Herald of Hell

by Paul Doherty

  All three visitors came into the chamber exclaiming with surprise when they saw the sign and Tallifer’s tools lying on top of it. Cranston demanded silence. Athelstan nodded at the carpenter to finish his work and lift the loosened side. He did so and Matthias Camoys cried with delight at the green and gold cross fixed firmly within. The cameo of the Roman emperor was carefully positioned so it lay accurately against the hole piercing the cross-piece of the crucifix on the lid of the Oliphant’s cup on both sides of the sign. Athelstan firmly knocked Matthias’ hand away.

  ‘The cross is glued,’ Athelstan explained, ‘positioned carefully within the sign, which, in turn, was hung so as to catch the first rays of the morning sun. I saw it this morning, a shaft of pure light as you find in certain churches where a lancet window is used to guide the sunlight on to the altar.’ He gestured. ‘Master carpenter, if you could loosen the cross.’

  Tallifer did so, swiftly and expertly, then handed the relic to Athelstan.

  ‘I never knew!’ Mistress Cheyne exclaimed.

  ‘I don’t think you ever really cared,’ Athelstan retorted, holding his hand up to still her protests.

  ‘It’s mine!’ Matthias lunged forward; Athelstan thrust the cross into his hands.

  ‘You may have it, for what it’s worth; it’s a fake, a replica.’

  ‘No!’ Matthias looked wide-eyed at his father, who grasped the cross, holding it up to the light. He took out a thick piece of conclave glass from his wallet and used this to peer closely at the cross, concentrating especially on the gold fretting.

  ‘Very good,’ Sir Everard murmured. ‘Very fine, crafty and subtle, but you are correct, Athelstan, a most cunning forgery.’

  Matthias jumped to his feet, knocking over the stool on which he was sitting. For a while Athelstan let him pace backwards and forwards before nodding at Sir John, who ordered the young man to sit down.

  ‘You are quiet, Mistress Cheyne?’ Athelstan smiled. ‘You always suspected it was a forgery, a replica, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I did, but I didn’t have the heart to tell anyone, least of all you.’ She pointed at Matthias. Athelstan noticed that she and Sir Everard had barely acknowledged each other.

  ‘Sir Everard? Did you suspect?’

  ‘I did wonder.’ The goldsmith drew a sharp breath. ‘Why the Teutonic Knights, despite their difficulties against the Easterlings, never made any attempt to recover it.’

  ‘I followed the same logic,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘as you did, Mistress Cheyne. Reginald Camoys was a very skilled artist and sign maker. Formerly he had been a soldier who had lost a beloved comrade in the fighting. He stole the Cross of Lothar as some form of compensation or recompense. He brought his comrade’s corpse home for solemn entombment at St Mary Le Bow. Eventually he discovered, God knows how, that what he had stolen was a replica but he still persisted with the myth. He could not destroy the artefact which, in time, became the symbol of his love for Simon Penchen. He would not willingly let such an object go. As I said, Reginald was a cultivated, educated man. He chose St Mary Le Bow to house the shrine of his fallen comrade. He would wander round that church, especially the crypt, which contains the ruins of an ancient Roman temple dedicated to a god much beloved of Roman soldiers, Mithras, the Unconquerable Sun God. He also discovered one of the most commonly used dedications to that deity, “Soli Invicto – to the Unconquerable Sun”. At the same time he read or recalled the famous story about the Emperor Constantine, the first Christian emperor who converted after he experienced a vision of the Cross with the message, “In Hoc Signo Vinces – In this Sign you will conquer.” Constantine did; he won the battle of the Milvian Bridge and replaced Mithras with Christ. Reginald Camoys, a former soldier, would relish such a story, yet he had also learned that the cross he had stolen was a mere replica, so, instead of publishing the truth and destroying the symbol,’ Athelstan tapped the brothel sign, ‘he had this made and the replica placed carefully inside so that the cameo at the centre would catch the first rays of the rising sun. Reginald, on a fine morning like this, would love nothing better than to sit in the garden of the Golden Oliphant and watch that flash of light, is that not so, Mistress Cheyne?’

