A Pilgrimage to Murder

by Paul Doherty

  ‘No,’ Thibault intervened, leaning against the table. ‘Sir John, you told me that certain murders are reported to you in the sheriff’s returns every quarter.’

  ‘And the Exchequer makes a copy for you,’ Cranston assented.

  ‘Yes, we know what goes on. We did come across some similar murders, powerful merchants. They had been garrotted in the same way as these other victims, with dire warnings left on their corpses.’

  ‘Well, there was actually more than that,’ Cranston stated. The coroner half closed his eyes. ‘If I remember correctly, the warnings left read: “Lord Azrael greets you. Fear us because our name is legion for we are many.”’

  ‘Yes,’ Thibault agreed, ‘such information came to the Secret Chancery. Simon Mephan would have seen it.’

  Athelstan sat back in his chair. ‘Our name is legion,’ he whispered to himself, ‘for we are many. That crucial verse from Luke’s Gospel is the key to unlock this mystery …’ He stared down at the tablecloth. ‘Whoever you are,’ Athelstan whispered to himself, ‘you are most cunning.’ He glanced up, tempted to declare that Thibault and his henchmen could tell him more, but the day was done, ‘And we are for the dark,’ Athelstan whispered.

  ‘Brother?’

  ‘Master Thibault – we should retire, I understand Master Chobham will now allocate the rest of the chambers.’

  Monkshood crouched in the lonely outhouse in the darkest corner of the stableyard at the Sign of Hope. Night had fallen. The sun had set in a fiery glow. Monkshood had watched this and recalled what his old teacher had said: ‘The setting sun is red because it approaches Hell.’ Tonight, once the darkness had settled, with the tavern in its sleepy embrace, Monkshood was prepared to despatch Master Thibault in hot pursuit of that Hell-bound sun.

  Monkshood recalled his miraculous escape from the gallows at Tyburn, that frenetic, frantic race through the crowd along the warren of alleyways and runnels into Whitefriars. Here sheltered the last remaining coven of Earthworms in the city. At first they had welcomed Monkshood with open arms. However, after explaining his escape, Monkshood had sensed his comrades’ deepening suspicion at such occurrence, which verged on the miraculous. He had caught the whispers, the sly-eyed, sideways glances and the murmur of debate. Had he truly escaped or had he been allowed to? Monkshood would not be the first cat’s-paw used by Master Thibault. Time and again the Upright Men and the Earthworms had to mete out harsh justice to traitors and informers. Was this another ploy by Gaunt’s Master of Secrets to seek out and destroy the Reapers, the last remnants of the Great Revolt?

  Within hours of Monkshood’s arrival, the suspicions had hardened into allegation and then outright accusation. Monkshood had furiously defended himself, pointing out how he had been captured, cruelly imprisoned and sentenced to hang, and yet there was the rub. He could not confess to being allowed to escape because he was assisting the Lord High Coroner of London on a totally different matter. The Earthworms would find it almost impossible to accept that either Cranston or the hangman would allow a captain amongst the Earthworms to escape, especially one with Monkshood’s reputation.

  The situation became extremely perilous and Monkshood feared that the Earthworms might take the law into their own hands and hang him from a tavern sign with a notice pinned to his corpse proclaiming him to be a traitor. In the end, Monkshood had sworn an oath. He would demonstrate his loyalty to the Great Community of the Realm by joining Athelstan’s pilgrimage, which was now common news, as was Thibault’s participation in it. Gaunt was beyond their reach, Monkshood had argued – the failed attempt on the regent’s life by the Salamander King at the Tower had proven that. Thibault was more vulnerable. Monkshood would demonstrate his fealty to the great cause by sacrificing Thibault on its altar. His comrades had agreed. They reasoned that if Monkshood was a traitor he would just flee and they would be free of him forever. However, if he was a member of the true and loyal Commons, Thibault would die.

  Monkshood had dug up the few coins he had buried to buy a new robe, fresh linen and stout sandals. He had visited a barber in the Stews, emerging back on the streets as Brother Giles of the Franciscan Order. He had been accepted by both Cranston and Athelstan, though Monkshood was astute enough to realise that the Dominican had his reservations, which would explain why Monkshood felt he had been kept under close watch since he had joined this merry pilgrimage.

