by Paul Doherty
‘Is he implying,’ Raphael asked, ‘that the King is impotent?’
‘I cannot, shall not answer that.’ Bray refused to meet his eye. ‘The problem is that York wishes to seize this learned physician and all his documents.’
‘Naturally!’ Simon declared.
‘Ah, but there is more. You see, York himself has secrets, and these may be the source of the antipathy between York’s wife and his henchman, Sevigny. Argentine was also hired by York; he was present at the birth of the duke’s eldest son, Edward. Gossipmongers whisper that Edward is not York’s but the result of an infatuation by his duchess for an English archer in the garrison at Rouen. So, you can understand: the Queen and the Beaufort lords need to silence Argentine and use whatever secrets he holds about York against the duke, who in turn also wishes to seize Argentine.’
Bray raised his eyebrows. ‘Finally there is LeCorbeil and their French masters, who have learnt all about this. They are also hunting Argentine, and you can see why. For over a hundred years, English monarchs have claimed the crown of France by descent from Isabella, once Queen of England. You can imagine how the French now watch the pot of bubbling intrigue here in England. When Richard II was deposed in 1399, the crown went to the House of Lancaster, both the royal line and its illegitimate offshoot, namely the Beauforts. York maintains that he has a better claim. Now there is this foolish physician with his scandalous stories about how the heirs of both York and Lancaster have no claim to anything, be it their own dukedoms or the crown of England.’
‘Or of France?’
‘Oh yes, Raphael. How the masters of secrets in the palaces of the Louvre and Fontainebleau would love to proclaim that abroad. They would make a mockery of us all over Europe.’
‘So LeCorbeil has also joined the hunt?’ Raphael laughed abruptly. ‘Little wonder Argentine has disappeared. Whom will he turn to?’
‘Logically the French. He will be safer, more honoured, greatly rewarded and protected. York and Lancaster would probably seize his manuscripts and cut his throat.’
‘Where is he hiding, do you know?’
‘In the house of lepers, St Giles Hospital, near Tyburn stream, close to the great scaffold. We have done our searches. I certainly have; my task whilst lodged at the Roseblood. St Giles is the logical choice for a man like Argentine.’
‘Nonsense!’ Raphael exclaimed.
‘True!’ his father declared. ‘Leprosy is a living death. It can only be contracted by eating the same food, drinking the same water as lepers, and above all by constant and close touch with them.’ He smiled grimly. ‘An excellent place to hide; even if people suspected, they would remain wary. Most people flee at the very thought. I suspect Argentine has bribed the master of the hospital, whoever that is, to be given a private cell, his own clothes and fresh food. He is a physician; he will know exactly what to do to resist the contagion.’ Simon winked at Raphael. ‘I have travelled to Outremer. I have also had many dealings with lepers, usually former soldiers.’
‘Master Simon,’ Bray smiled, ‘you are certainly correct on one thing. The master of the hospital is Joachim Brotherton.’
‘Who?’
‘To many just a name, but I have also learnt he is close kin to Argentine and a great lover of silver.’ Bray held up a hand, up as if taking an oath. ‘I know he’s there. He must be, and we must deal with him.’
‘Ah.’ Simon’s voice faltered at the way Bray was studying him. ‘You want me to enter St Giles?’
Bray nodded his agreement, then, stooping down, picked up a chancery bag. He shook out its contents: a scroll, documents sealed with coloured wax, and a heavy purse.
‘Simon, the Beauforts ask you this as a great boon to themselves and your dead beloved master Duke John. You are a man of great subtlety and subterfuge. You are also deeply acquainted with all aspects of this city. You control many of the counterfeit men, who can replicate the most repellent diseases, infections and other morbid conditions. You have also served in Outremer and know a great deal about leprosy. We want you to enter St Giles, find Argentine, kill him if necessary and seize all his documents.’
‘Why now?’
‘Because Sevigny and LeCorbeil are also hunting him. It’s only a matter of time before one or both of them find him, to our great loss.’
Bray paused at the tolling of a bell, followed shortly afterwards by the swell of voices from the choir chanting the opening lines of a psalm: ‘Blessed be the Lord God of Israel who throws horse and rider into the great deep.’
‘Aye, blessed is he indeed,’ Raphael whispered. He glanced at his father, who just shrugged and raised his eyes heavenwards.
‘Soon York will move,’ Bray hurried on. ‘The Queen and Beaufort will have no choice but to confront him. We will all be part of that. We must strike before this city slips into chaos, which is what Argentine and LeCorbeil will be waiting for.’
