by Paul Doherty
Raphael stared hard at his father: his black and silver hair was combed back to reveal his leathery face, and those clever eyes looked deeply troubled, whilst the resolute chin and mouth betrayed some of the tension he must be feeling. Father Benedict, sitting on Simon Roseblood’s left, claimed that his patron’s face was one well lived in. Raphael wondered what plots and counterplots his father’s teeming brain was sifting. Ignacio, Monkshood, Wormwood and the other principal henchmen were present; all had served with his father under Beaufort’s banner in France. Raphael smiled to himself. The only persons here who had not served in such an array were himself and his sister Katherine, who, hair decorously hidden under a veil, now sat nervously on her chair. Raphael had objected to her presence, rejecting her as being a woman of tender years, but his father had been adamant.
‘Blood is blood,’ he’d muttered. ‘If mine flows, so will hers. She deserves to be one of us. Mark my words, Raphael. Katherine is a better man than many we know.’
His sister seemed lost in her own thoughts. Raphael suspected she had been in the tithe barn earlier that evening. Indeed, he was sure he’d glimpsed her white face between the bales in the hay loft. She had probably witnessed her first executions. Raphael had grown used to them, slaying men who threatened him and his family. For a brief moment he fought a surge of anger at his younger brother, Gabriel, safely closeted away in holy seclusion at Greyfriars. He breathed out; but that was Gabriel! The two of them often laughed at the names given to them, their mother insisting that her sons be named after God’s great archangels.
Raphael sat back in his chair, relaxing against the softness of the cushion. Ignacio lit more candles and Monkshood served white wine and marchpane. Raphael wondered how he would make reparation to God for the man he’d killed that day: either by creeping to the cross on Fridays or through a rigorous fast on holy days. Sometimes he would reveal the burden of his guilt to the priests, but they just echoed the words of their patron: ‘The life that we have is the life that we lead.’
‘In praise of the Blessed Peter, God’s own fisherman!’ Simon Roseblood tapped the table with his hand and took a generous sip, his first of the evening, from the jewel-encrusted Glastonbury goblet. ‘The business before us now…’
He paused and stared at Raphael, who nodded. All was in order. Men stood on guard outside, the doors were sealed, the windows of thick mullion glass had no gaps or slits for traitorous eavesdroppers. The chamber fell silent, all eyes on Simon Roseblood, the only movement the shifting shadow of flickering candle flame.
‘The day of the great slaughter is imminent,’ Simon intoned. ‘The fortresses will fall.’ Raphael watched his father; he had never seen him so tense. ‘York will move south,’ Simon’s voice had fallen to a whisper, ‘and the days of Cade will return. That is why we are facing this sea of troubles. Now you are all sworn men, so I shall reveal to you my most secret thoughts.’ He paused again. ‘Candlemas and his coven, without my authority, were involved in that raid on the silver bullion intended for the royal mint. I can now tell you, as I learned from my own spy at the Guildhall, that the robbery was plotted by no less a person than Sir Philip Malpas, our noble lord sheriff. I learnt a few more details from Bolt-Head, God rest him, before he went into hiding.’ Simon stilled the gasps and exclamations. ‘York needs silver to pay his troops. Malpas intended to enrich York and of course weaken the King and my lord Beaufort.
‘Now you all know Candlemas: loud-mouthed, insubordinate, with no real loyalty to me. Malpas easily turned him, but the second part of our good sheriff’s plot was then to betray that stupid moon man to a bloody death. A few of Candlemas’s coven would be pardoned, but this is what Malpas truly revelled in: they would indict me as responsible for the robbery. Somehow or other, a little of the stolen silver would be found in this tavern. I thwarted their plot. My lord of Beaufort was alerted and the silver was replaced with rusty filings not worth a penny. Malpas and Sevigny, who had just arrived in the city, were furious. Four of Candlemas’s gang were apprehended and executed. The city would expect that. This was to terrify the rest: it would only be a matter of time before they were captured and the second part of the sheriff’s plot could go ahead. I would be indicted and Beaufort would lose a most powerful ally in this city. Tomorrow, Candlemas and Cross-Biter will be used to testify against me.’
‘And they will do that?’ Raphael exclaimed.
‘We shall see, we shall see.’ His father smiled.
