by Paul Doherty
After his escape from France, Atworth had returned home to his small village outside Canterbury. He became a man haunted by his demons. Atworth had brought great plunder, set himself up as a prosperous tenant farmer, and become betrothed to a manor lord’s daughter; but it had all turned sour. The girl had died in one of the sudden fevers which swept the shire. Atworth’s businesses never prospered. More importantly, everywhere Atworth went he would glimpse those ghosts: that old crone staring at him from across a tavern room. Or, in the dark watches of the night, he would glance through his casement window and see the harridan’s face, framed by her iron-grey hair, glaring up at him with soul-less eyes and red-rimmed mouth. She was a frightening apparition on the moon-dappled lawn before his timber-and-plaster house. Atworth had known no peace.
‘I became like a bottle in the smoke,’ he murmured.
He had hastened into Canterbury to seek consolation. He had prayed and fasted. One of these brothers had heard his confession. The monk had wept at Atworth’s litany of sins: murder, rape, robbery, and arson. He had refused to give absolution until Atworth had completed a pilgrimage. Atworth travelled to Outremer, experienced the searing heat of Palestine, and returned by way of Rome to seek absolution from one of the Pope’s own confessors; the priest had enjoined upon him a life of strict observance.
Atworth had returned to Canterbury. He had joined the Friars of the Sack and committed himself to a life of prayer, fasting, and penance. Even here his past would not let him out of its iron grasp. He had been ordained a priest and won a name for holiness and for being a shrewd confessor.
Dame Cecily of York, the King’s own good mother, had recalled their earlier bond and hastened to place her soul in his care. Atworth’s jaw tightened. She had good cause to come and seek his absolution. He murmured a prayer. He was being too hard! Now he was a prisoner, taken secretly and questioned about the past! The letters in his wallet had disappeared, yet he had not betrayed his Duchess; she did not deserve that. Atworth wondered what would happen now. He paused in his reflections and shuddered as a fresh spasm of pain coursed through his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He heard a sound and glanced round, breathing in and flinching at the fetid smell of this place. His eye caught a shadow. Was someone standing before the door?
‘Who is it?’ he croaked.
Perhaps it was Jonquil come searching for him. The figure came forward. Atworth tried to scream but found he couldn’t. Was it a phantasm? He closed his eyes, yet even in his pain-filled mind, Atworth recognised those pus-covered rags, the wooden sabots, that harridan’s face, the steel-grey hair, and those black, soul-less eyes.
‘Ah, Jesus!’
Atworth’s head went back, and the death rattle sounded strong in his throat. He fought for breath, but he’d lost his last battle. Father Roger Atworth of the Friars of the Sack shuddered and died.
‘“From sudden death.
Lord, deliver us.
From famine.
Lord, deliver us.
From pestilence.
Lord, deliver us.
From the evil which stalks at mid-day.
Lord, deliver us.
From fire and sword.
Lord, deliver us.
From the scourge of the Evil One.
Lord, deliver us.”’
On the eve of Sts. Perpetua and Felicity, a solemn procession of friars from the Order of the Sack left their house and processed dolefully through the main gate out into the streets of Canterbury. The friars walked in solemn file, preceded by a cross-bearer and two thurifers swinging censers from which poured grey, perfumed clouds of incense.
They walked down the centre of the street making their Procession of Rogation, pleading with God to intervene in the great scourge which now afflicted the city. At first their prayer in the busy thronged streets and alleyways of Canterbury went unheard. However, the rise and fall of their chanting, like the solemn beat of a drum, soon made itself felt: it reminded the good burgesses how this truly was a time of evil. The shopkeepers, the pedlars, the hucksters, as well as the pilgrims on their way to Becket’s glorious shrine paused in their business and drew aside. Some knelt on the muddy, cobbled ground and crossed themselves. They eagerly watched one friar who, with a stoup of holy water and an asperges rod, was busy sprinkling either side, as if this would save them from the scourge which had so suddenly appeared in their fair city.
