The Godless

by Paul Doherty

  The Sicarius went ahead, pushing the door to one side. Athelstan carefully followed, Cranston walking behind muttering curses at the rank stench and the sheer drab, squalidness of the house. The stink grew worse. Tiptoft, coughing and spluttering, said he could take no more, so Cranston told him to go back and stand in the alleyway outside. Athelstan peered to his left and right at the crumbling plaster; the splattered dirt on the paving stones beneath caught at his sandals whilst the squeak and scurry of vermin was constant. Athelstan recalled his visit to that chamber at The Piebald, of experiencing a deep, unnamed dread; this was no different.

  ‘A place of great evil,’ he whispered to Cranston. ‘It should be razed to the ground.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry,’ the coroner retorted, ‘I have a list of things to do and the destruction of this house heads that list.’

  They reached the solar where the Sicarius and Wrigglewort had left lanterns. They picked these up and led both coroner and friar through the filth-strewn kitchen and buttery out into an overgrown, derelict garden. The Sicarius, a pomander to his face, gestured at a rickety table he’d found somewhere. On this sprawled an old woman’s corpse, a crossbow bolt still embedded deep in her throat and, resting against her corpse, two severed heads. The filth of the sewer where these remains had been thrust had, in the main, been washed off, but they still looked ghastly. Athelstan studied the old woman and recognized her as probably one of the many such pathetic creatures who begged alms across the city. She was a gruesome sight. Corruption had already set in; one of her eyes was missing and the horrid wound to her throat was clogged with mud. Keeping the pomander close to his nose, Athelstan then scrutinized the two heads.

  ‘Young men,’ he murmured. ‘Look, Sir John, possibly soldiers. Their hair is cropped very close.’

  Athelstan could take no more. He hurriedly blessed the remains and, burying his face in the pomander, turned away, gesturing at his companions to join him some distance from the gruesome mess.

  ‘In heaven’s name,’ the friar breathed, glancing up, desperate to catch the chilly fresh air, ‘what do you make of these?’

  ‘As I told you when we met,’ Cranston replied, ‘I asked these two worthies to visit this house and find what they could.’

  ‘We discovered very little,’ the Sicarius retorted, ‘which made us curious. Well, until we came out here. The sewer stank to high heaven. I hired the labourers outside, dung-collectors with their spades, mattocks and hooks. I asked them to search the sewer and that’s what they found.’

  ‘And who do you think they are, little friar?’

  ‘My Lord Coroner, I can only guess. I suspect the old lady was in a place where she shouldn’t have been. I also have a suspicion, though I cannot prove it, that the Oriflamme was accustomed to visiting this house fairly regularly, a place which must haunt his soul. Well, at least he used to until we began hunting him. Now it’s too dangerous for him to visit.’

  ‘And the two heads?’

  ‘Sir John, remember what the Fisher told us about those decapitated corpses. I have my suspicions yet I, too, need to reflect. But, enough for now. Pay these two worthies for what they have done as well as to take care of those mangled remains. My parish awaits …’

  PART SIX

  Absolve me Domine … Absolve me Lord

  Cranston and Athelstan arrived back at St Erconwald’s to find Flaxwith waiting for them at the lychgate leading into God’s Acre. Other bailiffs patrolled the curtain wall whilst four Tower archers stood on guard outside the old death house. Flaxwith just shook his head at Cranston’s questions.

  ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you’d best see for yourself.’

  He led them up through the poor light to the old mortuary, unlocked the door and ushered them inside. The place was lit by lanterns and the dancing flames of cresset torches. Athelstan immediately noticed how all the paving stones had been lifted. Beneath some lay hard-packed earth, but others concealed hastily covered pits protected by stout wooden frames under layers of hard soil. Flaxwith escorted Cranston and Athelstan to one of these and pointed down at the jumble of skeletons – yellowing skulls, arms, legs and ribcages – which had survived the bitter-smelling lime poured over these pathetic human remains.

  ‘There are—’

  ‘Several of these,’ Athelstan finished his sentence. ‘You also found some treasure?’

  ‘Yes.’ Flaxwith pointed to a hempen sack just beneath a shuttered window. ‘That contains coins, bracelets, rings and other valuables. I recognize one of these as belonging to a royal courier.’

