by Paul Doherty
Cranston studied Devereux carefully. He sensed she was telling the truth, as much as she could, and there was probably little more he could learn from her. He thanked her and waved her towards the door.
The coroner returned to his brooding until he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see the Hangman of Rochester smiling down at him.
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan desires your company at St Erconwald’s.’
‘And I,’ Cranston heaved himself to his feet and clasped the hangman’s arm, ‘need to have urgent words with you about a gentleman called Monkshood.’
PART FIVE
The Matins of Midnight
Peter the Penniless did not know whether he was dreaming, dying or truly under diabolical attack from the Gates of Hell and all their power. Crouching in the sanctuary enclave at St Erconwald’s, he could only stare in dread at the crone who, spider-like, was now crawling towards him. He had heard her coming, dragging herself like some loathsome snail up the nave, leaving a glistening slime behind her which filled the church with the foulest stench. Petrified, Peter watched the old hag with her white face, her eyes small and black like currants, all shiny and brimming with hatred.
‘I know you,’ he whispered to himself. ‘You remind me of a witch I consorted with many, many years ago.’
Peter lifted his head. Someone was playing the bagpipes. A shadow crossed the sanctuary like a column of black smoke. He watched it. The shadow crouched and hopped as if resting on a crutch. Peter heard a groan and stared at the naked man hanging on the rood screen where the crucifix should be. The man’s belly was being slit by a demon. Next to this, a devil queen all shrouded in black reared up, in one hand a repulsive toad, in the other a rotten egg. A sound made him jump. He glanced at the church walls; the paintings there had assumed a life of their own. A cohort of the damned was being savaged by Hell hounds. A fish-devil was swallowing a glutton up to his belly whilst another demon gnawed at the man’s genitals. Against another wall, imps of Satan spurred on a legion of lost souls with red-hot goads; they were herding them towards baths of hot, pitch-reeking sulphur around which other demons offered a diet of toads, snakes and reptiles. Some of the hellish apparitions were turning towards Peter, as if growing aware of his presence.
He could take no more. He took off his belt and picked up his cloak. He would end these hideous visions and stop the heinous sounds, the abominable stench, yet he seemed to have left it too late. The demons were gathering around him. They were led by the old crone and assisted by two hooded devils, whilst a third forced a foul drink between his lips. Peter screamed. The sanctuary was moving, demons held him fast. He could not end it and Peter the Penniless fell into a dead faint. The people around him, who had been attracted by Peter’s screams and yells as well as Athelstan’s calls for help, lowered the unconscious man to the sanctuary floor.
‘I came in to do work in the sacristy,’ the friar explained. ‘The screaming began. He was having a frenzied fit.’ Athelstan paused, shaking his head. ‘The poor, poor man.’ He asked Benedicta to bring some blankets as the unconscious man was now beginning to shiver. Physician Giole, who’d stayed at Athelstan’s request, assisted by Gregorio and Benedicta, made Peter as comfortable as possible. Athelstan noticed with amusement that Gregorio, although first attracted by the charms of Cecily and Clarissa, now seemed intent on paying court to Benedicta.
‘What caused this?’ Gregorio asked.
Athelstan decided for the moment to keep his opinions to himself.
‘He will be well enough,’ the physician offered. ‘I’ve given him a light sleeping draught.’
‘But what caused it?’ Benedicta insisted, crouching down beside Peter. ‘I brought him food and ale which I can vouch for.’
‘I know, I know,’ Athelstan murmured reassuringly. ‘Anyway, I have sent our hangman to fetch Sir John, I need his authority.’ He turned as the corpse door crashed open. Amelia and Robert the clerk burst into the church and hurried up the nave through the rood screen. Robert paused just within the entrance but Amelia hastened forward and sank to her knees, hands fluttering.
‘My poor, hapless husband!’ Amelia lifted her tear-stained face, glaring wildly about. ‘What has happened?’
‘Robert,’ Athelstan called, ‘follow Benedicta. She will take you to the priest’s house, and you can stay there for a while.’ Athelstan put a hand over Amelia’s clenched fist. ‘Your husband is in good care, in fact the best.’ Athelstan gestured at Master Giole. ‘My friend here is an excellent physician. Peter suffered a frenzied fit. Now he is sleeping. God knows what is happening,’ Athelstan hurried on, ‘but we will wait to see. Oh, Benedicta …’ The widow-woman, who was about to leave the sanctuary, turned back. ‘On second thoughts, take Robert to the Piebald, and ask Jocelyn to take good care of him.’ Benedicta caught the warning look in Athelstan’s eyes and nodded.
