by Paul Doherty
‘More than they deserve,’ Athelstan whispered to himself. He was at peace. The effects of the violence earlier in the day had now receded. He felt tired and sleepy, but he had one last task to complete. He stared at the greenery – the herbs rich and full, the flowers in full glory – yet he sensed this splendid summer was beginning to die. The first brown tinges stained the luxuriant glossy green; petals were weakening and falling; the breeze in both the morning and evening had lost some of its welcoming warmth. Autumn was beginning to creep in. The trees would shed their leaves and the glory of an English garden would dull, provoking more sombre thoughts. Athelstan closed his eyes. Tomorrow they would leave for Canterbury. They had delayed enough at the Sign of Hope and his parishioners were becoming restless. Athelstan looked forward to reaching their destination. He would guide the pilgrims around the city, down St Dunstan’s to the majestic West Gate, and let them wander the Butter Market before taking them into the glory of the Cathedral, across Almony Yard and along Hogg’s Passage. They could marvel and pray before Becket’s gorgeously decorated tomb as well as stare at the most beautiful diamond in the world, the Regal of France.
‘Brother?’
Athelstan opened his eyes. Cranston, Thibault and Master Matthew Gaddesden had entered the pavilion. He indicated they should sit on the turf seats around the heavy, wooden table and asked if they wanted refreshments. Thibault and Matthew refused, but Cranston plucked out his miraculous wineskin and took a deep gulp. He offered it around, but the others declined.
Athelstan stared at Matthew Gaddesden, his podgy white cheeks all tear-stained, dark shadows under his red-rimmed eyes, hair greasy, mouth and chin poorly shaved and peppered with cuts and scabs. A movement caught Athelstan’s eye, and he glanced to his right. Albinus, as Cranston had advised, stood guarding the entrance. Athelstan stared across at Matthew.
‘You are very frightened and so you should be. Hand over your dagger.’
‘Why?’
‘Hand it over!’ Cranston roared.
Matthew jumped and hurried to obey, dropping the knife to clatter on the floor.
‘Brother Athelstan, what is this?’ Thibault asked softly.
The friar pointed to Matthew. ‘You are a traitor and a spy.’ He glanced at Thibault. ‘You have told him about what has happened?’
‘I have.’
‘There were gaps in my indictment.’ Athelstan tapped the table with his fingers. ‘I wondered how Azrael knew so much, so quickly. I mean, for a foreigner in London, charming and persuasive though he could be …’
‘He was Mephan’s personal physician,’ Matthew spluttered.
‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan retorted. ‘At one time I thought the same, that Mephan told Giole everything. I was wrong. Mephan was hunting Giole. He knew something about the Spaniard’s secret affairs, or thought he did. He would be very careful what he told Giole.’ Athelstan breathed a small prayer to himself and hoped the bluff would work. ‘Giole is dead and gone to judgement, but we have been through his manuscripts. We have evidence he paid you for information.’ Matthew moaned, lips opening and shutting.
‘You came back to London after the revolt,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Your brother Mark had been barbarously executed by the rebels because of his allegiance to John of Gaunt, being one of his henchmen, his clerk and a member of his household. You were approached anonymously by someone who offered to pay you liberally for information. I suggest that you, bitter and eager for profit, agreed. To be fair, at the time you did not know it was Azrael, but once you sup with the devil, you cannot leave the table.’
Athelstan used his fingers to emphasise his points. ‘You handed over the following information about Mephan, what he said, what he did, where he went. You probably gave the names of Gaunt’s secret supporters, those merchants who advanced him monies. You also told Azrael about the Secret Chancery and where its clerks went to relax and what they did; be it your brother Luke or Empson the courier. You told him about the pilgrimage. Only late in the day did you realise who you were dealing with, but by then it was too late. Azrael could either denounce you or he could kill you.’
‘I don’t …’ Matthew spluttered.
‘Like any fish caught on a hook, you wriggled and twisted. Only after Mephan had been murdered did the full horror strike home, but there was nothing you could do to stop what was happening. You gave information about me, my parish, even my cat Bonaventure, and, of course, the pilgrimage. Azrael would ask you about Sir John here, perhaps even Brother Gregorio. A warning was left in the Tower on the door to the council chamber but Azrael never infiltrated so deep as trespassing through the royal chambers in the White Tower. You did that! In addition, when we reached the Sign of Hope and realised Master Chobham here had been threatened, we also discovered that Azrael wanted to know where John Gaddesden would be lodged, but there was no mention of his brother. Why was that? Because you were protected, you were needed.’
The clerk’s head went down, shoulders shaking with sobs. Athelstan glanced quickly at Thibault and nodded. Thibault understood the message. He tapped his clerk gently on the shoulder.
‘You have been punished enough, Matthew. Confess and face immediate exile. Persist in your treachery and you must face the consequences.’
‘Of course it’s the truth.’ Matthew lifted his head. ‘I returned to London with the rest, I was bitter after poor Mark’s death. One night I was returning to Westminster by myself. I was going down to King’s Steps when a hand seized my shoulder and the tip of a dagger pricked the side of my neck. I thought it was some felon, then a purse of silver was thrust into my hand. A voice hissed that it was for me, that there would be more if I handed over certain information. I was told to make sure that I left the Chancery offices by myself on a Tuesday and Thursday. If I was needed, I would be stopped as I had been then. Of course I took the silver. And so it began. Occasionally, the hand on the shoulder, the tip of a dagger against my neck and then the questions about Mephan, the Secret Chancery, adherents of my Lord of Gaunt. At first I saw no real danger. I confess, I gossiped like a sparrow on a branch.’
He paused, wiping the tears from his face. ‘My mysterious visitor was very interested in Master Mephan. What was he like? What did he do? I told them about Empson’s visits to the Lute Boy, and that Brother Luke also went there. Then Mephan was murdered, followed by Empson and Luke, and I was caught in a trap. I had no choice but to keep handing over information about the pilgrimage and what I knew about taverner Chobham. I was given a number of those wretched cords with their mocking greeting and ordered to place them where Gaunt and Master Thibault would see them. I never, even in my worst nightmare, believed that when it began, two of my brothers would be murdered. I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t.’
Thibault raised his hands and snapped his fingers, beckoning Albinus to come in. The Master of Secrets pointed to his former clerk.
‘Let him take what he has, provided he writes a full confession. He must be gone within the day. If you see him again, have him hanged as a felon.’
They watched in silence as Albinus, dagger drawn, dragged the hapless clerk to his feet and pushed him back up the path towards the tavern. For a while Athelstan and his two companions sat in silence.
‘Evil begets evil,’ Thibault murmured, turning to Athelstan.
‘Aye, and their name is legion for they are many.’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
A Pilgrimage to Murder is of course a work of fiction, yet it reflects accurately the aftermath of the Great Revolt in London. John of Gaunt quickly emerged as regent and keeper of the kingdom to continue his lifelong search for a crown for himself and the powerful House of Lancaster. England’s ties with Castile did stretch back centuries and the two kingdoms were closely entwined. The prospect of an English army crossing into Spain was a real and strong possibility. Castilian merchants certainly played a prominent part in London’s trade with the Middle Sea and further east to Outremer. The novel accurately portrays this,
as it does the emergence of professional assassins who, over the next few decades of English history, played a prominent part in the mysterious and sudden deaths of some of the great players on the political scene, from Gaunt’s minions to great earls and dukes such as Humphrey of Gloucester. Gentle reader, rest assured! Sir John Cranston and Brother Athelstan will have their hands full in resolving the murderous mayhem which became a hallmark of their time.
Paul Doherty OBE, June 2016
www.paulcdoherty.com