by Paul Doherty
Cranston coughed noisily to hide his grin, clearing his throat as he stared up at the vaulted chamber roof. Thibault picked up his pen, smoothed the quill plume feathers then used it to beckon Lascelles. The henchman leaned over the chair to hear his master’s whisper and slipped like some black wraith from the chamber.
‘For the time being,’ Thibault almost lisped, ‘our prisoner is not your concern, Brother Athelstan.’
‘Ninthly,’ Athelstan almost shouted, ‘Sir John and I need to be busy. We need to reflect, to discuss, possibly even search. Master Thibault, in a word, we need to be gone. I have one favour to ask. My parishioners will have undoubtedly appreciated My Lord of Gaunt’s gifts, and they would rejoice if the Straw Men, albeit in mourning for two of their members, could visit Saint Erconwald’s. My parishioners would love to see their performance, while it would give me the opportunity to question the troupe further.’ Athelstan paused as Lascelles slipped back into the room carrying a leather sack. Athelstan suspected what it contained.
‘The Straw Men can wait but you have our permission to leave.’ Thibault smacked his lips. ‘As for the heads. .’ He snatched the sack from Lascelles and placed it on the table. ‘Take them, Brother Athelstan. You have our authority, and that of the King’s Coroner in London, to hand them over to Master Robert Burdon, Custos of the Gatehouse of London Bridge and Keeper of the Heads, to add to his collection above the gatehouse.’
‘And their crime?’ Cranston demanded, leaning across to pluck up the sack.
‘For the moment that must remain secret, Sir John.’ Thibault waggled his fingers. ‘Suffice to know, they were traitors who deserved their fate.’
‘We all deserve our fate; only God’s mercy saves us from it.’ Athelstan pushed back the narrow chair and rose to his feet. He bowed, and with Cranston carrying the sack, walked to the door.
‘Brother Athelstan?’
‘Yes, Master Thibault?’
‘You say we have a spy in our company. I find that difficult. .’
‘It always is,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘A Judas hides behind his kiss which,’ he gestured around, ‘is why I must return to question people here, and that includes you, Master Thibault.’ Athelstan nodded at Rosselyn to open the door and they left. Once outside Athelstan winked at Cranston. ‘Let us divert ourselves, Lord Coroner. The royal menagerie? Perhaps we’ll visit that, but I must see this great snow bear.’
Cranston needed no further encouragement. He led Athelstan across baileys and courtyards, skirting frozen white gardens, herb plots and snow-covered outbuildings, past their own lodgings and through Hall Tower along Red Gulley to St Thomas’ Tower which fronted the wide deep moat. Even before they entered the great cavernous cell on the ground floor, Athelstan smelt the thick, rancid odour of rotting fish and putrid meat, so dense and cloying it made him gag. The bear keeper, who rejoiced in the name of Artorius, a bulbous-eyed, bald-headed fellow, round as a tub, his unshaven face glistening and reddened from the coarse wine he was enjoying, was at first hostile and surly. However, he was only too willing to take Cranston’s coin and show them what he called his ‘pride and joy’. He raced up the steps on the side of St Thomas’, gave them each a pomander and unlocked the iron-barred door. He beckoned them into the reeking darkness, took a cresset from its holder and began to light a long line of other torches fixed into the wall.
Athelstan could only stare in disbelief. The entire ground floor of St Thomas’ was a huge cavern with a pointed vaulted ceiling. Most of it was taken up by a huge cage: the bars, placed very closely together, were driven into the ground and rose to meet similar poles of the finest steel driven horizontally into the far wall. The flaring flames of the sconce torches shimmered in these. Athelstan noticed how there was a gate built into the cage where the vertical bars had been cut to form a square filled by a thick oaken door so as to allow the keeper to put in food or, if he wanted, enter the cage itself. Athelstan stood, transfixed. Despite the coarse but powerful-smelling pomander drenched in lavender and pinewood, the reek was intense. Athelstan coughed and spluttered. He held the pomander close as he walked carefully forward. The ground was greasy under foot. Athelstan slipped and slithered as he made his way down the aisle past the cage. He grasped a pole of the cage and his heart skipped a beat as a great dark shape lurched out of the shadows. He stepped back and stared in disbelief as the light from the cresset torches above him grew stronger. The bear approached the bars on all fours. Abruptly aroused from its sleep, it reared up on its hind legs. Its black-edged snout sniffed the air, huge jaws opened in a roar, massive paws flailed in the air. The friar was taken by the bear’s sheer ferocity, but also by its heart-throbbing magnificence.
