by Paul Doherty
Urswicke drew a deep breath and got to his feet. Taking a lantern, he combed both the priest’s house and tiny church, but discovered nothing of interest. At last, with the chimes of midnight echoing faintly from the city, Urswicke declared himself satisfied. He dragged in the corpses from God’s Acre and laid them alongside the other two killed in the priest’s house. He then fetched the oil and kindling he’d glimpsed in his earlier searches. He piled wood over the corpses, drenched that and the rest of the furniture in oil. Once satisfied, he took a tinder, lit a torch and threw it into the refectory which, as he left the priest’s house, burst into flames. Urswicke stood outside and watched the conflagration spread through that ancient mansion with its dust-dry woodwork and crumbling plaster.
Urswicke stood staring as the night wind fanned the flames even further, wafting them towards the nearby church. It was time to go. Urswicke picked up the leather sack containing the book of hours and the small pick and shovel he’d taken from an outhouse. He put these carefully in the leather sack, gripped the still flaming lanternhorn, and made his way back across God’s Acre following the same path Brother Cuthbert had taken. At last he reached the place where the attack had occurred.
PART FIVE
‘A quarrel rose between the King’s two brothers which proved difficult to settle.’
Crowland Chronicle
Urswicke picked his way carefully through the trailing bramble and gorse. Immediately freezing as an owl, soft and swift as a ghost, floated just above him. Urswicke quickly crossed himself, watching the night-bird glide down until it was skimming just above the gorse: it then disappeared and Urswicke heard the screech of some creature caught in the hunter’s talons. The clerk put the lanternhorn down near one of the freshly dug graves. He took off his cloak, draping it across the sack, from which he took the pick and shovel.
‘I need to disturb the dead,’ he whispered. ‘Eternal rest grant to them, oh Lord, but not just for now.’ Urswicke began to dig. He soon realised the grave was very shallow, the corpse thrust there treated with little dignity, bound up in tight, coarse sacking. Urswicke cleared the dirt away, cut the sacking and stared in disgust at the gruesome sight. The cadaver was that of an old man with wispy-white hair, the face showing decay and corruption. The eyes had long sunk. The lips mere fragments of flesh cut back to expose sharp, dog-like teeth. The head was slightly tilted back to expose the great gash in the man’s flesh. ‘Brought here for some purpose,’ Urswicke whispered, ‘and when that was finished, so were you.’
Urswicke sketched a blessing over the corpse, kicked back the dirt, grabbed his cloak and sack and strode off into the darkness.
The following morning Urswicke, who had stayed at The Sunne in Splendour to see if the destruction of the Barnabites was reported, rose early, shaved, washed and changed his linen. He then went down to the taproom and, bearing in mind what he’d seen in the countess’s household ledger, he decided to watch Minehost Tiptree, along with his family and servants, prepare for the day. The bakers had already filled a basket with soft, white manchet loaves, small rolls of bread with butter in the middle. Lamb chops had been roasted on a grill in the kitchen yard, and now Minehost, assisted by a bevy of sweaty spit-boys, was preparing a full side of hog to be roasted on the great spit in the taproom’s majestic hearth. Urswicke savoured the delicious smells as he sipped his morning ale and slowly ate the porridge laced with honey prepared by Mistress Tiptree. Watching carefully, he asked questions of the different servants so he could clearly identify all members of the Tiptree family.
Once he was satisfied, Urswicke put on his boots, took his cloak and warbelt and left the tavern. So far he’d seen none of Clarence’s household or any of Mauclerc’s bully boys, nor had he even heard a rumour about the fire at St Vedast. Urswicke clasped his cloak more tightly and followed the twisting lanes up into Cheapside. The morning masses had finished with the tolling of the Jesus bell and the host of traders, tinkers and stall holders moved like a shoal of colourful fish into taverns, alehouses and cook-shops to break their fast. Market horns sounded above the crashing wheels of the dung carts. Half-naked children shrieked and yelled as they clambered over the slimy midden heaps.
