A Pilgrimage to Murder

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Master Thibault.’ Giole sprang to his feet along with the other three. Athelstan noticed that both men had strapped on their warbelts, whilst Beatrice and Maria grasped small arbalests. ‘Master Thibault, you must read this.’ Giole dug into a pocket in his robe and drew out a copper scroll holder. He unstoppered this, shook out the creamy-coloured parchment and handed it to Thibault. The Master of Secrets unrolled and read it. He stood staring at the manuscript, sighed heavily then closed his eyes, shoulders sagging. Athelstan’s heart sank. His suspicions were well founded: Giole and his fellow demons were protected.

  ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John,’ Thibault gestured at the door, ‘a word with you.’

  ‘We will stay for a short while,’ Giole sang out, ‘but then we really must be gone. So much to do …’

  Athelstan followed Cranston, Thibault and Albinus out into the hallway. Thibault beckoned them to gather close. He held up the scroll so Athelstan could inspect the cursive Latin script written in the most clerkly hand and sealed with blood-red wax. He glimpsed the opening lines: ‘Juan, by the grace of God, King of Castile, to all …’ and groaned loudly.

  ‘The King of Castile’s own hand,’ Thibault confirmed, ‘verified by his personal seal.’ He handed the parchment to Athelstan. ‘Look, Brother. King Juan bestows on Giole Limut, his family and entourage all the rights, dignity and appurtenances of accredited envoys, royal envoys. They are to be allowed safe passage and conduct, to be untroubled by any foreign prince or his agents.’

  ‘And so on, and so on,’ Athelstan agreed, quickly reading the parchment before handing it back. ‘They used this to gain entrance to the Tower.’

  ‘Brother Athelstan, they have the full protection of Castilian law, the rights accredited to diplomatic envoys, and therefore the full protection of our own king.’

  ‘But they have committed dreadful murders here, in the city and elsewhere!’

  ‘Brother,’ Thibault shook his head sadly, ‘Sir John will confirm what I say. True, they are murderers. They deserve to hang, but they enjoy diplomatic status. It would take months, if not years, to resolve and then nothing would really happen. If we lay a finger on them, every single Englishman who happens to be in Castile will suffer. Merchants would be seized, their goods confiscated, envoys imprisoned. English officials would be hampered and hindered.’ Thibault grasped Athelstan’s hand, squeezed it, then let it go. ‘We are on pilgrimage, Brother. Think of the stream of people from this kingdom who visit the great shrines of Santiago di Compostela, Oviedo and other such places. It also means that our own king’s envoys to Castile, not to mention my Lord of Gaunt’s, could be refused permission to enter all Castilian territories.’

  Thibault shook his head. ‘I am sure King Juan would pretend to be deeply shocked at what Giole and his coven have perpetrated, but there will be many on his council who would be only too pleased to use their arrest as a pretext to strike back …’ Thibault broke off as the door to the taproom crashed open.

  Felipe, hobbling slightly but still full of arrogance, carried out his baggage, his sword hilt within easy reach. He was followed by the two women, who smirked at Athelstan, Maria giving him an exaggerated wink. Giole swaggered out, one hand holding a pannier, the other resting on the hilt of the long dagger in its sheath on the front of his warbelt. He bowed mockingly as he passed but then sauntered back, his face only a few inches from Athelstan’s.

  ‘Be careful, friar,’ he hissed, ‘especially at night when the terrors gather.’

  Then he was gone, joining the rest out in the stable yard, calling for their horses. Athelstan turned away so the others could not see the tears of rage well in his eyes. Cranston put a hand on his shoulder then stepped back. Athelstan stood listening to the laughter and shouts, the clatter of hooves on the cobbles, the cries of ostlers as saddles were thrown over the backs of horses, harness and reins being tightly secured. Athelstan was about to walk back into the taproom when the stable yard fell ominously silent. There was a cry, then voices shouted loudly in Spanish, followed by hideous screams, the neigh of rearing horses, hooves clattering frantically, the yells of stable boys and the groans of souls in mortal agony.

