The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 1 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

  THE CONFESSION OF BROTHER ATHELSTAN

  Paul Harding

  After Ellis Peters, Paul Harding is the most prolific writer of historical mystery novels. Harding is one of several pen names used by Paul C. Doherty, Headmaster of a school in Essex. As Doherty he has written a series of novels featuring the thirteenth-century clerk in Chancery, Hugh Corbett, who first appeared in Satan in St. Mary’s (1986). As Michael Clynes he is the author of the Sir Roger Shallot series set at the time of Henry VIII, which started with The White Rose Murders (1991). Most recently, under the name C. L. Grace, he has signed a contract with an American publisher for a series about a woman physician/detective in fifteenth-century Canterbury.

  Brother Athelstan first appeared in The Nightingale Gallery (1991), and three novels have followed. This is his first short story, specially written for this volume. Set in the summer of 1376 it features the wine-loving, corpulent Sir John Cranston, Coroner of London, and his amanuensis, Brother Athelstan, a Dominican monk and parish priest of St. Erconwald’s in Southwark.

  I was reading Bartholomew the Englishman’s The Nature of Things in which he describes the planet Saturn as cold as ice, dark as night and malignant as Satan. In an interesting after-thought he claims it governs the murderous intent of men; I wonder if Saturn governs my life. The death of my own brother in battle still plagues my dreams whilst Cranston and I deal with murder every week: men, violent in drink or overtaken by some ill humour, drawing sword, mace or club to hack and slash. Cranston says it’s strange work for a priest, I remind him how the first crime mentioned in the Bible was one of murder – Cain plotting to slay his brother Abel and afterwards claiming he knew nothing about it. The first great mystery! Cain was discovered and he bore the mark which, I think, stains in varying hues all our souls. Again, I was reading John’s gospel where Christ, arguing with the Pharisees, dismissed Satan as “An assassin from the start”. An assassin! Someone who lurks in the shadows plotting violent death. Now most murders we witness are after the blood has been spilt and the body lies dead, but recently Cranston and I saw an evil, well-plotted murder carried out before our very eyes.

  Spring had come, snapping winter’s vice-like grip. The Thames, frozen from bank to bank, thawed and the waters flowed quickly, full of life. The rains loosened the soil and the sun rose higher and stronger. The crowds poured back into the London streets and, to mark the changing seasons, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, uncle of the young King and Regent, announced a great tournament to be held at Smithfield. Varlets, squires and men-at-arms poured into London. The streets were packed with men, helmeted and armoured. Great destriers, caparisoned in all the colours and awesome regalia of war, moved majestically along the roads. High in the saddle rode the knights and men of war resplendent in coloured surcoats, their slit-eyed helmets swinging from the saddlebow, their bannered lances carried before them by page or squire. To the crash of grating hooves, hordes of others followed, retainers, gaudy in the livery of great lords and the bright, French silks of the young gallants who swarmed into the city like butterflies returning under the warm sun and blue skies. They thronged the taverns, their coloured garments a sharp contrast to the dirty leather aprons of the blacksmiths and the short jerkins and caps of their apprentices. For days before the tournament London rejoiced. There were miracle plays, fairs, cock fights, dog battles and savage contests between wild hogs and mangy bears. Bonfires were lit in Cheapside and the Great Conduit ran with wine. Cranston and I saw it all, being very busy as men and women, drenched with drink, quarrelled and violently fought each other: a man was hacked to death for stealing ale, a woman, slashed from jaw to groin, was found floating in the Walbrook. Sometimes the assailants were found but usually all we got were blank glances and evasive replies. Cranston’s temper, never the best, grew more abrupt.

  “Brother,” he announced at the end of one tiring day as we both squatted in the coolness of my parish church, sharing a bowl of watered ale. “Brother, we need a respite from this. The day after tomorrow, Thursday, the tournament begins at Smithfield. We should go.”

  I shook my head.

  “No, Sir John, I thank you but I have had enough of war and violent death.”

  “Not this time,” he answered quickly. “The first tournament is a game of great skill, a joust with blunted lances between two court favourites, Oliver Le Marche and Robert Woodville. No deaths there, Brother. They fight for the favour of Lady Isabella Lyons, a distant kinswoman of the King.” He nudged me in the ribs and came closer. “My wife will come. You could always bring Benedicta.”

