by Paul Doherty
Roseblood turned, gesturing at his entourage to stand peaceful before walking forward to confront Malpas. The exchange was swift and rancorous. Roseblood immediately demanded that the witnesses justifying his summons be produced. Malpas, his leathery brown face twisted in anger, gauntleted fingers fluttering about his grey hair, moustache and beard, shrugged and retorted that there was no case as both witnesses had mysteriously died during the night. Of course this was posed as a true mystery, but everyone knew that Candlemas and Cross-Biter had been cunningly slain and that Simon Roseblood was probably responsible. Malpas openly hinted at this. Roseblood, swift as an arrow, declared how God had vindicated him and punished two liars and oath-breakers. Wasn’t this, Malpas retorted, pointing at the severed heads, a crime? Roseblood seized the opportunity to repeat everything he had said at the conduit. All three of his victims were beyond the law, proclaimed as wolfsheads by the sheriff of Essex and to be slain on sight.
‘Indeed,’ he proclaimed, turning so that his voice filled the spacious cobbled bailey, ‘I understand that a reward, a bounty, is posted on their heads. Accordingly, Sir Philip, I now claim that reward. I will also submit a schedule of costs and expenses to the city treasury.’ He paused. ‘So, gentle friends,’ the mockery in his voice was obvious, ‘rejoice with me that such malice has been frustrated. God’s will has been done. All assembled here whose precious time has been wasted are invited to my tavern for an evening of delicious food, good ale and the finest wine ever shipped from Bordeaux. The celebrations will begin in five days. I look forward to seeing you all.’ And with this dramatic proclamation, a flourish of trumpets and the heavy beat of a tambour, Roseblood and his brilliantly attired retinue turned to leave the Guildhall precincts.
At any other time, in any other place, Sevigny would have burst out laughing, but one look at the sheriff’s face, mottled with anger, discouraged this. Moreover, he was trying to catch Katherine’s gaze, but that young lady was acting her part, all cold and severe like Susanna from the Scriptures after she had been vindicated by the prophet Daniel. Sevigny sighed with disappointment and, eyes narrowed, lips puckered, watched the Rosebloods leave. Once the gates closed behind them, Malpas bowed curtly to the justices, mumbled what might be taken as an apology and stormed back up the steps, gesturing at Sevigny to follow him.
A short while later, Sevigny, Ramler and Skulkin joined Malpas in his dark-wood exchequer chamber with its hard-tiled floor. The pink plaster above the panelling was covered with smoke-tinged tapestries depicting the exploits of King Brutus and the legends of Gog and Magog. For a while, Malpas just sat, face in hands. At last he lifted his head, groaned loudly, tore off his sheriff’s collar and threw it on the chancery desk.
‘My lord of York must be informed. I’ll send a courier. Amadeus, you… I… we…’ Malpas sighed noisily. ‘We thought we could trap Roseblood with the law. We have failed to do that. His pageant will be relayed all over the city. I received your message about Candlemas and Cross-Biter. Roseblood is claiming both deaths as an act of God. We know he gave God more than a helping hand! Not that it really matters now, but how was it done?’
Sevigny turned on his stool and stared at Skulkin and Ramler by the door.
‘The dregs of both food and wine,’ the scribe stammered, ‘were left for the rats that teem in the cellars below. The vermin remained unharmed. Skulkin’s men have kept me informed.’
‘And the physician?’
‘Took his coin, pronounced the obvious – that both of them were dead – then listed the chief symptoms: faces liverish, bellies swollen—’
‘Poison?’ Malpas demanded.
‘Poison, some deadly contagion, a breakdown of the humours, fear or even an act of God,’ Ramler gabbled. ‘He concluded, like the physician he is, that he truly couldn’t say.’
Malpas raised a hand, gesturing that Ramler and Skulkin withdraw.
‘A major reversal?’ Sevigny demanded once the door closed. ‘Is it really, kinsman? If those two miscreants had lived, Roseblood would have produced a host of witnesses to reject their story. I admit, I underestimated our noble taverner.’ He rose; he had his own ideas about those two mysterious murders, but he needed evidence to test his hypothesis.
