by Paul Doherty
Maneil heard a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’
Again the knock. Maneil sighed and swung his feet off the bed. He pulled back the bolt, opened it and the crossbow quarrel struck him full in the throat.
CHAPTER 13
Athelstan was still studying the garden; Sir John was taking some small refreshment in the arbour, mopping his brow, Sir Maurice was elsewhere when Simon Gismond, Sir Walter Limbright’s captain of the guard, came out shouting for Sir John.
‘What is it?’ he demanded crossly.
‘My lord coroner, one of the prisoners is dead.’
‘Poisoned?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Might as well be. A crossbow quarrel full in his throat. The corpse is still slightly warm. You’d best come and see.’
They followed him back into the manor and met Sir Maurice on the stairs. All three followed Gismond up along the dusty, shabby gallery. The door to the chamber was open. Maneil was lying on his back, arms out, head slightly twisted. The front of his jerkin was soaked in blood which had splashed out to form a dark red puddle around his head. A soldier stood by the window gazing out.
‘Who found the corpse?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I did.’
The soldier came over, cradling his helmet in his hand. He had a plough boy’s face, open and honest, his cheeks chapped and red. He took one fresh look at the corpse and hurried back to be sick in the small latrine pot beneath the window.
Athelstan crouched down. He pressed his hand against Maneil’s cheek. It was not yet cold. Aspinall came in. He took one look at the corpse, groaned and knelt beside it, pulling down the jerkin. Athelstan could see the great red angry hole around the crossbow bolt. He looked back at the door. The dead man had been flung at least two or three feet back into the room by the force of the quarrel.
‘He would have died instantly,’ Athelstan said. ‘The crossbow must have been held only inches from his neck.’
Athelstan went through the dead man’s wallet but he could find nothing except a few coins and a scrap of parchment. He walked over to the bed and looked down at the dirty, dishevelled blanket, picked it up and sniffed the sour, acrid smell of stale sweat. He threw it back and turned as Gresnay and Vamier were led into the room. Sir John dismissed the guard but told Gismond to stay. The two Frenchmen took one look at their colleague’s dead face and went and sat on the bed, the most woebegone expression on their faces.
‘We are going to die,’ Gresnay announced. ‘We are going to die in this awful benighted manor. Killed by some tail-bearing Englishman. Do you understand me?’ He got to his feet, his face mottled in fury.
He turned to Sir John but Gismond stepped in between them.
‘I think you’d best sit down,’ he said softly. ‘The coroner is not responsible for your friend’s murder.’
‘Well, who is?’ Vamier expostulated. He flapped his hands around. ‘Where’s the arbalest? Where’s the crossbow? Gresnay and I haven’t got a pin between us!’
‘Master Gismond,’ Sir John barked. ‘Take Maltravers here. I want this place searched for anything suspicious: knives, daggers, cross-bows, anything!’
Ordering Vamier to take the corpse by the feet, he shifted the body on to the bed. Athelstan knelt down, whispered the words of absolution and made the sign of the cross. He had barely finished when Sir Walter staggered into the room, clutching his stomach. He took one look at the corpse and crouched down just inside the door. His face was pale, flecks of vomit stained the corner of his mouth.
‘Another one dead!’ he grated. ‘I’ve lost everything.’ He began to sob quietly, head down, shoulders shaking.
Even the prisoners looked pityingly at their keeper.
‘I swear to God I had no hand in the deaths of any of them. While my daughter’s death is a punishment from God for my hateful heart!’
Sir John walked over and crouched beside him.
‘Come on, man,’ he urged. ‘Take a drop of wine. It will settle your stomach, not too much.’
Sir Walter obeyed.
‘Now, get to your feet.’ Sir John pulled him up by the elbows. ‘You are an English knight, you are distraught and, like us, you are in the Devil’s Domain. A killer walks the galleries of Hawkmere. Now, it could be one of those.’ He pointed across to the two Frenchmen. ‘Or, indeed, anyone here.’
‘It can’t be the Frenchmen,’ Sir Walter muttered, glancing shame-facedly at them. ‘Not even my own men carry crossbows. They are locked away in the armoury and that’s padlocked twice over. Gismond keeps one key, I keep the other.’ He spread his hands beseechingly. ‘Sir John, what am I to do?’
