by Paul Doherty
‘How many?’ Simon asked.
‘Oh, about forty, between the ages of eleven and twenty at the time of the massacre.’
Holand paused again. On the breeze echoed the bell-like growling of the mastiffs that patrolled the far grounds of the lazar house. Simon idly wondered why such dogs were kept and loosed after dark. To deter intruders? But who would want to break into a leper hospital? To prevent escape? But why should any leper want to do that? Where would they go? The poor creatures could scarce climb steps, never mind scale a wall. Unless of course Holand was correct and Master Joachim and his disciples were amassing a treasure hoard that had to be protected. Or was it something else? Simon quietly promised himself that when all this danger, the tumult caused by York, receded, he and his gangs would bring St Giles under closer scrutiny.
‘The survivors of the massacre,’ Holand resumed, ‘took the collective name of their village, LeCorbeil. Rupsnevar turned his own name round to become Ravenspur. He gave up the priesthood, the Cross of Christ and the belief in a loving God. He organised his young men into a fighting troop. They fortified the old church. Ravenspur sold the precious plate and used the wealth to arm and train those young men into a vengeful warband. They became skilled in combat, above all the crossbow; marksmen, master bowmen. Others joined them, men with similar grudges against the English, villagers who had been working in the fields and hid during the massacre. They soon established a fearsome reputation. God help any Englishman who fell into their hands.’
‘And no one objected? The local bishop? Seigneurs?’
Holand laughed, a strange, craking sound. ‘For the love of God, friend, this was Normandy after the Maid. Anyone who killed the tail-wearing goddams, as they called us English, was regarded as sent by heaven. LeCorbeil were generously patronised and supported. True, Ravenspur was a warlock, wizard or sorcerer, but this was the age of Jeanne d’Arc and Gilles de Rais; who could distinguish whether he was sent by God or Satan? The local clergy, including the Inquisition, looked the other way. The fame of LeCorbeil spread. Ravenspur was invited to Paris and Rheims to confer with the King and his secret chancery. Money, arms, livery, purveyance, horses and harnesses all came their way. They were given an open mandate. Whatever they did, they did for the King and the realm of France. Accordingly, all seneschals, bailiffs and other royal officers were ordered to provide them with every sustenance. They became the Riders of the Night, the Sons of the Dark. According to popular legend, they dwelt in the wilderness of dragons. They spread their net wider, acting as spies and provocateurs. When the English left France, they followed. They had a hand in the mysterious death of John Beaufort, first Duke of Somerset. He allegedly took his own life, but the corpse of a crow was found next to his bed. They were present when William de La Pole, Duke of Suffolk, was killed on Dover sands, and they left their mark there too. Cade’s rebellion was supported and encouraged by LeCorbeil.’
‘What else?’ Simon asked, mouth dry, as he tried to recollect the brief visit he and Edmund had made to the village of LeCorbeil.
‘Oh, these French wraiths of vengeance, these dark riders, are always in for the kill. Do you remember the battle of Castillon, and England’s defeat? Talbot of Shrewsbury, together with his son, rode out to inspect the enemy’s position. Both were brought down by crossbowmen, bolts to the head and heart.’
Simon murmured his agreement.
‘LeCorbeil,’ Holand continued throatily, ‘are committed to damaging English power, either through direct attack or by stirring one faction up against another. York against Lancaster, Percy against Neville, lord against peasant; but they have a special hatred for the Beauforts and their power.’
‘And they have hunted down all who took part in that massacre?’
‘Yes, quite easily done. During the English retreat from France, chancery chests were taken, indentures, letters and other documents seized. When they captured Gaultier, they also ransacked his muniment chest. They seized all the agreements he’d signed with mercenaries. Every single man in that troop has been hunted down and executed.’
‘But my brother Edmund and I took no part…’
‘Didn’t you? We are all guilty, Roseblood. All those who were involved in the great chevauchées across Normandy, plundering and pillaging.’
‘But why were Edmund and myself singled out? Others fought for Beaufort.’
‘You said you were sent by the Beauforts to view the aftermath?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what happened?’
