by Paul Doherty
‘One other thing,’ Giole lowered his voice, ‘I spent yesterday playing the assassin.’ He gestured back at the church. ‘I remembered our discussion about Peter the Penniless, the poor man in sanctuary. I opened my books and manuscripts to study deadly potions. I was correct: there are certain powders and juices distilled from this herb or that plant which, if administered in small doses, will cause dire dreams and hideous illusions as the humours of the mind crack and mix.’ Giole rubbed his hands. Athelstan hid his smile: the physician reminded him of his good friend Brother Philippe at St Bartholomew’s who had the same constant, deep curiosity with anything to do with physic or medicine, be it for the body or the mind. ‘Athelstan, you must have heard about the witches and warlocks who claim that they can fly through the midnight sky to join the festival of fiends and dance with demons in some moonlight glade? They really believe this because they have experienced it, and they have done so because they imbibe noxious potions which create a world of eerie dreams, erotic fantasies and hideous nightmares.’
‘And the source of these noxious potions?’
‘You would be surprised, Athelstan. Go into any good, common garden and you will find enough poison to annihilate a small village. The glistening skin of a toad and the juices they secrete; certain wild mushrooms; herbs known as belladonna, banewort, deadly nightshade, lily of the valley. All of these are killers, but in minute – and I mean very minute – doses, certain alarming symptoms can be provoked which eventually pass. We considered the possibility that Peter’s wife Amelia and Robert the clerk could be feeding him some tainted substance but they are not apothecaries, herbalists or leeches. Moreover, I do constant business with the guilds in the city. I assure you, Athelstan, the purchase of certain powders would be noted and remembered and sooner or later discussed …’
‘Good morrow, Father.’
Athelstan turned, shading his eyes, and peered up at the Hangman of Rochester. He introduced both men, explaining that the hangman’s real name was Giles of Sempringham. As the hangman gave the reason for his two names, Athelstan studied his parishioner very closely. This eerie individual supervised the gallows and gibbets at Tyburn and Smithfield, but he was also a highly skilled artist who spent every available hour either dreaming about some wall painting or preparing to create it in St Erconwald’s or elsewhere. The hangman seemed much more composed recently: he’d lost that agitation caused by his involvement in the Great Revolt. Even the hangman’s straw-coloured hair was beginning to grow again after he had shaved it all off when he was forced to go into hiding during the recent troubles. The hangman always proclaimed he was an Upright Man, although once the revolt had broken out, a number of the Earthworms wanted to settle grievances with him over the execution of some of their comrades.
‘You are busy today?’
‘No, Father.’ The hangman brushed his dirty smock all stained with streaks of paint, ‘If you are agreeable, there is a small painting I would like to begin: a wall fresco close to the leper squint about sinners coming to judgement, and I will have these arraigned before Christ’s High Court: the fornicators, the gamblers, the gluttons and the panders.’
‘Yes,’ Athelstan laughed, ‘we have discussed this before, but remember we leave for Canterbury on Monday.’
‘How could I forget?’ The hangman nodded at the physician. He was about to leave when Athelstan grasped him by the arm.
‘My good friend, a favour.’ Athelstan got to his feet, and extended his other hand to the physician, who clasped it. ‘Master Giole, if you have no other business with me, I would like to invite the hangman here into the sacristy to garrotte me, or at least try to, and you to witness it.’ Athelstan laughed at the shocked surprise on both men’s faces. ‘Come.’
They entered the church. Athelstan led them up the nave under the rood screen, stopping only to genuflect before the pyx, and to greet Peter the Penniless. Once they were in the sacristy, Athelstan closed the door firmly behind them.
‘Now, my friend, the garrotte.’ Athelstan blessed himself swiftly. ‘You have strangled many a criminal on the public gallows, have you not?’ Athelstan opened his purse and drew out the garrotte string, then handed it to the hangman, who examined it curiously. ‘Oh Giles?’ The hangman glanced up. ‘Not a word of this to my parishioners, you swear?’
‘Father, I swear. I’ve heard about the killings in Milk Street. Some of the sheriff’s posse were gossiping about it.’ The hangman held the cord up. ‘Fine twine, Father, much tougher than it looks.’
