by Paul Doherty
‘Lazy bastard!’ Sir Henry muttered.
He went across to the coffin and stared down. His heart skipped a beat: three bloody red crosses had been carved; one on the corpse’s forehead and one on either cheek.
‘The marks!’ he muttered. ‘What?’
He started, but too late. The assassin’s noose was round his neck. Sir Henry struggled but the garrotte string was tight and, even as he died, choking and gasping, Sir Henry heard those dreadful words.
‘Oh day of wrath, oh day of mourning, heaven and earth in ashes burning. See what fear man’s bosom rendereth . . .’
Sir Henry’s dying brain thought of another scene, so many years ago; corpses kicking and spluttering from the outstretched arms of an elm tree, bearing the red crosses on their foreheads and cheeks whilst dark-cowled horsemen chanted the same lines.
CHAPTER 1
It was Execution Day on the large, bare expanse of Smithfield. Usually the place was busy with various markets selling horses, cattle and sheep; the area around Smithfield Pond would be thronged with stalls and booths offering leather, meat and dairy produce. The crowds always flocked there to see the freaks and performing animals, whilst the puppet-masters, fortune-tellers and ballad-mongers from all over London, the quacks, the gingerbread women, the sellers of toy drums and St Bartholomew babies would do a roaring trade. Men and women of every kind came to Smithfield: nobles and courtiers in their silks and taffetas, merchants in their beaver hats, the red-headed whores from Cock Lane. Their children would frighten themselves, and each other, by staring into the glassy eyes of the severed pigs’ heads which were piled high on the fleshers’ stalls. Nearby, in the Hand and Shears tavern, the Court of Pie Powder would deal out summary justice to those caught pickpocketing, foisting or indulging in any other form of trickery. Consequently the blood-spattered pillory posts were always busy. Wednesday, however, was Execution Day. The great six-branched gibbet would dominate the marketplace, nooses hanging; the condemned felons would be brought down from Newgate, past St Sepulchre’s, stopping at the Ship tavern in Giltspur Street so that the condemned felons could have one last drink before they were turned off the ladder.
Sir John Cranston, King’s Coroner in the city of London, always hated such occasions but, on that particular Wednesday, the feast of St Hilda, it was his turn to be king’s witness to royal justice being carried out. He sat on his great, black-coated destrier, chain of office around his neck, his large fat face pulled into a mask of solemnity, his kindly blue eyes now cold and hard. Now and again his horse would whinny at the crowds thronging behind him but, apart from scratching his white beard or twirling the ends of his moustache, Sir John hardly moved.
‘I should be home,’ he moaned quietly to himself. ‘Sitting in the garden with Lady Maude or watching the poppets chase Gog and Magog.’
Sir John had four great passions: first, his wife and children; secondly, a love for justice; thirdly, his great treatise on the governance of the City and finally, a deep affection for his secretarius and assistant in rooting out murder and horrible homicides, Brother Athelstan, the Dominican parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark.
‘And your claret,’ Sir John whispered to himself. ‘Not to forget your London ale and sweet tasting malmsey.’
Sir John never knew in what order these passions should really be listed. In fact he loved them all together. Cranston’s idea of heaven was a spacious London tavern full of sweet-smelling herbs and blossoming roses where he, Athelstan, Lady Maude and the poppets could sit, talk and drink for all eternity.
‘I should be home,’ Sir John growled again.
‘I beg your pardon, my lord Coroner?’
Cranston turned and gazed at Osbert, his court clerk, whose brown berry face was wreathed in concern, his dark little eyes screwed up against the morning sunshine.
‘Nothing,’ Cranston muttered. ‘I just wish the buggers would hurry up and get here from Newgate.’
As if in answer, the crowd at the far end of Smithfield gave a great roar and began to part, allowing through the garishly painted death-wagon, driven by the executioner and his assistant all clothed in black from head to toe. The horses they managed had their manes hogged with purple-dyed plumes nodding between their ears. In the cart stood three men, dressed in white shifts, shouting and gesturing at the crowd. On either side walked lines of soldiers from the Tower garrison, halberds over their shoulders. Behind the cart two bagpipers played a raucous tune.