  Now he drew the long dagger from its scabbard then pushed it back. He was ready. The Upright Man moved from the outhouse. Earlier in the day, while the rest of the pilgrims were assembled in the taproom for communal prayers, he had, like any skilled assassin, searched out chambers, stairways and passageways. He’d moved silently as a shadow. He had glimpsed that woman flitting from one room to another but he ignored her. Monkshood had learnt from servants and scullions that Thibault was lodged in the first gallery – ensconcing himself, of course, in the most comfortable chamber.

  Monkshood looked up at the star-filled sky, stifling his doubts about the wisdom of what he was planning. He gripped his dagger, raced across the cobbled yard and slipped through the postern door he had secretly wedged open earlier. The tavern was settling for the night. Monkshood crept down the passageway leading to the main stairway. He was about to steal up it when he heard a sound behind him and felt the sharp nick of a steel point against the side of his neck.

  ‘Good evening, Monkshood.’ Athelstan stepped out of the shadows, accompanied by Watkin and Pike. Monkshood’s dagger was abruptly seized. He swung round and stared into Cranston’s smiling face.

  ‘Let us go ever so gently up to my chamber,’ Cranston murmured, ‘not far, along the first gallery as befits the Lord High Coroner of London.’ He sheathed his sword and mockingly gestured at Monkshood. ‘Let us not waste any more time, my friend.’

  A short while later, Cranston locked the door to his chamber and brought down the latch, a small, square piece of wood which swung on its screw into the waiting clasp. The coroner settled himself behind his chancery desk and stared at Monkshood squatting on a stool before him. Athelstan and his two parishioners made themselves comfortable along the edge of the great four-poster bed.

  ‘You were suspicious of me, weren’t you?’ Monkshood blurted out. ‘You realised …’

  Athelstan interrupted him: ‘I didn’t believe that the Upright Men would attack our pilgrimage in the vain hope of assassinating Thibault. Look at us, we are many and we are well armed. Both Sir John and I watched you keep Thibault and his coven under close scrutiny, and my good friends here,’ Athelstan gestured at Watkin and Pike, ‘agreed with my suspicions about you.’

  ‘We are not traitors,’ Pike declared.

  ‘Nor Judas men,’ Watkin rasped. ‘Monkshood, we recognise you as a comrade. We did not want to see you die. You would be cut down or captured before you ever reached Thibault. If you survived, they’d hang you out of hand. You know that.’ Watkin leaned forward, rubbing great, dirt-engrained hands together. ‘Monkshood, the Great Cause is finished. When Adam delved and Eve spun, is a fast-fading song. One day it will be lustily sung again in this kingdom, but I suspect by the time that happens we will all be floating on the winds of heaven.’

  Monkshood sat all composed and quiet, listening intently. Athelstan suspected that this former captain of the Earthworms was deeply relieved by the decision being made for him.

  ‘We noticed you were missing from our prayers in the taproom,’ Watkin continued. ‘I guessed you were spying out the lie of the land. Pike and I knew you would strike either tonight or tomorrow …’

  Athelstan got to his feet, drew out his ave beads and dangled the cross in front of Monkshood. ‘Now, Monkshood, swear an oath here on this cross that you will offer no injury to Thibault or his henchmen then you are free to go. Tomorrow you can decide whether you wish to stay with us or seek your salvation elsewhere.’

  Monkshood sighed heavily and sat staring at the floor. Eventually he raised his right hand and cupped the small crucifix between his
fingers.

  ‘I swear. I will offer no injury to Thibault or any of his coven. As for the rest,’ Monkshood shrugged, ‘it’s best if I continued with you, at least until we reach Rochester and the Medway. Once there, I can search for a ship to take me to foreign parts.’

  Athelstan patted Monkshood on the shoulder. ‘Rest assured, we will make certain that you take food, good clothing and,’ he glanced at Cranston, who nodded, ‘some coins to help you on your way.’

  Monkshood rose and clasped the hands of each of them. ‘In which case, I will continue with this strange pilgrimage where young ladies make themselves so available, going from one chamber to another.’

