by Paul Doherty
‘Precisely,’ Margaret agreed. ‘I know about them because they petitioned Sir Humphrey and myself for a grant of monies. If you scrutinise the records …’
She went across to the chancery table and tapped the main household book, a heavy tome with the finest parchment pages all bound tight between silver-embossed calfskin covers. ‘Anyway,’ Margaret moved back to her chair, ‘the Barnabites?’
‘I made enquiries amongst the scullions and slatterns at The Sunne in Splendour. One of them told me a little more about the mysterious visitors to the Three Kings. I glimpsed the same being brought into the tavern, men and women, not many, five or six individuals in all. They were always hidden, shrouded in the distinctive blue and brown garb of the Barnabites who escorted them there.’ Urswicke paused and walked across to the chancery table. He undid the clasps of the household book and began to leaf through its parchment pages, looking for the heading ‘Expensae et Dona – Expenses and Gifts’. He sifted through the different pages looking for the entry on the Barnabites when one item caught his eye. So surprised he glanced up. Countess Margaret and Bray were staring at him, so he returned to the household account, murmuring about the Barnabites. In fact he was making sure that he had read certain entries correctly.
‘Christopher?’
‘My Lady,’ Urswicke kept studying the manuscript, ‘I intend to refresh myself then pay these Barnabites a visit.’
Later that day, as the sun began to set and the shadows both deepened and lengthened, Christopher Urswicke crossed the stout wooden bridge over Hounds Ditch, that great wound in the land north of the city wall where the sewage of London was tipped by the huge gong carts. ‘Hell’s Pit’, as some people called it, was a long line of steamy slime stretching across the heathland either side of the bridge. Here and there, bonfires flickered and burned, but even their acrid, pungent smoke could not disguise the rancid, foulsome odours. Like everyone who crossed the bridge, Urswicke brought a pomander heavily drenched in lavender to cover his mouth and nose whilst he averted his gaze from the swollen corpses of dogs, horses, cats and pigs, their bellies bloated to rupture and rip.
At last Urswicke was across, striding through the wild heathland, a blighted, neglected place with its scrawny bushes, copses of dark, stunted trees and a moving sea of coarse grass. The place was the haunt of felons and wolfsheads. Urswicke did not care; he walked with his cloak thrown back to display his warbelt furnished with sword, dagger and a squat leather case containing bolts for the hand-held arbalest he carried. Meagre light blinked and glowed through the gathering dark; Urswicke, however, knew his way. At last he breasted a small rise and St Vedast lay before him.
Once it must have been a bustling hamlet or village which had grown up around the ancient church with its rather majestic-looking priest’s house built out of wood and plaster on a stone base. In the dying light, both church and house looked eerily deserted and much decayed. However, even from where he stood, Urswicke could glimpse the glow of candlelight which indicated habitation. Urswicke stared around and studied this isolated, ruined hamlet. He could make out the lines of former cottages and other buildings and concluded that this must have been one of those communities wiped out by the Angel of Death, the Great Plague which had swept the kingdom a hundred years earlier. A devastating onslaught which annihilated entire towns. This community must have died and the parish became nothing more than a lonely church and house.
Both buildings were circled by a high curtain wall. There were outhouses, storage sheds and stables, but most of the church estate was a sprawling cemetery, God’s Acre, a truly desolate stretch of land to the north of the church. Urswicke took a deep breath, crossed himself and walked down the hill, along the wet, pebble-strewn path towards a main gate which looked as if it had been recently refurbished and strengthened. Urswicke glimpsed the bell rope to the side and pulled hard. The bell, under its coping, clanged noisily. Urswicke pulled again and heard the patter of sandalled feet. A voice demanded who he was and Urswicke shouted his name and how he was here on the specific orders of Lord Clarence and his most loyal henchman, Master Mauclerc. A small postern door in the main gate swung open and a cowled figure beckoned.
Urswicke stepped inside. Four figures awaited, their faces almost hidden by the deep capuchons pulled over their heads. One of these held a lantern, the rest were well-armed with swords and ugly-looking maces, morning stars, their cruel, sharp studs gleaming in the light. The lantern holder asked for proof and Urswicke handed over a copy of Clarence’s seal. Mauclerc had given him a number of these to use on the duke’s business.
