by Paul Doherty
He finished the meal and Ravenspur cleared the table, then moved the candle spigot into the centre, softly chanting to himself in a tongue Sevigny could not understand. The warlock closed his eyes.
‘You have heard that the King, his she-wolf wife and her lover Beaufort are to move to Leicester?’
Sevigny grunted in agreement.
‘Advise my lord of York to accept no peace offers but to attack savagely; he must not delay. Let him unleash his fierce war dog, Neville of Warwick.’ Ravenspur opened his eyes and smiled, as if savouring the thought of York’s most impetuous war captain being loosed against the court party. ‘Tell my noble duke that crowns will decorate his head.’ He blinked and flinched, as if he’d glimpsed something he didn’t like. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, ‘tell York that a crown will decorate his head as well as those of three of his sons.’
‘That cannot be!’
‘It shall be,’ Ravenspur continued remorselessly, ‘but each crown will be different. The greatest danger to York will come from within. Tell him his grandchildren shall inherit the crown.’ He paused, rubbed his face with his hands and glanced up. ‘York’s peril stems from fair faces – as does yours, Amadeus – rather than the cut and slash of battle swords.’ He leaned back, his face drained, as if he had delivered some long discourse in the schools. ‘You can stay,’ he murmured.
Sevigny recalled his soul-chilling walk around this neglected chapel. ‘It’s still daylight,’ he replied. ‘If a guide could take me back to the London road, I will be in the shadow of the Tower by nightfall.’
‘Very well, as you wish.’ Ravenspur’s eyes were half closed. ‘Advise my lord of York that help will come when he attacks. What happened to the greyhounds can happen to Beaufort and his coven.’ He straightened up and leaned across the table. ‘You should go, but walk carefully, clerk, draw your dagger and keep your back to the wall.’
‘I guard it well enough, even against those who delve in mystery and hide behind charades.’ Sevigny jabbed a finger. ‘You are LeCorbeil, are you not? You are their captain. You lead a coven of French mercenaries dedicated to the destruction of Beaufort as well as the weakening of the English Crown. I asked you that before; I do so again!’
‘Your master the duke does not tell you everything, Amadeus. Yes, I am – we are – LeCorbeil, and what is that? A living, pulsing memory and we are its incarnation. We are LeCorbeil. We exist for vengeance.’ Ravenspur rose to his feet. ‘I am surprised the good duke did not inform you more closely, but there again, I am pleased we remain a mystery. Now I must be gone, and so should you.’
Sevigny left without further incident. A two-man escort guided him to the old Roman road south to London before disappearing back into the misty twilight. He joined a group of well-armed pilgrims making their way to pray in Becket’s chapel on London Bridge before travelling on to venerate the Black Virgin at Willesden. Once back in the city, he returned to the Golden Harp, where Minehost informed him that Bardolph had sold his own mount, settled his bill and left saying he would take ship from Queenhithe.
Sevigny found everything else in order. He spent the next days writing memoranda on what he had recently learned, concealing all this in his own cipher based on the Greek alphabet. Once he had finished writing, he found his mind clear to concentrate on the problems confronting him as well as the logical conclusions to be reached. He repacked his chancery satchel and strolled out to have Leonardo carefully examined by a horse leech who also acted as the tavern smithy. Afterwards he visited the bathhouses in Southwark, followed by a visit to a barber, who trimmed his hair and closely shaved his face whilst chattering about how hale and hearty Sevigny seemed for a man approaching his thirtieth summer. Sevigny grinned to himself and wondered if Katherine Roseblood would find him old. He fully intended to join the celebrations at the tavern in Queenhithe planned for that Friday evening, becoming even more determined when Cosmas and Damian slipped into the tavern to reveal what they had discovered.
‘About Argentine,’ Cosmas hissed in the secrecy of Sevigny’s chamber. ‘It is as we already suspected. We are certain that Joachim, master of the leper hospital at St Giles, is sheltering his kinsman. More than that we cannot say, and we shall certainly do no more. Now, as regards the other matter…’ He leaned closer, whispering what they had witnessed. Both searchers, when questioned by a disbelieving Sevigny, carefully repeated what they had seen. When they had finished, they pocketed payment and left Sevigny to reflect. Eventually the clerk snatched up a quill and scribbled furiously, constructing a logical argument that resolved the mysterious deaths of Candlemas and Cross-Biter. Once completed, he rewarded himself with a deep bowl of claret, which would ensure a good night’s sleep before he went to visit the Roseblood.
