by Paul Doherty
The rest of the group took up the shouts. Cranston smiled beatifically back, sketching a sign of the cross in the air towards them. Athelstan hid his face and just prayed they would reach Newgate without further mishap. They were forced to stop just alongside the great city ditch where the stinking refuse was piled in mounds as high as their heads. The stench was indescribable. Convicted felons, under the supervision of bailiffs, their mouths and eyes covered by scraps of dirty rags, were sprinkling saltpetre over the mounds of slime. Others, armed with bellows, stood round great roaring braziers, fanning the burning charcoal. Athelstan pinched his nostrils and tried not to look at the corpses of rats and other animals which protruded out of the heaps. Cranston, however, shouted encouragement to the bailiffs.
‘Good lads! Lovely boys! It will be ready before nightfall?’
‘Oh yes, Sir John,’ one of them shouted back, leaning on his shovel, ‘Once the curfew bell tolls, we will light the fire.’
‘Thank God,’ Cranston breathed. ‘The ditch is full enough: when the winds come from the north-west, they make Lady Maude sick.’
One of the felons shouted, pulling down the muffler from his face. ‘It’s good to see, how the lord Coroner has now got his own carriage, suitably furnished.’
Cranston peered through the shifting columns of smoke. ‘Is that Tolpuddle? So, you’ve been caught again, you little bastard!’
‘Not really, Sir John,’ the felon shouted cheerily back. ‘Just a little misunderstanding over a baby pig I found.’ Tolpuddle came closer. Athelstan noticed how one eye was sewn up, the other was bright with mischief.
‘Misunderstanding?’ Cranston asked.
‘Aye, the bailiffs caught me with it two nights ago.’
‘So you had stolen it?’
‘No, Sir John.’ The felon leaned on his rake. ‘The saints be my witness, Sir John. I found the little pig wandering alone in the streets. It looked so lonesome. I simply picked it up, put it under my cloak. I was going to take it back to its mother.’
Cranston laughed, dug into his purse, and flicked the man a penny. At last the wine trader saw an opening in the crowds. He cracked his whip and the cart trundled on. Tolpuddle stood, cheerily waving goodbye, until a bailiff clapped him on the ear and sent him back to his work.
The cart rattled on through the old city walls, and Cranston and Athelstan got down in front of Newgate. The great bell of the prison was tolling. On a high-branched scaffold just outside the double gates, a man was about to be turned off. Around the foot of the scaffold thronged men-at-arms and archers wearing the regent’s livery; these held back the crowds, even as a herald in a royal tabard proclaimed how Robert atte Thurlstain, known as the ‘Fox’ and self-proclaimed leader of the so-called ‘Great Community of the Realm’ had been found guilty of the horrible crimes of conspiracy, treason, etc. On a platform next to the scaffold a red-garbed executioner was already sharpening his fleshing knives, laying them out on the great table. The hapless felon would be thrown there after he had been half hung: his body would be cut open, disembowelled, quartered, salted, and then placed in barrels of pickle before being displayed over the principal gateways of London and other cities.
Athelstan watched as the priest at the foot of the ladder quickly gabbled the prayers for the dying, whilst the executioner’s assistant, who bestraddled the jutting arc of the gibbet, placed the noose over the prisoner. The executioner bawled at the priest to hurry up; the crowd didn’t like this and grew restless. Bits of refuse and rotten fruit were thrown at the hangman even as the herald stopped his declamation and a drumbeat began to roll. Athelstan went cold as he recalled the warnings given by Joscelyn, the one-armed taverner of the Piebald. Hadn’t he said that a man calling himself the ‘Fox’ had been one of those Pike had secretly met? He tugged at the coroner’s sleeve.
‘Come on, Sir John,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s be away.’
Cranston agreed, though he paused to grasp the hand of a foist who was busy threading his way through the streets. The coroner seized the man’s wrist, drew out the very thin dagger the felon had concealed up his sleeve, and sent it spinning into a pile of refuse. Sir John tapped the man on the head with his knuckles.
‘Now be a good boy and trot off!’ the coroner growled, and shoved the pickpocket after his knife into the pile of refuse.
‘Did you know anything about that execution?’ Athelstan asked as they hastened down the Shambles into Cheapside.
‘Not a whit,’ Cranston replied. ‘The poor bastard was probably tried before King’s Bench: the regent always demands immediate execution.’
