by Paul Doherty
‘In storming those cages,’ Tyler continued evenly, ‘certain men will and must die. Make sure you are not one of these. You and I cannot control events, only their outcome. Once this has been achieved, all will be well. The path will be cleared. Gaunt can come hurrying south with his army. Meetings can be arranged, councils held, punishments meted out and pardons proclaimed.’
‘And does the cipher we have seized have any bearing on this?’
‘Master Thibault, until certain conclusions are reached, the war between us continues. The cipher is the work of Grindcobbe and others. I am party to it but I have no control over it. Only a few know its secrets. I am one of these, and to betray it would only deepen suspicions.’
‘About what?’
‘Divisions are already appearing amongst the Upright Men over what we intend, what we hope will happen once the revolt has occurred and the kingdom been shaken. Some of us talk of a republic like those in Northern Italy, others of a commonwealth like the cities along the Rhine, whilst we, Master Thibault, dream of a realm purified, purged and under the strong leadership of a new royal house.’
‘And for you personally, Master Tyler?’
‘Why, Master Thibault, like you I have dreams of power, lordship and dominion, a free and complete pardon from my Lord of Gaunt so like you I can sit high in his councils. No need then to meet along muddy marshes or beside squalid ditches full of filth with the fog curling in about us. However, until then we must shake the dice from the hazard cup and see how it falls. Master Thibault, I bid you adieu.’
Gaunt’s Master of Secrets watched Tyler walk away into the gathering gloom. He strained his eyes, certain that he detected a second figure following him.
‘Master?’
‘A good evening’s work, Albinus. Now there goes a man who thinks he controls the game but doesn’t.’
‘Master?’
‘My Lord of Gaunt and his eldest son Henry of Lancaster will go north. If the rebels are defeated he will turn swiftly south to be in for the kill. If the rebels succeed, he will then sit, wait and watch. If Master Tyler’s plot comes to fruition, my Lord of Gaunt will be the only royal prince with a standing army behind him. If Tyler’s plot fails, my Lord of Gaunt will return to crush all flickers of rebellion. In the end, our master will be safely removed from the season of slaughter and be free to plot and take action as he thinks appropriate. So yes, Albinus, in all an excellent night’s work.’
‘And the cipher?’
‘I want to unravel that for my own reasons, apart from my nagging curiosity. For that we need Whitfield, once he has finished wallowing in the squalid pleasures of the Golden Oliphant.’
Sir Everard Camoys, mercer and leading banker in Cheapside, was dreaming. He was locked in a nightmare about boiling the flesh from the corpse of his former comrade, Simon Penchen, killed whilst fighting alongside the Teutonic Knights against Slav intruders on the eastern marches of the Holy Roman Empire. Sir Everard, and more especially his brother Reginald, had been determined to bring their comrade’s remains home for a proper burial in St Mary Le Bow. They would not leave Simon’s corpse out on those frozen plains dotted with dark, sinister-looking forests: a desolate landscape, a Hell on earth, where the spirits of the departed, in their own dead flesh, roamed the countryside with their coffins held aloft. Such monstrosities could only be despatched by being dug up and decapitated, their rotten hearts roasted until they cracked open and the evil angel which had animated them, fled in the form of a crow. This malignant spirit would join the other demons yelling in the air: grotesques with flames dancing in their eyes, their mouths crammed with noxious fumes. Fighting alongside the Teutonic Knights, Sir Everard and Reginald had learnt all about the living dead, which had made them even more determined not to leave Simon’s mortal remains in that ghastly land.