‘You suspect that LeCorbeil know where Argentine is?’
‘Oh yes, but their problem is moving him undetected. We do not have anyone in St Giles, though watchers remain beyond its walls. You will pose as Brother Simon, a hospitaller, a lay brother from Rhodes. You are suffering from leprosy in its second stage; these documents prove this. They also carry recommendations for your acceptance by St Giles. More importantly, the bag of gold and silver will open all doors without any trouble.’
‘And the duchess’s dislike of Sevigny?’ Raphael asked. ‘It’s because of this secret scandal?’
‘From the little we have learnt,’ Bray shifted, ‘Duchess Cecily has always resented Sevigny for being too close to her husband and the master of many of his secrets.’
‘And will LeCorbeil and Sevigny work as allies on this—’
‘Oh no,’ his father interrupted. ‘This goes beyond York; true, Master Reginald?’
Bray nodded. Simon sat, head down, feet tapping the floor.
‘I accept.’ He waved at Raphael to keep silent. ‘I accept for many reasons, but I pray I meet LeCorbeil.’ He scooped up the documents and the purse.
‘Master Simon,’ Bray gestured around, ‘our world is about to be turned upside down. One final thing. If matters go against us, we will need your tavern, your assistance in fleeing the power of York.’
Amadeus Sevigny
London, April 1455
Amadeus Sevigny stepped around the splintered door. He gazed in utter disbelief even as he shouted at Skulkin and Walter Ramler to stay outside. He stared down the narrow, windowless corridor in the Shadows of Purgatory, a city house used to shelter those who had secret business with council officials, then glanced back into the bedchamber at the two corpses sprawled there: Candlemas and Cross-Biter, two King’s Approvers.
‘Now you have gone to a higher court,’ Sevigny whispered. ‘But who dispatched you there, who served the demand for your souls and how they did it is a great mystery.’
He stared round the secure chamber, wrinkling his nose at the fetid stench from the jakes pot, then crossed to the window. He loosened the clasps, pulled back the shutters and tried the iron bars embedded deep in the concrete sill. They held firm. He moved to the corpses, which both lay stretched out, daggers not far from their hands, and knelt to scrutinise them. The cadavers were hardened, eyes staring glassily in that last startled gaze as their souls fled into the darkness. Both men had died in pain, mouths gaping, their unshaven faces a horrid pallor. Sevigny sniffed their mouths and knelt for a while, thinking. Then he crossed himself, got to his feet and carefully inspected the wine flagon and cups. He could detect no taint, either there or on the food platters; not a trace of the malignant odour that, even hours after it was administered, would seep from poisoned food and wine. Perplexed, he ransacked the stinking, shabby chamber. He could find nothing out of the ordinary.
‘Walter, Skulkin?’ He called both men into the chamber. ‘Look around,’ he invited them. ‘This chamber was secure.’ He pointed back to the heavy door. ‘No one came in here until I did this morning, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Skulkin retorted, his heavy face all flushed. ‘Last night they were given wine, a platter of bread, fruit, cheeses and meat.’
‘Who served them that?’
‘I did,’ squeaked Ramler, the scribe. ‘Master, you came here yesterday evening…’
‘I know that,’ Sevigny replied drily. ‘What I want to establish is what happened after I left.’
‘Both Candlemas and Cross-Biter were in good health,’ gabbled Ramler. ‘Skulkin and I brought up the food and wine.’
Sevigny raised a hand for silence. He went and knelt near the corpses.
‘Unloved in life, ugly in death,’ he whispered. The chapped, unshaven grey face of Cross-Biter was heavily pitted with the pox, whilst Candlemas’s skin, now even paler in the pallor of death, seemed tight and taut. ‘Fetch a physician to scrutinise the corpses,’ he ordered. ‘Have them removed to the death chamber at the Guildhall.’ Once again he sniffed at the mouths of both corpses but could detect nothing except the very rich odour of claret. He rose, went across to the table and scrutinised both the food remnants and the last dregs of wine in the large jug.
‘Master?’ Ramler now came up close beside Sevigny, beckoning at Skulkin to follow. ‘Last night – and Skulkin will verify this – I brought up both food and wine. Candlemas, as you know, was very suspicious and wary. He was terrified that Roseblood would strike.’
Sevigny grunted his agreement.
‘Master, he didn’t trust any of us either.’