  I blushed not daring to ask how he knew about the widow woman. Cranston laughed. He was still bellowing when he got up and walked out of the church after making me agree I would think about it.

  At early Mass the next morning I saw Benedicta with the other two members of my congregation kneeling at the entrance to the rood screen, her ivory face framed in its veil of black, luxurious curls. After Mass, as usual, she stayed to light a candle before the statue of the Virgin. Benedicta smiled as I approached, asking softly if I was well. I blurted out my invitation, her violet blue eyes rounded in surprise but she smiled and agreed so quickly I wondered if she too felt a kinship with me. God forgive me, I was in my own private heaven, so pleased I did not even bother to study the stars despite the sky being cloud-free and my mind unwilling to rest even for sleep. Instead I tossed and turned, hoping the boy I had sent, Girth the bricklayer’s son, had delivered my acceptance at the coroner’s house. I rose at dawn, said my Mass, pleased to see Benedicta kneeling there, her hair now braided, hidden under a wimple, a small basket by her side.

  After Mass we talked and quietly walked to meet Cranston at the “Golden Pig”, a comfortable tavern on the Southwark side of the river. The coroner’s wife, small and pert, was cheerful as a little sparrow, accepting Benedicta as a long-lost sister. Cranston, with a flagon of wine down him already, was in good form, nudging me in the ribs and leering lecherously at Benedicta. We took a boat across the Thames not rowed, thank God, by one of my parishioners and made our way up Thames Street to the “Kirtle Tavern” which stands on the edge of Smithfield just under the vast forbidding walls of Newgate prison.

  The day proved to be a fine one, the streets were hot and dusty so we welcomed the tavern’s coolness. We sat in a corner watching the citizens of every class and station go noisily by, eager to get in a good place to watch the day’s events. Merchants sweltering under beaver hats, their fat wives clothed in gaudy gowns, beggars, quacks, story tellers, hordes of apprentices and men from the guilds. I groaned and hid my face as a group of my parishioners, Black Hod, Crispin the carpenter, Ranulf the ratcatcher and Watle son of the dung-collector, passed the tavern door, roaring a filthy song at the tops of their voices. We waited until Cranston finished his refreshment and, with Benedicta so close beside me my heart kept skipping for joy, we walked out into the great area around Smithfield. Three blackened, crow-pecked corpses still swung from the gibbet but the crowd ignored them. The food sellers were doing a roaring trade in spiced sausages whilst beside them water-sellers, great buckets slung around their necks, sold cooling drinks to soothe the mouths of those who chewed the hot, spicy meat. I watched and turned away, my gorge rising in my throat as I saw Ranulf the ratcatcher sidle up behind one of these water-sellers and quietly piss into one of the buckets.

  Smithfield itself had been cleared for the joust; even the dung heaps and piles of ordure had been taken away. A vast open space had been cordoned off for the day. At one side was the royal enclosure with row after row of wooden seats all covered in purple or gold cloth. In the centre a huge canopy shielded the place where the King and his leading nobility would sit. The banners of John of Gaunt, resplendent with the gaudy device of the House of Lancaster, curled and waved lazily in the breeze. Marshals of the royal household resplendent in tabards, their white wands of office held high, stopped and directed us to our reserved seats. All around us the benches were quickly filling, ladi
es in silk gowns giggling and chattering, clutching velvet cushions to their bosoms as they simpered past the young men who stood eyeing them. These gallants, their hair long and curled, their bodies dripping in pearls and lace, proved to be raucous and strident. Cranston was merry but some of these young men were already far gone in their cups. I ignored the lustful glances directed at Benedicta, trying to curb the sparks of jealousy which flared in my own heart and, once we were seated, studied the tournament area. The field, a great grassy plain, was divided down the centre by a huge tilt barrier covered in a black and white checkered canvas. At each end of this barrier were two pavilions; one gold, the other blue. Already the contestants were preparing for the joust, around each pavilion scuttled pages and squires, armour glinted and dazzled in the sun. I stared at the jousting lances, great 14-foot-long ashpoles, each in its own case on a long wooden rack. I asked Cranston why there were so many.

