Roseblood

by Paul Doherty

  Ramler put his face in his hands and began to sob. Sevigny felt a strange compassion for this little man trapped in the cage of his body, forced to live a life he hated.

  ‘Ever since I was a boy,’ the scribe took his hands away from his face, lifted the wine goblet and drained it, ‘I have been ghosted by what I secretly wish to be.’ He sighed and put the goblet down. ‘You are correct. I lived a haunted life until Roseblood discovered my secret. He offered to protect me, and at the same time let me be what I am. He even recruited the young men; none of them knew who I was. You once saw the remains of paint on my face.’ He sniffed. ‘When I entered the Roseblood, I became another being. I was happy. I could be what I wanted.’ He stared at the floor.

  ‘And what does it really matter?’ He glanced up. ‘All the filthy politics of the great ones, with their puffed-up ambitions, their retinues of treachery, murder and perjury.’ He half smiled. ‘Of course Roseblood had a price. I betrayed the sheriff, though in truth that wasn’t hard. Malpas is a cruel taskmaster. He would have me burned as swiftly as he blinked. I told Roseblood about the plot to seize the silver. I kept him informed about Candlemas and Cross-Biter, and I took care of them. It wasn’t difficult.’ He lifted a hand. ‘I had a small purse here under my wrist; Ignacio provided the poison. They were so distracted they never even saw me. It was so very, very simple.’ He blinked. ‘They must have known they were dying. They were violent men, so they drew their daggers as if death could be driven off…’

  Ramler’s voice trailed away; he was now more composed, as if preparing himself for the inevitable. Sevigny rose, drew his sword and rested its blade on the scribe’s unresisting shoulder.

  ‘Sheriff Malpas would have you torn apart.’

  ‘A swift cut would be a mercy.’ Ramler held his gaze. ‘Afterwards, go to my chamber. Please remove and destroy what you find there. I don’t want my memory mocked. Mine will be just another death during a murderous time.’

  Sevigny grasped his sword hilt with two hands, staring at this pathetic clerk even as memories of the previous night’s slaughter crowded his mind. And before it? Walking with Katherine in the gathering dusk, holding her hand, teasing her, feeling his heart sing. He lifted the sword.

  ‘Just a prayer…’ Ramler swallowed hard.

  ‘Hush now,’ Sevigny replied. ‘I will not kill you.’

  The scribe glanced up in astonishment.

  ‘Pack what you must, destroy what you have to,’ Sevigny urged. ‘Go to the Roseblood, tell Master Simon exactly what has happened. He will help. Take ship to some port far from London, for as the angels are my witness, if I meet you here again, I will have to kill you.’

  ‘And Sir Philip?’

  ‘He’ll be confronted with another mystery: why should his faithful scribe abruptly disappear? I tell you this, Master Ramler, it would have only been a matter of time before our noble sheriff began to suspect. You are ruled by your passions. My two searchers discovered it, so be warned.’

  Sevigny lifted his sword in mock salute, sheathed it and left the house, going immediately to a tavern, the Silver Griffin, to break his fast and resist the wave of exhaustion lapping his soul. He sat in a window embrasure staring out over the late spring garden. Sparrows hopped around the conical beehives, the air broken by the cooing and fluttering from the nearby dovecote. He wondered if he should leave London, ride through the spring countryside to Ludlow or wherever York had set up his standard. The attempt to indict Roseblood had failed, but at least Sevigny had removed a spy from York’s camp. He also had considerable information about the troops and armaments the Queen and Beaufort had assembled at the Tower and elsewhere.

  He paused in his reflection to thank the servant who brought the morning ale and fresh bread, before returning to his brooding, eating and drinking absent-mindedly. The loneliness of the tavern garden brought back memories of his meeting with Ravenspur and LeCorbeil. He was certain he had seen the same mercenaries during the attack on the Roseblood. That would be logical. LeCorbeil supported York, and by doing so deepened the crisis around the English Crown.