‘I have a suggestion.’ The friar spoke up. ‘And it may save more lives. Our two French prisoners should be separated and locked in their chambers. A guard inside and one without. They are to be served food direct from the kitchen. They are not allowed to meet anyone except the soldier who is in the room with them.’
Vamier went to protest but Athelstan held his hand up.
‘No, no, it’s the safest way.’
‘He speaks the truth,’ Gresnay said. ‘It should have been done before. I am sorry, Pierre.’ He glanced at Vamier. ‘But, until our ransoms are paid, even if the assassin strikes again, such measures might trap him.’
‘But why be kept separate?’ Vamier protested. ‘Whoever killed poor Maneil there carried a crossbow and quarrel. Whoever killed him must have been a member of the garrison here or a visitor. And,’ he added finally, ‘Monsieur de Fontanel left long before poor Eudes was slain.’
Sir Maurice came back into the room.
‘The armoury is still sealed and locked,’ he announced. ‘Gismond told me that no man carries arbalests, the guards have long bows and quivers.’
‘Sir Walter.’ Sir John snapped his fingers. ‘Have these two men put in their chambers immediately! The guards must be posted. Care must be taken with their food.’
‘I’ll taste it myself,’ Sir Walter offered, eager to assert his authority.
Sir John and Athelstan made their farewells and, a short while later, they and Sir Maurice left the manor.
The day was drawing on. Athelstan reckoned it must be close to Vespers time, for the blue sky was scored with red. A breeze had sprung up and clouds were massing over the city. He looked at the scorched grass.
‘It will be good if there’s a storm,’ he remarked. ‘The earth needs to drink and we, Sir John, need to trap an assassin.’
‘I am not going back into the city. I suppose, Sir Maurice, you’ll accompany Brother Athelstan. I am going to search out my friends the scrimperers,’ the coroner said, swaying slightly on his feet. ‘I wonder if they know about some poor whore who has gone missing?’
‘Ah, the business of the Golden Cresset?’ Sir Maurice asked.
‘They’ll be able to help,’ Athelstan said. I know their reputation. But, Sir John, while you are busy with that could you seek someone else who deals in poisons?’
‘Vulpina was the best,’ he grumbled. ‘But I’ll search and see.’
They walked for a while towards St Giles, where Sir John left them. Athelstan felt tired so he and Sir Maurice hired a ride in a cart which made its way down through Portsoken around the walls of the city and down to the Tower. They then walked on to the Woolquay and hired a barge to take them across the now choppy waters of the Thames into Southwark.
By the time they reached St Erconwald’s, the storm Athelstan had predicted was beginning to gather. The breeze had grown strong, the clouds, blocking out the setting sun, now massed low and threatening. They found Godbless in the church fast asleep with one arm round Thaddeus. Huddle had been busy on the wall and, in the fading light, Athelstan could make out the charcoal lines. He told Sir Maurice to wake Godbless and take him and Thaddeus back to the priest’s house while he crossed the cemetery.
The ditch Watkin and Pike had dug was growing longer. Athelstan studied the hard-packed earth around the foundations of the cemetery wall.
&n
bsp; ‘That was built to last,’ he said to himself. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that wall.’
Still slightly suspicious, Athelstan was about to climb in to examine it more closely when the first large drops of rain changed his mind. He went back, closed the death house door and returned to the kitchen where Sir Maurice had already built up the small fire. The knight tapped the cauldron hung on a tripod.
‘Someone has left you a stew.’ He sniffed at it. ‘The meat and vegetables are fresh.’
Athelstan knelt beside him.
‘It’s Benedicta,’ he said. ‘The widow woman.’ He gestured round. ‘She keeps the place clean as a pin. Where’s Godbless?’
‘He’s still in church. He says he likes it there.’
Athelstan went to the buttery where he filled a bowl of water and washed his hands and face. He went up into the bed loft and found the Dominican robes Simon the scrivener had brought back. Below the door opened and Godbless came in.
‘Stir the stew!’ Athelstan shouted down. ‘You’ll find a ladle in the buttery! When it’s piping hot, call me down!’
