by Paul Doherty
‘So,’ Athelstan sketched a blessing in the direction of the heads, ‘two heads brought from Flanders by Gaunt’s agents. They were undoubtedly the victims of judicial decapitation, probably carried out in secret. Before execution, their tongues were plucked out, the usual statutory punishment for those guilty of grievous calumny and slander. Both heads were to be shown to My Lord of Gaunt.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I suspect the heads were taken by the Upright Men during their assault near Aldgate and searched for when Thibault’s men stormed the Roundhoop.’
‘I heard about both incidents, Brother. I took custody of a number of heads. .’
‘Well, Robert,’ Athelstan clasped him on the shoulder, ‘you have two more.’ He bowed and walked towards the door, reluctant to say any more. After all, Master Burdon might be Thibault’s spy. The friar whispered goodbye and walked into the freezing cold.
PART FOUR
‘Vermis: The Serpent’
The light was dying. People, wrapped in cloaks, mantles and hoods, hurried home. The Southwark gallows rose fearsome and sombre through the murk, the corpses hanging there already freezing hard. The stocks nearby were full of miscreants, locked by neck, wrist or ankle. The moans of the prisoners were so pitiful Athelstan begged the bailiffs, for the love of God and the honour of Sir John, to free them. A couple of coins provided the necessary encouragement. Athelstan walked up the main thoroughfare into the tangle of alleyways leading towards his church. The friar paused, still lost in thought. ‘The heads were severed in Ghent,’ he murmured, ‘their tongues plucked out beforehand. They must have uttered some terrible slander against My Lord of Gaunt, but what? Something connected with that mysterious prisoner?’
‘Brother, are you well?’ Athelstan blinked and stared at the sharp features of Ranulf the rat catcher peering out at him from the shelter of his tarred, pointed hood. Ranulf lifted his cage carrying his ferocious ferrets, Ferox and Audax. ‘All quiet at the church, Brother. Master Thibault’s gifts disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. Slices of roast pork and stoups of ale. Well,’ Ranulf shook his cage, ‘Moleskin the boatmen’s shed is plagued by rats. The cold has driven the enemy out into the open,’ and, muttering to himself, Ranulf wandered off, swaying slightly on his feet.
Athelstan continued up the alleyway on to the open enclosure before St Erconwald’s. The old church rose eerily in the murky light under its carpet of frozen snow, a white wilderness which only emphasized the dull, black mass of the sombre church. A beacon light, lit by Mauger the bell clerk, glowed from the steeple. Candlelight flared behind the shutters of the death house where Godbless and his goat sheltered. Athelstan stared around at the sheer bleakness. He wondered what visions lurked here beyond the veil? He walked to the cemetery lychgate. Did the Soul-harrier, Satan’s apostate angel, hide among the gravestones? Did the shadow spirits, the wandering wraiths and shade-souls, hover to plot dark designs against the living? Athelstan closed his eyes. Was Godbless right? Did the dead swarm here like larvae, squalid ghosts, eyes the colour of boxwood in faces of waxen yellow? The beggar claimed he had heard their night shrieks. Athelstan rubbed his eyes. ‘And you, Friar,’ he quietly accused himself, ‘are becoming tired and your brain fanciful.’ He took a deep breath, tried to clear his mind and went in search of where Benedicta had hidden the house key. Once he found it, he ensured Philomel was comfortable, unlocked the door and walked into the stone-flagged kitchen, clean-swept, tidy but very cold. Athelstan took a taper to the hour candle. He lit the spigots and lantern horns before firing the braziers and the kindling in the hearth. Benedicta had left a lamp with perfumed oil of the anointment of roses to sweeten the air. A scratching at the door disturbed the friar’s enjoyment of the fragrance. He allowed Bonaventure in and the cat immediately joined the friar at the hearth. Athelstan pulled across the two rods; from each hung a small cauldron on a chain, one containing oatmeal, the other a soup, thickened and seasoned with herbs and onions. The room slowly thawed, the savoury smells from the pots curling out. Once the food was ready Athelstan prepared two bowls for himself and a pot of oatmeal for Bonaventure. The friar sat at the table, blessed both himself and the cat and ate slowly, staring into the flames.
