by Paul Doherty
‘Woe to the realm when the king is a child,’ Malmesbury intoned. ‘This –’ he tapped the table, burping gently between his words – ‘is the cause of all our ills!’
Athelstan, knowing what he did about these men, felt his stomach turn. He would have left them but, fascinated by their hypocrisy, watched and waited. Only now and again did their fear of the murder of their companions show. A clerk, with a snivelling face and lank greasy hair, asked who the murderer could be. Malmesbury glared at him like a frightened rabbit and dug his face into his cup, whilst Aylebore drew the conversation on to other matters. Every so often one of them would go out to the latrines. Athelstan noticed with some amusement how all three knights had hired burly servitors to guard them. As Aylebore returned, hastily fastening his points, Athelstan was waiting for him, just within the door.
‘You have bought yourself protection, Sir Humphrey?’
The knight lifted his beery, slobbery face. ‘Well, much good you are,’ he sneered. He paused to loosen the belt round his girth. ‘Can’t even have a piss without someone watching your back.’
He would have moved on, but Athelstan blocked his way. The sneer died on Aylebore’s face.
‘If you are so frightened,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘why not go back to Shropshire?’
Sir Humphrey glanced away, his face sodden with drink.
‘Or confess your secret sin,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly.
Aylebore’s head swung round, eyes stony.
‘Confess to the murders of those men,’ Athelstan whispered, his gaze not wavering. ‘Do you remember, Sir Humphrey? The peasant leaders who wanted to better themselves, but whom you and your companions executed, or should I say murdered, in the pursuit of your own selfish interests!’
Aylebore’s face turned ugly, yet Athelstan saw the fear in his eyes.
‘Confess,’ Athelstan repeated.
Aylebore pushed his face close to Athelstan, who did not flinch at the burst of fetid breath from the man’s mouth.
‘If I had to confess anything, Father,’ Aylebore hissed, ‘then it wouldn’t be to you. And if I killed, then I did so in the name of a cause you wouldn’t understand.’
Athelstan stepped back. ‘Oh, I understand you completely, Sir Humphrey. It’s a devil I meet every day. It goes under different names: jealousy, envy, anger, the lust for power.’
Aylebore was about to reply, but Malmesbury called him over. The knights shouldered roughly by, and Athelstan drew his breath in.
‘I tried, Lord,’ he whispered. ‘There’s little more I can do!’
He went across the taproom and up the stairs to his own chamber. Only then did he realise how frightening his confrontation with Aylebore had been. He found it difficult to pray, still repelled by the evil ugliness in the knight’s face. Athelstan lay down on the bed and tried to control his breathing, diverting his mind by imagining he was in St Erconwald’s, praying before the altar. At last he grew calm, his eyes heavy with sleep. As he began to doze, images floated through his mind, and Athelstan was almost off to sleep when he realised what was missing from Harnett’s room. The friar sat up on the bed.
‘It can’t be! Surely?’ He spoke into the darkness. ‘Those two items were missing!’
He got to his feet, went across to the table and, lighting a candle, picked up his quill from the writing-tray. Athelstan worked till the early hours, listing everything that had happened since they had arrived at the Gargoyle and, on another sheet of vellum, the names of everyone he had met. Only as he lay down to snatch a little sleep did vague suspicions become much clearer.
The next morning Athelstan felt sluggish and heavy-eyed. He celebrated his daily Mass in one of the side chapels of the abbey, politely answering Father Benedict’s inquiries. Afterwards, he hastened back to the Gargoyle, broke his fast, and went out to stand by the river where Cranston later found him.
‘We have to go soon, Brother.’ He clasped the friar’s shoulder and turned him round. ‘What is it, Athelstan? You look as if you have hardly slept.’ He grasped the friar’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I know you,’ Cranston continued excitedly, his face beaming with pleasure. ‘You have begun to unravel this mystery, haven’t you?’
‘I am not sure, Sir John.’ Athelstan looked towards the rising sun. ‘But shouldn’t we be away to join the regent’s procession?’
‘Pshaw!’ Cranston made a movement with his hand. ‘The good news, Brother, is that the regent does not expect us to be part of it. We are to await him in the cloisters after the king has addressed the Commons.’
