by Paul Doherty
‘At the time,’ the anchorite continued, evenly lost in his own nightmare past, ‘I was too full of hatred and vengeance to mourn. I’d done good service for the sheriff of Kent in his castle chapel. I took my family’s corpses to him for burial. I also invoked the blood feud and he agreed to help. He raised the hue and cry and issued writs summoning up both the posse comitatus and the shire levies. The outlaws, five in number, were trapped in a wood outside Rochester. They were caught red-handed and immediately sentenced to hang from the Keep of Rochester Castle. You know it?’
Athelstan nodded.
‘I was their hangman. I took each of those wicked souls put the noose around their necks and tossed them over. I watched each do the dance of death. My reputation spread. Rochester hired me as its hangman.’ He laughed a short, bitter bark. ‘I painted their churches and hanged their wolfsheads until I met Alice Rednal.’
‘Alice Rednal — I am sure my Lord Coroner. .?’
‘I know Sir John Cranston, Brother; he hired me as Rednal’s executioner at Smithfield. I was given a chamber in St Bartholomew’s Priory which lies nearby. I didn’t just hang her but others. On execution days I would journey from Newgate to Smithfield in the execution cart with those condemned to die sitting at my feet. I also continued to do some paintings; you can see them in St Sepulchre’s which stands close to Cock Lane.’
‘Alice Rednal?’ Athelstan persisted.
‘Sorry, Brother,’ the anchorite paused, ‘you know I should go back to my cell. I want to. I always like to be alone after a hanging. However,’ he sighed, ‘Alice Rednal! She was the wickedest fiend from the darkest ward of hell. She murdered children, drowned them in the Thames. Sir John caught her and arraigned her before the Justices of Oyer and Terminer where she was condemned to hang. I collected her in the execution cart. No sooner were we out of the prison than she started to mock me. She whispered how, hanging or not, she’d taken quite a liking to me, as those others who’d murdered my wife had taken such a liking to her. I then realized, somehow, she’d been a member of their coven. She named their leader, a malignant called Wolfsbane. I challenged her, claiming she was lying, but it was obvious — she knew so much about them.’
‘What was she like physically?’
‘Oh, tall with wild, greyish hair. Harsh-faced with a full figure.’ The anchorite blinked furiously. ‘She also told me something else.’ He pointed at Athelstan. ‘Is this why I am being brought to the bar for questioning?’
‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan asked.
‘According to Rednal, after I left Beatrice, she and our child were resting under a shade of trees. Beatrice realized she was being watched by Wolfsbane and his coven and as she prepared to flee, a group of mounted archers journeying to Rochester galloped by. Beatrice tried to persuade them to help but they were in too much of a hurry. They mocked her fears and left her to herself.’
‘These mounted archers?’ Athelstan felt a coldness creeping through him as if from the hard stone around him.
‘Rednal claimed they were the Wyvern Company on garrison duty at Rochester.’
‘The same who now lodge here?’
‘I presume so, Friar.’
‘So why did Rednal tell you that?’
‘She said they were on duty when I hanged Wolfsbane and his coven. She claimed I should have executed them as well.’
‘Is that why you came here, hangman, to pursue vengeance?’
‘No, no, let me finish. Rednal, sitting on her own coffin, continued to ridicule me. She pointed out how the world was truly cruel and no one really cared. I slapped her face and told her to shut up. She replied that we would certainly meet again. Anyway, I hanged her at the Elms. I kicked her off the ladder and watched her struggle and twist, then I went my way. Oh yes, thoughts of further vengeance on those archers who refused to help Beatrice curdled and boiled, but then Rednal’s ghost intervened.’
‘Pardon?’ Athelstan turned on the bench.
‘I was lodged in my chamber at St Bartholomew’s. The door had a small grille at the top which could be opened. One evening, about a week after Rednal’s hanging, I heard a knocking. I thought it was a servitor. I crossed and opened the grille. I swear I saw this: Rednal’s face all liverish, eyes glaring, stared in at me, her full foul lips moved. “I told you”, she whispered, “we would meet again”. I slammed the grille shut yet when I opened the door I saw nothing but shadows. Since then I have seen her face again and again peering at me through a dusty, latticed window or from a crowd. .’ His words trailed away.
Athelstan crossed himself.
‘Do you believe in ghosts, Brother Athelstan?’
‘Yes,’ the friar answered. ‘Some you see and some you don’t.’
‘Do you think I am madcap, fey and witless?’