‘True,’ Malpas snapped. ‘Roseblood would have produced witnesses, evidence even; challenged both men to trial by combat. Still, an indictment would have hurt and hindered our noble taverner. As it is, he has made a fool of me and the office I hold.’
‘Why the hatred?’ Sevigny asked. ‘I mean, we know what star each of us follows.’
‘It is not the stars we follow now,’ the sheriff murmured, ‘but those we followed in our green and salad days when Roseblood and I were young, allies, even friends.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘But the past is sealed.’ He pointed at Sevigny. ‘Try and discover how those men were murdered. For the rest, you are busy on York’s other affairs in this city?’
Sevigny agreed.
‘Then know this.’ Malpas leaned across the table. ‘It will be common knowledge soon enough. The King and Beaufort have called a great council at Leicester to discuss certain matters.’
‘But York has not been invited,’ Sevigny declared. ‘Nor have any of his allies such as Neville of Warwick or Howard of Norfolk.’
‘York,’ Malpas replied, ‘has moved to Ludlow in Shropshire to be near his allies along the Welsh border. He can march within the day, if he and his do not receive a writ of summons for Leicester.’ The sheriff looked under finely shaven eyebrows at this enigmatic, close-souled clerk who kept his own counsel. ‘And the physician, Argentine?’ he demanded.
‘I cannot say, kinsman, except York wishes to have him. Yet he remains most elusive.’
‘Why does he hide?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sevigny lied. ‘But when I find him, I shall certainly ask him that.’
‘And the attack on you at St Mary-le-Bow? One of Skulkin’s bailiffs informed me about it.’
‘God knows!’ Sevigny shrugged. ‘Outlaws, Beaufort, Roseblood…’ He walked towards the door. ‘We live in dangerous times, kinsman.’
‘Amadeus?’
The clerk turned.
‘Be careful whom you trust.’
Sevigny left the room. He walked down the stairs, nodded at Skulkin and Ramler and crossed the great bailey to stand just within the shadow of the Guildhall gatehouse. Once again the clerk quietly marvelled at Roseblood’s sheer effrontery. Sir Philip was correct: the damage to the sheriff’s pride and reputation was devastating. Roseblood’s warning not to meddle in his affairs was clear and stark, though Sevigny was determined not to forget Katherine, a most remarkable young woman. She was definitely a dreamer who lived deep within her own soul and viewed the rest of the world with detached amusement. She reminded him of the Children of the Sun, or so they called themselves, young men and women who tramped the highways and byways of France owing allegiance to no one, proclaiming how everyone was equal before God, that owning property was a sin and that all goods, especially those of Holy Mother Church, should be held in common. Katherine Roseblood had said nothing about that, yet her attitude and her absorption with Camelot reminded him sharply of the fairy-like innocence of those wanderers.
He opened his wallet and brought out the crude medal one of these young women had given him, an act of kindness to an English foreigner. He turned it so it would catch the light, tracing his finger around the three-stemmed fleur-de-lis resting on the back of the Agnus Dei. Other Frenchmen were not so tolerant. Sevigny had heard about the massacre at LeCorbeil. York had informed him about those mysterious mercenaries, supported by the masters of secrets at the Louvre in Paris, intent on stirring up as much unrest in England as possible whilst at the same time pursuing their own blood feud against the Beauforts, whom they held responsible for the slaughter in their home town. The details of all this were vague. Sometimes Sevigny thought LeCorbeil was an individual; at other times a group or the title of the leader of that coven. York was certainly playing
a very dangerous game. Apparently he had reached some sort of understanding to use LeCorbeil against Beaufort as he had during Cade’s revolt. In the end, though, LeCorbeil was a beast that could well devour the hand that fed it. York should be extremely prudent.
Sevigny put the medal away. He recalled Roseblood’s invitation and wondered whether he should join the celebrations. Perhaps he should collect his great warhorse Leonardo, and ride into the tavern yard as Mordred come to Camelot! He turned as his name was called. A Guildhall retainer hurried across and pushed a thin square of parchment into his hands.
