Roseblood

by Paul Doherty

  Joachim and Gervaise stood in shocked surprise. The prior was the first to recover, but Simon grabbed the pannier, knocked Gervaise aside with his crossbow and threw himself at Joachim, who hastily retreated. Simon hurtled through the door, leaping over the lower cloister wall, pannier in one hand, the crossbow in the other. He dropped this as he raced through the precincts, the cloister bell beginning to peal the tocsin. He had a clear idea of the lazar house buildings, fields and gardens. He knew he must cross the great meadow and reach the high curtain wall. He knocked aside figures who emerged out of the morning mist. Memories sparked in his mind of the running street fights of his youth and the sweaty, deadly struggles in French towns or lonely copses in Normandy. He might be captured, but there again, Argentine was dead.

  At last he reached the great meadow. A pain in his side made him wince; the pannier slipped and slithered in his sweat-soaked hand. He glimpsed the wall through the mist and paused at the deep-throated barking that rang through the morning air. He whirled around. Torches flared and he caught the glint of steel. The murk shifted to reveal his pursuers, mastiffs straining on their leases, their masters bending to loosen the clasps. Simon hurried on. The barking grew louder. He drew closer to the wall, racing towards a buttress. When he reached it, he turned, cutting the air with his dagger just as the leading mastiff, lips curled back in a display of jagged teeth, leapt towards him. The dagger slashed the side of the hound’s face, forcing it to veer away into the path of the other two dogs. These, confused by the spraying blood, stumbled in their charge. Simon climbed the buttress, threw the pannier over and jumped down into the narrow lane. He grabbed the pannier and hurried out on to the thoroughfare leading down to the city.

  Despite the early hour, the crowds were already out, a colourful, noisy stream of people, carts, barrows and wagons. An execution party was returning from the great gibbet and the red-masked executioners were already drunk. Around the hangman’s cart jostled the traders, fripperers, tinkers and relic sellers in their cowls, hoods and snoop caps, men and women who always attended execution morning for petty trading. Simon mingled with these. Some he recognised, though he kept his peace, concealing his face and head by pulling up the deep cowl.

  He reached the great fleshing market outside Newgate, the salty tang of blood wafting everywhere, the cobbles underfoot slippery with scraps of offal. A relic seller stood on a cart, claiming how the box at his feet held the remains of one of the Holy Innocents. A short distance away, two choir clerks sang in unison the hymn ‘Ave Verum’. They had to compete with a chanteur who claimed he had news from the east, where a great army of yellow-skinned, red-armoured warriors massed under silk banners of the deepest vermilion. Such attractions drew the crowd, and it was hard to push through.

  Simon turned and glimpsed lay brothers from St Giles not far behind. It was too dangerous to continue, so he hastened up the steps into the guild church of St Nicholas of the Shambles. The Jesus mass had finished, but people still stood in the nave, bathed by the light pouring through the lancet windows. Streams of incense smoke curled and twisted. Simon squatted on a stool near the great baptismal font close to the front door. A rack of votive candles glowed and caught the colours of a wall painting above the font. The vigorously painted fresco executed in red, green and blue celebrated the story of St Nicholas of Myra, who frustrated the designs of an evil butcher who had slaughtered some children, cut them up and pickled their flesh in a salt barrel. The artist had wondrously depicted how, due to the blessing of the saint, all the meaty scraps had reassembled into living flesh and the children, glowing with health, were restored to their parents. Despite his own troubles, Simon grinned at the irony of the painting here at the centre of the fleshers’ trade; his smile widened even further as a thought occurred to him. He rose, walked up the nave and entered the sacristy, where the altar boys were busy stowing the sacred vestments in the cope chest. As he stood in the sacristy door, cowl pulled over his head, he caught sight of his quarry: Fleabite, apprentice to Brancome the butcher, who supplied the Roseblood with some of its meat.

  ‘Fleabite!’ Simon hissed. The altar boy stared through the gloom. Simon beckoned him closer, a fresh coin glinting between his fingers. Fleabite, ignoring the muttered grumblings of the bell clerk, hurried across. Simon led him back into the nave and crouched, face close to the boy’s. ‘It’s Master Roseblood.’ He pulled back his hood.