Why all this mummery? Cranston thought. In his treatise on the governance of the City, he would recommend to the young king that such executions be abolished and confined to the press-yard of Newgate Prison. Cranston stood high in his stirrups: he gazed over the heads of the crowd pushing against the wooden barricades guarded by city bailiffs and beadles.
‘The pickpockets and foists will be busy, Osbert,’ he remarked. ‘They love a crowd like this.’ Sir John glared, as if his popping eyes could seek out and threaten any one of the myriad of footpads so busy slitting purses and wallets.
The execution cart drew closer; finally it entered the bare expanse in front of the scaffold. The three prisoners, their faces dirty and unshaven, were pulled down, their hands tied. The Franciscan, also standing in the cart, eased himself off, still intoning the prayers for the dying, though, from the expression on the faces of the three felons, they couldn’t care a whit.
‘Let’s make it quick!’ Cranston snapped, raising his hand.
The heralds on either side of him lifted their trumpets, but the mouthpieces were full of spittle and they could only squeak.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Cranston barked as a chorus of laughter greeted their efforts.
The heralds mumbled an apology, lifted their trumpets again. This time a shrill blast silenced the clamour of the crowd. Cranston nudged his horse forward and stopped in front of the three condemned felons.
‘You are to be hanged!’ Sir John declared. He nodded at Osbert to unroll the parchment.
‘You, William Laxton,’ the clerk proclaimed in a loud voice, ‘Andrew Judd and William the Skinner have been found guilty by His Grace’s judges of assize of rape, abduction, stealing hawks’ eggs, stealing cattle, poaching deer, letting out a pond, buggery, desertion from the royal levies, coin-clipping, cutting purses, robbery on the king’s highway, filching from the dead, conjuring, sorcery and witchcraft. For these and divers other crimes you have been sentenced to be taken to this lawful place of execution. Do you have anything to say before sentence is passed?’
‘Yes. Bugger off!’ one of the condemned shouted.
Cranston nodded to the executioner but the fellow just stood, eyes glaring through the eyelets of his mask.
‘What’s the matter, man?’ Cranston barked.
‘They’ve got no goods, no chattels,’ the executioner replied. ‘The law of the city is,’ he continued sonorously, ‘that the goods, chattels and clothes of the condemned felons belong to the hangman – but they’ve got bugger all!’
‘I wouldn’t accept that!’ one of the felons shouted. ‘If you’re not being properly paid, let’s all go home!’
Cranston closed his eyes. Behind him he could hear the murmur of the crowd who had sensed that something was wrong. He looked at the officer of the guard but he just shrugged, hawked and spat.
Cranston dug into his purse and, ignoring the jeers of the felons, tossed a coin at the executioner who deftly caught it in his black-gloved hand.
‘And there’s my assistant.’
Another coin left Cranston’s purse.
‘And there’s the bagpipers.’
Cranston threw one more coin.
‘And what about the horse’s bedding and straw?’
Cranston’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword.
‘Now, don’t get angry!’ the executioner called out.
Sir John leaned down from his horse. ‘Satan’s tits, man! Either you hang these men now or I’ll do it for you. Then I’ll hang you, your as
sistant, and there’ll still be room left for the bloody bagpipers!’
The executioner took one look at Sir John’s red face and bristling white moustache and beard. ‘Lord save us!’ he mumbled. ‘You can’t blame a man for trying. I have a wife and children to support. Oh, well, come on, lads!’
The executioner and his assistants, aided by the soldiers, put the nooses round the felons’ necks and pushed them up the ladder. Sir John raised his hand. Behind him, four boys started beating a tattoo on the tambours.
‘God have mercy on you!’ Cranston called out.
He closed his eyes, his hand dropped, the ladders turned, leaving the three felons kicking and twirling in the air. The crowd fell silent even as Cranston, his eyes still closed, turned his horse’s head, muttering at Osbert to find his own way home.
Sir John was through the throng, almost into Aldersgate, when he heard his name being called. He stopped, pulling at the reins of his horse. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.
