by Paul Doherty
'You prisoners,' the fellow was shouting, 'that are within for wickedness and sin, know now that after many mercies you are appointed to die just before noon tomorrow!'
On and on he went, shouting the usual rubbish about God's mercy and justice over all. Cranston and Athelstan pushed by him and hammered at the great gate. A grille was opened, revealing an evil, narrow-faced, yellow-featured man with eyes of watery blue and a mouth as thin as a vice.
'What do you want?' the fellow snapped, his lips curled back to reveal blackened stumps of teeth. Cranston pushed his face to the grille.
'I am Sir John Cranston, king's coroner in the city. Now open up!'
The grille slammed shut and they heard the noise of footsteps. A small postern door in the great gate opened. A guard stepped out with a club, forcing others back as Cranston and Athelstan were waved in. They shoved by, the stale odour of the gatekeeper's body making them choke. They stepped into the lodge or small chamber where the keeper always greeted new prisoners.
'I wish to see the keeper, Fitzosbert!' Cranston snapped.
The fellow grinned and took them along a dark, smelly passageway into another chamber where the keeper of Newgate, Fitzosbert, was squatting behind a great oak table like a king enthroned in his palace. Athelstan had heard about the fellow but this was the first time he had met him. Indeed, anyone who had any business with the law in London knew Fitzosbert's fearsome reputation. A very rich and therefore powerful man, as head keeper of Newgate, Fitzosbert had the pick of all the prisoners' possessions as well as the sale of concessions, be it beds, sheets, coals, drink, food, even a wench. Anyone who entered the prison had to pay a fee and Athelstan recollected that one of his parishioners, too poor to pay, had been beaten up for his poverty whilst Fitzosbert had stood by, smiling all the time. The keeper, Athelstan concluded, was not a pleasant man and on seeing him the friar believed every story he had heard. He had a louse-ridden face, dirty blond hair and carmine-painted lips. Fitzosbert's sunken cheeks were liberally rouged and this made his bulbous grey eyes seem even more fish-like. The friar just stared at him and concluded that Fitzosbert would have liked to have been born a woman. Only that would explain his short lace- trimmed jerkin and the tight red hose. Athelstan smiled, revelling in fantasies of revenge. One day perhaps, he thought, the bugger might be caught for sodomy and Athelstan vowed that for the first time in his life he might attend an execution. Fitzosbert, however, had already dismissed him with a flicker of his eyes and was staring coolly at Sir John as if to prove he was not cowed by any show of authority.
'You have warrants, Sir?'
'I don't need warrants!' Cranston snapped. 'I am the king's coroner. I wish to see a prisoner.'
'Who?'
'Nathaniel Solper.'
Fitzosbert smiled. 'And your business with him?'
'My own.'
Again Fitzosbert smiled though Athelstan had seen more humour and warmth on the silver plate of a coffin lid.
'You must explain, Sir John.' The fellow placed two effete ring-bedecked hands on the desk before him. 'I cannot allow anyone, even the regent himself, to come wandering through my prison asking to see prisoners, especially such as Solper. He's a condemned man.'
'He's not yet hanged and I wish to speak with him, now!' Cranston leaned over the table, placing his hands over those of Fitzosbert and pressing down hard until the keeper's face paled and beads of sweat broke out on his brow.
'Now look, Master Fitzosbert,' Cranston continued slowly, 'if you wish, I will leave now. And tomorrow I will come back with warrants duly signed and sealed by the regent, and accompanied by a group of soldiers from the Tower. Then I will go through this prison, see Solper, and perhaps…' He smiled. 'We all have friends. Perhaps petitions could be presented in the Commons. Petitions demanding an investigation of your accounts. I am sure the Barons of the Exchequer would be interested in the profits to be made in the king's prison, and in what happens to money entrusted to you.'
Fitzosbert pursed his lips. 'I agree!' he muttered.
Cranston stood back.
'And now, Sir, Solper!'
