The Godless

by Paul Doherty

  ‘We have demanded their surrender,’ Flaxwith hissed, ‘but all we received in reply was a hail of arrows, yard-long shafts. Whoever hides there has skilled bowmen in their company.’

  As if in answer to this, a shutter on the top floor of the mansion was abruptly flung back and three arrows hissed swiftly through the air, forcing the Tower archers back into the protection of their own hiding places. The arrows, undoubtedly loosed by long bows, smashed into the plaster and wood around those laying siege. A voice screamed something and the shutters were hastily pulled back before Cranston’s bowmen could even aim and loose. A Tower archer hurried at a half-crouch out to a narrow alleyway further along; he almost threw himself into the doorway where Cranston and his party were sheltering.

  ‘Captain Armitage is ready, Sir John.’

  ‘Then tell our noble captain of archers to begin our attack, but slowly, the shield men first.’

  The soldier nodded, gaspingly repeating Cranston’s instruction before he hurried back, narrowly missing another volley of shafts loosed from the windows of the mansion opposite.

  ‘Let’s wait and see,’ Cranston whispered. ‘It’s a question of slowly, slowly.’

  Athelstan, the sweat cooling on his skin, peered down towards the mouth of the alleyway where the archer had returned. A trumpet brayed shrilly and a cohort of hobelars carrying huge kite shields debouched out of the alleyway. They held their shields up and slowly began to form an interlocking wall at least twelve men long. Again the trumpets shrilled. The line advanced slowly across the square, Tower archers fanned out behind them. More trumpet sounded. The phalanx was now a moving shield wall of armed men. They shuffled forwards; behind them trailed a group of men-at-arms, pushing and pulling a small trebuchet, its sling already pulled back, taut and tight, its cup primed with rags and shards of wood coated in oil and tar. The phalanx crept closer to the mansion opposite; its shutters were abruptly thrown back. A rain of arrows fell but they either missed their mark or thundered into the shield wall; this parted to allow Tower bowmen to race forward and loose, in some cases, with deadly effect. Athelstan saw one of the enemy tumble from an open window, arrow shafts in his chest and belly. The phalanx edged closer. An archer, following the trebuchet, now lit the oil-soaked mass in its cup. Flames flared high. A horn sounded. The phalanx stopped. The trebuchet was positioned more carefully to the screech of rope, wood and iron. A shouted order and the cup was released, a heavy, heart-jarring sound followed by a resounding thud as the throwing arm met its cushioned barrier. The fiery bundle that the trebuchet loosed streaked across the square and crashed through an open window of the mansion opposite.

  The Tower archers now had the upper hand, confidently moving forward whilst the trebuchet’s constant hail of fire set the entire building alight. Indeed, the flames flared so fiercely, the heat grew so intense, that Cranston ordered a recall and the shield men carefully fell back. The derelict mansion was now completely torched. Cranston noted how every entrance to the sides or rear of the building was closely guarded: those who sheltered within would either have to surrender or be burnt to death.

  The smoke and flame grew more intense. Suddenly a window opened and a white cloth fluttered to the ground. Athelstan watched as the door to the mansion swung open. Smoke billowed around, almost shrouding the figures who staggered out, led by a man carrying a crucifix, the symbol of total surrender. Athelstan calculated there were about eight men still walking and these helped others who appeared to be sorely wounded. They were weaponless and their leader, whom Athelstan thought he recognized, shouted for water and help for the wounded. Tower archers hurried forward, forcing the surrendered men to kneel with their hands behind their backs. Cranston ordered a bucket of water to be passed along the line. The prisoners were also helped by others. Father Ambrose appeared, accompanied by Mistress Alice, Moleskin and Falaise. The bargemen explained how this square was part of St Olave’s parish, so they had a duty to assist any hue and cry. Cranston agreed and told them to give whatever assistance was necessary. Ambrose and Mistress Alice immediately knelt before the wounded, offering whatever help they could, both physical and spiritual. Athelstan, too, made to assist, but the priest, eyes brimming with tears, just smiled.

