by Kate Ellis
The watcher knew one thing for certain; he couldn't return to the mill until they had gone. So he fell in behind a cart that was trundling along the lane, and walked slowly back towards the town, his cloak and hood concealing his face and body. The mill had been a useful place for concealment...and other things. There were not many hiding places in a small town like Liverpool where one could remain undisturbed for so long.
But if his refuge was discovered it meant that the girl, Griselda, must have seen him; must have said something. Servant girls were notorious gossips. He would have to take care. He reached Juggler Street, busy with people, and pulled his hood down further.
When the commotion started, his first instinct was to hide. He ran to the junction of the Shambles and stood in a doorway watching the citizens running to and fro like ants while the dogs barked with excitement and the shopkeepers hammered at their shutters. Goods fell out of shopfronts and were trampled and kicked into the stinking stream that ran down the centre of the street.
Somewhere in the distance could be heard the rhythmical beat of a drum. People ran out of their houses, more purposeful now, to put up their shutters. Then they hung about talking to their neighbours, their hands firmly on their purses, waiting to see the spectacle. Groups of sailors slouched in the tavern doorways, more curious than anxious: they had nothing to lose. There was cautious excitement as the drum beat drew nearer. Other instruments were audible now and voices raised in disharmonious song.
The first to appear round the corner by the High Cross was the upright man, leading the ragged procession in a shabby, frayed silk, scarlet gown. An escort of yapping dogs ran about his feet like attendant heralds as he swung his heavy staff, his wand of office, in time to the beat of the drum. The beggars had come to town.
The crowd of shoppers stared, half repelled, half fascinated, at the outlandish parade. The abraham men, mad and marching in their rusty chains, made forays into the crowd: the goodwives backed away nervously before throwing them a coin. Cutpurses darted amongst the spectators like rats as their victims were distracted by the beggars. The marchers formed themselves into a ragged line, some deaf mute, many limbless and on crutches, some able bodied and willing to entertain in exchange for their alms by playing instruments, singing or juggling. There were also the able bodied who, having no skills worth paying to watch, feigned sickness by limping and rolling their eyes alarmingly. It was these who watched the crowds slyly, assessing how much they could trick out of the inhabitants of each new town or village they reached.
Beggars from all around had joined the line: the local unfortunates resenting the newcomers and wanting a share in any public generosity that was going.
The man in the brown cloak stood at the corner of the Shambles scanning the faces of the beggars as they passed. Near the back of the procession marched the one he was looking for. So he was here: he had not been mistaken. The beggar held the stump of his right hand up for all to see. It was certainly him.
The watcher’s heartbeat increased with fear and he pulled the hood of his cloak down further so that it hid his face. He pushed his way through the crowd and made his way to the castle. When he reached the gatehouse he was greeted with a routine challenge. The guard, who looked little more than a fresh-faced boy, was unknown to him: probably a newcomer to the garrison.
"Tell Captain Wharton that Master Mires wishes to speak with him on an urgent matter.” The folds of his brown cloak muffled his voice. The young soldier looked him up and down suspiciously and beckoned to Manners who was standing on the far side of the gate. He sauntered over and his young colleague whispered something in his ear.
"It's all right, Jones." Manners nodded to the visitor in recognition. "Our Captain is well acquainted with Master Mires. Go through, Master. You'll find the Captain in the usual place."
"The new guard looked perplexed as the cloaked figure strode past into the castle. "Who is he? Is he connected with the garrison?"
Manners laughed unpleasantly. "There are some questions you'll soon know not to ask, my lad. You've a lot to learn. Stick with me and we'll make a soldier of you yet."
*
Wharton took another sip of wine. His visitor always made him nervous. There had been times over the past year when his bowels had loosened at the very sight of the man. But he needed him and his need was becoming all the more desperate as each day passed. If he could not have the woman, could not possess Rosina, her brute of a husband certainly would not.
Mires put out his hand, showing the translucent white object. "See how carefully I have fashioned it...and the hair I obtained. It can not fail."
"I only pray you're right."
"That depends on who receives your prayers. God or..."
Wharton looked away. This was madness. It had begun in Chester with small matters, the removal of inconveniences. Then there had been his promotion; when Mires had got rid of that bully March. It had worked then only too well. March had been found at the bottom of the castle rock, his neck broken.
Wharton looked at the object. He hardly dared to touch it. It had seemed like a game back then, the answer to his problems but now... There were tales that the devil had brought Mires back from the dead. Wharton was a hardened soldier; he had seen many things in the course of his life. But Mires frightened him.
Take it," Mires hissed. Wharton did as he was told and took the cold waxy thing in his hand. "You know what to do, do you not?"
Wharton knew. He nodded and pushed three gold coins towards his visitor. Soon Rosina would be in his bed, would be his. It was worth it for that prospect.
