The Godless

by Paul Doherty

  Benedicta squatted before the fire in Athelstan’s house. She leaned down and stirred the fiery mass of wood. Beside her, Bonaventure stretched and purred in pure contentment. The widow-woman had come out in the dark to make sure all was well. She had left most of the other parishioners seated before a roaring fire in The Piebald. The night was cold. The frost already settling. Nevertheless, accompanied by Crim, Benedicta had visited the freezing, empty church, then looked in to watch Philomel feasting on his feed before coming here. Bonaventure, of course, had been waiting, a silent shadow beside the door. Benedicta stroked the great tomcat and wondered how late Athelstan would be. She had matters to report about what had happened in the parish. In particular, she had kept a sharp eye on their visitor Senlac, yet he seemed harmless enough. True, he had protested vociferously at being summoned to the meeting at St Olave’s, yet he had returned with tales of more murder. The newcomer had quickly taken the place of honour in the inglenook at The Piebald, regaling all the customers about what he’d learnt across the river.

  Benedicta felt her mouth go dry with fear. The stories about the red-wigged slayer were spreading, and she feared for the little friar whom she loved so dearly. Benedicta had also listened very attentively to Cecily and Clarissa. Both these ladies of the night had learnt all the gory details from their sisters in the trade. This killer seemed to revel in his murderous forays. Moleskin had confessed the same. In fact, the boatman seemed completely terrified, and kept muttering about the past, about old sins pursuing him like dogs from Hell. Benedicta had encountered this sort of guilt before. The war in France had been sharp and bitter. Many men in the parish, including Watkin and Pike, had fought the length and breadth of Normandy. They had been in the free companies, cohorts of mercenaries who feared neither God nor man. They had plundered and pillaged to their hearts’ content: châteaux, churches, palaces, and even the occasional abbey or monastery. True, they were not killers, but they had wreaked hideous devastation and destruction. More significantly, they had brought their ill-gotten wealth home to finance a new trade, be it Crispin the carpenter, Simon the skinner, Beadle Bladdersmith or Merrylegs and his cook shop. Benedicta had also noticed how these men were markedly reluctant to discuss the past. They realized in their heart of hearts that, whatever their excuses, they had pillaged the property of others whose lives they had deeply blighted. Such men were reluctant to reminisce and, as Athelstan had once remarked, even more reluctant to confess such sins because, if they did, reparation would have to be made.

  The news about the Frenchman Hugh Levigne and his Luciferi had disturbed many of the parish. A new peace treaty had been reached between England and France. According to Mauger, who was an authority on everything because of his skill at reading and listening at doors, the masters at the Louvre Paris were keen on hunting down the captains of certain free companies so they could face inquisition and trial in Paris. Giles of Sempringham, the Hangman of Rochester, had also heard how the seizure of former mercenaries had taken place in his native city Canterbury, as well as other towns in the shire. So keen were the French, that they were offering bribes and concessions to Regent Gaunt and his Master of Secrets to surrender certain named individuals. Benedicta wondered what would happen.

  She stared into the fire, her eyes growing heavy. She heard a sound and started, abruptly remembering she had not locked the door behind her. Now fully awake, the sweat starting on her body, Benedicta rose and slowly turned to confront the macabre figure who stood leaning against the door. The nightmare was dressed in a woman’s long, grey gown, a thick garish wig, the colour of blood decorating its head, face covered by a ghostly white mask with gaps for eyes, nose and mouth. In one hand the dreadful visitor held a serrated dagger, in the other a coiled rope.

  ‘In God’s name,’ Benedicta gasped.

  ‘Aye, widow-woman, and in Satan’s name, I greet you.’

  The voice was that of a man, but heavily disguised, as if he had something in his mouth.

  ‘What business, sir, do you have with me?’ Benedicta fought to remain calm as she glanced to the right and left looking for a weapon; there was nothing.

  ‘Come, Benedicta.’ The dreadful apparition beckoned her close with the rope; he brought the knife up to point at her. ‘Come quietly or I will do what I have to do here. Come.’ The hideous figure moved forward. Benedicta made to lunge towards the table; her assailant stepped to one side. Benedicta swiftly turned, seizing the fire prongs, even as the door was flung open, crashing into the intruder as Crim burst into the house. The altar boy who had come to escort Benedicta, staggered and stood still, eyes startled, mouth gaping. He glanced at the widow-woman, then at the intruder, who had been knocked sideways. Crim sprang forward but the assassin shoved him away and fled out into the darkness.