  ‘Cecily and Clarissa,’ Watkin murmured, ‘those two ladies are …’

  Monkshood however was no longer listening. He left the room and paused for a while. He thought of staying and having a word with Watkin and Pike, but that could wait. Now he needed to think, to plot his way forward. He reached the outhouse and crept inside. As the darkness gathered about him, he felt something slip about his throat and then tighten brutally. Terrified, Monkshood tried to resist, but he was held fast for those last few heartbeats of life.

  Athelstan stared down at Monkshood’s corpse, fighting back tears. He tried to master his shock at seeing this vigorous young man garrotted so swiftly, his life light snuffed out like a candle flame. Only a few hours ago Monkshood was full of life and mischief; a good-looking, handsome man, but now his face was grotesquely twisted by the horror of his savage death.

  ‘A garrotte cord,’ Athelstan murmured, crouching down to peer a little closer. ‘But I can see no greeting from Azrael.’ The friar straightened up and looked at mine host, who stood quivering like one of his jellies, his fat face all pasty and sweat-soaked.

  ‘This is not good for business,’ he muttered. ‘This is not acceptable.’

  ‘I suspect Monkshood would agree with you,’ Cranston retorted, ‘if he could. For heaven’s sake, man, this poor soul was murdered, and cruelly so.’ He entered the outhouse and tapped his boot on the dirt-encrusted floor. ‘Monkshood was found here?’

  ‘Yes. One of the stable boys came across to collect a bag of feed.’ Chobham pointed to a row of sacks along a shelf.

  Cranston looked around intently, then patted Chobham on the shoulder and told to go back to his other guests.

  The coroner gestured at Athelstan to draw close. ‘Once again,’ he murmured, ‘there is no disturbance, no resistance, just a man violently strangled.’

  ‘And why?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Why murder Monkshood? We talked to him, what, about an hour before midnight?’ He pressed a hand against the dead man’s tortured face. ‘His corpse is now fairly cold. I suspect he was murdered soon after he left us, almost immediately, in fact. But why, why, why? Did he see or hear something untoward? But what? And why kill him so speedily? This time there is no mocking greeting, but Azrael must have regarded Monkshood as a real danger to him. So, did Monkshood have more secrets than we realised?’ He glanced at Cranston who simply shook his head.

  ‘As far as I know,’ the coroner murmured, ‘Monkshood had little if anything in common with Thibault and the evangelists, but is it possible that he was their spy amongst the Upright Men?’ Cranston broke off at the sound of raised voices and a violent, crashing echo across the yard. Master Chobham reappeared all a-quiver, exclaiming loudly that confusion and chaos had engulfed his tavern, and that now Master Thibault and his clerks could not rouse John Gaddesden, whose chamber remained locked and clasped. Cranston bellowed at the taverner to stay calm. Once he’d ceased his moaning, Athelstan asked about the chamber window.

  ‘It is a large window,’ Chobham declared. ‘It has a casement door, but it’s shuttered firmly with clasps both within and without.’ The taverner wiped the sweat from his face on a napkin. ‘I believe something terrible has happened.’

  The coroner and the friar joined the hubbub on the gallery, its polished floorboards glistening in the morning light which pierced the oriel window at the far end. Thibault and Albinus were there, cloaks thrown over their nightshirts. Matthew Gaddesden had also been roused by the same servant who, instructed by his brother John the night before, had brought up a blackjack of light ale and some toasted cheese to break his fast. The servant had tried to rouse John and, when he failed, raised the alarm.

  ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan hissed, ‘impose some order, and get that door broken down.’

  Using all the authority of his office, Cranston cleared the gallery except for Thibault, Albinus and Matthew Gaddesden. Servants were summoned, an ancient yule log found. Cranston believed the chamber door was firmly locked, the clasps brought down, and it would have to be forced. The battering began, as hard and as ruthless as any ram used against a castle gate. The pounding became incessant. Scraps of plaster fell from the surrounding wall as the door began to buckle then snap free on both sides. The locks, clasps and leather hinges ruptured and the door fell like a bridge into the room. Cranston, who’d listened intently to Athelstan’s whispering, ordered everyone, even Matthew Gaddesden, to stand back.

  ‘Please,’ Athelstan begged, ‘I ask you to stay outside. Let me first inspect the chamber.’

  ‘But I need to see my brother,’ Matthew pleaded.