They turned a corner into the broad thoroughfare, which was now emptying as traders dismounted stalls and weary-eyed apprentices stowed away their masters’ belongings into baskets and hampers. Even the stocks had been emptied, and the city bellman strode up and down ringing his bell and proclaiming:
‘All you loyal subjects of the king. Your business is done. Thank the Lord for a good day’s trade and hasten to your homes!’
Rakers were busy cleaning up the refuse and rubbish. Cranston stopped and, shading his eyes against the sunlight, looked down Cheapside.
‘Aren’t you going home?’ Athelstan asked hopefully.
‘I’d discover nothing about Perline Brasenose there.’ Cranston smiled. ‘But it would be good to kiss the poppets.’
They walked towards Cranston’s house.
‘I want Leif the beggar, the idle bugger,’ Cranston growled. ‘I want him to deliver a message.’
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the tall, emaciated, red-haired beggar hopped like a frog out of an alleyway.
‘Sir John, Sir John, God bless you! Brother Athelstan, may you send all demons back to hell!’
‘So, you have heard?’
‘Aye I have,’ Leif replied, resting on his crutch, head cocked to one side. ‘They say a butcher in Southwark caught the demon in a cellar. It was in the shape of a goat: the butcher cut his throat, sliced the goat into collops and invited everyone-’
‘That’s enough,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘How is the Lady Maude?’
Leif smiled slyly. ‘In a fair rage, Sir John. The two dogs have eaten your pie: left out on the table, it was, cooling for supper, broad and golden with a tasty crust. She thinks the poppets took it down and gave it to the dogs. The Lady Maude is also complaining about the stench from the ditch. She says if they fire the refuse tonight, it will be impossible to dry sheets in the morning.’
‘Yes, yes, quite,’ Cranston growled, and glanced hurriedly down the street to the Holy Lamb of God inn. He cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps, Brother, it’s best if we let the Lady Maude’s anger cool for a while.’
‘I am all a-hungered, Sir John,’ Leif wailed. He peered at Athelstan. ‘And so are you, aren’t you, Father?’
Athelstan nodded. He felt hungry, his legs were aching, and he couldn’t refuse Sir John’s generous offer to help.
‘Perhaps ale and something to eat at the Holy Lamb, Sir John?’
‘Shouldn’t you go home?’ Leif asked innocently.
‘Affairs of state. Affairs of state,’ Cranston breathed.
‘I am hungry as well, Sir John,’ Leif slyly added. ‘The Lady Maude is waiting for me.’
‘Well, you can join us,’ Cranston replied. ‘But first go round the streets. Seek out the Harrower of the Dead. Tell him Sir John requires his presence at the Holy Lamb of God! Yes, yes.’ He thrust a penny into Leifs outstretched hand. ‘I understand, you’ll need some sustenance on the way.’
The beggar was about to scamper off, but Cranston seized his arm. ‘And what news in Cheapside, Leif?’
The beggar scratched his nose. ‘More cats have gone, Sir John.’ Leif pointed down to a great, high-sided dung cart.
‘People have lost confidence, Sir John. They are even paying Hengist and Horsa to look for their cats.’
‘Are they now?’ Cranston murmured. ‘Well, you trot off, Leif, and deliver my message.’
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nbsp; The beggar left as fast as a whippet, eager to be back at the Holy Lamb for the supper Sir John had promised. Cranston marched down towards the two dung-collectors. They were cleaning the sewer in the centre of Cheapside, digging out the mess and slops, cheerily throwing the muck into their huge, stinking cart.
‘God bless you, sirs,’ Cranston greeted them.
Both men paused, pushing back their hoods.
‘Lovely lads!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Brother Athelstan, this is Hengist and Horsa. Dung-collectors of Cheapside.’
Both men grinned in embarrassment. Twin brothers, their dirty, wart-covered faces were identical, except that Hengist had one tooth whilst Horsa had none.
‘Good morrow, Sir John,’ they chorused.
‘So, you are searching for the stolen cats?’ Cranston asked.
‘Aye, Sir John, and a great pity it is how the poor animals are disappearing.’
Hengist leaned his shovel against the cart and wiped his fingers on his red leather apron. Athelstan noticed that Horsa’s leather apron was cut much shorter. The fellow noticed Athelstan’s gaze.