The keeper got up and minced out of the room. Athelstan and Cranston followed him, the friar fascinated by the man's swaying walk. He was about to nudge Cranston, congratulate him on his skills of persuasion, when he heard a sound and turned quickly. Two huge gaolers, with the bodies of apes and the faces of cruel mastiffs, padded silently behind them. Fitzosbert stopped and turned.
'Gog and Magog!' he sang out. 'They are my bodyguards, Sir John, my assistants in case I am attacked.'
Cranston's hand flew immediately to his sword. He pulled out the great blade, tapping the toe of his boot with it.
'This is my servant, Master Fitzosbert! May I remind you that I carry the king's warrant. If anything happens to me, it's treason!'
'Of course.' Fitzosbert's smile made him look more hideous than ever. They walked on, wandering through a warren of tortuous passageways where the noise and stench grasped Athelstan by the throat. He had heard that Newgate was a hell-hole but now he experienced it first hand and understood why some prisoners went quickly insane. There were many who talked and sang incessantly, whilst others, particularly the women, who knew they were not there for too long, refused to clean themselves and lay about like sows in their own filth. Deeper into the prison they walked, past one open chamber where the limbs of quartered men lay like joints of meat on a butcher's stall, waiting to be soaked with salt and cumin seed before being tarred. Deeper into the hell, Athelstan shivered, folding his arms into the voluminous sleeves of his robe. Mad faces pushed against the grilles in the doors, tortured ones begging for mercy. The guilty baying their hatred, the innocent quietly pleading for a hearing. At last Fitzosbert stopped at one cell door and clicked his fingers. One of the giants shuffled forward, a ring of keys in his huge fist. A key was inserted in the lock and the door opened. Fitzosbert whispered something and the giant nodded and pushed his way into the cell. They heard screams, kicks, the sickening thud of a punch, and the ogre roaring Solper's name. He reappeared, grasping the unfortunate by the scruff of his shabby collar. Fitzosbert went up to the prisoner and tapped him gently on the cheek.
'Master Solper, you are fortunate. You have important visitors. Someone I believe you know, Sir John Cranston, and his – ' he looked coyly at Athelstan ' – companion.'
The friar ignored him, staring at Solper. The prisoner was nothing remarkable: young, white-faced, and so filthy it was difficult to tell where one garment ended and another began.
'We need a chamber to talk to this man,' demanded Cranston.
The head keeper shrugged and led them back up a passageway to a cleaner empty cell. The door was left open. Cranston waved Solper to a seat.
'Master keeper!' he called.
Fitzosbert came back into the room and Cranston laid some silver on the table.
'Some wine, bread, and two of your cleanest cups!'
The head keeper scooped up the coins as deftly as any tax collector. A few minutes later one of the giant gaolers pushed back into the cell, carrying a tray with all Cranston had asked for. He placed it on the table and left slamming the door behind him. The young prisoner just sat nervously on a stool watching Athelstan. Cranston took one of the cups and a small white loaf and thrust them into his hands.
Well, Solper, we meet again.'
The man licked his lips nervously.
Cranston grinned wolfishly. 'You have been condemned?'
'Yesterday, before the Justices,' the young man squeaked in reply, his voice surprisingly high.
'On what charge?'
'Counterfeiting coins.'
'Ah, yes! Let me introduce you, Brother,' Cranston said. 'Master Solper, counterfeiter, thief, footpad and seller of relics. Two years ago, Master Solper could get you anything; a piece of cloth from the napkins used at the Last Supper, a hair from the beard of St Joseph, part of a toy once used by the Baby Christ. Master Solper has tried his hand at – well, God
only knows! You are marked?'
The young man nodded and puUed down his dirty jerkin. Athelstan saw the huge 'F' branded into his right shoulder, proclaiming him a felon.
'Twice indicted, the third time caught,' Cranston intoned. 'You are due to hang, and yet you may evade justice.'
Athelstan saw the hope flare in the young man's eyes. He squirmed nervously on the stool.
'What do you want? What do I have to do?'
'The Sons of Dives, have you ever heard of them?'
The young man pulled a face.
'Have you or haven't you?'
