by Paul Doherty
The Excalibur nosed for a while amongst the reeds and then turned, its grisly cargo lying sheeted on the floor, and rowed out to midstream, going down to where the cogs, carracks and ships of many kinds and nations rode at anchor. They passed Broken Wharfe and Trygge Lane, heading towards the grim dark mass of Baynard Castle. Raphael and Ignacio studied the shadowy outlines of various ships: the glittering sterns of Venetian carracks, the big-bellied cogs from Lubeck.
‘There!’ Raphael pointed to the darkness. ‘The Sanctus sign.’ He watched as a shuttered lantern flashed the words of the mass: ‘Holy, holy, holy.’ He murmured a prayer. The light flashed again and he recited along with it, finishing with ‘Hosanna.’ The rhythm of his speech was identical to the flashes from the lantern horn.
‘It’s safe, pull in,’ he ordered. The barge did so. Raphael tried to ignore the corpses hidden under their rough sacking, to forget the horrid anguish on Calista’s face, her throat all tight.
‘Raphael!’ his father hissed. Raphael shook himself free of his dire reverie and left the canopied stern to ensure that the tilt boat remained secure. As they closed in on The Glory of Gascony, its master Jean Betoun whispered greetings over the taffrail. Simon responded, and the finest claret from the fertile vineyards of Saint-Emilion, outside Bordeaux, was swiftly lowered down into both barge and tilt boat. Good-natured insults were exchanged between the crews. At last, just before they left the deep-bellied cog, Betoun leaned over the gap where the rail had been removed.
‘For what it’s worth,’ he hissed through the darkness, ‘rumour has it that French war galleys are mustering off Boulogne. Thank God you are not living in the Cinque Ports.’
Raphael acknowledged this. He wanted to be away. The tide was turning, the barge rising and falling against the hull of the wine ship. He was also anxious, and Betoun’s warning did little to soothe him. He recalled those two beggars sheltering in the ancient ruin, chattering about lanterns gleaming and fire arrows red against the sky. Why so close to the Roseblood? He tried to raise the matter with Simon, but his father was more phlegmatic, checking the tuns and barrels, though Betoun was a man of honour, innocent of any trickery.
‘Father, we should go,’ Raphael insisted. ‘Those strange lights, the fire arrows! God knows what mischief the council are up to; there might even be war barges on the river.’
Simon simply grunted, pressing his seal against the last two barrels being loaded on to the barge. Raphael waited impatiently. Only twice before had they been forced to pitch their cargo into the Thames; he didn’t want a third time.
At last they pulled away. The oarsmen, cowled against the cold river mist, leaned over their oars, quietly chanting the verses of some song as they ploughed the now choppy river, heading towards the quayside close to Greyfriars, a lonely wharf used solely by the Franciscans. As they drew alongside, lay brothers appeared out of the murk, whispering ‘Alleluia!’ This was followed by subdued laughter as the good brothers lifted the wine on to the waiting carts. It would be taken to the friary cellars, decanted into barrels from the Roseblood, and then quietly carted to the tavern. The tuns would be given back to The Glory of Gascony when it next docked. Consequently no custom official would find a barrel of Bordeaux unstamped in the cellars of either Greyfriars or the Roseblood. The smuggling was much suspected but never proved. Raphael, who kept the ledgers, reckoned they would make heavy profits, especially during this present sea war with France. The money paid to Betoun and Prior Aelred was proving to be a most lucrative investment.
When they entered the cold, incense-smelling precincts of Greyfriars, however, the bony-faced prior seemed agitated. He greeted his midnight guests in his parlour, served them spiced posset and explained how Brother Gabriel was on a journey to Canterbury so could not meet his family, whilst Beaufort and his retinue had moved to the Tower. Every so often he would pause as a lay brother hurried in to whisper in his ear. Eventually Aelred put his goblet down and took Simon and Raphael down to the friary’s icy, whitewashed vaulted death house. The corpse of the old man they had plucked from the river had been washed, blessed and rolled in a linen shroud emblazoned with a black cross. Calista, however, was sprawled on a corpse table. Her clothes had been removed and placed on the floor, and a linen scrap covered her privy parts. When the infirmarian removed this, Raphael glanced away, pushing the pomander provided against both mouth and nose. He could not control his stomach and fled the death house to vomit in the yard.