‘Come.’
The evident leader of the group who held the lantern and examined the seal, gave it back and beckoned Urswicke to follow him across the deserted cobbled bailey into the priest’s house. Urswicke was immediately struck by how sinister and dingy this was: narrow with paved corridors, the ceiling and walls flaking, cobwebs spanned the corners whilst the squeak and squeal of scurrying vermin seemed constant. Urswicke was led into what he supposed to be the refectory, with a long board table down the middle. The smell of cooking fish and burnt oil hung heavy. The table top was littered with platters and goblets. Urswicke sat on a stool on one side of the table with the four Barnabites sitting opposite him. They pulled back their capuchons to reveal harsh, unshaven faces, heads shorn to a stubble, faces cruelly scarred. They reminded Urswicke of mercenaries rather than friars. Their leader introduced himself as Brother Cuthbert; he offered food and drink. Urswicke refused, pleading he’d taken his fill. The other three Barnabites introduced themselves as Brothers Alcuin, John and Luke.
Urswicke smiled and nodded as he tried to disguise his own growing apprehension. Were these four really friars or were they rifflers, dagger-men, street fighters masquerading as men of God? Such a practice was rife throughout the kingdom and Western Christendom, to the deepening fury and dismay of the Pope and other ecclesiastical and secular authorities. Time and again, the Papacy had fulminated against the practice of outlaws who joined some obscure, decaying order to hide both themselves and their villainy. Some of these malefactors simply donned the garb; others were admitted on the full understanding that they had no more interest in matters spiritual than a pig in its sty. Urswicke loved the poet Chaucer and recalled a phrase from one of his tales: ‘Cucullus non facit monachum – the cowl doesn’t make the monk.’ The Barnabites facing him more than justified such a description. All four studied Urswicke before chattering amongst themselves. Urswicke did not understand what they said though he guessed that all of them, like the Three Kings, were from Germany, some city or province in the Rhineland.
‘We know who you are – or think we do. We have studied the seal you carry.’ Cuthbert’s voice was harsh and grating. ‘What do you want with us?’
‘The Three Kings are dead,’ Brother John spoke up, ‘as is Oudenarde the parchment-seller, whilst another of my Lord Clarence’s retainers, the courier Spysin,’ Brother John grinned in a display of jagged, yellow teeth, ‘was slain sitting on a tavern jake’s.’
‘And I am investigating their deaths.’
‘So why are you here?’ Cuthbert demanded.
‘I understand from tavern chatter that you,’ Urswicke gestured at them, ‘or persons garbed like you, brought visitors, men and women, up to the Three Kings in their chancery chamber. Who were these and where are they now?’
All four Barnabites stared at Urswicke. Cuthbert, eyes narrowing, got to his feet, indicating that his comrades follow him to the far end of the refectory. Urswicke stared around as if curious about where he was. He noticed how truly filthy the refectory was: its walls were stained, the plaster flaking, the rushes on the floor a mushy mess. He also realised there were no triptychs, crucifixes, statues, or anything to reflect matters spiritual. Indeed, the only painting was a half-finished, faded wall fresco about the fall of Lucifer and his angels. A sombre painting, in which hideous-looking creatures roamed a gloomy landscape lit by flames from unseen fires. Urswicke
glanced away, trying to soothe his own nervousness. He strove to keep calm despite the deepening fear that he may have made a mistake in coming to this evil place to meet such sinister men. He bent down, picked up the hand-held arbalest and slipped it onto the hook on his warbelt, covering it with his cloak. Cuthbert walked back, Brother John trailing behind him.
‘We can answer your questions,’ he declared, ‘and show you the people we brought. Come.’
Urswicke followed Cuthbert out of the refectory, down a dank, smelly passageway which led out into God’s Acre. Brother John, gasping about his sore leg, stumbled along behind him. The ancient cemetery was a forlorn wasteland; its crosses, headstones and plinths had long since crumbled. Cuthbert led him through this house of the dead, pushing aside trailing bramble and sharp gorse, which caught at Urswicke’s cloak and boots. Darkness had fallen. The eerie silence was broken only by Brother John’s gasping and the occasional screech of a night bird which set Urswicke’s teeth on edge. He felt a creeping sense of danger, as he would threading through the treacherous runnels and dark alleys of London.