'Yes, everybody has. In the guilds,' the young man continued, 'there are always small groups or societies prepared to lend money at high interest rates to the nobles or to other merchants. They take names and titles: the Keepers of the Gate, the Guardians of the Coffers.' He shrugged. 'The Sons of Dives are another group.'
'And their leader?'
'Springall, Sir Thomas Springall. He's well known.'
'Now, another matter.'
Cranston delved into a small leather pouch he had taken from his saddle-bag, undid the cord at the neck and drew out a small vase containing the poison he had taken from Springall's house. He unstoppered the jar and handed it over.
'Smell that!'
The young man gingerly lifted the rim to his nose, took one sniff, made a face and handed it back.
'Poison!'
'Good man, Solper, poison. This is the real reason I came, I half guessed who the Sons of Dives were. But if I wanted to buy poison, a rare exotic poison such as belladonna, crushed diamond or arsenic, where would I go?'
The young man looked across at Athelstan.
'Any monastery or friary has them. They are often used in the paints they mix for the illuminated manuscripts.'
'Ah, yes, but you can't very well knock on a monastery gate and say, "May I have some poison?" and expect the father abbot or prior to hand it over without a question. Without taking careful note of who you are, why you asked and what you want it for. So where else? The apothecary, Master Solper?'
Cranston eased his great bulk on the table. Athelstan watched nervously. The table, not being of the strongest, creaked and groaned in protest under his weight.
'Master Solper,' Cranston continued conversationally, 'I have come here offering you your life. Not much perhaps, but if you answer my questions I can arrange for a pardon to be sent down under the usual condition: that you abjure the realm. You know what that means? Straight as an arrow to the nearest port, secure a passage and go elsewhere. Anywhere – Outremer, France, Scythia, Persia – but not England, and certainly not London! You do understand?'
The young man licked his lips.
'Yes,' he muttered.
'And if you do not satisfy my curiosity,' Cranston continued, 'I am going to knock on the door, leave, and tomorrow you will hang. So, if I want to buy a poison in London, where would I go?'
'Nightshade House.'
'Where's that?'
'It's owned by Simon Foreman. It's in an alleyway.' The young man screwed up his eyes, concentrating on getting the facts right. 'That's right, a street called Piper Street, Nightshade House in Piper Street. Simon Foreman would sell anything for a great price and not ask any questions. It is probable the poison in that phial came from him. He could tell you.'
'One further question. Sir Thomas Springall – you knew of him?*
The young man nodded his head towards the door.
'Like Fitzosbert, he liked young boys, the softer and more pliant the better, or so the whisper says. He went to houses where such people meet. Springall was also a moneylender, a usurer. He had few friends and many enemies. There was gossip about him.' The young man drained his cup and sat cradling it, eyes fixed on the wine remaining in the jug. 'It was only a matter of time before someone used that information.' He shrugged. 'But Springall had powerful friends at court and in the church. No bailiff or constable would touch him. He and all his kind meet in a tavern outside the city on the Mile End Road – it's called the Gaveston. You can buy what you want there, as long as you pay in good gold. That's all I know.'
Fitzosbert banged on the door.
'Sir John, are you finished?'
'Yes,' Cranston called. 'Listen!' he said to Solper. 'You are sure you know nothing else?'
The young fellow shook his head.
'I have told you all I know. The pardon, you will keep your word?'
'Of course. God keep you, Solper,' he muttered and went towards the door just as Fitzosbert threw it open. The coroner gently pushed the keeper out before him, took out his purse and clinked a few coins into his hand.
'I thank you again for your hospitality, Fitzosbert,' he said. 'Look after our friend here. Some more wine, a better cell. Letters will come down from the Guildhall tomorrow. You will act accordingly. You understand?'
Fitzosbert smiled and winked. 'Of course, Sir John. No problem. I will carry out any order given to me by such an illustrious coroner of the city.'
Cranston pulled a face and he and the friar walked as fast as dignity would allow from that loathsome place. When the great gate of Newgate slammed behind them, Cranston leaned against it, gasping for clean air, his great body quivering like a beached whale's.
'Thank God!' he spluttered. 'Thank God to be out of there! Pray to your God and anyone else you know that you never land up in the power of Fitzosbert, in one of those Godforsaken cells!'
