The Great Revolt

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Unmask the assassin,’ Cassian declared, glaring at Athelstan. ‘Father Prior has given you that task.’

  ‘And I am doing my best to complete it.’

  ‘Who could it be?’ Isidore demanded.

  ‘Anyone,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘It might even be one of you.’

  ‘Preposterous!’

  ‘No, Brother Isidore,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘Someone in this friary is resolutely against this investigation into Edward II’s death. It could be anyone. Therefore, logically, it would be most prudent if you bear this in mind in dealing with each other. Now, if there’s …’

  He paused at a knock on the door and Brother John entered. ‘Athelstan,’ he gasped, ‘you’d best come to the gatehouse. There is someone very strange demanding to speak to you.’ His lined, craggy face broke into a smile. ‘I think it best if you saw for yourself.’

  Athelstan and Cranston made their excuses and hastened from the chamber. They followed the scurrying gatekeeper across cobbled yards, pushing their way through a press of people congregating on the great paved bailey which stretched from the cloisters down to the main gate of the friary. Dusk was falling. The air had grown a little colder but the breeze was rich with different smells, the sweet odours from the great kitchens, now busy all the time to feed the growing crowd of those seeking sanctuary. The cooking smells mingled with wisps of incense, candle smoke, horse dung and the gritty tang from the charcoal braziers which had been fired against the cold night air.

  Athelstan noticed that the few men-at-arms employed at Blackfriars were deployed near the main gate. They were fully armed and dressed in sallets, mailed harness, with weapons at the ready. Athelstan glimpsed a crossbow resting against the mailed leg of one of the soldiers. Once again he recalled that murderous attack on Odo Brecon. Was that old man the intended victim, or was it himself? He murmured a prayer and followed Brother John up on to the parapet walk above the stout double doors of the main gatehouse.

  Athelstan stared over the fortified wall. Daylight was fading, yet he glimpsed Earthworms camped about their fires and smelt the stench from the horse, some lord’s destrier, which they had slaughtered and were now hacking up to be grilled over the dancing flames.

  ‘The wasteland of Hell,’ Athelstan murmured.

  ‘And who are these?’ Cranston pointed at two figures who’d stumbled out of the murk. The taller one carried a sconce torch, which he lifted to illuminate a macabre scene. Athelstan stared in disbelief at the two grotesques: both men had their heads cleanly shaved, the skin glistening from the lard or oil they had rubbed in. The taller one had a blindfold across his eyes and grasped the hand of his shorter, much fatter companion whilst moving the spluttering torch backwards and forwards.

  ‘Athelstan?’ the torchbearer bellowed. ‘Brother Athelstan, we bring you clear warning.’

  ‘I recognise that voice,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘But for the life of me …’

  ‘Why do you talk of one devil?’ the torchbearer bellowed. ‘I tell you this, Friar, something I have learnt on my travels. There is not a room in any man’s house but it is pestered and close packed with a host of demons. No place on earth, be it no bigger than a pock-hole on a man’s face, but it is closely thronged with demons. Indeed, infinite millions of them can hang swarming about a worm-eaten nose …’

  ‘Giles of Sempringham,’ Athelstan exclaimed, ‘one of my beloved parishioners, and I am sure,’ he narrowed his eyes, ‘that is Master Bladdersmith or, as he sometimes styles himself, Bladdersniff, our parish beadle. Well, well, well. Brother John, allow them in.’

  Athelstan and Cranston went down to wait in the bailey. The two grotesques almost threw themselves through the half-open postern door which the gatekeeper slammed hastily behind them. Bladdersmith immediately went down on his knees, hands joined in prayer, whilst Giles of Sempringham, also known as the Hangman of Rochester, lifted the blind from his eyes and threw the spluttering torch on to the ground.

  ‘Follow me,’ Athelstan called and, turning on his heel, led both men through the cloisters, across the yards and into the guesthouse refectory. Both the Hangman and Bladdersmith washed at the lavarium, sat down at the table and swiftly devoured the hot pottage, bread, cheese and dried meats brought from the nearby kitchen. For a while Cranston and Athelstan watched them eat. Both men reeked of the sewer, their clothes nothing more than motley rags. The Hangman was his usual enigmatic self; his straw-coloured hair had been completely shaven off, which made his skull-like face look even harsher. Bladdersmith couldn’t stop sobbing with relief until Cranston fed him generous mouthfuls from his miraculous wineskin.

