by Paul Doherty
‘And did you go back and search?’
‘Oh yes, Father, we did: it was gone but the stench was terrible.’
‘And who saw it tonight?’
‘I did.’ Cecily the courtesan came up to the steps, hips swaying, her face as innocent as an angel’s. ‘Father, you told me to come back and help, so I did.’
‘And what were you doing in the cemetery?’ Athelstan asked, glancing quickly at Pike the ditcher.
‘Now, Father, don’t be like that. I was all by myself: there was some mouldering fruit left upon a grave so I collected that. It was very quiet.’ She babbled on. ‘Then I heard a sound. Cross my heart, Father.’ She blessed herself. ‘I saw the shape, down near the wall, prowling amongst the trees.’
‘And what do you all intend to do now?’
Watkin pointed to the statue of St Erconwald and the cross that Huddle still grasped. ‘We are going into the cemetery, Father, to hunt the demon!’
Athelstan turned and stretched his hands out above his parishioners. ‘Brothers, sisters,’ he called. ‘What stupidity is this?’
‘We want to hunt the demon!’ Hig the pigman shouted. ‘It’s only a matter of time, Father, before he attacks someone else. Who knows, this time he might take them off to hell?’ Hig lowered his voice and stared around. ‘Perhaps he’s hunting Pike?’
‘Don’t you say anything about my husband!’ the ditcher’s wife shouted back. ‘You can talk, Hig! I saw you this morning outside the Piebald!’
‘What do you mean?’ the pigman called back.
‘Well, that wasn’t your daughter!’
A vicious row would have ensued, but Athelstan clapped his hands for silence. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he shouted, ‘I will celebrate Mass and ask for God’s help in this matter.’
A groan of disapproval greeted his words.
‘However, to make sure we all sleep peacefully in our beds, I will inspect the cemetery.’
Athelstan meant to go by himself, but Watkin’s control over the crowd was too strong. Huddle went first, rather nervously, holding the cross, followed by Tab the tinker carrying the statue of St Erconwald. He was flanked on one side by Crim the altar-boy carrying a flaring torch and Amisias the fuller carrying another. Athelstan closed his eyes and sighed as Watkin took up position beside him, marching like an earl ready to do battle. Ursula’s sow suddenly lurched forward, brushed past Tab and headed straight for Athelstan’s garden, pursued by Ursula screeching at the top of her voice.
At last they entered the cemetery. Watkin’s courage seemed to fail, he hung back, indicating that Pike should take his position. Huddle and Tab drew to one side and Athelstan walked along the beaten trackway which snaked amongst the graves.
Crim the altar-boy came pattering after him, holding a torch. ‘There’s nothing here, Father,’ he whispered. ‘Any demon with half a brain would have fled ages ago.’
Athelstan smiled and stared into the darkness. ‘Is there anyone there?’ he called.
But only the evening wind rustled the branches of the yew trees and bent the long grass between the headstones. An owl hooted. Athelstan was glad he didn’t jump or start, though, behind him, his parishioners hastily stepped back.
‘Is there anyone there?’ Athelstan repeated. ‘In the name of God, show yourself.’
He felt slightly ridiculous shouting into the darkness. He silently thanked God that none of his brothers from Blackfriars or, even worse, Sir John Cranston were present.
‘The lord Coroner would love this,’ a voice whispered.
Athelstan turned and stared down at Benedicta’s smiling face.
‘He’d draw his sword,’ the widow woman continued. ‘And charge like a paladin round the graveyard.’
‘Aye,’ Athelstan replied. ‘And then we’d never get them to bed.’ He frowned at her. ‘Benedicta, couldn’t you have stopped them?’
‘Father, you know what they are like. Once Watkin gets an idea into his head.’ She grinned. ‘You were gone so long, they really did think the demon had taken you.’
‘He had,’ Athelstan replied. ‘He’s big, fat, drinks, and calls himself John Cranston.’ He touched Benedicta’s face with the tip of his finger. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow what happened.’
‘Give one of your blessings!’ Watkin shouted. ‘You know, Father, three crosses in the air!’
‘Aye,’ Pike shouted, unwilling to let Watkin have the last say. ‘And a big bucket of holy water, Father!’