The following evening, just as the bells pealed the end of market trading, Amadeus Sevigny, garbed in his best robes, a jacket of the purest lambswool dyed a deep murrey over a lace-edged cambric shirt, hose of a similar texture pushed into Cordovan riding boots, cloak draped about his shoulders, war belt strapped around him, his leather buckle and scabbard gleaming, rode his night-black destrier into the busy bailey yard of the Roseblood. He was pleased that Katherine was there to witness his arrival. He dismounted and gave the reins to an ostler, who, harelip blurring his words, declared that he was Mousehole and he would take care of the warhorse.
‘As we will of you.’ Simon Roseblood, dressed in the same splendid alderman’s robes he’d worn during his triumphal march down Cheapside, came forward to grasp Sevigny’s hand. Raphael hung back, his solemn face all cynical. Katherine, however – and Sevigny felt a deep rush of joy – beamed like the lady moon. She looked magnificent in a bottle-green dress tied high at the neck with a gold cord, a silver medallion cincture around her narrow waist, soft black buskins peeping from beneath white petticoats that hung just below the hem of her dress. She had arranged her hair to hang in tresses under a white muslin veil held in place by a red-gold circlet.
‘Well met, Guinevere,’ Sevigny murmured. He grasped her hands, gloved in the softest doeskin, as they exchanged the kiss of peace, closing his eyes momentarily and breathing in her lovely fragrance. She gently pushed him away.
‘Welcome, sir… and are you,’ her eyes fluttered, ‘the mysterious knight on some mysterious errand?’
The laughter she caused broke the strained attitude of her father and brother. Simon gently took Sevigny by the elbow and asked him if he was on sheriff’s business, or indeed anyone else’s. Sevigny, with mock solemnity, swore that he was here only to glimpse the fair Katherine. Roseblood grinned, shrugged, said that he had other guests and handed him over to what he called ‘the close security’ of his daughter. Katherine, as if she had known Sevigny for years, slipped a hand in his and led him through the glories of the tavern.
The clerk was truly astonished at the sheer wealth of the place, eloquent testimony to the popular belief that Simon Roseblood had fingers in many pies. That evening the taverner was certainly determined on creating a splendid display of his generosity and patronage. Other aldermen had been invited, along with officials from the Exchequer, the Chancery, the King’s Bench and the Common Pleas. Officers from the Tower garrison mingled with archdeacons, abbots and friars. Roseblood had also summoned all those who served him: the legion of scavengers, babewyns and gargoyles. All the grotesques of London’s underworld had assembled. The Tribe of Fools wandered cow-eyed, straw hats pulled down low. The Brethren of the Blade mingled with swaggering sword boys, hucksters and traders, tinkers and turnkeys, foists and nips, the colourful throng from their sanctuary on the Thames at the Old Manor in Cold Harbour. They rejoiced in names such as Rats-Tail and Twice-Hung Henry; the latter, according to Katherine, had been hanged at least twice, only to dig his way out of a scaffold grave and reappear in the city. These parishioners of the Devil’s chapel jostled and taunted the ladies of the night, the wicked wenches, the wantons, the satin sisters and their pimps the Devil’s disciples. They had all arrived in their tawdry g
lory, cheap jewellery glittering, a vivacious, bustling throng whom Roseblood entertained most royally.
A maypole had been set up in the Great Cloister, as well as a huge spit above a roaring fire to roast an entire hog basted with oil and all kinds of delicious herbs. The tavern ovens offered a constant supply of fresh bread. Trestle tables set up in the taprooms and refectory groaned under platters, tranchers, dishes and bowls filled with steaming vegetables and meats. Cooks and scullions laboured under the lashing tongue of Wormwood, who shouted, ‘Cut that mallard!’ ‘Unbrace those two coneys!’ ‘Split that venison!’ Wormwood had the voice of a crane, though Katherine described it as the shriek of a stabbed goose. Strips of pork, salad and boiled egg, pastries of fallow deer, red salted herring and mince sausages were offered. Ignacio and a group of burly henchmen wandered everywhere imposing order as well as recruiting some of the guests to act as servitors. Musicians offered the melodies of gitern, shawm, rebec and citole. Minstrels sang about magical woods with purple-crested apple trees, leafy oaks, beautiful copper trees and hazels with yellow clustered nuts. A porcupine had been brought in a cage from the Tower for people to marvel at. White-winged swans waddled in from the river, whilst a Hainault giant juggled a Castilian dwarf on his shoulders.