‘Where do I begin, Bonaventure?’ he murmured. The cat scarcely lifted its head. ‘Just like Sir John, absorbed in your food. Well, let me explain. There are two camps. My Lord of Gaunt’s and that of the Upright Men, who definitely have a cell here in Saint Erconwald’s. Each party has a spy deep in the other’s household, and so it begins.’ Athelstan gulped a spoonful. ‘Gaunt brings his agents the Oudernardes from Ghent. They escort a mysterious prisoner, probably a woman, along with those two severed heads: one belongs to a young man, the other to an older woman. Both must have spoken some hideous slander against Gaunt, hence the removal of their tongues before their heads were severed. The gruesome remains were probably brought to London as trophies as well as proof of a task well done, of clacking tongues being silenced forever.’ Athelstan supped another mouthful. ‘The Upright Men stole the heads during that attack but failed to capture the mysterious prisoner. I wonder, Bonaventure, who gave them such excellent intelligence of where Gaunt’s party would be at a certain time on a certain day in the depth of winter?’ Athelstan waved his spoon at Bonaventure. ‘At the Roundhoop Thibault struck like a hawk. Who among the Upright Men told him about such a meeting?’ Bonaventure, who’d licked his bowl clean, cast an envious eye on those of this strange little friar. Athelstan pushed the oatmeal towards his dining companion. ‘Not the best of banquets, Bonaventure, but at least it’s hot. Now, what did really happen at the Roundhoop? Something definitely did but I can’t place it. What did that young man mean when he said the woman should continue gleaning? And what was he looking for? Some people might say he was all feverish due to the shock of death but I don’t think so.’
Athelstan paused, listening to the faint sounds from outside. Darkness would be falling, and the freezing cold would keep most of his parishioners indoors. ‘I wonder,’ Athelstan put down his spoon and stroked Bonaventure, ‘has Gaunt, my learned cat, truly placed a spy here in my parish?’ He stared at the crucifix fastened above the hearth. ‘None of my parishioners were present in Saint John’s Chapel, thank God.’ Athelstan swiftly crossed himself. ‘But Bonaventure, a clever assassin certainly was.’ Athelstan rose to put a log on the fire; when he turned back Bonaventure was finishing his soup. ‘Wretched cat!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘But who was that Judas man in the chapel? How did he kill? At first I suspected he used Hell’s mouth to shield and hide himself but, to do that, he would have to detach it from the rood screen, and that never happened.’ He breathed out noisily. ‘Yet how could that assassin loose two bolts and not be seen, leave those severed heads and not be detected? And how did the assassin trap Barak in that crypt, strike him at the back of the head, strap on the war belt, thrust a crossbow into his hand then hurl him from that window?’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘All a great mystery, even more so Eli’s death. Imagine a chamber like this, Bonaventure. No secret entrances, the window shuttered both within and outside, the door locked and barred. So how was Eli killed by a crossbow bolt? The eyelet was sealed and stuck?’ Athelstan moved to the door. ‘Even if it wasn’t, if I open the eyelet here and slide the shutter back, I’d see a weapon thrust against the gap. I’d already be vigilant — that’s why we use an eyelet — even more so if I glimpsed a crossbow.’ Athelstan went and stood before the hearth. ‘And that mysterious fire? I am sure it was a diversion so Eli’s killer could slip through the darkness. Why Eli? A simple player? To spread terror or,’ Athelstan wagged a finger, ‘did he see something untoward in that chapel? Or was he simply murdered because he might have done? Yes,’ Athlestan rubbed his hands, ‘that’s a start. After Oudernarde was struck, everyone, including myself, was at the far end of that nave, except Eli. Why was he slain? And, above all,’ Athelstan went back to his chair, ‘how was it done?’ He stared into the fire. As he stroked Bonaventure, his eyes grew heavy so he put his
head down on his arms and slept. A loud knocking on the door eventually aroused him. Athelstan glanced at the hour candle — an entire ring had burned. He hurried to the door.
‘Brother Athelstan, it’s me, Flaxwith, and two of my bailiffs.’ Athelstan drew the bolts and let them in. All three were draped in cloaks and mantles, mufflers and hoods pulled close. Flaxwith’s mastiff stayed obediently outside; he and Bonaventure had met before and both nourished a lasting hatred for each other.
‘Sir John sent you this.’ Flaxwith handed over a small cream-coloured scroll tied with a green ribbon. Athelstan undid this, offering his visitors blackjacks of ale. They refused but gratefully ladled out some of the hot soup while Athelstan read the itemized list of information about Humphrey Warde and his family. The details were succinct and clear. According to Sir John, Warde was a very successful spicer who’d mysteriously left his shop in Cheapside. Rumour had it that he’d fallen on hard times. However, Sir John had learnt on good authority from whisperers in the Guildhall that Warde still enjoyed a lucrative trade with the spicery department of Gaunt’s wardrobe as well as those of the royal household.