‘I shall give my most solemn blessing,’ Athelstan shouted back. ‘God forgive my lie,’ he whispered, winking at Benedicta. ‘It’s the most solemn blessing a Dominican can give,’ he shouted. ‘He is only allowed to give it five times throughout his priestly life, and this is my first!’
His words were greeted by a murmur of approval from his parishioners, sheltering by the side of the church. Athelstan turned and stared into the darkness. To impress his parishioners, he chanted the first five verses of Psalm Fifty-one and then, raising his hand, delivered four blessings: one to the north, another to the south, then to the east and west. Watkin was satisfied. The parishioners drifted away. Benedicta would have stayed to question him, but Athelstan shook his head.
‘I have talked and walked enough,’ he apologised. ‘Oh, where’s Bonaventure?’
‘He’s got more sense,’ Benedicta smiled. ‘As soon as Watkin appeared, he went hunting.’
‘Sensible cat,’ Athelstan growled, imitating Cranston.
He and Benedicta walked over to the stable to check on Philomel, his old war-horse. Behind them, in the graveyard, the ‘demon’ of St Erconwald’s lurked beneath the trees and glared through the darkness at them.
CHAPTER 8
As Athelstan built up the fire in the heart of his small priest’s house, Sir Francis Harnett was hurrying along the deserted vestibule leading to the chapter-house of Westminster Abbey. The knight was vexed at being stopped so many times by the guards and archers. However, once through, and into the abbey precincts, this irritation gave way to a small glow of pleasure at the prospect of meeting the elusive Perline Brasenose. Harnett stopped just before the steps leading into the chapter-house and, turning right, went down the long flight of stairs into the Pyx chamber. At the bottom he cautiously pushed open the metal-studded door. The chamber inside was bare stone and vaulted, really nothing more than a huge cellar, dry and clean with two sconce torches glowing from their brackets on the wall.
‘Perline?’ Harnett whispered. The knight’s brow knit together in displeasure. ‘Where in God’s name are you?’ he hissed, but his words echoed emptily around the chamber.
Harnett sighed in exasperation and, mopping his face with the hem of his cloak, went and sat on a stone plinth at the far end of the chamber. Perhaps the soldier had gone elsewhere? When he returned, Harnett intended to give Brasenose the rough edge of his tongue. Above him the abbey bells began to toll for Vespers. Despite the thickness of the walls, Harnett heard the patter of feet as the monks moved down. There was silence and then, faintly, the sound of the choir beginning its chant:
‘Exsurge Domine, exsurge, et vindica causam meam.’
‘Arise, O Lord, arise and judge my cause.’
Harnett heard the words and smiled weakly. Had God risen to judge him and the others? Suddenly he felt weary and, leaning back against the wall, stared into the darkness. So many things had gone wrong. Twenty, thirty years ago, he and the others had been young paladins, the spiritual successors of Arthur and his knights. They had even paid a monastic chronicler to prove that Arthur had built his palace in Shropshire. And wasn’t Guinevere reputed to be buried at the nunnery at White Ladies, amongst the oaks around Boscobel? The Knights of the Swan had held their Round Table at Lilleshall Abbey. They had their tourneys and tournaments in a blaze of colour and the shrill blast of silver trumpets. Then they had found the cup. At first Sir Edmund Malmesbury had been mistrustful. He had scoffed at the relic-seller who had brought the cup for sale. Sir Henry Swynford, however, had
taken it to a learned monk, who had pronounced that the cedar chalice was indeed of great age and may well have been the Grail for which Arthur and his knights had searched. Oh, how they had been pleased!
Harnett stretched out his legs, easing the cramp in his muscles. They had met in the great refectory of Lilleshall, seated around the table with the chalice on a plinth, covered by a purple, damask cloth. Each knight, in turn, had been given the privilege of owning the chalice for a month, but then it had gone. One night, as they rested at the abbey, Malmesbury had burst in where they were supping and feasting, screaming:
‘The chalice has gone! The chalice has gone!’
They had searched high and low but never found it, and the seeds of discord had been sown. Nobody levelled open accusation, but the Knights of the Swan had begun to whisper amongst themselves. The finger of accusation had been pointed to this person and then another: the rottenness had spread, like a canker in a flower, seeping through their lives, creating further discord.