  ‘These poor souls,’ he murmured, ‘are in great distress.’ He placed a hand on a wounded man sprawled on the cobbles, a bubbling wound to his throat. An arrow had pierced the back of the man’s neck and, in his agony, he must have broken half of it off, but the barbed arrow point had dug deep. Mistress Alice knelt on the other side of the man. She looked pleadingly at Athelstan and pointed at two other wounded further along the line, one of whom was thrashing about in pain. Athelstan, assisted by a Tower archer, did what he could, aware of Cranston striding about trying to impose order. The fire was allowed to burn. The square was sealed off and a cart arrived to collect the dead. The rest of the prisoners were given water and a small loaf of bread. Athelstan distributed these, studying the prisoners closely; all of them looked harassed, tired and desperate, their clothing nothing more than a motley collection of rags, though their boots, swordbelts and other harness of war, piled beneath the statue of St Dismas, looked sturdy enough. The prisoners were difficult to distinguish; their hair was thick, long and matted, their faces almost hidden by bushy moustache and beard.

  ‘Follow me,’ Cranston whispered, plucking at Athelstan by the sleeve. He pushed the friar to a man in the centre of the line of prisoners, a tall, bulky individual who raised his head and grinned at Athelstan.

  ‘Do you recognize me, Brother?’

  ‘Of course I do. As soon as I clapped eyes on you. Simon Grindcobbe!’ Athelstan exclaimed. The friar stared in shocked disbelief at a man who, only months earlier, had wielded as much power as John of Gaunt. Grindcobbe had been a founder member and leader of the Great Community of the Realm. A true prince amongst the Upright Men, with tens of thousands of peasants waiting to do his will, not to mention the Earthworms – the Upright Men’s fierce street warriors – here in London.

  ‘Don’t be shocked,’ Grindcobbe peered up at Athelstan. ‘Such is life, friar. Our world has changed. The wheel has turned. Mistress Fortune has shaken her cup for another throw and it looks as if the meek will not inherit the Earth.’

  ‘You weren’t so meek months ago.’ Cranston pushed back his beaver-skin hat and scratched the sweat beads, pausing to roar orders at the archers still clearing away all the detritus of the recent battle. Cranston took off his hat and beat it against his leg as he looked up and down the line of prisoners.

  ‘They are all here,’ he declared, ‘the dukes and earls of the great peasant army. Look around, Brother, as you do too, Master Grindcobbe: this is what it has come to.’

  The friar muttered his agreement. Cranston was correct. All the dreams, all the high-sounding phrases of the Upright Men were now nothing but dust in the wind, finally crushed in a squalid, sordid street fight. The Court of Thieves now looked desolate. The dead had been carted away. A local physician had been summoned and, assisted by Father Ambrose, Mistress Alice and the rest, was tending to the wounded prisoners, forcing wine laced with a coarse opiate into the mouths of the injured. The fire in the blazing mansion was burning down, the timber and plaster crackling and crashing in the heat. The dark pall of smoke slowly thinning.

  ‘They are all here,’ the coroner continued, ‘at least those who survived the Great Revolt and the hangings which took place afterwards.’ He gestured along the line. ‘Robin of the Greenwood, Little John, Friar Tuck, Will Scarlett, and all the other fairy names they assumed to disguise their true identity. Oh yes, little monk.’

  ‘Friar, Sir John.’

  ‘Whatever, my friend. Anyway, I doubt if any of these know anything about the Oriflamme, La Chèvre Dansante or that ill-named war-barge, Le Sans Dieu, as Monseigneur Hugh Levigne is about to discover.’

  The Candelight-Master, escorted by a group of Luciferi, swaggered across the square. Levigne nodded at Cranston, then squatted dow
n to question a prisoner, speaking softly in English and French, but all he received in reply was a shake of the head and whispered abuse. Levigne rose and strode over to Sir John, languidly throwing back his cloak to reveal the hilt of a thin, rapier-like war sword. He stopped before Cranston and Athelstan and gave a mocking bow.

  ‘Sir John,’ he smiled, ‘it seems we were both misled. These men are your concern, not mine. They have nothing to do with the Oriflamme or any crime in France. We were tricked.’

  ‘It’s called buying a horse without riding it,’ Cranston retorted. ‘We were sold dross for gold and I wonder why. Let us see if the Oracle will speak.’ Cranston went and crouched before Grindcobbe, who lifted his bound hands in greeting.

  ‘Well, Sir John? How did you know?’

  ‘We didn’t. We were searching for the Oriflamme.’

