by Paul Doherty
Athelstan walked over to where the Master of Horse lounged against a wooden pillar listening intently to what the friar had been saying.
‘Brother,’ Foxley looked past Athelstan at Mistress Cheyne, ‘for the life of me …’ Athelstan tensed. Foxley’s testimony would be vital. ‘I cannot recall precisely either way.’
‘Would you go on oath and swear that?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Yes, I would. Indeed, the more I reflect, the more certain I become that I did not see Joycelina. I never considered her not being there, it would just never occur to me.’
‘Nor to me,’ Athelstan replied, taking his seat, ‘until I spoke to Lebarge. He left the refectory, didn’t he, Master Griffin?’
‘Yes, I couldn’t stop him.’
‘He went up the stairs, but paused on the stairwell leading to the top gallery. He never mentioned anyone passing him, though he remembered the door being pounded and Mistress Cheyne calling for Joycelina. He stayed there until the chamber was forced, sheltering in that small recess or enclave. He heard the labourers going down and the clamour above about Whitfield being dead. Sir John took up the same position when Tiptoft was hiding in the chamber I forced. Of course, despite all my calling, he never saw Tiptoft pass him. Lebarge said the same, no one passed him on that staircase. He certainly never mentioned Joycelina running up. I am not too sure whether Lebarge realized the full implications of what he was saying. Perhaps in time he would have done, which could well be one of the reasons you decided to murder him, Mistress Cheyne.’
‘Nonsense!’ Elizabeth Cheyne leapt to her feet. ‘This is all a lie. A farrago of lies. You have no …’ Flaxwith, pressing on her shoulders, forced the woman to sit down.
‘Lebarge,’ Athelstan continued, ‘was truly frightened and confused. His master was dead, he did not know who to trust except for one person, young Hawisa. He hid his relationship with her behind a mask of diffidence, publicly dismissing her as just another whore. But I know, as you do, Mistress Cheyne, that secretly he was much taken with her. Strange that you never provided such information to me when I first questioned you. Whitfield wanted to flee, Lebarge also, and the scrivener intended to take little Hawisa with him. The moppet may already have been hiding Lebarge’s baggage; she had a chamber here, or certainly some place where she could stow away his possessions. I admit I have little proof for what I say, but, to continue. On that particular morning after Lebarge had visited the death chamber, he had a few swift words with his sweetheart then fled to St Erconwald’s for sanctuary. He went there because he was confused and frightened. He’d committed no crime but at least he would be safe in sanctuary against Thibault and any other adversary. Eventually he would be granted permission to leave London by the nearest port, which is what he wanted in the first place. Above all, safe in my church, he could think, plan and plot. Hawisa would know where he was, a place nearby, and, in time, easily join him. Lebarge decided to shelter there, determined only to take sustenance from myself or the widow woman …’
‘Benedicta?’ Mistress Cheyne spat the name out. ‘We know all about her, Brother Athelstan …’
‘As God knows about you being so determined on Lebarge’s death. You learnt from Griffin or others here that Lebarge had left the refectory …’
‘She asked me and I told her,’ the Master of the Hall interjected.
‘You, Mistress Cheyne, must have wondered what Lebarge really knew, what he had seen, heard or felt. You would realize he was safe in sanctuary with time to reflect. Above all, Lebarge knew about that money belt. It would be only a matter of time before he began to cast the net of suspicion wider and wider. Lebarge had to die and, if it was going to be done, it was best done quickly. You would use the one person Lebarge trusted …’
‘Hawisa!’ Foxley shouted. ‘I saw you on the day Lebarge fled conferring with her.’
‘Of course you did. Is that not so, Mistress Cheyne? You consoled her, promised help, every assistance. To cut to the quick. You offered to take Hawisa to St Erconwald’s in the evening of that same day when my church is fairly deserted and full of dancing shadows. Just a brief meeting. You would help both of them. You wrapped a simnel cake in some linen as a small token of friendship. Lebarge would like that. Cloaked and cowled, both of you slipped into St Erconwald’s, two women who would not attract attention. You told Hawisa not to be long. You would keep watch and alert her to any danger. You insist that Lebarge eat the cake immediately and Hawisa bring the linen covering back with her so there’d be no trace of anyone from outside assisting him, one of the rules for all who seek sanctuary. At the time these would appear trivial matters. Hawisa and Lebarge would be eager to discuss a future which, little did they know, you intended to destroy. I can imagine Hawisa, that little mouse, slipping through the shadows whilst you kept watch near some pillar close by the Lady Altar, ready to cough or give some prearranged signal if danger approached. The short meeting took place. Hawisa met Lebarge not in the mercy enclave but in the shadow of the rood screen door. The cake is handed over and eaten but, unbeknown to you, or even despite your instructions, Hawisa also provided Lebarge with a knife and some coins, just in case he decides to flee sanctuary. She then rejoined you. You would make sure all was well, that the cake had been eaten and the linen cloth returned.