One thing had led to another. The war in France turned sour and, with news of defeats, came the effects of the ravages of the great pestilence: a shortage of labour and demands by the peasants for higher wages and better privileges. Harnett and the rest had let their souls slip into darkness. .
Harnett sighed and leaned forward: that, surely, had all been forgotten? He had cultivated his fields, bought books, and developed an interest in strange and exotic animals. He had not wanted to come to this Parliament. Indeed, quietly, he had striven not to be elected, but the sheriff had been Gaunt’s man. When the returns had been counted in the guildhall at Shrewsbury, Harnett had been as surprised at the result as the rest. Oh, Malmesbury had told them to put a brave face on it, trumpeting about what they would do once they arrived at Westminster, yet something was wrong.
Harnett and Aylebore had quietly protested: the sheriff had just smiled from behind his great table on the guildhall dais and spread his hands. ‘You are elected,’ he had declared. ‘Are you saying that I am corrupt?’
What could Harnett do? To protest would have been strange. So, instead, he and the rest had accepted the result and journeyed up to Westminster, staying as usual at the Gargoyle tavern.
Harnett stirred as he heard a sound from the vestibule outside, a faint footstep. He got to his feet but all he could hear was the faint chanting from the choir-stalls. He heard another sound and walked slowly to the door. Surprisingly, the sconce torch fixed in the wall above the steps had gone out.
‘Is there anybody there?’ he called. A shiver of fear ran down his spine. Harnett, grasping the hilt of his dagger, walked slowly up the steps. ‘Perline?’ he whispered.
At the top he looked round. Nothing but shadows dancing in the torchlight, turning the gargoyle faces at the top of the pillars even more grotesque: demons laughed down at him; satyrs bared their teeth. Harnett tried to control his breathing. Should he wait or go? He went back down the steps, vowing that if Perline did not arrive soon, he would leave to plot his revenge. Harnett clenched his hands in anger: he had given Perline a special letter allowing him entrance to the chapter-house. Why hadn’t the soldier used that and just come, instead of sending Harnett a message saying they should meet here? Harnett went back and sat on the stone plinth. He no longer wondered about the secret agreement he had made with the young soldier from the Tower, his mind kept going back to Sir Henry Swynford, his face a mask of horror, the garrotte string tight round his neck. Or Bouchon’s corpse, covered in river slime, his face a liverish-green. Those horrid red crosses carved on their skin! Those terrible mementoes from the past.
He and the rest had protested to Malmesbury, whispering that they should flee. Malmesbury, just as frightened, had shaken his head. ‘You know what will happen,’ he warned. ‘We have no choice.’
‘But the arrowhead, the candle?’ Aylebore had retorted. ‘Who could know about that?’
‘The regent does,’ Malmesbury replied.
‘Has he brought us here to kill us?’ Goldingham had asked. ‘Why don’t we change, Sir Edmund? Perhaps the regent is punishing us for our opposition?’
Malmesbury had shook his head and put his face in his hands. ‘There’s nothing he can do,’ he’d murmured. ‘The regent has promised a sign.’
‘This is preposterous,’ Goldingham had stuttered. ‘We wait here like lambs waiting for our throats to be cut!’
Harnett stared down at his fingers. The regent had told Malmesbury to put his confidence in Cranston. The knights had agreed not to separate; except — Harnett beat his fist against his leg — he had to see Brasenose. He had paid good silver and he wanted a return! Harnett heard a sound in the doorway. He lifted his head, his heart skipped a beat and his blood ran cold. A cowled figure stood there.
‘Brasenose?’ Harnett’s voice was a whisper.
‘Oh day of wrath!’ the figure intoned as it walked slowly forwards. ‘Oh day of mourning! See fulfilled the prophet’s warning! Heaven and earth in ashes burning! See what fear man’s bosom rendeth, when from heaven the Judge descendeth, on whose sentence all dependeth!’
Harnett backed into the corner, his hand flailing out. The figure tossed something at him: the arrowhead fell at Harnett’s feet, followed by the candle and scrap of parchment.
Harnett went down on his knees, hands clenched. ‘Please!’ he begged.