‘It’s cut like that, Father, so people can tell us one from the other.’
‘Have you found the cats?’ Cranston growled.
‘No, Sir John.’ Hengist clasped his hands together as if in prayer. ‘The poor creatures seem to have disappeared into thin air.’
‘And you have found no signs to indicate who has taken them?’
‘None whatsoever, Sir John.’ The fellow’s eyes grew large. ‘But we have all heard about the demon in Southwark.’
‘You’re taking payment for your searches?’ Cranston insisted.
‘Oh yes, Sir John, but not hide nor hair can be seen.’
Cranston took a step closer and stared into the dung-collector’s watery eyes.
‘Now, my bucko,’ he said quietly, ‘if you can discover neither hide or hair, why are you taking pennies from petty traders and poor old ladies?’
‘Sir John, we haven’t taken much. People have only asked for our help.’
‘Aye, in which case,’ Cranston grated, ‘they must be truly desperate.’ And, shouldering past the man, he made his way further down Cheapside.
‘Sir John, you were unduly harsh,’ Athelstan declared, hurrying up beside him.
Cranston just shook his head and lengthened his stride, heading like an arrow for the Holy Lamb of God. Once inside, he took off his cloak and tossed the empty wineskin at the landlord’s wife; she came bustling out from the kitchen to greet Sir John as if he was a long-lost brother.
‘Some ale!’ Cranston tweaked her plump cheek. And one of your pies — freshly baked, mind you, not yesterday’s.’
‘Sir John, as if we’d ever…’ the woman simpered back.
Cranston moved his bulk towards the windowseat quickly vacated by two traders who knew Sir John and his habits. The coroner sat down and stared out through the open window at the garden beyond.
‘So, you think I’m harsh, Brother. I wouldn’t trust either of that precious pair as far as I could spit.’ He paused as the ale-wife brought over two brimming tankards of ale. Cranston sipped at his and leaned back against the wall. ‘But there again, my dear friar, perhaps I am harsh. Except as far as those two are concerned, it’s a case of much suspected but little proved. Anyway, “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof”. Come on, Brother, relax.’ He cradled his tankard in his hands and watched Athelstan under half-closed eyelids. ‘I just wonder what our beloved regent is plotting.’ He murmured. ‘All this hubbub, deaths at Westminster, and a public execution. I suspect there’s a purpose behind it all but I’m damned if I can see it!’
‘And young Perline?’ Athelstan asked hopefully.
‘I’ve sent for the Harrower of the Dead,’ Cranston replied. ‘Perline lived and worked at the Tower, and there’s nothing that happens along the alleyways of the city which the Harrower doesn’t know about.’ He sat up as the ale-wife brought back two bowls, each containing a pie hot and spicy, neatly cut in four and covered with an onion sauce. Cranston took his horn spoon out, cleaned it carefully on a napkin, and began to eat.
‘And there’s also the cats?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Aye, Brother, the Harrower might know something about that.’
They continued their meal in silence and were almost finished when Leif hopped into the tavern. ‘Sir John, he’s coming! He’s coming!’
The coroner pointed to a far corner of the tavern. ‘Well, Leif, bugger off and sit over there! Eat and drink what you want but don’t go back to the Lady Maude and tell her where I am! Do you understand?’
Leif raised his right hand and solemnly swore. The beggar was hardly settled in his favourite nook when a cowled, hooded figure slipped like a shadow into the room.
CHAPTER 7
The Harrower of the Dead sat on a stool before Athelstan and Cranston. He did not pull back the cowl of his cloak or unwrap the black silk mask which covered the lower half of his face. Athelstan noticed the very fine brows over heavy-lidded eyes: strange eyes, close-set and chillingly blue, they never flickered in their gaze.
‘My lord Coroner.’ The voice was well modulated, just above a whisper through the slit in the silken mask. ‘What do you want from the Harrower of the Dead?’
‘We, er. .’ Athelstan stammered. ‘I need your help.’
The Harrower’s eyes never left Cranston’s. ‘I only come when the coroner calls.’ He shifted his gaze; Athelstan was sure the man was smiling. ‘Nevertheless, Brother Athelstan, priest of St Erconwald’s, you need all the help there is, don’t you?’
Athelstan felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He silently cursed his fears: it was those eyes and the sweet, perfumed smell which came from the man’s black woollen robes which unnerved him.
