A Pilgrimage to Murder

by Paul Doherty

  ‘It’s certainly comfortable enough, Sir John, and I can guess what it is – protection against the garrotte cord.’

  ‘The leather is stiffened yet light,’ Cranston explained. ‘It will not save you but it will delay the assassin and confuse him.’ Cranston chewed the corner of his lip. ‘I know you discussed the garrotte with the hangman. Well, before I left London, I visited some old rogues who are quite skilled with what they call “the strangle string”. One of them gave me the collar. Athelstan, that evil soul Azrael has brushed you with his dark wings. Wear the collar, hide it beneath the edge of your robe, and, if you can, carry a dagger with you. Finally, my little friend, try not to be alone.’

  Athelstan stared into Cranston’s blue eyes, no longer bright with merry mischief but sad and anxious. Deeply touched by his friend’s care, Athelstan leaned across and gently stroked him on the side of his face. ‘My friend,’ he murmured. ‘For your sake, I shall wear it. God forbid I ever have to depend on it. Now, what are your thoughts about Castile? Why is Thibault journeying to meet Castilian envoys at Canterbury?’

  ‘I believe it is to do with Gaunt’s ambitions in that direction,’ Cranston replied. ‘A few years ago, King Henry of Castile died. There was no clear heir to the crown. Gaunt, through his marriage to the Infanta Constanza, acquired a claim to the Castilian throne. Some there oppose him as a usurper, while others point out that Gaunt is not only married to a Castilian princess but is the great-grandson of the saintly Eleanor of Castile, wife of Edward I. Thibault, I suspect, is set to meet the Castilian envoys who favour John of Gaunt’s claim. If he can get their full support, Gaunt will then go to the Commons and ask for an army to support his bid for the Castilian crown.’

  ‘And will he get it?’

  ‘There are those in England who would pay a king’s fortune to see the back of Gaunt.’ Cranston rose. ‘But, little friar, that’s for the future. Now I will leave you to your thoughts. I shall meet you below, yes?’

  Distracted, Athelstan nodded absent-mindedly.

  Cranston left and Athelstan returned to his own chamber. For a while he just sat listening to the noises of the tavern. He thought of Gaddesden stretched out on the bed, Monkshood all twisted in that outhouse. Azrael had certainly struck, but Athelstan was determined to see if the assassin had made a mistake. He recalled the ancient description of Azrael, four-faced, four-winged and devious. ‘But you do not have the wisdom of the Holy Spirit,’ Athelstan murmured. He returned to reflecting on Simon Mephan, and that dark shape in the garden, sinister and threatening, disappearing when Cranston and Giole appeared. And, of course, Mephan himself, slouched dead over his desk, and the riddle he had left. Intrigued, Athelstan rose and took the Book of Luke’s Gospel from his chancery satchel. He found the page describing the Gesarene demoniac and ran his fingers across the two underscored words, ‘legion’ and ‘many’.

  ‘Our name is legion for we are many,’ Athelstan whispered. He suddenly stopped, and smiled at his own foolishness. ‘I’ve concentrated on the translation,’ he whispered to himself, ‘but Mephan underscored the Latin text.’ Hastily, he laid out his writing tray and, taking a scrap of parchment, inked a quill pen and wrote out time and time again the relevant passage. He tried to imitate Mephan’s absorption with words and letters, in particular these two, the ones Mephan had especially emphasised just before he died.

  Athelstan was barely aware of the knock on the door, which abruptly opened without him answering. A shadowy servant brought in a tray and Athelstan returned to his study, but he raised his head when his hooded, visored visitor turned the key in the lock.

  ‘What in God’s name!’ Athelstan exclaimed.

  ‘Stay where you are, Brother Athelstan.’

  The friar sat rigid, watching the dark figure place a goblet of wine on the nearby table. He then stepped back and brought up the arbalest, all primed, the ugly, jagged bolt ready to be loosed. The figure, one hand holding the arbalest, pulled back his hood and unloosened the visor covering the bottom half of his face.