‘I like stews,’ Godbless called up. ‘Master Merrylegs gave me a pie free but I’m still hungry!’
‘Good.’
Athelstan lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He said a short prayer but, distracted, his mind went back to Hawkmere. How did those men die? Routier like some wretched dog out on the heathland. And Maneil with a crossbow bolt in his throat. Sir Walter and Aspinall had access to poisons but, although he had no real evidence, he believed that the physician’s explanation was satisfactory. So, where did the poisons come from? And who had the crossbow and the bolt? Surely not one of the French prisoners? He heard Sir Maurice laugh at something Godbless had said. Was Maltravers innocent? Or, despite his protestations, Limbright? Or was there someone else in the manor? Some secret assassin hidden away? Was Mercurius one of the guards?
‘It’s possible,’ Athelstan whispered, his eyes growing heavy. He fell into a deep sleep and woke confused when the knight shook him by the shoulder.
Athelstan pulled himself up.
‘Brother, Godbless has been cooking, it’s ready now.’
Athelstan savoured the sweet smell wafting up from the kitchen.
‘I am starving,’ he said and followed Sir Maurice down the ladder.
Bonaventure had returned and was nestling up to Thaddeus beside the hearth. Godbless had set the table with three bowls, horn spoons, jugs and pewter goblets and a jug of ale from the buttery. Athelstan, still half-asleep, murmured grace and they sat down. He broke the bread, blessed it and gave pieces to his companions. Outside he could hear the rain drumming and the distant rumble of thunder. He ate slowly, for the stew was delicious but boiling hot. Godbless chattered like a squirrel and Sir Maurice, rather bemused, just stared and listened as this old beggar man described how he had fought in the Low Countries, in France and even Northern Italy. Athelstan was still distracted by what had happened at Hawkmere. He could make no sense of it. Now and again he stole a look at the young knight, who could speak so elegantly about love. Was he as innocent as he claimed?
‘What are you going to do about the ghosts, Brother?’ Godbless put his spoon down and stared hungrily at the cauldron above the fire.
‘Eat some more,’ Athelstan told him. ‘And there’s another manchet loaf in the kitchen wrapped in a linen cloth.’
‘What’s this?’ Sir Maurice asked as the beggar man hurried off.
‘He believes that we have ghosts in St Erconwald’s cemetery. Now, I believe in ghosts but not in Southwark. I think it’s some game or a jest, or probably one of my parishioners up to mischief.’
‘There are ghosts.’ Godbless shook his head and returned to the table.
‘You said something else,’ Athelstan recalled. ‘About a man in Italy who should have died but you saw him alive?’
Godbless looked bleary-eyed and Athelstan wondered how much he had drunk that day.
‘Yes, yes.’ Godbless scratched his chin. ‘I don’t really remember now. It will come back to me. Are you Dominican or are you not?’ he asked Sir Maurice, abruptly changing the conversation. ‘That smirking scrivener who brought the robe back, he said it belonged to you.’
‘I was a Dominican for a short while,’ Sir Maurice replied. ‘And it’s a great secret and you must not tell anyone, Godbless.’
They paused as the thunder cracked directly above them. Outside the window the lightning flashed, the rain now bouncing off the roof.
‘I had best check on my death house,’ Godbless said, putting his spoon down. ‘No, no,’ he said as Athelstan went to restrain him. ‘I want to make sure there are no holes in that roof.’ He grabbed his cloak, put it over his head and left.
‘A strange fellow.’ Maltravers filled his goblet. ‘Brother, can we return to the convent tomorrow?’
‘No. I am sorry, Sir Maurice, Lady Monica might become too suspicious. Perhaps Wednesday after I have celebrated the Guild of Rat-Catchers’ Mass.’ He jumped at a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘Brother, for the love of God, please help us!’
At the door, a man stood in the darkness, supporting another, his head down, arm across his shoulder. Athelstan glimpsed an unshaven face and a brass ring glinting in an ear lobe.
‘We’ve been attacked, Brother! For the love of God, can we come in?’