‘Afterwards, you both slipped away into the gathering darkness back to the Golden Oliphant, though only one of you reached here. You are a killer, Mistress Cheyne, to the very sinews of your wicked heart. You are steeped in evil with no conscience. On the way back to the Golden Oliphant you murdered Hawisa along some filthy runnel or alleyway: a swift stab to the heart in some dark-filled cranny where you could take care of anything that might indicate who she was or where she came from. Hawisa became just another corpse amongst those of so many poor women, found with their throat slit or drenched in their heart’s blood, lying on a filth-filled laystall or in a dirt-smeared recess.’ Athelstan gestured around. ‘Somewhere in this house you have hidden the possessions of both Lebarge and Hawisa.’
‘Hawisa ran away!’ Mistress Cheyne exclaimed. ‘She’s fled.’
‘Why would she?’ Cranston retorted. ‘She, like the rest of you, was under strict orders not to leave the Golden Oliphant. Why should a little moppet challenge that?’ By the murmur of protest this provoked, Cranston could see why Athelstan had chosen to confront Mistress Cheyne in public: everything the whore-mistress now said or did was being closely scrutinized.
‘Hawisa has not fled.’ Anna led the attack. ‘Where would she go? Now Lebarge is dead, she would be alone with no home, hearth, kith or kin. She risked being put to the horn as an outlaw.’
‘I spoke to her,’ another cried, ‘the last time I saw her. She talked about wishing to go abroad or returning to Coggeshall where she was born.’
Others shouted their comments. Mistress Cheyne just sat seething with hate, fingers curling as she glared at Athelstan.
‘And now,’ Athelstan raised his voice to still the clamour, ‘we come to the murder of your accomplice, Joycelina …’
‘She fell.’
‘She tripped,’ Athelstan countered. ‘Once again, you assemble the household in the refectory and hall. You are busy in the kitchen baking bread as well as at the wash tub outside. You’d sent Joycelina to sweep and clean Whitfield’s chamber. A macabre task, a killer cleaning the very chamber where she had committed murder. Joycelina would, quite rightly, be highly nervous, deeply apprehensive, wary of her victim’s ghost hovering close about her, fearful that she might be discovered. You told her to clean the chamber just in case any trace of what you had both plotted might be found. The gallery is deserted, everyone, including yourself, is busy below. You had Anna close by,’ Athelstan pointed at the maid, ‘quite deliberately so. Young lady,’ Athelstan smiled at Anna, ‘you have a most carrying voice; do you remember what happened?’
‘Mistress Cheyne had left bread baking in the oven while she and I went outside. I came in. No, she sent me in, that�
�s right. I found the bread burning.’ Anna grinned in a display of broken teeth. ‘She then told me to go and fetch Joycelina.’
‘Why?’ Athelstan leaned forward. ‘Why did you need Joycelina down here? You had Anna and others to help you. A minor, most insignificant matter, a passing moment of no importance whatsoever except for what you had secretly planned. Joycelina was busy in Whitfield’s chamber. You left her there and went downstairs. You had, however, prepared a lure, a snare. On each side of those steep steps leading down from the top gallery stands a newel post. Around one of these you had fastened a piece of twine, just to hang there, unnoticed. Before you continued down, you turned, took this innocent looking piece of twine and fastened it tight around the opposite newel post. The snare is set: those stairs are dangerous enough but you have created a death trap. You return to the kitchen. There is little or no chance of anyone going up those stairs, why should they? The only person coming down would be Joycelina and you wanted her dead.’
‘Why should I?’
