The herald of hell, p.3
The Herald of Hell, page 3
‘Never mind,’ Grindcobbe snapped. ‘You must be ready for the signal which will come soon enough.’
The dark shape moved through the murk. The lantern was lifted, its shutter pulled down, and the darkness returned.
‘Go,’ Grindcobbe ordered. ‘Master Herald, you may leave. Brother Raven will show you out.’
Grindcobbe watched the Herald stumble back up the passageway and through the door into the street. The Upright Man closed his eyes and reflected on what he knew to be the truth. He and his confederates had planned to build a new Sion, a holy city here in London where pauper and prince would be equal before God and the law. A return to the harmony of the Garden of Eden where no predator swaggered or heralded knight rode arrogantly on his warhorse. A new beginning was what they had planned, but now demons had invaded their carefully constructed paradise, snaking in amongst its trees. Divisions had appeared. The tapestry of interwoven ideals and dreams was rent. Disunity had emerged here, there and everywhere. Rumours swarmed like loathsome spiders and mistrust, like the croaking of some foulsome toad, could be clearly heard in certain voices of the Upright Men.
‘Master, what now?’
‘God knows.’ Grindcobbe opened his eyes and stared at Brother Raven. ‘Whitfield appears to have fled. He may or not be at the Golden Oliphant, or so drunk he’s incapable of movement.’ Grindcobbe drew in a deep breath. ‘Master Thibault has the cipher. More importantly, he has Reynard locked up in Newgate and our messenger may still carry the key to that cipher. If so…’
‘Can Reynard be trusted?’ Brother Raven’s voice echoed dully from behind the grotesque feathery mask.
‘No, he certainly can’t be. I suspect that Master Thibault may well offer him a pardon, an amnesty in return for everything Reynard can reveal, but that must not happen. So,’ Grindcobbe rubbed his hands together, ‘we have brothers in Newgate?’
‘Hydras, Wyvem and the madcap Benedict Bedlam, all ripe for hanging.’
‘And I am sure,’ Grindcobbe murmured, ‘that Reynard is determined not to join their dance in the air above Tyburn stream. Get messages to our followers amongst the Newgate turnkeys. What has to be done should be done swiftly, eh?’
‘And the matter of longbows and arrows left in those chambers along Cheapside?’
‘It’s too late and far too dangerous to do anything about that,’ Grindcobbe retorted. ‘Leave it for the moment. Get messages to our friends at the Golden Oliphant. I want to know what has happened to Whitfield. Keep that brothel under close watch.’
‘And you, Master?’
Grindcobbe rose to his feet. ‘I think it’s best to say as little as possible. I intend to return to Southwark and visit our friends at St Erconwald’s.’
‘Master, be careful. Rumours abound that the parish houses one of Thibault’s spies, a traitor to our cause.’
‘I have heard the same,’ Grindcobbe murmured. ‘I will be careful, but I need you to get messages to our captains there. Swiftly now.’
Brother Raven left. Grindcobbe sat back on the stool. He tried to control his sense of urgency, yet time was now the most precious commodity. He had received messages from Kent and Essex; banners were about to unfurl and the season of slaughter was closer than ever.
Part One
‘Oliphant: a curved, ornately embellished drinking horn.’
Brother Athelstan, Dominican friar and parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, sat on the sanctuary chair placed in the entrance to the rood screen of his church. He stared in utter disbelief at the pageant being staged before him. Judith, once a member of the travelling players, ‘The Straw Men’, who had now settled in the parish, had been persuaded by his council, led by Watkin the Dung Collector and Pike the Ditcher, to prepare a play for midsummer. They had chosen the translation of a famous French masque, La Demoiselle de la Tour – ‘The Lady of the Tower’. The principal role had of course been given, despite the best efforts of the parish wives led by Imelda Pike’s hard-faced spouse, to Cecily the Courtesan with her sister Clarissa as her lady in waiting. Both madams had risen to the occasion, their gold-spun hair a glorious mass of curls framing pretty faces, their gowns cut deliberately low so, as Athelstan secretly reflected, they literally carried all before them.
