by Paul Doherty
‘By Mary and the Mass,’ Cranston breathed. ‘Athelstan, I swear, I did not realize this was going to happen and yet, as you know,’ he blinked, ‘from the moment we arrived I smelt treachery. I was asked to accompany the Flemings around the wall to the back of the tavern. When I got there, the mangonels released their first shots, fiery, pitch-coated bundles of bracken and old cloth. Only then did I realize what was about to take place. I hastened back but the assault had already begun. Athelstan . . .’ The Dominican simply shrugged off the coroner’s hand, grasped his chancery satchel and strode over to the gate where Thibault stood, legs apart, hands on his hips, head slightly back as he watched his archers drag out the corpses from the Roundhoop. The Master of Secrets narrowed his eyes, lips twisted in a smirk as the Dominican confronted him.
‘Brother, I gave them no promises except one!’ Thibault held up a hand. ‘They wanted to speak to you and so they did. They were traitors, rebels, taken in arms plotting against the Crown. They were murderers and ravagers. Now they are dead and their heads will provide further decoration for London Bridge.’ He leaned forward, the smirk replaced by false concern. ‘Brother?’
‘Once a scorpion asked a wolf to take him across a fast-flowing river. The wolf,’ Athelstan held Thibault’s gaze, ‘at first refused. “You will sting me and we shall both die”. The scorpion denied this, promising all would be well so the wolf allowed the scorpion to stand on his head as he braved the waters.’
‘And?’ Thibault drew his head back, glancing over his shoulder at his archers now kicking and abusing the corpses.
‘The scorpion stung the wolf, who protested, saying the scorpion had given him his word and now they would both die, so why had he stung him? You know the scorpion’s response?’
‘No, Brother, I don’t.’
‘The scorpion replied, “Because it is in my nature”. Good day, Master Thibault.’ Athelstan stepped around him and, clutching his chancery satchel, strode down the lane, ignoring Thibault’s cry of ‘Very good, very good!’ as well as Cranston’s shouts to wait awhile. Athelstan walked on through the cordon of men-at-arms now fighting to keep back the gathering crowd, whose mood was turning ugly. Athelstan glimpsed faces he recognized: the pious fraud, the Sanctus Man, with his tray of religious artefacts; Mudfog, a member of Moleskins’ Guild of St Peter; and Shrimp and Castoff, two members of the Fisher of Men’s company, that strange individual who made his living by gathering corpses from the Thames. Athelstan did not pause but passed on, taking the path down to London Bridge. His mind was in turmoil, angry at what he had witnessed yet relieved to be free though still deeply anxious about the doings of some of his parishioners. Would they also be trapped to be cut down or hanged? He recalled the dying Upright Man’s last words about asking a woman to glean. What did that mean? What had that unfortunate man been looking for?
PART TWO
‘Mulcator: Despoiler’
Athelstan crossed on to the bridge, coughing and spluttering at the thick smoke and fumes wafting up from the nearby tanneries. He made his way around the potholes, choked with rank weeds and coarse grass which thrived in the sluggish ooze and slush left by the ebb and flow of the river. So lost in his own thoughts, he was across the bridge before he knew it. Athelstan paused, took a deep breath and made his way up towards St Erconwald’s. Now and again the friar paused to exchange a few words with those he met, especially the Brotherhood of the Cloak. Athelstan always liked to find out what mischief they were plotting. The Brotherhood was really a group of beggars who sometimes used the nave of his parish church for what they called ‘Conclaves of their Pastoral Councils’. The leading light of the Brotherhood was Freelove, a buxom young woman with jet-black hair and cheeky eyes, who was always accompanied by her group of admirers – men who rejoiced in the names of Littlerobin, Rentabut, Eatbread and Godshelf. His brief encounter with these colourful characters calmed Athelstan’s mind, though he told them off roundly when they confessed that they planned to cross the bridge to beg in the city under the guise of poor pilgrims to Jerusalem and elsewhere. To deepen their deception, the Brotherhood had fixed fraudulent scallop shells, sprigs of greenery and small pilgrim medals to their tattered cloaks.