  ‘Shoreditch,’ Cranston said. ‘I remember him. A royal messenger, Matthew Shoreditch. According to reports, he disappeared once he’d crossed London Bridge. I was sent here to investigate but we could find nothing, whilst we were later informed that Shoreditch had used his warrants in Kent at different taverns on the pilgrim road to Canterbury.’ Cranston shrugged. ‘Roughkin must be responsible for Shoreditch’s death and these others. Once he knew I was here, he decided to flee using the courier’s warrants.’ He glanced at Athelstan. ‘You guessed that, little friar, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, the dead intervened.’ Athelstan pointed to the ceiling. ‘I stumbled, fell and looked up. You see, Sir John, the fresco painted there, it’s now very faded. I remembered that phrase in doggerel Latin on the so-called treasure chart, ‘Angels stare down at earth’s treasure’. That’s how Roughkin would remember where he had hidden both his murder victims and their treasure under certain paving stones.’ Athelstan crouched beside one which had been pulled away to reveal a pit. He tapped the earth-encrusted right-hand corner. ‘See this mark, a roughly etched triangle in a rectangle: it indicates a hiding place. Roughkin intended to come back one day to claim his ill-gotten plunder and lift such stones.’

  ‘But he never did, only his son.’

  ‘Is it really Senlac,’ Athelstan mused, ‘or his father Roughkin? It’s possible. I was informed that Roughkin fathered Senlac when he was very young. Moreover, how would Senlac know about this?’

  ‘He may have learnt his father’s secrets and come searching; that’s why he raised some of the flagstones, that’s what you told me on our journey here.’

  ‘Sir John, a sudden change of mind! I cannot prove this. However, I now believe it is Roughkin and he deliberately lifted some of these paving stones as if searching for some secret entrance which might explain Godbless’s bloody murder. In truth, he was trying to divert my attention, as well as create the illusion that there was nothing beneath these paving stones.’

  ‘So he only prised up those stones which he knew concealed nothing but packed earth?’

  ‘Precisely, Sir John. He was trying to deceive me. He wanted to create the illusion that there was nothing hidden in this death house.’ Athelstan paused at a knock on the door and one of the archers came in.

  ‘Sir John,’ the man declared, ‘Flaxwith has something to show you.’

  They left the death house. One of the bailiffs was whispering to Flaxwith, who nodded and gestured at the man to join them. They crossed God’s Acre into its most forsaken part, near the far curtain wall, a desolate stretch of land peppered with rotting plinths, decaying wood and ancient yew trees, their branches stretching out to cover the ground.

  ‘We decided to search here,’ the bailiff declared. ‘Earlier, I glimpsed a flash of colour, as if someone was hastening towards the wall. I thought nothing of it till later when the rumours spread about what had been found in the death house. I returned here and …’ The bailiff crossed to one of the ancient yew trees and pulled back the branches. The man who called himself Senlac lay sprawled inside, his back to the tree trunk, blood coating his face and jerkin, his popping eyes looking up, as if transfixed by the crossbow bolt embedded deep in his forehead. Athelstan whispered a prayer and studied the corpse. He noted how the victim still had his belt with its dagger sheath next to a tattered purse which, on inspection, contained a few coins.

  ‘I suspect,’ At
helstan declared, moving deeper into the darkness, careful not to brush the sharp branches of the yew tree with his head, ‘yes, I suspect that Senlac, or rather Roughkin, met his killer here, who despatched him very close – the crossbow bolt is deeply buried. As for the why and the wherefore well, let us see. Now Sir John,’ Athelstan plucked Cranston by the sleeve and led him out of hearing by the bailiffs. Standing very close, the friar spoke swiftly and tersely, brushing aside the coroner’s objections, adding that Sir John must follow his instructions if they were to unmask, confront and capture a most cunning and dangerous assassin. Athelstan then took leave of the coroner and went into St Erconwald’s. Father Ambrose was talking quietly to the guildsmen and their families. The friar waited patiently until the priest was finished, then took him aside.

  ‘Father,’ he asked, ‘where is Mistress Alice Brun?’

  ‘Why, Brother,’ Ambrose pulled a face, ‘I left her busy in St Olave’s. She will be hastening here and there. I asked her to look after the church and house, then join us here. I am surprised that she has not.’

  ‘In which case, Father, it’s best if we both go to see her.’ Athelstan lowered his voice. ‘The visitor to our parish, Senlac, has been found foully murdered. I need, we need, to question Mistress Alice.’