‘Why can’t I stay with Amelia?’ Robert protested.
‘Because,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘when Peter awakes I do not want too many people around him. Now go.’
Reluctantly, Robert followed Benedicta out even as Peter began to stir. Athelstan rose and walked around the sanctuary enclave then across to the entrance through the rood screen. He started when the devil’s door down near the baptismal font crashed open.
‘Sir John, you have arrived!’ Athelstan exclaimed.
Cranston, the hangman hastening beside him, strode towards the friar. ‘Athelstan, good to see you. Who is that with the fair Benedicta?’
‘Robert the clerk. Giles,’ Athelstan nodded at the hangman, ‘I am in your debt. Sir John, a few words with you in private.’
Athelstan led the coroner across to the sanctuary enclave where Peter, now awake, sat with his back to the wall. His face had a deathly pallor, his eyes startled and shadow-ringed, his mouth half-open, dribbling like a babe, whilst his lips twitched as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t form the words.
‘He will soon regain all his humours,’ Giole declared. ‘He is weak, thirsty and hungry but he is in no great danger.’
Ignoring Cranston’s questions, Athelstan led the coroner across into the sacristy and closed the door behind them. In hoarse whispers, he explained what was happening, his suspicions, how he planned to deal with them and what the coroner must do. Cranston heard him out then laughed, shaking his head in mock disbelief.
‘Only you, Athelstan, could climb to the top of a church tower on a summer’s day and, keen-eyed, discover assassins plotting murder and the evidence to be used against them, their very own actions.’ He pointed at the door. ‘So, let the trial begin.’
Athelstan and Cranston returned to the sanctuary enclave. Peter was now much recovered. Benedicta had returned saying Robert was ensconced at the Piebald and seemed very uncomfortable. Athelstan merely shrugged and arranged for a bench and some stools to be brought, placing Amelia between her husband and Benedicta whilst insisting that physician Giole and Brother Gregorio, who hardly seemed to acknowledge each other, remain close.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Amelia pleaded, ‘what is this?’
‘Murder, Mistress Amelia, or at least attempted murder.’ Amelia gaped. Peter seemed to be shocked out of his dullness, and both of them protested heatedly. Amelia made to rise but Benedicta, sitting next to her on the bench, gripped her arm and forced her to stay still.
‘Attempted murder. The plot to slay another innocent human being. Isn’t that a hanging offence, Sir John?’
‘Undoubtedly, Brother.’
‘Especially as we have witnesses.’
‘Especially so,’ Cranston agreed. ‘In fact,’ the coroner continued, ‘wives who kill their husbands are not hanged, they are burned alive at Smithfield and they are not shown the mercy of the hangman strangling them first. A hideous death, Brother Athelstan, especially if their executioners decide to use fresh wood wet with sap and not dry kindling.’
‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John,’ Amelia gasped, ‘what is this?’
‘
An opportunity to confess,’ Athelstan retorted. The friar glanced at Peter the Penniless. The sanctuary man did not seem so surprised now, but was rather close-faced, more like a juror waiting to hear the evidence. ‘Primo,’ Athelstan began, pointing at Peter, ‘your husband is a man I know well. I have some inkling about the humours of his soul. He did something very strange, out of the ordinary. He is not an outlaw, a wolfshead, yet he takes refuge here. He seeks sanctuary against the demons he believes are polluting his soul. I do wonder if, deep in the depths of that soul, he truly feared you and Robert the clerk. In fact, he wished to flee your company and that of your malignant paramour because he believed you meant him ill. This was a half-formed suspicion, an allegation or accusation Peter could not bring himself to form against you, but instead it lay like some unknown sickness deep within him.
