A Pilgrimage to Murder

by Paul Doherty

  Athelstan was pleased to see his old friend Bonaventure crouching beside Benedicta. Apparently the great tomcat had a most comfortable journey sprawled out on soft bedding in the widow-woman’s cart. Well rested and refreshed, Bonaventure was now very alert and inquisitive about what might lurk in the corners of this strange room. Athelstan continued his walk and mentally beat his breast. He’d forgotten about the two other parishioners who were absent. Godbless and Thaddeus had arrived and been registered, but only for a short while. The fey-witted beggar man had loudly proclaimed to the squeak of bagpipes from Watkin, that Thaddeus’ insides were irregular and sickly so it would be safer and cleaner if he and his goat stood outside until the problem was resolved. All the other parishioners had heartily agreed and were now gathered in their family groups thundering their response to Sir John’s prayer:

  ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God …’

  Athelstan continued to gaze around the taproom, pleased at what he saw: like the rest of the tavern, this was most comfortable, clean and resplendently furnished. The hostelry was a four-storied building ranged along three sides of a great cobbled bailey with stables and outhouses. Beyond these stretched spacious, well-filled herber, kitchen and flower gardens. The tavern also had its own livestock; chickens were plentiful, pecking at the seeds in the yard, whilst in the fields which flanked the approach to the tavern, cattle and sheep browsed. There was also a large piggery situated, because of its stench, at the far end of a meadow and, closer to the main house, a well-stocked duck and carp pond.

  The kitchens were richly provisioned and furnished: two great chambers built of stone which housed their own bakery with a range of ovens either side of two huge fireplaces. Here scullions and turnspits cooked, grilled, fried or boiled, in a constant mist of savoury smells, a wide range of meats to the constant clatter of platters, pots and pans. The taproom itself was most comfortable with proper benches, stools, chairs and tables. The floor was clear of any rushes. The well-scrubbed paving stone was covered with cord matting, dyed a deep blood-red.

  The tavern offered a wide choice of chambers and rooms, from narrow garrets just beneath the roof tiles to spacious chambers as luxurious as those in any palace or royal manor. These rooms had wide, glass-filled windows and thick turkey rugs on the floor. The ceiling beams were gilded and decorated, the walls painted or panelled: such chambers were richly furnished with chests, aumbries, a chancery desk and scribe’s chair. Each boasted a most comfortable four-poster bed all hung with heavy linen curtains, whilst crisp white sheets, coloured counterpanes, feather-filled mattresses and bolsters guaranteed a restful night’s sleep. In Cranston’s chamber, there was even a design showing Venus, the Goddess of Love, casting Ovid’s ‘Remedies for Love’ into a fire as well as intricately woven tapestries describing the Battle of Hastings and the slaying of England’s last Saxon king.

  Despite Cranston’s protests, Athelstan had asked for a common chamber, saying that he’d only feel uncomfortable in anything more luxurious. Master Chobham had promised that the other chambers would be allocated later in the evening after the supper Cranston and Athelstan had ordered for Thibault and his henchmen. Lost in own thoughts, Athelstan continued to walk around the taproom. He paused next to physician Giole and his family and noticed they had no ave beads, so he lent them his, smiled and walked on.

  Thibault and his party sat away from the rest. Gaunt’s Master of Secrets looked deeply pensive, Albinus likewise, and the two evangelists appeared highly anxious. Quietly reciting the refrain to the ‘Ave’, Athelstan walked past the great board with its casks, barrels, tuns and pipes of wine. Above these, hanging from the cherry painted rafters, were cheeses, hams, filches of bacon and other meats being cured in their herb-soaked sacks and white nets. The sight of these made Athelstan recall Mephan’s kitchen – what had he seen there? Something he had at first taken for granted but now it nagged at his memory, items he’d glimpsed when he had passed through that house. Athelstan walked back to his own place.

  Among the pilgrims’ faces, there were some that he did not recognise, but then he recalled that a number of travelling chapmen, tinkers and traders, had joined the rear of their cavalcade. It was a common enough occurrence for solitary travellers to seek the comfort and protection of a large, well-armed group. Athelstan had accepted these for what they were, though, on one occasion, he had noticed Gregorio confer with two of these late arrivals. Athelstan frowned at the Hangman of Rochester, who was knotting his ave beads into a noose; the hangman hurriedly unravelled his rosary beads and swiftly crossed himself.