‘And Blackshanks’s coven?’ asked the Fisher-King, captain of The Excalibur barge.
‘Monkshood,’ Simon gestured at his grizzled Captain of the Damned, ‘tell them what you have done.’
‘Their corpses lie in arrow chests.’ Monkshood grated. ‘Their heads stand poled just inside the gateway below. We have taken them to every tavern in the ward, a clear proclamation of Master Roseblood’s power.’
‘Can we justify what we have done?’ Raphael asked.
‘My son,’ Simon lifted his goblet in toast, ‘and you the lawyer?’ As he spoke, his fingers translated the words for Ignacio. ‘First, Blackshanks and the others were outlaws; they’d received no royal pardon. Second, they drew their weapons and publicly threatened me, an alderman of this city. Third, they intended to usurp the power of the council at the Guildhall.’ He pulled a face. ‘Blackshanks was arrogant, deep in his cups. He moved too swiftly. He brought about his own death and that of his companions. I will claim self-defence. Any justice of oyer and terminer, not to mention those of the King’s Bench, would agree.’
Raphael nodded in agreement. Who would plead for three wolfsheads, proclaimed ut legati – beyond the law – in the surrounding shires?
‘They had their uses.’ Simon murmured, provoking laughter.
Raphael glanced at Katherine, who sat white-faced, staring at the arras on the far wall. He had accompanied Ignacio, Toadflax and Monkshood through the ward, each bearing a severed head on a pole. They had stopped at alehouses, drinking booths and taverns as well as the lychgates of churches and chapels. The message was clear. Here were three wolfsheads, taken red-handed, weapons drawn against Alderman Roseblood; for this they had been brutally and swiftly executed, a warning to everyone to wait and see if Roseblood’s power had been truly weakened.
‘What other business?’ Simon gestured at Raphael.
‘Candlemas?’
‘His candle may have blown out,’ Simon joked. ‘Now listen,’ he continued. ‘Tomorrow we will surprise our noble sheriff with a pageant he’ll never forget.’ He drew himself up and described what would happen the following morning, his plans provoking laughter and further discussion.
Raphael tapped the table. ‘There is the question of the whores. In the last fortnight, three have disappeared as swift as smoke on a clear day. Now whispers claim that Calista has not been seen. She was supposed to join her sisters here before moving on to the Three Cranes, where the King’s sailors are mustering.’
Katherine suddenly stirred. She spoke carefully. ‘I was out near the lighthouse ruins this afternoon. I thought I saw Calista. She was with someone.’ She put a finger to her lips. ‘I could not say. I mean, it may not even have been her…’
Her voice trailed off as she darted a glance at Father Benedict. The parish priest, however, seemed lost in his own thoughts, and Raphael realised that Father Roger was not present: still grieving over the death of his mother? he wondered.
‘Anything else?’ Simon asked.
The Camelot Chamber remained silent. This was not the first time whores had disappeared. Raphael remembered other occasions: how his father had once told him that some men had to be violent to a woman to seek their pleasure. He recalled a line from the Psalms about demons prowling the other side of darkness. For all its beauty, the Roseblood tavern was a battlefield. Shadow armies moved. Ghostly warriors, troublesome spirits armoured in hate and seething malice, envy and jealousy against his father, ran swift like some filthy surging sewer, whilst Roseblood’s constant allegian
ce to the Beauforts posed a steely threat to York both in the city and beyond. Once again Raphael felt a stab of resentment towards his brother.
‘LeCorbeil.’ Simon’s voice was hard. ‘I have been threatened by LeCorbeil.’ He swiftly described what had happened near the lychgate of All Hallows. Raphael could see how agitated Ignacio, Monkshood and Father Benedict became. He spoke without thinking.
‘They say that during Cade’s rebellion, Uncle Edmund left the Roseblood to meet this LeCorbeil. Why?’
‘He went to his death,’ Simon admitted. ‘Edmund and I served Beaufort, first Duke of Somerset, in France. We fought well. I took many ransoms.’ He waved around the solar. ‘That is obvious. Then the tide of war turned against us. We burnt the Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc, in the marketplace at Rouen. Many, including myself, believed that we became cursed. We murdered a saint who had ordered us to go home in our ships or she would send us back in our coffins. Joan’s martyrdom certainly brought this about. English rule collapsed. Commissioners of array found it difficult to levy men here in London and in the shires both north and south of the Trent, so the prisons were emptied, be it Newgate or Windsor Castle.’