They had dressed Simon’s cadaver in an ancient chapel which also served as the treasure house for the Teutonic Knights. At the time Sir Everard should have realized something was dreadfully amiss, and that Reginald was bent on committing heinous sacrilege. Satan, unbeknown to Sir Everard, had been there sticking out his tongue whilst holding his fork in the crook of his arm, with Death sidling beside him, his quiver full of fiery arrows. Satan had certainly struck. Oh, Reginald had always been hungry for riches, determined to return and strut the streets of London, garbed in a puffed tunic bounded by a belt with precious studs to match the gold and black of his sheath and hose, a bejewelled chaperon on his head. Reginald, a self-proclaimed artist, was always taken with any exquisitely precious object, be it a ring, a brooch or, as in this case, a holy relic. Sir Everard wished he had paid greater heed to one of the wall paintings in that ancient chapel. The fresco depicted a man in a blue gown and red hose, seated on a flesh-coloured chair, a harp with golden strings resting on his lap. At first glance a picture of serenity, except, in the bottom corner, lurked Death in the guise of a skeleton, drawing his bow fashioned out of bone and taking careful aim at the harpist. Of course, Reginald would have ignored any warnings, as well as the advice scrawled beneath the painting: that any violator of that hallowed place would have his body consumed by furry rats. Reginald was never a man to be warned …
Sir Everard jerked awake from his half-sleep and pulled himself up against the feather-filled bolsters. They had eventually brought Penchen’s corpse back for burial in St Mary’s, then he and Reginald had gone their separate ways. Sir Everard had joined the Goldsmiths’ Guild and soon prospered. As for Reginald … Sir Everard sighed. His brother had become involved with the whore Elizabeth Cheyne. Only years after they had returned from Prussia did Reginald confess that he had stolen the precious relic, the Cross of Lothar, with its antique cameo of the Emperor Augustus, a miniature but exquisitely carved cross, carved and decorated with gold, gems, pearls and precious enamels. Reginald had cheerfully admitted, rogue that he was, that he had filched the relic from the treasury in the ancient chapel of the Teutonic Knights not simply for profit, but because he truly lusted after the cross’s delicate beauty and its links with an ancient past. Reginald also viewed the cross as part reparation for the death of his comrade Simon. He had refused adamantly to restore it and had taken the secret of the relic’s whereabouts to his grave. Did the whore Elizabeth Cheyne now possess it? That might explain why she seemed to have little or no interest in where it could be. And it might be the real reason why Sir Everard’s own scapegrace son Matthias frequented that brothel, especially now with its Festival of Cokayne. Sir Everard snorted with annoyance – Cokayne! Why were they celebrating at a time when London teetered on the abyss, with the threat of revolt growing ever more imminent? Out in the surrounding shires, the Commonwealth of the Peasants plotted furiously under their leaders like the hedge priest, John Ball, who warned that God’s wrath would envelop them all.
Sir Everard thanked God that heaven had taken his beloved Eleanor to itself: his wife would not witness the bloody mayhem which would soon drench the city. Cheapside turned into a corpse-strewn battleground. Pitched battles outside the Tower. The rebels storming across London Bridge, seizing the Gatehouse and fortifications which, if their doggerel proclamation proved prophetic, would be swiftly decorated with the severed heads of their opponents, especially that of John of Gaunt, self-styled protector, uncle and regent of the boy king, Richard II. Others would soon join him, such as Master Thibault, Gaunt’s Master of Secrets who now huddled with his henchmen behind the grim fortifications of the Tower. Already many of the court party were preparing to flee; even members of Master Thibault’s own household were drawing their gold and silver from the bankers of Cheapside and slipping into the night, well away from London and the doom which threatened.
Fiery preachers, garbed in horse- and goatskin, stalked the streets warning citizens that the iron seats of judgement had been set up amidst a swarm of serpents. The skulls of London’s citizens would be split and, with the parting of the sutures, their souls would fly out to mingle with a host of spirits in the air. A dark, d
ank yet glittering mist would encase the city like a funeral shroud, and through this would prowl all the demons of Hell. The preachers, undoubtedly sent by the Upright Men, foretold that London would undergo the blood-splattered pangs of rebirth to emerge as the New Jerusalem with silver ramparts and gold-encrusted doorways fashioned out of pure white crystal and blue marble. Gaunt had hanged a few of these self-proclaimed prophets on moveable four-branched gallows, pushed up and down Cheapside so all could gaze on the strangled remains of his enemies. However, terror piled upon terror did nothing to curb the fear creeping across the city like a thick river mist which swirled and curled its way through everything.