A young knight, dressed in chainmail, his coif pulled over his head, his body covered by the red, blue and gold royal tabard, pushed his horse closer and took off his gauntlet.
‘Cranston, the coroner?’
‘No, I’m the Archangel Gabriel!’ Sir John replied.
The young man’s face broke into a smile. He crinkled his eyes, giving his hard-set face a boyish look.
‘I’m sorry,’ Cranston growled, clasping the man’s outstretched hand. ‘I just hate Execution Days.’
‘No man likes dying, Sir John.’
‘And your name?’
‘Sir Miles Coverdale. Captain of the guard of John of Gaunt, His Grace the Regent.’
‘Lord John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, Knight of the Garter, the king’s beloved uncle.’ Cranston grinned as he recited the long list of titles. ‘And what do you want with me, Coverdale?’
‘I don’t want you, Sir John. I have enough problems at Westminster.’ Coverdale pulled back his chainmail coif and wiped the sweat from his face.
Sir John noticed how the man’s moustache and neatly clipped beard covered a deep, furrowed scar just below his lower lip.
‘His Grace the Regent sent me,’ Coverdale continued. ‘He’s at your house in Cheapside.’
Cranston closed his eyes and groaned. ‘There was no need to send you,’ he muttered. ‘I’m going there direct.’
‘Your Lady Maude thought different,’ Coverdale replied, keeping his face straight. ‘She mentioned a possible assignation in the Holy Lamb of God.’
Cranston turned his horse’s head and, tugging at its reins, continued his journey, secretly marvelling at Lady Maude’s God-given ability to read his mind.
They went down St Martin’s Lane, through the muck and offal of the Shambles, and left into Cheapside: the market was doing a roaring trade, yet the area outside Sir John’s house was strangely deserted. His front door was ringed by burly Serjeants wearing the royal tabard, and archers dressed in the livery of Sir John of Gaunt. As the crowd swirled by these, Cranston caught their dark looks and muttered curses.
‘The regent.’ He leaned over. ‘Your master is not popular.’
‘No man who governs is, Sir John.’
Cranston pulled a face and dismounted, his eyes surveying the crowd. ‘Leif!’ he roared. ‘Leif, you idle bugger, where are you?’
Some of the bystanders looked round in surprise but then quickly made way for the skinny, red-haired, one-legged beggar who came hopping through with the agility of a spring frog.
‘Sir John, God bless you, is it time for dinner?’
The beggar leaned on his crutch and, gaping round Sir John, stared at Sir Miles. ‘You have company, Sir John?’
‘Look after the horses,’ Cranston snapped. ‘And, when my guests leave, take mine across to the Holy Lamb of God.’
Leif hopped in excitement: if Sir John had company, that not only meant gossip which Leif could dine out on, but also, perhaps, one of Lady Maude’s tasty pies and a cup of the coroner’s best claret. Sir John, a deep sense of foreboding furrowing his brow, led Sir Miles through the cordon of soldiers into the house. The maids huddled in the kitchen, terrified of the men in half-armour who thronged the hallways and passageways. Sir John brushed by these, marched up the stairs, along the gallery, and threw back the door to his solar with a resounding crash. Lady Maude sat at the far end of the canopied fireplace. On either side of her, Cranston’s twin sons, bald, blue-eyed, two perfect peas out of the same pod, clung to her green sarcanet dress, their eyes fixed on the gorgeously dressed stranger who now dared to slouch in their beloved father’s chair. The stranger rose as Cranston came in, straightening the murrey-coloured houppelonde or tunic which fell down to long, leather, Spanish riding boots. Around his neck was an ornate, heavily jewelled collar clasped by a golden brooch carved with the double ‘S’ of the House of Lancaster.
Cranston drew himself together and bowed. ‘My Lord, you are most welcome to our house.’
His guest’s sunburnt face broke into a smile: he languidly stretched out his jewelled fingers for the coroner to clasp.
‘Cranston, it’s good to see you.’
Sir John stared into the light-green eyes of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, quietly marvelling at Edward Ill’s most handsome son. He reminded Cranston of a silver cat with his light blond hair, neatly cut moustache and those eyes – never still – betraying the man’s vaulting pride.
