by Paul Doherty
Margoyle took another sip from the wine cup.
‘Apparently Hersham, and he was as mad as a March hare, had stayed near the door and slipped up the stairs. He had a wineskin with him containing an opiate. The whore opened the door. I don’t think she knew why she was there; she only acted out the instructions Hersham had given her. She must have thought it was some sort of game. Hersham gave her the wineskin, she fell asleep on the bed.’ Margoyle put the goblet down and crossed his arms over his chest. I didn’t know what to do when Hersham told me that he had taken a rope and hanged the poor wench. He said that no one would ever find out while Maltravers, who had been tricked to come to the tavern, would take the blame.’ He glanced fearfully at Athelstan. ‘Brother, I swear I had no part in it.’
Athelstan studied the muddy-brown eyes and accepted that he was telling the truth. Margoyle’s gaze shifted to the knight now sitting at the table.
‘He hated you,’ he said. ‘Not just because of the Lady Angelica but because you were everything he wanted to be!’
‘And this mummery in the cemetery?’ Sir John asked.
‘That I am involved in,’ Margoyle confessed slowly. ‘The Great Community of the Realm, Sir John, is now well rooted in London. It has members among the Corporation, the aldermen, the merchants and the guilds. They make threats, unless these powerful men,’ Margoyle stumbled on the phrase, ‘assist and co-operate, they, their houses, their trade, their families, are all marked down for destruction. Now, or when the Great Community’s army marches on London.’
Sir John tapped the table. ‘Of course!’ He drove his fist into one hand.
‘Of course what, Sir John?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Nothing much. It’s just that there’s been the occasional fire in a warehouse, stores being broken into, property smashed. The Guild-hall thinks it’s the work of night-walkers, footpads, but you, my little popinjay, say it could be the work of the Great Community?’
Margoyle nodded fearfully.
‘Do continue, Master Clement. You sing like a linnet. What other little secrets do you hold? Are you a member of the Great Community?’
Margoyle lowered his head and muttered, ‘Yes, Sir John, both me and Hersham. We were given the names of Valerian and Domitian. We were promised that, in the new commonwealth, we would hold high office.’
Sir John burst out laughing. ‘When Adam delved and Eve span,’ he taunted. ‘Who was then the gentleman? So one set of laws are going to be replaced by another, are they?’
Margoyle nodded.
‘Do sing on.’
‘The Great Community recently held a council at St Albans. They believe their army will march within twelve months but they need to seize London Bridge. The men have bows but no arrows. If these were made in the city, Gaunt – I mean, His Grace the Regent,’ Margoyle added hastily, ‘would soon discover it.’
‘And his guards at the city gates,’ Athelstan observed, ‘would hardly let cart-loads of arrows go trundling through.’
‘The arrows were made by peasants,’ Margoyle continued. ‘In south Essex and Hertfordshire. They were then brought to an agreed assembly point and distributed. They were to be brought into Southwark. Valerian and I were to find a place as close as possible to London Bridge, and St Erconwald’s was chosen.’
‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Because it is a poor parish, Brother. None of the great ones live here.’ Margoyle’s eyes fell away. They say you are a good priest. Busy about the care of souls. Many in the council of the Great Community believe you are sympathetic’
‘I am not,’ Athelstan said. ‘And I object to men like you drawing simpletons like Watkin and Pike into your deadly game!’
‘We were given their names,’ Margoyle continued. ‘We met them by night and told them what to do. They were to dig a trench and pretend to be examining the foundations of the cemetery wall. We put the arrows in, covered them with a layer of earth.’ He shrugged. ‘The rest you know.’
‘But you are missing one important fact,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘Arrows cost money. Wood has to be bought. Sacks and carts provided. Arrow heads fashioned. Glue, not to mention goose feathers.’
‘Sir Thomas provided that. Hersham was given bags of silver. Sir Thomas keeps a private account.’
‘So he’s a traitor?’ Athelstan interrupted.
‘He had little choice.’ A note of defiance crept into Margoyle’s voice.
‘What do you mean?’
The man’s eyes moved to Sir Maurice.