  ‘True, true,’ she murmured, not lifting her head. ‘The sign was fashioned a few years before Reginald’s death. At the same time, those carvings appeared in the Golden Oliphant and the chantry chapel of St Mary Le Bow.’ She sniffed. ‘Always a dreamer, always mischievous, Reginald loved his dead comrade Simon Penchen more than me.’ Athelstan caught her deep bitterness of loss. ‘Always,’ she continued in a whisper, ‘full of fanciful ideas.’

  ‘One final twist,’ Athelstan added. ‘The original quotation uses the word, “Vinces – you will conquer”; Reginald changed it slightly using the word, “Vinceris”, or at least that’s my educated guess, so the inscription reads, “In this sign you will be released.” Reginald was actually addressing Lothar’s Cross, bidding it an affectionate farewell as well as challenging those who knew him to find the cross and release it from the sign. A much more pleasing prospect than having to admit its true worth. Reginald wove a complex tale to satisfy himself as well as leave secret puzzles, riddles and enigmas behind him.’ Athelstan pointed at Matthias. ‘He also wanted you to use your brain, your wits, on something better than drinking and wenching.’

  ‘Reginald should have been a minstrel, a troubadour,’ Sir Everard declared. ‘I did have my suspicions for the very same reasons you did, Brother Athelstan. So we have the truth. But you have summoned me here for more than this, I suspect.’

  Athelstan turned to the carpenter who had sat fascinated at what was being discussed. ‘Master Tallifer, I thank you. Submit all reasonable expenses to Sir John at the Guildhall and he will ensure you receive speedy reimbursement.’

  The carpenter collected his tools and rose. ‘I have heard similar tales,’ he declared, ‘about signs containing some secret.’ He grinned. ‘But not like this.’

  ‘Mistress Cheyne,’ Athelstan gestured at the sign, ‘Master Tallifer can also claim for rehanging the sign.’

  She nodded, licked thin, dry lips and rose to her feet. ‘I can go now?’

  ‘You certainly can,’ Cranston declared. ‘I will arrange for the sign to be returned to the waiting cart. Master Foxley, I understand, accompanied you here?’

  Athelstan rose and crossed to the window, staring down into the cobbled bailey where Foxley stood next to a cart. He half listened as Tallifer, Mistress Cheyne and Guildhall servants removed the sign from the judgement chamber. Once the door had closed behind them, Cranston resumed his seat in the coroner’s chair; Athelstan sat on a bench facing Sir Everard and Matthias.

  ‘I asked a question, Brother,’ Sir Everard demanded. ‘Why have I been summoned here?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘I shall be brief. To assist your liege lord the King and his ministers, such as Sir John here, to resolve certain murderous mysteries and so bring the perpetrators to justice.’

  ‘I have nothing to do with the deaths at the Golden Oliphant.’

  ‘Yes and no, Sir Everard. But first let me try and win your favour as well as alert you,’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Matthias, ‘to a possible danger you might face. Sir John, you have the bailiff from Sir Everard’s ward ready for us?’

  ‘Poulter?’

  ‘Yes, Master Poulter, and a speaking horn.’

  Cranston, whom Athelstan had carefully instructed, left the chamber. He returned shortly afterwards grasping a very frightened Poulter by the arm as well as carrying a hollow, metal tube similar to a tournament trumpet.

  ‘Master Poulter,’ Athelstan gestured at the stool facing the judgement table, ‘sit down.’ The friar took the speaking horn from Cranston and placed it between his feet. Poulter, all sweat-soaked and quivering, glanced at this and moaned quietly. ‘Master Poulter,’ Athelstan began, ‘I do not wish to torture you or put you to the question, but that could be arranged in the dungeons below, is that not so,
Sir John?’ The coroner nodded. ‘You have a family, Master Poulter?’

  ‘A wife and five children.’

  ‘You are a city official?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have heard of the Herald of Hell?’

  ‘Of course,’ Poulter stammered.

  ‘You are the Herald of Hell,’ Athelstan accused.

  ‘I am not! I had no choice!’ Poulter’s head went down and he began to sob.

  ‘What is this?’ Sir Everard demanded. ‘Poulter is loyal and true. He came to my …’ His voice faded away.