‘This was delivered whilst you were closeted with Sir Philip.’
Sevigny thanked the man, broke the crisp red seal and unfolded the expensive parchment. The handwriting was as neat and cursive as that of a chancery clerk; a note from those two eerie bounty-hunters Cosmas and Damian informing him that they would be present in the Holy Lamb of God in Cheapside any time after the Angelus bell sounded. It was just about that time, so Sevigny, one hand on his sword hilt, strolled out of the shadow of the Guildhall and across the broad thoroughfare, surveying the various colourful tavern signs – the Holy Ghost, the Bishop’s Head, the Brazen Serpent, the Goshawk in the Sun – till he glimpsed the Holy Lamb further down.
He had to fight his way through the colourful, smelly throng, shouldering and jostling past traders, tinkers and the garishly garbed whores with their fire-red wigs all askew. He kept a sharp eye out for the nip and the foist. A counterfeit crank, a rogue dressed in filthy rags, his face daubed with blood from the fleshers’ stalls, fell grovelling at his booted feet. This sham was sucking on a piece of soap to give the impression of a frothing mouth. Sevigny kicked him aside and then kicked him again for good measure. Other members of the cranking crew saw this and kept their distance.
He paused to allow the Fraternity of the Hanged, all gowned in deep funereal purple, to process down Cheapside behind a cart with a banner bearing a red cross stretched across the corpses of those cut down from the gibbets at Tyburn. The solemn words of the death psalm echoed above the noise and chatter of the market and the clanging of the Angelus bell. As he watched them go, he wondered who would see to the burial of Candlemas and Cross-Biter. He must remember that. If his memory served him right, both corpses would be buried in quicklime as soon as possible and be swiftly corrupted.
He reached the Holy Lamb and entered its spacious taproom, which smelled sweetly of smoked ham, crushed onion and strong ale. The rushes on the floor, sprinkled with fresh herbs, were glossy green and supple. The two bounty-hunters were seated in the garden beyond, closeted together in a rose-covered arbour, tankards of ale on the table before them.
‘The ideal place for a meeting,’ Sevigny remarked, sitting down opposite them. Both nodded in unison and Sevigny quietly marvelled at this sinister pair; twins, they looked alike except that Cosmas had his left eye socket sewn up, Damian his right. They wore the same clay-coloured robes bound round the middle with a rough cord, stout sandals on their bare feet. Each had a silver ring dangling from his right ear lobe; their faces were small, round as a pebble, rather womanish. According to Sheriff Malpas, both men had served as spies in the Byzantine army. They had been captured by the Ottoman Turks, blinded in one eye, castrated and pegged out in the desert. A hermit had, by God’s favour, rescued them and nursed them back to health. Born of English stock, they had returned to London under their adopted names, Cosmas and Damian, after two Greek physicians martyred for their faith. Once in the city, this precious pair had acquired a reputation second to none for being the most skilled of searchers.
‘God knows how they do it,’ Malpas had growled. ‘They dress like mendicants yet they have amassed gold and silver from many rewards and bounties. Perhaps that is their secret: no one truly fears them, since they are overlooked, or rejected as grotesques, nothing more.’
‘What have you discovered?’ Sevigny took two thick pieces of silver from his purse and laid them on the table.
‘Giles Argentine.’ Cosmas leaned forward even as Damian did, his voice trilling like that of a young boy. ‘A physician with secrets, yes?’
Sevigny nodded. He had told them little about the scandals Argentine cherished.
‘A true busy bee,’ Cosmas whispered. ‘Stories about this, tales about that. Well, he has disappeared like mist on a summer morning. Now, he will not hide in the shires, where strangers are soon noted. We suspect he is not far from London. However, no hospice, abbey, monastery or convent shelters him. Again people chatter, especially the guest masters.’
