A Pilgrimage to Murder

by Paul Doherty

  The repartee between the physician and the pilgrims continued, provoking more merriment as well as teasing about the medical profession. Once the laughter had subsided, the different pilgrim groups settled down to gossiping amongst themselves. Athelstan drew alongside Physician Giole’s cart. For a while the friar exchanged pleasantries with Mistress Beatrice about the pilgrimage as well as their life in London. Beatrice declared that their tavern Amongst the Tombs had been left in very capable hands, adding that she and her children were very excited at the prospect of praying before Becket’s gorgeously splendid tomb. Benedicta particularly looked forward to seeing the famous jewel left by a visiting king of France which glowed as if it had a flame inside it. Athelstan described the other attractions of both Canterbury Cathedral and the city itself. As he chatted the friar kept a sharp eye on Monkshood as well as the two evangelists. The friar noticed that Brother Gregorio, despite being distracted by the charms of Benedicta, was also keeping Thibault and his household under close scrutiny.

  ‘So much, so much,’ Athelstan whispered to himself.

  ‘What was that, Brother?’ Athelstan turned back to Giole, who slouched on the cart seat flicking the reins above the sweaty rumps of the two dray horses.

  ‘So much is here,’ Athelstan declared. ‘So many different lives with a host of secrets, regrets, memories: it’s like watching a river all placid on the surface but turbulent beneath.’

  ‘Do you think Azrael is here hiding amongst us?’ Giole asked. ‘Is it possible, whoever he is?’

  ‘Very much so,’ Athelstan replied quickly without thinking. ‘Indeed, it is very probable. Why, what do you think?’

  ‘Well, if he is, that means he will strike again,’ the physician whispered, leaning slightly forward so that Athelstan could hear him. ‘We were not in the Tower when Luke Gaddesden was murdered and my Lord of Gaunt and his henchmen threatened. However, if Azrael could strike there at the very heart of the English court …’ Giole’s voice trailed off. ‘I have learnt some of the details. I mean, to garrotte a man on such a narrow skiff on the Thames and leave no trace. Tell me,’ Giole indicated with his head, ‘Brother Gregorio – are you sure about him, Athelstan?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing,’ the physician replied, ‘except the man is a veritable grasshopper, all smiling and pleasant even when those close to him …’ The physician flicked the reins. ‘It is as you say, Brother, we all have our secrets. God save us all and bring us safely to Canterbury.’

  ‘Amen!’ the friar retorted and he pulled back on the reins, gently stroking Philomel’s neck. He then turned to ride alongside Benedicta, Crim and Brother Gregorio, the latter sitting on the tail of the cart, smiling as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He greeted Athelstan and beckoned him close.

  ‘Are you happy with the salvation of Peter the Penniless?’ he asked.

  Athelstan pulled a face. ‘I have deep fears about Master Robert. There was something about him, something destructive. A man who couldn’t care about himself, never mind anyone else.’

  ‘I would agree,’ Gregorio concurred.

  Athelstan nodded and stared around. It was a brilliant summer’s day, and fields stretched out to the right and left, meadow and ploughland dotted with small copses of trees and clusters of bushes. A spring-like freshness hung over everything despite the dust, the clash and the clatter of the cavalcade. The air grew rich with a variety of odours both sweet and sweaty. Voices chatted, sang or chanted. Children laughed or screamed whilst their parents exchanged morsels of gossip. Cranston was still guarding Thibault whilst the two evangelists clustered close in deep conversation. The parish banners, still unfurled, floated like war standards in the carts where they had been placed. Athelstan quietly rejoiced in the warmth of the deep relationships which permeated his parish yet he also felt a creeping chill of apprehension. He recalled his conversation with Giole. There was a very strong possibility, indeed a logical probability, that Azrael, the dark demon of horrid murder, also swirled in their midst like Herod dancing amongst the innocents.

  ‘Brother Athelstan?’

  He glanced to his right. Matthew and John Gaddesden now rode alongside him.

  ‘A time for confession?’ Athelstan teased.