  Athelstan sat in his beloved chantry chapel, deep in the northern transept of St Erconwald’s. The friar loved this little shrine to his patron saint, a place of serenity, hallowed and beautiful. The small window high in the outside wall to his left was filled with exquisitely stained glass, a gift from Sir John. The floor of the chapel was carpeted in the richest turkey rugs, deep blue and so thick, they deadened all sound. The furnishings were of the finest polished oak and elmwood, whilst the altar cross was edged in silver to match the candlesticks on the snow-white cloth. Two small braziers kept the chantry warm and sweet smelling. Indeed, it was a place, as Athelstan had confided in Cranston, which combined all the comforts, both physical and spiritual.

  Athelstan took a deep breath and stared at the carved statue of St Erconwald standing on its corner plinth to the left of the altar. He closed his eyes and prayed for strength. This most hallowed place had been grossly violated! Athelstan had returned the previous evening to find his parish in uproar over the attack on Benedicta. The friar had spent some heart-lurching moments when Watkin first informed him, but he was soon comforted that his beloved friend had escaped unscathed. Watkin had summoned a local leech, who had fed Benedicta The Piebald’s richest Bordeaux laced with an opiate. The widow-woman was now sleeping in a chamber at The Piebald, guarded by other parishioners. Athelstan had visited her as soon as he rose that morning, but Benedicta had still been sleeping, so Athelstan had continued with his parish activities.

  The friar had celebrated Godbless’s funeral mass then buried both the beggar man and the remains of his pet goat in a grave deep in God’s Acre. During the ceremony, Athelstan’s parishioners could see that their little priest was totally distracted. They did their best to assist at Godbless’s requiem; they also brought fresh news about the sleeping Benedicta but, apart from that, they had left the friar alone. Athelstan was pleased at this. He had certainly not informed his flock about the other abomination which had been perpetrated. On his return the previous evening, the friar had come into his church to douse any candles and ensure all was well. Of course he had visited the chantry chapel, and been horrified to see a grotesque red wig pulled drunkenly over the head of St Erconwald’s statue. Not only was this a sacrilege but a clear threat, a stark warning along with the assault on Benedicta that neither Athelstan – nor any of those he held dearest – were safe. Fighting the red mist which sometimes descended, Athelstan had torn the wig off and thrust it down a sewer behind the church.

  Athelstan lifted his head and smiled tearfully at the statue. ‘I am sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I truly apologize for the grievous insult offered.’ Athelstan had eventually calmed himself. He had sprinkled the statue with holy water yet the heinous insult still rankled. The friar blessed himself and closed his eyes. ‘You truly are a child of Hell,’ he whispered. ‘A treacherous demon who revels in the pain and hurt you inflict, yet you are arrogant. You have all the overweening pride of your father in Hell. You resent my interference. You believe that both me and mine should be punished for even trying to hunt you.’

  Athelstan leaned back in the celebrant’s chair. ‘So much slaughter and destruction,’ he reflected. He mentally listed the litany of bloody chaos the Or
iflamme had recently caused. The Knave of Hearts and all its crew obliterated from God’s earth. Those poor whores sent floating mockingly down the Thames. Godbless slaughtered, as if he was some offering to a pagan god. Falaise tortured until he made a mistake, slipped and strangled himself to death; those poor Upright Men, desperate to escape, now seized and destined for a hanging outside Newgate. Benedicta and Crim threatened and terrified out of their wits.

  ‘Oh, I will settle with you,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘This is usque ad mortem – to the very death.’ But whose death?

  Athelstan felt deeply threatened. He had locked himself here in this church; only the corpse door remained open. He had satisfied himself that the parish was settled, even visiting the old death house. He had found Senlac busy with the paving stones yet, as Athelstan could see, there was nothing beneath except packed earth, certainly no indication of how Godbless had been so brutally murdered. Nor did the paving stones, some of which had been lifted, conceal any secret place. Athelstan heard a sound. He rose, opened the door in the lattice screen and glimpsed a figure emerge through the darkness of the transept. At first he felt a spasm of clammy fear, but relaxed as Father Ambrose, swathed in a thick cloak, came forward, hands extended. Relieved, Athelstan clasped them in welcome, pulling the priest close to exchange the kiss of peace before ushering him into the chantry chapel. Ambrose made himself comfortable on the cushioned wall bench, pulling down the edge of his cloak and murmuring how lovely the shrine looked.

