by Paul Doherty
Urswicke immediately hurried back along the gallery. He went down to the taproom and had urgent words with the taverner, who turned to a square wooden frame hanging on the wall to the side of the buttery table. This contained rows of keys, each under a garishly painted number. Minehost chose one, shouted at two of his customers, dung collectors, bellowing that one of them should bring his mallet. They returned to Vavasour’s chamber. The taverner inserted the key but was unable to make it catch. He pushed at the door but it held fast.
‘It’s locked and bolted from within. By all that stinks, something is wrong.’ He beckoned at the dung collectors and, at his insistence, the one carrying the mallet began to pound the door whilst the taverner hurried down to the stable yard. He returned all breathless to declare how Vavasour’s chamber had one small window which looked as if it was fully shuttered with no sign of any light. The pounding on the door continued. The dung collectors, taking it in turns, crashed their mallet against both the keyhole and the top of the door until an entrance was eventually forced, the door breaking free to hang loose on its leather hinges. The taverner had fetched and lit two large lanternhorns. Urswicke took one whilst minehost carried the other into Vavasour’s chamber. It was dark, cold and musty. No candle flared, whilst the charcoal in the chaffing dish was mere dust.
The taverner raised his lanternhorn and moved deeper into the chamber, the shifting light caught the gruesome scene. Robert Vavasour lay sprawled against the far wall, head thrown back, across his chest and belly a dark blotch of dried blood which had poured from the crossbow quarrel driven deep into his heart. A truly killing blow. Death would have been swift. Urswicke pushed himself past the taverner to squat and examine the corpse even as Bray, muttering under his breath, snatched the lanternhorn and began a search of the chamber.
‘Nothing.’ Bray came to crouch beside Urswicke. ‘Nothing, Christopher. A few paltry possessions, clothing, weapons, but nothing of note.’ Bray pointed to the dead man’s jerkin hanging open. ‘Look, Christopher. Just like Cromart, there is no belt.’
‘Why should the killer take Vavasour’s belt?’ Urswicke glanced up at Pembroke.
‘I don’t know,’ came the hissed reply. ‘Perhaps the killer was searching for the Dragon Cipher.’
‘It could be, or it might be something else. God knows how the assassin got in and left. That window is too small and the door was locked and bolted.’ Urswicke made a face and stared around the chamber. ‘A true mystery,’ he murmured.
‘We cannot stay.’ Pembroke leaned down. ‘Christopher, minehost has to alert the watch. The sheriff’s men will soon be here and I must be gone. I strongly suggest you do likewise. So, until we meet again.’ Pembroke lifted a hand and slipped out of the room. Once again Urswicke and Bray searched both corpse and chamber but could discover nothing significant. The taverner came hurrying back to warn them the watch would soon arrive. The taverner was now not so merry but nervous and agitated, his fat face sheened with sweat. Urswicke strongly suspected that minehost had a great deal to hide, be it contraband in his cellars or some of his customers who would not wish to attract the attention of the sheriff’s men.
‘You’d best go, you’d best go,’ the taverner wailed.
‘Hush now.’ Urswicke grabbed the man by his sleeve and thrust a coin into his hand. ‘This chamber,’ he demanded, ‘had no secret or hidden entrance?’ The taverner shook his head. ‘And the window?’
Urswicke crossed to the shutters.
‘Firmly barred,’ the taverner declared. ‘Open them, sir, and see.’
Urswicke lifted the bar, raised the hooks and pulled back the two wooden boards; the window they concealed was nothing more than a square gap, certainly not big enough for anyone to crawl through. Moreover, it was covered by oiled parchment which, despite the dirt strewn across it, stretched unbroken.
‘The killer,’ Bray hissed, ‘must have come through the door.’
Urswicke picked up one of the lanternhorns and inspected the door, its lintel, hinges, lock and bolt clasp; the latter had been torn away, the clasp hanging loose, the bolt twisted. Urswicke kicked aside the shards of wood and other rubbish which littered the floor and crouched down to scrutinise the lock and its key. Both of these had been buckled by the hammer blows of the two dung collectors, who’d returned to the taproom for the free ale the taverner had promised. Urswicke continued his inspection. He was certain the door had been properly secured and sealed. The bolt clasp had been shattered loose so it must have been drawn across, whilst the key appeared to have been turned. Yet all this only deepened the mystery, for how did the assassin leave?