Even as one thread-maker knelt, he gazed across the street and glimpsed the small, black, furry body dart out from a needle-thin alleyway and race to hide itself in a small gap beneath the timbered pillar of a house. The thread-maker clutched the wooden handle of the dagger pushed into his belt. If it wasn’t for the good brothers, he would have pursued it! Rats, black and slimy, spike furred with twitching snouts and pattering feet, seemed to infest the city. What was it now? Almost the end of March. Soon it would be April. The air would be spring fresh. The trackways and roads would harden, and the pilgrims would come pouring like a river into the city. They all wished to kneel before Becket’s jewel-encrusted shrine, press their hot faces up against it, and make their petitions to Canterbury’s great saint. But what would happen now? Over the last three weeks, the city appeared to be infested by a plague of rats causing chaos and confusion.
The line of Friars of the Sack passed, and the thread-maker got to his feet. He walked on into the small ale-house which stood on the corner of Black Griffin Alley. Somewhere behind him he heard a child shriek, ‘Rat! Rat!’
The thread-maker just shook his head. He stared round the dingy tap-room, a ramshackle place with dirt-stained table and unclean stools. The ale-wife, standing behind the cask, beckoned him forward, creasing her greasy face into a smile, wiping her hands on a dirty apron. The thread-maker would have declined, but he was thirsty. He sat on a stool, and the ale-wife brought across a black jack, white and frothing at the top. The thread-maker was about to snatch it out of her hand, but she stood back.
‘Pay first, drink second!’
The thread-maker fished into his wallet and took out a coin.
‘I’ll take two,’ he offered.
The ale-wife’s smile returned, and the black jack was placed on the table beside him. The ale-wife went to the door and stared down the street as if trying to catch sight of the procession.
‘Much good that will do.’
The thread-maker whirled round at the voice from a shadow-filled corner. The man sitting there got to his feet and came forward, quiet as a ghost, and, without invitation, sat on a stool on the other side of the thread-maker’s table. In fact he did look like a ghost, with his pallid face, greying hair, deep-set blue eyes, furrowed cheeks, thin nose, and bloodless lips. The man was dressed in a none-too-clean shirt under a moleskin jacket tied with a cord, his breeches were worsted, pushed into mud-stained leather boots, yet his fingers and face were clean. The thread-maker, who prided himself on his sharp eyesight, noticed that the war-belt slung over the stranger’s shoulder was of fine leather with close purple stitching; the sword and dagger in their sheaths seemed to be of shiny, grey steel.
‘Don’t you believe in prayer, Brother?’ the thread-maker asked.
The uninvited guest grinned: His teeth were fine, sharp and even. He stretched out a hand. ‘My name is Monksbane.’
The thread-maker clasped the hand.
‘You are a scholar?’
Monksbane’s smile widened. ‘I like that,’ he murmured. ‘I used to be at the Inns of Court in London until I became a rat-catcher.’
The thread-maker toasted him genially with his black jack of ale.
‘So you know all about this pestilence?’
‘There are two types of rats’ – Monksbane cradled his own drink, a faraway look in his eyes – ‘black and brown. Neither has a right to be in the kingdom. Oh no.’ He didn’t pause at the thread-maker’s questioning look but tapped the side of his nose. ‘People are so clever. Do you know that there weren’t even rabbits here until the Conqueror came? And the same is tr
ue of rats! Brought by ship they are. The brown is all right but the black – ’ He pulled a face. ‘Some people claim they bring pestilence whilst they breed worse than flies. In one year two rats can produce many litters.’
The thread-maker sipped at his ale. He now considered himself fortunate to have stepped into this ale-house and met such an interesting teller of tales. Was the man true or a counterfeit? A cunning man? Despite his drab apparel, his war-belt, sword, and dagger looked of fine quality, and when he moved, the thread-maker heard the clink of coins.
‘You really are a rat-catcher?’
‘Was,’ Monksbane replied.
‘Is that your real name?’
The smile disappeared.
‘Are you here to catch our rats?’
The smile returned.
‘Nowadays I hunt different quarry.’
‘But you were saying about the rats?’ The thread-maker didn’t want to upset his mysterious guest.
‘Ah, yes. I was chief rat-catcher in Farringdon Ward in London a number of years ago.’ He stretched out a hand and pointed to the scars on the back of his wrist. ‘Rat bites,’ he declared proudly. ‘Oh, ale-wife, bring two more fresh stoups! I’ll be paying!’
‘Can I have my coin back?’ the thread-maker shouted.
The ale-wife turned in the doorway, came back, and threw the coin into the thread-maker’s outstretched hand. She smiled flirtatiously at Monksbane and waddled back to the great cask standing against the far wall.