‘No, my friend.’ Athelstan tapped the man’s wrist. ‘But you are a painter,’ he smiled, ‘with wild imaginings, who saw his family slaughtered. You yourself were cruelly baited about this. In the end what is real enough to you is also the truth to you.’ Athelstan paused. ‘You must anticipate my next question as you would if you faced a magister in the schools. I have asked it once, I do so again. Did you come here to seek vengeance on the Wyvern Company?’
‘No, no, Brother, here in this church I swear. I arrived here a broken man. I fled to escape from the ghost of Alice Rednal, to atone for my many sins. I arrived at St Fulcher’s to execute certain paintings in the south aisle. Abbot Walter had three prisoners waiting to be hanged. No one would do it so I performed the task.’ The anchorite got to his feet, visibly agitated. ‘One thing led to another. I told Father Abbot my story. I expressed my desire for peace and he granted me the anker house.’ He turned to face Athelstan. ‘I continue both to paint and to hang.’ He laughed drily. ‘Look at me, Brother — do I look like a swordsman? Despite my wild imaginings I’m no fool. You do not confront, challenge or cross the likes of Wenlock and Mahant — cruel men, professional killers who fear neither heaven nor hell. Oh yes, I could tell you more about the dire events here but,’ he strode as if in a panic towards the entrance to the chantry chapel then glanced over his shoulder, ‘I have much more to say,’ he whispered, ‘much more to judge, much more to condemn but not for now.’
For the rest of that Advent week Athelstan kept to himself. Cranston did not return but sent a message with Flaxwith that all was well. The coroner had even visited St Erconwald’s and announced how ‘that coven of sinners’ were walking the path of righteousness. Benedicta also despatched Crim the altar boy with similar reassurances. Athelstan truly missed his parish. He thought of appealing to Blackfriars but he knew John of Gaunt, the silver-tongued Regent, would have already convinced Athelstan’s superiors that the friar’s presence at St Fulcher’s was vital for the Crown’s interests. Accordingly Athelstan distracted himself, becoming immersed in the daily horarium of the abbey. He stayed well away from those he intended to investigate later: the Wyvern Company, Richer, the abbot and his niece, that anchorite and his grim paintings in the south aisle. Athelstan closely studied these even as he was aware of that eerie soul staring at him through the aperture of the anker house. He also stayed away from the watergate and the nearby gallows where poor Fleischer’s corpse was to hang for three turns of the tide. Athelstan did attend the felon’s hurried burial in the Field of Blood, that deserted derelict stretch of the cemetery reserved for the corpses of malefactors and vagabonds.
Athelstan merged like a shadow into the rule of the black monks. He woke with them when the sub-prior rang the cock-crow bell in the dormitory and joined the sleepy, lantern-lit procession into the choir. Once there he’d watch the sacristan lay out the purple and gold vestments of the Advent season, trim the great lantern horn above the lectern and go round the brothers in a glow of candle light to ensure none of them had fallen asleep during matins. Sometimes he joined the brothers in their stroll around the cloisters. He learnt a little of their sign language when talking was forbidden, though he was never invited
to their chapter where duties were assigned, notices proclaimed and corrections carried out. The food in the refectory was good: fish, vegetables, fruit, cheese, spices, figs and ale with pork pies, capon pastry, apple tarts and all kinds of blancmange being served. On occasions he played nine pins and provoked laughter due to his clumsiness, though he soon retrieved his reputation at the chess board.
At other times Athelstan wandered that forest of stone, constantly aware of arches, columns and pillars all intricately decorated. Statues of saints, sinners, gargoyles and babewyns peered down at him from finely sculptured bushes, trees and foliage where mystical animals such as the salamander and unicorn sheltered. Athelstan became accepted as a fellow brother, though one to be wary of as the purpose of his visit became more widely known. Increasingly however, especially as daylight faded, Athelstan locked himself in his own chamber and tried to make sense of the jumbled bloody events which had occurred since St Damasus’ eve. He searched for the root, for the prime cause, to unpick all this tangle, a seminal event which would explain and clarify. Athelstan grew certain of one truth. Kilverby’s murder and those of the Wyverns were connected probably through the bloodstone, the Passio Christi. Yet, what was the prime cause of all this slaughter? The radix malorum omnium — the root of all evil? Kilverby’s pilgrimage to Outremer? But why should that open the bloody gate to the meadows of murder? The only person who might be affected would be John of Gaunt should the Passio Christi be handed over to St Fulcher’s but Gaunt, at least according to the evidence, had no knowledge of what Kilverby intended.