His father eventually came out to join him. ‘From what I understand,’ Simon declared, one hand on his son’s shoulder, ‘whoever did that strangled her first with a rough cord. He then took a knife and mutilated her Venus parts, God assoile her. I’ve paid Aelred to sing three requiems. He’ll sheet her and bury the corpse honourably in the poor man’s lot. What you saw, Raphael, keep to yourself. Rumour and gossip fly swifter than sparrows along the streets of our ward. There is enough turmoil and tumult. Now come, I understand we have a visitor.’
‘In a while.’ Raphael could still feel his stomach lurching. He turned his face to the cold breeze. What he’d seen deeply repelled him. He felt a sickness of both heart and soul, a cloying weariness that killed all joy. He recalled meeting Calista one May’s eve; how they’d fumbled, kissed and laughed in those ruins overlooking the Thames.
‘Sweet Jesus, have mercy on her,’ he prayed. Who could have done that? When had these disappearances started? Who was the first? He closed his eyes. Surely it was Damana, about a month ago? But why then? Who had emerged in the ward during that time? Sevigny? LeCorbeil? He opened his eyes. Then there was that innocent-looking pilgrim, the one Katherine called a sparrow, with his sharp eyes and benign smile.
‘Raphael!’ He glanced to his right. A shadow moved. Confused, his mind riven by what he’d just seen, and tired after the river journey, Raphael was sluggish. ‘Raphael!’ the voice hissed. ‘A message for your father. We are both the slave and the master of what we were, what we are, what we’ve done and what we do. We watch and wait. Our day is fast approaching. Vengeance will be ours…’
The voice was so mocking, Raphael leapt to his feet, the fury curdling within him coursing like a fire. He flung himself in the direction of the voice, so swift he caught the edge of a cloak. He stumbled, but steadied himself, drawing both sword and dagger. He lunged and gasped in pleasure as his blades caught steel, their scraping clash ringing like a bell across the deserted courtyard. He lunged again, using every trick Ignacio had taught him, dagger constant, sword blade whirling, turning slightly sideways as he attempted to drive his opponent across to where torchlight flared against the blackness. He drew a deep breath. He had caught and engaged his opponent, but his adversary was equally swift and skilful. He concentrated on the slither of steel swirling before him.
Shouts of, ‘Out! Out! Out! Harrow! Harrow!’ showed that the alarm had been raised at this clash of weaponry. Doors were flung open. Raphael could hear his father shouting, yet he fought on, driving his opponent back. They reached a runnel, a narrow gap between the friary buildings, and his adversary was gone. Raphael crouched to catch his breath, aware of the sweat drenching his skin; his father, Prior Aelred and others gathered round. Swords were being drawn; the sound of footsteps echoed.
‘Who was it?’ Aelred demanded.
‘I glimpsed a fleeting shadow, a night-tripping demon, but now he has gone.’ Raphael tried to control the sickness in his belly even as his father crouched to face him. ‘I am not strong enough for this,’ he whispered.
‘Nonsense,’ his father retorted. ‘You would have killed him. You attacked him like any good knight. Who was it? Sevigny? What did he say?’
Raphael told him.
‘LeCorbeil!’ Simon retorted. ‘He is spinning his web. God knows what, but your speed surprised him. He will be more careful in the future. Now come.’ He got up. ‘The hour is late. Soon the good brothers will sing Matins, but we have a visitor.’
Raphael followed his father and Prior Aelred back i
nto the maze of friary buildings. They were ushered into a comfortable chamber, where the pilgrim Reginald Bray sat, smiling benevolently as always. Raphael and his father took stools before the table. Prior Aelred gestured at wine, bread and cheese. Raphael filled the goblets and broke up the manchet loaf and hardened cheese. Once finished, he offered these to their visitor, who courteously refused.
‘I understand,’ Bray’s voice was deep and throaty, ‘that you have had quite a stirring evening. An intruder, yes?’
‘So I believe,’ Raphael snapped.