  ‘Robert the clerk!’ Athelstan exclaimed. He sat back in the chair, his mind teeming, wits all sharp. ‘You are a wolfshead, wanted for the hideous murders of Peter and Amelia. You will hang from the nearest scaffold.’ Athelstan leaned forward, determined not to show fear. ‘If you want, I can shrive you, hear your confession and deliver absolution for your many terrible sins. You truly are a son of Cain. In the end, when you meet just punishment, I could have a word with our hangman so your end is swift, a broken neck rather than a long, choking death. You hunted those two, poor people. You blighted their lives. You have foully murdered them and sent their souls unprepared into the light.’ Athelstan paused, searching his adversary’s face, but he knew his words had little effect. Nevertheless, he was determined to keep talking, hoping against hope that Cranston or one of his parishioners would come up or, even better, have glimpsed Robert lurking below or slipping up the stairs like the dark, evil wolf he was. The clerk seemed unperturbed.

  ‘Well, well, well.’ Robert made himself comfortable on a stool. ‘You will not be hearing my confession, priest. I am not frightened by your stories or pretended powers; I just thought we’d have a little chat before I gave you a choice and sent you to join that stupid couple, Peter and his wife Amelia.’ Athelstan noticed that the arbalest was held firm; Robert’s hand was steady. The friar had no illusions about his opponent. Robert was a killer to his very marrow but, like all his tribe, he loved to talk, to boast, to demonstrate how clever and subtle he truly was.

  ‘Why?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Why did you kill those two people?’

  ‘Listen, you little, interfering friar. You prattling, inquisitive priest.’ Robert held up his left hand, forefinger and thumb slightly parted. ‘So close,’ he murmured, ‘so very, very close. I have worked, laboured and slaved for years. Then Amelia comes tripping into my dirty little shop. You wouldn’t understand, friar. You have nothing of the stallion in you. No hot blood, no rampaging lusts,’ Robert shrugged, ‘except for gazing moon-eyed at that widow-woman.’

  ‘I do know what it is to love,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘I also know what is right and acceptable to God.’

  ‘Well, you can discuss all that with him when you meet within the hour. As I said, friar, you don’t understand. Amelia was plump, loving and better than a Cheapside whore when it came to tumbling on a bed. Believe me, priest, she knew so many tricks, lovely!’ Robert licked his lips. ‘And it was all wasted on that moonstruck idiot, Peter the bloody Penniless! Oh, I wined and dined Amelia and she told me all about her life. I led her as gently as any lapdog down the pathway of removing him forever. The plan was very simple. Peter was a miser. He needed a clerk, he could hire me cheap and you know how it is.’

  ‘I certainly do,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The fox stole into the hen coop to help himself to whatever he wanted.’

  ‘True, true.’ Robert grinned. ‘It was only a matter of time before Peter’s mind was turned, his humours upset and his wits collapsed; when that happened, a truly amorous, very rich widow was my prize. Oh, it was so simple, so easy. A drop of juice here, a smear of paste there and Peter the Penniless was despatched into the world of goblins, monsters and demons.’ Robert blew his cheeks out. ‘Until you appeared with your nose twitching like some lurcher on the hunt.’

  Athelstan stared into Robert’s red-rimmed eyes. He recalled Prior Anselm’s homily on demonic possession: how an evil spirit can take up residence in human flesh and wax strong, growing in power and ruthless dedication to its own evil will. Robert the clerk was one of these. He had been frustrated and foiled. Many another soul would accept the loss, but not him. He was committed to a fight to the death, bent on vengeance and punishing all those who had frustrated him. Amelia and Peter had paid the price and Robert was now determined to exact the same of Athelstan.

  ‘Friar, you should keep your twitching nose out of other people’s business, but you don’t. You think yourself so subtle and wise, yet you are stupid.�
�� Robert swayed slightly on the stool. Athelstan wondered if his opponent had drunk a little too deeply on ale, wine or both. He would remember that. Robert thought he would frighten him but Athelstan was determined to resist and to seize any opportunity he could.

  ‘Stupid?’ Athelstan turned his head slightly. ‘You call me stupid?’

  ‘Do you know what is going on here during your pilgrimage?’ Robert sneered. ‘Most of your companions are as fit for Hell as I am. You hunt the strangler, or so I hear?’

  ‘I am also hunting you.’

  ‘Not for long,’ Robert jibed. ‘I have studied your little flock, Athelstan.’ He preened himself, and the friar secretly marvelled at why murderous souls such as Robert always seemed crammed with their own importance: they exuded an unbelievable arrogance at how superior they were to the rest of humanity.

  ‘What are you implying?’ Athelstan asked, listening keenly to the sounds from the taproom below. Cranston must be becoming curious as to why Athelstan had not joined him and the rest.