Katherine, very proud of both the tavern and her father, fussed and cosseted Sevigny. The clerk felt like some hero being led through a strange but exotic underworld of remarkable sights, smells and sounds. Music and laughter merged with snatches of talk and the greedy clatter of eating and drinking. Katherine showed him the various taprooms, storehouses, refectories, butteries and kitchens. Remembering what Cosmas and Damian had told him, Sevigny asked to visit some of the chambers and was led up to the polished galleries. Simon’s henchmen patrolled here, ever vigilant against the legion of light-fingered brethren who had swarmed in for their master’s feast day. Katherine, chattering like a sparrow, led him on. Sevigny, sharp-eyed, noted the narrow postern door to the right of the main entrance and judged it to be ideal for what Cosmas and Damian had described.
‘You seem distracted.’ Katherine stopped to face him squarely.
‘Only by your beauty.’ Sevigny leaned down to kiss her, but she stepped back.
‘I am no tavern wench!’ she teased.
‘No, you are the lady without pity. Perhaps,’ he let go of her hand and gestured around, ‘we should go and sit where we first met and chatter to the moon.’
Katherine looked at him, her face all serious, then she smiled and, leaning forward, brushed his lips with hers.
They left the tavern by the rear gate, going down to the old Roman lighthouse, where torches and braziers had been lit against the cold sleep of the night. Darkness had descended and a thick river mist was creeping across the wild heathland. Sevigny, holding Katherine’s hand, felt as if he had never been so elated, so happy. She walked carefree beside him, asking questions about where he had been born, at which hall he had been educated in Oxford. He answered as best he could, describing the Yorkshire moors over which blue-eyed hawks floated, fields and meadows rich with every kind of harvest. He talked of rushing streams stocked with fish, of sleek brown round-faced otters gambolling along the banks. How as a boy he would collect watercress to eat and cut blackthorn for toy weapons.
They entered the ruins and sat on a plinth. Katherine begged him to tell her a story about the wilds of Yorkshire. Sevigny talked about a great-jawed monster with a sharp snout that lurked deep in the most ancient forest. Katherine sat, hand tightening, as he described this horror of nature, baleful and hungry, sloping through the undergrowth…
The clerk abruptly paused. He rose to his feet, letting go of Katherine’s hand, and stared out over the heathland. A sense of danger, of hidden threat, pressed close, that haunting feeling he had experienced in France when an ambush was about to be sprung. He breathed in deeply and slowly. Something was wrong! He caught the reek and stench of smoke and flame through the gathering mist. Further along the riverbank, fires glowed. He turned, eyes and ears all alert, and for just a heartbeat, he was certain of it, he heard the clash and clatter of battle, of voices screaming in agony.
‘What is it?’ Katherine had caught his alarm.
Sevigny grasped her hand, staring across the mist-hung river. Lights bobbed and fluttered; there were so many of them! The mist parted like a veil and he glimpsed the long, rakish ships low in the water. Each bore a lantern and most of these were being swiftly extinguished. Sevigny had seen the like before, off Calais and Boulogne: French galleys, sea wolves crewed by the most ruthless and skilled mercenaries France could muster. He recalled how, when keeping the Roseblood under close watch, he’d glimpsed lanterns glowing, fire arrows searing the night sky. Now he knew the reason: this attack had been planned and plotted. The galleys had been plundering along the Thames, and the Roseblood was their next quarry.
‘Amadeus!’ Despite the emerging danger, Sevigny thrilled at Katherine’s use of his first name.