‘Rats,’ Monksbane continued, ‘breed like flies, especially the black ones. They swarm all over the place.’ He lowered his voice and leaned across the table. ‘Do you know I have heard stories how, at sea, they have eaten away the planks of ships and made them sink?’
‘And what can they do here?’ the thread-maker asked.
‘Worse than the plague of locusts in Egypt,’ Monksbane declared. ‘They’ll get into the cellars. They’ll eat everything! The more they eat, the more powerful they become, and they breed even more.’
‘What about poison?’ the thread-maker asked.
Monksbane spread his hands. ‘God knows why, but they become used to it.’
‘And cats?’
Monksbane sipped from the fresh tankard the ale-wife had placed in front of him.
‘You might not believe it, but I have seen three rats attack a cat. Dogs are good, a rat-catching pack, but’ – he sighed – ‘there’s a short supply of them in Canterbury.’
‘Is it a plague?’ the thread-maker asked.
‘No, it’s an infestation. A mysterious one as well. You see’ – Monksbane leaned across the table, his voice low – ‘I’ve been in Canterbury since the Feast of the Purification,’ he tapped the side of his nose, ‘on the business of the Archbishop, though I’ve always got an eye out for rats. I can smell them, no matter how rank the odour is in a place like this! You see that table over there?’ He pointed across the room. The thread-maker followed his gaze. ‘The ale-wife doesn’t know it, but there are two under there.’
‘You said it was mysterious?’
‘That’s what I’m saying.’ Monksbane preened himself. ‘At the end of February . . .’ He pulled a face and shook his head. ‘Nothing. Oh, the usual ones. Now, down the Mercery, in the market place, even in the Cathedral close, rats swarm as if they had popped out of the earth!’
‘So the good brothers are right to pray?’
‘Yes,’ Monksbane answered, ‘though prayer won’t get rid of them. Something else has to be done. Certainly if the brothers pray hard and long enough; then God, in his goodness, might reveal the source of this “devilish infestation,” as I call it.’ Monksbane drained his tankard and got to his feet; he undid the buckle and strapped the war-belt round his waist. ‘The Devil’s children: From Satan they come; to Satan they can return! But how, when?’ He patted the thread-maker on the shoulder. ‘Only the good Lord knows.’
Going back to pick up his cloak, Monksbane left the frightened thread-maker staring at the two dark shapes lurking beneath the table beyond.
In the Falstaff Inn, just outside the west gate of Canterbury, the royal spy Robin Goodfellow eased himself up on his bed and rubbed his face. He heard a rap on the door and recognised it as the sound which had roused him from sleep. He slipped his hand beneath the bolster, took out his Italian stiletto, and holding this behind his back, walked across and pulled back the bolts.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘Master Goodfellow, your supper.’
The spy turned the key in the lock. He pulled the door open a crack and stared at the young slattern. She was comely enough, with long, blonde hair almost hiding her dirt-stained face. Her drab gown was open at the neck, and its ragged hem hung just above her bare feet. The tray she carried bore a goblet, a large jug of wine, and a wooden bowl of steaming pottage steeped in herbs with a small, white manchet loaf placed on the top. Robin Goodfellow studied the girl closely. She smiled again.
‘Your supper, sir.’
Goodfellow pulled the door open and waved the girl in. The slattern placed the tray on the table, picked up the jug, and filled the goblet. She turned, hands provocatively on her hips, and tapped her foot on the floor.
‘Is there anything else sir requires?’
‘There’s nothing else sir requires.’ Goodfellow gestured to the open door. ‘But if there is, you’ll be the first to know. Tell Master Taverner it was good of him not to forget me.’
The girl flounced out. Goodfellow locked and barred the door behind her and stood for a while listening to her receding footsteps. He walked to the window shutters, lifted the bar, opened them, and stared out. It must be about six o’clock, he thought; darkness was already falling. He had taken a chamber overlooking the yard behind the tavern. He closed his eyes and relished the smell of the spring, the sweet fragrance of the herb gardens, the perfume of the early flowers. He stared to his left and then to his right. The shutters of the chambers on either side were closed, as were the shutters of the chambers above. He looked up. The spy noticed how the walls of the tavern, an ancient place, were slightly crooked. He would have preferred glass-filled windows.