  ‘I’m talking about Gregorio,’ Robert replied. ‘He was out last night in the fields across the road, he and his confederates.’

  ‘Confederates?’

  ‘Yes, those chapmen who have joined your company. I just tell you that because you will never have the chance of finding out the truth behind it all. Look,’ Robert scratched the side of his unshaven face, ‘time is passing, friar. A swift death,’ he lifted the arbalest, ‘or …’ He gestured at the goblet. ‘Mingled it myself, I did. Good Bordeaux with a strong infusion of what you call banewort, Devil’s herb, witch berry or, even more memorable, belladonna.’ Robert sniffed. ‘I picked it myself from the cemetery at St Erconwald’s – most fitting, wouldn’t you say? I wandered there once you had left. Goodness, you could poison a cathedral full of people, must be something in the soil. The belladonna grows two to five feet high with spreading branches: its leaves always grow in pairs, one being longer than the other. The flowers, and you must have noticed these, are dark violet, rather attractive; the fruits are a shiny black plum with purple juice.’ Robert smacked his lips. ‘Very nice, the first sip. Every part of that plant is highly poisonous.’

  ‘Will you go first?’ Athelstan taunted. ‘Will you join me in my cups?’

  ‘No, friar. You have a choice: drink the wine or I will kill you with a crossbow bolt which will shatter your head. Perhaps I could do both. I mean, once you have drunk, the symptoms are fairly obvious and repulsive: raging fever, dry mouth, frenzied thoughts. You feel as if you are slowly choking. You’ll probably put your hand out, eyes popping, to beg me to release the bolt …’ Robert paused at a knock at the door. The handle was tried but it was locked.

  ‘Father, Father?’ Crim’s voice echoed. ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘Answer it,’ Robert hissed. ‘No, on second thoughts …’ He brought the arbalest up. ‘Answer it from where you sit.’

  ‘I am awake,’ Athelstan called out. ‘I have bolted the door because I am thinking …’

  ‘Sir John wonders if you would like something to eat and drink?’

  ‘Not here,’ Robert whispered hoarsely and grinned. ‘You can order the meal you’ll never eat.’

  ‘Tell Sir John I will be down shortly. I would like a large cup of Rhenish and lampreys grilled and mixed with shallots. Tell him now.’

  Athelstan caught Robert’s quizzical look. ‘My favourite meal,’ he whispered. Athelstan heard Crim clatter away down the gallery.

  ‘Well friar, cup or bolt?’ He leaned forward. ‘Or both.’

  Athelstan picked up the pewter goblet and weighed it in his hand. He glanced across at Robert. ‘I wish to say a prayer.’

  ‘A short one …’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Athelstan, still holding the goblet, bowed his head. He began to recite the ‘Confiteor’ but pretended to stumble over the words so he began again. His heart was beating vigorously and sweat sheened his skin. He almost sighed as the door rattled.

  ‘Father?’ Benedicta called. ‘You must come. Something has happened. Father?’ The door now shook.

  ‘Let her in,’ Robert grated. ‘She can drink as well. Yes,’ he nodded, ‘you can die with your whore in this tavern bedchamber.’

  Still carrying the goblet, Athelstan crossed to the door, shouting that he would open it. He turned the lock and pulled it open, even as he hurled the goblet with all his might at his opponent. Robert moved to avoid the cup. He slipped and steadied himself.

  Cranston burst through the door, his great, two-edged sword already swinging back. The razor-sharp blade scythed the air and bit deep into Robert’s neck, almost severing his head. The muscle and the flesh of the neck were completely sheared, the head tipped eerily to one side as spumes of blood sprayed the chamber …

  PART SEVEN

  For the Love of Gold is the Root of all Evil

  Hours later, Athelstan sat with Cranston at a table in a window embrasure of the tavern’s taproom.

  ‘A time of blood!’ Judith the mummer had proclaimed.

  The sudden and violent death of Robert the clerk in such gruesome circumstances had swept the tavern, followed by the heinous news that Robert had tried to murder their beloved parish priest. Athelstan was greeted with shouts and acclamations whilst Cranston was hailed as God’s own warrior. Mine host Chobham had been frightened out of his wits by what he described as ‘the bloody carnage of the battlefield’. Thibault and his henchmen had been more reserved but shocked and surprised at Robert daring to pursue his blood feud along the Pilgrim Way.

