by Paul Doherty
‘I would be honoured,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But first, Brother, let us learn a little about you as you will undoubtedly learn a little about us.’ He waved towards the wall benches. Cranston and Athelstan rearranged these so that they both sat opposite their enforced guest. Gregorio, at Athelstan’s invitation, told them about his early life. He was born into a wealthy merchant’s family in Castile. In the cathedral school of Toledo he had shown himself to be a talented scholar with a gift for languages. He was now fluent in the tongues of Spain, the Latin and Greek of Scriptures, Norman French, English, the Lingua Franca of the Middle Seas as well as a working knowledge of Flemish. Gregorio had also studied philosophy, theology and logic at Salamanca and, for a time, the art of physic for which that university was famous.
Athelstan listened intently. He had no means to verify what the Spanish friar was saying but, as Sir John often said, the proof of the pudding was in the eating, and Athelstan was determined to learn more about this enigmatic character over the next few days. Undoubtedly Gregorio was a highly intelligent man with a gift for languages. He could slip easily between English and Norman French with only a slight tinge of an accent. Indeed, the Spanish friar’s career was a story that Athelstan had heard before: the highly talented son of a mercantile family, the offspring of parents who doted on their only son whilst he responded by entering the church. Apparently Gregorio’s talents had soon been recognised by his superiors, being despatched as an envoy across Europe.
‘And so you came here?’
‘Not for the first time,’ Gregorio retorted. ‘I know London very well. Sometimes I come in disguise.’
‘Why?’
‘I work for my order but, there again …’
‘Others would hire you, I assume?’ Cranston asked. ‘This count? That duke? This archbishop? That abbot?’
‘Exactly, Sir John.’
‘People might claim you are a spy.’
‘People,’ Gregorio laughed, his face full of humour, ‘can go hang. I am a journeyer. Last time I was in London I was a relic seller. I could offer you the arm of St George,’ he pulled a face, ‘shrunken as it was when I took it down from an execution spike. I could sell you one of the water pots from Cana, an ear from St Dismas well, at least five of them. Scraps of roasted flesh from St Lawrence. Three of the stones hurled at St Stephen and two of the molars of the giant Goliath, being six inches long and weighing twelve pounds …’
He paused as Athelstan laughed.
‘And this time,’ Cranston intervened, ‘your superiors sent you to ensure that all was well with your brothers in England?’
‘Yes, and I like coming here. I enjoy your bizarre ways.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, before I was seized, I visited a rat-drowning in a tavern close to Newgate. Have you ever been to one?’
‘No, never!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘I hate rats.’
‘Likewise.’ Gregorio rubbed his hands together. ‘A legacy from my youth, of being locked in filthy cellars. Anyway, there is nothing like watching a rat-catcher drown his quarry – it’s better than plucking plums from a branch.’
Athelstan stared at this fellow friar. Gregorio was courteous, witty, charming with a fine sense of humour. Yet there was something wrong. For a few moments when Gregorio was talking about being imprisoned in filthy cellars, the bonhomie had slipped like a loose mask betraying a hardness of soul, a man with a great deal to resolve. Athelstan could never explain how he reached such conclusions. He believed it was the fruit of questioning people closely either in the pursuit of some assassin or under the seal of confession when shriving a soul burdened with sin. In such cases Athelstan recalled the Confessions of St Augustine. That great sinner turned saint had described humans as beings full of every kind of emotion: fear, fantasy, dream and experience. Nevertheless there was an underlying basic trait each person had, what the Greeks called ‘Karpos’, the very essence of their being, whether as a sinner or a saint, and this karpos would bear fruit for good or bad. This seemed to be true of Brother Gregorio, so much so, Athelstan wondered if this Friar of the Sack was really what he claimed to be and if, despite all his worldly charm, he was in fact something else.
‘So you arrived in London?’ Cranston continued the questioning, now fully aware that Athelstan was in one of his reveries. ‘And all was well?’ Cranston grinned. ‘I mean, until you discovered the delights of Mistress Felicia and the forbidden pleasures of the Way of all Flesh? Brother Gregorio laughed, shifting to sit slightly sideways as he flicked dust from his robe. Once again Athelstan caught it, a sense that this man was acting as if he wore a mask in a mummer’s play. Every gesture, expression and movement had been rehearsed time and again until the actor and the role he adopted became one. Athelstan could almost sense what Gregorio was going to say.