Athelstan’s puzzlement deepened. On the Saturday before the third Sunday of Advent he locked himself in his own chamber and pretended to be Kilverby. The merchant had sat at his desk poring over manuscripts, just thinking. He’d never left, not even to relieve himself. Athelstan had examined the covered jakespot in the far corner of the chamber. Kilverby had already supped and suffered no ill effects from that. The wine he’d carried in proved to be untainted as had the sweetmeats brought from the abbey. The Passio Christi was securely locked in its casket with the keys around Kilverby’s neck. No one had entered that chamber, yet by morning Kilverby was murdered and the Passio Christi gone. How? Why? Athelstan heard a noise, a tapping on the shutters. He rose and walked across to the lantern window. He pulled back the shutters and looked out over the frozen flower garden, its shrubs and rich soil gripped in a harsh frost. Warming his fingers over a nearby chafing dish, Athelstan glanced around and dismissed the tapping as a mere flurry of ice in the snapping breeze. He was about to turn away when a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye made him start. A cowled figure moved from his left into full view — one of the brothers? The figure knelt as if studying the frozen ground. Athelstan caught the glint of metal as this sinister apparition brought up the arbalest. The friar sprang back, stumbling to the floor as the barbed quarrel whirred angrily above him, smashing against the plaster on the far wall. Athelstan murmured a prayer, sprang to his feet, unlocked the door and hurried out. He almost crashed into Wenlock coming into the guest house.
‘Brother,’ Wenlock gripped the friar’s arm with his maimed hand, ‘are you well? What is the matter? You look as if you are going to shout harrow and raise the hue and cry.’
Athelstan caught his breath as a cold sweat broke out.
‘Nothing.’ He breathed in deeply. ‘Nothing for the moment.’
FOUR
‘Jurat: a sworn man.’
On that same Saturday, Sir John Cranston sat in his judgement chamber in the great Guildhall overlooking Cheapside. He eased himself up in his leather-covered throne-like chair and glared around. He’d had tried to make this chamber as comfortable as possible. Triptychs from Genoa celebrating the scenes of the Lord’s Passion rendered in glowing colours hung alongside tapestries displaying the Arms of the city and the livery of the Cranston family. He caught sight of the Cross of San Damiano, a replica of the one St Francis of Assisi had prayed before. Cranston stopped his quiet cursing and blessed himself. He glanced at the claret jug and goblet on the polished dresser beneath the crucifix but shook his head. He would not drink, not now! Sir John opened the thick, leather-bound ledger before him and stared at the litany of human weakness and wickedness drawn up for his inspection by Osbert, his chancery clerk, and Simon the scrivener. One long, cream-coloured sheet listed the weapons seized that week: daggers, blades, cudgels and quarter staves, pike staves, crooked billets, pole-axes and halberds. ‘London’s like a battlefield,’ Cranston whispered.
The next folio contained grimmer entries. The murder of a poor girl by a man and his wife just for the clothes the young woman wore. Elena Hellebore, convicted for smashing a chaplain’s head after he’d called her a ‘tread-foul’, a slang term for a whore. Agnes Houdy, who’d strangled a drunk with his own belt so she could have his boots. Henry Staci, for causing the death of Margaret Privet ‘other than her own natural death’. Next was William Hammond.
‘You’re an interesting one,’ Cranston murmured. According to the entry William’s wife Marisa was burnt to death by a fire caused by the fall of a lighted candle as she and her husband prepared for bed. Both had escaped from the burning tenement but William was so angry at his wife for causing the fire through her own negligence he pushed her back into the flames and tried to flee for sanctuary to St Martin-Le-Grand. Beside each of these entries the scrivener had written ‘susp’ in red ink — ‘suspenditur — hanged’. The next page listed all the fatal accidents in the city. A robber at St Paul’s wharf who’d been recognized by his victims whom he’d attacked on the Brentwood Road. The outlaw had tried to escape, fallen into the Thames and drowned. Other entries listed victims being killed by a horse, falling timber, scalding water tossed from a window or arrows loosed at Stepney, not to mention the drunk who drowned after jumping into the great sewer near Fleet or the two carpenters who’d tumbled from ladders at the Savoy Palace. The final entry made Cranston groan. He’d returned from St Fulcher’s and presented himself at John of Gaunt’s inner chamber at the Savoy. The Regent had done his best to hide his smouldering temper. Dressed in red, gold and blue velvet boasting the snarling leopards of England, his fingers and chest glittering with gold rings and a jewel-encrusted collar, the Regent had been both magnificent and munificent. He had filled Cranston’s goblet to the rim and personally served the coroner with a dish of sugared fruit and a mazer of sweetmeats. Gaunt had listened attentively, those strange eyes crinkling, full lips pursed, yet his temper was obvious and his message was clear. The Passio Christi had been stolen and he wanted it back. Cranston and Athelstan would achieve that or. .