They returned to the tavern, where Athelstan mysteriously wandered off, telling Sir John not to worry, that he wouldn’t go far. Cranston knew enough about his secretarius not to question him further. Athelstan would worry at something, closing his mind to everything, including Sir John’s insistent questions.
An hour later Athelstan, washed, shaved and dressed in his best gown, knocked on Cranston’s door. The coroner, who had been waiting impatiently, did not bother to ask any questions, but immediately hurried him down and out into the abbey grounds. Athelstan had never seen so many soldiers congregating in one place, not only guards and archers, but men-at-arms and knight bannerets from the royal household filled the cloisters and the gardens. Cranston had to exert all his authority, calling on Coverdale to help. At last they managed to fight their way through to the vestibule, which was thronged with courtiers, chamberlains, pages and squires, resplendent in Gaunt’s livery, the blue, red and gold of the royal household. Coverdale who had led them there, pointed to the closed doors of the chapter-house.
‘The regent is within,’ he murmured, ‘and has already spoken to the members. Now the young king has begun.’ He paused as a great roar of approval, followed by cheering and clapping, came from the chapter-house.
‘The young king has been well received,’ Coverdale declared.
Athelstan recalled Richard’s ivory face framed by that beautiful blond hair, those brilliant blue eyes, his ever-ready smile and innate tact and courtesy, Athelstan knew such acclaim would not be difficult for the young king.
‘Just like his father, the Black Prince,’ Cranston growled. ‘Every man loved him, no man ever spoke ill about him.’
Athelstan nodded tactfully and stared up at the face of a gargoyle. He didn’t wish to contradict Cranston, who had been the most fervent supporter of the young king’s father. Nevertheless, Athelstan had heard the stories about the Black Prince’s cruelties in France, particularly at Limoges, where he had allowed women and children to starve in a freezing city ditch. Indeed, Athelstan had the same reservations about the young king. Too beautiful, he thought, too sweet to be wholesome. Athelstan had not been beguiled by those beautiful eyes and gracious smiles. Never before in one so young had Athelstan glimpsed such a darkness, which sprang from Richard’s deep and lasting hatred for his uncle the regent.
Athelstan glanced back at the chapter-house as he heard the Commons give another roar of approval, followed by the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands. This went on for some time. A brief silence was broken by the shrill blast of trumpets. The doors to the chapter-house swung open. Two heralds in cloth of gold walked out, each carried a silver trumpet; after every few steps they stopped and blew a fanfare. Behind them came a knight banneret in shining Milanese armour. He carried his drawn sword up before his face, as a priest would a crucifix. Chamberlains began to clear the vestibule as the king, dressed in a brilliant silver gown decorated with golden fleur-de-Iys, left the chapter-house, his hand clasping that of his uncle. Both princes were smiling at each other and at the crowd which thronged there. If he hadn’t known better, Athelstan would have thought Gaunt and Richard were the mutually doting father and son. Behind the king came more knights and officials, then the mass of the Commons, some of them still shouting, ‘Vivat! Vivat Rex!’
‘We’d best leave,’ Cranston urged. ‘Gaunt told us to meet him outside the doors of the abbey where the king has agreed to tou
ch some poor men ill with the scofula.’
Athelstan followed him out of the cloisters and round to a specially prepared area before the abbey’s great doors. Here, workmen from the royal household had set up a dais covered in purple woollen rugs. In the centre were two chairs of state. On each corner of the dais stood a knight of the royal household holding banners depicting the royal arms, as well as the insignia of John of Gaunt. Archers wearing the livery of the white hart had now cordoned this place off. The crowds milled there, pressed against this wall of steel, eager to catch a glimpse of their king. Cranston had a word with the royal serjeant who led them into the royal enclosure. They had to wait a further half an hour before the king, still grasping his uncle’s hand, finished his procession round the abbey and came out through the main doors to be greeted by a rapturous roar from the crowd. Once they were seated, flanked and surrounded by officials and knights of the royal household, Gaunt smiled and beckoned Cranston forward. Both Sir John and Athelstan knelt on cushions before the chairs of state, each kissing the ring of the king and the regent in turn. Richard, despite the majesty and solemnity of the occasion, did not stand on idle ceremony but clapped his hands boyishly.