‘Les Écorcheurs!’ Father Benedict exclaimed abruptly, drawing himself up. ‘Les Écorcheurs!’ he repeated. ‘The Flayers.’
‘Les Écorcheurs,’ Simon agreed. ‘The scum of our prisons – rufflers and rifflers, cut-throats, murderers, rapists and worse – were dispatched by ship to Normandy. No rules of war for them. They raped, plundered and engaged in the cruellest methods of killing another human being. They particularly liked to flay their victims, peel their skin from their bodies as you would take off a tunic. No one was safe, be it man, woman, child or priest.’ He shook his head. ‘Beaufort hired companies, but he could not dictate what they did.’
‘LeCorbeil?’ Raphael insisted.
‘A town in Normandy. Edmund and I visited it after the Écorcheurs had been there: a true slaughterhouse. The wells and streams were choked with naked lacerated corpses. Cadavers hung from steeples, market crosses, gable ends and shop signs. The place stank like an open sewer. Plumes of black smoke billowed down narrow streets, their cobbles glistening red. We had no part in this, but I suspect we were blamed. Some survivors of the massacre – we do not know or cannot even imagine who they are – have sworn vengeance against the English, and Beaufort in particular. LeCorbeil is more than one person, and whoever they may be, they are generously financed and warmly supported by the French Crown. They are a veritable will-o’-the-wisp, a shape-shifter, a dark strider.’
‘What do they want with you?’
Simon paused to collect his thoughts. ‘To answer your question bluntly, I do not really know. LeCorbeil were certainly involved in Cade’s uprising. They had a hand in the seizure and execution of William de la Pole, the Duke of Suffolk, and they slaughtered other Beaufort adherents, both here and elsewhere. Somehow – and only God and his angels know the truth – LeCorbeil enticed Edmund away from the security and safety of this tavern and struck off his head.’ He rubbed his brow. ‘John Beaufort, first Duke of Somerset, was another of their victims. Gossips claim that he took his own life, distraught at being stripped of his command in France.’ He tapped both hands against the tabletop. ‘I do not think so. Shortly before his death, our good duke, sheltering in his castle, was visited by a Gascon minstrel, a very handsome, charming young man.’
‘LeCorbeil?’ Raphael asked.
‘Certainly. One thing is constant. Beside the corpses of my brother, de la Pole, Beaufort and others, a dead crow was left. The message is clear: LeCorbeil hold us personally responsible for the massacre.’
‘But why?’ Monkshood demanded. ‘Beaufort didn’t hire the Écorcheurs.’
‘The company who ravaged LeCorbeil,’ Simon replied, ‘had links with Beaufort. It was led by a mercenary captain – I forget his name – who had acquired a reputation for ferocious cruelty.’
‘But you were not responsible,’ Raphael said. ‘Surely? And nor was Beaufort.’
‘I have racked my brain,’ Simon confessed. ‘Edmund and I visited the town on Beaufort’s orders; that company was under his command. We were as shocked as anyone. I can’t recall seeing any survivors, yet now LeCorbeil appears to summon up a cohort of mercenaries to wreak its revenge.’
‘Which gives them a path into England,’ said Raphael. ‘All the great lords are hiring mercenaries, French, Spanish, German and the rest.’
‘I suspect that LeCorbeil…’ Simon paused, ‘yes I am sure of it, have sealed indentures with the Duke of York; they will also carry letters of marque from him, a sure defence against any sheriff or royal bailiff courageous enough to confront well-armed mercenaries. My mystery, the one that has haunted me for five years, is how they were able to entice a shrewd, seasoned soldier like Edmund to his death.’
‘So they are here to assist York?’ Father Benedict asked.
‘Oh, LeCorbeil hate the Beauforts, but they also hate the English. I have learnt a little about them. They are here to agitate, to stir up violence, to set York against Lancaster like two fighting cocks locked in a struggle to the death. They will weaken the English Crown so that this realm never again threatens the kingdom of France. Little wonder they are well financed by the secret chancery in Paris while being given free rein to pursue their own blood feud.’