Athelstan had risen before dawn and recited his office in the chantry chapel of St Erconwald’s. Bonaventure, the great, one-eyed tom cat who had adopted the friar as his closest friend, had been his only companion. Athelstan had then celebrated the Jesus Mass with this most faithful of gospel greeters amongst his parishioners. Afterwards the friar had broken his fast in the priest’s house and then returned to convene the parish council, where Mauger the bell clerk had taken careful note of the decisions about repairs that Crispin the Carpenter insisted must be done to the tower and its beacon light. According to Crispin, these needed to be carried out urgently. In fact, Crispin argued, until these essential repairs were completed, he would be grateful if their parish priest did not use the tower for his star-gazing at night. Once Athelstan had agreed, to the murmured approval of his parish council, Judith had insisted that their priest remain to see part of their mummer’s masque. The friar could only sit and stare in quiet wonderment.
Cecily and Clarissa were hiding in the tower chamber whilst outside in the nave ranged their defenders led by Ranulf the Rat-catcher, Hig the Pigman, Mauger, Moleskin the boatman and a host of others. These would protect the ladies against the coven of the evil black knight – Watkin, ably assisted by Pike and their followers. Athelstan’s gaze was caught by a miniature painting executed on one of the drum-like pillars which separated the nave from the chancel, the work of their parish artist, Giles of Sempringham, also known as the Hangman of Rochester. Athelstan stared at this depiction of the death of Dives, the rich man in the gospels, damned and ready for burial deep in the fiery bowels of Hell. The hangman had caught the dramatic scene so accurately that Athelstan could almost feel the symptoms of approaching death which now plagued Dives: the misty eyes, the drooping skin, the furry tongue thrust through blackened lips and the rigid feet. Athelstan wondered what the hangman was doing now – carrying out executions at Smithfield or above Tyburn Stream? Would the Hangman know anything about what had happened at the Golden Oliphant, Southwark’s most notorious brothel, from which one of his ‘enforced guests’ had so recently fled?
Athelstan turned in his chair and peered across the sanctuary at the mercy enclave, where fugitives from the law could remain unmolested once they had grasped the altar horn and demanded the church’s protection. The recess now housed two such guests. The first was Oliver Lebarge, a slender, mouse-faced man dressed in drab fustian, his grey hair unkempt, a scrivener, obviously, from the inkstains on his fingers. Lebarge had walked quietly into St Erconwald’s just after Mass, touched the corner of the altar, demanded sanctuary and allowed Athelstan to usher him into the mercy enclave. He had given his name almost in a whisper. Lebarge refused to declare what he had done except that he had fled from the Golden Oliphant, where a violent death had occurred so he feared for his own life and safety. Lebarge had surrendered his dagger to Athelstan in accordance with the law and allowed the friar to search his person, but the Dominican had found nothing else. Lebarge had remained taciturn, sullen and withdrawn. Appearing highly nervous, the scrivener had informed Athelstan that he would only eat and drink what the parish provided and that he would wait for justice. Athelstan shrugged, blessed him and walked away. Benedicta the widow woman, together with Crim the altar boy, had later taken the fugitive some bread, meat and ale. Once Lebarge had established who they were and the origin of the food, he reluctantly accepted it, and now sat huddled, lost in his own thoughts.
The second fugitive next to Lebarge made Athelstan grin. Radegund the Relic Seller! This cunning charlatan now lay stretched out, head resting against his ‘Holy Satchel’ as he called his bag of religious artefacts. Athelstan had never really decided whether he should indulge in limitless admiration for Radegund’s persuasive patter or sheer pity for the relic seller’s many victims: men and women who blithely bought a scrap of Jesus’ napkin, nails pared from the Virgin Mary, hair from St Joseph’s beard, a feather from Gabriel’s wing, straw from the manger, a loaf from the Last Supper, Salome’s bracelet, or even dung from the donkey in the stable at Bethlehem! Radegund sold these ridiculous forgeries yet people kept coming back for more – except for now. Apparently Radegund had been busy selling a bloodstained tunic purportedly worn by one of the Holy Innocents slaughtered by Herod to some court notable. Unfortunately, the tunic was recognized by a flesher’s wife who, in a voice as brazen as the last trump, accosted Radegund, boldly proclaiming that the tunic had been stolen from her washing line and steeped in a vat of blood near her husband’s stall. Radegund had tried to defend himself, or so he said, claiming the clothing was almost 1,400 years old. However, when the relic seller held up a bloodstained hand in protest, the crowd had decided against him, so Radegund had fled here for sanctuary. As usual Radegund would lie low for a while and, when the time was opportune, slip back to his usual mischief.
‘Brother! Brother!’