  In the end, all the pilgrims had gathered in the taproom. Athelstan, still fairly weak after his deadly confrontation, had to explain exactly what had happened. If Cranston had not stopped them, Watkin, Pike and other parishioners would have seized Robert’s blood-soaked, battered corpse, impaled it close to the tavern piggery and left it there to rot. Instead Cranston had persuaded them to help clean the chamber, take Athelstan’s belongings to another and remove Robert’s corpse so it now lay sheeted and coffined, ready to be carted to the nearest cemetery for swift, summary burial. At last some order was imposed. Mine host Chobham was promised compensation whilst the mess of ‘the great carnage’ was soon cleared up. Athelstan stared down at the bowl of vegetable pottage Giole and Beatrice had insisted on serving him, ‘according to a rare and special Castilian recipe’, or so they said. Athelstan found it delicious.

  ‘Not lampreys grilled with shallots,’ Cranston teased, ‘or a large cup of Rhenish? I always remember you telling me how you intensely hate the sight, smell and taste of lampreys. Shallots are also despised, whilst you hold Rhenish in the same low regard.’

  ‘The fruits of a misspent youth,’ Athelstan confessed. ‘I spent some time at our house in Oxford. God bless him and give him rest, Brother Eudo the cook loved lampreys and shallots and thought everybody else should. We had lampreys in shallot sauce from Prime to Compline. I prayed that you would remember that.’ Athelstan sighed deeply. ‘Robert was a killer.’

  ‘Yes, he certainly was,’ Cranston agreed. ‘Tiptoft brought me some gossip about him – how he sold powders to women who wanted to get rid of a child, and there were some very unsavoury tales about some of the potions and powders he sold and what they were intended for. A nasty, twisted soul. Anyway, why don’t you like Rhenish?’

  ‘I was drinking Rhenish when they brought my brother’s corpse back into camp. The very taste of it takes me back and, indeed, it is my late brother who now concerns me.’

  ‘You wish to visit his grave?’

  ‘Yes, as I mentioned to you before. Four miles from the Sign of Hope stands Saint Grace’s Priory, a Carthusian house, isolated, rather desolate. I regard it as a place of profound holiness. When Stephen-Francis was killed I had his body cleaned and ready for transport back to England. I have also told you this, Sir John, the news of his death …’ Athelstan fought to keep the tremor out of his voice, ‘… killed my parents. I could not take my brother’s corpse back to the West Country, I just couldn�
��t. In the end the captain of the cog I secured passage on berthed at Tilbury. I journeyed inland along with my travelling companion, Ralph Sherwin, a Carthusian monk coming from the mother house La Grande Chartreuse in France. During the voyage he and I had become great friends. He heard my confession and shrived me after I’d told him about my earlier life, the death of my brother and the tragedy which befell my parents. He described Saint Grace’s to me; I thought it would be ideal. I had some money, some treasure and, in the end, Ralph interceded with the prior and so my brother now lies buried under the flagstones of a chantry chapel in the main church of Saint Grace’s Priory.’ Athelstan took a deep breath. ‘I intend to journey there tomorrow morning by myself.’

  ‘Brother, you must be careful. I am sure you will not forget Robert the clerk.’

  ‘Sir John, I thank you for my rescue.’ Athelstan patted Cranston’s sword arm. ‘God bring Robert the clerk to judgement, a true sinner. He lived a bad life and died a worse death.’

  ‘I suspected he would come,’ Cranston admitted. ‘The little I learnt of him was highly unpleasant. A truly vindictive man. He decided on vengeance, we are not difficult to follow, and it’s easy for a stranger to mingle amongst us.’

  ‘Which reminds me.’ Athelstan informed the coroner about Robert the clerk’s comments on Gregorio and the Spanish friar’s strange meetings in the fields outside the tavern during the dead of night.

  ‘There is something else.’ Cranston looked quickly around. ‘Last Thursday, Margaret Chobham, wife of mine host here, went into the city to visit her brother, who happens to be the owner of the Mitre in Farringdon ward. You see how all these vintners are related. Mistress Margaret even knows my golden girl at the Lamb of God in Cheapside.’ Cranston smacked his lips. ‘God bring me safely back there. I would love one of her pies.’

  ‘Sir John!’

  ‘Ah yes, Brother. Anyway, Mistress Margaret heard about Mephan’s death during her visit to the city. Now, whilst you were involved with the murderous Robert, I was chatting to Mistress Margaret who, by the way, keeps a very sharp eye on her husband and the games he plays with the serving maids.’