He looked up at the great tower soaring above him.
'If I had my way, I would burn the entire place to the ground and hang Fitzosbert on a scaffold as high as the sky. But, come, Whitefriars and the Springall mansion await.'
CHAPTER 6
They collected their horses and made their way down Fleet Street towards the high white chalk store building of White- friars. As the press of people was so great, they walked their horses.
'Do you think Solper was right about Springall?' asked Athelstan.
Sir John nodded. 'I suspected as much. Many men have such inclinations. Yet, you know the sentence for such crimes: boiled alive in a great vat over a roaring fire at Southwark. Not the usual end for a powerful London merchant! Hence the secrecy, and hence perhaps the vicious quarrel with Brampton, the rather effete manners of Master Buckingham, as well as the fact that Sir Thomas did not sleep with his wife.' He looked slyly at the friar. 'Such a woman, such a body! It fair makes your mouth water. Why should a real man lock himself away from such pleasures, eh?' He stopped momentarily to watch a juggler. 'Springall, like many a man,' he said, pushing forward again, 'had his public life and his private one. I suspect if the drapes were really pulled aside, we would find a stinking mess.' He lifted his hand and gestured to the great houses on either side, soaring four storeys above them, blocking out the hot afternoon sun. 'In any of these buildings scandal, sin, failings and weaknesses are to be found. They even say,' he nudged Athelstan playfully, that vices similar to SpringalPs are found in monasteries and among friars. What do you think of that, Brother, eh?'
'I would say that priests are like any other men, be they lawyer or coroner, Sir John, they have their weaknesses. And, but for the grace of God…' Athelstan let his voice trail away. 'But why are we here?' he asked angrily, realising they were entering the area around the great Carmelite monastery.
Cranston touched him on the arm and pointed to the far corner, just past the huge gateway. An emaciated fellow with jet black hair, thin lips and large brooding eyes caught the friar's eye. The man was dressed completely in black, his dark cloak covered with the most fantastic symbols: pentangles, stars, moons, suns, and on his head a pointed hat. He had laid out a great canvas sheet before him, bearing different phials and small bowls. Now he stood still, his very appearance drawing the people around him.
'Watch this!' Cranston whispered. 'The fellow's our guide.'
The man took out two small whistles and, pushing one into each corner of his mouth, began to play a strange, rhythmic, haunting tune. He then put do
wn the instruments and held up powerful hands.
'Ladies and gentlemen, knights, courtiers, members of the Guild!' He caught Athelstan's eye. 'Friars, priests, citizens of London! I am Doctor Mirablis. I have studied in Byzantium and Trezibond, and travelled across the land to the great Cham of Tartary. I have seen battle fleets in the Black Sea and the great war galleons of the Caspian. I have supped with the Golden Horde of Genghis Khan. I have crossed deserts, visited fabulous cities, and in my journeys I have amassed many secrets and mysteries!'
His claims were greeted with roars of laughter. Cranston and Athelstan drew closer. An apprentice from a nearby stall took out a bullock horn, scooped some dirty water from a rain barrel and began to sprinkle the magician with it. Dr Mirabilis just ignored him and held up his hands, calming the clamour and good natured cat-calls.
'I will show you I have power over matter. Over the very birds in the air.' He turned, pointing up to the top of the monastery wall. 'See that pigeon there!' Everyone's eyes followed the direction of his finger. 'Now, look,' the fellow continued, and taking a piece of black charcoal, painted a rough picture of the bird on the monastery wall. He then began to stab the drawing, uttering magical incantations. The clamour grew around him, Cranston and Athelstan moved closer, their hands on their wallets as the crowd was infested with naps, foists and pickpockets as a rick of hay with mice and rats. Mirabilis continued to stab the picture, muttering low-voiced curses, looking up at the walls where the pigeon was still standing. Suddenly the bird, as if influenced by the magical incantations against the picture below, twitched and dropped down dead. The 'oohs' and 'ahs' of reverence which greeted this would have been the envy of any priest or preacher. Cranston grinned and gripped Athelstan by the wrist.
