by Paul Doherty
‘Legion is the correct word, Brother. More like a swarm of ants across the city. No one can be trusted, and that even includes people like Leif the beggar. Such people are not evil, it’s only that being so poor they can be quickly bought.’ Cranston stepped closer and Athelstan tried not to flinch at the gust of wine fumes.
‘Of course,’ the Coroner whispered, ‘you are wondering how Gaunt knew about Ira Dei?’
Athelstan was about to reply when they both heard a sound and turned to find Sir Nicholas Hussey, the King’s tutor, standing behind them.
‘My Lord Coroner, Brother Athelstan.’ The suave, silver-haired courtier bowed slightly. ‘We heard you were in the Guildhall. His Grace the King requests a moment of your time.’
Athelstan looked curiously at this dark-skinned scholar, a lawyer by profession. Hussey’s quiet control of the King, his subtle manipulation of the young boy, was now making itself felt. He noticed the bright blue of the man’s eyes, clear as a summer day. He also saw the cunning in his face and quickly concluded Hussey might be even more dangerous than the Regent they had just left. Cranston, too, stayed silent, quietly wondering how much Hussey had heard. Then the Coroner smiled.
‘It would be an honour,’ he murmured.
Hussey led them down a corridor and, surprisingly enough, into the Guildhall’s private garden where Mountjoy had been killed. The young King, dressed in a simple Lincoln green tunic, his blond hair tousled, sat on a turf seat, a leather baldrick and a pair of spurred hunting boots alongside him. A toy crossbow lay propped at his feet and, by the mud-marks on his face and hands, Cranston realized the young man had been hunting, probably in the woods and meadows north of Clerkenwell. Both he and Athelstan bowed but Richard dismissed the pleasantries and waved to the seat beside him, pushing the baldrick and boots unceremoniously aside.
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ Bright-eyed, the King gestured them to sit. ‘Uncle’s not here so I can do what I want. Sir Nicholas, you will stay?’
The tutor bowed. Athelstan was quick enough to catch the glance exchanged between the young King and his mentor. Richard seized Cranston’s huge hand and leaned forward so that Athelstan could hear his conspiratorial whisper.
‘Have you found the murderer yet?’
‘No, Your Grace.’
‘Or who this Ira Dei is?’
Again Cranston shook his head. Richard smiled.
‘But my uncle’s upset. I have heard him shouting,’ he continued. ‘He blames everyone. Goodman, My Lord Mayor, and even his creature Lord Clifford have not escaped censure. Do you think Uncle will be murdered?’
Cranston gazed severely at the boy. ‘Your Grace, how can you say such a thing?’
‘Oh, quite easily, for Uncle would like to be King.’
‘Your Grace, whoever tells you that is a traitor and a knave. One day you will be King. A great prince like your father.’
Richard’s eyes clouded at Cranston’s mention of Gaunt’s brother, the famed Black Prince.
‘Did you know Father well, Sir John?’
Cranston’s gaze softened. ‘Yes, I did, Sire. I stood beside him at Poitiers when the French tried to break through.’
And, urged on by Richard’s pleading, the Coroner gave a blow-by-blow account of the last stages of the Black Prince’s famous victory. Richard sat listening, round-eyed, until Hussey intervened, pointing out the Lord Coroner was a busy man and had other matters to attend to. Richard gave them leave to go, thanking both Athelstan and Cranston warmly. They were just about to leave when Richard, tip-toeing over the grass, ran up and caught them both excitedly by the sleeve.
‘If you find Ira Dei,’ he whispered excitedly, ‘bring him to me, Sir John!’
Cranston smiled and bowed. He and Athelstan walked back through the Guildhall and out into the heat of Cheapside.
‘Now what was all that about?’ Cranston muttered to himself.
Athelstan shook his head. Only when they were safely ensconced in a window seat of The Lamb of God, each with a tankard of cool ale in their hands, did the friar comment.
‘You asked a question as we left the Guildhall, Sir John. Have you considered the possibility that these deaths may not be the work of the peasant leader Ira Dei but of another court faction trying to bring the Regent into disrepute?’
‘You mean Hussey and the like?’ Cranston shook his head. ‘In answer to that, good friar, all I can reply is: have you considered the possibility that, if Gaunt goes, the young King may fall with him?’
