by Paul Doherty
‘For the Commons! For God’s true Commons!’
He then closed with Cranston who, sword and dagger drawn, stood between the assassin and his intended victim. The Salamander King’s accomplices were also armed and eager to strike at the regent, but Gaunt’s escort were now alerted. Two household knights successfully blocked the assassins’ first charge, which gave other bodyguards time to throw a veritable ring of steel around Gaunt. The attack was now common knowledge. Mothers screamed in fear, snatching their children up, fleeing from the bloody affray spreading across Tower Green. Warhorses whinnied, and squires hastened to quieten them and lead the destriers away as their sharp, flailing hooves could be as dangerous as any warrior’s whirling sword. More soldiers were hurrying onto the green. Gaunt remounted his warhorse, his henchmen gathering about him, weapons at the ready, but the melee was nearly over.
Cranston, despite his bulk, was agile as any street fighter, and his opponent, now cornered, was fearful, clumsy and slow. The coroner, sword and dagger twisting, was successfully driving the assassin away from the regent. Cranston then abruptly stooped and delivered a shattering blow to his opponent’s right ankle, and the Salamander King collapsed screaming to the ground. The attack was over. Two of the assassins were killed outright; the rest, grievously wounded, were being disarmed and forced to their knees.
Athelstan found himself rooted to the spot. He could never really comprehend the swiftness of such violence. One moment a glorious pageant on Tower Green; the next violence and bloodshed erupting with the song of the sword and all the horror of bloody battle. Now a chilling silence descended, that brief aftermath of any murderous melee when men realise what they have done and stare at the wounds inflicted. Somewhere a horn wailed. Two of the glossy-feathered war ravens which by tradition protected the Tower, floated over the place of slaughter as if attracted by the blood now snaking in thin, red lines across the closely cropped grass. Horses whinnied, still restless at the violence and the pervasive stench of blood. Leather harnesses creaked. Swords and daggers rasped as they were re-sheathed. A child cried. Gaunt moved his horse forward, urging the great destrier so he was almost on top of the huddled prisoners now moaning at their wounds. Gaunt drew his sword, holding it up by the crosspiece as he proclaimed sentence.
‘I, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster …’
The magnificent titles rolled out. Gaunt then moved his sword, grasping the handle and turning the point of its blade towards the prisoners. He condemned them as traitors, taken in arms whilst the banner of the King was unfurled and the royal arms publicly displayed. Accordingly, all were guilty of treason, sentence to be carried out immediately. Gaunt, nimble and adroit, slipped from the saddle. He balanced himself with a slight stoop, sword grasped between his gauntleted hands. Groaning and protesting, the prisoners were dragged in front of him. Arms bound behind their backs, they were made to kneel, heads forced down. Gaunt, sure as any plunging hawk, swung his great two-edged sword back and sheared off the head of each prisoner. One head was bouncing, one torso gushing blood like a fountain as the next victim was dragged forward to be as quickly despatched. Athelstan closed his eyes. Gaunt would brook no interference so the friar whispered the words of absolution and the requiem for these hapless souls being despatched to judgement. He watched five heads bounce away, five blood-spouting trunks collapse to the ground. The executions were carried out in a deathly silence. Gaunt lifted his sword, his blade gleaming like a fiery light in the sunshine.
‘So die all traitors!’ he bellowed. ‘Take their heads and pole them on the top of the White Tower. Their corpses are to be tarred, quartered and displayed above the Lion Gate and at each end of Tower Bridge.’ He paused. ‘Let the grass be cleaned of their filthy blood. Let no memory of them remain. We shall celebrate. Let the wine tuns be opened, the ale casks broached, the kitchens fire their ovens and stoves. Let us rejoice and thank God that the wickedness of these demons has been brought to nothing. Let us cry Alleluia!’ Gaunt’s proclamation was greeted with roars of approval. The mangled remains of the assassins were heaped together, a gruesome mound of flesh, bone and blood. Huge water carts were trundled across to clean the gore whilst the prospect of free food and drink for the garrison and all in the Tower swiftly changed the mood. The regent watched his orders being carried out before striding across to Cranston. He said nothing at first but touched the coroner on the shoulder then gently caressed Cranston’s face between his hands. Only a trickle of sweat down the regent’s face betrayed his agitation.