“Have you any news on the other matter?”
Wharton shook his head. “Not yet. You must be patient. These things cannot be hurried.”
Mires, who had kept his hood up throughout the transaction, took the coins from the table and left the room silently. Wharton sat down and poured himself another drink to steady his nerves.
It was late afternoon when Mires slipped from the castle. The streets were quiet now after the excitement of the beggars' procession. He knew they would be spending their alms in the ale houses that night before taking unoffered accommodation in barns and outhouses, then moving off to another town or village the next day. Some of the beggars were lounging on the steps of the high cross accosting passers by, the constables not daring to confront them for fear of their numbers.
But the one Mires feared was not amongst them. With any luck he would be gone with the rest of the group at dawn to test the bounty of some other town. Mires ignored their whining requests as they stretched out their hands for a coin, and made his way purposefully past the white cross to the Old Hall.
CHAPTER 10
Master Jacob Multhorpe of Manchester was a man who liked his food. The Mermaid suited him well when he came to Liverpool to buy flax to make his cloth. The victuals were excellent and, of course, there were the other attractions...though he took care not to mention these to Mistress Multhorpe when he talked of the place.
The pie had been delicious; well up to Master Turner's usual standard. With good food in his belly and a good deal agreed with Captain Flynn, Jacob felt pleased with himself. He sat back and loosened his belt. Trade was prospering and it was good to get away from Manchester...away from Mistress Multhorpe's nagging tongue.
The journey had been smooth as the weather had held fair. And he enjoyed haggling with the Irish captain with his quick wits and good humour. The price of flax was good and the customs dues small, better than those of Chester. Liverpool, as many Manchester merchants were discovering, was a good haven for the man of business.
He rubbed his stomach. He had eaten that pie too quickly and would, no doubt, suffer for his lack of delicacy for the rest of the afternoon. There was one he knew in Liverpool who could make his discomfort disappear; one who could achieve miraculous results with an infusion of herbs. He threw some coins on the table, nodded to the landlord, and went out into the street. He had been to Master Valentine's shop before, a
lways with a successful outcome.
The apothecary was there in the shop and gave him a friendly greeting. "It is good to see you again, Master Multhorpe. I hope your business prospers well.” Valentine liked the bluff merchant and enjoyed passing the time of day with him when he visited the port.
"The cloth trade prospers, Master Valentine, as I am sure does the trade in medicines."
"People are always ill, my friend. It is a fact of life. But I hope I find you in good health."
"Apart from my old trouble: Master Turner's excellent pies."
Valentine took a jar down from his shelves. "I have the remedy, although you realise that the solution lies in your own hands. If you would only eat slower, the indigestion..."
"I know...mea culpa. I will take more care next time. How are things in Liverpool. It was late September when I was last here. How is Father James? I thought to see him at the Mermaid."
"Father James is well enough." Valentine thought it best not to mention the priest's indiscreet words at Agnes’s funeral. "Though one of the chantry priests of his church, Father Clement, was found in the river. He had been murdered, God rest his soul. Footpads."
"Nowhere is safe, Master Valentine. I always travel with others; it is the only way. There are many out there too idle to work but not too idle to wield a cudgel against somebody's head."
Valentine kept his thoughts to himself. "There are indeed many desperate souls, Master Multhorpe."
Multhorpe paused for a moment, deep in thought. "The dead man, Father Clement, I met him. He was on his way here a few months back. We travelled together on a boat from Chester. He said he was taking up a post in Liverpool, but he said little else. We did not talk much. He preferred the conversation of a pretty girl and I can’t say I blame him. When did he die?"
"He was found a couple of weeks ago floating in the river. He had been dead a few days, poor man."
Multhorpe's brow furrowed beneath his thinning hair. He sat for a while, thinking. Suddenly he looked at Valentine and spoke. "I saw him...Michaelmas eve it was. When was he found, did you say?"
"Feast of St. Jerome. The thirtieth; two days after."
"Then I must have seen him just before his death." He leaned forward confidentially. "I did not greet him as we were not on those terms. But I have a good memory for faces. And I particularly noticed because of the company he was keeping."
"What do you mean?"
"I would not have expected a priest to be walking with such a man. But I suppose all souls need saving, do they not, Master Valentine?"
Valentine nodded, wishing Multhorpe would get to the point. "Who was he with?"
Multhorpe drank deeply of the infusion Valentine had made for him and sighed, rubbing his swollen stomach. "They made a strange pair. When you see a priest deep in talk with a yellow haired juggler you can't help but notice."
“If you saw this juggler with Father Clement shortly before his death, doubtless the constables would wish to speak with him,” said Valentine practically.
This had not occurred to Jacob Multhorpe. He nodded his head sagely. “That is true, Master Valentine.” He leaned forward with the self righteous enthusiasm of the good citizen anxious to be seen doing his civic duty. “I will alert the constables if I should see the fellow again.”