‘An assassin, a true child of Hell, uses that, Giles. He strangles his victims but there is no trace of any struggle or resistance. For heaven’s sake, yesterday this assassin was in the Tower. He left deadly warnings for others and, at the same time, strangled a clerk in a boat on the Thames, yet no one saw or heard anything untoward. Not a shred of evidence indicating resistance or the slightest disturbance.’ Athelstan shook his head in wonderment. ‘It’s almost as if the victims simply gave up their throats to be throttled.’ He turned his back on the hangman. ‘Well, Giles, use it now.’
Athelstan braced himself. Almost before he knew it, the cord was around his throat, tightening slightly. His hands were free and he could till lurch forwards and backwards. The hangman, fearful of hurting his priest, slipped the cord loose. Athelstan turned, rubbing his throat. ‘If you were the killer and I was your victim,’ he declared, ‘this sacristy would be wrecked as I lurched backwards and forwards.’
‘And if you had a dagger or were able to grasp a weapon or anything to use as one, you could do me grievous damage.’ The hangman stepped closer, his lined white face all anxious. ‘Father, are you sure you are unhurt?’
‘Unhurt, my friend, but the mystery remains. Why didn’t Azrael’s victims fight back?’
‘There are hand clasps, manacles or gyves,’ the hangman offered. ‘I have seen them used by the sheriff’s men – wooden or metal braces which can be clasped on each wrist, held together by a tight chain. They use similar restraints on the ankles, though putting them on would be very clumsy. I cannot see any of the victims offering their arms and legs to be pinioned in such a way.’
‘Especially a vigorous, young clerk on a narrow, small boat on the Thames, or indeed any of the victims in Milk Street.’ Physician Giole spoke up. ‘Do you remember, Athelstan, we saw no evidence of the victims being pinioned?’
‘One thing you could look for,’ the hangman declared. ‘Master Giole, open your hands.’ The physician did so. ‘Look …’ The Hangman of Rochester traced the soft, unmarked palms of the physician’s hands. ‘However,’ the hangman continued, ‘if you use the garrotte, it would leave deep streaks, if not cuts, on your hands and fingers. I have to be very careful about the ropes I use to hang wolfsheads. The hempen is rough, coarse, it can easily burn your hands.’
‘What about gloves, gauntlets?’
‘On the scaffold I use heavy gauntlets, but that garrotte string requires skill and very nimble fingers clear of any obstacle. Gloves would be too thick: they might protect your skin but they would be an impediment as well. So, when you hunt your assassin, look for the burn marks on the palms of his hands. Now, Father, if you don’t mind, there is a church wall I would like to examine.’
The hangman made his farewells and left. The physician followed soon afterwards, saying he would walk Athelstan’s parish then go back into the city. He asked if his family could bring baggage over to be stored in readiness at St Erconwald’s, and Athelstan said he could use the sacristy. Physician Giole murmured his thanks and left.
Athelstan walked back into the church. Peter the Penniless was now dozing in the enclave. Athelstan glanced up and marvelled at the sun piercing the lancet windows like rays of light from heaven. He walked down the nave and decided he would climb the church tower and recite Francis of Assisi’s ‘Canticle of the Sun’ in praise and thanksgiving for such a beautiful day. Ave beads wrapped around his hand, he slowly climbed to the top of the tower. He pushed back the trap d
oor and pulled himself up, enjoying the feel of the summer breeze, then went and leaned against the crenellations. The friar stared up at the beautiful blue sky and began to intone verses from the canticle.
‘Praise be to thee, oh Lord, for Mother Earth who nourishes and sustains us all with different flowers, fruits and herbs. Praise be to thee, oh Lord, for Brother Fire who illuminates the night for us as he is fair and merry, boisterous and strong …’
Once he had finished, Athelstan looked to the north where he could make out the spires and steeples of the city. Usually the friar only came up here at night to marvel at the stars, what the ancients called the ‘Blossoms of the Night’. The distant sound of laughter made him look down where all of God’s Acre, the great cemetery of St Erconwald’s, stretched before him. He smiled as he recognised some of his parishioners. Godbless and Thaddeus were wandering back and forth, Godbless, as usual, talking incessantly to the goat, who trotted beside his master as if hanging on every word. Brother Gregorio was now being escorted by Cecily and Clarissa deeper into the cemetery. Athelstan wondered what mischief that unholy trinity would get up to amongst the thick shrubbery on the far side of God’s Acre. Amelia and Robert the clerk were busy plucking wild flowers. Intrigued, Athelstan began to study both of them closely as they wandered through the spacious cemetery with its sea of bushes, wild flowers and other plants and herbs. Athelstan continued to watch until he was convinced about what he had seen.