‘Oh, don’t kneel, Sir John!’ he exclaimed. ‘You may stand -and you, Brother Athelstan.’ He leaned forward and whispered, ‘If I had my way you would sit beside me: one on my right and one on my left. Wouldn’t that be appropriate, dearest Uncle?’
‘Beloved Nephew,’ Gaunt smiled back, ‘Sir John and Brother Athelstan are two of your most loyal subjects.’ He waved elegantly towards the crowd. ‘But there are hundreds more waiting to greet you.’
The king refused to shift his gaze. ‘They can wait. They can wait!’ Richard snapped furiously.
For a few seconds the smile faded. Athelstan stared into those blue eyes and knew that the young king would use this meeting to taunt and bait his uncle.
‘My lord Regent, you told us to be here.’ Cranston, eager not to be drawn into this deadly rivalry, declared.
‘More deaths, Sir John,’ Gaunt answered brusquely. ‘More deaths amongst the Commons, which does not make our task easier.’
‘What deaths are these?’ the king interrupted.
‘Beloved Nephew, I have told you already. Certain knights of the shire have been barbarously murdered. So far,’ Gaunt murmured, glaring at Cranston, ‘little has been done either to stop them or to unmask the assassin.’
The king, bored and resentful at being excluded from this conversation, sat back in his chair, apparently more interested in the tassels on the sleeves of his gown.
‘Well?’ Gaunt asked.
‘My lord Regent,’ Athelstan spoke up quickly, ‘you said so far? But our business here is not finished yet.’
‘Then, when it is, please tell me,’ Gaunt snapped back.
The king suddenly leaned forward and grasped Athelstan’s sleeve. ‘I did very well in the chapter-house. I asked for the support and loyalty of my Commons.’
‘We heard the cheers, your Grace,’ Athelstan replied.
The king pulled him closer. ‘It’s Uncle they don’t like,’ he whispered loudly. ‘I think if I had asked for the moon they would have given me it.’
‘They may ask for the removal of the lord Coroner,’ Gaunt taunted back. ‘There were complaints, your Grace, at the terrible murders being committed here in the abbey.’
The king’s mood abruptly changed. He made a cutting movement with his hand.
‘Sir John Cranston is the king’s coroner in London,’ he snapped. ‘And if the Commons try to remove him, I’ll break their necks!’ Richard sat forward. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, please stay with us. Uncle, if I am to touch the beggars, then let’s have it done quickly!’
Gaunt snapped his fingers; Athelstan and Cranston stood back. There were more trumpet blasts, and royal heralds began to usher up towards the dais a line of ragged, poor men and women, eager for the king’s touch on their heads. These were even more appreciative of the silver piece, bread and wine distributed by royal servitors from a table behind the dais. Cranston and Athelstan watched the beggars shuffle through. Some had made a pathetic attempt to wash or change, but they all looked unkempt and dirty with straggly, greasy hair and pinched narrow faces. Some of them had open sores on their hands and feet. Many didn’t even wear shoes or sandals. Nevertheless, each came forward and knelt on the cushions before the king’s chair. Athelstan had to admire how the young king hid his personal feelings behind a show of concern. The king would smile at each beggar, lean forward, and sketch a cross on their foreheads. Now and again he would clasp a hand or whisper a few words of encouragement. The beggar, his eyes shining with gratitude, would be led off around the dais for more practical help.
The line seemed endless. Athelstan, watching them intently, regretted that some of the beggars from his own parish were not there. He noticed two men edging their way forward. There was something familiar about them. They seemed more purposeful than those who had gone before. Athelstan watched the shorter one in particular and felt his stomach lurch: the man with his bloodless lips, ever-flickering eyes, broken nose and a scar just under his left eye! Was he not one of those who, according to Joscelyn the taverner, met Pike the ditcher in the Piebald tavern? Athelstan turned to Cranston, but the coroner was now deep in conversation with one of the knights whom he had apparently known in former days. Athelstan tugged at his sleeve but Cranston just shook him off.
‘Sir John, I think . . .’ Athelstan now gripped the coroner’s arm.