  ‘Gloria Patri …’ Cranston intoned, bringing the rosary prayer to an end, after which the pilgrims began to separate. Some would eat in the tavern, while others would go out to cook food they had brought over makeshift fires. Athelstan followed Cranston and physician Giole into the kitchen, which billowed with a misty steam full of the most delicious odours. Giole and his family had persuaded the portly, fleshy-faced Chobham, tavern master and vintner, to let them participate in the supper being boiled, broiled, roasted and grilled in different parts of the hostelry. Chobham, a thick apron covering his bulk from neck to toe, a large cream napkin over each shoulder, welcomed Giole into his kitchen. Chobham was very flattering, hospitable and gracious, but Athelstan did not like or trust the taverner. There was something unpleasant and shallow about the man, a sly cunning which portrayed itself in a too ready smile and constantly shifting eyes. Nevertheless, Chobham acted the part, calling the physician and Beatrice ‘the Master and Mistress of haute cuisine’. Thibault and the evangelists, hungry after their long journey, also wandered in to watch proceedings and encourage Giole.

  ‘Simon Mephan believed you to be the finest cook in London,’ Thibault declared. ‘A true master of the kitchen.’ The evangelists heartily agreed.

  Giole sketched a bow. ‘I always advised Simon that good food and good health are close bedfellows. Didn’t I, Beatrice, Felipe?’ Both wife and son agreed.

  ‘Where is Maria?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘She is not well,’ Beatrice explained. ‘The journey was long. I am glad to be here, so let’s celebrate.’

  ‘Let us celebrate indeed.’ Giole had already donned a cook’s apron, Felipe and Beatrice likewise. ‘Our meal,’ the physician announced, ‘or rather yours,’ he grinned, ‘will begin with charette together with beef broth and a parsley omelette dusted with onion. This will be followed by chicken with cumin and cream and partridge in a nutted wine sauce, not forgetting the dilled veal.’

  ‘Enough, enough!’ Cranston cried. ‘Mistress Beatrice, I am so hungry I could eat you now.’

  Cranston and Athelstan left the kitchen and returned to the taproom. The friar grabbed Sir John by the arm and led him across to where Gregorio sat deep in conversation with one of the chapmen who had joined them along the road. The tinker, a black-haired, swarthy individual, saw Athelstan approach and immediately excused himself: the fellow rose and rejoined his companions at another table. Athelstan sat down on a chair, the coroner beside him.

  ‘You have made friends?’ Athelstan indicated with his head to where the chapman sat drinking quietly with the others.

  ‘I am a travelling troubadour, a minstrel of mirth, God’s own herald. I meet and greet whomever I encounter and wherever that may be.’

  ‘And God’s own herald is doing his penance?’

  ‘Sitting next to the beautiful Benedicta on my journey here proved to be most pleasurable, not painful.’ Gregorio shrugged. ‘What does it matter? Master Tuddenham and the Archdeacon of London do not give a fig. Poor Felicia is dead, and who else cares? So, my friends, what do you want with me?’

  ‘The Franciscan Brother Giles,’ Athelstan stated. ‘Keep a close watch on him both before and after supper. Make sure he does not approach Master Thibault or his henchmen.’

  ‘You fear mischief?’

  ‘I fear worse. Promise me?’

  Gregorio pulled a face and spread his hands, murmuring it was no problem for h
im and he would do as Athelstan asked.

  PART SIX

  If Only We Could Trap Him: Death is Dead

  A short while later Cranston and Athelstan sat in the supper chamber which lay at the heart of the tavern, an exclusively sophisticated room, its walls covered in hangings with embroidered scenes from the Bible. On one wall, the tapestry described the Creation of Paradise, the Fall of Man and the saga of Noah’s Ark. Similar scenes from the Old Testament covered the other walls whilst the ceiling was painted and emblazoned with the signs of the Zodiac. The floor, laid with painted tiles, presented an ingenious map depicting the kingdoms of the earth as well as the different seas, rivers and mountains.