Simon sipped from his goblet. ‘Heart speaks to heart,’ he continued. ‘As I have said, the day of the great slaughter is imminent. York will march. Our enemies will lay siege, either to convert us to their cause – which would cast us as Judases, never to be trusted – or,’ he shifted his goblet, ‘to destroy us completely. They have to. I control the scavengers, rakers and refuse collectors in every ward. I can dispatch rumour swifter than a pigeon, whilst a thousand eyes and ears watch and listen for me.’ He gestured round. ‘The Roseblood stands on the river. We can send or receive whoever and whatever we want. Our enemies cannot, will not tolerate this; hence our summons to the Guildhall tomorrow.’
‘But Candlemas and Cross-Biter,’ Raphael warned, ‘will take the oath.’
‘If they are there.’
‘And if they are?’ Raphael insisted, curbing the panic pains in his already nervous belly.
‘I will challenge them to trial by combat, as is my right. Now, business as normal. The Excalibur awaits.’
‘What about Sevigny?’ Father Benedict asked. He waited as Simon translated the question for Ignacio, followed by the henchman’s reply.
‘He will strike whenever he can and we shall certainly strike back.’
‘And the stranger?’ Katherine spoke up. ‘Master Reginald Bray? He sits in our tavern like a sparrow on a branch watching everything.’
‘He will reveal his hand soon enough.’ Simon chewed his lip. ‘I cannot decide whether he is friend or foe. But come, The Glory of Gascony is making its way up the Thames. The Fraternity of the Doomed must be ready. I shall go with you this evening. Prior Aelred at Greyfriars wants to speak to me.’
A short while later, Raphael, heavily cloaked and hooded, joined the rest leaving by the water gate, making their way past the old Roman ruin down to the quayside. He rubbed his stomach. It was a brilliant evening; indeed, too bright. The stars were clear and full, while the moon hung like a thick silver disc. Nevertheless, the day had been warm and a river mist was gathering, a grey mass of weaving wisps that seemed to gather in the middle of the river before spreading. Some concealment would be possible. Seven other figures slid through the dark either side of him: his father, Ignacio, Monkshood and four of their captains. They paused at the old lighthouse where Pennywort and Loosestrife kept their nightly watch. The two beggars, sheltered by the ruins and warmed by a bed of crackling charcoal, told them strange tales about shuttered lanterns flickering close by the Roseblood and fire arrows being loosed against the sky, though what these betokened remained a mystery. Raphael was concerned, though his father believed both beggars had gulped too many black jacks of strong a
le.
They whispered farewell and moved on down to where the Fisher-King and his barge The Excalibur were ready to cast off. Lantern horns glowed either side of the prow and a powerful stern light flared against the darkness. The six oarsmen took their places; Raphael and the rest squatted in the canopied stern. The order was given and The Excalibur eased away on the swell, a tilt boat towed securely behind it. The tide was running strong, the breeze light; only the river mist was a reminder of how treacherous the Thames could be. Raphael stared up at the midnight sky and wondered if it was pregnant with fresh terrors for the new day. The lights of the Guildhall would burn low tonight as Malpas and Sevigny plotted their strategy. He forced himself to relax, to concentrate on what was happening.
The barge headed downriver, aiming for the great reed banks. Along the wharves and quaysides bonfires flared, torches spluttered, sounds and cries echoed strangely. The air was rich with the tang of the river and its added swirl of odours: thick mud, burning pitch tar, salted herring and the ever-clinging smell of fish sauce. The barge passed scaffolds and gibbets where river pirates hung; their corpses, left for three turns of the tide, turned slightly on the swell.
The Fraternity of the Doom now became involved in their great work of charity, searching for corpses swept by the tide into the thick forest of reed and water sedge. They found two: an old man clothed in a threadbare tunic floating face down, the body bobbing out as if to greet them and beg to be plucked out; the second, on the edge of the reed beds, a flaxen-haired woman, a red shawl spreading out like a cloud around her. They bundled the old man’s corpse into the barge, then turned the woman over. In the dancing light her face was truly gruesome, a mask of horror, twisted and discoloured. The rough twine round her throat had strangled her as tight as any chicken, according to Cat’s-Head, the principal rower. Raphael took one look and agreed with the rest that this was Calista, who had recently disappeared.