  ‘To be accurate and honest,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you, Master Poulter, are simply one of the many Heralds of Hell plaguing the good citizens of this city. Let me tell you about my friend Robert Burdon, keeper of London Bridge. He, too, was visited at the dead of night by the Herald of Hell. Now I reasoned that either the Herald had braved the waters of the Thames to arrive or depart, or that he actually lived on the bridge. However, I also discovered, thanks to the good offices of Sir John, that on the same night Burdon was visited, the Herald of Hell was active in Farringdon ward. Despite his title, I know that the Herald cannot fly. He certainly did not walk the waters of the Thames, so the only logical conclusion was that he lived and worked on the bridge, as he did in Farringdon, in Cheapside and elsewhere. In other words, the Herald of Hell was truly legion. So who could he be?

  ‘The only individual who walks the streets of London in the dead of night is the ward bailiff. I suspect the Upright Men, to further and to deepen what I call “the Great Fear”, suborned these city officials with dire threats against themselves and their families both now and when the Great Revolt occurs. The task assigned to them was simple. A named house would be given along with a doggerel verse, a beaker full of pig’s blood and sharpened stalks bearing the same number of onions as there were individuals in that particular household. In Sir Everard’s case, there were two. The bailiff concerned would also be given a simple speaking horn which, together with the other paraphernalia, would be carefully hidden away. At some godforsaken hour of the night, when doors and shutters betray no chink of light, the bailiff, suborned and terrified, would choose his time. The jar of blood with its grisly warning would be left outside the door of the chosen victim. The bailiff, hidden in the shadows and armed with a simple speaking horn, would bray a blast and deliver the warning learnt by rote. A horn like this,’ Athelstan tapped the one resting between his feet, ‘would disguise his voice. Once finished, taking advantage of the darkness and chaos caused, the speaking horn would be hidden away for collection and the bailiff could now act the conscientious, loyal city official. The damage is done. The fear deepens. Security is threatened. People panic. They will either flee or try to seek accommodation with the hidden power of the Upright Men.

  ‘Sir Everard was different, a veteran soldier made of sterner stuff. More importantly, because of his acute sense of hearing, Sir Everard recognized the voice despite the speaking horn, but he could not place it. He would never dream it was the faithful, loyal wardsman, but it was you, Master Poulter. And the damage you and your kind have perpetrated cannot be undone.’

  ‘So the Herald of Hell is like the hydra of antiquity, many-headed?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Everard, but,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘in origin, the Herald of Hell could be one person. Such an individual acts out his title: suborns the watchmen, instructs them on what to do and gives his victims the necessary means to carry it out. Yes, I believe that’s a strong possibility.’ Athelstan paused. He did not wish to reveal more than necessary, but he secretly wondered if Reynard, the Upright Men’s courier, had been bringing that cipher to the real Herald of Hell here in London when he had been caught.

  ‘Anyway, Master Poulter,’ Athelstan continued briskly, ‘I have spoken the truth. You agree?’ The bailiff was now quivering like a child. Athelstan winked at Cranston, indicating with his hand that gentleness was the best way forward. ‘I have spoken the truth, Master Poulter?’

  ‘Yes.’ The bailiff sighed. ‘Yes, you have, but what now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Cranston declared, glaring at Sir Everard. ‘You were placed under powerful duress. You could have put more trust in the Crown, though,’ the coroner added bitterly. ‘That trust is becoming a rarer commodity by the day. So go, Master Poulter. Have nothing more to do with the Upright Men. Tomorrow, you and all the ward bailiffs from the city will be summoned here to listen to good counsel and practical advice: those who admit their guilt and purge themselves will be warned and let go. Any who resist must face the consequences. Now you can leave.’

  Poulter scuttled from the room. Once the door had closed, Sir Everard clapped his hands slowly. ‘Excellent, Brother Athelstan, Sir John, very clever! The Upright Men forced city officials to spread fear and foreboding.’

  ‘Oh, we have more,’ Athelstan declared. ‘We questioned Poulter in front of you to show you our good will. To reassure you that, as with Poulter, we shall not issue any indictment against you.’

  ‘For what? Sir John, what is this?’

  The coroner slouched in his judgement chair and took a swig from his miraculous wineskin. ‘Amaury Whitfield. He lodged money with you, did he not?’

  ‘Many do.’

  ‘Sir Everard,’ Athelstan warned, ‘do not play games. We have shown you our good will. Now you may answer to us or to the Barons of the Exchequer who, under orders from Master Thibault, may move to issue a summons for you to appear before the King’s Bench.’