‘Secundo.’ Athelstan held up a hand. ‘No, no, Mistress, you will hear me out. So secundo. What could be the source of the frenzied attack Peter suffered? Satan and all his cohort? Let me assure you, Mistress, in my view, the Lord Satan keeps himself well hidden lest people really begin to question the reality around them. Moreover, why should he show his hand so publicly when malevolent souls like you and Master Robert do his will so faithfully? Tertio. Mistress, I shall now move to specific evidence. You and your paramour Master Robert asked if you could perform some service for our church whilst Peter stayed in sanctuary. I invited you to collect flowers and herbs in God’s Acre. You did so. I watched you from the top of the church tower. I wasn’t spying on you, just admiring the sky on a beautiful summer’s day. Now you and Robert thought you were hidden by the long grass, the headstones and memorial crosses. I watched you and Robert touch each other tenderly. Now God knows there’s no sin in that. Then I noticed that both of you were wearing gloves on a warm summer’s day …’
‘There are nettles, brambles, briars and other sharp plants …’
‘Of course there are. However, when I asked one of my parishioners, the hangman, to go and look more closely, he discovered the gloves you wore were not the gauntlets or thick canvas cloths we sometimes use when we weed our plots and herbs. No, your gloves were more fashionable, like doeskin, to protect your fingers from something much more malign. Moreover, when you brought the basket in, you were no longer wearing those gloves.’ Athelstan stretched out a hand. ‘Your gloves, Mistress – hand them over or I will have you searched.’
Amelia pulled the gloves from a pocket in her gown and gave them to Athelstan, a small ball of very soft but protective calfskin. Athelstan shook them out. ‘Yes, these would shield your fingers should you by mistake pluck at the berries or the highly poisonous flowers of herbs such as belladonna which, physician Giole assures me, certainly thrive in our cemetery outside. This brings me to my fourth point. I noticed the tenderness between you and your paramour but there was something more. Robert was guiding you away from plucking certain plants whilst indicating what you should gather. Now my good friend Philippe, physician in chief at St Bartholomew’s hospital, once walked our cemetery here. He found it rich in all kinds of plants, some most beneficial to us humans, others of a much more malignant nature. Philippe believed that the cemetery once housed flower gardens and herb plots as it was so rich in what it contained. Physician Giole, who also knows a great deal about such flora, would agree with Philippe’s conclusion.’
‘Yes, I certainly would.’
Giole had sat silent throughout. Athelstan noticed once more how he and Brother Gregorio seemed to have little in common apart from the usual greetings and pleasantries. Gregorio now sat deep in the shadows thrown by the high altar while Giole was leaning forward, a slight smile on his saturnine face.
‘Yes, I would agree,’ he repeated.
‘So to my fifth argument,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You brought a basket of flowers and plants into St Erconwald’s, a large basket?’ Amelia did not answer. She sat round-eyed and pale-faced, lower lip quivering with fright, and Athelstan believed he was telling the truth. He was pleased that he had separated her from Robert, who was undoubtedly the stronger of the two. Peter sat head down, glaring at Amelia from under bushy eyebrows, and Athelstan wondered if the poor man had always suspected the truth but had refused to admit or confront it.
‘I showed that basket of cuttings to physician Giole. He assured me that neither you nor Robert, despite plucking and gathering for a considerable period of time, had collected one single noxious plant. Strange? No! I suspect Robert is a trained leech and apothecary who knows only too well what plants should be avoided. We shall confront him soon enough, though your full confession might mean no hideous punishment under the law.’
‘We are finished.’ Peter the Penniless lurched forward but Athelstan pushed him back. ‘We are finished,’ Peter repeated, spitting out the words. He turned pleadingly to Athelstan. ‘But what about these visions?’
‘They are nothing,’ Giole replied quickly. ‘Nothing but illusion. Think, my friend, of when you drink too deeply on strong red wine and the fanciful notions which appear. Certain foods also encourage nightmares where all forms of dreadful shapes lurk and prowl. The potions and powders that you were fed simply unlocked memories and fears hidden away as you would lock something in a deep cellar and forget it.’
‘But how was this done?’ Gregorio demanded.
‘We ate today.’ Peter pointed accusingly at Amelia. ‘We shared a scone cut into three portions wrapped in a linen cloth. I remember it tasting very nice and Robert gave me a drink from a small wineskin he carried.’
‘I am sure whatever you drank or ate was carefully coated with some infernal powder or juice.’ Athelstan put his hand gently on Peter’s arm then pointed at Amelia. ‘In truth you were plotting the most devious murder – not death by poison but, as you have tried before, and indeed almost succeeded, driving Peter to suicide, to hang himself, the only possible escape from his nightmares. He had told you about his past, his hidden fears. You met the murderous Robert, if that’s his true name, a skilled herbalist, an apothecary. He assumed the disguise of a common clerk desperate for employment, even for a pittance, which made him all the more suitable to Peter. You played the two-backed beast with Robert. You were also growing alarmed at Peter’s change of heart since the revolt, as he had renounced his miserly ways. Peter was beginning to share his wealth with others, to take from you what one day you’d seize as your own. You fiercely resented his almsgiving, and so this murderous masque began. You act so loving but in fact you are like the apples of Sodom, all fresh without, all corrupt within.’ Athelstan studied her. ‘So, Mistress, how do you plead?’