Gaunt let go of his hand. ‘Whenever I see you, Sir John, I always remember my dearest brother, the Black Prince,’ Gaunt smiled. ‘He spoke so highly of you.’
‘Your brother, God rest him, was a powerful prince, a noble warrior,’ Cranston replied. ‘Every day, your Grace, I remember him in my prayers. I deeply regret that he did not see his own son crowned king.’
‘My dear nephew also sends his regards,’ Gaunt replied sardonically. ‘He talks of you, Sir John. You and that secretarius of yours, Brother Athelstan.’
Behind him Lady Maude had risen, her small, pretty face creased in concern: she warned Sir John with her eyes and a slight shake of her head not to bait this most powerful of men.
‘You wish wine, Sir John?’ she called out.
‘Aye, a glass of Rhenish, chilled,’ Cranston replied, winking at her quickly. He knelt, stretching out his arms. ‘And some marzipan for my boys.’
The two poppets staggered from their mother’s skirts and ran across, bumping into each other, almost knocking the regent aside as they threw themselves at their father’s embrace. Cranston kissed them quickly on their hot, sticky faces.
‘Fine sons,’ Gaunt smiled down at him.
‘Go and play,’ Cranston whispered.
‘Dog not play,’ Stephen stuttered. He pointed to the far end of the solar where Cranston’s two wolfhounds, Gog and Magog, lurked beneath the table. Cranston grinned. The dogs were frightened of no one except Lady Maude. He could tell by their woebegone expressions that they had both received the sharp edge of her tongue, warning them to behave whilst guests were in the house. The boys left, following their mother outside whilst Cranston took his own chair, waving at Gaunt to take Lady Maude’s. Blaskett, Sir John’s steward, served them wine on a tray, his large, sad eyes watching his master intently. From the passageway outside, one of the poppets began to wail. Blaskett raised his eyes heavenwards, put the wine cups on a small table between Cranston and Gaunt, and silently withdrew. Cranston picked up his cup, toasted the regent and slurped noisily.
‘I am a busy man, Cranston.’
‘Then, my Lord, we have something in common.’
‘And what great crimes confront you now?’ Gaunt taunted back.
Cranston could have given him a list a mile long. The foist he was pursuing, the counterfeiters, the pimps and apple squires, the defrocked priests dabbling in sorcery . . . Still, as the poor Cranston concluded, the rogues were always with him.
‘Cats,’ he announced bluntly: he enjoyed seeing Gaunt almost choke on his drink.
‘M
y lord Coroner, you jest?’
‘My lord Regent, I do not. Someone is stealing cats from Cheapside.’
‘And should that be the concern of the city’s coroner?’
‘My lord, have you ever met Fleabane?’ Cranston replied.
‘He’s a trickster, a cunning man. If it moves, Fleabane will steal it. If he can’t move it, Fleabane will try to sell it. Now and again I catch him. He’s punished, but he always returns to his old way of life, regarding my hand on his collar as a part of life’s rich tapestry. In other words, my lord Regent, the criminals of London will remain as long as the city does. However, there are other crimes where the innocent are truly hurt, and the theft of these cats is one of them. An old lady in Lawrence Lane has lost six, her only companions. A merchant in Wood Street, two. Now the old lady in Lawrence Lane has lost her family, the merchant in Wood Street possibly his livelihood. You see, he buys in fruit and cereals from outlying farms and stores them in his warehouses. If there is no cat, the mice and rats thrive, bringing infection and spoiling what is good.’
Gaunt put the goblet down on the table, fascinated. ‘And you don’t know who is stealing them?’
‘No, I don’t know how they are taken, by whom or where they go. But the Fisher of Men has dragged at least four or five dead cats out of the river—’ Cranston slurped at his wine goblet – ‘which is some consolation. At first I suspected they were being killed for their fur, or that some flesher in the Shambles had run short of meat.’ He saw the regent’s face go pale. ‘Aye, my lord, it’s not unknown for cooks, be they working in a royal palace or a Cheapside tavern, to serve up cat pie, the meat well stewed and garnished with herbs.’