‘To be rid of an accomplice who one day might talk and who would certainly demand at least half of Whitfield’s treasure. In the end, Mistress Cheyne, you are a killer, a murderess. You had everything to gain from Joycelina’s death and nothing to lose. So,’ Athelstan continued, ‘we have all this mummery in the kitchen. You allow the bread to burn deliberately, creating a petty affray. You despatch Anna to call Joycelina down. Anna’s strident voice probably did little to soothe Joycelina as she cleaned the chamber where she’d committed murder. Summoned to come down urgently, she may even have thought something had gone wrong. Anyway, she hurries from the chamber, catches her ankle on the snare and tumbles to her death. The chances of anyone surviving such a fall, albeit with very serious injuries, would be rare. Joycelina lies dead, murdered. She is no longer a threat to you in any way. During all the hustle and bustle of tending to her corpse, you hasten to the top of the stairs and, with a concealed knife, ensure no trace of that twine remained.’ Athelstan held up his hand. ‘Three murders. You tried to make it four. I am sure it was you who watched me wander into the garden and slipped out to release those mastiffs. You will hang, Mistress Cheyne, and deservedly so.’ Athelstan paused at the sound of horsemen arriving in the yard outside.
‘You have no proof,’ Mistress Cheyne taunted. ‘No real evidence.’
‘Oh, I will find it here and I have this.’ Athelstan leaned down, opened his chancery satchel and delicately took out the linen parcel, specially prepared by a cook at the Guildhall. He opened the folds and held up a portion of simnel cake. ‘Admittedly,’ he moved the piece of food from hand to hand, ‘it is now slightly hard, stale.’ He half smiled. ‘More like stone than food. But,’ he sniffed at it, ‘still full of poison. When we throw you in a dungeon, Mistress Cheyne, I will put this in the cell next to it and wait for the rats to eat it and die in swift agony. I will have that witnessed and sworn to. I will also arrange for the Golden Oliphant to be scoured. We will eventually find Whitfield’s gold and the possessions of both Lebarge and Hawisa.’ Athelstan held up the piece of simnel cake. ‘Strange that Lebarge, in his excitement, put this down on the floor and forgot it.’
‘No, he didn’t!’ Mistress Cheyne closed her eyes in desperation at her mistake.
‘Why not eat some?’ Athelstan offered. ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘You have nothing to fear, surely?’
‘You said Lebarge died after eating it. He was poisoned. Hawisa could have done that.’
‘So you admit that Hawisa did take a simnel cake to Lebarge at the sanctuary?’ Athelstan was determined that the sheer logic of his argument would break this killer. He had trapped the murderer – now he would show her there was no escape. He went and stood over the accused, using his fingers as he emphasized the evidence against her. ‘Item, Mistress Cheyne: through Joycelina you knew about the money belt and Whitfield’s determination to flee, whatever convoluted plot he was weaving to cover it. Item: on the night before Whitfield died, he was deep in his cups. After all, he had come here to celebrate the Festival of Cokayne. Joycelina, by everyone’s admission, cared for him. He would allow her and you into his chamber. Everyone else was sleeping, sottish with drink. The Cokayne Festival was over. The guests were tired and sated whilst you acted the busy hostess, hurrying here and there. Nothing untoward. You are so skilled at that, Mistress Cheyne, using everyday routines to mask murderous intent. Whitfield would let you both stay. After all, drunk as he was, he was only biding his time until he slipped out in the early hours to meet someone, though that does not concern us now.
‘Once in that chamber, you had nothing to fear from anyone else, least of all Lebarge, deep in his cups and smitten with Hawisa. Item: by use of wine, potions or the prospect of some sexual game, you persuaded poor, drunken Whitfield to stand on that stool with a noose around his neck and watched him die. You undid his clothing, took the money belt and made ready to leave. Item: soft-footed, you slipped from that chamber taking the key. No one would notice. Who else, belly full of ale and wine, would climb these steep steps to the top gallery? The only person would be a drunken Lebarge, but he had sunk into a deep sleep in his own chamber. You both fled unobserved. Anyone who later approached and knocked on Whitfield’s door would receive no answer and conclude the clerk had fallen into a drunken stupor.
‘Item: you assumed Lebarge would wake all mawmsy after his drinking bout, eager for his simnel cakes. He and the rest assembled in the refectory. Item: under your direction, Joycelina raised the alarm and you took over. Who would gainsay you as mistress of this house? You have the authority to tell guests and servants what to do. Item: Joycelina, now armed with a key, was secretly despatched to Whitfield’s chamber under the guise of some errand. Item: You again, as mistress of the house, take Foxley and the labourers to the top gallery. You make sure Foxley, still befuddled from the previous night’s heavy drinking, confirms the door is barred and locked. The ram is used as you shout for Joycelina to join you. Of course, she is hiding inside having ensured that both the eyelet and lock are blocked and the bolts pulled across.