‘Don’t you ever take your mask off?’ Athelstan snapped, fighting hard to steady his voice.
‘Do you ever take off your Dominican robes?’ the Harrower replied. The eyes flickered back to Sir John. ‘Tell him, my lord Coroner.’
Cranston sipped from his tankard but, beneath the table, one hand gripped the pommel of his dagger.
‘The Harrower of the Dead,’ Cranston began, holding the visitor’s gaze, ‘is a mysterious figure. Some people claim he is a defrocked priest who committed a terrible blasphemy and suffered God’s vengeance with a malingering disease which has eaten away the lower half of his face. Others say he is a knight who fought in the king’s wars and received an arrow bolt through his mouth. Whatever,’ Cranston placed his tankard down, ‘when the great pestilence visited the city, no one came forward to move the infected corpses except the man now sitting before us. He appeared in the Guildhall and the mayor and the aldermen hired his services. As the great death raged, the Harrower, as he came to be called, took the corpses out to the huge pits near Charterhouse and burnt them. In return, the city council signed an indenture with him; for a monthly payment, the Harrower of the Dead walks the streets of London at night removing any corpses he finds there. The victims of violence, the aged beggar, the unknown foreigner or those who simply die of some terrible sickness, all alone, bereft of any help. The Harrower of the Dead collects them in his red painted cart; with his black handbell he prowls the streets like Death itself. For every corpse he receives twopence. For those who’ve suffered violence, the city fathers pay him sixpence.’
Cranston sipped at his tankard, staring into the Harrower’s light-blue eyes. ‘No one really knows where he comes from, and I don’t care. Sometimes…’ Cranston’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘Sometimes they say that, if the Harrower finds you lingering between life and death, death will always have you.’
‘Such men are liars, my lord Coroner.’
‘Perhaps they are,’ Cranston replied wearily. ‘But the Harrower of the Dead picks up the corpses in the streets and alleyways of the city whilst his comrade, the Fisher of Men, nets those from the river.’
‘What do you want, Cranston?’
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sp; ‘Brother Athelstan has a parishioner, a young soldier called Perline Brasenose, a member of the Tower garrison. He has disappeared.’ Cranston turned to Athelstan. ‘Give him a description.’
Athelstan obliged and the Harrower of the Dead, chin resting in the palm of his gloved hand, listened attentively.
‘I have discovered no corpse fitting your description, Brother, but…’
‘But what?’ Cranston asked.
‘Sir John, I am your guest. You have offered me neither food nor drink.’
Cranston apologised and called across the taproom but the ale-wife, standing near the casks and tuns, just shook her head: her eyes were rounded in fright as she stared at the Harrower of the Dead.
‘Now you know why I didn’t offer you anything to eat or drink,’ Cranston grated. Heaving his bulk out of the windowseat, the coroner walked across to the ale-wife, then returned with a pewter goblet brimming with claret. ‘She’ll boil the cup after you have left,’ Cranston added.
The Harrower of the Dead sipped delicately at the wine. Athelstan realised there must be something wrong with his lower lip, for the man made a strange sipping noise; eyes closed momentarily in pleasure, the Harrower breathed a sigh of satisfaction.
‘When did the young soldier disappear?’ he asked.
‘About three nights ago.’
The Harrower rocked himself gently to and fro, his eyes never leaving those of Cranston. ‘I’m a busy man, Sir John. I spend my time with you whilst the dead wait for me.’
Cranston slid a coin across the table. The Harrower deftly plucked it up.
‘On Monday night last,’ he replied. ‘I was down near the steel yard where the Hanse berth their ships. There had been a tavern brawl. A sailor from a Lübeck ship had been killed and his corpse stripped. Now usually I don’t go so near the river.’ He smiled beneath his mask. ‘The Fisher of Men is most sensitive about his territory, but the corpse was mine. Now I was tired and drew my cart into the shadows.’ He tapped the bottle beneath his cloak. ‘Like you, Sir John, I need my refreshment. A skiff came to the river steps. A soldier — I recognised him as such because of his livery — came up, accompanied by a small, well-dressed man.’ The Harrower paused to sip from his cup. ‘For a while the two stood there, unaware of me in the shadows. The short, well-dressed man called the soldier “Brasenose”; he in turn called his companion “Sir Francis”.’