‘Do you think the Lady Angelica was moved to the nuns of Syon just because of Maltravers?’
Sir John clapped his thigh. ‘Of course! We thought she was there to protect her from Sir Lancelot here; but she had been marked down by the Great Community of the Realm, hadn’t she?’
Margoyle nodded. ‘I’ve told you the truth, Sir John.’
The coroner lumbered to his feet. ‘Brother Athelstan, your church is locked and secure, yes?’
‘Of course, Sir John!’
‘And the windows are too narrow for anyone to crawl out?’
‘Of course, my lord coroner.’ Athelstan smiled as he caught the drift of the questions.
The coroner went over to Athelstan’s writing-desk where he picked up two quills, an inkpot and a large square of rubbed parchment. He then went across and pulled Margoyle up by the scruff of his neck.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Sir John said, beaming. ‘Do open the door of your church. Master Margoyle is going into the sanctuary to sit at the small table there and write out his confession. When he has finished, if I am satisfied, I am going to let him run away. On one condition.’ He turned the hapless Margoyle round to face him. ‘If I ever catch you in London again, I’ll hang you out of hand!’
‘He’ll implicate Parr,’ Athelstan warned. ‘Gaunt will have Sir Thomas’ head.’
‘No he won’t. He’ll write what I tell him to.’
‘But the bailiffs?’
‘Men like Sir Thomas are not easily impressed. Hersham’s dead, Margoyle here won’t mention the name Parr and Sir Thomas will simply say he had nothing to do with this villainy.’ Sir John winked. ‘But, he’ll know that we know and that, my dear friar, is very important!’
CHAPTER 16
The following morning the parish was in uproar. News of what had happened in the cemetery had swept through the alleyways leading down to the Thames. St Erconwald’s was truly packed, not just for the Guild Mass for the Rat-Catchers, but also by those eager to listen to the chatter and the gossip. Watkin and Pike looked woebegone. They stood on the sanctuary steps shuffling their feet. Athelstan, vesting in the sacristy, closed his eyes and quietly thanked God that things had gone well. Sir John had worked like a true soldier: the arrows had been removed, loaded on to carts and taken across London Bridge. Watkin and Pike had slunk away in the darkness while Margoyle had written a full confession, surrendered his arms and fled like a shadow in the night. Sir Maurice was beside himself. Godbless had danced like an elf shouting: ‘I told you so! I told you I saw shapes in the cemetery!’
It had been long after midnight before Athelstan had quietened things down and snatched a few hours’ sleep.
‘Ah well,’ he said, crossed himself and went into the sanctuary.
The Mass was a great success. The rat-catchers with their ferrets, cats, small dogs, cages, traps, mallets and spikes, nets and leather sacks were all piled together in the sanctuary. The ceremony was one of the liveliest Athelstan had ever conducted. One dog howled throughout the entire ceremony as if singing its own divine chant. Bonaventure slunk in and, if Crim hadn’t intervened, the most horrendous fight would have broken out as this prince of the alleyways’ one good eye alighted upon a rival. Two ferrets escaped and were pursued by a dog into the cemetery. One was caught but Ranulf came back, just as Athelstan finished the consecration, shaking his head and announcing in a loud whisper that ‘the little bastard had gone for good’.
At the end of the Mass A
thelstan preached a homily on all God’s creatures being a delight in His sight. Ranulf stuck his hand up.
‘Does that include rats, Brother?’
‘Rats have their purposes, Ranulf,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But God knows why.’
‘They clear away rubbish,’ Ricauld, a rat-catcher from the priory of St Mary’s, announced.
‘You’ve got the makings of a theologian,’ Athelstan told him. ‘But, truly, you all do a great service for the community. I appeal to you to do it honestly and as kindly as possible.’ His eyes caught Ranulf’s. ‘And not charge too much.’
