by Paul Doherty
Athelstan restrained his anger, plucking at Cranston’s sleeve. ‘Let us leave this demon,’ he muttered, ‘to the darkness of his kind.’
Ambrose appeared to find that funny. ‘I shall return,’ Ambrose sang out. ‘I have unfinished business with all of you. Sir John, how is the Lady Maude and the two poppets?’
Athelstan grabbed Cranston’s sleeve. ‘Don’t,’ he hissed, ‘don’t even think of it.’
‘I must thank you,’ the coroner stepped closer.
‘Thank me?’ Ambrose jibed.
‘For killing Roughkin and sparing me the trouble of arranging his hanging. Now I must only concentrate on you. Tell me,’ Cranston cocked his head to one side, holding the priest’s gaze, ‘Brother Athelstan has told me all about you. Why did you kill Roughkin, your alter ego? I mean, you were twins united in evil. He was with you, wasn’t he, when you attacked and abused that French noblewoman, Madeline de Clisson? From what I learnt, there were three which, I suspect, were you, Roughkin, and that lunatic Godbless?’
‘Why do you mention that?’
‘Well,’ Cranston took a deep breath, ‘you know the French are hunting you. It’s a long walk down to Queenhithe. Oh, you will board a cog, but the French will know. So don’t talk about being scot-free. The ship you board will not be the first to be stopped and searched by our good friends from France.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Ambrose replied, ‘I have already thought of that and I will make the usual preparations. I will escape. I will come back, Fat Jack, little friar, and you can give the same warning to the likes of measly Moleskin and those other fools in the guild. But thank you for the warning.’ He began to laugh, falsely yet loudly.
‘Let us leave,’ Athelstan hissed.
Cranston agreed and both coroner and friar crossed the sanctuary, hurrying down the nave to be free of that killer’s ridicule.
They left St Olave’s. The church was now ringed by Cheshire archers who, like professional soldiers, had swiftly set up camp with makeshift tents. Cooking fires had been lit. Food seized from The Leviathan was being shared out amongst those not on watch. Cranston had a few words with their captain and returned to the tavern where Flaxwith and his cohort had prepared chambers on the second-floor gallery, whilst one of the bailiffs, a former cook, had broached a cask of Bordeaux and grilled strips of chicken and ham in a mushroom sauce. Cranston and Athelstan sat at one of the taproom tables. The friar blessed the food and both men quietly ate and drank, lost in their own thoughts. Athelstan felt a deep apprehension about what might happen. He knew all about the rigour of church law, especially in London with the likes of Master Tuddenham.
‘He cannot escape.’ Cranston put his horn spoon down. He leaned closer. ‘Brother Athelstan, you heard that villain. He intends to escape. He plans to return and he is already plotting murder. He threatened Lady Maude. I tell you, little friar, if he leaves this church for Queenhithe, I will personally take his head.’
‘No, no Sir John.’ Athelstan grasped Cranston’s arm. ‘Then you would be guilty of murder. You would go on trial whilst Holy Mother Church would excommunicate you. A tragic end to your days of glory, Jack, and, in his own perverted way, that priest hopes you might commit such a crime. So, even in death he causes more mayhem. Believe me, my friend, some souls are possessed by demons. He certainly is and they are legion. He is a man who would love to see the world on fire and merrily dance as the flames roared up. Be patient, wait …’
Cranston and Athelstan adjourned for the night and rose early to break their fast in the taproom. Athelstan declared he did not wish to celebrate Mass in a church which housed and protected such an assassin, adding that he would celebrate the mysteries on his return to St Erconwald’s. They were still sitting at table discussing this when Master Tuddenham and an escort of church beadles, garbed in the livery of the Archbishop of Canterbury, swept into the tavern. At first there was some confusion. Athelstan gently pointed out that he and Sir John were not the felons but the perjured priest Ambrose now sheltering in sanctuary. Athelstan clearly explained what had happened and Tuddenham’s harsh, pale face relaxed. The archdeacon’s man undid his cloak and handed it to his chief bailiff, telling him to take his escort and join the others guarding the church. Once he’d left, Tuddenham accepted a tankard of morning ale and sipped it as Athelstan once again summarized the indictment against Ambrose. Tuddenham’s face visibly blanched, his air of harsh officialdom being replaced with a deeply worried expression.