  ‘Well, my beauties!’ the coroner declared as both finished eating, licking their horn spoons clean.

  ‘Oh, lord save us,’ Bladdersmith wailed.

  ‘Tell us what happened.’ Athelstan leaned across and gently touched the Hangman’s wrist.

  ‘The day the rest were taken, I mean Watkin and the rest,’ the Hangman raised his eyes heavenwards, ‘and by all the angels, Father, I have no idea who took them, why or where they have gone. I swear to that. Anyway, I was down at the gallows near the bridge. I had to hang two felons arrested by the sheriff for breaking into a house. One of them struggled and tried to break free, that took some time. It always does.’ He added sorrowfully. ‘I don’t see why they don’t just let me get on with it.’ He stretched out his hands as if examining his almost feminine fingers which could so expertly tie the knot of a noose around a convicted criminal’s throat for swift despatch as well as grasp a paintbrush to depict the most startling scenes on the walls of their parish church. Athelstan touched him on the shoulder.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ The Hangman recollected himself. ‘By the time I returned to St Erconwald’s, the men had been taken; their womenfolk and children, deeply distressed, milled about not knowing what to do. You have been back there Father?’

  ‘Yes I have. Strangely deserted though I understand that. Doors and shutters firmly closed against anyone and everyone even,’ Athelstan added sadly, ‘their priest.’

  ‘Many of them have fled,’ Bladdersmith blurted out. ‘Frightened they are, gone into the countryside. Scattered,’ he sniffed noisily, ‘like sheep without a shepherd.’

  ‘Their shepherd,’ Athelstan retorted tartly, ‘was busy elsewhere. What happened to you?’

  ‘He was drinking,’ the Hangman declared. ‘Weren’t you?’ He nudged Bladdersmith. ‘Fell asleep, he did, in the Poor Man’s Plot in God’s Acre, so no one saw him in the long grass. He awoke just as I arrived.’ The Hangman drew a deep breath. ‘And so it began.’ He paused and looked under his eyebrows at Athelstan. ‘You were correct, Father, the Great Community of the Realm and Upright Men began this revolt, but others have usurped it. The Earthworms swarmed all over St Erconwald’s searching for Watkin and the rest. I made a mistake. I always thought I was safe. I attended the conventicles and councils of the Upright Men. I regarded myself as one of them. However, whilst sheltering at the Piebald, Bladdersmith and I learnt that the Earthworms were searching for any official, be it of the court, the crown or the city …’ the Hangman gestured at Bladdersmith, ‘… which included him. As for me, I heard they held me responsible for executing some of their companions. Father, Sir John,’ the Hangman of Rochester spread his hands, ‘I had no choice over whom I hanged, when, where and why. All I can say with clear conscience is that I never knowingly executed anyone who was innocent.’

  ‘True, true,’ Athelstan replied absent-mindedly. He glanced at Sir John: the coroner was strangely quiet, apparently distracted by his own problems. ‘And then what happened?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘We realised we were hunted men,’ the Hangman declared. ‘The Earthworms wanted us seized, they would have hanged us out of hand, so we changed our appearance. We shaved our heads and faces,’ he tugged at his ragged jerkin, ‘we made ourselves appear as if we were moon-touched like mummers in a play, the blind prophet and his guide.
The Earthworms were convinced, and I can see why. Believe me, Father, all kinds of strange creatures are crawling out of the darkness. We were just two more who were insistent on delivering a message to a Dominican friar.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, Father, Sir John, do you know where the rest are – Watkin, Pike and the others? Who abducted them?’