‘God bless you, Sir John, and my thanks,’ he murmured. ‘Once matters are settled, we shall meet in council.’ His hands fell away and he stood back. Thibault, standing behind his master, smiled beatifically: he raised his hand as if blessing both the coroner and friar, then they swept away. Gaunt’s escort broke up as courtiers, chamber priests, household officials and bodyguard went their different ways. The bloody affray on Tower Green now seemed like a nightmare, the assassins dead, their hacked remains piled into a cart. These would be taken down to Master Burdon’s workshop on London Bridge to be quartered, pickled and tarred. Albinus, Thibault’s silent shadow, drifted over, his voice scarcely above a whisper. He gave his master’s apologies, explaining that the convening of the council might take some time. So would my Lord Coroner and Brother Athelstan accept the deepest regrets at such a delay from both his master and His Grace, my Lord of Gaunt?
‘Do we have a choice?’ Athelstan asked.
Albinus’ snow-white face, with its singular blue-white eyes, broke into a lopsided smile. He shrugged and sauntered off. Athelstan watched him go then turned back to stare over Tower Green. The friar was bemused, still chilled by the speed and ferocity of the assault, its bloody aftermath and the now almost frantic work to remove all traces of the slaughter yard. The ale and wine casks were being rolled out to be fixed on stands ready to be broached. A huge turnspit had been set up on the stone paving and a log fire, a virtual pyre, was being prepared just beneath. Gaunt was desperately trying to restore everything to normal. Nevertheless, at the same time, Athelstan glimpsed Thibault’s minions moving amongst the crowd, questioning various individuals, some of whom were seized by the accompanying guards and hustled away.
‘Hic est terribilis locus,’ he murmured, ‘porta ipsa inferna – this is a terrible place, the very gate to Hell, Sir John.’ He sketched a blessing towards the coroner. ‘And you, Sir, are a veritable Hector!’
‘Who is he?’ Cranston demanded. ‘I have heard the name.’
‘Hector of Troy,’ Athelstan informed him. ‘Gaunt must be furious to be attacked here at the very heart of the crown’s great fortress. How could the Salamander King and the others get in so easily? To all intents the Great Revolt is over, yet that attack recalls the old days.’
‘I think the opposite.’ Cranston came and sat down next to Athelstan, cradling the miraculous wineskin in his lap. ‘Trust me, Brother, when Gaunt and Thibault calm down, they will agree with my judgement. The attack was a very desperate throw by very desperate men and probably the last of its kind. They thought very carefully and planned most assiduously. You see, the Salamander King was what he claimed to be, a fire-eater, a travelling mummer probably well known in the Tower and elsewhere. However, he was also a leading adherent of the Upright Men – not a street warrior or a leader of a cohort, but probably their principal courier and messenger. It must have been so easy for the likes of the Salamander King to travel across this city and into the surrounding shires with all his tricks and marvels. People would accept him for what he is, a crowd pleaser, a minstrel, a troubadour. Secretly he was part of the great conspiracy, and now the Salamander King represents its remnants, the Reapers. As for being in the Tower, I suspect he and his coven were admitted because they were habitual visitors who paraded across Tower Green on numerous occasions. Today the Salamander King seized his chance. He threw the dice, he lost and paid for it with his life, his accomplices likewise. Oh, there will be others of his coven but they wi
ll flee, taking their stories with them.
‘At this moment Gaunt will be indulging in a royal rage. He will berate the constable and other officers of the Tower as well as anyone else he wishes to point the finger of blame at. He’ll kick over furniture, tear tapestries from the wall, draw his sword and hack at chests and coffers. He will shout and scream. Afterwards he will calm down. He may even begin to wonder, and I would not reject this out of hand, if his attackers were really Upright Men or just a coven of assassins despatched by one of his many enemies. The Lord knows, Gaunt’s got many, nobles such as FitzAlan of Arundel.’ Cranston paused as a voice shouted their names, and the three evangelists, garbed in the livery of the Chancery, strolled across to meet them. All three brothers carried goblets of wine. They stood toasting both the coroner and the friar with their cups, then laughed as Cranston lifted his miraculous wineskin in reply.