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ Gregorio beat his breast in mock sorrow, ‘as the psalmist says, “my sin is always before me”.’ I love a pretty face, a well-turned ankle, dancing eyes and a merry mouth.’
‘And Felicia?’
‘Oh, I know all about the secrets of the Lute Boy and the lustful services offered by the Way of all Flesh. I have supped at that chalice on other visits to London.’ Gregorio grinned and spread his hands. ‘But, of course, I denied that before Master Tuddenham.’
‘Felicia?’ Athelstan insisted, ignoring Gregorio’s good humour.
‘Felicia.’ The Spanish friar’s smile was now forced like that of a master in the schools dealing with some dumb ox of a scholar.
‘Yes, Felicia.’
‘I met her at the Lute Boy. I was very pleased with her ministrations. I asked her to visit me at the Mitre. I offered to make it worth her while. Of course she came. Somebody, however, had kept me under close watch.’ He held a hand up. ‘And no, I don’t know who. Probably some Brothers of the Sack who wondered where I lodged and were jealous of my freedom. Anyway, my chamber at the Mitre was raided by city bailiffs. I managed to protect Felicia and arrange her escape. However, it was obvious I was a priest, a friar and, as one of the bailiffs put it, that I’d been playing the two-backed beast with the young lady whom I had helped through the window and who had been glimpsed fleeing from the tavern. I was taken up, proclaimed as a public sinner, and so here I am. Brother Athelstan, I am now in your care. I will return with you to Southwark?’
‘Yes, you can lodge at the the Piebald Tavern,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘It’s not of the same luxury as the Lute Boy, nor does it offer such services. However, it’s merry enough. Of course, you cannot celebrate mass or exercise any of your priestly powers until your penance is complete.’
‘I agree.’
Athelstan gestured at the saddle bags and panniers close to the entrance of the rood screen. ‘And you have everything you need – money, clothing?’
‘I am as richly endowed as you are, Brother Athelstan. You know that I must walk to Canterbury in sackcloth and ashes with nothing on my feet.’
‘We will see about that,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Once we are on the Canterbury road, who cares? Is it not so, Sir John?’ The coroner, sleepy-eyed, clambered to his feet and nodded. Brother Gregorio and Athelstan also rose. The Spaniard went to sift amongst his possessions and brought back a thick, square folio, its richly decorated calf-skin covers holding scrubbed parchment sheets between them, at least a hundred in all. Gregorio thrust the folio into Athelstan’s hand.
‘My drawings,’ he declared proudly. ‘The sum of all my dreams, what my mind perceives and my soul is drawn to. Brother, look at these whilst I, with your permission, will wander this great fortress of which I have heard so much. I understand a fight has been arranged between two old crones. The winner will be the first to draw blood.’ Gregorio shook his head. He lifted his hand in mock blessing and quietly left the chapel.
‘In heaven’s name,’ Athelstan declared, ‘we do meet some strange souls, do we not, Sir John?’
‘Interesting,’ Cranston agreed. ‘You have reservations, Brother?’
‘Aye, enough to make me think.’
‘About what?’
‘Is Gregorio what he claims to be?’