Simon closed his eyes. The ghosts were returning. Edmund in particular had been shocked at what he had seen at LeCorbeil and elsewhere. He had returned home a changed man. Simon recalled how his brother and his own younger son, Gabriel, would sit for hours in the gardens and orchards discussing what they enigmatically described to him as ‘the way of the world’. Had Edmund’s experience in France caused some form of inner conversion, a popular religious theme, according to Father Benedict, of the devotio moderna coming out of Flanders and the Low Countries? Had Edmund influenced Gabriel to enter the Franciscan order and live in a world radically different to that of the Roseblood?
‘Friend, I asked you a question.’
Both men started at the ghostly hooting of the old owl that sheltered in the massive oaks on the other side of the church, a grim reminder of where they were, a leper house full of secrets, traps and dangers. Simon rubbed his eyes and stared into the darkness. In truth, he’d tried to forget LeCorbeil, even when that mysterious visitor confronted him outside All Hallows. Now, though, he concentrated. He recalled riding into the village, its cobbled marketplace glittering with rivulets of blood, corpses choking the well. The creak of signs where more corpses dangled. He rocked backwards and forwards on the stool. A demon-filled place, but there had been something…
A young boy! That was it! A child, certainly no older than ten years. He was dressed in the stained surplice of a choirboy, and now Simon knew why. The boy was one of those who’d hidden. He’d been sent out to see who they were. He didn’t draw close, but stayed in a shadowy corner, ready to flee. He acted all innocent, asking their names, where they had come from and who had sent them. Edmund had been only too eager to help. The boy had then disappeared, leaving them in that gruesome marketplace. They too had fled, unable to cope with the horror around them.
Simon rubbed his face. ‘The man who threatened me outside the lychgate of All Hallows,’ he murmured. ‘He said we’d met before. He was that choirboy from LeCorbeil.’ He closed his eyes for a brief moment. ‘I have learnt a lot,’ he whispered. ‘But that will have to wait. You want my help?’
‘And I will give you mine in return.’
Holand moved restlessly. Simon caught the rank odour from his companion’s rotting body and polluted robes. He glanced away, vowing silently to be free of all this as soon as possible.
‘You are looking for Argentine in the wrong place.’
Simon turned back in surprise.
‘You seek him amongst the men,’ Holand chuckled, ‘but of course he will be hiding amongst the women.’ Simon gasped in astonishment. St Giles was a sprawling establishment, with the men living like monks and the women as nuns in a convent. ‘Easy enough,’ Holand continued. ‘The women’s precincts on the other side of the church are similar to this. the inmates all wear the garb of a Franciscan minoress: brown gown and capuchon with a linen wimple shrouding the face. Most of them wear gloves and a veil. It would be easy for a man to dwell in disguise, sheltered and hidden in their cloisters.’
‘But how can I enter?’
‘Promise me, when this is all over,’ Holand pointed at Simon, ‘that you will help me to move to the leper house at Harbledown.’
‘I promise. I will get you out of here.’
‘Then listen. We must begin tonight. Keep wearing your hood, gloves and face veil, as if the contagion is biting deeper, but secretly remove the false boils, tumours and buboes. Cleanse your skin, let your hair begin to grow again
. Tomorrow I will bring you the gown and hood of a lay brother; there are many of them here. They move between the precincts, involved in a myriad of tasks.’ Holand paused, fighting for breath. ‘Pretend to be doing the most disgusting tasks, such as cleaning the latrines. Get into the women’s precinct. You may find something suspicious. Master Joachim will protect his kinsman and yet keep him comfortable. I suspect that Argentine, disguised as a female inmate, lodges in the women’s cloisters. Now I must go.’
Simon rose to his feet, nodding his agreement. They clasped hands and Holand left, flitting like a shadow along the moon-washed cloister alley. Simon watched him go. He was about to turn back when he felt a chill of apprehension similar to that experienced during his soldiering days. He glanced across the garth. A shadow shifted out of the light thrown by a torch. He stared again, but it was gone. He returned to his cell, locking the door before going up to lie on his bed, staring into the darkness. He heard the tolling of the infirmary bell proclaiming that some poor soul had died, and recalled Holand’s macabre tale about the master helping his patients into the dark. The tolling was immediately answered by that ominous barking of the war dogs, those huge mastiffs that Simon had glimpsed, muzzled and strapped, being taken by their keepers to their kennels. Why did Joachim need these? Even the Roseblood lacked such protection. He wondered how matters were at the tavern and breathed a Pater and three Aves for all those he loved, both living and dead. He thought about Katherine and Sevigny. Would the clerk be moved to express his regard for her? He smiled at the problems that would incur.