‘Christopher,’ Bray urged, ‘we must go. The sheriff’s men must not find us here. I do not want to be arrested on suspicion of being involved.’
‘And yet we are, Reginald, deeply involved. Who is responsible for this? Who knew Vavasour was here? Pembroke only learnt it when we did. So what happened here?’ Urswicke snapped his fingers, beckoning the taverner close. ‘What happened here?’ Urswicke repeated.
‘Nothing happened here,’ the taverner retorted. ‘You see what I do. The man, my guest,’ he gestured at the corpse, ‘arrived in my tavern late this afternoon. He bought a stoup of ale and a platter of hot food. He ate and drank by himself. He hired a chamber. I gave him the key and up he went. After that,’ the taverner pulled a face, ‘nothing, nothing at all. He was no trouble. Sometimes they are. They get drunk and begin to smash the furniture or cause a nuisance, that’s why I always hold a second key to each chamber. But this guest was fine. I saw nothing untoward. I’ve been busy, you see. The Guild of Dung Collectors assembles here. Today was a frenetic one before Sunday comes. The tavern’s lay stalls, cesspit and jakes must be cleaned so my tavern smells nice and clean.’
‘And this man had no visitors?’
‘Not that I saw. I saw nothing, I heard nothing, and I know nothing about this man’s death.’
‘Impossible!’ Urswicke glanced around the chamber. In truth, this was really nothing more than a sealed box: there was no entrance except the door and that had been securely locked. Nevertheless, the assassin, armed with a crossbow, crept in here to kill Vavasour. How and why was a mystery. Urswicke chewed the corner of his lip as he stared at the corpse: he’d met Vavasour before, a soldier, a skilled dagger man, so why hadn’t Vavasour resisted? Yet there was no evidence that he had, and why was this?
Christopher Urswicke relaxed in his private chamber on the first gallery of his mistress’s riverside mansion. He’d kicked off his boots and put his cloak and warbelt on a wall peg. He’d made himself comfortable on a chair close to the narrow hearth with Bray sitting beside him. Both men were lost in their own thoughts, staring into the fiery red coals as they searched for an answer, a way forward through the murderous maze they had entered. They had left The Devil’s Cellar just a hop and a jump before the sheriff’s men arrived. They’d kept to the shadows, hurrying along the streets to report everything to their mistress. The countess, her face all severe, had listened carefully. Once they’d finished, she’d raised her head, eyes welling with tears: she blinked these away and sat praying for the souls of both Guido and Robert Vavasour.
‘Good and faithful servants,’ she whispered. ‘They will be sorely missed and how many more will there be?’ She turned and stared fearfully at her two henchmen. ‘How many more?’ she repeated. ‘God help us but are we finished? Is this where it will end? My son, a forgotten exile in Brittany and I, an ageing countess. So,’ she picked up a psalter from the table beside her, ‘dark thoughts, I concede. But leave me now. Leave me to my prayers.’
They quietly left the chamber, both of them wondering what the countess meant. Bray coughed and drew himself up. ‘Our mistress’s mood is like our own.’
‘Little wonder,’ Urswicke replied, ‘Sir Henry Stafford is close to death and she is watched day and night by the House of York, even here. For all we know, Edith the maid could be in the pay of the Guildhall.’
‘Oh I a
gree. The likes of Clarence would love to strike at her. But so far they have no evidence to indict such a well-born, highly respected lady whilst her marriage to Sir Henry affords her the protection of the Duke of Buckingham, with all the power and prestige of the Staffords. They cannot strike directly so they hunt those who support her, Cromart, Vavasour and the rest, including us. The countess is correct,’ Urswicke paused, ‘it’s a matter of logic. They intend to execute or murder Pembroke and the rest of the sanctuary men. I am not too sure how many will reach Thorpe Manor or live to board The Galicia.’
‘I agree,’ Bray retorted. ‘This murderous masque is reaching its conclusion. Our mistress’s retainers are being slaughtered so why should the sanctuary men be spared …?’
‘Very well, very well.’ Urswicke’s tone turned brisk. ‘Let us be logical. First, York wants Pembroke and his coven utterly destroyed. My father the Recorder has taken personal responsibility for seeing these sanctuary men out of the kingdom in accordance with all the published protocols and procedures of canon law. Indeed, Holy Mother Church, apart from our own sharp wits, is the only defence we have. My father must not alienate the Church. Archdeacon Blackthorne, through his emissary Parson Austin, will watch what happens like a hawk does a wheat field. Parson Austin may well be in the pay of York, but he’s a cleric and, I suspect, deeply fearful of offending his priestly superiors.’