‘Brother Athelstan …’ Peter rubbed his face between his hands then sighed noisily. ‘I do not want to see her or her paramour tried, convicted and punished. I just want them to go. I do not wish,’ he stumbled on his words, ‘to be publicly depicted as a cuckold, deceived so cruelly in so many ways.’
Athelstan glanced at Cranston who nodded imperceptibly. Sir John leaned over roughly and grasped Amelia’s arm.
‘On one condition.’ The coroner’s voice rang through the church, ‘You make full and frank confession.’ Amelia stared around, her face all fearful, eyes blinking furiously, mouth gaping. She went to talk but the words were mumbled. Cranston made her take a generous swig from the miraculous wineskin; it was obvious she was going to confess. Athelstan relaxed and glanced around. Physician Giole sat fascinated, so too Benedicta, whilst Brother Gregorio continued to stay deep in the shadows of the sanctuary.
‘It is as you say.’ Amelia’s voice was shrill, almost gabbled. Again Cranston seized her arm and warned her to be clear and honest. ‘I met Robert. I was concerned about Peter’s humours, his disordered mind.’ She paused as her husband scoffed mockingly. ‘I did love you,’ she continued wearily. ‘But I became so tired, Peter, tired of your dreams, your fears, your constant harping on the past. I searched for powders and philtres to help you. I visited Robert. He has an apothecary’s trade in Broad Street near the Austin Fria
rs.’ She swallowed nervously. ‘We became friends then lovers. You needed a clerk. Robert came to see you. He did not bargain and you, who at the time wanted everything as cheaply as possible, hired him. Let us be honest, Peter, you could not believe your good fortune. And so our relationship deepened.’ Amelia lifted her hands as if in prayer. ‘You seemed not to love or like me, not even life itself. I accepted what Robert offered and so we began as it happened today. We shared a scone: the portion we offered you was heavily brushed with a noxious powder which creates dangerous dreams and noisome nightmares. I am sorry, I am sorry …’
Her voice faltered as the corpse door was flung open. Loud voices echoed through the silence and Robert the clerk, brushing off attempts by the Hangman of Rochester to restrain him, came up into the sanctuary: he stopped abruptly at the faces staring accusingly at him.
‘Time for a hanging, my friend.’ Cranston walked over and clapped the hangman on the shoulder. He then grasped a startled Robert by his jerkin and pulled him close.
‘Your doxy, your leman, your accomplice,’ Cranston grated, ‘has confessed all. Look on that and see for yourself.’ He pushed Robert across the sanctuary. The clerk staggered but then drew himself up, hand going to the dagger in his belt. Brother Gregorio, surprisingly swift, lurched out of the shadows and drew his own knife. Amelia sprang to her feet, knocking over the stool.
‘They know, Robert,’ she said flatly.
‘I know, you know, we all know,’ Peter called out. ‘Judas! Traitor! Brother Athelstan, please get them out, both of them. Sir John, please! I do not want them arraigned, just to go.’ Athelstan rose and, clutching Amelia by the arm, led her across to Robert, who now stood flanked by the hangman and Brother Gregorio. The clerk stood, chest heaving, face all furious, eyes full of venom as he stared around and realised that his most subtle of plots had been uncovered and laid bare. Athelstan caught and held his gaze. Over the years the Dominican had confronted many a murderer, a veritable horde of assassins, men and women who had deviously plotted the death of another. Athelstan had trapped them and, at the moment of truth, stared into their souls. This was singularly different, a very rare occasion. Robert showed no remorse, no sorrow, but neither did he show any fear at the prospect of being hanged, of public disgrace. Nothing but a raging anger at being exposed and trapped. He hardly bothered to glance at Amelia, but instead kept staring at Athelstan. Robert the clerk had been on the verge of seizing and enjoying a very wealthy widow and all she possessed. He was not even concerned about how he had been exposed, only that he had been. He glared at Athelstan, lifting a hand, fingers curling.