Athelstan sat back, surprised. ‘It’s as close as that, Sir John?’
‘Oh, yes. When and if the revolt comes, do you think the peasant leaders will distinguish between one prince and another? Haven’t you heard their song, Brother? “When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then the Gentleman?”.’ Cranston gulped from his blackjack of ale. ‘What worries me more, Brother, are the likes of Goodman, Denny and Sudbury, who would like to see London without a King, ruled by merchant princes like the cities they trade with: Florence, Pisa and Genoa. So many players,’ he murmured. ‘God knows, Brother, it’s hard to distinguish between the good and the bad.’ He roared for another tankard. ‘But you were saying, before Hussey arrived, you think Gaunt has a spy in your parish?’
Athelstan’s face became closed and tight-lipped and Cranston glimpsed the gentle friar’s rare anger.
‘You have your suspicions?’
‘For the moment, Sir John, by your leave, I’ll keep close counsel and a still mouth. But, yes, I do.’
They sat for another hour, Cranston deciding to eat at the tavern rather than return to his empty house. The shadows began to lengthen. Outside the market closed and the stalls were taken down. As the tavern began to fill with sweat-soaked apprentices and hoarse-voiced tinkers, desperate to quench their thirst, Cranston and Athelstan collected their horses and returned through the emptying streets towards London Bridge.
The crowds had now gone home so they found their passage easy and Athelstan began to prepare himself for his visit to the Hobdens and the exorcism of the young girl, Elizabeth.
‘Have you ever done this before?’ Cranston asked curiously, half an eye on a well-known pickpocket who was trailing a tired-looking tinker.
‘Done what, Sir John?’
‘An exorcism, a real one?’
Suddenly Cranston turned away and shouted across Bridge Street: ‘Foulpie!’
The pickpocket spun round, a startled look on his face.
‘Foulpie, me boy!’ Cranston roared. ‘I’ve got my eye on you, you bloody little thief! Now be a good lad and piss off!’
The one-eyed tinker stopped and turned, startled.
‘What’s the matter?’ he shouted.
Cranston grinned and pointed to Foulpie, haring back towards East Cheap as fast as any whippet.
‘A rapscallion interested in your takings.’
The tinker smiled his thanks and the Coroner turned back to his subdued companion.
‘Well, Brother?’ he asked between swigs from the miraculous wineskin. ‘Have you ever exorcized the Lord Satan or one of his minions?’
Athelstan half-grinned and shook his head.
‘I’ve seen an exorcism,’ Cranston continued. ‘A real one. Fifteen years ago at St Benet Sherehog. You know the church?’
Athelstan nodded.
‘A young boy was taken there from the hospital of St Anthony of Vienne. Well,’ Cranston helped himself once more to the wineskin, ‘Brother, I still have nightmares about it! You see, the exorcist was one of those rare men, a really holy friar.’ Cranston sniffed at his own joke. ‘And I was one of the official witnesses appointed by the Bishop of London. They brought this lad, no more than fourteen summers, and chained him in the sanctuary chair next to the rood screen.’ The Coroner stopped to clear his throat, now Athelstan was listening eagerly. ‘This boy,’ he continued, ‘could speak in strange tongues, raise himself from the ground and, worse, tell people their secrets.’
‘What happen
ed?’ Athelstan asked curiously.
‘Well, the exorcist began the ceremony and the boy suddenly changed. He became violent and abusive, cursing the exorcist with every foul word he knew. Now there’s a part of the ceremony, you know, when the exorcist…’
‘Solemnly invokes?’ Athelstan asked.
‘That’s it, solemnly invokes the devil and asks him by what name he is called. The boy’s voice, usually thin and reedy, became deep and rich, “I AM THE SWINE LORD,” he replied.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘That sanctuary became dark and there was the most offensive stink of putrefaction. Then the exorcist reached the end of the ritual where he was supposed to tell the demon who possessed the boy to leave, and the demon answered: “WHERE SHALL I GO? WHERE SHALL I GO?”’ Cranston stopped and reined in his horse.
‘Go on, Sir John, please.’
‘Well, there was another witness there. A young lawyer from the Inns of Court in Chancery Lane. He had watched the proceedings in a half-mocking fashion and, when the demon cried, “WHERE SHALL I GO? WHERE SHALL I GO?” this young bright spark suddenly whispered, “Well, he can come to me.”’