‘Let’s pray,’ Bray murmured, ‘that Pembroke can safely watch Zeigler hang and afterwards reach sanctuary.’
‘Oh I am sure he will. Pembroke is redoubtable, resolute and resilient. What concerns me is how my father intends to destroy him and the rest, for he has surely set his mind on that. But he can’t do it here, not in London or Essex. So what happens?’ Urswicke felt a surge of excitement. ‘Oh yes Reginald, what happens if York’s allies, God knows who, are waiting for them at sea?’ Bray nodded in agreement. ‘This game has been played out before,’ Urswicke declared. ‘De Vere’s ship managed to escape but if they’d trapped and sunk it, that would have been a disaster. Now what happens if York intends to do the same again? Our sanctuary men board The Galicia, but they are never allowed to leave. Flemish pirates close in. The Galicia is sunk and all aboard are killed or drowned. Edward of England, like Pilate, washes his hands in public and claims to be totally innocent. Yes, that’s where they will strike so we must, if we can, plot our moves at sea.’
‘Is that possible?’
‘Certainly! So,’ Urswicke leaned over and grasped Bray’s arm, ‘let us describe the tribe of troubles which surround us. Primo, our mistress is deeply worried, concerned, withdrawn. We know some of the causes for this but, I suspect, not the full truth. Secondo, kinsman Jasper and her beloved son Henry hide in exile. They are safe enough in Brittany. However, if York can do them a damage, he will. They live constantly in the shadow of the axe, the sword or the poisoned cup. Tertio, the countess has her allies. However, most of these hide deep in the grass here in England or drink the bitter dregs of exile. Quarto, our mistress has, or had, a chain of messengers with her exiled son, envoys such as Pembroke and Vavasour; these are all links in a chain, former members of the Red Dragon Battle Group, and they are being betrayed or murdered. Cromart and the two Vavasours are proof enough.’
‘Whilst their deaths remain shrouded in mystery.’
‘Deep and tangled,’ Urswicke agreed. ‘Cromart was murdered in a sealed, locked church, Vavasour in a shabby tavern chamber. Quinto, who is this Judas man? We must not forget the intelligence we have received, that Parson Austin and Ratstail may well be in the pay of York. Did they collaborate in the killing of Cromart? Did they have a role in Vavasour’s death? A shifting scene, Reginald. We are staring into a mist of murder.’ He paused at a loud rap on the door and a servant entered.
‘Master Christopher, there’s a messenger from the Guildhall. He says he’s been despatched by your father Sir Thomas.’ Urswicke glanced at Bray who just shrugged.
‘Show him in.’
A short while later the courier, wearing the livery of the Guildhall, much splattered with mud, walked into the chamber, sketched a bow, and handed Christopher the new woollen robe he carried and a clinking leather purse.
‘What is this?’ Christopher declared.
The man pulled a face. ‘Gifts from your father, master.’ The courier closed his eyes. ‘Sir Thomas said you looked tired and dishevelled when you last met so he sent these gifts to ease your discomfort.’ Christopher was on the point of refusing when Bray coughed, shaking his head imperceptibly. Christopher took the proffered gifts.
‘Inform my noble father,’ he declared, ‘that I am grateful for his kindness and charity. Tell him that, as always, he has touched my heart.’
The man bowed and left. Bray crossed to make sure the door was closed. ‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,’ he declared, ‘but in this case, the Recorder of London. Christopher, I truly wonder why?’
Urswicke put both cloak and purse on a stool, rubbed his hands and stood for a while, eyes half closed. ‘I am suspicious,’ he murmured, ‘what does my noble father intend?’ He gestured at the purse, which had a white rose crudely stitched on either side. Urswicke smiled. ‘White rose, red rose, whatever rose, there certainly is a malignant canker at the heart of ours.’
‘I agree,’ Bray retorted. ‘What we confront is shrouded in a fog of deceit and treachery. Your father sends you gifts. I would give everything I have to discover how your father knew when and where those men would land at Walton. I have been thinking, Christopher, do you think he had a hand in those two hired assassins who tried to kill us?’
‘Yes, though what did one of them confess when dying?’ Urswicke tapped his foot against the floor. ‘What did he mean when he muttered something about the attack on me was not intended? Ah well, Reginald,’ Urswicke pointed to the hour candle, ‘we must sleep and rise early. I also want to watch Zeigler hang.’