The weather had changed, growing decidedly warmer, and the battles and storms of yesterday were now a fading memory. Merry Maytime had arrived! The season for welcoming the sun and rejoicing in a golden glow of summer. Maypoles, adorned with streamers, had been erected at crossroads and in every available free space. Minstrels, troubadours, travelling troupes of clowns and merrymen flooded into the city, hoping to be hired for this festivity or that masque. The days were growing longer and the light turning stronger. The great ones of the city would hold their lavish evening banquets, either in their gardens or on the paving in front of their fine mansions, so they were eager to hire whatever entertainment was available. May was also Mary’s month, so decades of the Rosary, the aves ringing through the air, were recited on the steps of every church next to a statue of the Virgin wreathed in May-time flowers. All of this merriment, of course, was watched by the footpads, cunning men and felons who slunk like dogs, hungry for easy prey, even though the well-used stocks, pillories and gallows proclaimed stark warnings about where such villainy might end.
The criers and heralds were also busy: they proclaimed the news from the court and from the shires, as well as reminding the good citizens of the names of rebels who had taken up arms against the Crown during the recent troubles and had not been apprehended. Urswicke also noticed with grim amusement how other street criers, darting swiftly about to escape capture, spread news that the Lancastrian cause was not finished, for there was unrest here and disturbance there. Urswicke recognised most of this as the work of the fertile imaginations of the Countess Margaret and Reginald Bray.
Urswicke eventually reached the Guildhall, forcing his way through a highly excited baptismal party processing up to St Mary Magdalene Church in Milk Street. The beloved infant who was to be held over the font was bawling raucously, setting nerves on edge. Urswicke was glad to be away. He showed his warrants to the guards and was halfway across the cobbled bailey when he heard his name called. Urswicke turned as his father hurried across, his smooth face wreathed in a smile, two young women, garbed in the tightest of gowns, trailing behind.
‘Christopher, Christopher, you have heard the news? I have been dubbed a knight, but now there’s going to be a royal ceremony where my knighthood will be confirmed by no lesser person than his Grace the King. He will formally bestow the honour then kiss hands with me.’
‘And when will this most magnificent ceremony take place?’
‘On the feast of St John the Baptist in the Guildhall chapel. You will come?’
‘Of course, and will they?’
Urswicke pointed to the two willowy figures standing so close behind his father.
‘I can’t answer that.’ The Recorder patted his son on the shoulder. ‘And why are you here?’
‘To study the records, I am busy on my Lord Clarence’s affairs.’
‘And I am off to break my fast with my maids here before meeting with the sheriffs. You have heard about the fire at St Vedast out on the moor?’ Urswicke pulled a face and shook his head. ‘The priest’s house and the church were burnt to the ground. The fire started in the former but there was a powerful night breeze and the flames spread into the church. Nothing more than a charred ruin now.’
‘And the perpetrators?’
‘We found no coins, nothing of value, just four blackened, crumbling corpses. We believe it’s the work of wolfsheads. Anyway,’ the Recorder smiled falsely and gestured back at the Guildhall, ‘the chancery chambers are over there. You will be given all the help you need.’
Within the hour Urswicke, using his name and warrants, ensconced himself in a small enclave on the gallery leading down to the great chancery office in the Guildhall. Urswicke was well served by two spindly shanked scriveners who, with their pointed noses, wispy hair and sunken chee
ks, looked like gargoyles who’d clambered down from the stout, wooden pillars which ranged along the gallery. Both officials, however, were very skilled, and soon brought Urswicke all he needed: coroners’ rolls, licences issued, a list of debtors, a schedule of committal to the prisons at Newgate and the Fleet, fines and penalties imposed, a fair reflection of the work at the Guildhall in keeping the money market of the city healthy and vigorous.
Urswicke, who was as skilled in chancery matters as any royal clerk, swiftly sifted through the different manuscripts. Now and again he would rise and stretch and sip from the jug of wine one of the scriveners kindly brought up. Time passed, marked by the tolling of city bells. When the Angelus rang, Urswicke went out to a nearby cook-shop for a soft, freshly baked pastry filled with spiced meat and mint. At last, late in the afternoon, Urswicke had finished his work; he found it difficult to accept the conclusions he’d reached. Nevertheless, those same conclusions rested on sound logic and hard evidence. For a while, Urswicke just sat staring at a carving on the wall as he plotted a possible resolution of the mysteries confronting him. He dearly wanted to return to the countess and question her but he dared not: his investigation was not complete because he was still deeply confused by the sequence of events over which he needed to impose order.