Eventually he drifted into sleep, waking in the early hours as the church bells tolled for Divine Office. He rose and began his preparations. He did not shave as he frequently did, but used the lavarium and the great pitcher of water to remove what he could of the Alchemist’s disguise, including the swathe of bandage around his right foot, which made him hobble. He felt better as his skin, still pocked with real cuts and bruises, was cleaned and the tight bandages around his fingers, wrists and elbows removed. Afterwards, he dressed in the grey lazar robe of the hospital and put the mask back on, but decided to stay in his cell, only leaving when he had to, reverting to the shuffling gait he’d learnt so well. He also opened the heavy panniers he had brought and took out his weapons: a hand-held arblest, a leather case of barbed bolts and a Welsh stabbing dirk.
On the evening following their meeting, Holand brought a lay brother’s robe, a linen gauze face mask, and a pair of the thick dark blue mittens and stockings worn by those who cared for the lepers. The next morning, suitably disguised, Simon mingled with the other servitors. He easily left the male quarters of the lazar hospital, crossing to the other side of the church and into the women’s precinct. Its organisation was similar to the men’s, though it was easier for the female inmates to hide behind the robe, wimple and face mask of a nun. A sombre, lonely place with that same brooding sense of decay and imminent death. Simon concluded that if Argentine was hiding here, he would be in deep disguise, closeted in one of the cells around the garth.
Simon pretended to be moving rubbish; he even managed to secure a wheelbarrow, which he pushed around acting all busy. His efforts were soon rewarded. He noticed one cell at the far end of the row on the north side of the cloisters; its door had been recently strengthened with metal studs and a new latch, whilst to the right hung a brass bell. No one approached this cell; whoever was inside received their food and drink through the hatch. Just before Vespers, Simon, pretending to clear twigs and dead leaves from a flower bed, noticed Joachim slip along the cloisters, knock on the door and disappear inside. He rose hastily, and, using the crowds now milling towards the church, returned to his own cell. He was confident in his disguise. No one would dream of volunteering to work amongst lepers, and in his hood and mask, he was just another grey shape moving around the hospital. He decided that tomorrow he would strike at that cell, and if he was wrong, then he’d failed and would confess as much to Bray. Whatever the outcome, he must be out of here, away from this filthy contagion and its sense of unknown watching malevolence.
He slept poorly that night, and was roused in the early hours by a commotion in the cloisters. He dressed hastily, putting on his stockings and gloves before going out. A deep shifting fog flowed around the pillars and dulled the flames of torches and lanterns. A crowd of hooded, visored inmates clustered around a door further down; Simon realised it was Holand’s. He hurried along, pushing through the crowd into the rank-smelling chamber. Two lay brothers were already moving the corpse from the cot bed to a stretcher. Holand’s head lolled back, his eyes bulbous and staring. From the snatches of mumbled conversation, Simon gathered that he had died in his sleep. His flaking face was purple-hued, as if his breath had been swiftly choked off.
Simon gazed around, and froze in horror at the sight of the dead crow hanging by its shrivelled neck from a shelf above the bed. LeCorbeil had struck. The rest would dismiss the bird’s corpse as some deviation of Holand’s distorted mind. Simon knew the truth. He hastily withdrew and returned to his own preparations. He cleared his cell, packed the panniers and changed into the robes of a lay brother. He waited for a while until the hubbub outside died down, then left, slipping through the mist-filled cloisters to the common refectory, where he broke his fast on honey bread and a black jack of ale. Holand, he reasoned, had been summarily executed by those malevolent ghosts that had haunted his life. LeCorbeil were here at St Giles, probably keeping Argentine under careful watch until he could be safely spirited down to one of the city quaysides and aboard a French ship. During their stay here, they must have recognised Holand and decided he had lived long enough. But were they simply settling an old score, or had they discovered that Holand was involved in this subterfuge?