Sir Everard pushed back the thick woollen rug and crisp linen under-sheets. He glimpsed the early dawn of this late May morning piercing the gaps between the shutters, shimmering in the light of the polished floorboards. He gazed round his bedchamber with its empty cloth poles hanging from the ceiling, the polished aumbry with cleared shelves, the great chestnut coffer now stripped of its contents: the high-backed settle before the hearth bereft of cushions, the empty spaces on the walls where paintings, triptychs and coloured cloths had been taken down. Gathering up his cloak from a stool, he dragged the candle-table closer. He took some comfort in the fact that he had removed all the costly items as well as his great iron-bound coffers with their triple locks. A former comrade in arms, now Constable of Leeds Castle, had indentured to protect all of Sir Everard’s movables. The goldsmith wondered whether he should also leave, but he was not sure if Matthias would accompany him. And what would happen if the revolt was crushed, its leaders torn to pieces, their dead flesh hacked into bloody chunks to decorate the spikes of London Bridge and the Lion Gate at the Tower: would Gaunt and Master Thibault then begin to sift amongst those who had fled? Would they adopt the line from scripture, that whoever was not with them was against them? Sir Everard let his vein-streaked legs dangle over the side of the bed, then lowered his feet and felt the crushed herbs which dusted the floor planks. He wondered if Matthias had returned home from his roistering or if he was still at the Golden Oliphant, searching for the Cross of Lothar. Then his heart skipped a beat at the sound of a horn braying outside. He sat, the breath catching in his throat, as he waited for what he knew was coming. One blast, two, followed by a third. The Herald of Hell was outside this house! Pierced by a dart of chilling fear, Sir Everard crumpled on to the bed as he heard the voice, powerful and carrying, like a blast from a hollow trumpet:
‘Lord Camoys and all who with you dwell,
Harken to this warning from the Herald of Hell,
Judgement is coming, it will not be late,
Vengeance already knocks on your gate.’
The same doggerel threat which, he knew, had been proclaimed throughout the city. He had hoped to be spared. The goldsmith drew a deep breath, his courage returning, angry that he had been so frightened. He lurched to his feet, hearing noises coming from below as servants hurried to find out what was happening.
Sir Everard pulled back the oxhide draught excluder and opened the door window with its glazed, painted glass. He stared out, but Acre Street lay empty, not even a wandering dog or cat. He wrinkled his nose at the foul smell from the sewer which ran along the centre of the street, then sniffed at his linen bedrobe, sprinkled with Provins Roses.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted, leaning out of the window. Other windows along the street were being opened. The ward watchman came into view, staff in one hand, lantern horn in the other.
‘Is that you, Poulter?’ Camoys bellowed. ‘Did you hear that? Did you see anything?’
‘Nothing, Sir Everard.’ The watchman pulled down the folds of his heavy cloak. ‘I heard the proclamation and I came round the corner out of Spindle alleyway. But,’ he shrugged, ‘I saw nothing at all.’ Poulter pointed in the direction of the front door. ‘I think you’d best see this for yourself.’
Camoys grabbed his cloak, slipped on his sandals and hurried down, pushing aside the few frightened servant maids who still worked in the house. By the Angelus bell most of these would have slipped away on this excuse or that pretext. Shepherd, Sir Everard’s steward, had already gone to visit an allegedly ailing mother in Dorset. The goldsmith pulled back the bolts and turned the heavy key, then swung open the door and stared down at the beaker of blood containing two stalks, each bearing a small onion, a macabre imitation of heads poled in blood above London Bridge. The Upright Men had sent both him and his son Matthias a warning of their possible fate. Now beside himself with anger, Camoys kicked over the beaker even as he wondered who had bellowed that proclamation. Despite an obvious attempt to disguise the voice, the Goldsmith was certain he recognized it, but that would have to wait. The Herald of Hell, whoever he was, had issued his dire summons and Sir Everard realized that he faced as great a threat as any he had confronted on the eerie borderlands of the Holy Roman Empire.
The Herald of Hell watched Sir Everard close the door to his gilded mansion. He continued to lurk in the shadowy recess further along the street, waiting until all the excitement had died down. The neighbours who had been roused now doused their candles; doors, shutters and gates were locked and bolted. Poulter, the ward bailiff, a lonely, doleful figure, rubbed his face with one hand and beat the end of his staff furiously against the ground in frustration. Then the watchman straightened up and trudged away, muttering to himself. The Herald waited for a while before crossing to an empty laystall and filling his sack with what was hidden there. He then slipped into the thinning dark, hastening along the alleyways, flitting like a shadow, one hand grasping the sack, the other on the hilt of his dagger. No one would accost him, and if they did, he had warrants to explain his presence on the streets of Cheapside long before dawn fully broke. The Herald turned a corner and, keeping to the shadows, crept along to the old ironmonger’s shop which stood on the corner of an alleyway halfway down Fairlop Lane. The Herald placed the sack on the ground, then drew his dagger to prise open the lock on the door of the narrow house belonging to the chancery clerk, Amaury Whitfield. To his surprise, the door was off its catch and creaked open. The Herald of Hell stiffened with fear. He recalled a wall painting in his church of goggle-eyed Hell hounds slipping through the murk, watching a spirit of the damned fall into the deathly salamanderembrace of a hairy-mouthed fiend. An unspeakable horror! Did such grotesque terrors lie beyond this door which should have been firmly locked?