‘LeCorbeil!’ Bray replied. ‘It must have been him. And you, Raphael, truly surprised him. But enough.’ He sipped at his goblet. ‘Master Simon, you are Beaufort’s henchman. I am new to his service, being indentured to the Lady Margaret; she is the thirteen-year-old daughter of your former master, John Beaufort, First Duke of Somerset. Margaret is a young woman with the pale, smooth face of a maid and eyes a thousand years old. So,’ Bray gathered his cloak about him, ‘I am not here to discuss the disappearance of whores, the smuggling of the best wine from Bordeaux or the perjured testimony of Candlemas.’ He smiled. ‘I am confident, one way or the other, that you will meet that challenge. I speak on the logical premise that you will.’
He paused and stretched across to grasp Simon’s arm. ‘Raphael, your father is a survivor; he is also a man whom my mistress and the Beaufort lords trust with their very lives.’ He removed his hand. ‘Indeed, Master Simon Roseblood is more Beaufort than the Beauforts.’ He produced a sealed document from the folds of his robe. ‘This is from the Lady Margaret, so that you know I am to be trusted.’
Simon broke the red blob of wax, moved the candlestick closer, then passed the document to Raphael. The contents were stark and simple. Written undoubtedly by the Lady Margaret herself, the letter introduced Reginald Bray, her ‘trusty and well-beloved clerk’, to Simon Roseblood, ‘close friend and henchman’ of her late beloved father, the good duke. It went on to describe how Bray wore her signet ring on the little finger of his right hand – Raphael glanced quickly at this – whilst around his neck hung a medal of St Maurice, her dead father’s patron saint. Raphael could see that the letter had not been opened and resealed, so the description given was in full accord with what he now saw.
‘Very good.’ He handed the document back. ‘So you are whom you claim to be. A rare enough event in this vale of tears.’
‘Amadeus Sevigny?’ Simon asked.
‘A mailed clerk. York trusts him as my mistress does you, though Sevigny is not liked by the duke’s wife, Dame Cecily, the so-called Rose of Raby.’
‘Why not?’
‘We’ll come to that; I have my suspicions. However, let me assure you, Sevigny is cunning and skilled. He played a hand in Jack Cade’s revolt.’
‘My brother was—’
‘I have heard about that, though Sevigny would not be involved. He is too cunning to start a blood feud. Plotting politics is his skill. The destruction of York’s enemies by process of law, hence Candlemas turning King’s Approver. Our noble sheriff, Malpas, is too ignorant for such a ploy; he lacks both the courage and the wit. Sevigny wants to block you and,’ Bray squinted through the gloom, ‘more dangerous for us, subvert your allegiance.’
‘Never!’
‘War is coming, Raphael. Men will assemble with the commissioners of array, wearing York’s livery with Lancaster’s beneath. The lords, the merchants and even the clergy will change sides as fast as a rat scuttles. Men will be bought, body and soul.’
Simon snorted with laughter and grasped Raphael’s arm. ‘We are as one on this.’
‘Good.’ Bray looked serenely at Raphael.
‘My father speaks for me.’
‘Ever the lawyer,’ Bray grinned. ‘Which is what I am as well. Now, LeCorbeil. He has undoubtedly spied on you. He followed you into this friary to frighten you as well as to create the illusion that he can come and go as he wishes, threaten, menace, but never be held to account. Your ferocious response will give him food for thought. I understand that in the tourney at the Inns Court you won a reputation for such swordplay.’
Raphael shrugged, slightly embarrassed at the praise.
‘Now, LeCorbeil, what do you know of him?’
Simon summarised what he had said in the Camelot Chamber at the Roseblood. When he had finished, Bray nodded in agreement.
‘LeCorbeil’s leader is undoubtedly a man of great wit and sharp mind. He is a mummer, a shape-shifter, appearing here and there.’ Bray held up a warning finger. ‘He leads a group just as skilled and highly organised. They are masters of the crossbow—’
‘But there are many such,’ Raphael interrupted.
‘No, no. Listen,’ his father declared. ‘I have heard of this. Master Reginald, I suspect what you are going to say.’
