Herald of Hell

by Paul Doherty

  ‘The horsemen we heard earlier, Brother,’ the coroner murmured, ‘were outriders, Thibault and his henchmen have arrived.’

  Foxley duly slipped away. The Golden Hall swiftly emptied as Thibault, slapping leather gauntlets against his thigh, swaggered into the great taproom, Albinus slinking in behind him.

  ‘Spies at the Guildhall,’ Cranston whispered, ‘Thibault must have been aware that something was afoot.’

  ‘Brother Athelstan! Sir John! So good to see you.’ Thibault exchanged the kiss of peace with both, pulling back the quilted leather hood which hid his face. ‘I gather a murderess has been caught and your work is done. So,’ Thibault gestured to one of the tables, ‘appraise me of what has happened. I thought you would have done so earlier, hence my eagerness.’ He grinned falsely. ‘But here we are and the truth will out.’

  Once his soldiers had sealed the doorways, Thibault, with Albinus sitting beside him, listened as the friar tersely explained his conclusions. Thibault betrayed little emotion at Whitfield’s intended desertion or Mistress Cheyne’s murderous plot. He simply sat, close-faced, interrupting with the occasional question or staring round the Golden Hall as if he was already assessing the true value of this busy brothel.

  ‘I congratulate you, Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ Thibault declared once the explanation had finished. ‘And once again, I thank you for your discovery of the Upright Men’s plot to seize the towers of certain churches. The arrest and conviction of Malfort and the unmasking of the self-proclaimed Herald of Hell is a magnificent achievement. As for Whitfield,’ Thibault grimaced, ‘I should have seen the signs. Everything is breaking down, old allegiances are dying, new loyalties being formed as people shift, twist and turn against the coming storm.’ He gestured around. ‘I will seize this place. Mistress Cheyne committed treason, slaying a royal clerk, so all her property is forfeit.’ Thibault’s soft, round face twisted into a smirk. ‘My men will stay here until Whitfield’s gold is found. I also claim that in the name of the Crown. As for the murderous bitch herself …’ He glanced at Athelstan from the corner of his eye. ‘Oh, by the way, I heard about Radegund, but he is no great loss.’ The Master of Secrets rose to his feet, beckoning Albinus to join him. ‘I will have words with Mistress Cheyne myself. My men will guard the outhouse and everything else here. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you may stay a little longer. You have told me everything?’

  ‘Everything you should know.’ Athelstan smiled back. He’d say nothing about Grindcobbe or Sir John’s dramatic meeting with the Queen Mother at Westminster. ‘As you said, Master Thibault, everything is in a state of flux. The killer may be caught but Mistress Cheyne looks for protection from you, claims she knows certain things.’

  ‘Does she now?’ Thibault jibed. ‘But not as much as you, Athelstan, eh?’

  Thibault and Albinus sauntered off, out into the stable yard. Athelstan opened his chancery satchel, took out the little parcel, opened it and offered Cranston some of the simnel cake. The coroner shook his head, produced his miraculous wineskin and took a generous mouthful; he offered it to Athelstan, now munching cheerfully on the simnel cake. For a while they sat in silence, half-listening to the sounds of the household.

  ‘Clever little friar!’

  ‘Not really, Sir John.’ Athelstan took a swig from the wineskin and returned it. ‘Mistress Cheyne convicted herself by her care and preparations for each murder. In themselves, her actions appeared to be of no importance whatsoever, the sheer humdrum routine of any household. When isolated and scrutinized, they merge into clever preparations for subtle murder: the burning of the bread, sending Anna to call Joycelina …’ Athelstan broke off as Thibault and Albinus re-entered the hall.

  ‘Mistress Cheyne,’ Thibault took his seat patting his jerkin, ‘will be committed for summary judgement before the Justices of Oyer and Terminer who now sit in a special commission at the Tower to deal with all attacks on the Crown, its property and servants. She has told me where the money lies hidden so I have commuted her punishment from being burnt alive at Smithfield to a swift hanging on the Tower scaffold. And that will happen before sunset. Throughout the process she will remain gagged and under close custody. So …’ Thibault turned swiftly as a royal messenger, his scarlet and gold livery coated with dust, burst through the cordon of men-at-arms guarding the door, holding aloft two scrolls of parchment which Thibault seized and took over to the light from the nearest window. He read both and sat down on a stall, whispering a prayer. Athelstan caught the words of ‘Jesu Miserere, Jesu Miserere, Jesus have mercy’ repeated a number of times. Intrigued, the friar rose and walked across, Cranston following behind.