Athelstan turned back. The masque of ‘The Lady of the Tower’ had descended into chaos, with Judith shouting at everyone that this was a parish play, not a time of misrule.
‘Brother!’ Athelstan glanced up. Tiptoft, messenger of Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London, stood smiling down at him. Athelstan narrowed his eyes at this most eccentric of retainers, garbed in Lincoln green like some forest verderer, his flame-red hair spiked with nard.
‘Brother Athelstan, I am sorry to intrude, but Sir John Cranston needs you immediately at the Golden Oliphant.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan murmured, staring across at Lebarge, ‘I did wonder…’
Athelstan crossed himself and went into the sacristy to collect his chancery satchel. He stopped and beckoned Benedicta to join him. Once inside, he half closed the sacristy door.
‘Benedicta, I must leave. Sir John awaits.’ He indicated with his head. ‘Let Judith deal with the mummers. Try to persuade our sanctuary man Lebarge to take comfort from where he is. Reassure him that only you or Crim will bring his food from my house and oh,’ Athelstan tapped the side of his head, ‘did you know that Pike the Ditcher has a cousin, Sister Matilda, a nun, one of the Poor Clares?’
‘No, Brother.’ Benedicta laughed. ‘Pike, of all people!’
‘Well, apparently she is passing through Southwark later today. Pike has asked to meet her here in the sacristy about the third hour after midday. He says he needs a little privacy. I can see no difficulty in that.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘I just wish I could meet her.’ The friar paused as the widow woman quickly turned and went back to the half-opened sacristy door and peered out. ‘Benedicta?’
‘My apologies, Brother.’ She smiled. ‘I must be hearing things.’ She handed him the chancery satchel. ‘Go, Brother, all will be well here, whilst Sir John must surely be fretting…’
* * *
The Golden Oliphant was in uproar when Athelstan reached it just before the bells of Southwark tolled the noon day Angelus. The brothel was ringed by Cheshire archers from the Tower sporting the young king’s personal insignia of the White Hart Couchant with a crown and chain around its elegant neck. Athelstan knew from Sir John that both Gaunt and his Master of Secrets, Thibault, depended more and more on these skilled and loyal bowmen with a personal allegiance to the popular young king. The Cheshires also enjoyed a reputation of being ruthless zealots: they had already taken over the brothel, frightening its occupants into corners. Sir John, cloaked in bottle green, a beaver hat clamped on his thick white hair, beard and moustache freshly trimmed, stamped his booted feet on the cobbles of the stable-yard. Master Thibault, along with his faithful shadow Albinus, stood opposing him. Gaunt’s principal henchman was dressed in dark robes with his blonde hair neatly crimped, his genial face shaven and oiled. He looked like some jovial Benedictine monk, the refectorian or cellar man. Athelstan knew different. Despite the ever genial smile, the pretty gestures and the soft voice, Thibault was a killer to the bone, a ruthless street fighter totally dedicated to his royal master John of Gaunt. This morning, however, the mask had truly slipped. Thibault was beside himself with fury, icy blue eyes popping in anger, bejewelled fingers clawing the air as he gestured at a group of women, amongst whom Athelstan recognized Elizabeth Cheyne, the mistress of the brothel.
Athelstan sensed the pressing threat and danger. Thibault was yelling at the whores whilst Albinus was preparing a makeshift scaffold. He had looped a noose over a wall bracket, removing the lantern hung there, and pushed a handcart beneath. Two Cheshire archers were shoving a young, blonde-haired prostitute on to the cart, one binding her hands behind her whilst the other looped a noose around her neck. Thibault shouted imprecations as the whore’s frightened screams pierced the air. Cranston, uncertain about what was happening, fingered the hilt of his sword as he acknowledged Athelstan’s arrival with a curt wave of his hand. Athelstan realized the tension was about to tip into hideous violence. Whatever had happened, Thibault, in a dancing rage, was determined to make someone pay for it. The shouting and screaming grew more intense. The archers had now seized the poles of the handcart, ready to push it away and let the whore dangle in the air. A mastiff, lips curled in a snarl, burst out of an outhouse and lunged at one of the archers, who drew his dagger and thrust it into the dog’s exposed throat. The animal collapsed, whimpering in a welter of blood. The chaos deepened. Horses in the stables overlooking the yard smelt the blood and grew increasingly restless. From inside the brothel echoed shouts and the barking of dogs. Cranston had now drawn his sword. Some of the archers were stringing their bows.
