by Paul Doherty
‘Be careful,’ Cranston warned.
‘Be careful too,’ Robert spat back. ‘Prosecute me before the justices, and what real proof will you offer? No poisons, no noxious potions or powders have been found on me or her.’ He flung a hand out at his accomplice. ‘No one can testify that I gave him anything particular.’
‘You hid your true self, your calling as an apothecary.’
‘I never hid it. When did I ever deny being who I am? I am at liberty to do as I think fit. After all, you are a friar yet you act like an officer of the law.’
‘Banish them,’ Peter the Penniless groaned. ‘Banish them from my life – who cares? I will be rid of them and the nightmares.’
Athelstan held Cranston’s gaze. They had quickly discussed this in the sacristy and the friar accepted deep in his heart that Robert had spoken the truth. Amelia’s testimony might convict her but Robert would deny being involved. True, there was a case to answer, but it was doubtful that there was enough evidence to convince a jury to send a man to the gallows and a pretty young woman to a cruel death at Smithfield.
‘Let them go,’ Athelstan murmured.
‘Leave.’ Cranston gestured at the rood screen. ‘Both of you go. You are banished from this city and from Southwark. You must be gone by sunset tomorrow. If not, I will hang you myself.’
‘What about our property, and possessions?’ Amelia wailed.
‘By sunset tomorrow.’ Cranston lifted his hands as if he was taking an oath. ‘Be gone or I will hang you on the gallows near London Bridge.’
Athelstan had rarely seen the concourse in front of St Erconwald’s so busy or so noisy. The great pilgrimage was about to depart and all the faithful had assembled. Watkin sat enthroned in his great dung cart, now clean and scrubbed and well furnished to take his brood, as well as the families of Pike the ditcher and Crispin the carpenter. Watkin was eager to leave and blew lustfully on his bagpipes to proclaim this. Ranulf the rat-catcher beat on his drum, whilst Herne the huntsman, Mauger the bell clerk and Moleskin the boatman wailed on their horns. Crim the altar boy, along with Judith the mummer, Beadle Bladdersmith and Benedicta, had ceremoniously taken the parish banners from their sacred place behind the high altar. Athelstan had solemnly unfurled these: three brilliantly hued standards of billowing cloth bearing the image of St Erconwald’s, a blood-red cross and a picture of the Virgin. The different colours – green and gold, scarlet, blue and silver – caught the early morning sun and shimmered in its light. The banners rippled and fluttered as Athelstan, armed with a holy water stoup and thurible, solemnly blessed them.
The parish church had been locked and sealed, its keys entrusted to Father Wilfred, who now stood in the shadow of the main porch along with those parishioners who had elected to stay, watching the proceedings with deepening astonishment. Athelstan sat on the battered but comfortable saddle thrown over the back of his old warhorse Philomel who, now he had finished his morning feed, seemed as eager as anyone to be off.
Athelstan gathered the reins in his hands and stared across God’s Acre, recalling the confrontation with Robert the clerk and Amelia. Both miscreants had fled the church with Peter the Penniless’ imprecations against them ringing out, underscored by Cranston’s powerful voice, threatening all kinds of punishment if they were not gone by the following evening. According to all the evidence they had. Nevertheless, Athelstan could not forget the look of seething hatred in the clerk’s eyes. Gregorio had watched Robert storm off, almost dragging Amelia with him, then had gripped Athelstan’s arm and pulled him close. ‘Be careful, Brother,’ he whispered, ‘for there stalks murder incarnate.’
Athelstan had tried to forget the chilling confrontation; he did not wish this great occasion to be blighted. Everyone was gathering. Horses and sumpter ponies had been hired, arrangements made along the pilgrim way for replacements. Most of the parishioners had hitched horses to their great carts, which were nothing more than massive boxes made of planks borne on two or four great wheels. A few had more comfortable carriages fashioned out of slats with a lattice covering and a window trellis, their hard, hewn wheels protected by huge nails with prominent heads.
Athelstan glanced across at Master Thibault, Albinus and the evangelists, the latter still red-eyed from mourning after attending the funeral rites for their brother and comrades. Despite the tragedy which had engulfed them, Athelstan found it hard to hide his smile at Thibault’s luxurious travelling arrangements. The Master of Secrets and his henchmen were all dressed in dark-coloured cotehardies which stretched down beneath the knee, almost covering the green leggings pushed into their shiny leather riding boots, all buckled and spurred. They had hoods against the rain and straw hats to protect them from the sun. Their horses were magnificent, specially selected from the royal stables at the Tower, their harness and metal pieces polished and gleaming.