  Athelstan and the rest hurried out. The early morning light had strengthened. Sconce torches flared fiercely in the buffeting breeze. At first Athelstan could not comprehend what had happened. Horses skittered about; stable servants cowered in doorways; other men wearing warbelts with arbalests slung across their backs were trying to quieten the four horses and the heavily laden sumpter pony. Athelstan walked forward and stared down at the corpses, four in all, sprawled in thick puddles of blood and filthy water. Giole, a crossbow bolt to his throat and chest. Beatrice with similar wounds. Maria’s face had been shattered to a bloody pulp, whilst Felipe had received a quarrel to the chest and another in the back of his head.

  ‘They were all mounted. The foreigners were all mounted.’ A stable boy crept out of the shadows to explain. ‘They were laughing and chattering in Spanish. A voice rang out telling them to desist. They ignored it. The voice shouted again in Spanish and crossbow bolts whirled through the air, emptying the saddles as quickly as snuffing out a candle-flame.’

  ‘Who gave the order?’ Athelstan demanded.

  ‘I did.’ Brother Gregorio, no longer dressed as a Friar of the Sack but garbed in dark fustian, high-heeled riding boots, one warbelt across his chest and another buckled around his slim waist, emerged out of the shadows cradling a large crossbow. He strolled towards Athelstan and stopped, sketching a bow. Others gathered behind him, similarly dressed and armed. Athelstan peered close and recognised the chapmen and itinerant tinkers who had attached themselves to the pilgrims, and who had been sheltering nearby. He recalled what Monkshood had said: that he had glimpsed Gregorio talking to the men in the fields close by the tavern at some ungodly hour of the night.

  ‘Who are you, Sir?’ Cranston came and stood beside Athelstan. ‘I am minded that you surrender your weapons.’

  ‘My name is Enrico Ayela Guerrero and I will not be surrendering my weapons. I am a Miles Christi, a soldier of Christ, a captain in the secular arm of the Holy Inquisition. I carry papers for myself and my men.’ He undid his wallet.

  ‘No, no.’ Thibault now joined them. ‘Not here but in the tavern.’

  The coroner instructed Enrico’s men to lay out the corpses in the yard together with all their possessions and to mount close guard over them until he ordered otherwise. The Spanish captain’s companions appeared not to understand English. Enrico offered to translate, then spoke quickly and decisively, confirming Cranston’s orders but enforcing his own authority on the situation.

  Once back in the taproom, Cranston and Athelstan sat in one of the large window seats with Thibault, Albinus and Enrico on stools on the other side of the long trancher table. A very nervous Chobham served them ale, cheese, strips of fresh bread and a dish of spiced plums. Whilst they waited to be served, Athelstan studied Master Enrico. No longer the frolicking friar, the jolly companion and jovial comrade, the Spaniard was now hard of face, his voice harsh and clipped. He deftly laid out his papers on the table. Athelstan and the rest scrutinised the heavy parchments and their clerkly script.

  They were licences issued under the direct authority of the Pope, the cardinal responsible for the Holy Office and the Inquisitor General. They declared Magister ‘Enrico Ayela Guerrero, Legatus a latere’ – the personal envoy of both the papacy and the Holy Inquisition. Enrico was described as ‘Miles Christi – a Soldier of Christ’, commissioned to hunt down and extirpate – Athelstan noticed that word – heresy and schism both within and without. All loyal Catholics, members of the Universal Church, were under the gravest moral obligation to cherish, encourage and support him, be they lay or clerical, prince or pauper, king or peasant. There were no exceptions. Opposition of any sort would be met with the sanction of excommunication, cutting the offender off from God and the Church both in this life and the life to come. The principal letter developed
all these themes. Athelstan read quickly, noticing that the documents bore the personal seals of the Pope and the Inquisitor General. His own order played a prominent role in the Inquisition, and he had heard of these ‘Miles Christi’, the secular arm of the Inquisition, soldiers of Christ, warriors of God totally dedicated to their vision.

  ‘You come armed with all the power and anger of heaven,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Quite a change from the fornicating friar with a liking for the ladies! Did you know from the start that Giole and his family were the four-faced demon Azrael?’

  ‘I have been hunting Azrael for years,’ Enrico replied slowly. ‘Azrael is responsible for many deaths, including members of the Inquisition, brothers of our order murdered at Burgos, Oviedo, Leon and elsewhere. The Inquisition has also received reports of similar garrottings at Bayonne in Gascony and Pamplona in Navarre. Yes, I began to suspect Giole and his coven but I had little proof. In addition I could not decide if he was the sole assassin or if he had the support of one or more of his family. Moreover, my suspicions ebbed and flowed. I often wondered if someone else was Azrael.’