“I have a better suggestion, Master Multhorpe,” said Valentine calmly. “Send word to me if you see this juggler and I will do whatever is necessary. I am well acquainted with the constables and magistrates of this town.”
Multhorpe nodded. Master Valentine was a man to be trusted.
*
When Valentine reported his conversation with Multhorpe to Katheryn she listened carefully. The yellow haired juggler again. Though what connection he could have with the deaths of Father Clement and Agnes, she could not imagine.
“I have been thinking about Agnes’s death,” she said, glad to have the opportunity to share her thoughts.
“And have you reached any conclusions?”
“None. There is her lover of course, but all we know of him is that he is bound by a vow of chastity. Until we know his identity...”
“If he was her lover, the father of her child, would he need to ravish her?” said Valentine, matter of factly.
“That is true enough. But still we must find him. You must know the people of Liverpool well.”
“Indeed. There are several priests and former monks, myself and Bartholomew the ferryman amongst them, but I think them all honest men.”
“What of the priests who might have known Agnes? The priests of Our Lady and St. Nicholas?”
“I cannot see our Father James in the role of libertine,” he smiled. “There is Father Nicholas, newly married and much abed with his wife so I hear. There is Master Culver, the master of the school there: he was a monk I believe; but I have heard nothing but good of the man. And Father Clement...but he is dead.”
Katheryn shook her head sadly. Father Clement: another hapless victim. There were many tales of travellers and other innocents being killed for a few coins or a decent gown. And evil doers would make no exception for a priest.
"Where did Father Clement live?" she asked.
"He had a small cottage next to Father James's."
"Is it occupied now?"
"Why do you ask?"
"I should like to see it."
Valentine looked at her, puzzled. "But why? It is a simple case. The man was murdered by footpads and thrown into the river, as many have been before him, alas. There is no mystery about it."
"I should still like to see his lodgings."
Valentine was beginning to realise that once Katheryn had something on her mind there was little purpose in argument. With luck it would not take long to satisfy her curiosity. "Very well. I can leave young Ralph to look after the shop."
As he walked with her through the streets it occurred to him that he enjoyed being in her company. But he suppressed this thought and tried to turn his mind to other things.
Father Clement's cottage was a tiny whitewashed dwelling, leaning up against Father James's house like a child against its mother. Katheryn lifted the latch and stepped inside. There was one room with a bed in the far alcove next to a small fireplace. A battered table stood in the middle, and on it stood half a loaf of mouldy bread and a jug of stale ale with bits of blue mould floating on the surface of the liquid. Two stools stood by the table and a high backed chair was drawn up to the ashes of the fire. The only other furniture was a plain wooden cupboard standing against the left hand wall. The walls were lime washed and the earth floor swept clean but the place had a bare feel. Father Clement had done little to make the cottage his own.
Katheryn opened the cupboard. There were a few books inside of a devotional nature and behind them was a folded square of parchment with a broken seal: a letter. She opened it, read it and passed it to Valentine, who was hovering uneasily behind her. He read the letter reluctantly: he was not comfortable searching other people's quarters...even those of the dead.
There was no salutation. The letter came straight to the point. "I am in need of your services. I shall expect you at the castle at sunset. I remain, sir, your friend, Thadeus Wharton.”
"So Captain Wharton was in spiritual need. Surely there is nothing unusual in that. Father Clement often said mass for the garrison. The Molyneux family have their own chaplain but the garrison relies on the services of priests from the town.”
“So we have discovered nothing of great interest. Does Father James visit the castle?”
“I believe he does sometimes: more so since Father Clement’s death.”
"How well do you know Father James?"
"Well enough. He often said mass for us at Birkenhead. There were none of our number who were ordained, you understand. We were all lay brothers, even our prior. Father James has always seemed to me an honest man; good at heart."
"And his speech at Agnes's funeral?"
"We all have our opinions and it takes an hone
st man to voice them so openly."
"And Father Nicholas, the other chantry priest. What of him?"
"He was a brother at Whalley Abbey; a Cistercian."
"And his character?"
"I know nothing against the man. In fact I have had few dealings with him." He smiled. "He and his wife appear to enjoy good health."
"When did he marry?"
"Two months ago. Her father is a tanner with premises on Moore Street."
“Does Father Nicholas live nearby?
“Very near. In Chapel Street.”
Katheryn continued to search the cupboard, looking for any more clues to Father Clement's life in Liverpool. But there was nothing more of interest: a pair of pewter drinking vessels, a pewter plate, a knife, some blank parchment, a couple of sharpened quills and a half empty pot of ink. Father Clement had led an austere life: the sum of his possessions had not increased since his days as a brother at Norton Abbey.”