  ‘Sir, your head and face, your hair is—’

  ‘I have been on a journey. Now listen. Get rid of your cassock and cotta. Take this coin and go as swiftly as you can to the Roseblood. Seek out Master Ignacio.’

  ‘The silent one?’

  ‘Yes, the silent one, together with Wormwood. Tell them to hasten here with clothing and weapons as swiftly as possible.’

  ‘Master, what—’

  ‘Another coin will be yours.’ Simon pushed the one he held into the apprentice’s hand. ‘Don’t worry, I will settle matters with Master Brancome. Now go.’

  Fleabite needed no second bidding. His vestments were quickly discarded and the apprentice sped like the wind through the Devil’s door, taking a route that would evade his sharp-eyed master manning a stall not so far away.

  Simon returned to the baptismal enclave. He took out the ledger and, in the fluttering candlelight, carefully read Argentine’s chronicle, or, as the dead physician pompously described it, his ‘Mirror of Truth’. Argentine had made his entries in good Latin, beginning each clause with the word ‘item’, as if he was a lawyer drawing up an indictment. He presented as if it were the gospel truth all the malicious chatter and scandalous gossip from the courts of York and Lancaster. Depicting himself as the royal birthing physician, he cleverly insinuated that both Edwards – the son of King Henry as well as the offspring of Richard of York – were illegitimate. Full of righteousness and quoting verses from Scripture and canon law, he described how the royal prince Edward was in fact the son of Edmund Beaufort, Margaret of Anjou’s alleged lover. He argued how King Henry, at the time of the child’s conception, had been infected by a mental stupor that rendered him impotent in every way. Indeed, he declared, King Henry himself, once he recovered his wits, believed that his alleged son must be a second divine conception, because he had no knowledge of it.

  Argentine was equally scathing about the birth of Edward of York, repeating rumour and gossip from the birthing chamber: how Richard of York, the supposed father, had been away from Rouen at the time of his son’s conception, whilst his duchess had become deeply infatuated with a tall captain of archers in the English garrison. He spun his tale most subtly, quoting this person or that, or referring to particular incidents on a specific date at a certain place.

  ‘You have crafted a clever illusion,’ Simon whispered to the darkness. ‘As skilled as any Cheapside minstrel.’ Argentine, he reflected, had been a master of the masque, a creator of charades. Little wonder the lords of York and Lancaster were so keen to seize him and his manuscript. ‘I did not want your blood on my hands,’ Simon murmured, yet he conceded that the Beaufort lords would be very pleased. Argentine’s prattling mouth was closed for ever, and Simon now owned his secret chronicle. York would pay handsomely for it, whilst the French court’s interest in Argentine was obvious.

  Simon stirred on his stool, watching the candle flame dance as if to some invisible music. He wondered about LeCorbeil. The French had certainly entered St Giles, but for what? To keep an eye on Argentine? To arrange his escape? Or had they come hunting poor Holand, or himself? He couldn’t decide. He returned to the contents of his pannier, sifting through the indentures, letters, bills and memoranda; personal items, nothing extraordinary except for two intricately drawn maps. Simon recognised them both. The first was a carefully inscribed outline of the south Essex coast delineating Walton, the Naze and the river Orwell. An ideal place, he concluded, for a French carrack or galley to slip in and take someone off.

  The second map was a finely etched description of the roads leading
north from the Tower along the Mile End Road to Bow and across the Hackney marshes into that desolate area of south Essex with the dense sprawling greenery of Epping Forest and a line of isolated villages and hamlets stretching from Wodeforde to Chelmsford and Colchester. One such village in a heavily wooded area had been emphasised. Simon translated the abbreviation for Cottesloe and recalled from his smuggling days how Cottesloe was one of those villages annihilated by the Great Pestilence that had swept like the Devil’s wind across the shire.