Goodfellow grinned; he was becoming soft! This was not some sumptuous manor here in Kent or a château along the Loire Valley. The shutters were sturdy enough; the bar would keep it locked. Goodfellow closed them and peered through the crack: it was narrow enough. The leather hinges were thick, strong, and secure, whilst the wooden bar felt as hard as iron. The spy felt his stomach rumble with hunger and walked back to the table. He sat on the stool, took his horn spoon from his pouch, and began to eat the pottage. He smacked his lips. The meat was fresh but highly spiced; the thick gravy had been enriched with herbs and diced vegetables. He heard a sound in the far corner of the room; he picked up a boot and threw it in the direction of the sound: a squeak and a scampering of feet were the only responses. The spy returned to his meal. The rats didn’t bother him. He had eaten and slept in worse places. He put down the horn spoon and picked up the goblet of wine, sniffed at it carefully, and sipped.
‘Robin Goodfellow!’ he murmured and laughed to himself.
That was no more his name than it was the rat’s which had disturbed him. He went back to his meal. He had been born Padraig Mafiach at Clontarf, near Dublin. He had entered the service of the Duke of York as an archer and soon found he had a gift for both languages and disguise. Now he worked for England, bearing important messages for the House of Secrets in London. However, the King was on pilgrimage to Canterbury, staying at his palace in Islip just outside the city. Padraig was to meet the King’s Master of Horse, Colum Murtagh, the following morning and then be taken out to meet the King and deliver his message.
Mafiach heard a sound in the passageway outside. He put down the spoon and picked up the stiletto, but the sound receded. The spy continued with his meal. He felt tired and battered, his nerves fretting and on edge. Surely he was safe? Very few people knew of his arrival, and he had been careful to
keep himself safe. Again he heard a sound, this time outside. Padraig put down the horn spoon, opened his wallet, unrolled the greasy scrap of parchment, and studied what he had written. A quotation from the prophet Zephaniah (1:16):
The day of the Lord,
The Kings of Kings most righteous, is at hand:
A day of wrath and vengeance, of darkness and cloud:
A day of wondrous, mighty thunderings:
A day of trouble also, of grief and sadness:
In which shall cease the love and desire of women:
And the strife of men and the lust of this world.
Mafiach studied this carefully and the Latin version underneath.
Regis regum rectissimi prope est dies domini
dies irae et vindictae tenebrarum et nebulae
diesque mirabilium tonitruorum fortium
dies quoque angustiae meroris ac tristitiae
in quo cessabit mulierum amor ac desiderium
hominumque contentio mundi huius et cupide.
No one but him would understand this cipher or the code scrawled below: ‘Recto et Verso,’ front and back, or ‘Veritas continet Veritatem, The truth contains the truth.’
Padraig smiled to himself. His eye caught the phrase ‘A day of wrath and vengeance’; although he did not know it, for Robin Goodfellow, baptised Padraig Mafiach, that day was very close.
Chapter 1
‘Allas,’ quod she, ‘on thee, Fortune, I playne,
That unwar, wrapped hast me in thy cheyne.’
– Chaucer, ‘The Franklin’s Tale,’
The Canterbury Tales
The Great Hall of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s palace was a sombre building with its deep-vaulted, groined roof and soaring walls. Even the cloths of Montpellier scarlet hanging against the walls did little to dispel the gloom. The windows were mere holes. On that April evening, the Feast of St. Isidore, all the candles, oil lamps, and chafing-dishes had been lit to fend off the icy gloom. The far part of the floor, near the great double doors, was covered in green rushes perfumed by fresh lilies and spring roses, mint and lavender. Further up, near the great mantelled hearth which thrust into the room, Saracen carpets were strewn to fend off the cold seeping through the flagstones. The place was the despair of the Archbishop’s chamberlain, who had ordered a great fire of pine logs to be lit. This provided light and heat and sent the shadows dancing. Even the goshawks, perched like sentinels on their wooden stands, heads covered in little leather hoods emblazoned with the Archbishop’s escutcheon, felt the cold and moved restlessly to the jingle of jesse bells. The great mastiff, stretched out in front of the fire, red tongue lolling between white teeth, moved occasionally to catch the heat, yet he was as quiet as the three people who sat before the fire.
