The hanging tree, p.3
The Hanging Tree, page 3
Ah well, Athelstan reflected, all would be revealed soon enough. He closed his eyes and let his mind float like a cloud against the sky. Flambard’s Tower made him think of his own recent building, a simple affair yet important in the life of a parish. Athelstan had ordered Matthew the Mason to construct a sturdy, red-bricked, black-tiled cottage on the site of the old death house in the middle of God’s Acre, the sprawling cemetery adjoining St Erconwald’s. In truth, the cemetery was a rambling stretch of common land, strewn with gorse, bramble, derelict flower beds, tortuous coffin paths and clumps of ancient trees: oak, sycamore and yew. It was also a lonely, haunted place, and St Erconwald’s cemetery had become the favourite hunting ground for wizards, warlocks, a whole coven of midnight hags and demon worshippers. All kinds of sorcerers had flocked in, eager to plunder graves and so use human remains for their midnight masses. The newly built cottage was a defence against these. Once finished, Athelstan had consecrated the place and given it the title of ‘The House of the Faithfully Departed’. More importantly, Athelstan had handed the property over to Thomas the Toad. Athelstan smiled to himself; ah yes, Thomas the Toad, to be distinguished from Thomas the Turd, one of Watkin the dung collector’s henchmen. In fact …
Athelstan opened his eyes and shook Cranston’s arm as he heard footsteps outside. The door opened and three men swept into the antechamber. Athelstan immediately recognized all three. Thibault was Gaunt’s one and only loyal henchman, a Master of Secrets, a man with the angelic looks of a cherub, which masked a cunning second to none. This morning, however, Thibault could not repress the rage seething within him, or hide the hot marks of anger on his smooth, pale face. Thibault’s bright blue eyes were cold and unblinking, hard as glass, the usual smiling mouth all pursed and prim. He clasped hands with both Cranston and Athelstan, then sat down at the head of the table as the coroner and friar greeted the other two arrivals. Henry Beaumont, Magister in the royal chancery, and Signor Giovanni Conteza, a leading light in the Lombard bank of the Bardi. Athelstan had met both men during the many times he had accompanied Sir John and the Lady Maud to Westminster or some other royal palace. They were hardly seated when Master Thibault, who didn’t give a fig about the courtesies, rapped the table for their attention.
‘Gentlemen,’ he declared in his well-modulated voice. ‘The candle burns, time passes, so take your seats.’
They did so. Athelstan caught Cranston’s eye and winked, warning the coroner to stay prudent. Thibault was, despite his best efforts, truly suffused with rage; the Master of Secrets came swiftly to the point.
‘All the treasure chests in the Exchequer of Coin, kept so safe in the great arca of Flambard’s Tower, have been ransacked, plundered. Bags of spent charcoal left mockingly in return.’ Thibault paused at Cranston’s gasp of surprise.
‘Everything?’ the coroner asked.
‘Everything. Listen now,’ Thibault pressed on, ‘tens of thousands of good pound sterling in the finest gold and silver have been stolen. Those,’ he glanced spitefully at Beaumont, ‘whose sacred task was to protect such a treasure hold, have been garrotted, strangled like chickens in their coop. This may …’ Thibault was unable to continue. He paused to catch his breath, gesturing at Conteza to continue.
‘Gentlemen,’ the banker declared, his voice only betraying a slight accent, ‘I am Giovanni Conteza. You know that, as you do that our bank, the Bardi, loaned the English Crown vast sums …’
Athelstan coughed to catch Cranston’s attention. A warning not to comment. Cranston, like many leading Londoners, knew that the loans the Bardi had provided went straight into the Regent’s purse. Conteza’s stark declaration only emphasized a fact everyone knew but nobody dared mention.
‘The English Crown,’ the banker continued, ‘agreed to repay their loans by Easter this year.’ Conteza’s long, narrow face puckered in concern as he combed his well-tended, night-black beard with his fingers.