However, what had really provoked the envy of the parishioners was the carriage Thibault had hired so that, when tired of riding, he and his companions could relax in the most comfortable surroundings. This carriage had six wheels and was pulled by massive dray horses, their thick manes hogged and tied with red ribbon. The carter and his assistant, armed with whips and canes, sat on the postilion seat ready to go. Athelstan studied the carriage: its thick beams rested cleverly above the axles whilst the cart itself was a canvas archway rounded like a tunnel. Both the beams of the carriage and its covering were brightly painted and edged with shiny gilt. Athelstan had been allowed inside to marvel at the dazzling tapestries hanging there; its seats were covered with plump, embroidered cushions, whilst the windows were screened with thick blue taffeta stiffened with weights. He had complimented Thibault on the carriage whilst secretly vowing that if any of his parishioners, particularly the women or children, needed rest or good solace, he would demand that they too journey in such comfortable and soothing luxury.
Cranston had also been deeply impressed by the sheer opulence of Thibault’s preparations. ‘No hardship or penance there,’ the coroner had whispered. The friar stared across to where the coroner, resplendent in his long, deep-blue cotehardie trimmed with silver gilt, sat in solitary majesty on his destrier, Cranston’s favourite warhorse, Black Bayard. The coroner rose from the great high-horned saddle; his booted feet, spurs jingling, thrust firmly into the stirrups. Sir John was issuing instructions as if he was deploying a cohort of archers in battle array.
Physician Giole had also arrived. He had hired a comfortable canopied cart which he insisted on managing personally, guiding the two horses with long reins and a good-natured sumpter pony tied to the rear. Giole now sat perched on the postilion seat talking volubly to Beatrice, Felipe and Maria. All were studying the makeshift chart Cranston had drawn up to plot their way to Canterbury. Brother Gregorio had offered to don sackcloth and ashes and walk barefoot out of Southwark, but both Cranston and Athelstan had totally rejected such humiliation. Sprightly as a sparrow, Gregorio had fully agreed and, with an impish smile, elected to join Benedicta on her cart. Athelstan recalled Peter the Penniless’ desire to continue with the pilgrimage. Physician Giole, however, had declared Peter far too weak, a verdict Cranston and the others had concurred with. In the end, Athelstan had written a letter to the Custos of St Bartholomew’s hospital, recommending Peter as a patient who needed to purify his humours with clean water, sleep, nutritious food and the care of a good physician.
‘Because the daughters of Zion are haughty and have strutted with outstretched necks and wanton glances, the Lord will make their heads bald and take away their ornaments. Instead of a sweet smell there will be a foul stench …’
Athelstan gazed in astonishment at the itinerant preacher, head and face shaved to gleaming, who strolled onto the enclosure like the Prophet Jeremiah. The new arrival was garbed in the earth-coloured robe of a Franciscan with a girdle around his waist, a stout walking stick in one hand and a set of battered panniers in the other. The parishioners parted as Cranston pushed Black Bayard forward to greet this s
tranger. Athelstan followed suit, reining in beside the coroner. Both stared down at the round, friendly, merry-mouthed face smiling up at them.
‘Satan’s hairy tits, Brother!’ Cranston gestured at the friar. ‘Summon the Hangman of Rochester quickly.’
Athelstan did so. Giles of Sempringham hurried across.
‘Not so loud, Sir John.’ The new arrival looked nervously to the left and right, then he squeezed himself between Black Bayard and Philomel so the Hangman had to do the same.
‘Monkshood!’ The Hangman clasped the Upright Man on the shoulder. ‘So you escaped safe? Sir John.’ Shading his eyes, the Hangman of Rochester looked up at the coroner. ‘I did what you asked. Monkshood here climbed the gibbet ladder, and its scaffold arm jutted out overlooking the crowd. Monkshood’s comrades had gathered there. I turned him off and, as planned, the rope snapped with a crack. Down plunged Monkshood to be ringed by his comrades. The cords around his wrists were sliced and they fled like hares through the mob, who shouted their approval and did everything to impede the sheriff’s men.’