  “Oh, it’s simple, Brother,” he replied. “Each course run will use up one lance and, as this is a friendly combat, ten or twelve lances may be broken before an outright victory is won.”

  A bray of trumpets drowned his words, a shrill so angry the birds in the trees around Smithfield rose in noisy protesting flocks. The royal party had now arrived. I noticed John of Gaunt, Earl of Lancaster, a majestic, cruel face under his silver hair, with skin burnt dark brown from his campaigns in Castile; on either side of him, his brothers and a collection of young lords. In the centre with one of Gaunt’s hands on his shoulder, stood a young boy, his face white as snow under a mop of gold hair, a silver chaplet on his head. Beside him a young lady, her red hair just visible under a lacey white veil, a real eye-catching beauty in her tawny samite dress. Again the shrill bray of trumpets sounded. Gaunt lifted his hand as if welcoming the plaudits of the crowd. There was some clapping from the claque of young courtiers around us but the London mob was stony silent and I remembered Cranston’s mutterings about how the expensive tastes of the court, coupled with the military defeats against the French, had brought Gaunt and his party into disrepute.

  “There’s the King!” the coroner whispered to his wife though his voice carried for yards around us. “And beside him is Lady Isabella Lyons, the queen of the tournament.”

  I looked sideways at Benedicta and my heart lurched. She had turned slightly in her seat, staring coolly back at a young, dark-faced gallant, resplendent in red and white silks, who lounged in his seat with eyes for no one but my fair companion. Cranston, sharp enough under his bluff drunken exterior, caught my drift. He leaned over and tapped me on the arm.

  “The joust is about to begin, Brother,” he said. “Watch carefully, you may learn something.”

  Another shrill blast from the trumpets, banners were lowered, the noise of the crowd died away as the two contestants emerged and mounted their great destriers. Each donned a war helm, took a lance and rode gently into the middle of the field to stand on either side of the Master Herald. Slowly they advanced before the royal box, an awesome vision of grey steel armour and silken surcoats, all the more ominous for the silence, no sound except for the gentle screech of leather. Both knights had their visors raised; I glimpsed young faces, lined and scarred, eyes impatient for the contest to begin. They lowered their lances and saluted both the King and the object of their desires, who simpered back, hiding her face behind her hands. Then each knight turned away, riding back towards the pavilions, taking up their positions at either end of the tilt barrier. The Master Herald, a great, bald-headed man, dressed in the royal blue and gold tabard, raised himself in the stirrups and in a loud, booming voice announced the tournament, a joust with blunted lances.

  “Any knight,” he bellowed, glaring fiercely around, “who breaks the rules of the tournament or tarnishes the honour of chivalry, will be stripped of his arms, his shield reversed and covered in dust and he will be dismissed from the field.”

  “That’s Sir Michael Lyons,” Cranston whispered, nodding to the Master Herald, “father to our great beauty. They say he thoroughly enjoys his daughter being the object of desire of two redoubtable warriors.”

  Sir Michael bowed towards the young King who raised his hand as a sign for the joust to commence. The herald turned his horse and lifted his white baton of office. At either end of the field the two knights prepared, visors were lowered as their squires grasped the reins of the horses. Cranston burped, his wife cooed with embarrassment. A crash of trumpets, the crowd burst into loud cheering as both riders started advancing together, first at a walk then a quick trot. There was another short trumpet blast, the audience gave a long sigh which grew into a resounding cheer as both knights charged, shields up, lances lowered, the pennants at either end of the lance snapping up and down like the wings of some beautiful bird. The knights met in the centre with a resounding crash of lances against shields. Then they were past each other, back again to their squires, who brought up fresh lances, making sure they avoided the wicked, sharpened hooves of the now fiery destriers.

  Benedicta smiled at me, clutching my arm tightly. I felt happy, free like a bird which whirls under the bluest of skies. Again the trumpets, the sound of hooves drumming on the packed earth, war-like and ominous. I heard the crowd gasp and I looked up. Woodville had begun his charge but he seemed out of control, swaying in the saddle as if he was drunk, his lance fell and his shield arm dropped, his posture was all askew but Le Marche did not stop. He came thundering down, lance lowered. Woodville tried to defend himself but, too late, his opponent hit him full in the chest. Woodville was lifted from the saddle, high in the air and crashed to earth like a bird brought down by sling shot. He lay in a crumpled heap, his splendid armour now defaced by blood and dirt. His gaudy plumage, shorn from the crest of his helmet, drifted like snowflakes on the breeze.