  As for Ravenspur’s prophecies, York would be pleased, even though they were baffling. And the reference to the greyhounds? Sevigny recalled the various escutcheons of the English commanders. Surely the greyhound was the insignia of the Talbots of Shrewsbury, and hadn’t both father and son been killed in the last futile battle of the English at Castillon some two years earlier? However, that was a matter for York. One further task remained – Giles Argentine – and after that? Sevigny plucked at the crumbs on the platter. Two women now dominated his life: the beautiful, malevolent duchess who wanted him dead, and the daughter of the man who was supposed to be his enemy. Sevigny knew he could never forget Katherine’s beautiful face; even the sword storm of the previous evening had not stifled the glorious glow of her eyes. He pulled himself up. He would not leave London yet; he could not forsake that lovely face. ‘Even if I had the wings of an eagle,’ he whispered, ‘and flew to the edge of the dawn, you would be there…’

  Simon Roseblood

  London, May 1455

  ‘So, we have met before I leave.’ Simon Roseblood gazed around the gleaming oaken table in the Camelot Chamber. All had gathered: Katherine and Raphael, Ignacio and Wormwood, Father Benedict and the most recent arrival, Reginald Bray. ‘Master Clerk,’ Simon pointed at Beaufort’s messenger, ‘you missed the excitement, our visitors from France!’

  ‘Were you their main quarry?’ Bray retorted.

  ‘I have spent some time,’ Simon declared, ‘searching for an answer. The galleys made landings along the south coast. They later entered the estuary, attacking communities along the north bank of the Thames. But yes, we seem to have been the principal target for the corsairs. Now everybody chatters as if they are experts on war. They talk about strange lights being seen, fire arrows glimpsed, as if someone, perhaps LeCorbeil, was determined to mark our tavern and the riverside beyond.’ He pulled a face. ‘Such rumours are correct. The corsairs must have sent scouts, spies, and we know LeCorbeil are in London. If they had destroyed us,’ he chose his words carefully, ‘Beaufort would have lost a powerful ally.’ He paused, deep in thought, before continuing. ‘And LeCorbeil, whatever the mystery behind them, would have wreaked a hideous vengeance for what they believe Beaufort did against them in France.’

  Simon gestured for the rest to break their fast. He wished to gather his thoughts. He rose and walked to the mullioned glass window, gazing out into the darkness. The French had escaped before the admiral of the coast north of the Thames could muster his fighting cogs. The dead of both sides had been buried in All Hallows. Simon glanced over his shoulder; his companions were now eating and drinking, except for Father Benedict. Simon noticed how pale and drawn the priest looked. Benedict had taken a mace during the attack and shattered a few heads, scrupulous about following canon law, which stipulated that a cleric could not use sword or dagger. Was the parish priest recovering from the attack, or was something else bothering him and his curate, who always looked so agitated? Father Roger was withdrawing more and more into himself, often in his cups.

  Simon shifted his gaze. Raphael was deep in conversation with Katherine. Simon whistled under his breath as he recalled Sevigny’s battle madness. A strange man, he mused. Sevigny looked and dressed like a priest, but he was certainly a warrior and also a troubadour deeply smitten by Katherine, as she was by him. Simon grudgingly conceded that he had underestimated Sevigny. He and Ignacio had plotted the mysterious deaths of Candlemas and Cross-Biter, a ploy to baffle Malpas so that he could never lay their deaths at his door. Sevigny had outwitted them. He had concentrated on the possibility of a traitor and spy on the sheriff’s own council, tested his theory and so uncovered Ramler’s scandalous secret, as Roseblood and Ignacio had done so many months ago. Ramler had been surprisingly cooperative, dominated as he conceded by his hidden sins. He had cheerfully agreed to betray his master in return for safe lodgings and protection. Sevigny
had brought that to an end. Malpas might soon find out, but… Simon grinned to himself. Ramler had been sent packing on a grain ship. Cornwall might be lonely, but it was the best Simon could offer and certainly not as dangerous for the scribe as Cheapside would be. The taverner was surprised by Sevigny’s clemency. Was that the effect of Katherine, or something else?

  ‘Raphael?’ He turned. ‘You say Sevigny was attacked in St Mary-le-Bow?’

  ‘So rumour has it. He killed one assailant; the other two escaped. I made careful enquiries. That was not us, was it?’

  Simon shook his head and turned back to the window. Ramler had certainly told him something interesting. How Sevigny might be York’s man, body and soul, but Duchess Cecily fiercely resented her husband’s faithful clerk.

  ‘Will you welcome him back, Father?’ Simon turned. Katherine was staring beseechingly at him.