  ‘Please,’ Athelstan repeated. Cranston drew his sword and mounted guard as Athelstan stepped over the door and entered the shadow-filled chamber. He immediately noticed that the candles on their spigots had guttered out, as had the small lantern placed on top of a chest. The friar warily crossed to the window, lifted the bar and pulled back the shutters, then he opened the casement window and pushed open the outside slats so the light poured in. He had already glimpsed a shadow-like bundle lying on the four-poster bed, its curtains slightly pulled open. For the moment, Athelstan ignored this, as well as the pleas from those standing outside on the gallery.

  The friar gazed around the chamber, trying memorise what he saw, then, finally, he moved towards the bed. He pulled back the curtains and stared down at the frightful-looking corpse lying there: a mocking imitation of a man put lovingly to bed. John Gaddesden was still fully clothed, he was even wearing his boots: his body had been laid out in repose, legs together, arms crossed over his chest like a penitent prepared to receive the Sacrament. All this was in cruel contrast to his face, agonised in death, the garrotte cord still tight around his throat. Athelstan stretched over and twisted the small parchment square: despite the poor light he read the same taunting message, ‘Lord Azrael greets you’. Athelstan felt physically sick. He turned and walked back to the centre of the room and stood there for a while, taking deep breaths, before beckoning the others in. The dead man’s brother hurried past him, took one look at the corpse and burst into loud sobbing. Athelstan steadied himself and stared around. He must note and recall everything as it was.

  ‘And that’s the mystery,’ Athelstan murmured to himself. ‘So deathly peaceful, yet murder has been committed.’ Still feeling ill, he excused himself. He hurried out along the gallery and downstairs, pushing aside parishioners and others till he reached the garden, which was thankfully deserted. The friar slumped down on a turf seat and breathed in the early morning fragrance of the flowers. He then closed his eyes and prayed fervently for help.

  ‘Come, you Father of the Poor,

  Light Immortal, Light Divine …’

  The words poured out of him, cleansing the clinging filth of what he had seen and felt in that room. Athelstan took some more deep breaths, then he rose and returned to the death chamber, excusing himself for his abrupt departure. Matthew Gaddesden had been taken away by Thibault and Albinus, whilst Cranston was busy organising the removal of the corpse. This was only completed when Athelstan summarily performed the last rites, both anointing and blessing the remains, after which he again inspected the dead man and the murder chamber. Once the cadaver had been removed, Athelstan demanded the door be turned over so he could inspect the wooden clasps at top and bottom. It was a simple but very effectiv
e mechanism: both latches had been brought down to rest in their clasps so the door would be secure. Now they were nothing but shattered shards. The lock had also buckled as it had been turned by Gaddesden when he retired the night before. Cranston handed Athelstan the key from where it had been left on the bedside table and gestured at the fallen door.

  ‘For what it’s worth, that’s the key to that lock.’

  Athelstan inspected it and handed it back. ‘So difficult to believe!’ he exclaimed, sitting down on a stool. ‘Correct me if I am wrong, Sir John, but this is the mystery which confronts us. John Gaddesden, a fairly young, vigorous man, retires yesterday evening. He comes into this chamber, he locks the door, takes the key out and places it on the table next to his bed. He also brings down the latches on the door, one at the top and the other at the bottom, to make the chamber even more secure. The room’s one and only window is firmly locked and shuttered. Not even a flea could squeeze through that, yet we are to believe that during the night Azrael the murderous demon swept in here, God knows how, and garrotted John Gaddesden without leaving any trace of violence or resistance. Look around, Sir John! Absolutely nothing is disturbed in this room, whilst the victim is laid out as if ready for bed except for that gruesome garrotte cord fastened around his throat and the hideous expression on his face. Azrael is a killer, a true son of Cain, a slayer to the very marrow of his heart, but he is also a mocker. He ridicules us, Sir John, he sneeringly taunts us.’ Athelstan clasped his hands together and stared down at the floor, his mind teeming with all the possibilities. Cranston coughed noisily. Athelstan glanced up and smiled. ‘Sir John, go and see Master Thibault. Tell him to use all his power and authority to requisition this tavern. I know it can be done under the royal ordinances on purveyance.’