He sat down, resting against the wall, as he plotted what to do next. Once he had decided, he went back down into the church, summoned the hangman and told him to go as fast as a lurcher through God’s Acre: he was to carefully note what Amelia and Master Robert wore on their hands. He must do so secretly and tell no one except Athelstan. Intrigued, the hangman asked why. The friar said he would tell him later, but it was essential that he do exactly as he asked. The hangman hurried away and Athelstan strode up and down the nave, trying to impose order on his jumbled thoughts. He heard a sound, glanced up and smiled as Master Giole walked out of the shadows.
‘Brother Athelstan, I have come to say farewell until Monday.’
‘Beloved physician,’ Athelstan replied, ‘I have two great favours to ask of you. First, would you stay a little longer? Secondly, carefully examine what is about to be brought into this church and then,’ Athelstan added as an afterthought to himself, ‘I will send the hangman to my good friend Sir John Cranston …’
Athelstan’s good friend the coroner was not in the best of moods. As Sir John informed his clerk Osbert and his scrivener Simon, the sooner he was off on his blissful pilgrimage to even more bliss with the Lady Maude, the better for all.
Cranston had risen very early, and shaved and trimmed his luxurious white beard and moustache. He’d rubbed perfumed oil into his hands and face, then donned his finest raiment: a linen shirt especially made in Cambrai, dark red woollen hose and a long but light murrey-coloured cotehardie with a dark blue mantle. Using a polished piece of steel, Cranston made sure the chain of office around his neck could be clearly seen. He then pulled on his favourite Cordovan boots and clasped his broad leather warbelt firmly around his waist, ensuring that both sword and dagger slipped easily in and out of their sheaths. Cranston felt as if he was at war with banners unfurled.
The previous evening, he had sat and watched that henchman of Satan, John of Gaunt. Cranston had stayed silent for most of the time, keen-eyed and sharp-eared. Whatever Gaunt and Thibault said, Cranston truly believed that somewhere, somehow, a great lie was being told, a tapestry of falsehoods cleverly spun by a weaver steeped in deceit. Something was very wrong, and Cranston was determined to discover what, as well as assist ‘that little ferret of a friar’. The coroner had already established that, apart from Mark Gaddesden, the other evangelists had not been in the city during the Great Revolt. These three, together with Mephan, had accompanied Gaunt north to the Scottish March. Empson had been Gaunt’s envoy, his link with Thibault, who had remained in the south to keep a sharp eye on what happened in London and the surrounding shires. Mark Gaddesden had also been active in London on Gaunt’s affairs, but he had been trapped and executed. Only when the revolt collapsed and Gaunt decided that the Scots were no longer a threat did the regent, Mephan and the other evangelists return to Westminster. Gaunt had entered the city like a conquering hero, as if he was emulating his famous, war-like father and had won a great victory. The regent had paraded through Cheapside with banners unfurled, even though he had spent most of his time marching up and down the Scottish March and being drawn into furious arguments with the powerful Percys of Northumberland.
Cranston wondered about the real reason behind the deaths of Gaunt’s clerks. The coroner was also deeply suspicious about Brother Gregorio. Was that Friar of the Sack one of Gaunt’s entourage – some subtle spy, perhaps, a cunning plotter the regent had hired through his close ties with the Crown of Castile? Cranston had been busy long before dawn despatching Muckworm here and there whilst Tiptoft his courier had been equally busy collecting information. Cranston had also taken certain matters into his own hands, closely questioning Flaxwith and other city bailiffs about the habits of Simon Mephan and the evangelists, the doings of sweet Felicia at the Lute Boy and the arrest and seizure of Brother Gregorio at the Mitre.