‘You are here to do business?’ Athelstan asked, peering up at the three clerks who looked as if they’d drunk quite deeply.
Matthew replied: ‘We do have work here, but the attack on my Lord Gaunt has certainly shattered the harmony of the day. So, as St Paul says, we take a little wine for our stomach’s sake.’ He raised his goblet.
‘Aye,’ Cranston retorted, ‘and as the psalmist preaches, “wine gladdens the heart of men whilst in vino veritas”.’
‘Oh yes, wine will bring the truth out,’ Luke Gaddesden replied, leaning down to stare into Athelstan’s face. The friar tried not to flinch at the clerk’s breath, richly spiced from the wine he’d drunk. He also caught the fear in the man’s eyes.
‘Is all well?’ Athelstan murmured.
‘We’ve heard about poor Empson found garrotted in that charnel house,’ Matthew said. ‘Another victim of Azrael, eh?’
‘Did you know Empson well?’ Cranston asked.
Matthew looked at his brothers, who pulled faces or shrugged. ‘We knew him in the Chancery. We would exchange pleasantries, but all he took from us were letters and other documents to be despatched or carried here and there. Sometimes he would commit messages to memory, but then he would be alone with Master Thibault or Albinus.’
‘But all is now well with you?’
‘We are not too sure, are we, brothers?’ Matthew turned and glanced at his siblings. Now they had drawn close, Athelstan could almost smell their fear, and he noticed that Matthew in particular was unshaven and red-eyed, the hand grasping his wine cup trembling continuously.
‘You’ve heard the news?’ Luke slurped. ‘Master Thibault and our good selves …’ He knocked away his brother Matthew’s restraining hand.
‘You are not …’
‘Matthew, I will have my say. Brother Athelstan, Sir John, we are joining you on your pilgrimage to Canterbury. Master Thibault wishes to give personal thanks for his safe deliverance. In addition Master Thibault will accompany us: he hopes to meet with certain envoys from Castile and treat with them. I believe,’ Luke stammered, ‘that’s the reason for your summons here.’ His voice faltered and he fell silent.
Athelstan could only stare in surprise. Cranston cursed beneath his breath, whilst the other evangelists, openly embarrassed at their brother’s abrupt proclamation, made their farewells. Luke shouted that they should while away their time with a little fishing or bird-snaring amongst the reed banks along the river.
‘Satan’s tits!’ Cranston breathed, watching them go. ‘Brother Athelstan, should we go to Canterbury or flee and seek sanctuary somewhere else? In God’s name!’
‘In God’s name it will be, Sir John.’ Athelstan took out his ave beads, threading them through his fingers. ‘There’s a real mystery here, Lord Coroner, and, like a mist above a marsh, it’s beginning to gather and thicken.’ He pointed across to where the Tower ravens, glossy black feathers gleaming, were now clustering over the place of blood, digging with their cruel dagger beaks at the gore-sodden earth. ‘There will be more blood by and by. But whose, where and when?’
Athelstan paused as he heard his name called, and he glimpsed pale-faced Master Tuddenham, the Archdeacon’s man, his black robe flapping, striding across the bailey, sending the ravens whirling up around him. Tuddenham appeared extremely agitated. He stopped in front of Cranston and Athelstan, taking deep breaths to calm himself.
‘I am sorry,’ he gasped. ‘I was delayed. I heard about the attack, the executions, the bloodshed.’ He abruptly looked over his shoulder at Tower Green before lifting his feet to inspect his sandals.
‘You will find no blood there, Master Tuddenham,’ Athelstan soothed. ‘The wetness comes from the water poured out to clean the ground, although some mystics say, “Blood spilt in anger will not truly disappear until the day of vengeance.”’
‘We live in the time of vengeance,’ Tuddenham retorted. ‘Anyway, God’s work goes on. Our guest has arrived. I have lodged Brother Gregorio in St Peter ad Vincula.’
‘Master Tuddenham, why exactly is Brother Gregorio joining our pilgrimage, and not somebody else’s?’
‘Think, Brother.’ Tuddenham forced a glacial smile. ‘You, my Lord Coroner and possibly others, or so the rumour says, will be witnesses enough that Brother Gregorio’s penance has been completed in accordance with the norms of canon law. The Bishop of London has ordered this and, I believe, he has the support of Prior Anselm at Blackfriars.’