‘So,’ Damian took up the story, ‘we did our own searches. We sat, thought and discussed, didn’t we, brother? We reached the conclusion that the best place to hide is where no one will go, a leper house, a lazar hospital, especially one where your kinsman is the master. That brings us to our own leper hospital at St Giles, only a walk away from the gallows, a large house, a sprawling hospital for men and women. Argentine could hide there, well protected by his powerful kinsman Master Joachim Brotherton.’ Damian smiled; he had the strong white teeth of a dog. ‘Now, Master Sevigny, my brother and I have served in Outremer; we have seen leprosy in all its horror. We will not, cannot go in there.’
‘But I can?’ Sevigny pushed the silver coins over. ‘These are still yours.’
‘Amadeus,’ Cosmas murmured, ‘you are a powerful clerk. I am sure my lord sheriff would grant you powers of search…’
Nodding his head in agreement, Sevigny turned and asked a slattern to bring three black jacks of ale. Once these were served, the clerk sat sipping his, staring at these two grotesques with their falsely benign smiles.
‘And LeCorbeil?’ he demanded.
‘Strange, strange and stranger still,’ both chorused together, then paused as a travelling juggler with a weasel in the crook of his arm and a monkey wearing a bell cap perched on his shoulder came into the garden. He sat down on a turf seat, where he was joined by a teller of tales garbed in a patchwork of colours. The new arrivals were drunk and garrulous, showing each other tricks and sleights of hand. Cosmas indicated them with his head. ‘Trickery and shadow,’ he declared.
‘What do you mean?’
‘LeCorbeil is many things: a town in Normandy, the place of a hideous massacre; the name of a Frenchman who hates the English Crown, and Beaufort in particular; as well as a group of mercenaries skilled in the crossbow.’
‘How many?’
‘To quote the Gospels, their name is legion.’
‘And where do they shelter?’
‘Here, there and everywhere. At the moment, a deserted village deep in the Essex countryside. More than that we cannot say, except,’ Damian abruptly pushed across another square of parchment, ‘after we leave, read that. We take our task seriously. We also wish to impress. We like to know our customers, so we have kept you and yours under strict watch. We heard about the attack on you at St Mary’s.’ He gestured at the parchment. ‘You have been honourable, you have paid us and shown us courtesy.’ He pulled a face. ‘You might find that of great interest. Now…’ They made to rise.
‘No, wait!’ Sevigny put the piece of parchment into his wallet and asked the slattern to bring inkhorn, quill and a scrap of vellum. He scribbled for a while and handed the memorandum to the two searchers. ‘Watch them,’ he said, tapping the table. ‘Follow them for a day or two, discover what you can, then let me know.’
Damian read Sevigny’s message, glanced at his brother and raised his hand in agreement. Then both hunters rose, bowed and slipped out through a narrow wicket gate into the alleyway beyond.
When they had gone, Sevigny opened the parchment he had been given and read the precise chancery script. He felt a shiver of coldness followed by a spurt of fiery anger. He sat clenching his hands in rage as he fought the hideous red mist that had plagued his soul since childhood, disembodied voices echoing through his mind shrieking battle cries.
‘Sir! Sir!’
Sevigny opened his eyes. The white-faced slatte
rn was gaping fearfully at him. He realised he had drawn his dagger and was holding it up, blade out, his other hand on his sword hilt.
‘Sir?’
‘I am sorry.’ Sevigny let the knife clatter on to the table and took out a coin. Leaning over, he pressed it into the girl’s bony hand. Then he drew a deep breath, rose, sheathed his dagger and left the tavern.
Sevigny was blind and deaf to the noisy crowds as he walked back to the Golden Harp, where he and Bardolph were staying. Once there, he calmed himself by going into the stables to stroke the glossy black coat of Leonardo, his great destrier. He leaned against the horse’s warm flank, letting the horse nuzzle at his hand, soothing his soul. He patted Leonardo, kissed him on the muzzle, rubbing between the horse’s ears and whispering endearments. At last he was ready. He crossed to the taproom. Bardolph was drinking in a candlelit corner; the tallow flame illuminated the archer’s unshaven face, his drooping eyes and the bitter twist to his mouth. Sevigny moved a stool close to the barrel table and drew his dagger. Bardolph started in surprise. Sevigny leaned closer, pressing the dagger tip against the man’s slightly swollen belly.