‘A gift from the King of Norway,’ Artorius sang out. The bear was at least three yards high and, despite a few stains from lying in its cage, the animal’s hide was a brilliant thick, white fur. Athelstan had seen many a mangy-coated travelling bear much smaller and black furred; usually broken and infirm, fed on ale slops and discarded food, these hobbled along, muzzled and chained like beaten dogs. This was different. The snow bear was certainly chained: a massive leather collar circled its thick neck with a finely wrought, very long silver-like chain secured to one of the cage poles; this allowed the animal considerable freedom of movement.
‘Behold Maximus,’ Artorius declared, ‘truly the king of all beasts!’ Athelstan could only agree. He had never seen such a splendid creature. Maximus, startled from his sleep, lurched forward and crashed against the poles, his black, red-rimmed eyes with their hard, unblinking stare conveyed his sheer ferocity, his large, massive jaws open to display teeth as long, white and sharp as ivory daggers. Maximus again crashed into the cage poles before lumbering on all fours to a broad, iron-plated door built into the far end of the Tower.
‘The finest steel of Milan,’ Artorius declared, tapping one of the bars. ‘A gift from the Sforzas, as is the chain.’
Athelstan stood back, viewing the cage in the strengthening light of all the torches which were now lit. Maximus appeared to dislike the glare and the heat; he stood with his back to them, pushing at that gate with his head.
‘The best steel,’ Cranston breathed. ‘It would have to be.’
‘True, Sir John,’ Artorius replied. ‘Maximus can take a man’s head off, and has, with one bite or sweep of his paw.’
‘Is he so savage?’ the coroner asked.
‘On a full stomach Maximus can be as content as a pig; he will even play with you,’ Artorius nodded. ‘And I mean that, though even then you have to be very careful, yet he is mild enough. However, once he’s hungry or if he smells blood or worse, both, I do not like being in here, finest steel or not.’ Athelstan studied the cage again; the snow bear was a marvel and so was this. Cunningly devised, the close-set poles stretched from wall to wall, cordoning off most of this cavernous chamber. Maximus kept pressing his head against the gate in the wall leading on to the wharf.
‘He is hungry and wants to go swimming; he hopes to catch fish. Come, I’ll show you.’
Athelstan and Cranston followed. The friar noticed how the aisle was broad enough but he followed the keeper’s advice and kept as far away from the bars of the cage as possible.
‘It has been known,’ Artorius sang out, ‘for Maximus to suddenly make a lunge. One thing about him which always surprises our visitors, despite his bulk, is that he can be as swift as a greyhound.’
‘Like someone else I know,’ Athelstan whispered. He winked as Cranston turned and glared at him. Artorius opened the door at the end of the aisle and led them out on to the broad, snow-swept wharf which ran alongside the moat. Despite being constantly fed by the river, the water here had begun to freeze: sheets of ice bobbed on the surface, the cold was bitter and a thick river mist twisted above the quayside. Artorius walked to the outside entrance to the cage. Maximus was now banging noisily. The keeper pulled back the heavy bolts and lifted the huge bars. Artorius leaned these against the gate and hurriedly withdrew ba
ck through the door, beckoning at Cranston and Athelstan to follow. Once inside Artorius lowered the small door hatch so his visitors could have a good view. Athelstan glanced to his left; Maximus was now shoving the gate open. It creaked noisily and the bars on the other side fell away.
‘Deliberately so,’ Artorius whispered. ‘The gate is heavy. The bars delay Maximus so I have enough time to get back in here.’
‘And how do you get him back and seal the gate?’ Athelstan asked.
‘A juicy piece of meat placed at the far end of the cage oozing blood. Maximus loves that. He knows his routine, which is as fixed as any monk’s horarium. Maximus becomes busy with his food. I close over the gate with a hooked pole, pull the bolts across and place the bars back down.’ He paused. ‘Now, watch this.’ Maximus had pushed open the gate. Athelstan glanced through the door hatch, fascinated by the bear’s speed. Maximus, the long chain rattling out, raced across the wharf and plunged into the icy moat, revelling in the splashing water.