After the homily Athelstan had blessed the different animals. On reflection this was very dangerous. Some of the ferrets lunged for his fingers. Bonaventure’s rival curled its lip in protest. If it had not been for a well-aimed kick from Crim’s boot, one of the dogs would have cocked its leg against Athelstan. The friar moved among the different pets, sprinkling them with water and afterwards blessing them with incense. The dog, which had been thankfully quiet during his sermon, now decided to renew his chant. Athelstan just thanked God Sir John wasn’t there.
At the end of the Mass all the rat-catchers, together with the parishioners, thronged into the porch of the church and the open area in front. Stalls and booths had been set up to sell ales and cakes. Benedicta had cooked pies. Watkin’s wife had brought fruit. Everyone announced it was a success and Huddle, ecstatic that the Rat-Catchers’ Guild had hired him, loudly announced that soon he would be putting a fresco on the wall to honour the new confraternity.
Boso, a one-eyed cleric with a slit nose and one ear missing, who Athelstan secretly thought was a defrocked priest, set up a small table and unrolled the Articles of the Rat-Catchers’ Guild. Each member signed their name or made their mark. A cat, a rat, a trap or a cage. Ranulf solemnly took out from his pouch the new seal of the Guild and Boso poured hot wax on the parchment. Ranulf sealed this and Athelstan did the same with the parish insignia. Fresh copies were produced and the same process repeated. Athelstan, feeling rather bemused by the whole affair, quickly conceded that a copy should be placed in a case and stored in the parish archives in one of the tower chambers of the church. He tried to catch Benedicta’s eye but she just smiled, busy in making sure the revelry went smoothly. Watkin, Pike, Hig the pigman, Mugwort the bell clerk and others stood in a corner, heads together, whispering darkly among themselves. Athelstan was about to join them when he heard his name called. Sir Maurice, who had excused himself from the Mass, was standing in the doorway of the church holding a piece of parchment in his hand.
‘Athelstan, it’s urgent! It’s from Blackfriars!’
The friar hurried across to take the parchment and walked into the house. It was cool and quiet after the frenetic activity of the church. He examined the seal, broke it and quickly read what Simeon the archivist had written. Athelstan smiled to himself.
‘At last!’ he said.
‘Good news, Brother?’
‘Good news, Sir Maurice.’
‘Are we going to visit the nuns of Syon?’ the knight asked hopefully.
‘I think not.’ Athelstan leaned over and grasped the young knight’s wrist. ‘Why should we go there, Sir Maurice?’
‘Why, to see the Lady Angelica.’
‘I do worry about you, Brother Norbert,’ Athelstan teased. ‘Sometimes I think that all you can think of is Angelica!’
‘I love her. I go to sleep thinking about her. I dream of her. I see her face in crowds. Haven’t you ever loved, Brother?’ The knight bit his lip. I am sorry.’
Athelstan sat down on a stool. The knight stared at him.
‘I – I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Brother.’
Athelstan closed his eyes and thought of Benedicta.
‘Is it hard?’ Sir Maurice asked, intrigued by this olive-skinned little friar who seemed so sharp and kept his emotions under such firm control.
‘Is it hard? When you are a priest, Sir Maurice, it’s not the love act you miss, though the demands of nature do make themselves felt.’ Athelstan laughed quickly. ‘But that passes. It’s the terrible loneliness, the feeling that you are watching the world go by and cannot become part of it. Sometimes, just sometimes, you meet someone! Thank God, not often, but you can see it in her eyes or face, the way she looks at you. Your heart beats quicker; your blood drums a little faster in the brain; your mouth becomes dry.’
‘And what do you do?’
‘You get on your knees, Sir Maurice, and you pray that you never ever fall in love. That you are never put to the test because, if you are, there’s every chance that you’ll be found wanting.’
‘And do you envy men like me, Brother?’
Athelstan smiled up at the knight.
‘You are a good man, Sir Maurice, you would have made a good priest, an excellent Dominican.’ The smile widened. ‘Particularly when it came to counselling young nuns.’
Sir Maurice laughed and fastened on his war belt.
‘Believe me,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You will marry the Lady Angelica but keep praying! Pray,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘that your love never dies, never wavers but grows stronger by the day.’