Athelstan stepped back. The man, grunting and groaning, brought his companion into the house. Athelstan was closing the door when he heard Sir Maurice’s exclamation. He turned round to see both men were now on their feet, cowls back, the crossbows in their hands lowered and primed. They were both shaven-headed with lean, vicious faces, made all the more so by the brass rings hanging from their ear lobes. Athelstan glimpsed the sword and dagger belts beneath their cloaks.
‘I am a priest,’ Athelstan said, coming forward.
Both men stood back.
‘You have no right to come here! This is God’s acre and you commit the terrible sin of sacrilege!’
‘It’s years since I’ve been to church,’ the taller one declared. ‘So, no mealy-mouthed homilies though, if you wish, you may say a prayer.’
He gestured at Athelstan to move away from the door, to the far side of the table where the knight moved restlessly, his gaze straying to the inglenook where his war belt hung on a hook, the hilt of his sword glistening enticingly in the candlelight. The shaven-head leader followed his gaze.
‘You may, if you wish.’ He grinned, running his tongue round cracked, yellow teeth. ‘You have eaten and drunk well. You’ll not be as lithesome as you might like.’
‘Why are you here?’ Athelstan asked.
He could see both men were bent on murder yet there was nothing else he could do. He recognised the types, killers from the alleyways, professional assassins.
‘Like you, Brother, we have a task to do.’
‘And that is?’
The taller shaven-head pointed quickly at Sir Maurice.
‘He has to die. I am afraid you must die with him because we cannot leave a witness.’
He glanced down at the fire where Thaddeus, crouched on his haunches, was basking in the heat; Bonaventure beside him had risen, back arched, tail up, as if he sensed these men were threatening.
‘Who sent you?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Why, the devil himself.’
Athelstan gazed at the knight, who gestured with his eyes towards the fire. Athelstan swallowed hard. He knew the knight was asking that he cross between the two assassins and himself. Athelstan took a step forward.
‘Where are you going, Brother?’
‘I’m going to douse the fire,’ Athelstan said. ‘If I am to be killed, I don’t want the house burned down. They are poor people I serve. The Bishop would expect them to build a new house for the next priest.’
He saw a flicker of puzzlement in shaven-head’s eyes, as he went forward.
‘Come on n
ow, Bonaventure!’
Athelstan stooped, picking up the cat. He heard a movement and turned quickly, throwing the cat at the shaven-head’s feet. Sir Maurice had moved, his speed taking Athelstan by surprise. A crossbow bolt whirred and smacked into the plaster at the far end. Athelstan felt himself pushed. He went staggering back and, by the time he regained his balance, Sir Maurice was among the killers. Both men had loosed their crossbows and that was their undoing, for they didn’t have time to draw sword and dagger. The knight’s sword sliced into the shoulder of one, sending him screaming back. The other threw his crossbow at Sir Maurice, hitting him on the arm as he turned. The knight stopped, flinching with pain, giving the taller shaven-head time to draw his weapons, throwing his cloak back over his shoulder. Sir Maurice moved in, sword cutting the air. The assassin was quick-footed and blocked the thrust with sword and dagger. The other assassin was now crouched near the door. The elder one yelled at him. He forgot his pain, and getting to one knee he drew his sword, glancing at the melee then at the Dominican. Athelstan picked up a stool. The assassin clambered to his feet. Athelstan threw it, the man ducked, the stool missed but then Godbless came in, throwing the door back. It struck the assassin and sent him staggering forwards.
Bonaventure was now on the table, hair up, spitting in fury. Thaddeus had got to his feet and fled to a far corner. Sir Maurice and the shaven-head were now in close combat, sword and dagger locked, each trying to seek the advantage. Athelstan picked up another stool but Godbless snatched it from him. The wounded assassin turned and, as he did so, Godbless brought the stool down. Athelstan closed his eyes; the stool hit the assassin with a resounding thwack full in the forehead. The man collapsed. Before Athelstan could do anything, Godbless, dagger in hand, was standing over the man and in one quick swipe, he slit his throat from ear to ear. As he did this, Sir Maurice stepped back. Athelstan thought the struggle was still continuing. The shaven-head was crouched, a look of puzzlement on his face, his lips slightly parted. He came forward, sword and dagger still gripped. Athelstan saw the great dark patch under his heart; a froth of bubbles appeared at the corner of his mouth.