Urswicke eventually realised that he could do no more in the chancery office so he returned through the busy streets to The Sunne in Splendour. He passed an alehouse full of flickering lights and raucous noise. He paused, went in and stared round as he recalled The Wyvern’s Nest and Master Hempen. An ale taster came up to him with an offer of drinks. Urswicke shook his head, deep in thought, as a possible solution emerged, an idea which took root in his mind, a possibility which could be turned into a reality. He left the tavern and, hand on sword, hurried through the darkening streets, avoiding the low-hung tavern signs, keeping a wary eye on the midden heaps and the piles of night soil. He reached The Wyvern’s Nest and immediately demanded to meet Hempen. The landlord agreed, providing a secure chamber above the taproom. Once settled, Urswicke described the outlines of his plan. Hempen listened intently. When Urswicke was finished he shook his head.
‘Master Christopher,’ he whispered, ‘to kidnap a fellow taverner and his entire family, I mean …’
‘It is necessary,’ Urswicke insisted. ‘No violence, no theft. Tiptree and his family can take any moveables they wish. But they must all be removed from there and brought to comfortable but close confinement here before they are taken far away from the city. In the end, all will be well. This is for their own safety and for the enhancement of the countess’s future plans, as well as protection against Clarence discovering the truth behind what happened to his henchmen in that murder chamber.’ Urswicke undid his heavy money wallet and poured out the gold and silver coins taken from the Barnabites the previous evening. He pushed some of these across. ‘That is for your troubles. So, to quote our mistress, if it’s to be done, it’s best done quickly. In the meantime …’ Urswicke got to his feet.
‘Where are you going, Christopher?’
‘I deposited a book of hours with a goldsmith in Cheapside. I think it’s best if I brought it here. You have a secure place?’
‘Of course. An arca deep in the cellars.’ Hempen grinned and ran a finger along the red rope mark which scorched his throat. ‘Not even a rat could find it.’
‘Good. I will not be long. Hire six veterans. Have them here, visored, cowled and armed with arbalests. However,’ Urswicke went and stood over the landlord, ‘no violence! They must act as if they are the masked retainers of Richard Duke of Gloucester. Two of them must also make loud reference to being involved in the destruction of the Barnabites out at St Vedast.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve heard of that.’
‘Never mind the details, gather your men. I must meet them cowled and visored here in this chamber.’
By the time Urswicke had returned to The Wyvern’s Nest and placed the precious book of hours in the arca, Hempen had assembled six former soldiers skilled in dagger play and the use of both bow and arbalest. They gathered with head and faces hidden, dark shadows in the flickering light of the lanternhorn that Hempen placed at the centre of the table. Urswicke, his face also hidden, laid out some of the coins he had shown Hempen. He could tell from their sharp gasps that these men had never seen such wealth. Urswicke made them pledge their loyalty. After this was completed, he delivered his instructions, ensuring that they all understood.
Once the curfew bell had sounded and the belfry lights glowed from the city steeples, they would move to The Sunne in Splendour. Clarence had withdrawn his henchmen but Urswicke warned his coven they might have to deal with any guard or spy left to watch the tavern. Their first task was to assemble Tiptree and his entire household. They must also give the impression that they were Richard of Gloucester’s men and let slip that they may have also been responsible for the destruction of St Vedast. On no account must they harm anyone, unless to defend themselves.
Once he had the confirmation of their agreement, Urswicke assured them they would be paid immediately on their return. The clerk left them in the chamber and went down to the arca; he wanted to make sure that the book of hours would remain safe and he’d glimpsed an entry on the inside of the front cover which had intrigued him. He was surprised that Mauclerc had left the book of hours in the chancery chamber but, there again, other items had been left and Mauclerc, hardly a man of prayer, would find nothing interesting in a psalter. Urswicke returned to Hempen and his party. They declared they were ready so Urswicke led them out into the street.