‘May God and his saints bless them both. Master Tuddenham, lead us on, Brother Gregorio awaits.’
‘One moment,’ Cranston ordered.
‘Yes, Sir John?’
‘Tell me, did Brother Gregorio arrive in London by himself?’ The Archdeacon’s man looked up and, just for a second, Athelstan saw him swallow hard, lick his lips and glance away. The usual gesture, Athelstan had learnt, from someone about to tell a lie or at least not the full truth.
‘Of course. Why do you ask?’
The coroner sketched a mocking bow. ‘Master Tuddenham, lead on.’
They crossed the bailey and entered the grim, dusty nave of St Peter’s ad Vincula. Athelstan recalled the legends about this chapel: at certain times of the year, particularly the eve of All Hallows and other days of solemn mourning, the spirits of those who had met violent deaths in this formidable fortress, gathered in ghostly chapter to sing their own funeral vespers, and their chanting could be heard all over the Tower.
‘Well, after today,’ Athelstan whispered to himself, ‘more souls will join that ghostly choir.’
‘What was that?’ A figure strode out of the gloom to the right of the doorway. Athelstan started and stepped back, almost colliding with Master Tuddenham.
‘I am sorry.’ The stranger walked into the light thrown by one of the high lancet windows. Apparently full of confidence, he gestured at Athelstan to join him further up the nave, close to the sombre, rough-hewn rood screen where the light was better. ‘Such a gloomy place,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I would say you English love such haunted corners. But, unfortunately, churches like this are common enough, even in Castile.’ The stranger turned before the rood screen and, one hand on his chest, bowed elegantly. ‘I am Brother Gregorio, a humble Friar of the Sack, envoy of our Minister General in Castile, a servant of the servants of God …’
‘And now a public sinner in the King’s own city of London,’ Master Tuddenham broke in harshly. He thrust a slip of parchment into Cranston’s hands. ‘Brother Gregorio is now in your care, my Lord Coroner, Brother Athelstan. He and …’ Tuddenham gestured at the saddle bags and panniers, neatly secured with fine twine, stacked near the entrance to the rood screen, ‘… all his worldly possessions.’ Tuddenham bowed curtly in mocking imitation of Brother Gregorio, then the Archdeacon’s man was gone, slamming the door behind him.
Brother Gregorio shook his head and stared up at the agonised, crucified face of the carved figure of Christ on his cross. He muttered something quickly in Spanish and then translated it, as if for himself. ‘Thank God he has gone!’
‘Have you had much dealings with him?’ Athelstan ask
ed.
‘As little as possible. But thanks be to God, he has gone! Brother Athelstan, Sir John Cranston, my Lord High Coroner.’ Gregorio clasped hands and exchanged the kiss of peace with his two new keepers, then stood back smiling at both of them. Athelstan studied the Spaniard closely even as he tried to conceal his amusement. Brother Gregorio exuded good humour. The Spanish friar was slender, of medium height, and his dark, reddish hair had been neatly cut but not in the clerical style, shaven to reveal the tonsure; his moustache and beard were closely trimmed and, when he smiled, his teeth were white and even. A most attractive man, Gregorio’s large, dark eyes danced with impish merriment. Clearly a ladies’ gallant, Athelstan concluded, one of this world’s troubadours who drank deep and often of the wine of life: his priesthood and his vows were irrelevant to what he enjoyed and what he experienced.
‘Do I pass scrutiny, Brother Athelstan?’
‘You certainly do.’ Cranston came to stand beside Athelstan and gestured down the church. ‘Why were you hiding in the shadows?’
‘I wasn’t hiding!’ Gregorio stepped forward. Athelstan noticed how Gregorio’s robe was of pure wool and spotlessly clean, the cord around his waist snow-white, the sandals on his bare feet, thick-soled with good leather uppers and thongs. He had delicate hands, long-fingered, and clean, pared nails. He lifted one hand rather elegantly as if taking an oath.
‘I wasn’t hiding.’ Gregorio repeated. ‘I was drawing. I etch my memories, my dreams, my thoughts, anything which catches my attention. You must look at what I have done.’