  ‘He is always welcome here,’ he replied, leaning down to kiss her brow. ‘I assure you,’ he smiled, ‘you could do a lot worse than win the heart of a royal clerk.’

  He was tempted to continue the teasing, but Reginald Bray, still garbed in his travelling cloak, picked up a knife and chimed it against a decanter. The Camelot Chamber fell silent. Simon returned to his seat at the head of the table.

  ‘Time is passing,’ he began. ‘I must go with Master Reginald. I have described to you the present dangers and possible outcomes. My absence, and the reasons for it, will remain secret. Raphael knows what I have to do. He will be in charge whilst I am away. He will make sure that all signs of the recent attack are removed and will use our friends and allies amongst the river folk to keep sharp guard against any fresh assault. After I leave, Ignacio will return.’ He used his fingers to translate what he had said for his henchman.

  Once finished, Simon clasped hands and kissed Katherine on the brow. A short while later, he, Ignacio and Master Reginald Bray slipped out of the Roseblood along the narrow lanes leading down to the riverside. It was a cold evening; the rain had ceased, but a snapping breeze wafted the mist along the runnels. Simon pulled his cowl forward to hide his face, though he and his party kept their swords and daggers clear to frighten off the hooded shades lurking in alcoves and filth-strewn corners. Ignacio carried a torch, its busy flame creating a moving pool of light.

  They passed painted whores of every description and variety, hurrying down to the quayside to satisfy the lusts of the sailors from the royal cogs gathering in the shabby quayside alehouses. Two blowsy slatterns shuffled by holding between them some young coxcomb, so drunk he could hardly stand. Simon glimpsed Milwort, a stumbling shadow of a beggar, carrying as usual his tattered leather sack containing the dried severed head of an Ottoman Turk, or so he boasted. Simon wondered about the beggar, who claimed to have fought in the armies of the east and taken the head of a Turkish champion. Occasionally Milwort would change his story and describe the salted head as that of Herod the Great, plundered from his tomb in the valley of Gehenna outside Jerusalem. Simon realised he was about to enter the make-believe world of men like Milwort. He would become one of those floating, repulsive figures with a strange story and even more loathsome diseases.

  They passed the gibbet on the corner of Thames Street and hurried down arrow-thin alleyways to Quicksilver Manor, the home of the Alchemist. They pushed open the wicket gate, went along the garden path and pulled at the bell under its gleaming iron coping. A taciturn manservant welcomed them through the battered metal-studded door and led them along a maze of gloomy passageways and up rickety stairs. They stopped at a door; the servant pulled back the oxhide covering and rapped the iron carving of a satyr. The door flew back and Simon and his two companions were ushered into the most luxurious chamber. Turkey rugs dyed a deep scarlet covered the coloured tiled floor; black wooden panelling shimmered against the walls; a fire crackled vigorously in the mantled hearth, whilst candlelight dazzled the eye with its golden glow.

  A man sitting in a throne-like chair beside the fire rose and shuffled towards them, hands extended. His face was almost hidden by long iron-grey hair and a shaggy beard and moustache. He was dressed in a blue robe dusted with silver moons, whilst his fingers and wrists boasted gleaming precious stones. He embraced Simon in a gust of spices and rich red wine. They exchanged the kiss of peace and Simon introduced Master Reginald.

  ‘The Alchemist,’ declared the taverner as the two clasped hands. ‘Called so because he can change any man or woman into something completely different. He will transform me into a leper so loathsome even my own children would not recognise me.’

  ‘True.’ The Alchemist’s deep, rough voice held all the power and music of a professional preacher. ‘I can change base metals into gold and, on rare occasions, gold into dross.’ He gestured to his visitors to sit on cushioned stools before the fire. ‘I received your letter, as you must have received mine, Simon. I can do what you want.’

  The Alchemist served them deep-bowled goblets of the finest wine as he chattered about all the gossip in the city: Simon’s triumphant procession to the Guildhall; the murder of the whores in Queenhithe, the attack by French corsairs, as well as the looming rift between the Beauforts and York. ‘All grist to the mill.’ He grabbed his goblet, sinking back into the cushions of his oaken chair. ‘People will need my help to change their appearance lest they lose their heads.’ He never asked Bray what his business was. Simon had given him every assurance about his companion, so the Alchemist cheerfully talked about his own experiences disguising important citizens of London as well as courtiers who had to flee. Simon half listened. The Alchemist was a veritable prince amongst the villains of the city, highly revered by the trugs, tumblers, wapping-morts and counterfeits, all those skilled in disguise. Never once had he been indicted nor seen the inside of a prison.

