by Paul Doherty
‘It is dark in here,’ he murmured. ‘No one can see. Even if they could, I am a royal clerk. I’ll draw your dagger and push it into your hand as you die. I’ll claim it was self-defence.’ He watched the fear flare in Bardolph’s eyes. ‘Just a push.’
‘What is this… why? Bardolph’s fear could not hide his realisation of a trap being sprung.
‘The Inglenook in Southwark.’ Sevigny pressed on the dagger. ‘You went there, I know you did. Two associates of mine followed you. You met three wolfsheads, former soldiers. You hired them to murder me. I killed one of them. Before he died, this assassin confessed that he’d been hired by a man with a strange accent. You hale from the Yorkshire dales. Your burr would sound like a foreign language to a Londoner. Don’t lie; more importantly, don’t waste my time.’
Bardolph blinked and wetted his lips. ‘You think I’m sullen,’ he replied. ‘And so I am. Why not? I am a bowman, one of the best. A master archer, not an assassin.’
‘Who ordered you to have me killed?’
‘You know full well,’ the archer whispered. ‘The duchess hates you. She fiercely resents your influence in her husband’s affairs. Perhaps you know more about his business than you should. I was given a choice: either you died in London or I would not return to her service or that of the duke.’
‘Do you know what secrets the duchess suspects I hold?’ Sevigny tried to keep his voice steady as he realised that the fabric of his life was tearing, crumbling here in this tawdry tavern corner.
‘No, master, but like others, I have heard certain whispers about her. I used to think they were tittle-tattle; perhaps they’re not.’ Bardolph picked up his tankard even as his hand stole to the long Welsh stabbing dirk sheathed in his belt.
‘Don’t!’ Sevigny warned. ‘I’d be much swifter. Drink with two hands.’
‘You can kill me,’ Bardolph grasped the tankard with both hands, ‘God knows I deserve it, yet I tell you this. The duchess wants to be rid of you. If I do not succeed, you will be sent on some embassy to the far reaches of the earth and you will not be coming back.’ He lifted the tankard in toast. ‘I don’t want to die unshriven.’
‘You are not going to die.’ Sevigny let the dagger droop. ‘You cannot go back to the duchess, but I do not want your blood on my hands.’ He gestured with his head. ‘Go, Bardolph. Take passage abroad. They need good English bowmen, be it in Hainault, Flanders or the cities along the Rhine. However,’ he sheathed the dagger, ‘if we meet again, I shall certainly kill you.’
Bardolph stared in disbelief and swallowed hard. Sevigny gazed back. He was tired of killing, and for some strange reason he could not forget Katherine Roseblood’s beautiful face, so vibrant with merriment, life and the good things of an innocent soul. She would not like these filthy doings in the deepest shadows.
‘Go, go!’ He gestured with his fingers. Bardolph got slowly to his feet and extended a hand, but let it fall when Sevigny did not respond. He pushed past the clerk, then abruptly clasped him on the shoulder and leaned down.
‘I asked the duchess what would happen if I failed. She replied that there would be other men and fresh occasions. My gift to you, remember that, clerk.’ And he was gone.
Sevigny sat for a while. He felt trapped in the deepest darkness. Demons prowled and the only sound was their gasping breath and the rasp of steel being drawn. York was a good lord. Sevigny had sealed indentures with him, done fealty, though he had never sworn the oath of allegiance. Strangely enough, York had never asked for that. Had he always known that one day he might have to abandon Sevigny to the murderous whims of his beautiful duchess? The Rose of Raby had wrapped herself around the duke, body and soul. Sevigny had heard the whispers of how skilled and versatile she was in bed, creating a kingdom where she was lord and York her humble servant. He ignored the pressing feeling of despair, though he accepted in his heart that he and York were finished.
‘I will see this through,’ he murmured to himself, ‘and I will be gone. But what then?’
As a member of York’s household, Sevigny received robes, supplies and monies every quarter, but that did not concern him. He had inherited money from his parents’ estates and had secreted it away with bankers in London, York and Lincoln. Would he engage with another lord’s household? He was registered as a royal clerk in the King’s chancery.