Athelstan hurried forward. He pushed his way through, climbed on to the swaying handcart, lifted the noose from the young whore’s neck and, with a dramatic gesture, placed it around his own. Silence immediately descended. Cranston raised his sword in salute and resheathed it. Thibault turned away, hands on hips, and walked back to the entrance of the brothel. The archers released their captive. Athelstan slipped off the noose, climbed down from the cart and exchanged the osculum pacis – the kiss of peace – with Cranston. The coroner’s bristling moustache and beard tickled Athelstan’s face as Sir John clasped him close.
‘Be careful, little friar. Thibault is in a murderous rage. His chancery clerk, Amaury Whitfield, attending the Festival of Cokayne here has been found hanged…’
‘And his scrivener, Oliver Lebarge, fled.’ Athelstan smiled as he freed himself from Cranston’s embrace. ‘He has taken sanctuary in St Erconwald’s.’
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan!’ a voice interrupted.
‘Our master summons us,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Remember, watch your tongue!’
They entered the Golden Hall, the great taproom of the brothel: a dark, sombre chamber where guests could sit at tables and be served from the food bench close to the kitchen, the doors to which were now flung open. The air was savoury with cooking fragrances from the bread ovens either side of the mantled hearth, carved in the shape of a gaping dragon’s mouth. Athelstan noticed how the fire irons hanging close by were priapic in shape, a motif repeated in the torch brackets and candle-spigots around the hall. Here and there were replicas of the huge sign hanging outside, a golden Oliphant, or a curved drinking horn, encased in precious metal, the actual cup covered by a lid surmounted by a bejewelled cross. The ‘Oliphant’ was a subtle title for a brothel, the horn symbolizing good wine, cheer and all the pleasures of both bed and board. The friar had learnt from his parishioners how the word ‘horn’, cornu in Latin, was a priapic symbol often used to describe the penis.
The Golden Oliphant undoubtedly did a prosperous trade: its taproom walls were strangely bare but its floor was of waxed, scented wood with rope matting placed to catch the slops. They passed through this into the heart of the brothel: a sumptuously decorated parlour with its adjoining ‘betrothal chamber’ as it was called, where guests could meet the ladies of their choice and negotiate what they wanted and how much they would pay. Rooms ranged either side of the grand gallery, similar accommodation being on offer above stairs. Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne, along with her hard-faced assistant Joycelina, walked in front, leading Athelstan, Cranston and Thibault and his escort up an extremely steep staircase and on to the top gallery. Narrower, its ceiling rather low, this gallery contained only two chambers, their doors set back in a slight recess. One of these lay open, the door, wrenched off its leather hinges, resting against the inside wall. A bleak, low-ceilinged room, with a broad bed of stuffed straw supporting a thick mattress, the starched, homespun linen sheets thrown back. Nevertheless, all the chamber’s meagre comfort was shattered by the corpse swinging slightly from the oiled hempen rope which had been lashed to a lantern hook on the ceiling beam. Nearby lay an overturned stool. Thibault ignored the corpse. He went and stood at the door window, all its shutters pulled back, staring at the oiled pigskin covering which allowed in a yellowish light. Athelstan gazed swiftly round at the elmwood coffer and cloth poles, the chancery satchel and saddle bags heaped in the corner. The air smelt foul and Athelstan glimpsed a half-covered chamber pot beneath the table close to the bed.
Albinus, Thibault’s henchman, drew his dagger and moved to saw at the hempen rope. Athelstan told him to stop. Albinus half smiled and glanced in the direction of his master, who weakly raised his hand as a sign to let Athelstan have his way. The friar stared up at the corpse. Amaury Whitfield’s plump face was a hideously mottled hue under a mop of reddish hair, a stout man, his belly bulging out. Athelstan wrinkled his nose; the dead man’s bowels and bladder must have emptied as he died his choking death. The friar swiftly blessed the corpse and whispered words of absolution followed by the requiem before returning to his study. He noted Amaury’s bulging, watery eyes, the swollen tongue twisted through bloodless lips, the dried saliva on the corner of the gaping mouth. Athelstan pulled back the cuffs of the dead man’s dark green jerkin; he could find no marks to the wrists. Athelstan picked up the stool and placed it beneath the dangling feet, allowing the soft-soled boots to brush against it. He took this away and his gaze was caught by the scarlet gown and blonde wig hanging on a wall hook. He walked across, took these down and glanced at Mistress Cheyne standing in the doorway.