  He tapped his fingers on the manuscript. LeCorbeil must have wanted Argentine. Were they going to smuggle him out of London through the wilds of Essex, perhaps sheltering at Cottesloe before moving on to the coast? They must have been waiting for the right occasion, perhaps hoping that when Lancaster and York clashed, they would seize their opportunity. LeCorbeil must have had an agent in St Giles, and Master Joachim had been in full connivance. They had become overconfident and been taken by surprise. Sevigny’s visit would have alarmed them. Perhaps they were preparing to leave and decided to settle matters with Holand once and for all.

  Simon stared down at the leather-bound ledger. What should he do with it? His allegiance to Beaufort was unwavering, yet, he reflected, he was feasting with wolves, smiling faces that concealed brutish, beastly hearts. When war came, the Beauforts and Queen Margaret would prove as ruthless as York, but he had no choice other than to hunt with them. He rose to his feet and, putting the ledger back in the pannier, walked to the main door, staring out at the fleshing stalls. Soon the Great Slaughter would begin, the strongholds would be stormed and all the furies of Hell would be unleashed. He gripped the pannier. He would keep Argentine’s chronicle for himself, a sure defence against the coming storm.

  Katherine Roseblood

  London, May 1455

  Katherine Roseblood sat deeper in the arbour, almost hidden by the riot of greenery that had sprouted over the years. She brushed leaves off her lap and stared at her fingers. ‘I wish they were pale and long like those of the Lady of the Lake. You know, Melisaunde, on that tapestry in the Camelot Chamber.’ She turned as if her mythical friend was really sitting next to her in that flower-shrouded part of the great garden. For as long as she could remember, Katherine had met her make-believe friend here; certainly long before Mother died. She blessed herself at the thought and, as her brother Gabriel had advised her, whispered the words of requiem for her dead mother’s soul. ‘Where are you?’ She spoke her thoughts. ‘I hope you are happy now.’

  All her memories of her mother were bittersweet, especially the last years, her mother’s pallid face betraying a sadness in her marriage her daughter could not comprehend. Katherine truly adored her father, yet there was something, a shadow that deeply tinged their relationship. Her father had enjoyed a rich past. Katherine had heard the whispers about his former life: a street fighter, a riffler, a soldier, a courtier, a spy, and, if some of the whispers were true, he had even considered becoming a Benedictine monk.

  Ah well, that was the past. She rose to her feet. Father had returned the previous day. She had been shocked at his appearance, hair all shorn, his face deliberately pockmarked. He had kissed her before becoming closeted with Raphael, Ignacio, Wormwood and the rest of his inner cabal. The pot of politic was certainly bubbling furiously, and all sorts of things were rising to the top. The salacious gossip of the taproom and buttery was now heavily laced with a cloying fear, and this was not just over murdered streetwalkers. Another prostitute’s corpse had been found, her remains crammed like a bundle of old rags into a steaming laystall on the corner of Ink Pot Lane. However, greater fears than this were now gathering.

  The recent French attack on Queenhithe had sharpened the realisation of how the tide of war had savagely turned. The French were now bringing to the southern ports and London itself all the horrors heaped on their coastal towns by English privateers. There was no real shield or defence, no bulwark against the creeping terror. The King was weak, the Council divided, the warlords of York and Lancaster ready to sharpen their swords on each other rather than some foreign enemy. York would march and the King could not decide whether to treat with him or bring him to battle. If war did break out, London would erupt like some festering boil, with the gang leaders eager to settle scores. The Roseblood would be swept up in this. And Sevigny?

  Katherine stepped out of the arbour. Soon the market bell would ring and she and Dorcas would have to leave. Mistress Eleanor had sent an urgent message begging to see her in All Hallows before Vespers. She did not say why, but according to Dorcas, the personable young man who had delivered the message spoke prettily about how urgent it was and how Katherine must not tell anybody. Yet despite all this, even now Katherine felt that presence in her soul that had brought her out to this secret bower.

  Sevigny! Her thoughts returned to him constantly. She had heard all about his prowess in the battle against the French, his ruthless ferocity. Such stories only deepened her fascination with the enigmatic clerk. He was no longer Mordred lately come to Camelot, but one of those mysterious knights at Arthur’s table. Nor had he deserted her. The gargoyles and the babewyns had glimpsed him in the nearby streets and alleyways. Dorcas maintained that she had even seen him in the old Roman ruin on the hill behind the tavern. Katherine had searched for him; she wanted to meet him again. She felt complete when he walked beside her, and they had talked so merrily, as if she had known him for ever. He was still a mystery, yet she wanted to be with him so much.