  The food served was a series of delicious concoctions whilst the wine, both the red and white, came from the tavern’s special cellar. Athelstan began the meal with a blessing as well as fulsome thanks to Thibault and His Grace the regent for donating to the parish such a generous amount to finance this pilgrimage. Thibault returned the toast of thanks, saying that his master’s munificence simply reflected the excellent service both Athelstan and Sir John had performed for the Crown during the recent troubles. The servants had hardly left, closing the door behind them, when Thibault broached the reason for this meeting.

  ‘You did ask for it?’ he demanded.

  ‘Of course we did,’ Athelstan snapped. ‘We are all in danger of death, Master Thibault. You know full well that almost everyone around this table,’ Athelstan’s gesture took in Albinus and the two evangelists, ‘has been threatened by Azrael. This killer is responsible for the murder of at least three of your household, leading henchmen such as Master Mephan and Luke Gaddesden. I believe it is only a matter of time before he strikes again.’

  ‘Even here, now, on pilgrimage?’ Matthew Gaddesden exclaimed.

  ‘Never! Impossible!’ his brother expostulated.

  ‘No, I speak the truth,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘I believe Azrael will strike again, and Sir John does likewise. In a word, I believe Azrael is a member of our community. He skulks low and deep. But he’s here and he’s murderous.’

  ‘Who is he?’ John Gaddesden demanded.

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ Cranston exclaimed. ‘If we knew that …’

  ‘How can we help?’ Thibault asked.

  The Master of Secrets seemed as perplexed as anyone about the swirling mist of murderous mayhem and sudden slaughter which now confronted them – but was this the truth? Was this beloved henchman of Gaunt innocent of any involvement in these hideous murders? The Master of Secrets had his head down: abruptly he looked up, his smooth face pale and drawn.

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ Thibault repeated, ‘how can we help?’

  He was sinister and treacherous, the most cunning of connivers, a man of blood seeped in all forms of trickery. Nevertheless, the simplicity and directness of Thibault’s question, his eyes as well as the tone of his voice, finally and firmly convinced Athelstan that this serpent in human flesh was not only innocent of any involvement in these hideous murders but as fearful as anyone of what might possibly happen next. Athelstan understood why the Master of Secrets had been so subdued and withdrawn. Thibault was used to controlling events but now, to the greater extent, they controlled him.

  ‘Why are you on this pilgrimage?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘We must meet Castilian envoys at Canterbury. What we will discuss with them is covered by the Secret Seal.’ Thibault sighed heavily. ‘I also think my Lord of Gaunt is relieved we are out of London, out of harm’s way, even though, as you say, Azrael may be amongst us. Surely we will be safer together. It will be easier to detect an enemy,’ Thibault smiled thinly, ‘or so it could be argued.’

  ‘I do not wish to pry,’ Athelstan said, choosing his words carefully. ‘I understand this is secret business, but your meeting with the Castilian envoys …’

  ‘Is very important,’ Thibault cut in. ‘We meet nobles who favour my master’s claims to the throne of that kingdom.’

  Athelstan turned to Albinus. ‘And what role do you play?’ Albinus merely smiled with his eerie-looking eyes.

  ‘Albinus has Spanish blood,’ Thibault retorted, lifting a hand as a sign for his henchman to remain silent.

  ‘Castilian?’ Athelstan queried.

  ‘My mother was of Basque origin.’ Albinus chose to ignore his master. ‘She fled the persecutions which constantly rage in that province. My father was English, a priest in fact, a Benedictine monk. A long story, Brother Athelstan, and one I shall share with you at the appropriate time.’

  ‘Yes, you must.’

  ‘Albinus is most skilled in the Spanish tongue,’ Thibault interrupted, ‘very adept with the different dialects. He will sit with us.’

  ‘Of course!’ Athelstan smiled. ‘The Castilians will not know that, so, when they revert to their own tongue in heated discussions between themselves, you will know exactly what they are saying.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Thibault said. ‘However, let us return to the depredations of this fiend Azrael.’

  The friar glanced quickly at Cranston, who nodded.

  ‘Look, Master Thibault …’ Athelstan paused; he wanted to be prudent and not give offence. ‘After Simon Mephan was murdered, you sent Albinus here to ensure that any documents from the Secret Chancery that were still intact should be removed from his house?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Thibault agreed. ‘But that’s only logical and proper.’

  ‘And, was there anything missing?’

  ‘No,’ Albinus replied, just above a whisper. ‘I could detect nothing wrong.’