‘This is an abomination,’ he said. ‘Nevertheless, the archdeacon who speaks for my Lord of Canterbury is most insistent. A sanctuary man is always sacred, even more so when he is a legitimately ordained cleric. All hell,’ he clasped his hands as if in prayer, ‘and I mean the very furies, will descend if you violate those privileges won by Thomas Becket and defended by Holy Mother Church both here and abroad.’
‘So this demon incarnate will …’ Cranston broke off as Flaxwith hurried in and whispered heatedly in the coroner’s ear.
‘Satan’s tits,’ Cranston breathed. ‘My happiness is complete. Show him in … Hugh Levigne,’ he added, turning back to his companions, ‘the French envoy has arrived demanding an audience.’ He paused at the sound of booted footsteps and the clink of steel. ‘Ah well,’ he whispered, ‘and here he is.’
Levigne came striding across the taproom, two of his Luciferi trailing behind. Levigne stopped and whispered over his shoulder at his escort; pushing back the hood of his blood-red cloak, Levigne picked up a stool and joined them at table. He placed his chancery satchel beside him and smiled dazzlingly at Cranston, who hastily introduced Master Tuddenham. They clasped hands, Tuddenham murmuring a benediction.
‘I am welcome am I not, Sir John?’
‘The honourable envoy of the French court is always welcome,’ Cranston’s tone was soft though menacing, ‘though I must ask why you are here?’
‘Why indeed,’ Levigne replied, unbuckling the chancery satchel. ‘You do realize I pay for information so I know what has happened here. How the Oriflamme might well be Ambrose Rookwood, parish priest of St Olave’s and the former member of an English free company. Now,’ Levigne drew out a faded parchment page, ‘according to the records of the Bishop of Beauvais, Ambrose Rookwood, a former scholar from the halls of Cambridge and the Sorbonne in Paris was an ordained priest, but then moved to the Archdiocese of Rouen. Once he’d arrived there, he was given a benefice at Moyaux.’ Levigne pulled a face. ‘Our chancery clerks ruthlessly searched and investigated the entire Le Sans Dieu company. We learnt scraps about Rookwood and a few others such as your Moleskin.’
‘And?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I am intrigued by that parishioner.’
‘No, Moleskin was just a follower, a common mercenary, who seemed eager for plunder and nothing else. In one village that Le Sans Dieu raided, Moleskin proved to be chivalrous towards a small convent of nuns. He gave them his name and assured them that they would not be troubled.’ Levigne lifted the parchment page. ‘One further item is now truly significant.’
‘What is it?’ Athelstan tried to curb his excitement.
‘Well, the Bishop of Beauvais wrote a memorandum. How he was visited by a distant kinswoman of Rookwood. She had gone to Moyaux to visit a member of her family, namely the priest Father Ambrose, but the person she saw celebrating Mass was not her kinsman. Perplexed and confused, this woman did not do anything there, but travelled back to Beauvais and gave the bishop’s people a description of the man serving as curé in the parish of St Simon at Moyaux. She had gone there for Sunday Mass and intended to visit him in the sacristy afterwards. But, of course, she was so mystified that she decided not to. Now, she admitted that she may have made a mistake and that any changes might be due to the passage of time. They asked the woman to return to Moyaux to be certain. She left but never returned. Now,’ Levigne waved a hand, ‘the war in Normandy was raging. Chaos, carnage and confusion caused by the Goddams.’ Levigne gave a wry smile as Cranston stiffened. ‘My friend
,’ Levigne went on, ‘you English turned Normandy into a battlefield. Anyway, the Bishop of Beauvais also concluded that perhaps the woman had been mistaken, recognized her error and let the matter drop. He certainly did for a while.’
‘Flimsy evidence,’ Tuddenham intervened.
‘It might be,’ Levigne countered, ‘if there wasn’t a second memorandum which gave the kinswoman’s description of her distant cousin Rookwood compared to that of this mysterious priest she saw in Moyaux. In a word, her description of this village curé certainly fits the criminal now sheltering in St Olave’s church. Read for yourself.’
Levigne passed the document to Tuddenham, who exclaimed in surprise before handing it to Cranston and Athelstan. Both coroner and friar read the elegant, cursive script, murmuring their agreement: the priest at Moyaux was certainly Ambrose Rookwood now sheltering in sanctuary.