He pushed it open and stepped into the darkness which hung like a thick, stifling pall, reeking of musty damp. He started at the cry of some night bird further along the street, followed by the shrill scream of a hunting cat and the bark of a dog howling at the lightening sky. The Herald drew a deep breath and closed the door behind him. A rat scurried across the floor, a scampering, startling sound which only sharpened his anxiety. The Herald paused, leaning against the wall. He had been instructed to come here just before the Jesus bell tolled the approaching hour for the first Mass of the day. An Earthworm, one of the street warriors of the Upright Men, had delivered the message detailing what the Herald should do and where he should go. He had expected someone to meet him outside Whitfield’s house but there had been no one, yet he was not at all sure that he was alone. He could feel a cold sweat prickling his back and he fought to control his breathing. Was this a trap? He did not want to be seized, taken up and lodged in Newgate like Reynard, put to the torture until he broke and confessed everything. Yet the Earthworm messenger had shown him the all-seeing eye, the mark of the Upright Men. The Herald caught his breath as a faint sound echoed further down this hellishly dark passageway. Again the sound, and abruptly a lanternhorn, light glowing like a beacon, shone through the gloom.
‘Approach, Herald,’ a voice mockingly called. ‘Step into the pool of light so I can see your face clearly.’
Curbing his rising panic, the Herald obeyed, walking slowly, boots slithering on the greasy paving stones.
‘Who – who are you?’ The Herald couldn’t keep the tremor out
of his voice.
‘Simon Grindcobbe.’
The Herald relaxed at the name of one of the most senior captains of the Upright Men.
‘How do I know?’ he stuttered.
‘Lift the lantern,’ the voice mocked, ‘and turn around. Quickly now, the hour is passing. Take the lantern.’
The Herald did so and started at a sound behind him. He lifted the lantern, turned and stared in horror at a devilishly garbed figure who must have followed him in from the street. An Earthworm, hair spiked with grease, his face hidden behind a feathery raven’s mask. This grotesquely attired figure carried an arbalest, primed and ready, the brightly barbed quarrel pointing directly at the Herald.
‘Now, now,’ Grindcobbe’s voice soothed, ‘no need to fear, put the lantern down. Good. Just a few questions then we shall be gone. Reynard is taken up, he failed to deliver the cipher. Master Thibault, Gaunt’s creature, now has it but not the key. I suspect Reynard must still hold that on his person.’
‘I don’t know,’ the Herald mumbled. ‘I was just waiting for orders.’
‘True, that is now our concern, not yours. So, to other business. Sir Everard Camoys received a visitor tonight?’
‘Yes, he did. I saw …’
‘Good, good,’ Grindcobbe broke in. ‘Camoys is a merchant banker. It’s well to terrify the likes of him. He needs to be gone from this city and take his feckless son with him. We do not need Matthias Camoys haunting the church of St Mary Le Bow, do we, with his stupid questions and hunger for the Cross of St Lothar? God knows what he might stumble on to.’
‘He could be disposed of.’
‘No, no.’ Grindcobbe’s voice turned hard. ‘There has been enough dancing around the maypole with the killing of Edmund Lacy the bell clerk. Matthias Camoys’ death would only attract unwanted interest. No. Let’s hope we can frighten both father and son out of London. After all,’ Grindcobbe laughed softly, ‘it would be the best for everyone, including themselves. So,’ he continued briskly, ‘we are here. I asked you to come for two reasons. First, I have been across to Southwark. I was supposed to meet Amaury Whitfield regarding the cipher taken from Reynard but he failed to appear. I wonder why. Have those ladies of the night, those moppets of the moon at the Golden Oliphant, sapped his strength? Has Whitfield drunk too deeply of Mistress Cheyne’s best Bordeaux …?’