‘It’s safe now,’ Artorius declared. He opened the door and led them out.
‘Is it safe?’ Athelstan asked anxiously.
‘Maximus loves to swim and fish,’ the keeper reassured him. ‘He’ll be there for hours.’
‘Fish?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Artorius replied, ‘once he caught a porpoise swept in by the river. Maximus will eat anything and everything.’ Athelstan just stood and watched. Maximus was swift and confidently plunging up and down, swimming expertly — sometimes only his massive head protruded above the surface. The silver chain, fine and delicate in appearance, was very strong. Maximus had the freedom to swim although not to reach the far side of the moat.
‘God be praised!’ Athlestan whispered, crossing himself. ‘For such splendour! Sir John, I think we should go.’
They thanked Artorius and left St Thomas’ Tower, going out through the Lion gate, the roars and snarls from the menagerie ringing in their ears. Athelstan refused Cranston’s offer to see the other beasts; instead he plucked Sir John by the sleeve and led the unresisting coroner into the sweet onion-smelling tap room of the Hook of Heaven, an ancient tavern which overlooked the Thames. They cleaned their hands in the bronze basin hanging by a chain from the rafters in full obedience to the warning carved around the rim: ‘Wash with water your hands so clean that, on the towel, no spot be seen.’ Once done, Athelstan ordered blackjacks of ale and bowls of thickened chicken stew. Cranston had remained ominously silent during their visit to the snow bear. Athelstan suspected Sir John was reflecting deeply on Thibault’s hidden threats and the menaces which swirled around them. He wanted Cranston to lighten his mood.
‘We will do our duty, My Lord Coroner,’ Athelstan whispered as he polished his horn spoon and took a generous mouthful. ‘Let us reflect, Sir John, warm our bellies and,’ he gestured at the sack, ‘fathom these mysteries further. Now listen. You must return to your chambers in the Guildhall. Yes? Lady Maude will also be hungry for your embraces. However, make careful scrutiny of this. Search among the Spicers of Cheapside, discover everything you can about Humphrey Warde. Sir John, you remain silent. You have been so. .’
‘The tribes.’ Cranston finished his soup. ‘Brother Athelstan, my little friar, my friend: Barak is dead, Lettenhove slain, Eli mysteriously murdered, but these are only bubbles on the surface of this morass. Brother,’ Cranston put his spoon down and grasped the friar’s hand, ‘believe me, the tempest has been sown. God help us,’ he murmured, ‘we are going to reap the corpse-makers’ storm.’ The coroner, still distracted, gathered his thoughts. ‘I have business, little friar, so have you, and the hour candle burns.’
They left the tavern. Cranston, lost in his own thoughts, turned off up an alleyway leading to the city. Athelstan, grasping the bag with its grisly contents, moved towards the bridge. The Angelus bells began to peal. Traders, merchants, hucksters and apprentices were all preparing to cease trading in order to break their morning fast. Most of these were swathed in cloaks and hoods against the biting cold. The air was riven with shouts and cries. People pushed and shoved towards the cook shops, alehouses and taverns. Beggars, blue with cold, whined for alms and shook their clacking dishes or tapped their canes. The ‘stealthy night shapes’ as Cranston called them, were also busy — the sneak thieves, the shadow stalkers hungry for prey. Bailiffs and beadles, determined on their food, hurried a line of miscreants to the great stocks next to the bridge. A sheriff’s man pushed a moveable, three-branched gallows with the cadavers of house breakers stripped naked, their dead flesh a pasty white, along the thoroughfare. A herald went before them, declaring the gallows proclaimed the dire consequences of breaking the King’s peace. How their wolfish souls, guilt-steeped and sin-scorched, had received their just desserts from both God and man. A relic-seller in a snoop cap followed, hoping to trade among the gathering crowd, loudly declaring he had holy fragments of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus for sale. Behind him a singing cleric bargained with a funeral party escorting a corpse, stitched in its deer-skinned shroud, to chant the death psalms.