  Katherine blushed and, despite being on her own, felt the embarrassment sweep through her body. She knew all about romance and dalliance. God knows, the tales of Arthur were rich enough, but when it came to kissing, embracing and coupling… She ran a hand down her full breasts on to her stomach. When she had helped bath her, Dorcas had remarked that Katherine was full, ripe and ready. How they had laughed at that! Katherine’s courses had begun five years ago. She’d heard all the salacious stories in the taproom; the sly allusions, the bawdy insults as well as the tittle-tattle of the tavern women about the prowess of certain men. When she had hid in the stables during the cold weather, she had often heard the language and sounds of lovemaking. The tavern galleries echoed with the same, and Dorcas was forever teasing her with crude details about men’s hungry cocks and greedy hands. Surely it would not be like that with Sevigny? And where would their lovemaking take place? In some lush, serene garden, or perhaps a broad four-poster bridal bed…

  ‘Mistress Katherine!’

  She patted her cheeks, which she was sure were flushed, and hastened out of the bower to where Dorcas was waiting. The tavern lay quiet: Simon, Raphael and the others had left for Smithfield, to barter as well as meet the leaders of the various gangs in the Bishop’s Mitre, the sprawling hostelry that overlooked the great market. Toadflax had been left to guard her and would follow Dorcas and herself down to the church.

  The plump, insolent-eyed maid handed Katherine her cloak with its deep capuchon and they left by the wicket gate, hastening through the alleyways to All Hallows. Katherine glanced over her shoulder. Toadflax was shambling behind them. Dorcas, all breathless, recited the gossip of the kitchen and buttery whilst loudly praising the handsome messenger, as well as speculating on why Mistress Eleanor should send such urgent pleas.

  Katherine ignored her, mind still brimming with thoughts of Sevigny. She peered out of her hood and, for the first time, wondered about the wisdom of what she was doing. The day was drawing to a close and the denizens of the mumpers’ castles were emerging to watch, prey and hunt. Soldiers gathered outside tavern doors, bellies full of ale, hearts bubbling with resentments, mouths yelling strange oaths, fingers not far from sword hilt or dagger handle. Queenhithe was still trembling after the savagery of the French attack, and there was the prospect of more tumult. Mounted archers swung by on their horses, scattering groups, pushing past carts and barrows. A funeral procession emerged from the throng, growing increasingly raucous as the mourners, most of them drunk, staggered,
juggling the corpse on their shoulders. Behind these, bagpipes wailed as streetwalkers tied to the tail of a cart were whipped down to the stocks. A baby shrieked, competing with the screeching of a dog crushed beneath the wheel of a barrow till someone cut its throat.

  Katherine, Dorcas hurrying beside her, turned thankfully off through the lychgate and up the pavement that cut across God’s Acre. The main door of All Hallows was locked. Surprised at this, she led Dorcas round to the corpse door. She pushed this open and stepped into the cold darkness of that mystical place. Spears of sunlight pierced the windows, sending the dust motes dancing, Eleanor had once told her that these were angels who could assume any size they wanted. Candle smoke teased their nostrils and Katherine felt the perpetual damp that seeped through the ancient flagstones. She glanced over her shoulder again. Toadflax had not followed them in.

  ‘Eleanor?’ she called. ‘Mistress Eleanor?’ She walked across to the rood screen door and started as it opened abruptly and Father Roger staggered into the nave.

  ‘What is it?’ The priest stood swaying, voice slurred as he peered through the murk.

  ‘He is sottish!’ Dorcas giggled. ‘Drunk as any ale taster!’

  Father Roger stumbled closer, singing softly under his breath. He stepped into the dappled light, his cheeks and chin unshaven, eyes bleary, mouth slack.

  ‘Father!’ Katherine hissed. ‘You are not well.’

  ‘Too true, too true.’

  Katherine heard a sound further down the nave and glimpsed a shadow move. She felt the cold chill of this ancient church wrap itself around her.