‘I believe,’ Levigne declared, ‘that somewhere between Beauvais, Rouen and Moyaux, the real Ambrose Rookwood was murdered, his corpse hidden, and the malefactor we now hunt took his name and identity. He was probably a scholar and would find such a disguise as easy as pulling on a pair of gloves cut to his liking.’
‘You mention the Bishop of Beauvais let the matter drop for a while?’
‘Yes, yes he did. But what is quite significant is that, though the priest at Moyaux later disappeared, the kinswoman also vanished. There were petitions to the bishop concerning her whereabouts. Of course, all he could say was that she had visited him twice and left it at that.’
‘I suspect I know what happened.’ Athelstan replied grimly. ‘That poor kinswoman of the true Rookwood returned to Moyaux and confronted our demon. He would be charming, give some lie, but then silence her for good. Somewhere in the cemetery of Moyaux or the woods around it and, in my service as a soldier, I marched through that part of Normandy …’
‘Did you now?’ Levigne asked.
‘Yes, yes I did. I believe that somewhere in that densely wooded countryside lies the corpse of a poor woman who went looking for a kinsman and met a demon incarnate.’
‘Possible,’ Levigne conceded.
‘I am sure it happened,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Chaos devastated Normandy, its people were attacked and harassed. Communities were shattered. People thrown out onto the roads to wander where they wanted. Priests, religious, peasants and, of course, the tribe of beggars, confidence tricksters and, above all, murderers looking for fresh prey.’
‘Tell me, my friend,’ Cranston asked, ‘were there any murders such as here? Young women with their throats cut, heads decorated with those disgusting wigs? Brother Athelstan is correct, Normandy provided a good hunting run for the likes of our assassin.’
‘No, no,’ Levigne retorted. ‘We did the most thorough search but discovered nothing, except of course victims such as Madeline de Clisson, murders directly attributed to the Oriflamme.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Athelstan mused. ‘There wouldn’t be. Our fugitive can control both himself and his dreadful desires, as he did in London until a few weeks ago. He kept his predatory ways well hidden.’
‘But eventually he gave in,’ Cranston asserted. ‘Normandy presented so many opportunities for the killer, the assassin, the rapist and the marauder. The malignant who now calls himself Rookwood grew tired of his parish, of being a priest; he drifted south and joined that free company now known as Le Sans Dieu. Once there, this demon priest could don his disguise and, having served in Normandy, he would know the land; which communities to attack, which places to plunder.’
‘One final matter we did not share with you,’ Levigne declared, ‘but will do now, were purported names of the Oriflamme and his henchmen. I tell you this now because it could well account for the rumours that we were searching for other members of that mercenary free company.’
‘What names?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Oh, the self-proclaimed identities of the Oriflamme and his henchmen.’
‘What!’ Cranston declared.
‘Patience, my Lord Coroner. Madeline de Clisson was tortured and abused by the Oriflamme and two of his followers. They fled at the approach of Madeline’s kinsmen to the château. These three criminals had already locked and barred all the doors to the house, leaving one open for their escape. By the time Madeline’s kinsmen broke in and stumbled on the horrors awaiting them, the malignants responsible had fled. That area is thickly wooded, an army could hide deep amongst its trees. Now,’ Levigne tapped the parchment before him, ‘Madeline de Clisson lingered for a few days before she died. She haltingly informed those caring for her about her attackers, their assault and the abominable way they disguised themselves. She also whispered about three visitors who claimed to be Scottish mercenaries fighting for the French; these arrived at the château the night before. Of course these visitors must have been the assailants.’
‘And they gave their names?’
‘Yes. According to Madeline, Samuel Moleskin was their leader, Matthew Hornsby and John Falaise his two companions.’
‘Never!’
‘Of course, Brother Athelstan, we did not believe such misinformation. No villain would give their real name, and the same is true of Madeline’s visitors. Nevertheless, whoever they really were, they certainly knew all about the company of Le Sans Dieu and the names of its members.’
‘Yet we all hold for certain that the man calling himself Ambrose Rookwood is and was the Oriflamme. He led the assault on that hapless châtelaine.’