  ‘Sorry, Brother?’

  ‘We are free of London. We travel to seek the help of the blessed Becket and must do so with quiet conscience. You have something to say?’

  ‘We certainly wish to tell you something, Brother,’ Matthew conceded. ‘First, my Lord of Gaunt was thinking of sending us on a delegation to Castile, which he said would be of great profit to both himself and to us …’

  ‘Would it have been?’ Athelstan queried.

  ‘Oh yes. My Lord of Gaunt, now the revolt is over, wishes to pursue his claims in Castile. He has friends and allies there who would favour him and us. But there is something else. We have talked to Master Thibault and he suggests we tell you.’ Matthew paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘Master Simon Mephan was a clever, subtle clerk, Brother Athelstan. We work in the Chancery from dawn to dusk. Sometimes, when we have to wait for a certain task, some clerks sleep, others go for a walk. Simon was fascinated by puzzles and words.’

  ‘And?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘We understand,’ Matthew continued hurriedly, ‘that when Master Mephan was found dead in his chamber above Milk Street, he had copy of the Book of Saint Luke’s Gospel close by.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Well, Brother Athelstan, in the last days before his death Simon seemed fascinated by that passage, the story of the Gesarene demoniac. On a number of occasions he wrote it out on a scrap of parchment and then started playing with the words as if they contained some secret message. The scraps of parchment are now long gone …’ His voice faded away. ‘We just thought we should tell you.’

  ‘And you could tell me more,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘but you won’t.’ Both brothers refused to meet his gaze. ‘Not now, but circumstances may force you.’ Athelstan sensed he was right. These two clerks could tell him more, but the friar decided the time was not opportune. However, once they reached the Sign of Hope perhaps he and Sir John could question them more rigorously. He watched them move back close to Thibault’s carriage. Athelstan drew a set of ave beads out of his belt wallet and closed his eyes, mind and ears to the sights and sounds around him. He wanted to concentrate on the mysteries which fogged his mind. He must impose order on his turbulent thoughts. He needed to fillet the problem as a flesher would a piece of meat, taking each morsel and examining it carefully. He murmured a prayer for wisdom and began.

  Item: the slayings in Milk Street. Athelstan threaded his ave beads. According to all the evidence, the assassin had been invited into Mephan’s house. True, the murderer could have slipped in, yet three people lived there. If an intruder appeared he would be seen and the alarm quickly raised. One of those three could have run into the streets and shouted ‘Harrow! Harrow!’, a call which would have brought neighbours to their aid. Nevertheless, there was not a shred of evidence that anything like this had happened. And the same macabre, silent mystery shrouded the three murders in that narrow house in Milk Street. Finchley and Felicity were apparently garrotted downstairs but there was no sign of resistance or disturbance, not even a shred of evidence that they had tried to escape. To all intents and purposes Finchley and Felicia went freely to their deaths like innocent lambs to the slaughter knife.

  Simon Mephan, however, was different. According to the evidence he had fled upstairs. Why didn’t he try to escape into the street? Athelstan shook his head, going deeper into his studious speculation. No, he reasoned to himself, Simon Mephan must have seen the two corpses then fled upstairs. He was given a short respite; the deep fear for his life, the hasty flight and a weakened heart combined to achieve Mephan’s death. The elderly clerk had opened the Gospel of St Luke and underscored those two words ‘legion’ and ‘many,’ or at least the Latin version, and had then collapsed, dying immediately. T
he assassin would have made sure of this then left as silently as he had arrived.

  Item. Roger Empson the courier was Azrael’s next victim: it had proved easy to trap, corner and kill the terrified fugitive. Nevertheless, once again neither Cranston nor Athelstan himself had detected any sign of violence or resistance. The same was true of Luke Gaddesden, savagely garrotted on a narrow, shallow skiff. Surely the boat would have capsized? Any struggle aboard such a craft would make it roll over, hurling both assailant and victim into the water. Or was Luke first garrotted then placed in the boat? But how was all this done without mark or sign?