  ‘I don’t know, nor does Sir John. I have been back to Southwark. Our parish is deserted, or at least it was when I was there.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I must tell you: old Pernel, the Fleming woman, is dead. Oh yes,’ he answered their exclamations, ‘apparently she came across to Blackfriars looking for me. Heaven knows what happened to the poor thing. She must have stumbled or missed her footing. She was found floating near the water-gate. I wish—’

  ‘She not only came looking for you, Father,’ Bladdersmith blurted out.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Father, do you remember a few days before the prior summoned you across here? You told us you had to go. You announced it after the Jesus mass. How you were to visit Blackfriars where there were special guests, Italians, Lombards, led by someone called Fi …’

  ‘Fieschi,’ Athelstan replied, all intrigued.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. After mass, Pernel chatted to me and Godbless. We met in God’s Acre to share a jug of ale. It was a glorious morning and the jug was a big one …’

  ‘Fieschi?’ Athelstan warned.

  ‘Oh yes, Pernel said she must go to Blackfriars. How she knew an Italian called Fieschi, a name from her distant past. She asked me to accompany her but I refused.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘She must have intended to go when the others were seized, that must have decided her. Anyway, did Pernel say how she knew Fieschi?’

  ‘No, Father, but that was Pernel. Sometimes she would act all moonstruck, fey in her wits. At other times, she could be as clear as a summer’s day.’

  ‘Did she ever talk about her past?’

  ‘Sometimes. Once I teased her about dyeing her hair. I said it was ugly, dirty. I didn’t mean to hurt her, but she replied swiftly that in her youth it had been beautiful, as golden as summer corn, but she had shaved it off to become a nun.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I can’t recall, some place in the west country.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Pernel said she had fled her vows, that she had travelled abroad where her heart had been broken by a man. Father, I don’t know if it’s the truth. Pernel would say such things and, when I tried to question her, she would retreat into herself, start clawing at her hair as she crooned some lullaby, like some mad woman grieving over a lost baby.’

  ‘You mean she had a child?’

  ‘God knows, Father, but that’s all I can tell you about Pernel.’

  Athelstan urged both men to eat, gesturing at Cranston to join him near the refectory lectern where the reader would declaim during mealtimes.

  ‘So Pernel did know someone here,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Can that be a coincidence? Sir John, I am sure her death was no accident.’

  ‘Father?’ the Hangman called, and Athelstan and Cranston returned to the table. ‘I must tell you this. I don’t know if they were bluffing, but the Earthworms who let us by said it didn’t matter who entered Blackfriars.’

  ‘Did they say why?’ Cranston raised the miraculous wineskin to his lips.

  ‘Because, Sir John, one of them muttered that once darkness fell they would enter Blackfriars themselves …’

  Cranston took the warning seriously. He told the Hangman and Bladdersmith to prepare themselves, then he almost dragged Athelstan from the refectory to repeat the warning to Prior Anselm.

  The prior was not surprised by the news. ‘Our guards on the parapet walk also believe the Earthworms are massing just out of sight. Moreover, we continue to receive warnings from the rebels about sheltering enemies of the “True Commons and the King”. They insist that the Upright Men have the right to search our precincts for any undesirables, but that is nonsense! Blackfriars is church land. These precincts are consecrated ground. I am certainly not opening the gates to a horde of ruffians.’ The prior smiled thinly. ‘We now become the church militant. We have every right to defend ourselves. I am certainly not going to be the prior who allowed this great mother house to be sacked by a coven of outlaws.’

  ‘Father Prior,’ Cranston clapped him on the shoulder, ‘I couldn’t ask for better. So let’s prepare a meal to serve up to these rifflers who, I think, are going to get the shock of their lives.’

  The friary readied itself. Darkness fell. The watchmen on the walls reported that all fire and torchlight had died in the Earthworms’ camp, though the noise of grinding cart wheels could be clearly heard.

  ‘They are preparing a ram,’ the infirmarian offered as he, Matthias and Brother John gathered close around Cranston and Athelstan in the great cobbled bailey stretching down to the gatehouse.

  ‘You have been a soldier, Brother Hugh?’ Cranston teased.

  ‘Deo Gratias, no, Sir John but I have been up on the walls and noticed the carts arriving late this afternoon. They are certainly not bringing in supplies.’

  ‘Brother Hugh, where did you serve, I mean, before you came to our London house?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘At Yarm in Yorkshire, then Coventry, King’s Langley and Oxford. King Edward II used to visit those places. I remember meeting him. He was bluff and hearty. He loved nothing more than jesters and acrobats; he also loved our order. From what I gather he would stay with us rather than at a royal palace.’ Hugh shook his head. ‘It’s true what they say, he never forgot us Dominicans.’