‘That,’ he declared, ‘is what was planned. Now, however, our gold, our silver, have been taken and, with all due respect to His Grace the King and his beloved uncle my Lord of Gaunt, we shall insist on repayment.’ Conteza’s words rang like a warning bell through the chamber.
‘Master Thibault.’ Beaumont lifted his head, positively squirming in his chair. ‘Master Thibault,’ he repeated, ‘the corpses, the bodies of my colleagues are stiffening, beginning to bloat.’ Thibault just glared at his clerk. He turned, lips twisted in a snarl, only to stop and catch his breath.
‘I hear what you say, Magister, and my Lord Conteza must meet His Grace.’ Thibault’s voice faded. He blinked, lips moving soundlessly, then abruptly rose to his feet.
‘My Lord Conteza,’ he declared, ‘come with me. Master Beaumont,’ he gestured at Cranston and Athelstan, ‘let them view what we have seen. Only God knows what my Lord of Gaunt will think.’
Master Thibault plucked Conteza by the sleeve and both men swept out of the chamber. Athelstan heard Thibault berating whoever was waiting in the stairwell. Beaumont, his face twisted in anger, retook his seat.
‘We will be blamed for all of this,’ he snarled. ‘Master Thibault will—’
‘Hush now,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Let us proceed in peace and quiet.’
‘Peace and quiet,’ Beaumont snorted.
‘Yes, peace and quiet,’ Cranston rasped. ‘The swiftest way to trap and unmask a felon. So let us begin.’ Beaumont nodded, rubbed his face, forced a smile and stood up.
‘I am sorry,’ he declared. ‘My humours are disturbed. It’s best if I fetch my colleagues.’
Beaumont left and returned with four other clerks whom he introduced: Luke Whitby, Adrian Bloxhall, Philip Crossley and Ralph Calpurne.
‘So Brother Athelstan,’ Beaumont declared as the introductions were made, ‘Sir John. Here we are, the Clerks of the Light.’
The friar swiftly scrutinized Beaumont’s comrades. He recognized them for what they were. Royal clerks confident in themselves, garbed in sober but costly tunics, cloak and boots, around their waist a chancery belt with cups and sheaths for inkpots and quills. They were sharp-faced and hawk-eyed, restless, impatient to proceed, moving from foot to foot whilst the Magister finished the introductions. Once completed, Beaumont added that all the clerks who worked in the Exchequer of Coin, including Despencer, had served in the royal array, both in the kingdom and across the Narrow Seas.
‘What is the matter?’ Athelstan asked as Luke Whitby abruptly stepped forward.
‘Sir John Cranston is well known.’ Whitby bowed to the coroner. ‘As is his secretarius, Brother Athelstan. I do not wish to be rude but, gentlemen, our comrades upstairs, their corpses will soon be …’
‘Let us begin,’ Athelstan declared. ‘The day fades. Master Beaumont, I have been reflecting on the way here. Sir John has described Flambard’s Tower as an arca, a treasure chest, securely locked. And yet robbers broke in to plunder, steal and murder. Somehow, these dire depredations must spring from some fault in how Flambard’s Tower was secured. Consequently I want you to faithfully repeat exactly what happened this morning. Omit no detail. Try and ignore,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘if you can, myself and Sir John. We will just ask questions. So, as I said, let us begin.’
Beaumont led them to a door to the side of the antechamber. Athelstan, standing on tiptoe, peered through the eyelet high in the door before following Sir John into a dusty, cobweb-filled stairwell. Once there he watched as Beaumont turned the two locks at top and bottom. The Magister swung the door open and they entered the tower stairwell. Beaumont then pulled three times at the bell rope hanging above the bottom step. The peals echoed through the cavernous tower.
‘Wait.’
The stairwell was now so thronged that Athelstan asked the clerks to go back outside. Once they had, the friar scrupulously examined the heavy, fortified door with its strong hinges. The front of the door was strengthened with metal studs and bars. The two locks certainly seemed very intricate, the work of some city guildsman, a master locksmith. Athelstan summoned Beaumont back.