Cranston now sat enthroned in the spacious window seat reserved especially for him in his ‘favourite parish church’, the magnificent Lamb of God hostelry which overlooked the broad sweep of Cheapside. Cranston had left his court chamber at the Guildhall, taking his two helpers with him – Osbert the fat-faced clerk and the more scrawny Simon the scrivener. Both men had feasted most royally on pheasant pastry and the tavern’s home-brewed ale. Now, bellies full and hearts gladdened, they sat, quill-pens poised, ready to take down Sir John’s conclusions.
‘Item: I have,’ Cranston began, ‘visited the Royal Chancery at Westminster and the Tower only to establish the obvious. Mephan and the evangelists were indeed industrious, highly skilled and very loyal. I understand they were pleased to be back in London from the Scottish March. They deeply grieved the murder of their brother Mark, hearts bent on vengeance because of it. They frequented different hostelries in Cheapside. Luke Gaddesden was a little more adventurous. He was also a visitor to the Lute Boy, on more than nodding terms with the Way of all Flesh. There is, however, nothing of note here.
‘Item,’ Cranston took a deep drink from the frothing blackjack mine hostess had placed before him, ‘Brother Gregorio is a true troubadour, a merry minstrel sent by his Minister General in Castile to make sure that the English friars of the Order of the Sack are safe. Apparently Gregorio knows London well. He does not consort with his community; he lodges at the Mitre and visits Felicia at the Lute Boy. They are definitely attracted to each other. This latter-day Héloïse and Abelard plan to meet at the Mitre, which is raided by city bailiffs, who know there is a fornicating friar having a merry time there. Now, the arrest of a priest given over to lust is certainly common enough in this city. We have stories by the sackful, whilst every painting I have seen on Hell or Purgatory always has a lecherous priest and his concubine as constant inhabitants in those fiery places of the afterlife.’
Cranston picked up his blackjack. ‘And here’s the rub, my beloved clerk and scrivener. Oh yes, here’s the mystery.’ Both of Cranston’s colleagues looked up expectantly. They were fascinated by the story of the fornicating friar and would have loved to hear more spicy details. Indeed Simon the scrivener had already secretly promised himself a visit to the cellars of the Lute Boy, eager to meet that voluptuary, the Way of all Flesh.
‘Sir John?’
‘Yes, yes. Item: the Mitre was raided. Brother Gregorio was caught in flagrante delicto, though he acted the perfect gentleman and made sure the frisky Felicia escaped through a window and was gone like a thief in the night. And here’s another mystery. The bailiffs at the Guildhall were informed not by any known individual, lay or clerical, but anonymously through a memorandum
left in the hands of a bailiff guarding the Guildhall gates. Matters become more curious still. The memorandum is now lost, thrown away, but, from what I have recently learnt, it gave precise details about Gregorio’s assignation with Felicia: the day, the time, the very hour, the actual chamber and its place in the Mitre, with a very close description of Brother Gregorio and his concubine.’ Cranston supped hastily at his blackjack. ‘Now, you don’t have to be a master of logic to conclude that the only people who would have known such details were the two lovers themselves.’
‘You mean one of them informed the Guildhall?’ Osbert exclaimed.
‘So it would appear, as extraordinary as it may seem.’
‘But why?’
‘God knows.’ Cranston thrust forward a stubby thumb. ‘Item: the Mitre holds another mystery. Brother Gregorio certainly lodged there, a Spanish Friar of the Sack, but the landlord and his minions also recall a frequent visitor to their taproom, another Spaniard, a soldier by the look of him. He carried impedimenta, panniers and warbelt. But then he abruptly disappeared. I do wonder if his corpse was the one found almost naked floating in the reeds near St Paul’s wharf.’
‘Do you think that stranger had anything to do with Gregorio?’
‘According to mine host and his household, they saw no tie or relationship between this mysterious Spaniard and Brother Gregorio. The stranger, who remained nameless, would drift into the taproom or the eating hall. Apparently, he met no one else and did not talk to any of the other customers at the Mitre.’ Cranston thumbed his lower lip. ‘I appreciate the number of Spaniards in London has increased considerably due to Gaunt’s marriage to a Castilian princess, but I do find it a coincidence that these two Spaniards, both of whom are men of mystery, lodge at the same tavern. I truly wonder.’
‘If they know each other, they must have met somewhere else,’ Osbert declared. ‘Why not the Lute Boy?’