Sevigny noticed how the scrivener was highly nervous; his pert, rather pretty face was sheened with sweat. Ramler was a fussy little man, but kinsman Malpas trusted him implicitly. Sevigny glanced at the rugged, burly Skulkin, again a man deeply trusted by the sheriff.
‘I did my best,’ the scrivener’s words came in a rush, ‘didn’t I, Skulkin? I drank some of the wine.’
‘A good half-goblet,’ Skulkin agreed. ‘As did I. Candlemas insisted that we eat and drink a little of everything we brought. We did so, then bade them good night. The door was bolted and barred on the outside.’ He walked over, pushing it back on its stout leather hinges. ‘My men and I were on guard at the foot of the stairs; no one went up. This door was not opened until you came just before the Jesus bell.’
Sevigny gestured at the wine and food. ‘Have these taken into the Guildhall cellars. Leave them there until the Angelus bell, then go down and search for dead rats. If there is poison, you’ll find them. I will be in the church of St Mary-le-Bow. Master Walter, report back to Sheriff Malpas, tell him the obvious: Roseblood’s indictment cannot go ahead.’
Both men hastened to obey. Sevigny went down the stairs and collected his war belt and cloak from one of the bailiffs, who, when asked, faithfully repeated what Skulkin and Ramler had described. Sevigny shook his head in disbelief, left the house and walked down Cheapside. It was a beautiful fresh spring morning; a golden sun in the deep blue sky. Already the city was busy with tinkers, traders and merchants eager to seize the hour and make a profit. The gong carts were out, piled high with the stinking, steaming ordure of the previous day. Rakers and scavengers walked beside each cart, all hooded and masked. Sevigny glanced at these and wondered if the rumours sweeping the Guildhall were true. How Roseblood had brutally executed three men who had allegedly tried to usurp his authority over the scavengers in Cripplegate. He walked along the great thoroughfare and turned right, entering the empty cavernous porch of St Mary-le-Bow.
In the beautifully carved lady chapel, Sevigny sat on the stool he’d plucked from the sanctuary and stared up at the face of the statue of the Virgin. He loved this church, and no better than now. The early-morning sunlight poured like God’s grace through the painted glass windows, driving away the ghostly shadows and filling the nave with glowing colours. The air remained rich with the fragrances left after the Jesus mass. Incense and candle smoke curled and mingled.
Sevigny rose and put a coin in the alms box riveted to the floor. He lit three tapers, placing them gently on the spigot; one for each of his parents and the third for himself. Then he knelt on the blue and gold prie-dieu, crossed himself and recited the requiem followed by an Ave Maria. Afterwards he went back to sit on the stool, aware of the church quietening as the last worshippers left, the side chapels emptied and the sacristans finished their tasks on the high altar. The statue of the Virgin, carved by some master craftsman, had the most exquisitely serene face, which always conjured up visions of his own mother. Distant gold-tinged memories of sweet eyes and the gentlest touch before his world turned black as night and the forces of Hell consumed that lonely manor house high on the Yorkshire moors. Demons with smoky faces, hanging corpses…
Sevigny blinked, crossed himself swiftly and glanced away. He felt deeply uneasy. Kinsman Malpas, sheriff of this city, was a royal officer but was secretly working for York and would not flinch at murder or perjury to get his way. Simon Roseblood was supposed to be Sevigny’s enemy, yet he liked the man; something about him struck a chord of friendship. Undoubtedly Roseblood was dangerous, yet the alderman taverner was devoted to his family and seemed to easily win and keep the allegiance and friendship of others. A gang leader, but a very generous one, who looked after not only his rifflers but also those who simply couldn’t cope with the harshness of life. Sevigny had kept the tavern under close scrutiny. He had questioned rigorously and listened attentively. The community of the Roseblood and its parish church of All Hallows seemed pleasant enough.
Sevigny grinned to himself. That certainly included Simon’s daughter, Katherine. In truth, he found it difficult to forget her: the tangled auburn hair framing that fierce ivory-white face, the determined lips, those beautiful light green eyes. ‘Femina ferrea,’ he whispered to himself. Truly a woman of iron, and yet a beautiful damsel with a talent no other woman possessed, at least as far as Sevigny was concerned. She made him laugh, smile and relax. Lovely of face and fair of form undoubtedly, yet Mistress Katherine was also funny: the way she drew herself up, her dramatic confrontation with him followed by the swift allegation that he was Mordred come to Avalon. He would have loved her to stay, to tease her mercilessly and demand to know, if he was Mordred, then who was she? Katherine Roseblood was a dreamer, and one with no deceit, nothing contrived, none of the false smiles and self-serving simpering of so many court ladies. Try as he might to ignore her, she remained fresh in his mind’s eye. Sevigny prided himself on being alone, at peace with his own presence. This was different. He missed Katherine and wanted to meet her again, sooner rather than later.
