his shoulders. Gaunt exuded arrogance, one gauntleted hand holding the reins of his magnificent destrier, lavishly caparisoned in the Plantagenet colours of blue, scarlet and gold, and the other hand bearing the royal standard with its three crouching, snarling leopards. The banner openly proclaimed that the boy king Richard was not the only royal Plantagenet in the kingdom.
Athelstan watched Gaunt’s party spread out across the bailey. Ostlers and grooms from the regent’s household hurried to help their masters dismount. Others prepared to lead the horses away. Orders were shouted, people milled about. Gaunt waited for a dismounting block. He then handed the standard to a squire and effortlessly slid from the high, horned, gilt-edged saddle. Athelstan, sitting not far from where the regent stood, studied Gaunt closely. Weeks had passed since the revolt had been crushed and the regent had kept to the shadows. Now he was displaying himself in the full glory of a summer’s day. Athelstan wouldn’t trust Gaunt as far as he could spit; indeed, in the friar’s mind, Gaunt was the most accurate likeness of Lucifer before the fall. The regent was tall, slender, golden-haired, his skin a lovely olive sheen. He had the eerie light-blue eyes of the Plantagenets, a full, sensuous mouth, the lips ready to part in a smile which never actually happened. Athelstan was fascinated by him. Physically very handsome, on a spiritual level Athelstan regarded Gaunt as one of the most dangerous men he’d ever met; an exquisitely beautiful sn
ake who would lunge and kill on a mere whim.
Gaunt stood slapping his gauntlets against his thigh as he looked around the Tower bailey, very much the powerful prince, the master of the house. Athelstan also noticed how the regent’s party were beginning to break up. Six months earlier guards would have locked shields around him. Now confident in victory, fresh from his forays along the Scottish March and secure in the kingdom’s principal fortress, Gaunt had decided to lower his guard. He was presenting himself as the benevolent prince, confident that he would face no danger here in the Tower where his soldiers gathered and the walls bristled with armaments. Cranston, however, was not so confident. He abruptly seized Athelstan’s arm and pointed.
‘Brother,’ he rasped, ‘the Salamander King, the fire-eater, look at him and his coven.’
The Salamander King was demonstrating his skill, offering to eat from the fiery torch he carried. He was now moving amongst Gaunt’s escort, teasing and laughing, disarming any fear as he continued to blow fire from his mouth. Others accompanied him, a small troupe of five or six, huddled around their wheelbarrow heaped high with the Salamander’s tools of trade: cresset torches, tallow candles and a small, moveable stove packed with glowing charcoal. Alarmed, Cranston pulled at Athelstan’s sleeve then hurried towards the regent, shouting his warning.
The Salamander King was now very close to Gaunt. He stopped abruptly and threw the flaming torch he carried at a group of soldiers. He then fumbled beneath his garish robes for the sword and dagger hidden away. At the same time his comrades around the wheelbarrow also cleared the top of their cart to snatch up the weapons concealed there. The Salamander King had not moved as swiftly as Cranston. The would-be assassin had sword and dagger out, hovering close to the regent, who could only draw a dress knife to defend himself. Cranston crashed into the Salamander King and the fire-eater staggered back, then lunged forward screaming one of the battle cries of the Upright Men: