by Paul Doherty
Athelstan closed his eyes and prayed that Cranston would not go too far.
If I tell a lie,’ Sir John answered,’ let someone here contradict me,’ Cranston gazed round the Guildmasters but they were silent as was Clifford who now sat with beads of sweat running down his face.
‘A leader emerges.’ Cranston continued, ‘a mysterious man who calls himself Ira Dei, the Anger of God. He directs the Great Community of the Realm, the secret council of peasant leaders. They do not know who he is, nor does anyone else. He comes and goes, sowing the seeds of dissension. Now things change. His Grace the Regent here decides to form a bond of amity with the leading merchants of London. Ira Dei wishes to frustrate this so he looks for a traitor close to the Regent. He finds him in My Lord Clifford, a young man who has not forgotten his humble beginnings, or at least those of his family. And Clifford, either for idealism or for personal profit or for both, agrees to be Ira Dei’s agent in bringing my Lord of Gaunt’s plans to nothing.’
‘A lie!’ Clifford shouted, though the tremor in his voice did little to convince any of his companions, who gazed stonily back.
‘Now my Lord of Clifford’s father,’ Cranston continued, ‘was a captain of archers, a skilled bowman – a skill he passed on to his son Adam. On the afternoon Sir Gerard Mountjoy dies, Clifford brings a hunting bow or converted arbalest and, when everyone is either resting or involved in their own affairs, slips like the shadow of death along the pentice. He shoots the dagger, Mountjoy dies in mysterious circumstances, and we become engrossed in the riddle of how he died rather than considering why or who did it.’ Cranton helped himself to a generous swig from his wineskin. ‘The following evening, the assassin strikes again.’
‘Impossible!’ Goodman shouted. ‘Don’t you remember, Sir John, Lord Clifford was absent from the banquet?’
Cranston pushed the wine stopper back in firmly.’
Yes, he did say he had business elsewhere but not before he left the poisoned sweetmeat beneath Fitzroy’s plate.’
‘Of course!’ Gaunt got to his feet and pointed to his pale-faced lieutenant. ‘Adam, you were responsible for deciding who sat where, then you excused yourself, claiming pressing business in the city.’ Gaunt’s face became mottled with anger. ‘You were most insistent. My Lord Coroner is correct: not even I knew where everyone would sit. That was left to you and you told each of the guests.’
The Mayor suddenly sprang to his feet.
‘Cranston.’ he yelled, ‘you’re a fool!’
Sir Christopher, ‘Athelstan intervened softly, ‘explain yourself.’
The Mayor advanced into the centre of the room, his fat face wreathed in a smug smile, ‘Can’t you see My Lord’ he addressed Gaunt. ‘Mountjoy was murdered. Fitzroy was murdered. Sturmey was murdered. But let’s not forget the vicious attack on my Lord Clifford!’
‘Oh, no,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Let’s not forget that. Bruises and cuts! Nothing very serious. I am sure Lord Adam knows this.’
Goodman stepped back, gnawing his lip as he realized the stupidity of his outburst.
‘You mean?’ he began.
‘I mean,’ Athelstan replied quietly, ‘that when Lord Adam is taken into custody and examined, the bruises and so-called wounds will be found to be merely superficial.’
Goodman hurried back to his seat.
‘What a marvellous ploy,’ Athelstan continued. ‘But think of it. If Ira Dei had meant to kill Clifford, he would have done so.’
‘The ambush was arranged!’ the Coroner roared at Goodman. ‘A mere distraction!’ He jabbed his finger at Clifford. ‘You know that, My Lord. If you disagree, remove your shirt and let’s see those terrible wounds.’
Clifford glared back.
‘And My Lord of Gaunt is right,’ the Coroner continued. ‘You knew where each of us would sit that night!’
‘I was elsewhere,’ Clifford muttered.
‘You’re a liar!’ Cranston barked.
Clifford shook his head but his eyes betrayed him.
‘A clever ploy,’ Cranston continued. ‘So when Fitzroy died, you were elsewhere. But how, my Lord Clifford, could you go wrong? If Fitzroy took another seat, someone else may have eaten the sweetmeat. Don’t you see?’ Cranston grinned wickedly at the Guildmasters. ‘It wasn’t necessary for Mountjoy and Fitzroy to die, so long as some of you did, murdered in mysterious circumstances, causing enough chaos and confusion to destroy any schemes devised by His Grace the Regent.’
‘And the gold? And Sturmey’s death?’ Nicholas Hussey spoke up as the Regent leaned forward in his chair and glared at the traitor at the other end of the room.
‘Oh, the gold,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Of course, that really set the seal on matters, didn’t it? You see, unfortunately, My Lord Mayor and the late Sheriff chose Peter Sturmey, a famous locksmith, to fashion a new chest which was to be secured by six locks. However, what you, Sir Christopher, had either forgotten or not realized was that our Master Sturmey had a secret life. He was a lover of young boys. Indeed, fifteen years ago he, like many great ones in this city, was involved in a scandal. Nothing was proved against Sturmey but I am sure he became more secretive, cautious in his secret passions.’ Cranston stopped speaking and looked at the King’s tutor. ‘Sir Nicholas, I believe you were a scholar at St Paul’s school at the time?’
Hussey nodded, his eyes hooded, the bottom part of his face hidden behind his hands.
I remember the scandal,’ he murmured, ‘but I knew nothing of it. I was a mere boy at the time.’
‘Yes,’ Sir John murmured, ‘you were only a boy, as were you, My Lord Clifford, a page in a powerful London household – Sir Raymond Bragley’s, then Sheriff of the city. Bragley, as My Lord Mayor remembers, was investigating the scandal and you, My Lord Clifford, must have been well aware of the important messages you carried hither and thither round the city. I suspect you knew about Sturmey’s secret vices and that he continued them. Who knows? He may even have made advances to you, and so you blackmailed him: either he made you duplicate keys or else suffered the supreme penalty for being a sodomist – being burnt alive at Smithfield.’
Clifford stared down at the table, hands spread. He didn’t resist as Gaunt nodded to the captain of his guard to pull Clifford’s dagger out of its sheath.
‘Of course, Sturmey had to die,’ Cranston continued. ‘So you lured him down to Billingsgate where he waited for you at the quayside. A clear target for you to strike at from some shadowy alleyway.’ Cranston shrugged.
‘What more can I say?’
Clifford’s head shot up. ‘You could produce some proof! This is all conjecture, mere hypothesis. You haven’t a shred of evidence to convince one of the King’s Justices. Anyone could have killed Mountjoy. Anyone could have put the poisoned sweetmeat on Fitzroy’s table. And as for Sturmey – yes, I remember the incident, but you saw his secret workshop! Anyone could have forced him to go there and make six keys.’
Cranston drummed his fingers on the table top, trying to conceal his panic. He looked under his bushy eyebrows at Athelstan who still seemed composed.
‘Lord Adam is correct,’ the Mayor asserted. ‘I agree with you, Sir John, but have you proof positive that Clifford shot the dagger and left the sweetmeat?’
‘We have,’ Athelstan spoke up. ‘We have the gold. That number of precious bars cannot be easily transported round the city or sold on the open market.’ He looked at the Regent. ‘Your Grace, if you send your soldiers to My Lord Clifford’s house, I will wager you’ll find the evidence. You have to look for a hunting bow or more likely a specially constructed arbalest. Daggers of the sort used against Mountjoy and Sturmey. And, above all, the six gold bars my Lord Clifford so deftly removed from the chest. The theft went unnoticed. No one would even dream that someone could hold duplicates of six keys so, when the robbery was discovered, poor Sturmey would carry the blame. But the problem with gold is, once you remove it, what do you do with it? You can only hide it somewhere safe.’
Athelstan went to stand over Clifford. ‘Why?’ he asked.
The young man stared back.
‘In logic,’ the friar continued, ‘and in mathematics, the first principle is to search for the common factor. You see, you were involved in Sturmey’s scandal. You had the skill to kill Mountjoy. Only you knew the seating arrangement on the night Fitzroy died.’ Athelstan steeled his features for what he knew was sheer bluff.
‘Finally, Ira Dei himself has betrayed you.’
Clifford started. ‘How?’
Then he groaned as he realized the terrible mistake he had made.
Gaunt clicked his fingers at the captain of the guard. ‘Take ten archers, tear Clifford’s house apart! Imprison his servants! If necessary, use torture!’
‘There’s no need.’ Clifford, white as a ghost, drew himself up. ‘What’s the use?’ he murmured. ‘The game’s been played and it’s over.’ He licked his lips. ‘My Lord of Gaunt, you must think I am a traitor, but no more than any other man in this room. A few merchants who squeeze the poor as they would some damp cloth. Good men strutting down the nave on Sundays, but on Mondays they involve themselves in every filthy sin. Whited sepulchres!’
‘And what about me?’ Gaunt interrupted. ‘I trusted you.’
‘My Lord Regent, you trust no man. And can’t you see the storm coming?’ He jabbed a finger at Gaunt. ‘Don’t go hunting, My Lord. Instead, ride the filthy streets of Southwark or visit the villages of South Essex. The people will watch you ride by, eyes blazing with fury. The storm’s coming!’ Clifford made a sweeping movement with his hand. ‘This house of cards will tumble, burnt from cellar to garret!’ He wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth. ‘For God’s sake!’ he shouted at Gaunt. ‘Do you think I am the only one? Don’t you realize there are men in this room who already plan to trim their sails when the storm comes?’ Clifford paused, swallowed up in his own fury.
Athelstan glanced quickly round at the sly, secretive faces of the Guildmasters. Clifford was a murderer but he was right. Gaunt was a fool to trust any of these men.
‘You are a traitor!’ Goodman shrieked, getting to his feet. ‘A traitor and a felon! A silent assassin!’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Clifford roared, rising to his own feet, shaking off the hand of one of Gaunt’s soldiers. ‘Mountjoy was a grasping demon. Fitzroy a corrupt glutton. As for Sturmey – you chose him, My Lord Mayor, not I.’
‘Take him away!’ Gaunt ordered.
Clifford turned and spat in the direction of the Regent.
‘“When Adam delved and Eve span,” he shouted, ‘“Who was then the gentleman?” Remember that, My Lord, when they burn your palace at the Savoy!’
‘Wait!’ Goodman, the first to recover his poise, now puffed out his chest in righteous anger. ‘My Lord, how do we know this man is not Ira Dei himself?’
Clifford threw back his head and laughed. ‘You stupid poltroon!’ he hissed hoarsely. ‘Are you so dim-witted? I am not Ira Dei. Yet for all you know he could be sitting in this room!’
Gaunt rapped out his order again. Soldiers hurried Clifford out whilst others, at Gaunt’s orders, made ready to leave to ransack Clifford’s house from top to bottom.
Cranston and Athelstan sat back and watched as the Guildmasters, happy at the prospect of seeing justice done and even happier at the likely return of their gold, now outbid one another in their condemnations of Clifford and affirmations of loyalty to the Regent. John of Gaunt acted the role but Athelstan could see that Clifford’s words had struck home; the revelation he had nurtured a traitor so close had hurt him deeply. Gaunt, who barely trusted his own shadow, had become more withdrawn, more suspicious. He sat in his chair, silently receiving the plaudits of the merchant princes. He did not seem to notice as Athelstan and Cranston took their leave and slipped out of the Guildhall.
‘Thank God that’s over!’ Cranston breathed. ‘We had very little proof, Brother.’ He glanced shrewdly at the sombre-faced friar. ‘You trapped him neatly.’
‘No, Sir John, he trapped himself. He was the common factor in all those deaths.’ Athelstan pulled a face. ‘And as for tripping him up – a well-known device, My Lord Coroner, much used by my old teacher, Brother Paul. He claimed to have learnt it from the Inquisition.’ Athelstan stretched his limbs. ‘It’s fact, Sir John, that in a rage a man cannot stop either the racing of his mind or the chattering of his tongue.’
They walked across busy Cheapside, though after the tension of the Guildhall the market place seemed quiet and serene, Cranston hardly bothering to carry out his usual hawk-eyed search for what he termed his ‘friends from the underworld’.
‘Come on, Athelstan. Even God would judge me worthy of a cup of claret and a blackjack of ale for my clerk.’
They entered the welcoming cheer of the taproom of The Holy Lamb of God and for a while just sipped their drinks and reflected on the drama they had witnessed.
‘How do we know he wasn’t Ira Dei?’ Cranston asked.
‘Oh, I think Clifford told the truth.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘God knows, Sir John, but he’s right you know. There’s a storm brewing and, when it breaks, this city will never be the same again!’
Three days later Athelstan left the Tower and, seeing the crowds thronging round Billingsgate and Bridge Street, decided to take a barge from the Wool Quay across the river to Southwark. The sun was setting in a fiery ball, turning the river a glistening red as he threaded through the alleyways down to the quayside. He felt tired, eager to get back to his church, yet slightly alarmed as he was sure he was being followed. Now and again he would peer down the mouth of an alleyway, glimpse the river, hear the faint cries of boatmen whilst resisting the urge to run. As long as he kept walking, the winding, twisting lanes would eventually bring him out to the Wool Quay. At last he saw the steps, the boatmen congregating there, waiting for custom. He was about to quicken his pace when a dark figure suddenly stepped out of a doorway, cowled and masked. Athelstan stopped as he caught the glint of a dagger.
‘What do you want?’ He fought to keep his voice steady. ‘I am a poor priest, I have no money!’
‘True, true, Brother Athelstan,’ came the disguised, muffled reply. ‘Poor in many ways, rich in some. So you found the culprit at the Guildhall? And tomorrow My Lord Clifford dies on Tower Hill.’
Athelstan leaned on the staff he carried. ‘And you must be Ira Dei?’
‘Or his messenger.’
‘No.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I am sure you have come to speak to me yourself.’ He peered over the man’s shoulder towards the Wood Quay.
‘No, don’t do that,’ the muffled voice quietly ordered. ‘Don’t cry out for help, Brother. I mean you no harm.’
‘So why don’t you ask your question?’ he retorted.
‘Which is?’
‘Do I know your identity? And the answer is no. Nor do I want to, nor do I care!’
The hooded figure stepped back a little. ‘You are a good priest, Athelstan. You love the poor. You are a shepherd who is interested in his flock, not just their fleeces. Soon the storm will break around us, but as long as you don’t interfere you will be safe.’
‘I do have a question of my own.’
‘Ask it!’
‘Clifford was your murderer?’
‘Yes.’
‘And there are those at court and at the Guildhall who are in your pay?’
‘You said you had only one question.’
Athelstan shrugged. ‘You have a captive audience.’
‘Turn round, Brother.’
Athelstan was about to refuse but could see little point, so did so.
‘To answer your question, Brother, treason is like a vine. It has many branches.’
Athelstan stood still, tensing his shoulders. When he did look round, the alleyway was empty.
The friar continued down to Wool Quay, hired a skiff and leaned back in the stern as a grizzled, toothless boatman with arms like steel vigorously rowed him to
the far shore. Athelstan paid him and walked through the dusk, back to St Erconwald’s. The house and stable were quiet. Someone had filled Philomel’s bin and the old war horse was munching away as if it was his first and last meal. Athelstan walked round to the front of the church and noticed with alarm that the door was unlatched. He pushed it open and tip-toed gently inside. He peered through the darkness.
‘Who is there?’ he called.
His words rang hollow and empty. Athelstan, gripping his staff, walked through the shadowy nave towards the rood screen.
‘Who’s there?’ he called. ‘This is God’s house!’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, monk, you gave me a fright!’
Athelstan whirled round and dimly made out the portly figure of Sir John as he sat resting against the base of a pillar, the miraculous wineskin cradled in his hands.
‘Sir John, you’ll send my hair grey!’
‘Then lose it all, Brother, and like me you won’t give a damn!’ Cranston patted the ground beside him. ‘Come on, sit down. Where have you been?’
Athelstan crouched beside his plump friend.
‘Do you want some wine?’
‘Sir John, this is a church.’
‘I’ve had a word with the good Lord, he won’t mind.’
‘In which case, Sir John.’ Athelstan lifted the wineskin and poured a generous gulp into his mouth. ‘True,’ he murmured, ‘wine does gladden the heart of man.’ He handed the wineskin back. ‘Sir John, I have been to see Elizabeth Hobden at the Minoresses. She’s happy and contented.’
‘Her father and step-mother are in the Marshalsea prison,’ Cranston muttered. ‘God knows what will become of them. However, until such matters are settled, the girl will remain a ward of court. And where else?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been to Hell, Sir John. Or, more precisely, the dungeons in the White Tower. Tomorrow Adam Clifford will lose his head at dawn. He asked me to hear his last confession.’
‘You!’
‘Yes, Sir John. He said he could confess only to me.’
‘And what did he say?’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘You can’t ask me that, Sir John. Not even the Pope can break the seal of confession.’