  Item, why were these high-ranking clerks, members of the Secret Chancery, being murdered in such a way? Reference had been made to their being sent to Castile on a diplomatic mission. Was that what Felicia had meant about Mephan and his colleagues receiving some sort of advancement? Item, Mephan’s conduct just before he died was strange. Athelstan was convinced that the remaining evangelists had not yet told him the full truth but already they had conceded that Mephan seemed to know something. He was a senior clerk used to ciphers and secret writing, to codes and hidden messages, the use of strange alphabets and symbols. Mephan had underscored two words in that Book of Luke’s Gospel. He’d done this just before he collapsed and died, yet there was evidence that he was fascinated by these phrases in the days leading up to his death. Athelstan quietly promised to study those verses for himself.

  Item, why were Thibault and the rest really coming on the pilgrimage to Canterbury? He had noticed that the Master of Secrets was very subdued, almost withdrawn. Was he frightened? Were Thibault and the rest being kept out of harm’s way, or was there some other more nefarious reason?

  Item, who was Azrael? Why did the assassin take such a name – the title given to one of Satan’s henchmen, the fallen angel? Before he had left London, Athelstan had sent urgent enquiries to Brother Norbert, librarian and archivist at Blackfriars: he just hoped such information would be with him soon. Athelstan returned to his speculation. Was Azrael with them now? Who could it be?

  Gregorio was a strange man. On the one hand jovial and merry, yet he seemed little affected by the death of Felicia – or was that just the Spaniard’s soul, a man totally absorbed with himself and his own pleasures? And that other Spaniard whose corpse the Fisher of Men had taken from the reeds near St Paul’s wharf – was he another of Azrael’s victims? Yet no written warning had been left, and why had the stranger been murdered in such a barbarous way? Who was this stranger and what was the connection between him, Gregorio and Felicia? Their paths seemed to have crossed at both the Mitre and the Lute Boy. Athelstan was certainly intrigued by Gregorio. Who had informed the Guildhall that a visiting Spanish friar was breaking his vow of chastity with his lady love? Such incidents were a daily occurrence; why was Gregorio singled out and every detail supplied so the friar could be seized?

  Item, Azrael, again. ‘I always come back to you,’ Athelstan murmured, staring up at the sky. ‘You have spread your dark wings over my life and placed me in the land of deep shadow.’ He sighed deeply. ‘If I walk in the Valley of Death …’ he murmured. Yes, that was it. He had entered the Valley of Death, going along its snaking pathways while those deep shadows lurked on either side. Athelstan was convinced that Azrael had nothing to do with the Upright Men, the Reapers or the events of the recent revolt. Azrael was a professional assassin and more. He seemed to relish killing, to enjoy it, to bait and taunt his victims. Why did he appear so abruptly in Mephan’s garden to threaten and frighten Athelstan? Why use the grisly emblem of a dead magpie throttled to death and then repeat that warning using Bonaventure?

  ‘I suppose I have never met you,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘yet you regard me as your heart’s own enemy.’ He accepted there was a certain logic in threatening Gaunt, Thibault and the evangelists, although he could not understand why. Cranston and Athelstan had been brought in to investigate the murders and immediately Azrael had turned on him. Why? Because he was investigating these slayings – but then so was Cranston. And why make such mockery of the colours of a Dominican being like those of a magpie? Athelstan accepted that his order was hated by some factions of society, and he had to concede that might be the case here.

  Item, the kingdom of Castile – this also seemed to figure in the mystery. Physician Giole and his family were Castilian, and the same was true of Gregorio and perhaps the mysterious stranger found drowned off St Paul’s wharf. Mephan and the evangelists had been informed that they could be sent to Castile. Finally, and Athelstan vowed not to forget this, Thibault and the others were to meet Castilian envoys at Canterbury. The friar remembered the conversation he had overheard in the Tower – Gaunt talking in Spanish, possibly to Albinus …