Sevigny peeled off his black leather gauntlets and undid his sword belt. He also recalled those strange sights around the Roseblood, that whore with the flaming hair walking so close to a priest, friar or monk. Was it one of the priests from All Hallows? He was intrigued. He had heard the rumours, and Skulkin had informed him about the whores disappearing in Queenhithe ward. He shrugged; that was not his business.
He idly wondered how his servant, Bardolph the bowman, was faring at the Golden Harp, a rather dingy tavern along an alleyway off Bread Street. York’s household had ordered Bardolph to be Sevigny’s henchman on his journey south. In the main, Sevigny had avoided the surly, taciturn Dalesman, a former archer in Warwick’s retinue, a hard-bitten veteran who, by his own admission, had little time for the great lords. Bardolph had kept his own counsel as they journeyed south along that ancient Roman road. By the time they reached London, Sevigny’s patience had worn thin. He had brusquely instructed Bardolph to stay at the tavern, tend the horses, guard the baggage and be ready to hasten north if there was any news.
The clerk rose and walked slowly down the northern transept. He paused to examine a wall painting depicting the Angel of the Blood, the Herald of the Antichrist appearing with the host of smoky-faced demons above the leaping, soul-burning fires of Hell. ‘Judgement time,’ Sevigny whispered. ‘Yes, judgement time is close.’ The House of Lancaster had been weighed in the balance and found wanting. York would assert his claim
. Sevigny had been sent to London to prepare for this. York had taken him into his secret chamber, its one lozenge-shaped window bright with sunlight. The floor was of red tile; bare white plaster-covered walls at least a foot thick. The chamber lay at the heart of Middleham Castle, the centre of York’s power. No door-lurker could approach, no spy overhear the conversation of this great duke, direct descendant of Edward III, who dreamed deep dreams of seizing the crown and establishing his own dynasty. Shadows leapt like troubled ghosts around that ill-lit privy chamber as York described his secret commission to a clerk he trusted with his life.
‘Go to London, Amadeus.’ His long, wind-bitten face pressed close, blue popping eyes unblinking, blond moustache and beard streaked with grey. He leaned so close Sevigny could smell the oil of roses the duke loved to soak himself in. ‘Make yourself known to our friends in the city, especially kinsman Malpas. Obstruct the likes of Roseblood. Bring him down or turn him to our cause. Make whatever mischief you can against our enemies. Seek out LeCorbeil. Watch him and his coven for the malicious sprites they are. If necessary, we will use him, but he is no friend of ours or the crown that is mine by right. Find the malignant Argentine. Undoubtedly both LeCorbeil and the Beauforts will be hunting him too.’
York paused, playing with his signet ring boasting the Yorkist colours of blue and murrey. ‘Argentine distils rumour about my lovely wife.’ Sevigny caught a tinge of sarcasm in the duke’s voice. ‘Kill him for the malicious gossip he is. Seize his manuscripts. Discover what you can about the power of our enemy in London.’ York always refused to name the King; instead he would refer to the ‘bastard Beauforts’, and their ally Queen Margaret as ‘the Jezebel of Anjou’.
‘Above all, Amadeus, seek out the sorcerer, the warlock, Ravenspur. Ask him to cast my horoscope and that of my line. He gave me good advice before.’ York pushed a bulging coin purse into his clerk’s hand. ‘Use this as you think fit.’
Sevigny recalled that conversation, as he did the duchess’s beautiful, spiteful face as he left York’s chamber. He’d stepped aside for her on the narrow, gloomy spiral staircase. She and her ladies passed in an exquisite aura of perfume, lace, silk and taffeta. Duchess Cecily, however, paused just for a breath, her lovely heart-shaped face all sharp and predatory, those rose lips curled back in a rictus of hate. For once she had let the mask slip. Sevigny would never forget that look. She recognised what he knew, and for that alone she would take his head. He could not continue in the face of such rancour. He recalled his teacher, Eadmer the Rhetorician at Fountains Abbey. ‘Be logical in all you do, Amadeus. Follow Aristotle. Think good thoughts. Do good acts. Anger and hate are swift horses to Hell.’