  ‘It’s so bitterly cold outside,’ the priest smiled at Athelstan, his dark, lined face becoming softer. ‘I first visited The Piebald; Moleskin informed me about what had happened.’ The priest leaned forward. ‘Athelstan, I confess to you as a fellow worker in God’s vineyard, I am truly scared. What we face—’

  ‘Is evil incarnate,’ Athelstan, still feeling waspish, finished the sentence.

  ‘I agree.’ The priest glanced away. Athelstan, regretting his sharpness, made himself more comfortable as he studied Ambrose: the black thinning hair, the healed scar to the right of his neck, the broad brow, firm chin and clever eyes. A self-composed soul, Athelstan thought, a man comfortable in his own skin.

  ‘Brother, why do you stare at me?’

  ‘Because I am curious,’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Why on earth are you here? Why cross the river in such freezing weather?’

  ‘To put it bluntly, Brother Athelstan, I am terrified. My parishioners are terrified. The Guild of Bargemen are terrified. This red-wigged killer stalks us like a weasel in a rabbit warren. Now he pursues you and yours,’ the priest pointed down the church, ‘or so they told me at The Piebald.’

  ‘And you have no suspicion about who this killer is?’

  ‘Brother, it could have been one of our former company, a member of our parish, or just a demon who’s prowled the deadlands and has now swept in to wreak vengeance on the sins of men.’

  ‘Quite poetic!’ Athelstan rejoined, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Where are you from, Father?’

  ‘Bardby in Lincolnshire. I am a son of a freeholder taken into the de Lacy array and shipped off to Normandy. Once there, I slipped away. I have some knowledge of barges and so I drifted along the Seine until I reached La Chèvre Dansante and the Flames of Hell. Though,’ he shrugged, ‘they weren’t given such a title: that came later. Anyway, I enjoyed their company and they accepted me. We camped at that sprawling tavern, our war-barge pulled up on the bank. We roistered, we revelled, then we would go on our forays.’

  ‘And the Oriflamme appeared?’

  ‘Yes, yes he did, some time before I joined the company.’ Father Ambrose sighed. ‘He apparently swaggered in, as he always did, garbed in that woman’s gown, a red wig on his head, a white mask concealing his features. He offered our company fresh fields for more plunder. He was knowledgeable and skilled about the countryside, able to converse in Norman French. He was also a deadly dagger man, sharp as any fox. He could sniff out mutiny and rebellion. As we told you, Brother, he weaved his web and held us all in fearful dread.’

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘Oh yes he did, Brother! I just wanted to have nothing to do with him, and I didn’t. I avoided any expedition led by him. I did not bother the Oriflamme. I kept a careful, still tongue in my head and so he did not bother me. A true monster, Brother, a soul full of hate who despised both priests and women; though why he did,’ Ambrose shook his head sorrowfully, ‘I just don’t know.’

  ‘And you have no physical description of him, nothing distinguishing?’

  ‘God be my witness, Brother, if I did, I would tell you.’

  ‘And so why are you here?’

  ‘As I have told you, Brother, we are terrified. I am here to seek sanctuary, both for myself and my parishioners, or at least those who belong to the sept of Barge- and Watermen. Brother, we do not feel safe. St Erconwald’s is a sanctuary church.’ Ambrose paused, drawing in his breath. He held up his right hand as if taking an oath. ‘On behalf of us all, I invoke the rights of Holy Mother Church. I claim sanctuary in these sacred precincts.’

  Athelstan was about to reply when he heard a sound from outside, as if footfalls echoed along the nave. A sharp, slithering noise followed by silence. He gestured at Ambrose to sit still and rose, carefully opening the chantry door. Athelstan hid his disquiet as he walked past the rood screen to the centre of the nave. He knew the church was locked except for the corpse door. Athelstan warily walked down to this. He was surprised to find the bolts at top and bottom drawn full across, and realized Ambrose must have locked the door behind him. Athelstan stared around but he could not see or hear anything untoward. Satisfied, he returned to the chantry chapel. Ambrose was still sitting on the bench staring down at the floor.

  ‘Father?’

  Ambrose took his hands away and lifted his head, his cheeks all tear-soaked.