‘Item: the door is eventually forced back, bolt and locks snapping; the door built slightly into the wall is pushed open; hanging off its leather hinges, it actually conceals Joycelina. Even if it had snapped off completely, your accomplice stands hidden to the left in a chamber which is pitch black with no light. Item: the top gallery is gloomy at the best of times. Foxley, the only one who now remains with you, has eyes solely for the grim spectacle of Whitfield’s dangling corpse as well as opening that shuttered window. Terrified, he stumbles across, his boots creaking the floorboards. All this disguises Joycelina who, in her soft buskins, slips around the door to stand by you. Let us say Foxley turned, and why should he? He’d glimpse nothing amiss except the shadowy outlines of Mistress Cheyne following him into the chamber with Joycelina beside her. This was logical; after all, hadn’t she been calling for her? That Joycelina had been in the chamber all the time would never occur to him and, even if such a remote possibility did, it would be his word against that of his mistress, not to mention Joycelina.’
Athelstan paused and pushed the piece of simnel cake closer to her face. ‘Of course, this was not enough. You and Joycelina were determined to silence both Lebarge and Hawisa lest they come to suspect. Item: you have virtually admitted that Hawisa went to St Erconwald’s with simnel cake. You knew Lebarge had to eat it and leave no evidence that anyone had come to assist him lest he forfeit the right to sanctuary. Hawisa would also be aware of that. She and Lebarge would be most careful and prudent: their meeting in my darkened church would be brief enough for the two lovers to reassure each other. After which Lebarge slipped back to the mercy enclave to die as the poison took effect whilst Hawisa left the chapel with you, slipping into eternal night. Poor Lebarge! Poor Hawisa! They truly trusted you. How long that would have lasted is a matter of speculation. The same is true of Joycelina. It’s only a matter of time before thieves fall out, assassins even more so. You cont
rol this house, Mistress, that is more than obvious. People come and go when you tell them to. Joycelina, all agitated, is sent to clean that chamber. You set up your snare. Everyone else is where they should be. You brought about Joycelina’s extraordinary death by very ordinary, mundane means: burning bread, the strident summons of a maid, Joycelina’s haste and a simple piece of twine. Well, Mistress?’ Athelstan leaned down. ‘That’s what the lawyers will argue. What do you say?’
‘I will say no more,’ she shouted.
‘You will,’ Cranston intervened, ‘when you are taken to the press yard in Newgate and forced to lie under a huge door. Great iron weights will be placed on top, one after the other, until you confess the truth. Flaxwith, take her out to one of the outhouses, keep her safe until we leave. For the rest,’ Cranston drew himself up, hands extended, ‘everyone stays here until the Golden Oliphant is searched and the stolen money found. And that,’ Cranston gestured at Stretton, ‘includes you. If anyone does try to leave they will be arrested or, if they flee, put to the horn as outlaws.’
Athelstan bent down to pick up his chancery satchel. When he felt himself being pushed, he glanced up. Mistress Cheyne, despite being held by two burly bailiffs, had flung herself against him. Now she pulled back, eyes hot with hatred, lips bared in a snarl.
‘I have secrets,’ she hissed. ‘I will proclaim such secrets before the King’s Bench, I will …’
‘Take her away.’ Athelstan turned his back on the prisoner. He walked over to Foxley, deep in conversation with one of the ostlers, Mistress Cheyne’s curses echoing behind him. The friar plucked at the Master of Horse’s sleeve and apologised to the ostler. ‘Master Foxley, a word.’ Athelstan took him away from the rest, opened his chancery satchel and thrust a small, red-ribboned scroll into Foxley’s hand.
‘I owe you my life, certainly my health,’ the friar murmured. ‘You protected a Domini canis – a Hound of the Lord,’ he explained the Latin pun on the name of his order, ‘from other, more dangerous hounds. Now,’ Athelstan continued briskly, ‘take this, Master Foxley. The day of tribulation will soon be upon us and, whatever you believe, the Lords of the Soil will crush you. No,’ Athelstan stepped closer, ‘just take the scroll. You saved my life and this will save yours when the Retribution comes and your comrades are fleeing for their lives only to find churches locked and sanctuaries closely guarded. Take this to Blackfriars, my brothers will shelter you. Now …’ Athelstan turned as Cranston gripped his arm.