‘Spices be damned!’ Athelstan whispered, rolling up the scrap of parchment.
‘You sound exactly like Sir John.’ Flaxwith put down the bowl, smacking his lips.
‘Master Flaxwith, come with me. Leave one of your men to guard my house. He may eat and drink whatever, within reason. Bonaventure will tell me if he doesn’t.’ Athelstan grabbed his cloak, put on his stout walking boots and, followed by a surprised Flaxwith and one of his bailiffs, swept from the house. It was a black night, freezing hard, the ground under foot glitteringly treacherous, a trap for the unwary. The friar recalled the attack on him outside St Peter’s. Was that against him or someone else? To kill or to frighten? Athelstan hurried past his church, his mind teeming with problems and questions. God bless both him and them but what if Pike and the others were correct? Humphrey Warde could well be a spy, a cockle planted deep in Athelstan’s wheat field, a collector of intelligence for his sinister masters at the Savoy palace. Athelstan walked on. The snaking lanes and paths were deserted. Chinks of light gleamed at windows and doors. Snow slid from roofs peppered with icicles. A rat scrabbled across the frost. A black shadow pursued; in the corner of a runnel the hunted gave an eerie screech as it was caught. From somewhere a voice chanted a common song and then faded. Athelstan reached Rickett Lane. Down under the leaning, cramped, crooked little houses, much decayed and held up by crutches, Athelstan found Warde’s narrow, two-storey tenement. The front was boarded up but the door hung slightly open, unlatched and unlocked. A cold and unreasoning dread seized Athelstan as he pushed back the door. Inside the stone-flagged passageway was lit by greasy tallow candles in their niches. Somewhere a child whimpered. Athelstan paused. The house was cold but the air fragrant from the smells of crushed spices stored in the small shop immediately to his left. Athelstan was about to walk on when he glimpsed the shadow slumped between the two tables where the spices were prepared and weighed. He grabbed the box lantern off its hook just within the doorway and walked in. Humphrey Warde lay sprawled on his back, the crossbow bolt almost buried in his chest. The blood from the wound had clotted in an icy puddle. Athelstan murmured a prayer and moved on. Katherine Warde lay face down in the small kitchen, killed by a crossbow bolt to the back of her head. In a small cot beside her, baby Odo murmured fretfully.
‘Raise the hue and cry!’ Athelstan whispered to a shocked Flaxwith who had followed him in. ‘Shout “Harrow” and rouse the parish!’ He tapped the small cot. ‘Baby Odo needs attention.’ In the small comfortable solar above, Humphrey’s two children, Laurence and Margaret, had been struck down. Laurence almost blocked the threshold; the barb had sliced his throat, the blood splashing out to stain both lintel and floor. Margaret had been thrown back in the comfortable window seat, the embroidery she had been working on slipping through her fingers as the bolt smashed into her chest, a direct hit to the heart. Her eyes stared in glassy horror, her slack mouth encrusted with blood.
‘These are nightmares,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘The blackest sins have been committed here. The demons gather. God have mercy on us all.’ Flaxwith touched him on the shoulder and pointed to a parchment scrap nailed to a wooded settle nearby. Athelstan plucked it down and read the scrawl.
‘When Adam delved and Eve span
Who was then the gentleman?
Now the world is ours and ours alone
To cut the Lords to heart and bone.’
Sir John Cranston gazed down at the four bloody corpses stretched out on a canvas sheet in the spice chamber. Athelstan had swiftly finished the rite for the dead and informed the coroner of what he had found. The lane outside was packed with people. The wardsmen had been alerted by the ringing cries of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ Bladdersniff, the local beadle and constable, despite his topeish ways, had roused Athelstan’s parishioners. Baby Odo was being looked after by a family. Now the rest of the neighbourhood, armed with staves, clubs, cudgels, daggers and maces, gathered in the freezing cold.
‘Father, we are here.’
‘So you are.’ Athelstan beckoned Watkin and Pike into the small chamber. ‘Just one question.’ Athelstan’s face was drawn in anger, eyes hard, no smile or understanding look. ‘One question.’ Athelstan repeated. ‘On God’s eternal judgement on your souls, the truth!’ he hissed. ‘Are you responsible for this?’