‘Or what?’ Cranston murmured to himself.
He wondered what Athelstan was doing, as well as the strange secrets that abbey held. The Regent had told him little and Cranston was still bemused by Eleanor Remiet. He was sure he’d done business with her before, but when and why?
‘Sir John, my Lord Coroner?’
Cranston glanced up. Osbert, his plump, cheery-faced clerk stood in the doorway fingering his lank brown hair. Next to him was Simon the scrivener, pasty-faced with ever watery eyes and dripping nose. Both clerks found Cranston a source of many droll stories though in his presence they acted most dutifully.
‘The Deodandum?’ Simon asked. ‘You must decide on the Deodandum.’
Cranston immediately did. He had the case written out on a piece of parchment before him. In brief, Ralph, Megotta Ugele’s husband, had been killed by a runaway horse and cart in Hogweed Lane. Megotta now claimed both horse and cart should not be sold and given to the church, who owned it anyway as a Deodandum, a gift to God, but handed over to her as compensation. Cranston decided with a sweep of his quill pen that the widow’s needs were more pressing than those of Holy Mother Church. Once done he rose to his feet, pushing back his chair.
‘It is Saturday.’ He glared at his two minions. ‘I have other business. Has Muckworm appeared?’
‘No, Sir John,’ both men chorused.
>
‘In which case,’ Cranston buckled on his war belt, grabbed his cloak and beaver hat and stepped down from the dais, ‘if Muckworm rears his ugly head, tell him he’ll find me in my favourite chantry chapel immersed in my devotions.’
‘The Holy Lamb of God, Sir John?’
‘Very perceptive.’ Cranston nodded at both men and swept out of the judgement chamber, down the stairs and into the bailey. Scurriers and messengers, all booted and spurred, were readying restless horses, the breath of both man and beast hanging like a clear mist in the freezing air. Cranston pushed his way past these as well as a swarm of clerks, ostlers and ragged scholars whose Goliard song caught Sir John’s fancy.
‘My desire is to die in a tavern,
Where wine will stain my dying mouth.
All the choirs of angels will chant,
May God be merciful to this man of drink.’
Cranston dropped a coin in their begging bowl and strolled out under the cavernous arch into Cheapside. Evening was due yet business still thrived. The air was thick with a mixture of smells. The sweet fragrances of the herb and perfume-sellers, vegetable and fruit hawkers mingled with the stink from the ordure-strewn cobbles. The fullers’ stench was still strong, whilst the wind wafted in the foul odours from the fleshing yards. Cranston donned both cloak and hat as he surveyed the busy stalls and booths. He hardly noticed the drab but smart smocks, jerkins and gowns of the tradesmen, the glossy elegance of court fops with pomanders pushed under their nostrils or the wealthy in their velvet, wool-lined cloaks and sheepskin mittens.
‘No,’ Cranston whispered, ‘where are you my lovelies, all you creatures of the dark?’
Two worlds existed here: one apparent, the other had to be closely studied. Cranston surveyed the crowd. Oh yes, they were here, the night-walkers and dark-hawks, soil-caked and dirt marked, who slept on straw pallets stretched out over tamped-down mud. The coin-fakers and cross-biters, the cozeners, the mumpers, the scolders and sneaksmen in their motley garish rags, pointed hoods and scuffed boots were on the prowl. All these were of the same genus — Newgate birds, who would milk a pigeon to get a drink. Some were obvious, others more hidden as they threaded through the crowd, looking for prey. Cranston recognized quite a few of his ‘Lovelies’: Mouse-ears with his twitching nose and stuck-out ears, Frost-face, his skin badly gnawed by the pox, Rats-tooth and Spindle-shanks, could all be glimpsed amongst the mad and the bad, the moon-men and the moon-cursers. At the mouth of alleyways clustered even more, the beggars who ate mouldy bread filled with barley straw and drank watered ale and wine so muddy it made them wry-mouthed.