  Enrico paused as Athelstan filled his tankard. The Spaniard smiled his thanks and lifted his drink to toast Athelstan and the rest who sat listening. ‘We recognised that Azrael was a skilled, professional assassin who had no fear of God and certainly no love of our church. He seemed to delight in murdering, in the most macabre and mysterious fashion, any member of our church and, in particular, the Holy Inquisition. He would often bait his victims before he struck and leave taunting messages on their corpses. He was so skilled and successful, he was only hired by the great ones, those high on the councils of the mighty. Consequently, Azrael was both well protected and well hidden.

  ‘I admit he was a Castilian problem until King Henry died and my Lord of Gaunt married Infanta Constanza and, through her, gained a claim to that kingdom. One effective way for Gaunt’s enemies in Castile to oppose his claims was assassination. Now Azrael had gone very quiet. We thought he’d returned to the great pit. He had been hunted and wanted for many crimes but then, to our surprise, we heard that he had emerged in England, and that a few of Gaunt’s supporters had been garrotted, sacrificed on Azrael’s altar. So the demon had fled to England. We also thought it was no coincidence that Giole Limut and his family had also joined that stream of Castilians who thought they’d try their fortunes here. The Inquisition organised a cohort to go in pursuit. We entered England at different times, in different places and in different disguises. I arrived last, posing as a Friar of the Sack. The Minister General of that order was only too pleased to be of assistance.’

  ‘And you gathered in London?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘Of course, we believed Azrael would draw as close to Gaunt as possible. Now your regent is well protected, but others are more vulnerable, members of his household. One of my henchmen, Bernadine of Segovia …’ Enrico looked sadly at Athelstan. ‘I called him my brother, and so he was in spirit if not in the flesh. It was he whom you sang that requiem mass for.’ Enrico stared down the table top, collecting his thoughts.

  ‘My entire cohort was spread out across London watching different people. Bernadine decided to scrutinise Gaunt’s Secret Chancery.’ The Spaniard glanced apologetically at Thibault. ‘We did not wish to interfere in your affairs but simply watch to see if Azrael came out of the dark to hunt. Bernadine believed Simon Mephan was the most vulnerable to corruption. He was correct. Bernadine told me how Mephan would swagger into this tavern or that to eat and drink free of charge. He seemed to have an increasing preference for Amongst the Tombs, where he seemed to act very much the lord of the manor. Bernadine followed others of the Secret Chancery. He found out about the Mitre, the Lute Boy and the attractions of the Way of all Flesh. He noticed the doings of Luke Gaddesden, Empson and young Felicia. He reported what he knew to me then abruptly disappeared. We suspected he had been murdered. He had crossed swords with Azrael and lost, but we concluded the demon was very close. We were confused about what to do. I decided to act the jolly friar visiting the Mitre and the Lute Boy as well as savouring the pleasures of the Way of all Flesh. I deliberately cultivated young Felicia, who mentioned on two occasions that her master Simon Mephan was looking forward to making great profit.’

  ‘And you heard about this pilgrimage?’

  ‘Oh yes! This pilgrimage and Master Thibault’s desire to join it.’

  ‘True enough.’ Albinus spoke up. ‘We had mooted such an enterprise some time ago.’ He waved a hand. ‘Pardon my interruption …’

  ‘I understand all this,’ Athelstan countered, ‘but Master Enrico, why did you get yourself arrested? I mean, it was you who left the anonymous information at the Guildhall about a visiting friar fornicating with his lady friend at the Mitre, wasn’t it? It had to be.’ Athelstan ignored Cranston’s bark of laughter. ‘You gave the bailiffs the precise time and the exact place.’

  ‘You above all should know why.’ Enrico pointed at Athelstan. ‘I needed to protect my own disguise. Azrael hated the Church, the Inquisition and anything to do with Rome. He has garrotted at least nine brothers of mine, men like Bernadine. If anyone went hunting Azrael, Azrael went hunting them. I was deeply concerned that somehow Azrael may have seen me speaking to Bernadine or realised we shared the same doxy.’ Gregorio shrugged. ‘Before you ask, we never used Felicia to communicate, it was just that she could help us both with information. I was very wary. I met Bernadine in secret but Azrael was cunning and astute. I needed to demonstrate that I was just another lecherous friar with an eye for a pretty face.’