Watkin and Pike gaped in horror at the blood-drenched corpses.
‘Under the ban!’ Watkin exclaimed. ‘They must have all been placed under the ban! Father, I swear, if they were, the order was not known or carried out by us.’ Watkin scratched his face. ‘The Wardes were a nuisance; they actually learnt very little, nothing more than most of the parish know. Well,’ he shuffled mud-caked boots, ‘until that attack on the Roundhoop.’
‘Juravisti iuramentum magnum et non poenitebet vos,’ Athelstan replied, quoting the solemn legal phrase. ‘You have sworn a great oath and you cannot repent of it, yes? You and yours,’ Athelstan pointed at both of them, ‘had nothing to do with this. If you did, I shall, with bell, book and candle, solemnly excommunicate you from the steps of the sanctuary of our church. Damned Watkin! Damned to the fires of Hell for all eternity! Cursed in your waking. Cursed in your sleeping. Cursed in your eating. Cursed in your drinking. Bereft of the sacraments. No Eucharist, no shriving, no anointing, no baptizing.’ Athelstan’s words rolled like the peal of doom, echoing out along the passageway and into the street beyond. Watkin and Pike stretched out their hands, the solemn gesture when taking an oath.
‘Father, on our souls,’ Watkin couldn’t take his eyes off those corpses, ‘we swear on our souls.’
‘If you were involved,’ Cranston barked, ‘once Holy Mother Church finished with you, the hangman will begin.’
‘Father?’ Huddle the painter, accompanied by Benedicta, pushed his way by Watkin and Pike to stare aghast at the carnage.
‘How?’ Benedicta whispered.
‘Never mind.’ Athelstan softened. He picked up a leather sack and thrust this at her with the keys to both church and house. ‘Benedicta, these are Humphrey Warde’s papers: some ledgers and a psalter. Put them in the parish chest, make sure they are safely secure. Please look after everything. I have to accompany Sir John.’
‘King’s business,’ the coroner lugubriously intervened. ‘Despite the late hour, I need Brother Athelstan and, when we are finished, I’m afraid it’s back to the Tower.’
‘Ensure all is safe,’ Athelstan urged Benedicta. ‘Go to Father Walter at Saint Ethelburga’s, ask him as a favour to send his curate to celebrate the Jesus Mass for you tomorrow. Huddle?’ The painter stepped out of the shadows, his stained fingers clutching the skin of his face now whiter than the driven snow, his eyes two large pools of terror. He could not stop staring at the corpses.
‘Huddle,’ Athelstan gently shook the painter’s shoulder, ‘Huddle, what is it?’
‘So g
ruesome, Father, so savage, so much blood. I was. . I was only talking to them, I. .’ Huddle turned and fled into the street to retch and vomit noisily.
‘Take care of him,’ Athelstan urged Benedicta. ‘Tell him to look after our anchorite; they must continue with their paintings. Now,’ Athelstan forced a smile and sketched a blessing, ‘all of you must leave. Benedicta, do look in on baby Odo, take care of everything.’
Once the chamber was cleared and the shop door closed, Athelstan sat on a high stool and stared owl-eyed at Sir John. ‘So, I am to accompany you?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ the coroner replied evasively. ‘Yea, even into the Valley of the Death.’ Cranston eased himself into the chamber’s only chair. ‘The centre doesn’t hold,’ Cranston murmured as if to himself. ‘All things are falling apart. A violent storm is coming.’ He pointed at the corpses, ‘Do you believe they were spies?’
‘God forgive Gaunt,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘But yes! Warde depicted himself as a spicer who had fallen on hard times, forced to leave his house and shop in Cheapside. Nonsense! That was a sham, a play, a little masque. Your enquiry, Sir John, proved that. The truth is that Warde supplied precious spices to the Royal households. He was Gaunt’s man and cheerfully indulged in this pretence — he came and took root here. A man needed by the community, everyone wants to do business with a spicer, especially in the depth of winter when our meat is old and heavily salted. Nutmeg, mace, cloves and cinnamon are in great demand. Warde and his children would have good custom, at least in theory. They would visit houses, get to know families. Katherine would mingle with other women. All the chatter and gossip of the community would flow around them. They would collect, sift this and pass it on. Precious information, be it who was close to the Upright Men, or even the time and date of meetings like that at the Roundhoop.’ Cranston made to object.