  At last the Alchemist ceased his chatter and turned to the business in hand. ‘So you want to become a leper, Master Simon, and enter the lazar house at St Giles?’ He narrowed his eyes, ‘Joachim Brotherton is the master there, and…’ He paused.

  ‘And?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Strange stories,’ the Alchemist replied. ‘Even stranger,’ he grinned, ‘that you wish to enter a leper colony. It can be done, however. Let us begin.’ He turned to Master Bray. ‘You should leave with Ignacio now that you know what I can do.’

  Simon lapsed into sign language, fingers twisting swiftly, watching Ignacio’s lips move as he silently repeated what he was learning. When he stopped, the mute nodded in agreement and they embraced, exchanging the kiss of peace. Simon shook Bray’s hand and waited whilst the Alchemist ushered his two companions out of the chamber and down the stairs.

  On his return, the Alchemist busied himself in a small chamber off the main solar. Simon opened the chancery bag that he had placed next to his feet and took out the documents and purse Bray had given him. ‘You will assume a new identity,’ Bray had insisted in the secrecy of the Roseblood. ‘You will become Simon Meopham from Norwich, a hospitaller lay brother who has seen service in Outremer. You have been there, haven’t you, yes?’ He hadn’t even waited for Simon’s answer, thrusting documents into his hands. ‘These are letters of accreditation, memoranda of testimony, a physician’s verdict and, above all,’ he flicked the heavy purse, ‘enough silver to pay for a year’s lodgings and a little more. Master Joachim will accept you. The letters you carry are genuine; both the mayor and master at Norwich are like you, viri jurati, sworn men, Beaufort’s retainers body and soul. Money and power turn every lock. Remember, Simon, the Beauforts will never ever forget this, but you must be successful. Argentine must be silenced for good and his journal and any other documents seized.’

  ‘Are you ready?’ The Alchemist stood in the doorway of his chancery office. ‘You must come with me.’

  Simon followed him out of the solar, down the stone-flagged corridor and into a stark cellar of a room, its whitewashed walls completely bare except for a crucifix with a sprig of green wound around it. There were a few sticks of furniture and a n
arrow garderobe in the corner. In the centre of that bleak chamber stood a throne-like chair similar to the one in the Alchemist’s solar. Above this hung a Catherine wheel, lowered so that its concentric rims crammed with candles bathed the chair in light.

  ‘I would prefer open windows,’ the Alchemist ushered Simon into the seat, ‘but that always attracts the curious. Now,’ he pulled up a stool to face Simon, ‘my friend, I am going to hurt you. If you are a leper, your flesh is corrupt, its texture changed; your eyes become rounded and thinly lidded. There is a strange sparkle in your gaze. Your nose is shrivelled, your voice hoarse, your nails grow rough and coarse. Fingers become crooked, your breath reeks like a midden heap, your skin is so fleshy fat that water will roll off it as it does off an oiled hide. No hair, no moustache or beard, your eyebrows mere marks. So,’ he pushed his face closer, ‘are you ready for the journey to the dark side of the night? You will approach the very doors of hell. You will meet the key-jangling janitors of the shadowlands where bad men bustle no more and a profound silence reigns. When you walk abroad, windows become shuttered, street doors slam closed, birdsong dies; even the dogs and cats will avoid you.’

  ‘I have been warned and advised.’ Simon held the Alchemist’s gaze. ‘Red and brown nodules will appear on my face, upper body, fingers and hands. A leper’s face thickens so his features are similar to those of a cat. Ulcers appear, the limbs stiffen and the pits of my body will reek like those of a male goat on heat. The letters from Norwich claim that I am in the first stages of the disease.’

  ‘Good.’ The Alchemist breathed. ‘So you know. You will wear thick woollen gloves and stockings of the same texture. I will supply these, as I will the face mask, tunic, sandals and the grey-hooded cloak with its red cross.’