‘For the love of God, Brother, what is it?’
Athelstan pointed to the man. ‘Sir John, I do not think he is a beggar.’
Cranston caught the alarm in Athelstan’s voice, as did his companion. However, as both men moved forward, the beggar, instead of kneeling on the cushion, suddenly drew a dagger, lunging in a cutting arc at the king’s face. Richard fell back, but Gaunt was quick to react. Athelstan had never seen a knife drawn so fast. The beggar was bringing his hand back for a second blow when Gaunt sprang forward and, with two hands, drove his own dagger into the beggar’s chest. The would-be assassin staggered back, blood spurting from his mouth and wound, even as squires and knights recovered from the shock of what was happening. The knifeman turned, mouth gaping, falling against his companion, who shook him off and tried to run back into the crowd.
Gaunt again responded rapidly. An archer had run forward, arrow to his bow string: Gaunt grabbed this, brought the bow up, the long, quilled shaft caught between his fingers. The beggar’s companion was running back through the crowd which parted before him. The regent stood as if carved out of stone, the bow held finnly in his hand. There was a twang and the goose-feathered arrow caught the fugitive just beneath the neck, driving hard into his flesh. He staggered: took one, two more steps. He slumped to his knees then fell to one side.
Chaos and consternation broke out. Knights hurried up, forming a shield wall round the young king. Captains and serjeants barked out orders. Those beggars who had not yet reached the royal throne were brutally beaten off. Men-at-arms ran up, pikes lowered, archers took up positions behind them as Gaunt grabbed the young king who sat frozen in fear. The royal party, Cranston and Athelstan included, retreated back into the abbey, the great doors slamming shut behind them.
‘So quickly!’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Sir John, so quickly! One minute all was calm, with the king delivering his touch…’
He’d have gone towards the king, around whom courtiers were thronging, but Cranston pulled him back. ‘Leave it be, Brother,’ he advised. ‘They will allow no one near the king.’
Gaunt was now imposing order, shouting at captains, cursing their lack of vigilance, issuing instructions that the king should be taken immediately to the Tower. Heralds went outside to restore order and ask the crowd to wait. Athelstan heard the trumpet blasts and the shouts of the herald over the noise of the crowd. At last some sort of order was imposed, and Gaunt swept out of the abbey to address the crowd, pro
claiming in sharp, quick sentences that, due to God’s good grace, their young king was unscathed and his would-be murderers sent to hell. Even as he spoke, the regent’s exploits in saving his young nephew appeared to be known by all. As Cranston and Athelstan slipped quietly up a transept, they could hear the roars of the crowd and their cheering at the speed and bravery of the regent.
‘You said you recognised the would-be assassin?’ Cranston asked.
‘I have seen him in Southwark,’ Athelstan replied defensively. ‘He had a reputation as a troublemaker.’
Cranston nodded. However, once they were outside the abbey, in a small alleyway leading down to the Gargoyle, he pulled the friar into the shadow of a doorway.
‘He was one of those leaders of the Great Community of the Realm, wasn’t he?’ Cranston asked. ‘One of those idiots with whom Pike the ditcher consorts.’
Athelstan caught Cranston’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Don’t ever repeat what I say, Sir John,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Pike is a fool, a drunkard, a blabber, but he’s no traitor or murderer. He had no hand in this.’ He drew his breath in sharply. ‘However, our regent did!’
‘In God’s name, Brother!’
Athelstan took a step back and stared down the alleyway.
‘Sir John, think,’ he said softly. ‘How did those assassins get so close? And don’t you think the regent acted quickly?’ Athelstan smiled bleakly. ‘Sir John, mark my words. Within the hour Gaunt will be the hero of London, and who will resist him then?’
CHAPTER 14
At the Gargoyle, Athelstan acted even more strangely. He made his excuses to Cranston and went up to his own chamber. This time Athelstan was determined not to tell his companion the conclusions he had reached. Instead he studied everything he had listed the night before. Certain facts he scored time and again with a quill: the black dirt under Bouchon’s fingernails; the knight’s abrupt departure; Harnett leaving the brothel; his journey down to the river; and, above all, what was missing from Harnett’s room. Athelstan placed his quill down.