  ‘Senlac! Yes, I saw him here …’

  ‘Never mind for the moment.’ Athelstan stared around and glimpsed Moleskin sitting with his back to a pillar. ‘Moleskin,’ he called, ‘I need you and your crew. It is important,’ Athelstan turned back to the priest, ‘that Moleskin is with us. Nothing Father,’ Athelstan placed a hand on the priest’s arm, ‘nothing is what it appears to be, either in this parish or yours.’

  Athelstan and Ambrose left St Erconwald’s, threading their way through the warren of alleyways, a veritable maze of stinking, rubbish-filled runnels leading down to the quayside near St Mary Olave’s. A dangerous place. The haunt and hunting ground for a legion of cunning men, pimps and felons, especially as darkness fell and a thickening river mist curled in. Despite this, Athelstan was soon recognized. Voices shouted who he was and that the friar and his companions should be allowed to pass unchallenged. Athelstan kept his head down, glancing to the right and left as the shadows which had emerged from the shabby doorways swiftly withdrew.

  They reached Moleskin’s barge. The archangels, who had kept very close to Athelstan as they hurried from the parish church, clambered in. Moleskin made sure that Athelstan and Ambrose were comfortably seated in the canopied stern and cast off. They were soon in midstream. The river was running fast, whipped up by a strengthening breeze as the darkness closed in and the night lanterns were lit. They reached Queenhithe. Athelstan told Moleskin to wait for a short while in a nearby alehouse then go home. Plucking at Ambrose’s sleeve, Athelstan hurried the priest through the streets to The Leviathan. The tavern was cloaked in darkness, except for lantern light seeping through a shutter across one of the upper-storey windows.

  Ambrose lifted the door rapper carved in a shape of a whale and banged hard so the clatter echoed through the house. Eventually Athelstan heard the sound of footsteps, Mistress Alice shouting about who it was? Ambrose answered tersely. The small hatch in the door slid back and the tavern mistress’s face, bathed in the light of a lanternhorn, smiled at them through the grille. Bolts were drawn. The lock turned and Alice, garbed in a thick blue cloak, beckoned them in, along a narrow, dark passageway into the deserted taproom. At first, there were explanations and questions. Alice remarked how she’d heard that Athelstan and Cranston had visited the graveyard and why hadn’t they called in to see her? The friar just smiled back as the tavern mistress lit candles and lanternhorns, asking Ambrose to wheel the braziers close to the hearth. Once this was done, Alice arranged a chair for herself and two more for her visitors, feeding the weak fire with bracken and logs until the flames leapt merrily. She offered them wine; both men refused. Ambrose rose and bowed to Athelstan.

  ‘Brother, I have been away from my parish. I need to check on certain matters in both the church and my house. You will excuse me?’

  Athelstan nodded. He sat quietly until the priest had left and, refusing Alice’s further offer of food and drink, stretched out his hands towards the flames. For a while he and the tavern mistress exchanged desultory conversation about both St Erconwald’s and St Olave’s until Athelstan, who realized the woman knew nothing about the real purpose of his earlier visit with Cranston, straightened in the chair and stared fully at her.

  ‘You are preparing to leave, Mistress, on pilgrimage to Notre-Dame in Boulogne?’

  ‘Yes, Brother.’

  ‘Is that the truth,’ Athelstan pointed a finger at her, ‘or are you really preparing to use the pilgrimage as a subterfuge so you and your lover Father Ambrose can disappear far beyond the Narrow Seas? He is your lover, yes?’ Mistress Alice straightened up, her fixed smile disappeared, so in the poor light her face aged and grew more severe, her eyes watchful, staring hard at Athelstan as if noticing him for the first time.

  ‘You are fleeing?’ Athelstan asserted. ‘And your poor late husband? Did he truly die of a wasting disease or did you help him on his way into eternity?’ Alice, however, was no longer staring at the friar but gaped at some point behind him. Athelstan turned slowly in the chair and stared at the ghastly figure which had emerged from the darkness behind him. This phantasm of the night was clothed in grey, a white mask covering the face, a fiery red wig pulled down tight and bristling over his head.

  ‘Ah,’ Athelstan rose. The hideous apparition raised the small arbalest.

  ‘Sit down, friar,’ the grotesque ordered.

  ‘Of course, Father Ambrose.’ Athelstan replied. ‘And so I meet the Oriflamme.’