‘And each of these locks has its own key?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And these are held by?’
‘Master Thibault. I collect them from him at the start of my horarium and return them immediately once I have finished, as did Despencer, Magister of the Clerks of the Dark.’
‘Explain that to me.’
‘There are two cohorts: the Clerks of the Light who work here from Prime to Vespers, and those of the dark who take over from Vespers to Prime.’
‘You do alternate weeks?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Athelstan stared around. The tower was a circular arca; its stone walls must be yards thick, its doors strongly fortified. The floor was of hard paving, stretching up to the bottom step of the staircase. Athelstan suspected this was a steep spiral built into the wall, another line of defence. Athelstan had seen the same before. Anyone using these steps either going up or down would have to be most careful and prudent.
‘And so this morning?’
‘As normal.’
‘Which means?’
‘My comrades and I came into the tower. We unlocked the door and I rang the bell.’ He pointed to where it hung on the wall beneath its coping, the rope dangling down.
‘And that was pealed?’
‘Yes, three times in honour of the Trinity, the agreed sign that we had entered the tower. I locked the door behind me and waited for Despencer to reply with the three peals from the bell hanging in the treasure chamber.’
‘And did he?’
‘Of course not, my Lord Coroner, he was dead.’
Cranston turned swiftly and glared at the other clerks, whose sniggers abruptly died away.
‘But at the time you did not know that?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Anyway, let’s continue. You came into the tower, the bell has been rung, you’ve opened the door and locked it behind you. Then what?’
‘There are thirty-nine steps up,’ Beaumont declared. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John.’ Beaumont brushed by them. ‘It’s best if I go first. There are narrow lancets high in the staircase wall. They afford some light but, in truth, despite the windows and the torches, the staircase is truly cloaked in perpetual night. And there’s more …’ Beaumont led them up the spiral staircase; the steps were steep and sharp. Beaumont abruptly paused, holding a hand up. ‘As I said,’ he remarked over his shoulder, ‘there are thirty-nine steps. This spiral staircase was specially designed to make it very difficult for anyone to hasten up or down. Believe me, it is almost impossible to carry anything up or down, unless you do so very slowly and carefully. You need to clutch this guide cord fastened to the wall.’ Beaumont patted the thick, coarse rope threaded through iron loops screwed into the stone. ‘More importantly …’ Beaumont walked up a few more steps and crouched down. He touched the red cross painted on the right-hand wall. ‘This is a warning to myself and other exchequer clerks.’
Cranston whistled under his breath. ‘A trip cord.’
‘Correct, Sir John, known only to us. There is one across every eighth step. The small red cross painted on the wall indicates a trip cord is there. See?’ Beaumont stretched into the dark on his right and removed the cord with a stout hook on the end. ‘Nice and taut,’ he declared. ‘Enough to bring the unwary, or uninvited, crashing down, and so alert anyone in the treasure chamber.’
‘And these trip cords,’ Cranston demanded. ‘What happened last night?’
‘Well, once Master Despencer had begun to climb, he loosened these. On our descent I went last, replacing them.’
‘And they were still there this morning when you arrived to begin your day?’
‘Oh yes, nothing was disturbed …’
They continued their climb. Athelstan realized how steep and dangerous the staircase truly was. A redoubtable defence of the treasure chamber. He could hear Sir John and the others gasping for breath. They moved gingerly up. At last they reached the top. Beaumont took his ring of keys from a hook on his chancery belt.
‘As I said,’ he gasped, ‘two locks, a separate key for each, no more, no less. Brother Athelstan, Sir John, prepare yourselves. You will find the chamber as we found it. Not one thing has been moved or altered.’ He turned the bottom lock and pushed the door open, leading them inside, shoving back the heavy draught excluder so that the door swung free.
‘And that was pulled across this morning?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, yes it was.’