Simon recalled that flitting shadow and smiled grimly. Holand had wanted to leave. He was openly suspicious of Master Joachim. There must be some connection between Joachim and LeCorbeil: those French assassins had not only settled their grievance but removed a possible threat to Argentine, whom they must regard as a great prize. Perhaps LeCorbeil were not yet suspicious of Simon himself; maybe he was just regarded as Holand’s confidant, but he would not wait to find out.
He finished breaking his fast and left the refectory, walking purposefully as if on some errand. No one even glanced at him. Once he had reached the women’s precinct, he paused in a mist-filled corner of the cloisters. He waited for the passageway to clear, then slipped down towards the door, knocking gently and gabbling in French how he carried urgent messages from the master. The shutter across the grille opened and shut. Bolts were drawn and the door swung open. Simon took out the primed hand-held arbalest and stepped inside, knocking the veiled figure back into the chamber before slamming the door shut behind him. He dared not turn and draw the bolts; his quarry had recovered from the shock and would have lunged at him but for the arbalest held close to his face.
‘Remove your hood, wimple and mask,’ Simon ordered. The brown-garbed figure hesitated. Simon pushed the arbalest closer; the quarrel in its notch had a jagged, barbed point. Hood, wimple and mask were quickly removed and Simon stared into the man’s narrow, mean face, eyes gleaming furiously, tongue wetting lips dry with fear.
‘Giles Argentine,’ he murmured. ‘Physician extraordinary. The keeper of royal secrets.’ He peered at Argentine’s pale face. ‘No leprosy. Your skin is as smooth and unblemished as a child’s.’ He gestured around the warm, opulent chamber. ‘All the comforts of court, yes? Your secret known only to you and your kinsman, both cheeks of the same filthy arse.’
‘Who are you?’ Argentine clutched the back of a chair to steady himself, eyes desperate for escape. ‘Who are you?’ he repeated. ‘How did you discover—’
‘Hush!’ Simon replied. ‘Silence is the beginning of wisdom. One thing only will spare your life. Lie or obstruct me and I will kill you. Then I will ransack this chamber.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Your confession, your chronic
le, your account of the births of certain children, be it those of the King or the Duke of York.’ Simon smiled at Argentine’s consternation, ‘I have come to collect that.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Shut up!’ Simon ordered. ‘The document?’ Argentine looked as if he was about to refuse, but with Simon closely following, he moved across to a small coffer. He removed a key from a chain around his neck and, hands shaking, opened the coffer and drew out a calfskin ledger. Simon took this and forced Argentine to sit on a chair with his hands on his lap. He pushed the tip of the crossbow bolt against the physician’s brow.
‘Any movement,’ he warned, ‘and my finger will slip. Open the ledger, and hold it as if you are an acolyte bearing the book of the Gospels in mass.’
Argentine did so, hands trembling. He undid the binding cord and turned the ledger so that Simon could leaf through the cream-coloured vellum pages. Pressing gently on the arbalest, Simon read a few entries and quietly whistled.
‘By all the angels, Master Argentine, you weave a tale of deep deceit.’ Simon felt the physician stir. ‘No.’ He stepped back, snatching the ledger. ‘You have copies?’
Argentine’s spiteful eyes glittered, lips twisted in fury as he realised he was about to lose his pot of gold.
‘There is no copy.’
‘Just to be sure…’ Simon, watching the physician carefully, pulled the coffer closer and threw down his own pannier beside it. ‘I am sure you keep everything in the same casket in case you have to flee.’ He pushed the crossbow closer. ‘Empty it. Put everything in the saddlebag.’
Argentine reluctantly obeyed, this time staring at the door. A bell tolled. Simon tensed. The pannier was full. The bell kept tolling. Footsteps echoed from outside and the door crashed open. Master Joachim and Prior Gervaise swept into the chamber. Argentine sprang forward. Simon’s finger slipped and the barbed bolt whirred, smashing the physician’s face into a bloody mess.