‘We will soon be there,’ Brother Cuthbert shouted over his shoulder as he walked on. ‘Well, here we are.’ Cuthbert raised the lantern, gesturing at the freshly dug graves. Urswicke abruptly stopped. Something was wrong. Brother John had fallen strangely silent. Urswicke whirled round as the Barnabite, no longer complaining about his leg, was ready to swing a morning star to shatter the back of Urswicke’s head. The clerk, his dagger now drawn, danced swiftly to the left and drove his long Welsh stabbing blade deep into his opponent’s belly. The Barnabite sank to his knees, choking on his own blood. Urswicke turned just in time, his weapon knocking down the sword Brother Cuthbert had concealed beneath his cloak. Urswicke backed away, drawing his sword, balancing both that and the dagger. Cuthbert, a poor swordsman, lunged forward, but he was nervous and stumbled, the point of his sword narrowly missing Urswicke’s face. The Barnabite paid the penalty for such a mistake. Urswicke’s sword cut deep into Cuthbert’s exposed throat. He withdrew the blade. Cuthbert collapsed to his knees, eyes fluttering, his mouth gaping, his lifeblood drenching the front of his robe. The Barnabite gave a deep sigh and toppled lifelessly over.
Urswicke searched both men, removing their fat money purses yet, apart from the coins, there was nothing else. Urswicke then prepared himself. He charged the arbalest, slipping the ugly, barbed bolt into the groove, pulling back the twine over the lever so it was ready to loose. Sword and dagger sheathed, Urswicke crept back across the desolate cemetery and in through the postern door.
‘Is it done?’
One of the Barnabites stepped out of the refectory, a clear target against the dim light, so Urswicke’s bolt took him deep in the chest. The Barnabite staggered back and collapsed.
‘It is done,’ Urswicke breathed as he hurried round him into the refectory. The fourth Barnabite, Luke, was frantically trying to draw a sword from its sheath on a bench. Again Urswicke loosed, but this time his hand slipped and the bolt caught his opponent high in the shoulder, sending him crashing against the wall. Urswicke hurried across. The Barnabite had managed to draw a dagger from the pouch on his rope belt. Urswicke knocked this aside and crouched down. He studied his opponent; the man was moaning quietly, eyes half closed.
‘Who are you really?’ Urswicke demanded. The Barnabite just shook his head.
‘Some wine,’ he gasped. ‘Something for the pain.’
Urswicke got to his feet and left the refectory. He searched the corpse of the Barnabite sprawled there. He found nothing except a well-filled purse. Ignoring the groans of the wounded Luke, Urswicke then ransacked both the house and church but he could find nothing significant. He returned to the refectory. The wounded Barnabite was still moaning so Urswicke took across a goblet of wine and helped him drink. The man gulped greedily. Urswicke left the pewter goblet with him and moved across to the table. He opened the small chancery coffer and emptied out the different pieces of parchment.
‘Clever, clever,’ he murmured, ‘no manuscript. Nothing but licences for a group of Barnabites to travel through Dover, backwards and forwards across the Narrow Seas.’ Urswicke was about to push these aside when he realised what he’d missed. He grabbed the licences and unrolled them. There were at least a dozen but they had one thing in common: they were all signed and sealed by no lesser person than Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells, who’d been recently appointed as Chancellor of the Kingdom. Urswicke snatched these up, walked back and crouched before the wounded man who lay moaning, cradling the cup which he tried to pass to Urswicke.
‘In a short while,’ the clerk murmured, ‘you will be beyond all pain.’ He held up the licences. ‘Why do you have these?’
‘So we can travel.’
‘Yes, yes I can see that. You have the Crown’s permission to travel backwards and forwards to Dover. All royal officials are instructed to assist you in any way they can.’
‘And?’ the man gasped.
‘All of them are signed and sealed by the most important man in the kingdom, the King’s own chancellor, the Crown’s chief clerk. Why was Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells, interested in a group of ragged Barnabites travelling to and from this kingdom? Every one of these licences bears his name and seal, but I have worked in the royal chancery, this could have been done by some common clerk …’
‘Wine,’ the man moaned, ‘give me wine.’