Sevigny shook his head and rose to his feet. The future would have to wait. Cosmas and Damian were now busy on their errand. And Argentine? The searchers were correct: he would have to invoke the authority of the sheriff. Ravenspur was a different matter. Nevertheless, he would finish that task as well, keep faith with York even if the duke did not keep faith with him. Whatever happened, he would return to report on his mission. Afterwards he would put as much distance between himself and the malevolent duchess as possible.
The next morning, after a night’s sleep plagued by ghosts from the past, Sevigny rose, shaved and washed. He put on fresh robes and visited the taverns near New Temple where the lawyers gathered, Hell’s Inn and Heaven’s Hope. The two hostelries stood only a few paces apart and were the favourite gathering places for lawyers and judges before the courts sat at Westminster. They provided a rich source of gossip, lawyers being party to the devices and plans of the great warlords.
He soon learnt that Malpas was correct. Beaufort and the Queen intended to call a great assembly at Leicester without York or his allies being present. Secretly the Crown was issuing writs for troops to be raised in every shire north of London so that when they left the city, Beaufort and Queen Margaret would be escorted to Leicester by an army. York of course suspected this and had sent urgent messages to his northern allies begging them to raise their forces and hurry them south. The narrow-eyed lawyers in their costly robes, bulging chancery bags on the floor between their feet, were eager to cap each other’s rumours. Sevigny learnt the truth: the parliament at Leicester was only a cat’s paw to mass troops and strike at York.
He left the taverns and walked across to the ancient church of St Alphege. He was about to enter through the Devil’s door when his name was called. He turned. Shadows emerged from the billowing mist blown in from the river.
‘Master Sevigny, you must come with us. Ravenspur awaits you.’ The speaker was wrapped in cloak and mantle. Sevigny glimpsed a young, shaven face, one hand held up in a gesture of peace, the other offering a scroll of parchment, a request from Ravenspur courteously asking Sevigny to join the escort provided. Sevigny nodded his agreement and six other strangers similarly attired came out of the murk, their leader whispering how they would escort the clerk back to the Golden Harp.
On his return to the tavern, Sevigny collected a few possessions, saddled Leonardo and followed his mysterious escort out into the mist-filled streets. The sun had risen but the mist was stubbornly thick, cloaking his view and dulling all sound. Candle and lantern horn shimmered a dirty yellow. Images swam out of the murk: the chapped, wounded faces of beggars, the round smoothness of curious urchins, the white, skeletal features of some hooded friar. They crossed London Bridge and journeyed down past the majestic stone walls and soaring turrets of the Tower, lit by fiery brands and flaming braziers. Eventually they reached the Mile End Road, heading for Bow Bridge and the marshes that separated London from the wild Essex countryside.
It was an eerie journey. Sevigny’s escort remained as cloaked and cowled as a group of black monks; only the occasional glint of weapons or the clatter of scabbards betrayed who they really were, a group of mercenaries, one of the many now journeying through England. Sevigny listened to their chatter, usually French, though in a patois he could not understand. He wondered if they were Brabantines, as each rider carried a powerful crossbow looped over his saddle horn. On one occasion he witnessed their skill when they surprised a flock of pheasants that broke from the thick undergrowth, their harsh calls shattering the silence of the countryside. Immediately, three of the escort unhitched their crossbows, swinging them up, each loosing a bolt to bri
ng down a bird in a splutter of feathers and blood. The carcasses were collected, heads shorn off and the bodies hung for a short while from a tree branch until the blood drained out. Once they were cleaned, they were tossed into a sack and the journey continued.
Sevigny watched and changed his mind, curbing the excitement in his belly. He grew certain that these were no ordinary mercenaries. He glimpsed an insignia on a dark red quilted jerkin: a crow, wings extended, against a light blue field. LeCorbeil! He was sure that he was now surrounded by those mysterious French mercenaries who came and went like shadows in the night. They were well armed and horsed, and with the kingdom slipping into war, few would dare challenge them. Even if they did, they probably carried some form of documentation, forged or genuine, that would allow them safe passage. If these men were LeCorbeil – and Sevigny became convinced that they were – then Ravenspur was not only a warlock but their leader. York had not informed him about that.
He tried to draw them into conversation, but the only one who replied was Bertrand, their leader, a handsome young man with a smooth Italianate face, dark eyes and a blunt manner. He assured the clerk that he was in no danger, that he would be treated with every respect, but conceded nothing else. Sevigny could only ride on. The cavalcade kept well away from villages and hamlets such as Leighton and Wodeford. They eventually entered the dark greenness of Epping Forest, where the trees thinned though the brooding stillness of that ancient woodland still hung heavy. The mist had lifted slightly but the sky was now blocked with heavy grey clouds.