  ‘I am sorry, Brother,’ he whispered, ‘but I am truly terrified. We need to bring the guild and their families here. I know St Erconwald’s has the right of sanctuary for those fleeing from the law, but it also extends the same privilege to any Christian who believes their lives are in utmost peril. Believe me, that is certainly true of myself and my parishioners. They will all come here. Mistress Alice will stay to look after the church and priest’s house. I shall also write to Master Tuddenham at the archdeacon’s chancery. I promise you, Brother …’

  He faltered and Athelstan jumped as the door to the chantry chapel was flung open and that macabre figure, so closely described by Crim, slipped like the most sinister shadow into the hallowed shrine. Athelstan made to step forward, but the nightmare visitor lifted a small arbalest, its bolt already primed, the cord winched back; the intruder also had a similar one hanging on a belt hook. Athelstan tried to remain calm as he stared at this phantasm from the realms of midnight. The dire apparition was garbed like a woman in a long grey gown, a warbelt fastened around its waist, face covered by a white mask, its head hidden under a grotesque red wig.

  ‘You are the Oriflamme?’ Athelstan whispered hoarsely, pointing at the intruder. ‘You have swept up from Hell, for that’s where you dwell.’

  The Oriflamme did not reply but advanced threateningly, raising the arbalest as he indicated that both priests should kneel. Ambrose did not move swiftly enough to join Athelstan, so the Oriflamme lashed out with a booted foot, its toe catching the priest’s knee. Ambrose groaned and hastened to obey.

  ‘Why?’ The voice grated as if he had small sponges in his mouth, the type tooth-pullers use to soak up blood when they drew a tooth. ‘Why will you not let sleeping dogs lie? Why do you interfere and try and roll back the past?’

  Athelstan heard the crossbow cord screech, followed by a thud as the bolt smashed into the plastered wall behind him.

  ‘Take that as a warning,’ the voice gasped. ‘I know you, Ambrose Rockwood, you lily-hearted bastard. You always were so, now you are a mewling priest. You can beg for sanctuary, but that won’t protect you. As for you, Athelstan, the interfering, m
eddlesome friar, all busy with fat Cranston. Stay out of my business. Tell the coroner to dismiss the French and I shall disappear as I do so now. So, both of you, lie down.’

  Athelstan glanced up. The assailant held a second arbalest, primed and ready. ‘On your faces,’ the voice ordered. Athelstan glanced at Ambrose and nodded. The two priests prostrated themselves on the floor. The chapel door opened and closed, then silence. Satisfied that they were safe, Athelstan rose, helped Ambrose to his feet and hastened into the nave. The corpse door hung open, but when he went out and looked across the cemetery, he could see nothing but the houses of the dead, the gorse and brambles bending under a bitterly cold breeze. Athelstan returned to the chantry chapel, where Ambrose sat all trembling on the bench. Athelstan gently walked the priest down the nave. He unlocked the narrow postern door and took the priest out onto the steps. Tab the tinker was standing in the lychgate. Athelstan called the tinker over. He asked him to take Ambrose to The Piebald, promising the priest that he, and all those who wanted to, could seek sanctuary at St Erconwald’s. Once both tinker and priest had left, Athelstan strode back into the church. He assured himself that all was well, then returned to the priest’s house, locking and bolting the door behind him. He filled a deep-bowled cup with the richest Bordeaux Cranston had given him, took a generous gulp then, sitting at the table, put his face in his hands and wept.

  Sir John Cranston followed the bulky, shadowy outline of the keeper of Newgate. They went deeper and deeper into that antechamber of Hell, the House of Iron, a place of utter desolation and misery. The coroner had visited the prison more often than he could care to remember, yet Cranston could never lose the chilling fear – even terror – this place of stygian darkness provoked in him. A true warren of the underworld, Newgate’s galleries and passageways reeked of every foul odour. Its ceilings, walls and floor, fashioned out of the hardest stone, glistened with filth. Rats, dark and supple, scurried backwards and forwards, oblivious to anything else. Cockroaches and other insects carpeted the ground so thickly they crunched beneath Cranston’s boots. Little light pierced the murk. The only source of warmth and visibility was provided by rows of thick-tarred cresset torches pushed into wall sconces. Cranston quietly acknowledged to himself the accuracy of the prison’s reputation as a House of Iron with its padlocked doors, grilles, pits, cages, cells and dungeons. A constant raucous noise set his teeth on edge, the clanging and clashing of doors, the screams and shouts of prisoners and the strident obscenities of the jailors. Cranston pressed the pomander closer to his face as they passed an open chamber where the sickly remains of those crushed in the press yard lay bloated and rotting, ready for burial in Newgate’s lime pits. The chamber next to it housed the severed, torn limbs of traitors executed for treason; these were being soaked in brine before being tarred for display above the city gates.