  ‘Never heard of him but, if the French are interested, then I suspect it’s something to do with the ravages carried out by our great lords in France. Our allies there, the Jacquerie, claim that the savagery of our Masters of the Soil in France was even more devastating than here. It must be. We’ve heard rumours about the French hunting down certain individuals, but that’s just babble in the taverns.’ Grindcobbe sat back on his heels, licking dry, cracked lips. ‘Ah well, Sir John, the day is done and we are for the dark.’

  ‘You were preparing to flee?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You have money, treasure hidden away?’

  ‘Of course.’ The former rebel leader nodded towards the smouldering ruins of the mansion. ‘Our monies are probably molten metal by now.’

  ‘You were going to flee by ship?’

  ‘No, Sir John, the Angel Gabriel was to take us across the Narrow Seas in the shadow of his wings.’

  ‘Which ship were you leaving on?’

  Grindcobbe just grinned.

  ‘Which ship?’ Cranston insisted. ‘Who was going to help you?’

  Again the grin.

  ‘Very well.’ Cranston rose to his feet and stared around. ‘Brother Athelstan, this is finished but my suspicions are aroused. All these mysteries seem to revolve around the Queenhithe sept of the Guild of the Bargemen and their meeting place at The Leviathan. So,’ he shouted at Flaxwith to summon Tiptoft, ‘let us hold court in that taproom.’

  John Falaise, former member of the free company which served on the war-barge Le Sans Dieu, now a worthy bargeman, knelt in front of the statue in the narrow lady altar to the left of the main sanctuary in St Olave’s. The ancient church, as always, was dark and shadow-filled. A few torches danced in the icy breeze which pierced beneath doors and through window shutters. Apart from their flickering flames and the light of tapers burning on their spigots in the chantry chapel, there was very little light. Nothing to fend off the encroaching darkness. Falaise, however, welcomed the sombre silence. He needed to reflect and so plan a way forward. He could not believe what had happened. Grindcobbe and his henchmen seized and taken up, their planned escape on board a Flemish cog completely frustrated. Who had betrayed them? Falaise had visited the Court of Thieves. He had learnt the rumours that both the French and Cranston believed the Oriflamme and his henchmen had been hiding in a derelict mansion. Who had caused all this confusion? Who had sent misleading information to both the coroner and the French ambassador? Who was behind this chaos? Falaise rubbed his face. He had always regretted his past. He and his comrades had perpetrated sins of deep scarlet. They had shed innocent blood. True, he and other members of the free company had not joined the Oriflamme in his disgusting treatment of women prisoners but, there again, they had done nothing to prevent it.

  ‘We did nothing wrong,’ Falaise whispered to the darkness as he got to his feet. ‘But we did nothing right.’

  Falaise paused to light a taper before the wooden statue carved in the likeness of Our Lady of Walsingham. He was still deeply distracted. Why had the Oriflamme reappeared now? More importantly, who had betrayed the Upright Men? Most of the guild members in the parish of St Olave’s, including their priest, had been secret members of the Great Community of the Realm and had counted themselves as Upright Men. The sept had certainly known how truly desperate Grindcobbe and the others were to escape. Nevertheless, only Falaise had been privy to the actual details of how and when the Upright Men would leave. He had bought supplies from Mistress Alice for Grindcobbe and the rest, but that was all.

  So who had been behind their betrayal, and why? It must have been the Oriflamme, but who was that monster? He and his henchmen always hid from the light, their identity and appearance cunningly concealed. Indeed, was the hideous abomination who now prowled along the Thames the same malefactor who had carried out similar outrages in Normandy? What proof did they have that it was? Falaise went back to his prayers, pleading for a remedy for the fear curdling in his stomach. He desperately tried to list all those who might have known about Grindcobbe. Falaise broke from his prayers to sip at the deep-bowled goblet of Bordeaux from the wineskin kept there in the nave. So caught up was he in his drunken anxiety, Falaise was totally unaware of the sinister figure who stood in the deep shadows of the nave. A dreadful apparition dressed in a woman’s gown, face hidden by a white mask, with a fiery red wig pulled down tight over its head.