Athelstan, head covered, pushed through this throng on to the bridge. He ignored the fishy, oozing stench from the river as he did the sweet flavour from the public ovens where the morning waffles, cakes and pastries had been baked. He did not look to the left or the right, ignoring the thunder of the Thames as it broke against the starlings of the bridge, the clacking of water mills and the constant noise of the traders crammed into the narrow causeway which ran between the houses and shops either side. He passed Becket’s chapel. On its steps a wandering preacher, standing next to a bonfire of burning rubbish, its creeping flames spluttering in the wet mist, screamed with scorched throat his dire prophecies. How the souls of London’s citizens were polluted by carnal lust. How Christ would soon come again, a brilliant flaming figure appearing like a gorgeous rainbow in the storm-swept skies above London.
Athelstan walked on, knocking away the apprentices plucking at his sleeves and the fleshy-mouthed whores who sidled up whispering what delights they could offer. Athelstan ignored such harrowers of the dark. Nevertheless, the world and all its business still pressed in. A group of Newgate bailiffs pulled two river pirates to the balustrade overlooking the river. Ignoring their screams, the officials tied nooses around the prisoners’ necks and toppled them over. Athelstan glimpsed a prostitute on her knees before a costermonger, feverishly loosening the points of his hose as both sheltered in a narrow runnel between two soaring houses. Athelstan looked away but his eye was caught by other scenes. A beggar, one leg crushed by a cart, lay dying beneath a stall attended by a Carmelite. Two courtesans from The House of Imminent Pleasure just beyond the bridge sauntered by swathed in cheap finery and even cheaper perfume. A group of armed knights, gorgeous pennants proclaiming John of Gaunt’s arms, forced their destriers through the crowd. Curses and insults were thrown. The leading knight, visor down, lowered his lance and the crowd swiftly parted. A gust of river wind, heavy with the smell of rotting fish, buffeted Athelstan. The friar felt dizzy, disconcerted, as if he could feel the pent-up anger and lusts of the people around him. He took a deep breath and moved on, reaching the end of the bridge and the steps either side leading to the upper stories of the yawning bridge gate.
Athelstan climbed these, knocked on the iron-studded door and was ushered into what the mannekin Robert Burdon called his ‘workshop’. Custos of the Bridge and Keeper of the Heads, Burdon was scarcely five feet tall, a small, pot-bellied man who loved to dress in blood-red taffeta, the colour of what he jokingly called his ‘fraternity of the shearing knife’.
In the chambers above Athelstan could hear the screams and shouts of Burdon’s brood of children.
‘Brother Athelstan! Brother Athelstan, come deeper in.’ The friar walked up the macabre chamber, long and narrow, lit only by arrow-slit windows, its wooden floor scrubbed clean, as was the long table which ran down the centre of the room. On shelves along the wall ranged rows of freshly severed he
ads; these had been washed in brine and recently tarred at the neck, glassy eyes above gaping, bloody mouths gazing sightlessly at him from under half-open lids. Athelstan refused Burdon’s offer of refreshment. He explained why he had come and placed the sack on the table. Burdon, calling blessings down on Sir John, undid the twine and brought out both heads. Clicking his tongue noisily as he critically examined them, the mannekin picked each up, sniffed at them in turn, wetted his fingers and stroked the grey, wizened skin of the two severed heads. He then examined the cut necks. Athelstan had to turn away when Burdon prised open the mouths, poking around with his fingers. Once finished he placed both heads in a space along the shelves.
‘Do you know, Brother,’ Burdon smiled, ‘at night, when darkness falls like a sheet of blackness and the river mists billow in, they come for their heads. Oh, yes! Heart-stricken, bloated and dangerous, the ghosts, the terrormongers, rise from the dismal woods of Hell. They gather here, ushered in by the night hags, a synod of wraiths.’ Athelstan stared at him in disbelief.
‘True, true,’ Burdon lifted his hands towards the shelves, ‘the ghosts of all my guests. I hear them pattering up the steps. Sometimes I glimpse them, smaller than me, hell-borne goblins. They bang on the walls. They gabble like Abraham men then they whisper, a sound like roasted fish hissing on a skillet. But,’ Burdon rose to his feet, ‘not these two. You see, their ghosts cannot cross the sea though their heads did, mind you. I detect salt water on their skins, while I’m sure both were severed not by an English axe but a two-handed broad sword, the execution weapon of Brabant?’ Burdon raised his eyebrows. ‘Flanders? Both heads are dry. The skin withering, the carrion birds will soon peck them to the bone. One head belongs to an old woman, the other to a fairly youngish man. Both have had their tongues plucked out.’