Further up the lane, Athelstan found to his dismay Matilda Milksop, scarcely a gospel greeter at St Erconwald’s, though one who considered herself a member of his parish. Matilda was fastened by her neck and wrists in the stocks. The notice pinned next to her proclaimed, ‘How Matilda Milksop, through her malicious words and abuse, had greatly molested and annoyed her neighbours, sowing envy, discord and ill-will, and oft times defamed and back-bitten many of the same neighbours, so she must be punished as a common scold’. Matilda was crying from the pain and the freezing cold. The bailiff, seated on a stool beside her, chewing one of Merrylegs’ pies with a brimming blackjack of ale from the nearby Piebald tavern, ignored her pleas. Athelstan, having produced a coin and mentioned Cranston’s name more than once, secured Matilda’s release. Once she could stand upright, he helped the woman into the dark, warm stuffiness of the Piebald tavern with strict instructions to Joscelyn, its owner, the one-armed former river pirate, to give her good sustenance. By the time he reached the lychgate of St Erconwald’s, Athelstan felt much better, slightly regretting his treatment of Sir John. He stood just beyond the entrance and stared out over the hard, frozen ground. The ancient headstones and crosses glittered in the frost light, and a small column of smoke curled between the shutters of the death house.
‘Godbless,’ Athelstan shouted, ‘you are well?’
‘God bless you too, Brother,’ the beggar replied. ‘God bless your trousers and all you have in them. Thaddeus and I are warm and snug. Mistress Benedicta gave me a bowl of stewed pottage and a jug of ale. We are as merry as robins.’ Athelstan smiled and went up the path through the main door of the church. A strong flutter of torch light further up the northern transept showed only Huddle, ably assisted by the anchorite, busy in what both proclaimed to be their ‘Magnum Opus’, an eye-catching, vivid portrayal of the Seven Deadly Sins. Huddle had finished Greed and was now busy on Pride, ‘that great snare of the devil’, as Huddle had written in the scrolled tag at the bottom of the painting.
Both artists acknowledged Athelstan as he walked over to them, but they were really lost in their creation, almost impervious to his presence. Athelstan stopped to admire the work. Huddle had taken as his theme for Pride the fall of Lucifer from Paradise. The painting depicted fanged, clawed and cloven-hoofed demons as well as bat-winged, sooty hobgoblins, the usual citizens of Hell. Lucifer, however, was totally different. Still an archangel, he fell from Paradise in a thick ream of golden stars while the rebel angels he had seduced flowed after him like brilliant tongues of fire. Lucifer was no creature of the dark pit but a beautiful young man, blond curls framed a face of serious sweet youthfulness; his body glowed white and pure as the driven snow; his limbs were perfectly proportioned. Athelstan was tempted to ask how Huddle had devised such an original treatment but he and the anchorite were locked in deep discussion about the mixing of paints, so he left them to it and returned to the priest’s house. He first checked that Philomel the old war horse was, as Crim the altar boy declared, ‘still breathing’. He certainly was, chewing slowly on a bundle of sweetened hay. Athelstan patted and blessed him and crossed to the priest’s house. He found the secret place where Benedicta had left the key, unlocked the door and walked into the cold, stone-flagged kitchen.
Athelstan moved quickly, building up the fire so the flames flared up, licking the cauldron dangling from its hook; this soon exuded a delicious smell of onions, cooked meats and sprinkled herbs. Bonaventure appeared like a ghost to sit beside the fire before joining the Dominican at the great table. Athelstan took yesterday’s loaf and a pot of butter, filled a tankard of ale from a small barrel in the buttery, washed his hands at the lavarium and blessed both himself and Bonaventure; he sat at the table sipping from his horn spoon, every mouthful being carefully watched by
Bonaventure, who always stayed to lick the bowl really clean. Athelstan ate slowly, reflecting on what he had seen, felt and heard. What should he do? Undoubtedly there was a very tangled tale behind the Roundhoop incident but that would take time to unravel. Or would it? Athelstan sensed an evil was gathering like poison in a wound, surging in a boil of pus and filthy matter. His stomach tingled with excitement. He should confess that and yet, he stared into the fire, God forgive him, he loved the tangled maze of mystery. Deep in his soul Athelstan sensed he had reached the meadows of murder; soon he would be through the gate walking that crooked path into the House of Cain. The pursuit would begin. One soul hunting another, like God did the first assassin. Only this would be different: Athelstan would have to wait for the murderer to strike. The friar pushed the bowl away and watched Bonaventure lick it clean. He climbed the steps to his neatly prepared bed loft and lay down on the palliasse, staring up into the darkness.