  “Brave lance!” someone shouted, then silence.

  Le Marche turned, his horse now prancing back as the Master Herald, followed by other marshals and squires, ran up to the fallen knight. They gathered round and the herald turned, hands extended, and shouted.

  “He is dead! My Lord Woodville is dead!”

  The crowd remained silent before bursting into a loud raucous chorus of boos and jeers. Mud, dirt and other offal were flung in the direction of Le Marche. The herald walked over and looked up at Le Marche.

  “Your lance, my Lord, was pointed.”

  The booing and catcalls increased, a few rocks were thrown. John of Gaunt rose and gestured with his hand. A deafening blast of trumpets brought royal men-at-arms as if from nowhere, to throw a cordon of steel around the crowd. In the near distance, stripped of its armour, the corpse of Sir Robert Woodville was being carried away on a makeshift pallet. Meanwhile the Master Herald was conferring with John of Gaunt. The trumpets blared out again, the herald bellowed that, for this day at least, the tournament was finished. His message was greeted with a chorus of catcalls and jeers but the moment passed; the crowd began to break up and drift away to seek further amusements amongst the booths and stalls of the nearby fair.

  I glanced across at the royal enclosure: the young King sat as if carved from wood, looking blankly over at the tournament field, where royal serjeants were now circling Le Marche, gesturing that he dismount and surrender his weapons. The knight shouted his innocence but obeyed their orders. Beside the King the young queen of the tournament sat disconsolate, head in hand. Cranston’s wife muttered, “Oh, the pity! Oh, the pity!”

  Benedicta clung close to me, her face white and drawn as if Woodville’s death had reawakened memories in her own soul. Cranston, however, stood transfixed, rooted to the spot, his mouth open. He just stared across at the confusion around the tilt barrier.

  “Sir John Cranston! Sir John Cranston!”

  A young page, wearing the surcoat of the royal household, came weaving through the crowd.

  “Sir John . . .!”

  “Here!” I called.

  The boy just dismissed me with a flicker of his girlish eyelashes.

  “Here I am
!” Cranston bellowed. “What is it, boy?”

  “My Lord of Lancaster wishes to have words with you.”

  “I wonder,” Cranston murmured. He glanced slyly at me. “Come on, Brother. Maude,” he turned to his wife. “Look after Benedicta.”

  He waddled off with me in tow, pushing through the guards into the royal enclosure, the page skipping in front like a frisky puppy. Knight bannerets of the King’s household stopped him but the pageboy, jumping up and down, screamed his orders so they let Cranston by. I stood outside the protective ring of steel watching Cranston bow at the foot of the steps and fall to one knee. John of Gaunt came down, laughing, tapped him on the shoulder and, raising him up, whispered into his ear, Cranston replied. Gaunt looked up and stared like a hungry cat back at me, his eyes yellow, hard and unblinking. He nodded, muttered something and Cranston backed away. Sir John said nothing until he had taken me further away from the royal enclosure.

  “Brother,” he muttered, “this is a right midden heap. Woodville was one of Gaunt’s principal retainers and now my Lord wants the truth about his death.”

  Cranston narrowed his eyes and whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Gaunt thinks it’s murder, Brother. So do I.”

  Oh, I could have laughed! Here we were on a glorious day, a festival, and murder had appeared as the poet says ‘stalking across the green fields like the evil which walks at mid-day’. I now wished we had gone somewhere else – or was it me, was I a Jonah? Did murder and assassination always trail my footsteps? I looked up, clouds were beginning fitfully to block the sun, I gazed back over my shoulder. Cranston’s wife was making herself comfortable on a bench whilst the gallant who had been eyeing Benedicta, had now moved down and was talking quietly with her. He was teasing her but Benedicta did not seem to mind. Cranston, however, pushing me by the elbow, hurried me on across to Woodville’s tent.