‘I went to the stews,’ Monkshood declared, ‘and hired a barber who shaved me completely while I soaked in a tub of hot water. My comrades gave me help and behold I am now Brother Giles, a lay brother of the Franciscan Order taking messages from Greyfriars in London to our good brothers in their house at Canterbury.’
Cranston leaned down. ‘Of course, you will smuggle yourself out of London, along the pilgrim road through Kent into Canterbury. I gather the sheriff’s men are very busy along that same road, keen-eyed and vigilant for fleeing rebels. You will reach Rochester and the Medway and, with a bit of luck, take ship to foreign parts. You will remain there a year and a day before creeping back to England under a different name and calling.’
‘You could say that, Sir John, but,’ Monkshood lowered his voice, ‘I also wish to earn my passage with you. I give you good warning. The Reapers, those Upright Men who still cling to their dreams, know all about this pilgrimage. Their spies will see Master Thibault in all his finery and they may well attack you, seizing the golden opportunity to inflict great damage on Gaunt’s principal henchman. Sir John and Brother Athelstan,’ Monkshood’s voice faltered, ‘I only bring you warning. I am nothing but the messenger, not the message.’
Athelstan glanced at Cranston, who’d voiced the same fear as soon as he heard Thibault was joining them.
‘Alea iacta,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘the dice is thrown. Sir John, we should go, and you, Brother Giles, had best follow for we cannot drive you away.’ Athelstan decided to ignore the suspicions which pricked his mind about Monkshood. He would reflect on them and, at the appropriate time, take counsel with Sir John, Watkin and Pike the ditcher. The friar glanced up at the sky. ‘It is time we left.’
Cranston stood high in Black Bayard’s stirrups and shouted for silence. Once this had been achieved, Athelstan bestowed his most solemn benediction and finished with the declaration, ‘In nomine Christi procedamus – let us go forward in the name of Christ.’
‘Saint George!’ Sir John bellowed.
‘Pray for us!’ the rest thundered back.
‘Saint Erconwald!’
‘Pray for us!’
‘Saint Thomas a Becket!’
‘Pray for us!’
The loud and joyous response sent the birds whirling up into the air. Carts creaked and rattled. Carriages clattered. Horses and donkeys whinnied, their hooves scraping the cobbles. Bonaventure leapt onto Benedicta’s cart from where he kept a wary eye on Godbless and Thaddeus as well as Ursula the pig woman and her enormous sow. Everyone was excited. Prayers were recited. Snatches of hymns mingled with more raucous tavern songs. Bagpipes wailed, horns blew and trumpets brayed. Banners, standards and pennants snapped in the breeze. Voices shouted. Children laughed. Women called out to each other as their menfolk managed the carts, carriages and barrows. The great pilgrimage of St Erconwald’s parish had begun.
Peter the Penniless sat on the high-backed chair in his spacious flagstoned kitchen. He stared into the hearth, all clean and readied by the maids who had now left. He then glanced at the lanternhorn burning fiercely on the table. Peter had insisted it be lit. At this juncture he did not want to be in the dark, he could not face that. He would rest here for the day. First thing tomorrow morning he and the maids would lock the house up and, once everything was settled, he would take Athelstan’s letter to the Custos at St Bartholomew’s. He could stay there a month, perhaps remain in the hospital until after Michaelmas. He would eat well, sleep soundly and recover in both body and soul. He heard a sound, glanced up and stared in horror at Amelia standing in the doorway. Peter cursed; he’d meant to lock the door behind the maids, but he had forgotten! He stared at his former wife, who looked like a ghost, a dreadful pallor on her face framed by the hood of the green gown which covered her from neck to toe.
‘You are to be gone!’ he shouted. ‘You should not be here!’ Peter quietly cursed his own slowness. He had not considered this; he was still not thinking clearly. He should have kept his servants here until he left.
Amelia hastened forward and, before he could prevent her, she fell to her knees. ‘Peter,’ Amelia begged, her red-rimmed eyes full of fear, ‘I would do anything for you to take me back.’ She paused and tensed, as he did, at a sound further down the passageway, the footfall of someone creeping towards them. Amelia turned and made to rise as Robert the clerk, his hood pulled back, slipped like the shadow of death into the kitchen.