‘If he isn’t,’ Cranston countered, ‘you, my little ferret of a friar, will establish the truth. But now I must go. I have friends here, old comrades …’
Athelstan half listened as Cranston gathered himself and left. The friar heard the door thud closed and stared down at the parchment folio Gregorio had entrusted to him. Intrigued, he took it over to a high stool beneath one of the more spacious windows and the generous shaft of light pouring through it. Athelstan opened the folio onto a graphic scene, ‘The Tavern of Damned Souls’, illustrating a popular legend about the damned on their journey to Hell being allowed one last moment of drinking, lovemaking and human companionship before the eternity of Hell shut them off forever. The tavern was portrayed as a huge, cracked egg on struts. Climbing a ladder up to it, his back turned, was a sinister figure, an arrow embedded deep in his anus. He was naked except for a cowl. In one hand, this infernal figure grasped a set of barrel-red bagpipes, and in the other, a morning star, an ugly battle mace. This figure, probably a demon, was climbing to meet the damned souls to herd them on to punishment. The background to the drawing was most forbidding: flames clawed a winter’s night; demons leapt and cavorted above the tongues of fire …
Athelstan turned the page. The next drawing was different. It depicted the fox of legend, Master Reynard, a cross between his paws, a mitre on his head, preaching to a congregation of ducks and geese in a poultry yard. They all thronged about, fascinated by the preacher, depicted so sanctimoniously. Yet Reynard’s eye, shaded by russet fur, betrayed a cruel gleam: the mitre was about to slip and those jaws, open in sermonising, were fiercely sharp …
‘A man who believes in the topsy-turvy world,’ Athelstan whispered to himself. Similar drawings in the folio emphasised this anarchistic view of the world, and the friar once again wondered who Gregorio really was. Lost in such thoughts, he made himself as comfortable as he could on a bench and dozed for a while. He had no idea how much time had passed when he was roughly shaken awake by an anxious Cranston.
‘Brother Athelstan, please, I am sorry. Azrael is here. He has struck again. Luke Gaddesden took a Tower boat and went out onto the river. The bargeman saw him. He rowed out, then the Fisher of Men, on his usual patrol … Well, never mind.’ Cranston steadied the little friar who, roused from his sleep, swayed precariously on his feet.
Athelstan collected himself. ‘And you, Sir John, weren’t just visiting old friends and comrades?’
‘Very interesting, Athelstan, but that must wait.’
The friar tightened his sandals, made sure that he was presentable and followed Cranston out of St Peter’s across the grassy bailey towards the water-gate. A crowd had assembled there, gathered around a two-wheeled sloping handcart. Athelstan glimpsed the top of the head and the boots of the corpse that was covered by a canvas shroud. Albinus was directing matters as Thibault conferred with the two evangelists who, deep in their cups, were grief-stricken at the sudden and tragic death of their brother. Matthew, the eldest, looked as if he would collapse and, at Thibault’s urging, both evangelists returned to their chamber in King’s Lodgings, a spacious mansion of wood and plaster on a stone base which served as a hostelry for guests visiting the Tower.
Cranston waited until they had gone before shouldering his way through. Thibault raised a hand in greeting, snapping his fingers at Albinus to accompany him over to King’s Lodgings. The crowd began to thin. Cranston declared who he was and sketched a bow towards the eerie, sombre-clad figure of the Fisher of Men and the Fisher’s principal retainer Ichthus, garbed as usual in a black tunic gathered tightly at his neck and falling to just above his well-sandalled feet. Cranston issued his orders, telling onlookers and bystanders to move away and adding that the nave of St Peter’s would be the best resting place for the corpse until it was moved to the death house at St Mary le Bow.
As Cranston busied himself, Athelstan studied the Fisher and his companion. Both of these singular individuals had gone very quiet during the revolt. They and their retinue of gargoyles had simply vanished from their eerie church and mortuary, the Chapel of the Drowned Men on its deserted quayside past La Reole. Apparently they had gone into hiding deep in the wastelands along the estuary. On reflection, this was a prudent move. The Fisher and his household, led by Icthus, and including a cohort of rejects and grotesques, such as Brick-Face, Maggot, Hackum and Sham-Soul, were still city officials. They harvested the Thames on behalf of the council, gathering corpses, the victims of suicide, accident and, of course, murder. They were feared by the commons, who envied them for the revenues they collected from both the city and those who came to their macabre mortuary to claim the corpses of relatives drowned in the Thames. Rumour had it that the Fisher was a man of great wealth, his coffers bulging with silver and gold coin, a great attraction to the wolfsheads and outlaws of the city.
The appearance of both men invariably provoked unease and disquiet. The Fisher of Men was tall, his head completely shaven, and his eye-catching, skeletal face was shrouded by a fur-lined black leather hood which only emphasised his snow-white skin. Ichthus looked like his Greek name proclaimed, a fish. Ichthus was youngish, of medium height and very thin. He had no hair, not even on his eyelids. The similarity to a fish was enhanced by his oval-shaped face and jutting cod-mouth, whilst his fingers and toes were webbed. Little wonder he could swim like a porpoise, swift and slippery as an eel.