Sir John turned in the saddle. ‘Brother, I do not lie. The possessed boy threw himself back in a dead faint. I heard a rushing sound as if a huge bird was swooping for the kill and this young lawyer was suddenly lifted off his feet and thrown bodily against a pillar. He was unconscious for days.’ Cranston urged his horse on.
‘Why do you tell me this, Sir John? Are you trying to frighten me?’
‘No.’ Cranston’s face remained serious. ‘That’s the only occasion I have ever witnessed such a scene and it taught me a lesson. I can distinguish, Brother, between the real forces of darkness and the countless tricks of charlatans. Believe me, I have seen them all. Voices in the night, footsteps on dusty stairs, clanking in the cellars.’ He grinned. ‘So, put your trust in old Jack Cranston, Brother. Bring your oils and holy water, by all means, but leave old Jack to his own devices.’
CHAPTER 8
Cranston and Athelstan arrived back at St Erconwald’s. Whilst the Coroner relaxed in the priest’s house, Athelstan unlocked the church and knelt at the entrance of the rood screen to recite Divine Office. He found it difficult to concentrate on the words of the psalmist and was taken by the phrase, ‘A sea of troubles’. He stopped to reflect on the problems which faced both himself and Cranston as well as the possibility that, even in this little parish of St Erconwald’s, the Regent had his spies. The friar leaned back on his heels and stared up at the crucifix. He hoped tonight’s visitation would be the first and the last; Athelstan quietly vowed that, if it was, he would apply all his energies to this Ira Dei and the horrible murders perpetrated in the Guildhall and elsewhere.
He stared across at the new, beautifully carved statue of St Erconwald, the patron saint of his parish. Athelstan smiled. Erconwald had been a great bishop of London, a man who had faced many problems here in this bustling city, before retiring to the solitude of a monastic house at Barking. The friar could feel sympathy with him and stared at the fixed, pious face, so lost in his thoughts he jumped at a soft touch on his shoulder.
‘Father, I am sorry.’
Athelstan turned to see Benedicta anxiously looking down at him.
‘Father, you did say to return at Vespers?’
Athelstan rubbed his eyes and smiled. ‘Benedicta, it’s good of you to come. Wait here.’
He mounted the sanctuary steps, opened the tabernacle, took out the sacred oils and collected from the small sacristy a stoup of holy water with an asperges rod. These he placed in a small, leather bag and went back to Benedicta.
‘I suppose,’ he said with mock severity, ‘everything is well enough in the parish?’
‘As quiet as the sea before the storm,’ she teased.
They left the church, locked it and went across to find Cranston seated in Athelstan’s one and only chair, head back, mouth wide open, snoring his head off, whilst Bonaventure lay curled in his generous lap.
‘Oh, foolish cat,’ Athelstan whispered, and gently lifted him off before shaking Cranston awake.
The Coroner awoke, as usual, lips smacking, greeted Benedicta then, at Athelstan’s urging, went into the buttery and dashed cold water over his hands and face. Cranston returned refreshed and bellowing that he was ready to do battle with the devil and anyone else.
All three left St Erconwald’s, each lost in their own surmises of what might happen, and made their way through the narrow alleys and runnels of Southwark. It was just before dusk. Shops and stalls now closed, the crowds were dispersing to their own homes. The day’s business was done and Southwark’s violent night hawks, roisterers and denizens of the underworld would only emerge from their rat holes once darkness had fully fallen. They stopped before crossing the great thoroughfare leading down to London Bridge and watched a party of mounted knights pass, bright in their multicoloured surcoats, their great war helmets swinging from saddle horns. Squires and pages rode behind holding shields and lances. After them came two long lines of dusty archers marching through Southwark towards the old road south to Dover.
‘There’s a lot of such toing and froing,’ Cranston observed. ‘The French are now attacking every important seaport along the Channel and the Regent is desperate for troops. If he withdraws any more from Hedingham and the other castles north of London, it might spark off the revolt.’
Cranston watched as the archers trooped by-crop-haired, hard-bitten, with weather-beaten faces — veterans who would make short work of any peasant levies.