‘Oh it will’
‘Yes, I am sure it will. Now, go and find Sir Jack and tell him to wait for me at Parr’s house but Sir Maurice, do not now or in the future tell Sir Thomas, or indeed anyone, what you learned last night.’ Athelstan went to the door. ‘I’m going to talk to Godbless about his adventures in Venice and a man who should have died but didn’t.’
Maltravers left as fast as a greyhound. Athelstan went across to the death house, chattered to Godbless then returned to collect his writing-bag and slipped out of the house down to the riverside.
He found Moleskin with other boatmen on the quayside watching the executioners despatch a river pirate from the gibbet which stood like a great black finger poked up against the sky. The felon had been pushed up the ladder. A huge, burly oaf, he kept threatening the hangman and spitting out at the waiting crowd. Athelstan sketched a blessing in his direction. The pirate saw this and made an obscene gesture with his middle finger.
‘Come away, Moleskin!’ Athelstan called.
The boatman swaggered across, his cheery, leathery face dour, his eyes hard.
‘You shouldn’t watch such sights,’ Athelstan said. ‘It’s terrible to see a man such as he about to fall into the hands of the living God.’
Moleskin looked over his shoulder at the gibbet.
‘I couldn’t think of a better place, Brother. That bastard is responsible for the deaths of three boatmen to the north of London Bridge. You know the marshes? Well, he kept a wherry there. He poled out, took their money and slit their throats.’
Athelstan followed his gaze. The rope was now round the felon’s neck. There was a shout from the crowd. The executioners slithered down. The ladder was pulled away and the felon began his dance of death.
‘It’s over!’ Moleskin said. He clapped the friar on the shoulder. ‘Now come on, Brother, tell me what happened last night and where do you want to go?’
‘I’ll let the others tell you about all the excitement, Moleskin. I want you to take me along the Thames and find a Venetian ship.’
Moleskin led the friar down the green mildewed steps and into his stout wherry.
‘Why a Venetian? Are you going to flee Southwark?’
‘No, I want to ask the captain a few questions.’
Moleskin concentrated on manoeuvring his craft, for the river was busy with barges and fishing smacks. They reached the far side and Moleskin began to go slowly by the sterns of the moored ships: massive, fat-bellied cogs from the Baltic, merchantmen from the Low Countries and royal warships getting ready to put to sea. At last he found a Venetian galley which lay low and rakish in the water. Its raised, gilded red and gold stern was surrounded by bum-boats selling fruit, sweetbread and other items from the city markets. There was even a boat full of whores who stood shrieking up at the sailors, trying to entic
e them with their charms to get aboard. Moleskin, skilled in the ways of the river, managed to catch the eye of the officer responsible for maintaining order along the decks. The boatman jabbed a finger at Athelstan and, making a sign, asked to come on board.
The officer agreed. A rope ladder was lowered and Moleskin, his boat bobbing beneath him, helped the little friar up. Such attention provoked the jealousy of the others milling round the great Venetian war galley. There were shouts and imprecations, rotten fruit was thrown. Athelstan yelled at Moleskin to wait. The boatman took his craft away and sat watching the scene. Now and again a friend or acquaintance would pass in a hail of good-natured abuse and raillery. Moleskin undid the little chest in the stern of his craft, took out a linen cloth and gnawed on a piece of salted bacon, taking deep draughts from the water bottle which he had filled with ale. He sat wondering what the little friar wanted with a Venetian war galley, but there again he shrugged, for Athelstan was a strange priest. If he wasn’t looking after those rogues at St Erconwald’s, he was scurrying around after Sir John Horse-Cruncher, the great and high lord coroner of the city. Moleskin narrowed his eyes. He must remember that. He loved baiting the coroner, and next time Sir John hired him, Moleskin would charge him double because of his weight.
He finished his bacon, growing slightly impatient because the swell of the river was becoming more pronounced. Then he noticed movement on board the galley and glimpsed the black and white robes of his parish priest. Moleskin turned his craft and brought it in, using the oars to fend off rivals. At last he was beneath the rope ladder. Athelstan clambered down with a sigh of relief and took his seat in the stern.