  The hideously garbed figure, still holding the arbalest, gestured at Athelstan to sit as he arranged a chair to face the friar squarely. The hideous mask and wig were removed and the priest slouched arrogantly, a half-smile on his face.

  ‘Why?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Why do you confront me now, here in this place, at this time?’

  ‘Because I want to, because you want to and it is only right. Darkness has fallen, Brother Athelstan. Now is the hour, this is the moment and I must seize it. But, of course if you must know, I watched you, little friar. I saw you scampering around your cemetery and church. I guessed a number of matters; in particular, you had visited the arca house in St Olave’s cemetery and deduced whatever conclusion you did reach. Above all, I was not at all convinced by your story about Mistress Alice: that was a clever pretext to get me away from St Erconwald’s and lure me here for a confrontation. Well, now you have it, but it will not go the way you planned.’ Ambrose paused. ‘In a word, we are done, friar. You, me and her. But soon, it will be only the two of us.’ And, raising the arbalest, Ambrose loosed a bolt which shattered Alice’s forehead. The woman jerked backwards and forwards, mouth gargling, eyes going up, she coughed as blood dribbled from her mouth and nose and then fell back. Athelstan could only grip the arms of the chair as the woman shivered and quivered in her death throes. She then gave a deep sigh and lay still. Athelstan, shocked at the sudden sheer brutality, half rose from his chair but sat down again. Ambrose had primed the arbalest with a fresh bolt whilst he rested a second hand-held crossbow on a stool beside him.

  ‘In heaven’s name!’ Athelstan exclaimed.

  ‘Whatever,’ Ambrose smiled, running a hand down his grey gown. ‘As I said, it’s just the two of us, friar. She’s gone and she’s not coming back. Now, for the rest. I have sent a parishioner with an urgent message to that fat bastard Cranston.’ Ambrose nodded as if he was trying to reassure the friar. ‘The message says that you are hurrying back to Southwark and that he must wait for you at St Erconwald’s as you have urgent and important business to discuss with him. So,’ Ambrose raised the arbalest, pointing it at Athelstan, ‘Fat Jack won’t be coming whilst,’ Ambrose nodded behind him, ‘all doors and windows are shuttered and held fast. So, friar,’ Ambrose’s voice turned sweet an
d cloying, ‘here we are, just the two of us.’

  ‘You are going to kill me? That’s what you do. You kill people for pleasure and to remove any obstacle from your path. What I wonder about is how you will explain my death?’

  ‘Oh, quite simple. Look at Mistress Alice, now her cloak lies open. Yes, she wears a grey gown just like me and, when I am finished and I have killed you, as I surely will, I shall explain that you had a confrontation with her. I’ve already told the few parishioners I’ve met that you were meeting her in this taproom. So I will explain how I came back to join that meeting but I found the tavern locked and bolted so I went away.’

  ‘But the message to Sir John?’

  ‘Despatched by me in your name, friar. I shall say you told me to do so just after you arrived here, then I left. You came in here, had a confrontation with Mistress Alice, and that is the truth. You found an arbalest,’ Ambrose gestured at the walls, ‘you found an arbalest,’ he repeated, ‘hanging from a hook. You primed it, you loosed a killing bolt, but not before Alice had grievously wounded you with her own concealed crossbow. You collapsed bleeding to death, and so joined the choir invisible, or whatever heaven you friars peddle to your stupid faithful.’

  ‘Is that what you believe?’

  ‘I believe in nothing, friar, except my own good self. Anyway, to return to my story. You are left here with Mistress Alice and the confrontation takes place. More violence, more bloodshed. I grow anxious and I break in. I find both of you dead. Fat Cranston and his stupid bailiffs will eventually arrive and my mummer’s play is complete. Oh, I will add a few little details. Alice will be wearing a red wig, a white mask pushed into the pocket of her gown; similar disguises will be found hidden away deep in the cellars of this mouldering tavern.’

  ‘And so you will depict Mistress Alice as the Oriflamme?’

  ‘No, don’t be foolish. I will just depict her as someone who imitated the master. I will add a few details which are correct: that she killed whores because they may have infected her late husband and given him the wasting disease he later died from. Anyway, I really won’t be staying long in St Olave’s to answer Cranston’s stupid questions. All I will arrange, and I am halfway through it, is her death and yours. As for all the other mysteries – well, they can remain mysteries, can’t they? I will be far gone and, I assure you, I shall never return.’