Athelstan blessed himself. He stood staring around, eager to catch the very essence of this place; and he sensed it. This was a murder room. A chamber of swift, savage slaughter. He bowed his head and recited a prayer to the Holy Spirit, to the Lord of Life, before walking forward. He then turned, gesturing Cranston closer, and pointed back at the clerks standing just within the doorway.
‘Master Beaumont, I would appreciate it if you and your clerks would stay where you are.’ Athelstan plucked Cranston’s sleeve, leading the coroner to the great central pillar, a squat, barrel-shaped column of hard granite, its only decoration being acanthus leaves carved at both top and bottom. Athelstan leaned against this, staring across at the five embrasures. The thick sheaths of Moroccan leather, like that across the doorway, had been pulled back. Each embrasure or enclave was a chamber in itself, with a huge lanternhorn hanging on its chain above the chancery desk. More light was provided by the long lancet windows but, even from where he stood, Athelstan could see these were closely barred. The friar stared around, not yet daring to approach the embrasures where five royal clerks slumped in their chairs, their backs to him, heads down, as if they had all slipped into some eerie trance.
‘Sleep is the brother of death, Sir John, and no more true than here.’ Athelstan glanced to his right and glimpsed the palliasses, probably used by the Clerks of the Dark if they wished to snatch a little sleep. He beat his heel against the floor, which was covered with stout rope matting to lessen the chill of this grim chamber. A buttery table stood against the far wall to the right of Athelstan. He walked over. There was a platter of bread, cold meats, pots of butter, cheese, a jug of wine, a water butt, goblets, platters, and a small tun of Bordeaux fitted with a tap. He noticed how little of this repast had been consumed.
‘Is this chamber used every day?’ Athelstan walked back to Beaumont. ‘Is such sustenance always given?’ He gestured at the buttery table.
‘No.’ The Magister shook his head. ‘Flambard’s Tower is only used when gold and silver coin are to be counted, coffered and carried away. On this occasion, and it was almost complete, the Crown was preparing to repay its loan to the Bardi bankers. They have a great warship …’
‘The Ludovico,’ Cranston intervened. ‘A majestic, well-armed battle cog.’
‘And so,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the coins are brought here from the Tower Mint?’
‘Under very close guard,’ Cranston declared. ‘Indeed, I have some responsibility for that. The journey is safe enough; it’s only a short walk down to the quayside followed by a swift river passage to Westminster.’
‘We took possession of the last of the bullion some days ago,’ Beaumont declared. ‘And we were meant to finish it today.’
‘Finish what?’
‘Scrutinizing the freshly minted coins, weighing them.’ He pointed towards one of the embrasures. ‘Counting carefully, making sure there were one hundred coins in each bag before they were placed in the coffers. Of course, we check each other’s work. We also ensure no one takes any of the coins.’
‘In other words, you search each other?’
‘Yes, that’s the last thing we do before we leave this chamber. Moreover, Master Thibault insists we leave all purses and satchels in our quarters.’ Beaumont grinned and patted his stomach. ‘Whilst any pockets in our jerkins and other items of clothing must all be sewn up.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston declared wearily. ‘Only Master Thibault would think of that.’
‘And the food and drink?’
‘Master Thibault supplies that, an entire tun of Bordeaux to keep us all happy, whilst a sealed butt of water and a hamper of dried food is available for us from the great buttery before we begin our watch.’
‘And who carries that up?’
‘Oh, one of us. This morning we came in here to discover the great robbery, Bloxhall joined us later. I’d sent him to the buttery to secure a hamper of food for the day. Any of my comrades can do that, provided the trip cords have been removed. Once that’s done and the Clerks of the Dark have gone, we are sealed in until Vespers.’
‘On the question of food, the provender on the buttery table is hardly touched. Which means,’ Athelstan declared, ‘these clerks were murdered early in their watch.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘And the hamper Bloxhall brought?’
‘Oh, he took it back as soon as we left the chamber to summon Master Thibault.’