  ‘Master Thibault?’ The Master of Secrets did not look up but handed both documents to Cranston, who read them swiftly and cursed beneath his breath.

  ‘Sir John?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Reports from royal watchers,’ the coroner murmured, ‘at Wodeford in Essex, to the north of Mile End, and a similar one from Ospring on the Canterbury road. The revolt has begun. Two armies, hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of men marching on London. They’ve unfurled huge red and black banners and issued their proclamations. They intend to destroy the Babylon of Satan and set up the New Jerusalem. God, they say, will punish us for our sins.’

  ‘God does not punish us,’ Athelstan replied, staring down at Thibault. ‘Our sins do. We have sown the tempest and now we are about to reap the whirlwind.’

  The Master of Secrets glanced up. ‘You will remember your promise, Brother? My daughter, my beloved Isabella …’

  Athelstan caught the pleading in this ruthless man’s voice.

  ‘I will keep my promise,’ the friar replied. ‘She will be safe, but will you be?’

  Thibault forced a smile. ‘I will be in the Tower.’

  ‘Even though your lord and master is moving slowly north?’ Cranston leaned down, his face only a few inches from Thibault’s. ‘The storm is about to break.’ Thibault just shrugged. ‘You will be in the Tower, Thibault – you, Gaunt’s Master of Secrets – but you will not be alone.’ Cranston forced a smile. ‘Royal serjeants bearing the King’s own letter, sealed orders for my Lord of Gaunt. They are on the road now.’ Thibault’s face went slack. ‘Sealed orders,’ Cranston hissed, ‘instructing Gaunt to hand over his eldest son, Henry of Lancaster. He is to be brought south. He will be lodged with the King, so where Richard goes, Henry goes with him, very, very close.’ Cranston lifted his hand, fingers interlaced. ‘Close as this, Master Thibault! Even the most skilled of archers could not put an arrow between them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Thibault’s face was pallid, a sheen of sweat prickling his smooth forehead.

  ‘He means,’ Athelstan stepped closer, ‘that when the storm breaks and the lightning flashes in one corner of heaven to light up the other, we shall all be sheltering under the same tree, Master Thibault.’

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Herald of Hell is, of course, a work of fiction, but it reflects the conspiracies which engulfed London and the surrounding shires in that fateful summer of 1381. The peasants were well organized. Former veterans of the wars in France, skilled master bowmen flooded back to England eager for further mischief at home. Everyone who has studied the Peasant’s Revolt of 1381 comes across the name of one of its principal leaders – Wat Tyler, who has been described by successive generations of history books as an identifiable individual, a captain of the Kentish men as well as those of Essex. In truth, we have virtually no evidence about who Wat Tyler really was, where he came from or what thrust him into leadership. In this The Herald of Hell is correct. Local and central records throw no light on this mysterious individual who emerged on the political scene and nearly tipped – and almost murdered – the young King Richard II. If that is the case, and it seems most likely, Tyler may have been secretly managed and supported by more sinister individuals. Certainly Tyler’s brutal and sudden end prevented the authorities from finding out exactly who he was and where he came fro
m. Nevertheless, Tyler made no secret of what he intended. The chronicle of Walsingham (and it is from the narrative accounts that we know what we do about Tyler) claimed that the rebel leader did plan the execution of Richard as well as his chief councillors, followed by the sacking and burning of London.

  John of Gaunt’s behaviour at this critical time is puzzling and highly suspicious. Gaunt, self-styled regent of the kingdom, would be closely appraised of the seething discontent in London and the south. Nevertheless he decided on a military campaign along the Scottish march. This was not necessary. At the time the Scots posed no real threat to England’s border; indeed, any crisis could have easily been contained by the powerful Earl of Northumberland, Master of the North, who, as matters turned out, deeply resented Gaunt’s interference in his sphere of influence.

  The great conspiracy described in the workings of ‘The Great Community of the Realm’ and the ‘Upright Men’ represents a political reality. The revolt occurred, bursting out in different places virtually all at the same time, and the Crown was caught totally unprepared. Peasant armies marshalled, banners were raised, proclamations issued and manifestos published. Royal officials in Kent and Essex had little time for counter measures and, in many cases, paid for this mistake with their lives. However, that is another story to be described in the sequel, The Great Revolt …

  Paul Doherty

  www.paulcdoherty.com