‘In the last great conflicts in France,’ Bray continued, ‘when the English lords went on chevauchée or laid siege to castles, the number of English captains killed was quite significant. Reports came in of master bowmen who singled out the English commander and, when given the opportunity, loosed a killing bolt.’
Raphael made to interrupt again, but his father seized his wrist. ‘Listen, Raphael, in battle, what are you frightened of?’
‘Why, the enemy!’
‘Of course. You turn, strike, shield and sword moving up and down, but these master bowmen don’t.’
‘It requires great courage,’ Bray declared. ‘They ignore what is happening around them and concentrate solely on their intended victim. Now such a bowman can be protected, but this must be done subtly, otherwise you will attract the attention of your enemy. The master bowman waits. The English lord, either mounted or on foot, is surrounded by his henchmen. He is fully armoured, his visor down. Sooner or later he must raise that visor, even for a short while, to breathe more freely, to cool his face, and that is all the master bowman needs. The bolt is loosed, the commander killed, banners fall, chaos ensues.’ Bray pulled a face. ‘We believe LeCorbeil are responsible, individually or as a group, for such killings. They have snatched the lives of a great number of English commanders in France.’
‘But here in England, both York and Lancaster remain their enemy?’ Raphael asked.
‘Now,’ Bray sighed, ‘we come to LeCorbeil’s other undoubted challenge. They provoke agitation, which is what happened in Kent and Essex during Cade’s uprising. More importantly, when this city decided to resist, its military commander, Matthew Gough, Captain of the Tower, together with John Sutton, a leading alderman, rallied to defend London Bridge. LeCorbeil were undoubtedly there. Gough, Sutton and others were killed by this.’
Bray opened his wallet and took out a squat red-feathered crossbow bolt. Raphael studied it. A lethal shot, the goose flight starched and firm at the end of its elm-wood stem, whilst its jagged steel point could easily crack a man’s skull or shatter the bones of his face to a bloody mess.
‘That’s their weapon of war. So, LeCorbeil are here,’ Bray continued briskly, ‘to stir and agitate as well as wage their own blood feud against the Beauforts. The only solution we have is to kill them all.’
Bray’s doom-like words rang like a funeral bell. Raphael stared across at a crucifix nailed to the wall. A triptych to its right proclaimed scenes from the Passion of Christ. Did Jesus’s sufferings, Raphael wondered, have any relevance to himself, his father, his family? They had no choice but to swim in a filthy sweep of politics, perjury and perdition. Even this chamber, sanctified by decades of prayer, fasting, study and soul-searching, was being used to describe bloody murder, vengeance and treason.
‘Am I… are we,’ Simon asked, ‘responsible for LeCorbeil’s destruction?’
‘Yes and no,’ Bray replied. ‘But first, we must destroy someone else.’ He clasped his hands, fingers laced. ‘Beaufort, York and LeCorbeil share one thing in common: they fish in very troubled waters. Have you ever heard of Giles Argentine?’
‘A doctor,’ Simon murmured, ‘one who used to be muc
h in demand by the great and the good: a royal physician, a member of the King’s household. He studied at Salerno and even amongst the Moors in Spain. Beaufort sometimes talked about Argentine, a man who loves wealth and intrigue.’
‘Too true,’ Bray agreed. ‘But now Argentine has disappeared from court because of his love of mischief.’
Bray poured some more wine, then rose. He opened and closed the door before walking around the parlour ensuring that all the shutters on the outside of the windows were firmly sealed. At last he returned to his chair.
‘Now you know,’ he hunched forward, his voice just above a whisper, ‘how Richard of York alleges that our present King Henry’s son and heir is actually the illegitimate offspring of Queen Margaret of Anjou and the great love of her life, Edmund Beaufort, recently promoted to Duke of Somerset after the death of his brother John, the first duke. God and his angels know the truth,’ Bray added. ‘Queen Margaret certainly shows enough passion for her favourite, being guided by his every word.’
‘And the truth?’ Raphael demanded. Bray just looked away.
‘Argentine,’ he replied, measuring his words, ‘claims to know the truth, having been present at the royal birth as well as being personal physician to our noble King, with all his failings, both physical and mental. Argentine claims to hold certain documents regarding these.’