Cranston now had the measure of what was happening. Gregorio also joined them, volunteering to help push the corpse cart across into St Peter’s. Cranston shooed away the curious, saying that only those involved in the ‘Qaestio Mortis – the Question of Death’ would be admitted to the chapel besides himself and Athelstan. This included Gregorio, who declared he had seen Luke Gaddesden down near the water-gate earlier in the day. The Tower bargeman was also summoned along with the Fisher of Men and Ichthus, who’d actually found the murdered clerk slumped in his boat out on the river.
Once Cranston had closed the chapel door on the curious throng, Athelstan pulled back the corpse cloth. Luke Gaddesden lay sprawled, his face nightmarish in both colour and expression, a lurid blueish-red with tongue thrust out and eyes popping, the agonised death throes caused by the garrotte string tied so tightly around his throat. Athelstan insisted that he first administer the last rites though he found anointing Luke’s twisted face chilled his heart and belly. Once finished, he grasped the dagger that Sir John had handed over. He slit the garrotte string, then held it up to read the same murderous message as before on the square of stiffened parchment: ‘Lord Azrael greets you’. Athelstan handed this to Cranston then scrutinised the corpse from head to toe. Luke Gaddesden was dressed as Athelstan had last seen him, garbed in the livery of the Chancery. The friar turned the corpse over, searching for any other injury, but he could find none. He felt the dead man’s clothing; there was some heavy dampness on the left knee but nothing really significant. Athelstan murmured a prayer, crossed himself and glanced quickly around. Gregorio stood in the shadows thrown by two of the drum-like pillars which ranged either side of St Peter’s.
‘Brother?’ Athelstan called out. ‘You claim to have seen Luke Gaddesden down near the water-gate?’
‘I certainly did. Not many people wear the livery of the English Royal Chancery.’
‘Have you seen him before?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Perhaps.’ Gregorio half smiled.
‘Please don’t fence and parry with us!’ Cranston snapped. He pointed at the corpse. ‘Have you seen this man before?’
‘Perhaps, I may have glimpsed him at the Lute Boy, but more than that I cannot say. When I saw him near the water-gate, I think he was probably looking for you.’ He gestured at the bargeman. ‘I mean, he wanted a boat.’
‘Did you notice anything untoward?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Well, the water-gate and the mooring place are
fairly deserted, aren’t they?’ Gregorio replied. ‘There’s a horrid stench. A Tower archer told me that the river sweeps in rubbish which is trapped there. He also said that’s the way traitors are brought here.’
‘That’s correct,’ Cranston agreed.
‘Anyway, on my journey around the Tower I went down there. I am sure I glimpsed Gaddesden, very much the worse for drink.’
Athelstan went back to stare down at the corpse. The friar murmured a prayer and crossed himself. The mystery was gathering! How could a fairly young, vigorous man in a small, narrow boat on the Thames be strangled so expertly yet with little or no sign of resistance or struggle? Gaddesden had been savagely attacked, he must have died thrashing in agony. Even if he was drugged or drunk, surely there would be some evidence of a violent confrontation between assailant and victim?
‘I need to see the boat,’ Athelstan stated, ‘now, before …’
Cranston agreed, virtually forcing the Tower bargeman through the door and across the bailey to the water-gate. The crowd had now dispersed. Only one archer stood on guard. The bargeman recognised the skiff as the one in which the corpse had been found. The Fisher of Men and Ichthus, who had also followed them out, agreed.
‘Let us have a look.’ Athelstan crouched down. He pinched his nose at the disgusting stench from the filthy moat water which slapped against the iron-grilled water-gate before flowing back towards the narrow quayside. The boat bobbing on the swirl looked forlorn; really nothing more than a narrow punt with three crude plank seats at prow, stern and middle, with two short oars fixed on iron rings on either side. The ugly grey boat betrayed nothing about the heinous act committed on it.
‘No blood, no sign of violence,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘No evidence of any resistance.’ He leaned down closer. ‘The inside of the boat is almost bone-dry. Yet if someone climbed in to strangle Gaddesden sitting on the middle bench it would be obvious, surely? This boat would have twisted and rolled from side to side, taking on water. Yet there is nothing.’ Athelstan straightened up and turned to the bargeman. ‘Would you agree?’ The man nodded.