  Enrico paused to take a sip from his tankard. ‘Of course, Azrael was hunting others, and events moved swiftly. I had heard about your pilgrimage and learnt from Felicia that Master Thibault and others were joining you, blending devotion with politics, praying before Becket’s shrine and meeting the Castilian envoys. Giole and his family also wanted to accompany you and my suspicions began to harden.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I approached Master Tuddenham. I pointed out that I could do penance on the pilgrimage, and of course, he was delighted to get rid of me, and so I came along.’

  ‘And what of your suspicions about Giole?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘As I said, they were beginning to harden into a certainty after Luke Gaddesden was killed. I knew that you would discover the truth. You see, I couldn’t intervene. I had no evidence, and, let me be blunt, you don’t take people like Azrael prisoner, you kill them. I have done the same to others of his kind and, God willing, I will do the same again.’

  ‘You were in the taproom, weren’t you,’ Athelstan asked, ‘behind the great board?’

  ‘I was there at the beginning and I heard enough to convince me. You see, Athelstan, I knew the outcome.’ He grinned. ‘I have heard of your reputation, I have seen your skill. I could not allow Giole and his coven to wipe their lips and ride away, savouring their evil and relishing what to do next. I had to prepare their execution.’

  ‘And you will take full responsibility, not the English Crown?’ Thibault asked.

  Enrico turned to him. ‘You have seen my warrants and my licences, Sir. What I have done, I have done.’ He lifted his tankard in silent toast. ‘Roma locuta est.’ He whispered, ‘Causa perfecta est: Rome has spoken. The matter is finished. In a hundred years’ time, who will be king of Castile, England or France?’ He smiled thinly. ‘Who cares? But the Universal Church will still be here, growing like the mustard seed, protected by the Holy Inquisition. The kings of this earth and its princes must always subject their selfish whims to the vision of my masters.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Athelstan, you have seen my drawings. We live in a topsy-turvy world. The Universal Church, protected by the Holy Inquisition, is the one constant. I will go to Canterbury and inform the envoys there. I shall send urgent despatches to Toledo. The Holy Inquisition will take full responsibility for what occurred outside. Rest assured, no one will raise any objection with your king, your council or your church.’
r />   ‘Tell me,’ Athelstan asked, ‘you suspected Giole – did he suspect you?’

  ‘We were very wary of each other,’ Enrico conceded. ‘I think he was growing suspicious, perhaps wondering if Bernadine was alone. However, like all skilled hunters, Giole would deal with the quarry he was stalking before he turned on fresh prey.’

  ‘And the men who helped you?’ Cranston asked curiously.

  ‘Some of them left Southwark either before us or after us with their wheelbarrows and carts.’ He shrugged. ‘Now you know what those carts contained. They will be rewarded, which brings me to one important point. The Holy Inquisition will take care of the four corpses. We shall have them sheeted, coffined and carted to some lonely cemetery in Kent. All their possessions, their clothing, their weapons, documents and property are forfeit to the Holy Inquisition to use and sell as my masters think fit.’

  Thibault glanced at Cranston, who just shrugged.

  Enrico got to his feet. ‘You have no objection?’ He bowed. ‘Gentlemen, you have a pilgrimage to make and I have certain tasks to complete …’

  Athelstan sat in the small, ornate pavilion overlooking the rich flower and herb gardens at the Sign of Hope. Order had been imposed, harmony assured, serenity maintained. Master Enrico and his cohort, with the assistance of Sir John, had commandeered a cart and two dray horses from the tavern to take the four corpses, now coffined and sheeted, together with a considerable pile of baggage loaded onto another cart. Enrico had rigorously searched Giole’s chancery satchel and pronounced himself very pleased at what he had discovered: information which would be most useful once he returned to Castile. The ‘Miles Christi’ had eventually left in a clatter of wheels, the snap and crack of harness, horses snorting, hooves scraping across the cobbles. Now they were gone: their destination was St Grace’s Priory where, thanks to Athelstan’s good offices, Prior Sherwin had promised to bless the corpses and bury them in the Poor Man’s Lot of the priory cemetery.