Urswicke could tell the man was weakening fast. He filled the goblet to the brim and helped the man drink.
‘The licences?’ Urswicke demanded.
‘Where’s Cuthbert?’
‘He’s dead, his throat cut, as yours will be soon. I will give you the mercy wound.’
The man tried to laugh. ‘I know nothing,’ he said. ‘I followed orders. We would travel here and there, both in this kingdom and beyond, to take and bring certain individuals into London. I simply acted as a guard. Who these people were, what they knew and what they told the Three Kings …?’ The man stopped, coughing violently, and Urswicke noticed the bloody froth seeping between the dried, cracked lips. ‘I know nothing,’ he gasped, ‘Brother Cuthbert did. He once said Stillington was in his debt, that the bishop had promised to look after Brother Joachim.’
‘Brother Joachim, who is he?’
‘Once he belonged to our brotherhood, but then he fell sick, some evil humour of the mind. Cuthbert told me that Stillington had found comfortable quarters for Joachim at the hospital of St Mary Bethlehem here in London. Its inmates suffer from delusions, weakened wits, all forms of insanity. I will tell you something else,’ the man spluttered, ‘if you promise to give me the mercy cut and vow, on your own soul, that you’ll hire a chantry priest to sing a requiem for mine.’
Urswicke nodded. ‘I promise, what is it?’
‘Oh, it’s very simple. According to Cuthbert, he held Stillington in the palm of his hand. But how, why and what for, I do not know. I have spoken the truth.’
‘Tell me,’ Urswicke insisted, ‘why did Cuthbert turn on me? After all, I carry Clarence’s seal. I work for Mauclerc. Why?’
‘You did not follow the protocol Cuthbert agreed with Mauclerc: you carried no specific letter. We knew about the killings at The Sunne in Splendour; you asked questions you shouldn’t have. Cuthbert, who was a law unto himself, decided you were too dangerous to let go …’
Urswicke studied the man. He believed the Barnabite had told him all he could. He leaned forward, took the goblet, and forced the wine between the man’s lips. The Barnabite drank greedily and lifted back his head so Urswicke could cut his throat from ear to ear. Urswicke crossed himself, returned to the table and sifted amongst the other scraps of parchment. Apart from the licences, there was nothing significant, and he realised the Barnabites had simply lived at St Vedast. In the main, all four men and any visitors had supped and dined in city taverns. They bought basic purveyance for the priest’s house, a little food, some wine, candles and kindling, b
ut nothing else.
Intrigued, Urswicke continued his searches. He recalled how the four Barnabites had been sitting in the refectory when he met them: a room where, he suspected, there’d been a constant presence, so he decided to concentrate on that gloomy chamber. His scrutiny proved successful. Urswicke noticed how one flagstone beneath the table was so loose it moved. Urswicke prised this open, thrust his hand into what he suspected was the old parish arca – a stronghold, a sealed pit where treasures could be stored. He searched around and felt a leather sack: he pulled this up, opened it and took out a book of hours; its calfskin cover held finely scrubbed parchment pages. Urswicke put this down, returned to the arca and drew out an elaborate chancery tray with quills, sheets of costly vellum, pots of coloured ink, pumice stones and parchment knives. He searched the pit again but there was nothing else.
He made himself comfortable, opened the book of hours and leafed through its pages. Some of these had small, jewel-like paintings which emphasised the first word or letter of a psalm or prayer. The writing was clerkly, in a range of red, blue and black inks. The book was almost full, only a few blank pages at the back. Urswicke closed the book of hours and wondered why it was so precious? He recalled a similar psalter he’d found in the chancery chamber at The Sunne in Splendour. Urswicke had now secreted this away with a goldsmith in Cheapside. ‘The Barnabites feared neither God nor man,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I doubt very much whether they sang the Divine Office, pattered a prayer or even crossed themselves. So,’ Urswicke stared down at the book of hours resting on his lap, ‘why did they treasure you?’
Urswicke put the book on the table and stared at it. He carried the purses of the dead Barnabites in the deep pocket of his cloak. They certainly had good coin and the wherewithal to live high on the hog, though they seemed to own few possessions, nothing of value. So why did they treasure this psalter so much? Stored in the arca, kept well away from prying eyes? Did they intend to sell it?