‘Peter, I did not …’ But then Amelia reeled away as the bolt from Robert’s handheld arbalest shattered her face. Peter lurched to his feet but a second bolt caught him full in the throat. Gagging on his own blood, Peter collapsed to his knees then crashed to the floor. Robert the assassin searched both corpses and swiftly ransacked the house, taking any small precious objects and coins he could find. He placed his plunder in a sack tied to his belt and returned to the kitchen.
‘I followed you,’ he murmured, staring down at Amelia’s corpse. ‘I knew you would come back here like a dog to its vomit. As for your stupid husband,’ he kicked Peter’s corpse, ‘I was so near, so very close, but …’
Robert seized the oilskins he’d glimpsed earlier, slit them and, plucking up the lanternhorn, threw it on the spilt oil. He watched the flames erupt into a furious fire, then, satisfied, he left the house, his mind milling with the prospect of more murderous mischief.
Athelstan revelled in the journey. They had now left Southwark, following the ancient road allegedly built by the Romans which stretched through the Kentish countryside, down past St Thomas’s watering place, where they planned to spend two nights so they could take full stock of everything. Once they were satisfied that all was well, they would travel on to Rochester, then a further eighteen miles to Offspring, and finally another nine into Canterbury.
Athelstan was pleased with the organisation and the harmony of the pilgrimage. Since leaving Southwark he’d had a most interesting and secret conversation, more of a muttering really, between himself, Watkin and Pike. Athelstan had promised both these former Upright Men that he would resolve their anxieties together with his as soon as possible. He had then conferred with Sir John, who agreed with Athelstan’s conclusions, though the coroner advised the friar to wait for the right opportunity. Until then, Sir John promised, he would keep close watch and even closer guard on Master Thibault. Sir John had been true to his word and, with his sword slapping against his thigh, now rode alongside Gaunt’s henchman deep in conversation about future changes in the government of London.
Athelstan glanced away. He gathered the reins in his hands, closed his eyes and breathed in the different smells: wood smoke from distant cottages and the strong reek of horse flesh, mingling with the sweetness of the wild flowers growing in profusion along both sides of the trackway. Athelstan felt a deep, creeping sadness as he recalled making a similar journey along this road when he had brought his brother’s corpse back from France. He recalled s
taying at a local farm and the kindness of its owners, Marc and Christine Freeman. He wondered what had happened to them.
Athelstan opened his eyes. He did not wish to become upset. He would deal with such memories at the appropriate time and in their proper place. The friar stared round. All seemed well: carts rattled along, the clip-clop of horse’s hooves echoed dully, and the pilgrims’ cortege threw up a screen of dust, but a refreshing westerly breeze wafted this on. The highway was certainly busy. Time and again Athelstan and his fellow pilgrims had to pull aside as couriers, envoys and sheriff’s men galloped backwards and forwards on this errand or that. Vestiges of the Great Rebellion were also plain to see. Blackened manor houses, roofs and walls scorched with fire. Fences overthrown, paddocks, gateways, walls and outhouses ruined and in need of repair. Occasionally they would pass a crossroads gallows, its four or six branches heavy with corpses rotting and putrefying in their chains: a cruel, stark reminder that not everything was merry and green in this garden of England.
On one occasion they passed a derelict manor house declared accursed and polluted after the ravaging of the Great Pestilence some thirty years before. The once stately mansion stood on the lea of a hill just past Welling. One of the pilgrims asked Physician Giole if he had ever treated victims of the plague. The physician, tongue firmly in his cheek, described the morbid symptoms: the chilling stiffness which preceded three savage blows to the flesh, the hard lump which boiled up in the armpit or in the groin close to the scrotum. This lump provoked a putrid, burning fever and severe headaches. These were always followed by the vomiting of blood as the corruption of the bodily humours intensified and erupted in a foul stench. Physician Giole enjoyed shocking his fellow pilgrims, who responded with groans, cries and exclamations, as well as demands for more lurid descriptions, in which the physician blithely obliged. He described how he had heard, when he lived in Albi in the south of France, of serpents and toads falling in a thick rain: these had ravaged the countryside and killed and devoured a number of people. Benedicta cried that that was nonsense, but Physician Giole, the laughter bubbling within him, turned to his family for support, and they confirmed that they had lived in Albi for a number of years and witnessed such horrid manifestations.