  ‘And the Dunheved brothers, did you ever meet them?’

  ‘Outlaws.’ Matthias laughed throatily. ‘Oh, we heard about their exploits. For a while they were regarded as legendary, heroes like Robin Hood, Will Scarlet and their merry men.’ Matthias made a face. ‘You know how it is, Athelstan, all things pass, all things change. A new king emerged, a different regime, a fresh beginning, and our order returned to its usual business.’

  ‘And the Dunheveds are buried here?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Matthias replied. ‘I have the Book of the Dead showing where their graves lie in God’s Acre. Tomorrow, after this nonsense is over, I will show you their tombs. Now, Sir John,’ Matthias picked up an arbalest lying on the ground beside him, ‘if you would be so good as to show us …’

  Cranston did so, demonstrating to all three friars how to wind back the cord and insert the barbed bolt in the groove. How to take aim and loose. Much merriment was caused with all three friars getting it wrong. Fieschi, Cassian and Isidore joined them. Athelstan noticed that the Italians had donned coats of mail and seemed most skilled in the use of a crossbow. When questioned, all three declared that in their youth they had served in the militia of various city states. Athelstan was recalling his own days as a soldier when he felt his sleeve plucked, and turned to see Luke the royal messenger standing there. He too was garbed in a hauberk, a helmet over his coifed head, a drawn sword in his hand. He gestured at the friar to come away. Athelstan followed him into the darkness.

  ‘What is it, Luke?’

  ‘The lady Isabella, Master Thibault’s daughter, where is she? Is she safe?’

  Athelstan stepped closer. ‘What is she to you, sir?’

  Luke sheathed his sword, opened the small pouch on his warbelt and produced a red, glazed seal which Athelstan recognised as Thibault’s.

  ‘That could be forged.’

  ‘It isn’t, Brother, and you know it. Now, the lady Isabella?’

  ‘In the guesthouse with her nurse.’

  ‘Oh, the Medusa!’ Luke scoffed. ‘When the Earthworms try to wriggle in here, I will be guarding her.’

  ‘Do you think they want her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Where is Master Thibault, Luke? He and his shadow Albinus appear to have vanished from the face of the earth.’

  ‘My master believes he should bend before the storm
as well as prepare for what comes after it.’

  ‘You are not really a royal courier, are you?’ Athelstan glanced over at a burst of laughter from the Dominicans clustered around Cranston. He turned back. ‘You have been given a false name, a false background and a task which is only a pretence.’

  ‘Very true.’

  Athelstan could see the courier was grinning through the darkness at him. ‘Master Thibault arranged for me to be here, and you know how influential he is, so our Italian guests could use me as an envoy to take messages back and forth between Procurator Fieschi and the King. Master Thibault wants to know what is going on; he has a finger in every pot. He arranged it that way. Of course, the revolt and the unrest in the city have interfered with the best-laid plans of those in power.’

  ‘But your real task now is to keep a close eye on young Isabella?’

  ‘In the main, yes. But listen.’ The courier’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘My true name, Brother Athelstan, is John Ferrour. I am Thibault’s man in Southwark. I had nothing to do with you or your parish, but I kept an eye on other parts of that vineyard. I am here in Blackfriars for various reasons, some of which you know. However, now we have something in common. We are both trapped here, Brother Athelstan. Sir John Cranston is growing restless; sooner or later, he will try to leave for the Tower. I know he must. He wants to be with the King. I must go with you, promise me that …’

  Athelstan gazed back at Cranston still trying to persuade the three English Dominicans that the crossbow would not harm them. He heard his own name shouted. The Hangman and Bladdersmith, now garbed in Dominican robes, were hurrying towards him. Both men had been given weapons from the barbican. The Hangman was resolute enough, though Bladdersmith was shaking and fearful. Athelstan gestured at them to keep away.

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ the courier hissed, ‘do you promise—’

  ‘Luke, John Ferrour, whoever you are,’ Athelstan gestured around, ‘if all goes well here—’