‘Who will you be?’ he murmured. ‘When will you come? How will you strike?’ Athelstan’s mind drifted back to the Roundhoop – the arrows slicing the air, the screams and yells, that young man bubbling his life blood, his mind all a wander. The orange-wigged whore. Master Simon lying with his throat cut. Thibault’s face, smirking. Bonaventure came up and decided to lie on the other side of him.
‘When it comes, I must act like you, my terror of the alleyways,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Swift and deadly.’ He was promising to do that when he drifted into a deep sleep, only woken by Bonaventure scratching at the door to get out. Athelstan scrambled down the ladder, opened the door and watched the tom cat disappear into the freezing night. Rubbing his arms, Athelstan went to build up the fire. He peered across at the hour candle on its iron stand. Two rings had burnt – late afternoon, it was time he acted. He doused the candles and lanterns, swung his cloak around him and hurried up the lane to Merrylegs’ pastry shop to find its garrulous owner was absent on business.
‘Father said it was very important.’ Little Merrylegs piped up, serving the friar, handing over the linen-wrapped pies and pastries.
‘You mean he is at the Piebald tavern with the rest of his coven?’
‘Undoubtedly.’ Large Merrylegs, the eldest of the cook’s brood, agreed from where he knelt coaxing the ovens either side of the great hearth. Athelstan made to pay but Little Merrylegs pushed the coins back. ‘Father always tells us . . .’
‘Thank you.’ Athelstan smiled, tapping a coin back. ‘But this father would like you to take a message to the Piebald. Tell those two worthies, Watkin and Pike, that I wish to see them within the hour at the priest’s house.’ Little Merrylegs solemnly promised he would. Athelstan walked back into the lane. The houses on either side lay silent and dark. Athelstan felt a tingling along the back of his neck and drew a deep breath against the gathering terrors. No candlelight peeped out between shutters. The lantern boxes which glowed when he came down here now hung empty. Athelstan continued on, his sandal-clad feet crunching on the frozen dirt, head bent against the nipping breeze. He walked slowly and, as he did, became aware of two shapes like shadows flitting either side of him. Athelstan stopped and so did they. He turned to his right and glimpsed a man, head cowled, face blackened. Athelstan glanced over his shoulder; others were merging out of the murk like hell-borne wraiths.
‘Benedicite?’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Blessings on you, brothers! What do you want with a poor friar?’
‘Vengeance.’
‘Haven’t you read, Brother?’ Athelstan replied. ‘“Vengeance is mine, says the Lord, I will repay”?’
‘The Roundhoop,’ the voice grated.
‘I was used, you know that?’
‘How do we know?’
‘On reflection,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘that Friar of the Sack was no more a friar than you are, Brother.’
The man laughed a merry sound which lessened the tension. ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.
‘Because, allegedly, he belongs to a strict order dedicated to the dying, yet he was more interested in getting out of that tavern than I was. Men were dying violently; never once did he stay to offer the consolamentum. He must have been one of yours; he told you about what happened.’
‘True,’ the voice whispered. ‘He was still a priest, a friar just terrified of being caught both in our company,’ he laughed, ‘as well as that of a common whore.’
‘Brother.’ Athelstan walked on, clutching his linen parcel. ‘My pies are getting cold. I am hungry and very tired. Why lurk in the shadows? Come and join me at the table. I could even hear your confession, shrive you, forgive your sins before you also die.’
‘When the Apocalypse comes, the Day of Great Slaughter and the strongholds fall, which side will you be on, Athelstan?’
‘I will do my duty to my parishioners. I will say my prayers.’
‘You will not be on the side of God?’