The figure swept closer. Harnett couldn’t make out his features: the light was poor, the door to the chamber closed whilst the torchlight flickered behind this awesome, horrid shape. A phantasm which stirred hidden terrors in Harnett’s soul and brought back images from his past. Mounted horsemen, mailed and coiffed, torches in their hands, gathered beneath the outstretched branches of a great oak tree from which figures dangled and danced.
‘It’s so long!’ Harnett moaned.
‘Nothing remains in the past, Sir Francis,’ the figure replied.
Harnett’s head came up. He recognised that voice!
‘Oh no, not you, for pity’s sake!’
‘Make your peace with God.’
The axe came from beneath the man’s cloak. Sir Francis crouched. The axe fell and, with one clean swipe, Harnett’s head bounced on to the chamber floor.
Athelstan sat at his table in the priest’s house and stared into the fire.
‘I should be in bed,’ he whispered to Bonaventura.
The great tom-cat, quite fatigued after a night’s hunting, lay stretched in front of the hearth, purring at the warmth. Athelstan stared down at the piece of parchment before him. He had tried to make sense of the day’s happenings. So much had occurred! Images and pictures still remained. Those two dreadful corpses lying in their coffins; once powerful men now so pathetic in death. Banyard, taking them down to Dame Mathilda’s: that young whore, her beautiful breasts exposed.
Athelstan smiled. ‘She was very beautiful, Bonaventura,’ he murmured. ‘Hair black as night and a body which would tempt a saint.’
The cat lifted its head as if to acknowledge him, then flopped back. Athelstan stared into the flames. If only Bonaventura could speak and tell him what he saw in the dark alleyways and runnels of Southwark! That would solve the mystery of the demon. Athelstan pressed his lips together. Well, the demon would have to wait until he received advice from Father Anselm. He wondered if Sir John was asleep, and recalled their meeting with the Harrower of the Dead. Thank God the fellow had not discovered Perline’s corpse! Cranston was probably correct: Perline had not deserted the Tower garrison, but paid the constable to look the other way whilst he absconded to do something else. But what? And why should Perline be meeting a knight of the shire on a dark, lonely quayside? Athelstan scratched his chin: apparently Harnett had gone to Southwark to meet Perline and they had both crossed the river to the steel yard, but why? Could Perline be involved in the macabre deaths of these knights?
Bonaventure stirred and stretched, Athelstan recalled Cranston’s worries about the disappearing cats in Cheapside. He leaned down and stroked Bonaven
ture.
‘A sea of troubles, Bonaventura! A sea of troubles!’
And, going back to the table, he sat down, picked up his quill, closing his eyes to concentrate. I have finished my Office, he thought; Philomel is snoring fit to burst. I can’t do anything about our demon until Prior Anselm answers. Sir John and his cats? Well, they will just have to wait. So what about the murders at Westminster?
Athelstan sighed, opened his eyes and wrote down his thoughts.
Item: Bouchon and Swynford belonged to a powerful group of men who formed a company called the Knights of the Swan.
Item: What happened to this company?
Item: Does the arrowhead, the candle and that scrap of parchment have anything to do with these knights’ chivalric pursuits?
Item: Are the deaths of Bouchon and Swynford connected to the break-up of the company of the Knights of the Swan?
Item: What other antagonisms exist between the knights, besides the failure of a business venture at sea?
Item: What were the knights trying to hide from their past? What terrible secrets did they share?
Item: Was it just coincidence that Father Benedict, Chaplain to the Commons, knew, through his dead colleague Father Antony, these powerful men from Shropshire?
Item: What was Harnett doing visiting Perline Brasenose? Why didn’t he just tell Cranston the truth?
Item: Whom had Bouchon met last Monday night? Where did that black dirt under his fingernails come from?
Athelstan threw down the pen and stretched. Bouchon’s body, he thought, had been found down near Tothill Fields: that meant he must have been killed and thrown into the Thames when the river tide was running full towards the sea. Otherwise the body would have been swept back, up towards the city. Athelstan rubbed his lips. But did that say anything about where he had been killed? The corpse had been found trapped amongst reeds. Athelstan shook his head. He would remember that.
Athelstan picked up his quill and continued writing.
Item: That mysterious priest who appeared entering and leaving the Gargoyle tavern without anyone really noticing? Why was he so confident he would escape undetected? Unless, of course, it was one of the knights themselves?