  Cranston and Athelstan sat in the sacristy at St Olave’s. The friar gazed round at those assembled by Master Tiptoft: Hornsby, Desant and Cromer, together with their priest Father Ambrose and Mistress Alice. Moleskin had also been summoned, along with a disgruntled and sullen Senlac. He vociferously objected to being there until the coroner shouted at him to be quiet or he would personally ensure Senlac was flung into Newgate’s filthiest dungeon for being grossly contemptible towards a royal justice. Senlac now sat, silent and morose. Cranston, enthroned at the top of the sacristy table, clapped his hands, shouting for silence.

  ‘First,’ the coroner declared, pointing at Senlac, ‘does anyone here, including you Moleskin, recognize this man as a soldier who served on Le Sans Dieu? Is he a former member of your free company?’

  A chorus of immediate denial greeted the coroner’s question, Moleskin adding that few people, if any in St Erconwald’s parish, remembered either Senlac or his father.

  ‘Why are we here?’ Hornsby spluttered, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he gazed around, ‘where is Falaise? Why isn’t he here?’

  Hornsby’s weather-beaten face was deeply petulant, a mood shared by his comrades. Any further conversation was stilled by the booming of the church bell.

  ‘In God’s name,’ Father Ambrose rose, ‘Mistress Alice come, let us see what is happening.’ He bowed towards the coroner. ‘Some alley urchin must have forced their way into the bell tower. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, please excuse us. We will soon be back.’

  Both priest and taverner hurried out of the sacristy.

  ‘We shall continue,’ Cranston declared. ‘Let us cut to the quick. We were given information, wrong as it now proves, that the Oriflamme and his henchmen, whoever they might be, were hiding in a derelict mansion overlooking the Court of Thieves. In fact, that house was the refuge of former Upright Men desperate to flee across the Narrow Seas. They were betrayed, I suspect by the Oriflamme, who is now baiting us as well as slaying whores and,’ Cranston patted Athelstan’s arm, ‘according to my learned colleague here, the criminal is also responsible for the murder of a poor beggar out at St Erconwald’s. Now …’

  Cranston broke off at a piercing scream which echoed down the nave, followed by the patter of footsteps. The sacristy door was thrown open and Alice flung herself into the room. She stood half bent, hands on knees, gasping for breath.

  ‘In heaven’s name, woman!’ Cranston exclaimed.

  ‘Falaise,’ she gasped, ‘Falaise has hanged himself, or so it seems.’

  Cranston and Athelstan, followed by the rest, hurried out of the sacristy and down the nave into the dusty, ancient bell tower. There was a spiral staircase, its narrow steps twis
ting up behind the bell rope; Falaise had used this to hang himself. Apparently he had tied the end of the bell cord around his throat and slipped off the high, narrow ledge step, the rope swiftly tightening around his throat. He might have tried to regain his footing, but the knot he’d tied was twisted and hard as stone and could not be loosened. The bell rope, hanging straight down, was so tight and taut that the hapless victim could not move to a very steep higher step, its stonework crumbling, without worsening his situation. Father Ambrose was already murmuring the words of absolution in the dead man’s ear.

  Athelstan waited until the priest had finished, whispering to Cranston to impose order. The coroner told the others to withdraw and tell any parishioners alarmed by the bell to return to their homes. Athelstan pushed by the hanged man, quietly apologizing to Ambrose as he went up the steep steps towards the bell chamber. He rounded a corner and his gaze was immediately caught by a gargoyle, a monkey, carved in stone with a human body, perched on a plinth beside the door to the belfry. An identical one stood on the other side. Both small statues had been adorned with fiery red curls, which rendered them even more ghastly. Athelstan stared at the macabre scene before hurrying back down the steps.

  ‘This is no suicide,’ he whispered when he reached the bottom. ‘Let us cut the body down.’

  He and Cranston, assisted by Father Ambrose, severed the oily, twisted bell rope. Athelstan tried not to stare at the murdered man’s stricken features, the purple tinge to the face transformed by all the horrors of sudden death; eyes dead and glassy, the much-bitten tongue greatly swollen. Cranston cursed as he fought to sever the hard, oil-soaked rope. But at last he did, and Athelstan had to turn away at the dead man’s last gasp and the stink of his stomach being emptied. Athelstan composed himself, asking both coroner and priest to stand aside as he crouched down and studied the dead man’s wrists. There was no sign or trace of binding or any ligature, though the tips of the dead man’s fingers and nails were chapped and broken, the skin rubbed raw.