  ‘Except that Mephan’s money coffer had been broken into and emptied.’

  ‘It wasn’t a money coffer,’ Matthew Gaddesden declared.

  ‘So what was it?’

  ‘A receipt box where Simon kept a tally of what he spent.’

  ‘So why should that be broken into and the receipts taken?’

  ‘Brother, I don’t know.’

  Athelstan fell silent, letting the others chat to each other as they dined on the different courses being brought in by the servants and scullions. He also watched them drink. Thibault and Albinus were abstemious, but the two evangelists matched Sir John goblet for goblet, stimulated by their fear of what the future might hold. Athelstan waited until the end of the meal before returning to his questioning, this time addressing the Evangelists.

  ‘On the journey here,’ he began, ‘I said that you have not told me everything. I believe that is still the truth. Now I demand that you reveal what you have so far kept secret.’ Athelstan noticed how fearful both brothers had become. He glanced at Thibault and concluded that the clerks were more frightened of him than anything else.

  ‘Speak,’ Thibault murmured, running a finger around the rim of his goblet. ‘In God’s name, our lives – your lives – could depend on it.’

  ‘Simon Mephan was a most able and skilled clerk,’ Matthew Gaddesden paused at Thibault’s murmur of agreement, ‘but he was greedy for money to the point of being avaricious. He was also inquisitive, and very proud of his sharp mind and keen wits.’ This time his brother murmured his agreement. ‘He immersed himself in the world of the Secret Chancery with its hidden ciphers and different alphabets. Simon loved words as he did creating patterns out of them.’

  ‘What else did he do,’ Cranston intervened, ‘once he left the Chancery? Some clerks play bowls, while others practise archery, fish, snare birds, or,’ Cranston waved a hand, ‘eat and drink.’

  ‘Simon certainly loved his food,’ John Gaddesden declared. ‘He was a regular visitor to various taverns and pastry shops.’

  ‘Any in particular?’

  ‘The Mitre and the Lute Boy, whilst he had the greatest admiration and respect for Giole Limut and his family’s culinary arts. You must remember that Giole was both the ward physician and Simon’s personal doctor.’

  ‘There is more?’ Athelstan demanded.

  ‘Yes, there is.’ Matthew looked at the friar from beneath his eyebrow
s. ‘Simon mentioned the possibility of my Lord of Gaunt sending us on a mission to Castile.’

  ‘Would you have liked that?’

  Matthew made to reply but paused at the roars of laughter coming from the taproom. Athelstan had observed earlier that Cecily and Clarissa, acting all offended by Gregorio’s open admiration for Benedicta, had attached themselves to Monkshood. Both sisters had demanded that on their first night out of Southwark, they should hear the chimes of midnight and make the rafters ring with merriment.

  ‘Well?’ Athelstan insisted.

  ‘Of course the opportunity to visit Spain would be most welcome. But there too, there is a problem,’ Matthew continued in a rush. ‘I do not know what Simon meant, but one day, working in the Chancery office, not long before he was murdered, he became excited as if secretly relishing something. He declared he could earn great treasure, but more than that he wouldn’t say. He also claimed he was being followed, in fact he was sure of it.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Brother Athelstan, on two occasions when we left the Chancery chambers in Parchment Lane and were making our way to King’s Steps, Simon gripped my arm and made me look back. On both occasions I did glimpse someone, a black-haired man, dark-skinned.’

  ‘Hispanic, Iberian?’

  ‘Possibly, but I never saw him again. This was shortly before Simon was murdered.’ Matthew fell silent, playing with the crumbs on the platter before him.

  Athelstan glanced round. Matthew and John had drunk deeply, as had Cranston, but it was Thibault who intrigued Athelstan. The Master of Secrets was usually sly, swift and devious in his conversation but he still remained strangely silent, lost in his own thoughts, more like a spectator than an actor in the murderous masque being played out around him. Athelstan stared at one of the slender candles guttering out. Azrael was here in the Sign of Hope. Athelstan truly believed that, but when would he strike next, and against whom?

  He tapped the table, then did so again, arousing both Sir John and the two clerks. ‘Tell me this: Simon Mephan, Empson and your beloved Brother Luke were killed by Azrael. Was Mephan’s murder the first time you encountered that assassin?’