PART THREE
‘Oh What Fear Man’s Bosom Rendeth’
All of London seemed to be of the same mind as Urswicke and Bray. Early next morning, after the Jesus mass had been celebrated, the great bell of Newgate began its mournful, hollow booming, proclaiming that a hanging was imminent and a sinner’s soul was to be despatched to God for judgement. Merchants and their wives, garbed in furs, ermine and other fine fabrics, cordovan leather warming their feet and beaver hats and caps protecting their heads, gathered to watch. They moved in a shimmer of jewellery along Cheapside into the Shambles, the great slaughter yard and fleshers’ market which stretched close to the grim, grey-stone prison. Newgate truly was a house of iron, with its narrow caged windows and well-guarded, steel-studded postern doors. Other citizens, shopkeepers and traders closed their stalls. They left their apprentices, armed with cudgels and clubs to guard their premises. These would be under strict instruction to watch the shadow-dwellers, the knights of the dark, the masters of the cut and the snip, the conjurors and confidence tricksters who now swarmed out of their reeking cellars and stinking dens, hungry for a quick profit. Beadles and bailiffs also thronged around the great stocks, thews and pillories set up before the prison. These officials, armed with white wands deliberately splintered, their pointed ends sharpened even further, moved amongst the multitude of miscreants, keen-eyed and ferocious as they hunted the sneak thieves and pickpockets.
Other groups had also assembled; the Guild of the Lost Souls, pious men and women who gathered on execution day, to pray for those condemned to die. Friars of the Sack, who had a unique apostolate to prisoners, chanted psalms or recited the rosary. All of these rubbed shoulders with a coven of warlocks who flocked to the scaffolds searching for relics for their own macabre rites. Of course, the cold weather, the frost and the biting breezes whetted appetites. Taverners and ale masters touted for business along with the wandering cooks, hot-pot girls and other servitors. All of these threaded their way through the noisy, surging crowd offering spiced meats, mulled wine and other refreshments. Urswicke and Bray, cowled, cloaked an
d muffled against the nipping breeze, pushed their way through to a vantage point where they could clearly see the massive iron-studded front of Newgate. The great bell had now fallen silent. The crowd waited patiently for the huge, soaring prison gates to open and the execution cart emerge on its journey to the scaffold over Tyburn stream.
Urswicke stood watching, distracted by the thoughts milling about in his head, eyes half closed as he recalled that sombre sacristy in St Michael’s where Cromart had been slain. He reflected on what he and Bray had discussed the previous day. Had the parish priest and Ratstail been involved in that murder? Yet neither of these appeared to have a hand in Guido Vavasour’s capture or Robert’s mysterious murder in that tavern chamber. And would Pembroke be safe? Urswicke opened his eyes and took a deep breath. He must be more vigilant. He opened his belt purse and paid a chanteur who’d occupied a stone plinth in a fruitless attempt to entertain the crowd with stories about visitors from the mountains of the moon. The fellow cheerfully took the coin and stepped down so that Urswicke, one hand on Bray’s shoulder, could climb up to survey the crowd. He reasoned that Pembroke, garbed and masked as a dung collector, would have risen early and secured a place close to the barrier which stretched up to the doors of Newgate.
Urswicke studied the front line of the crowd, the best place to catch a view of the notorious riffler before he danced in the air. Urswicke was sure he glimpsed Pembroke standing in front of the barrier where the prison cart holding Zeigler would pass on its way down across Holborn Stream and up to Tyburn. Urswicke narrowed his eyes in concentration. Yes, was that Pembroke? The dung collector turned his head and Urswicke smiled, it was his man! He then realised that Pembroke was not alone but accompanied by two ladies, both garbed in grey like nuns from the House of Minoresses outside Cripplegate. Both these women turned. Urswicke could not distinguish between them but Pembroke was certainly their companion, coming in between the two or moving around so as to converse with one then the other. Urswicke also noticed something amiss and felt a shiver of apprehension. The crowd was noisy and colourful, the air rich with a variety of smells and different sounds. People gossiped, prayed, cursed and laughed in a swathe and surge of colour. Yet a subtle change had occurred. Well-armed, battle-harnessed men, garbed in boiled leather with warbelts slung over their shoulders, had emerged from the nearby alleyways. Undoubtedly rifflers, they wore blood-red neckerchiefs proclaiming the colours of their particular gang.