  Philomel snorted, and Athelstan gathered his reins and stared around. They had passed St Thomas’s watering place and were on the narrow road leading to the Sign of Hope. Benedicta came up to him, smiling, and offered a pannikin of wine, which he gratefully accepted and returned to his brooding. Azrael had on three occasions used the corpse of a magpie to taunt him. Could this also be a connection to Castile and Spain? Such mockery of his order was commonplace in other kingdoms where the Dominicans acted as inquisitors, being particularly hated in southern France, northern Spain and parts of Lombardy where the Cathar, Albigensian and Free Spirit heretics still had a firm grasp on the loyalties and beliefs of the laity. The King of France and his barons had swept south with fire and sword to root out such sects but the Inquisition, and by implication the Dominican order, still believed that many of these heretics simply concealed their beliefs …

  ‘Brother Athelstan, are you asleep?’

  Athelstan turned to see Gregorio smiling up at him. ‘No, I am not.’ Athelstan leaned down. ‘But tell me, my friend, do you not mourn Felicia? Did you not want to attend her funeral obsequies?’

  Athelstan was surprised at the change in Gregorio: his perpetual smile and good humour promptly disappeared.

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ Gregorio almost hissed, ‘when you have lost what I have lost you cannot grieve. Anyway, as you know, of all waters, tears dry the fastest.’ He tapped his chest. ‘I grieve here for Felicia in my own way.’ Gregorio raised his hand in mock benediction and walked off to rejoin Benedicta.

  Athelstan watched him go and looked around. Cranston still rode close to Thibault. Monkshood, continuing to act as a Franciscan preacher, trailed behind. ‘I don’t believe you, Monkshood,’ Athelstan murmured. The Dominican looked to the fields on his right and left: they were now moving through open countryside. Everything was peaceful and Athelstan was confident it would remain so. St Erconwald’s pilgrims might be involved in prayer, hymns and doing good works, but they were also very well armed and would resist any attack, from Upright Men or from anyone else. Moreover, time and again Athelstan had seen the sheriff’s men pass, and none of these had reported any outlaws or wolfsheads being active along the route. Athelstan patted Philomel’s sweat-soaked neck. ‘If you could understand, my old friend,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘I would repeat the same time and time again: this is one pilgrimage I shall not forget. Mark my words …’

  ‘Let us pray and thank God, Saint George, Saint Erconwald and Saint Thomas a Becket for a safe journey on this first day of our pilgrimage.’ Athelstan stood on a stool in the splendid taproom of the Sign of Hope and beamed at his fellow pilgrims. Everyone was here, according to Mauger the bell clerk, who kept a strict register, except for Maria, physician Giole’s daughter, who was suffering from stomach cramps, whilst the elusive Monkshood had simply disappeared from sight. They had all assembled here. Mine host had promised Cranston and Athelstan they could use the taproom for meetings as well as to celebrate mass.

  ‘It’s a long time since I have had such a large congregation,’ Athelstan announced to laughter and good-natured repartee from all those gathered around. He smiled at them even as he felt his heart sink at the thought that Azrael the demon could well be there, hiding behind one of these smilin
g faces. A killer with a clever mask who would drop that mask whenever it so suited him. Cranston coughed noisily, a sign that his ‘little friar’ was sinking into one of his reveries.

  ‘Very well. Take out your hand crosses or your ave beads,’ Athelstan declared, ‘and let us recite one decade of the Rosary, Saint Dominic’s favourite prayer. Sir John, you will lead off and we shall deliver the refrain.’

  ‘Hail Mary, full of grace …’ Cranston’s powerful voice boomed across the taproom. Athelstan got down from the stool and walked around, noticing how many of the pilgrims had crucifixes, paternosters and finger chaplets at the ready. Ranulf the rat-catcher was kneeling beside the cage which housed his two favourite ferrets, Audax and Ferox. Watkin even believed the ferrets slept in bed next to Ranulf. Ursula the pig woman rested against the heaving flank of her huge sow which, despite its bulk, had waddled behind a cart. However, according to Benedicta, the sow had also been allowed onto the cart to sit there like the Queen of Sheba riding in splendour.