The journey reminded Sevigny of boyhood rides across the harsh Yorkshire moors, going on pilgrimage with his parents to the Carthusian house at Mount Grace or the great abbey of St Hilda at Whitby. He reflected on where such days had led, before his mind drifted back to Katherine Roseblood staring at him so coquettishly from the steps of the Tun. He also plotted how he would break in to the leper house at St Giles, whilst he hoped that Cosmas and Damian would be able to offer help in solving the mysterious deaths of Candlemas and Cross-Biter. Sevigny felt personally insulted by these; the two men had perished in his care, so he was determined to resolve the mystery. He wondered again about Katherine, and decided to visit the Roseblood on the night of the great celebration, a welcome relief against the menacing shadow of Duchess Cecily and this sombre journey.
Shouts and cries roused him from his reverie. He glanced around. They had entered a deserted village, its buildings much decayed, almost hidden by the coarse undergrowth thrusting up around them. An ancient well, its wall cracked and crumbling, stood at a weed-choked crossroads under the shadow of a three-branched gibbet. Wisps of hempen rope still twirled from its rusty hooks. It was one of those ghostly, deserted hamlets through which the Great Pestilence had swept over a hundred years ago, extinguishing all life as swiftly and surely as snuffing out a candle. Rotting signs, dangling from rusty chains, moved in a macabre creaking melody. Empty windows gazed sightlessly out above crumbling doorways and entrances. Garden fences and palisades, benches and horse troughs lay topsy-turvy, their decaying wood snagged by creeping grass and trailing bramble. An oppressive, baleful silence closed about them, as if ghosts and spectres swirled full of resentment at being disturbed.
Above a clump of trees Sevigny glimpsed a decaying square church tower. Bertrand lifted a hand and pointed in its direction. They made their way up the potholed trackway, through a gap in the cemetery wall and into the wild heathland that had once served as God’s Acre, most of its tombstones and crosses now hidden from view. The yew trees planted there had grown untended, their heavy branches hanging down to create small chambers of shadows. The cavalcade approached the main door of the church, which had been recently mended; this opened, and a man dressed as if for the hunt came out on to the steps. He wore long riding boots, and bottle-green jerkin and hose under a heavy military cloak clasped at the throat. In appearance he reminded Sevigny of Sheriff Malpas, with his silver hair and beard that only emphasised dark weathered features. When he came closer, Sevigny was struck by his eyes: a light grey with a hard, piercing stare. He offered his hand, gaze unflinching. Sevigny leaned down, clasped this, then dismounted.
‘I am Ravenspur. You are most welcome, Amadeus.’ Ravenspur gestured at the escort. ‘Have no worries. Your splendid horse – Leonardo, isn’t it? – will be well looked after, as will you. You shall be given good food and a safe guide back to the London road.’ He grinned, his eye teeth white and sharp like the fangs of a hunting dog. ‘Now come.’
He led Sevigny into the dark church. Sevigny tried to identify the man’s accent. French? Or was that pretence, a ploy to hide his true identity? His clothing was dull and sober but of the costliest wool, while on his wrist a silver bracelet glinted, jewelled rings shimmering on his fingers. The door shut behind them. Sevigny stared around. The church was ancient, with a long nave like a manor hall, with wooden rafter beams and stout drum pillars down each side. Cresset torches flickered along the narrow, shadow-filled transepts. A line of braziers glowed in the centre of the church, providing both heat and light. Wall paintings had been whitewashed over. Crucifixes, statues, rood screen, lectern and pulpit had been removed. Only the square stone high altar at the far end of the chancel remained. Two thick red candles glowed there, haloes of light in the murk that hung heavy as any mist despite the light piercing the arrow-slit windows high in the walls either side.
Ravenspur beckoned Sevigny to the table and chairs where the rood screen had once stood. The warlock sat, fingers steepled, staring gently, even sadly at Sevigny. The clerk swiftly recalled how York considered this sorcerer, who now looked as pious as any country parson, a most powerful necromancer. York believed that Ravenspur was responsible for the mysterious death of the King’s uncle, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, whilst under house arrest at St Edmundsbury. A shocking, sudden death that had never been resolved.