  Sir Everard glanced quickly at his son, who sat cowed, then he shrugged.

  ‘Good,’ Athelstan declared, ‘now let me tell you what happened. Whitfield was a high-ranking chancery clerk in the household of Gaunt’s principal henchman. Every quarter he would receive monies, robes and whatever purveyance he needed, not enough to make him wealthy but certainly comfortable enough. Whitfield often visited you on his master’s business. Then, sometime in the past, he began to deposit monies with you. At first there was no problem, until these deposits increased in both content and frequency. Whitfield was crafty. He knew that his monies would be lodged under a symbol rather than his own title, that is how you bankers and goldsmiths do business. Whitfield’s entries could be filed under the name of a flower, a precious stone or place name. He also knew that, according to the laws of your own guild, copied from the great Italian bankers such as the Frescobaldi of Florence, complete confidentiality and trust are the order of the day, the cornerstone of good business. You, however, grew increasingly uncomfortable. Here is a very high-ranking clerk in the service of the sinister Thibault, depositing monies, the origins of which are highly suspect. Should Thibault suspect, should he investigate and discover the truth, you could be depicted as Whitfield’s accomplice.’

  Athelstan held the gaze of this powerful goldsmith caught in toils not of his making. ‘You are an honourable man, Sir Everard. I feel truly sorry for you. To cut to the quick, you told Whitfield you could no longer be his banker, and that is your right. You filled money coffers and caskets with what was due to him and told him to protect these as best he could. Whitfield had no choice. I suspect he kept such caskets in a secure, secret place at his lodgings. A few days ago, Whitfield left for the Cokayne Festival which was, and I tell you this in confidence, only a ploy to hide the fact that he and Lebarge intended to flee the kingdom. He also intended to dirty the waters deeper by disguising his desertion under a fake death, possibly suicide somewhere along the Thames. In the meantime, Whitfield must conceal his ill-gotten gains. You, Sir Everard, suspected quite rightly that such monies were lavish bribes paid by different parties to learn Master Thibault’s secrets.

  ‘Anyway, bereft of a banker and getting ready to flee, Master Whitfield had a thick, heavy money belt strapped around his waist, its pouches crammed with silver and gold. Little wonder he and Lebarge hired a chamber on the fourth gallery. He wanted to make matters more secure. That heavy money belt also explains one witness’s observation that Whitfield looked slimmer in
death than in life. Of course the money belt had been removed, stolen. Nevertheless, it left its mark on Whitfield’s belly and flanks. Brother Philippe at Smithfield observed these marks when he scrutinized the corpse. Now Whitfield’s death does not concern you, but your son is a different matter.’

  Athelstan turned to the sullen-looking Matthias. ‘Blackmail,’ Athelstan declared. Matthias sat unmoving, his arms folded, glaring at the floor. ‘Blackmail,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘You, sir, were waiting for Whitfield at the Golden Oliphant. You may have suspected that he was about to flee. You’d certainly learnt about the monies deposited with your father. You gave Whitfield a choice. He was a trained clerk, skilled in ciphers. He would either help solve the riddles confronting you about Lothar’s Cross or you would denounce him to Thibault.’

  ‘Matthias!’ his father exclaimed.

  ‘Am I correct?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘Or must I have you arrested?’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘Quite a few,’ Cranston interjected.

  ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘The truth, Matthias, or what you know of it.’

  Matthias squirmed uneasily on the stool. ‘Whitfield was set on disappearing; Lebarge, too. They’d both been terrified by the visit from the Herald of Hell.’ He laughed sharply. ‘If they had only known the truth. Anyway, Whitfield did have a treasure belt about him and he was fearful of being robbed.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘In God’s name, Brother, anyone. He was apprehensive about Stretton, Foxley, who seemed to be bothering him, nor did he trust Odo Gray, but he believed once he was on board the Leaping Horse along with Mistress Cheyne and her household, all might be well. He was most cordial with the moppets as was Lebarge, who was much taken with the whore Hawisa. Of course Whitfield was terrified that Thibault would find out about his plans. He had not decided, so he confided in me, whether he should arrange an apparent suicide or an accident along the Thames.’