The night was dark, an ideal time for any ambuscade, the thin sliver of moon hidden by thick clouds. The city watch tramped the streets but they would have no quarrel with a group of well-armed men slipping through the dark. London was now occupied by the court and the city was accustomed to the great lords sending out their retainers to perform all sorts of tasks. Urswicke was confident that they would not be interfered with and they weren’t. They reached The Sunne in Splendour and swiftly scaled the tavern wall, dropping down onto the cobbles. Of course the kennel dogs were aroused but, being fed juicy scraps of meat, were soon soothed and quietened. The men then hurried across to a narrow postern door leading to the kitchen and scraped on this. Urswicke held his breath as he heard stumbling footsteps. Again he scratched on the wood as if one of the kennel dogs had broken free and was clawing at the door. Bolts were drawn and a sleepy, heavy-eyed spit-boy. who slept beneath the kitchen table, opened the door and peered out.
Urswicke grabbed him, stifling his mouth and whispering that he would be safe as long as he kept quiet. The spit-boy nodded his agreement. Urswicke pushed him back into the kitchen, the others gathering around him. Urswicke swiftly established that there were no guests or any of Clarence’s retainers present. He urged his followers, ‘for the sake of their Lord Richard to be careful, as he did not wish a repetition of what had happened at St Vedast’s’. At Urswicke’s urging, Hempen and his men spread out through the tavern, securing the doors and bringing Minehost Tiptree, his family and servants down into the taproom. They huddled in a cowed, frightened group. Urswicke separated Tiptree and his family from the rest, who were taken to be held in the buttery. Once they had gone, Urswicke crouched before Tiptree, keeping both visor and hood covering his head and face.
‘Listen Master Tiptree,’ he urged, ‘and heed my advice. If you do, you and your beloved,’ he pointed at the landlord’s wife who sat terrified beside her husband, ‘I assure you,’ Urswicke continued, ‘will be taken to a place of safety. So first you must collect all your moveables, items you can easily carry: monies, precious objects. Go, do this now. We will look after your family until you return.’
Urswicke stretched out a hand and patted one of Tiptree’s four children on his greasy head.
‘Why?’ Tiptree blurted out. ‘Why all this? Who sent you?’
‘I am your saviour, Master Tiptree,’ Urswicke replied. ‘You owe me your life and
the lives of your family. You must accept that as God’s own truth because, if my Lord of Clarence and his henchman Mauclerc discovered what you really did, you and your entire household would suffer the most excruciating deaths.’
Tiptree grew suitably frightened, very subdued. Urswicke realised he’d hit his mark. Tiptree did not bemoan his situation as he and his family were swiftly hustled out along the streets to The Wyvern’s Nest. Indeed, over the next few days, the taverner fully reconciled himself to his fate. He soothed and comforted his family and fully cooperated with Urswicke and Hempen, even though he, his wife and children were confined to two chambers on the first gallery of The Wyvern’s Nest. Urswicke suspected that Tiptree would become very aware that his captors knew the full truth about what had happened at The Sunne in Splendour. Tiptree would never plot to escape so Urswicke decided to leave Hempen in charge, instructing the landlord that Tiptree and his family must still be kept in close confinement; they must never see the faces of their captors or discover who was their principal abductor.
Satisfied and reassured, Urswicke returned to The Sunne in Splendour to find everything in confusion. The disappearance of Tiptree had caused the tavern to be closed, the servants being unable even to buy purveyance or, because of the rules of the guild, serve ales and wine. The tavern was barricaded up except for the side door through which Urswicke had entered on the night of the abduction. He went in along to the taproom. Mauclerc was there, his face mottled with fury.
‘St Vedast has been razed to the ground,’ he raged. ‘The Barnabites who sheltered there are dead. God knows what happened to their possessions or what they hid away. The Three Kings lie murdered along with Oudenarde. Now Tiptree and his family have been abducted. I talked to the other servants and they claim my beloved brother, Richard of Gloucester’s retainers were responsible,’ he gestured around, ‘for all this, as well as the destruction at St Vedast.’