‘You must wonder about the journey.’ Ravenspur smiled. ‘The mummery at being brought to a deserted church in a long-forgotten village peopled by ghosts.’
‘And my escort?’ Sevigny demanded. ‘They are LeCorbeil? You are their leader?’
‘Acolytes, disciples,’ Ravenspur replied evasively.
Sevigny stared down the nave. He would leave that for the time being. ‘So why here? Why this, as you say, like some mummer’s masque?’
‘You know my answer, Amadeus: you are York’s principal chancery clerk.’ Ravenspur played with the bracelet around his wrist. ‘Even though you are fiercely resented by the lovely but deadly duchess, a true witch. Anyway,’ he continued briskly, ‘you are in London and you are probably being watched. However, you are well protected; I am not. I cannot meet you there. I do not want Beaufort’s bully boys bursting through the door with warrants for our arrest.’ He pulled a face. ‘I don’t want to suffer the same death as Bolingbroke. You’ve heard of him, the former Dominican? Hanged, drawn and quartered in St Paul’s churchyard for witchcraft? So that is why you have been brought here. The duke trusts me. I prophesied the death of Suffolk, as I did the King’s malady of the mind.’
‘And now?’
‘And now, my friend, you will eat, drink and relax.’
Ravenspur left, closing the door behind him. Sevigny rose and walked around the deserted church. Images and memories drifted through his mind. Katherine Roseblood; the duchess; Candlemas and Cross-Biter sprawled dead in that chamber; Argentine, cowled and masked, hiding amongst a hideous horde of lepers; and now this. He smiled cynically at Ravenspur’s boasting. Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, might have died mysteriously, but he had ruined his health through drinking and dissipation. King Henry’s mind had also turned, but he had inherited such a weakness through his mother from Charles VI of France, who never washed because he believed he was made of painted glass.
And now? Ravenspur might be a charlatan, but Sevigny recognised a truly dangerous one. God only knew what power he had acquired. The Devil’s troop constantly prowled through the twilight, along that eternal frontier b
etween the seen and the unseen. Would the Lord Satan cross to help the likes of Ravenspur? Or was it all trickery? Was he playing such games now?
Sevigny paused in his pacing. The church had grown remarkably cold. Sounds echoed eerily, as if sandalled feet slithered. Shadows darted around the pools of light. He startled at a sound above him, a fluttering, as if some bird had been shut in amongst the rafters, yet he could detect nothing. Dark and light flittered. He walked to the altar and stared down at its harsh stone surface. In the juddering glow of the red candles he thought he could detect bloodstains, but when he peered closer, these seemed to fade. He went for his sword as a faint chattering echoed from the gloomy transept. He drew his weapon and walked across, but the cold stone gallery lay desolate. He felt his heart quicken and his mouth grow dry. Above him, something scrabbled at the thick horn covering a window, as if desperate to get in or out.
Sevigny crossed to the door and opened it; he stood on the crumbling steps, staring out across the sea of gorse and bramble. All lay quiet. On the breeze he caught the sound of indistinct shouting and laughter, and smelled the mouth-watering fragrance of roasted meat. He sheathed his sword and went back into the church. A short while later, Ravenspur, accompanied by one of his acolytes, brought in a tray of food: freshly roasted pheasant, soft fruit bread, a flagon of wine and two cups. He served the food and filled the goblets, then gestured at his guest to begin. When the acolyte had left, Sevigny blessed himself and leaned across.
‘My apologies,’ he smiled. ‘Do not take offence.’ He swiftly changed his platter and goblet with those of Ravenspur. The warlock laughed merrily, his strange eyes crinkling.
‘I heard about the mysterious deaths of Candlemas and his companion. Do you believe they were poisoned?’
‘Possibly.’ Sevigny ate and drank in silence. He was still intrigued by the way Ravenspur had spoken. He was certain he had caught a slight tinge of a French accent. He also recalled his strange escort, their skill with the crossbow, and this sparked memories of defenders being killed by crossbow bolts on London Bridge during Cade’s rebellion, whilst a similar fate had befallen certain English captains in France. He had asked Ravenspur about LeCorbeil and not truly been answered. He was determined to resolve the matter.