‘I agree, Sir John. The attack on Madeline was Rookwood’s handiwork. He was guilty of similar outrages against other individuals who fell into his power, be they woman or priest. Now Madeline’s three assailants arrived in the evening. On that same day, according to the evidence received, they attacked and murdered a lonely old curé Father Ricard, who held the benefice of a small woodland church. Ricard was a retired priest seeing out his days, caring for those who worked in the forest around the château: peasants, farmers, charcoal-burners and hunters. Ricard was murdered and his cottage ransacked. In fact the Oriflamme seized a seal used by Madeline’s father to forge a letter declaring that Madeline’s three visitors had been despatched by himself.’
‘Of course,’ Athelstan reflected, ‘Rookwood would know a great deal about the Normandy countryside. He is also skilled in chancery matters. He would steal a document kept by the priest, remove the seal and place it on another piece of parchment.’ Athelstan glanced up at Levigne. ‘But why didn’t you inform us about this at the beginning?’
‘Because there were other similar outrages, weren’t there?’
‘Sir John, you have it. The Oriflamme and his henchmen were now following the coffin roads, woodland tracks and forest paths north to the coast. They passed through hamlets and villages where the menfolk had been called to the banners and standards of their lords. The Oriflamme and his fellow demons could writhe and slither, like the serpents they were, into these undefended communities, using the same names as they had at the château. We learnt this from another witness. Apparently the Oriflamme and his henchmen stopped at a local tavern, The Heron, where they slaughtered two chapmen, then brutally abused and murdered two women. What they did not know was that a spit-boy, Gaspard, hiding in the cellar, watched the hideous masque unfold. They played the same treacherous tricks as they did on the Lady Madeline, giving the names of other members of Le Sans Dieu free company.’
‘In other words,’ Athelstan declared, ‘the Oriflamme was indulging in his heinous pastimes whilst protecting his true identity even further?’
‘Of course, Brother, and what use would such lies be?’ Levigne spread his hands. ‘We could not arrive in England demanding the seizure of this person or that without any real proof. Your masters at Westminster would certainly object. More importantly, we did not wish the Oriflamme to make fools of us all. He would have been delighted to see the wrong person arrested and carted off to Montfaucon. We had to be prudent, cunning.’ The French envoy joined his hands together
as if in prayer and sketched a slight bow. ‘We decided to wait and our patience was rewarded. We could not have asked for swifter or more cunning hunters than yourself and Sir John.’
‘Flattery, my friend,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘soothes many a sore.’
‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John,’ Levigne’s handsome, swarthy face turned sombre, ‘please, on behalf of my royal master and the other seigneurs of the Secret Chancery at the Louvre, accept our most profound thanks. Monseigneur Pierre de Clisson will be satisfied. Madeline was his sole beloved daughter and she was horribly abused. They stripped both her and her maid naked, before hanging them from the ceiling beams. The malignants spent the entire night inflicting every possible degradation on their victims. They grew tired of Béatrice and slit her from throat to crotch as if she were a pig. Madeline was a mass of welts, bruises and wounds. She survived only a few days, but her description of what happened scarred the souls of all who knew and loved her. She was a gifted young woman …’ Levigne paused to draw in breath. ‘Accordingly, we will, at the appropriate time and in the appropriate place, demand that the Oriflamme be handed over to us. Lord Pierre has taken a solemn oath that he will gibbet the Oriflamme’s corpse before the gateway to his château. Once again, accept all our thanks for the capture of this demon incarnate.’
‘Rookwood is a criminal,’ Cranston growled, watching Levigne leave, ‘and certainly worthy of death.’
‘I agree.’ Tuddenham spread his hands. ‘But our sanctuary man is a priest, a lawfully ordained cleric. He has served as a priest and he could certainly confuse any court if he has the necessary documents, warrants and licences to prove it. I suspect that – at the very least – he has all these so he will insist on being protected by canon law and the full power of the church. More importantly, he is also in sanctuary and, as you well know, Sir John, as long as he stays there for forty days, he can then leave, walk to the nearest quayside, which is Queenhithe, and take ship abroad. Until that happens, I must insist on a guard being mounted both within and without St Olave’s. At night these guards must be withdrawn, except for two who will lock and bolt the church from the inside. I demand that such a guard be those of my retinue. Remember, the only way such a fugitive can be lawfully seized is if he leaves sanctuary of his own free will. Brother Athelstan, Sir John,’ Tuddenham rose to his feet, ‘I will set my own guard then I will be gone.’