‘God has no sides.’
‘What about justice, right?’
‘Micah chapter six, verse three,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘“Three things I ask of you, Son of Man, and only these three. To love justly, to act tenderly and to walk humbly with your God.”’
‘We want you to join us.’
‘I will pray for you.’ Athelstan heard the scrape of steel from a scabbard; he stopped, his mouth dry.
‘Pax et Bonum,’ the voice whispered. ‘Fear not, little friar. We are near the end of the lane and we don’t want to be surprised by your fat friend the coroner.’
‘He is my friend and a good one. He does not draw steel on a poor friar or worse, make his supper grow cold.’
‘We know that. Now listen, just ask Sir John who is the prisoner the Flemings brought to the Tower? Oh, and tell Sir John to be more prudent. He should not walk so bold; most of his masters are both bought and sold.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This is the hour of Judas, Friar. Darkness is falling. The poor earthworms stir and the hawk lords survey the field and wonder how all this might end.’
‘What is that to him?’
‘Tell him the tribes of Edom, Moab, Philistia and Egypt are already plotting to divide the spoils.’
‘I do not know . . .’
‘He will, Brother, but now, a word of warning to you and yours.’ The voice became a hiss. ‘Among your parishioners, those who serve the Upright Men, walks a true-arch priest Judas – for him there will be no mercy or compassion. The business at the Roundhoop was this Judas’ work. Keep an eye on your flock, Brother. We certainly shall. If necessary we shall impose the ban.’
‘The ban?’ Athelstan felt a deep chill, half suspecting what he meant.
‘You quote scripture, Brother, so do I . . .’
‘So did Satan,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘when he tempted Christ.’
Again, the laugh. ‘Consult the Book of Samuel, Brother.’ The figure drew closer and, before Athelstan could react, grasped the friar’s hand and pressed in a small pouch of coins. ‘For the poor. You gave the last rites to one of our comrades at the Roundhoop. What did he say?’
‘You know I cannot tell you what he confessed but he babbled about gleaning; he was searching for someone.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ came the sardonic reply. ‘Farewell, Brother, for now.’ The shadows receded. Athelstan looked back down the alleyway: lantern horns had been lit; candles glowed from upstairs windows. Athelstan shook his head at the power and influence of the Upright Men. This secret war, he reasoned, fought in flitting shadows and murky chambers, would soon erupt and what then?
He reached the priest’s house, went in, put the pies in the small oven built into the side of the small hearth and waited. His two guests arrived shortly afterwards, shuffling into the kitchen in their mud-caked boots. Both Watkin and Pike looked flushed with ale.
Athelstan pointed at the lavarium and told them to wash their hands as he placed three tranchers on the scrubbed kitchen table and served the pies. Athelstan waited till they had eaten then picked up his psalter. He found
the verse he was looking for and fought to hide the fear spurting within him. He closed the book. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ Athelstan forced a smile, ‘and so it is written that the prophet Samuel placed Agag and the Amalekites under the ban, to be smitten hip and thigh, no quarter to be shown to man, woman, child or beast. Now tell me,’ Athelstan’s voice thundered, ‘who among us would do what the Prophet Samuel did?’ He paused. ‘Examine yourselves before your priest. Remember, as Christ does, your misdeeds. Make no secret of your sins even though your wickedness might be difficult to confess.’ Athelstan breathed in. ‘To cut to the quick, in a word, I ask you in God’s name, has the ban been imposed on our parish . . .?’
The leaders of the Upright Men: Wat Tyler, Jack Straw, John Ball the preacher, Simon Grindcobbe and others, disguised in the robes of Friars of the Sack, stood before the gates to the entrance of London Bridge on the city side of the Thames. Capped candles were carried before them. They had, in their pretended role as preachers, permission from the Guardian of the Gates and Keeper of the Heads, Master Burdon, to pray for those slain during the furious bloody affray at the Roundhoop. They all stared up at the heads of their dead comrades now poled on staves jutting above the gate. They were unrecognizable; the crows had already been busy with their eyes, while the heads had been boiled and tarred before being displayed.
‘How many?’ Grindcobbe whispered.