‘What will you do?’ he suddenly asked Athelstan. ‘I mean, when the revolt comes?’
The friar pulled a face. ‘I’ll send Benedicta away with anyone else who wishes to escape the eye of the storm. I’ll stay in my church.’
Athelstan, too, studied the soldiers. They stirred memories of his brother Francis and himself during their short and inglorious foray with the English armies in France. He had come home, leaving Francis to be buried in some communal pit. As usual, when thinking of his brother, Athelstan closed his eyes and breathed a quick requiem for the repose of his soul.
They continued their journey and at last arrived at the Hobdens’ narrow, three-storied house. Athelstan looked up. He glimpsed a single candle glowing in an upper-story window, and shivered.
‘Christ and all his angels protect us!’ he breathed as he knocked on the door.
‘Don’t worry!’ Cranston urged. ‘Jack Cranston’s here!’
‘Yes,’ Benedicta whispered. ‘I suppose angels come in all shapes and sizes!’
Cranston was about to make a tart reply when the door swung open. Walter and Eleanor Hobden greeted them. Athelstan took an instant dislike to both of them. The man seemed sly and secretive, whilst the sharp-featured, gimlet-eyed Eleanor looked a veritable harridan.
‘Father, you are welcome.’
The Hobdens stood aside and ushered them in. Athelstan entered the darkened passageway, trying to control his anxiety, as well as a shiver of apprehension which made him flinch and tense as if expecting a blow.
‘I have brought Sir John,’ he declared haltingly. ‘Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the city. And this is Benedicta, a member of my parish council.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘In these cases it’s best to have witnesses.’
The Hobdens, standing on either side of the fire, just stared hard-eyed and Athelstan fought to control his mounting unease. What was happening here? he wondered. Why did this house make him feel so apprehensive? He scarcely knew the Hobdens and yet he found the atmosphere in their house oppressive, redolent of an unspoken evil.
‘Where is your daughter?’ he asked, conscious of how subdued both Cranston and Benedicta had become. He glanced over his shoulder. Cranston’s usual cheery expression was now grave and sombre as if the house had taken some of his usual ebullience away.
‘Elizabeth’s upstairs,’ Waiter muttered. ‘Father, have you brought the oils and water?’
‘Of course.’
>
‘It will begin soon,’ Eleanor Hobden spoke up. ‘Once darkness falls the demon manifests itself.’
‘In what ways?’ Cranston snapped before Athelstan could stop him.
Walter shook his thin shoulders. ‘Father Athelstan knows that,’ he whined. ‘Elizabeth speaks but with her mother’s voice. Then there’s the knocking on the walls, the smell, the accusations.’ His voice trailed off.
‘How did your wife die?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I mean, your first wife?’
‘Of an abscess inside her,’ Eleanor replied brusquely. ‘We called the best physicians but they could do nothing. She just faded away. I was a distant cousin of Sarah’s and, when she fell ill, I came to nurse her. Father, there was nothing that could be done.’
Athelstan turned as a bent old woman crept, like a shadow, into the room.
‘This is Anna,’ Walter announced. ‘Elizabeth’s nurse.’
The old woman drew closer, her wrinkled face creased into a hapless smile.
‘Elizabeth has driven even me away,’ she moaned. ‘She will have nothing to do with me at all.’
Athelstan studied Anna’s black button eyes, wispy grey hair and narrow nose, and sensed a malice which only deepened his unease.
‘Do you want some wine?’ the Hobdens offered.
‘No, no.’ Athelstan grasped the bag holding the oils and stoup of holy water even tighter.
‘Can I assist?’ Anna offered.
‘No,’ Eleanor Hobden intervened harshly. ‘Anna, go back to the scullery. Walter and I can deal with this.’
Athelstan tensed as he heard a voice calling: ‘Walter! Walter!’
He looked at Hobden whose face had become even more pallid.
‘It’s beginning again,’ the man whispered. ‘It begins like this every night.’
‘Tush, man, it’s only your daughter calling you.’
‘No.’ Hobden’s eyes rolled like a frightened animal’s. ‘Sir John, I swear that’s my dead wife’s voice.’
Athelstan concealed the trembling which had begun in his legs.
‘We’d best go up,’ he said firmly. ‘Master Hobden, if you will show me the way?’