‘Galleys!’ he exclaimed. ‘French galleys! They will moor close by…’ Ignoring her protests and questions, he almost dragged her from the ruins. They raced up the hill into the tavern gardens, across these into the Great Cloister. Sevigny demanded a hunting horn from a sleepy-eyed groom and, standing on the rim of the well, gave three long, strident blasts. The feasting and revelry was already drawing to an end. Bellies full of food and good cheer, many guests had taken to dozing on benches and stools or stretching out on straw beds in the barns and stables. Sevigny blew another blast.
‘In God’s name!’ Simon Roseblood bustled through.
‘Galleys!’ Sevigny shouted at him. ‘French galleys along the Thames! By the time you recite a rosary, their crews will be climbing your tavern walls.’
Roseblood dragged him off the rim of the well.
‘Believe me,’ Sevigny insisted. ‘Either believe me or die along with everyone else here!’
Roseblood stared at him, then pushed him away. The taverner rubbed his face, holding a hand up for silence. Sevigny’s declaration had already roused many of the guests. Some, including the clergy, were immediately intent on leaving. Others stayed. Simon stood for a brief while staring down at the cobbles.
‘Clear the tavern,’ Sevigny advised. ‘Women and children should go. Secure the gates and blockade them. Open your barbican, arm everybody who stays. The French will attack direct from the river and move to outflank you by circling the tavern. Man the walls but keep a force here to reinforce any gap or weakness.’
Roseblood lifted his head, stared at Sevigny and nodded. The taverner’s panic and shocked surprise soon subsided, and he became as forceful as any seasoned castellan. Women, children, the aged and the infirm were swiftly moved to the security of All Hallows church. Katherine wanted to stay, but her father was most insistent that she go. The stone storehouse that served as the ward’s barbican was opened. Weapons, jerkins and helmets were swiftly distributed. The tavern gates were locked, barred and blocked with carts and barrows. Precious items were hurriedly taken down to the secret strongroom in the cellar. All the time watchers along the parapet wall stared into the mist-filled darkness.
The galleys were now visible, their captains still unaware that their intended victims knew how close the wolf had crept to the sheepfold. Boiling water and bubbling oil prepared for cooking or cleaning were moved to the parapets, along with dishes of glowing charcoal. The makeshift garrison of the Roseblood swiftly armed itself. Beggars and rakers stood side by side with scavengers, traders, soldiers from the Tower and two city aldermen. Most of these had seen service against the French; none had any illusions about what would happen if the Roseblood fell and French corsairs swarmed through the streets of Queenhithe. Messages had already been dispatched seeking reinforcements, though Sevigny knew it would take some time for these to be mustered.
The clerk, still elated after his meeting with Katherine, almost relished the prospect of battle. He held a swift meeting in the principal taproom with Roseblood, Rapha
el and Ignacio. They agreed that all would man the parapets to counter what would be the first and very savage assault. After a while, Sevigny and Raphael would fall back to command a schiltrom of kite-shielded foot protected by a few archers. This would deal with a breakthrough by the French or staunch any gap in the tavern defences.
Sevigny watched Simon and Ignacio talk their strange sign language. The taverner was now sober, thoughtful. Sevigny recognised Ignacio for what he was: a killer like himself; a warrior who gloried in battle. He could sense the Castilian’s anticipation. Sevigny himself had experienced that before, along the battle lines in France, a thirst for bloodletting.
The defenders, garbed in a variety of armour, bascinets, brigadines, sallets, mail shirts and other battle harness, were swiftly organised. Yellow war bows were strung, quivers crammed with yard-long shafts, their feathered flights dyed grass green or blood red. Mousehole, a cooking pot on his head, burst in to breathlessly announce how the French had landed further downriver.
‘They have avoided the main quayside at Queenhithe,’ Sevigny declared. ‘They do not want to raise the alarm too soon. The Roseblood is their main quarry.’
The meeting broke up. Sevigny followed the rest out to the southern wall of the tavern. The steps to the parapet were steep, the actual ledge rather narrow. The defenders knelt or crouched behind the top of the curtain wall. The darkness had deepened. Sevigny glanced up at the cloud-shrouded sky. The attackers had chosen their hour well; the night was now moonless, the stars well hidden. He peered over the crenellations into the blackness, staring until he glimpsed what Mousehole had seen: shapes sloping up from the river. No sound, no light, nothing but a creeping terror drawing closer and closer. Abruptly he got to his feet, holding a torch.