Stone of destiny, p.8
Stone of Destiny, page 8
‘My father was, Sir John. He hailed from Castile. My mother was English.’
‘Ah yes.’ Cranston took a step forward, peering close at Paltoc. ‘Yes, you are Hispanic. Your father must have joined the retinue of John of Gaunt when our noble regent journeyed to Castile. He had a personal guard of Hispanics though many of them …’
‘Have left.’ Paltoc finished his sentence.
‘As did you.’ Cranston stepped back. ‘And now you are a mercenary. You hunt for reward. You are ready to take the heads of those who are declared wolfsheads, utlegatum – beyond the law? Yes?’
Paltoc, slanted eyes all wary, nodded. ‘You have it, Sir John.’
‘So whom do you hunt?’
‘Why you, Sir John.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sir John, I joke. I went to the Guildhall. Simon your scrivener informed me that if you were not lodged at The Lamb of God, you would be here at St Erconwald’s.’ Paltoc smiled. ‘I was only too pleased to return to my own parish. I have heard a great deal about you, Brother Athelstan.’
‘Never mind that,’ Cranston barked. ‘You haven’t answered my question and I am getting impatient.’
‘Sir John, pax et bonum. I meant no offence. I came searching for you because I am looking for employment.’ Paltoc picked up his warbelt and strapped it on. ‘I have learnt about a sinister assassin prowling the slums who likes to skin his victims.’ Paltoc cleared his throat abruptly. ‘The dark-dwellers are calling him “The Flayer”. I understand there are proclamations against him posted on the Cross at St Paul’s, the Standard in Cheapside and elsewhere. A princely sum for his head.’
‘And what makes you think you can catch him?’
‘Because that’s what I am good at, hunting and trapping killers. Yes, I served with my Lord of Gaunt. I left his service. I stayed in Scotland for a while then I journeyed south. London provides the best hunting ground. So, to answer your question, Sir John, I am a hunter.’
‘In which case,’ Cranston patted Athelstan gently on the shoulder, ‘you have a great deal in common with my bosom comrade here, but look, Master Paltoc, early tomorrow come to my chambers at the Guildhall. We will seal indentures, agree to expenses and discuss the reward you will receive if you trap this killer. I want, I need, the Flayer to be hanged, and the sooner the better. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Sir John.’
The coroner and Paltoc clasped hands; the mercenary then picked up his cloak and bade them goodnight.
‘Any port in the storm, Brother Athelstan,’ Cranston murmured, watching Paltoc shoulder his way through to the buttery table. The mercenary then abruptly turned and came back, but this time he approached Athelstan.
‘Brother, I have a favour to ask. I need to search out the graves of my parents and brother. I walked your cemetery – crosses, plinths, memorial stones, even bushes, have either disappeared or been moved?’
‘Yes, yes they have,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Terrible damage was done during the Great Revolt. The rebels from the south swept through here on their way to London Bridge. I could lock and bar my church but not my cemetery. Many rebels camped in God’s Acre. They had very little respect for the living, never mind the dead. But, if I can help in any way …’
Paltoc thanked him and rejoined the throng milling around the buttery table.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Cranston declared, ‘I must be gone. The shadows lengthen and the day is done. Pray God for a quiet night.’
Cranston and Athelstan exchanged the kiss of peace and the coroner left. Athelstan stared around the noisy taproom.
‘And I must go too,’ he murmured. ‘It’s time for prayer then for bed.’
If Athelstan had hoped for a quiet night, he was disappointed. The friar was roused at first light by a pounding on the door. He hurriedly dressed and went down to where a breathless Benedicta, accompanied by Crim the altar boy, were waiting in the freezing cold. Crim lifted his lantern.
‘Follow us, Father,’ he explained, ‘but watch your footing. There’s been a hard frost.’
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Benedicta grasped Athelstan’s wrist, ‘you’d best come to The Piebald, something’s very wrong. Joscelyn went up to the chamber where Halpen and Mildew were sleeping. In a word, Brother, they cannot be roused. The door was locked and bolted from within.’ Benedicta pulled at his wrist. ‘You must come, you must come!’
Athelstan hastily donned his robe and cloak, fastened on his sandals, and followed the bobbing pool of light from Crim’s lanternhorn. They crossed God’s Acre into the precinct then along the alleyway leading to The Piebald. A cold, sombre dawn. Merrylegs’ cook shop had just opened. The pastry cook, assisted by his host of children, were firing the ovens, braziers and half stoves.
Outside the shop, the youngest of the family stood with a tray of sweetmeats. Crim took one, as did Benedicta, absentmindedly popping them into their mouths. Athelstan almost followed suit but then didn’t. Merrylegs shouted a greeting, followed by a question about what was happening, but Athelstan and his escort hurried on. They reached The Piebald; its taproom was still busy. Customers from the night before had slept either on benches or makeshift mattresses. Athelstan followed Benedicta across the taproom and up a broad set of stairs. Athelstan always quietly marvelled at The Piebald. Despite its rather dingy exterior, its galleries and stairs were broad, sturdy and fairly well lit. They reached the top. Joscelyn, together with Watkin, Pike, Crispin, and others of their coven, were gathered outside a chamber at the far end of the gallery. The room next to this was occupied by Prior Sinclair. The bleary-eyed Scottish monk had come out to discover the cause of the tumult. Benedicta stood aside to allow Athelstan through.
‘I heard the banging.’ Prior Sinclair, face heavy with sleep, caught at Athelstan’s arm. ‘A noise to wake the dead!’
‘Sorry,’ Watkin rasped, ‘but Halpen and Mildew asked to be roused at daybreak. I and my,’ Watkin jabbed a finger towards Pike, ‘I and my comrades were sleeping the sleep of the just downstairs. Yes, Joscelyn?’
‘I knocked and I knocked.’ The one-armed taverner shook his head. ‘But nothing.’
‘Right.’ Athelstan turned and pointed at Crim. ‘We will need you and a ladder. How big is the chamber window?’
‘Not very big, Father.’ Joscelyn scratched his chin. ‘Certainly not big enough for a man to crawl through. Anyway, it is shuttered from inside.’
‘Though you can squint through the gap,’ Crim blurted out, then covered his mouth with his hand.
‘Can you now?’ Athelstan leaned down. ‘Crim, is it true?’ The altar boy just stared back. ‘Is it true,’ the friar repeated, ‘that you and other boys climb up a ladder to peer into the chambers when Cecily and her sister are entertaining some passing traveller? Well, that’s not for now. Joscelyn, you have a ladder, yes? Crim, you will go up. On second thoughts,’ Athelstan unclasped his cloak, ‘I will do it myself.’
‘Father!’
‘Don’t worry, Benedicta, these worthies will hold the ladder secure.’
They went down through the taproom and into the tavern yard. Joscelyn ordered the ladder to be brought and leaned it just beneath the chamber window. For a while, there was some confusion, then Athelstan, gripping the ladder by its sides, began the ascent. He reached the top trying to ignore the cold, buffeting breeze. He pulled at both shutters but they were clasped fast. He pushed each one slightly to the side and created a narrow gap. Athelstan, balancing himself carefully, stared through the slit he’d created and groaned at what he glimpsed. Halpen the Hare and Mildew, garbed in their nightshirts, hung by their necks from stout hooks driven into the beams which spanned the ceiling. Turning his head, Athelstan could clearly see the two corpses twirling slightly to the eerie creak of the ceiling beam. Athelstan scrabbled down the ladder.
‘Force the door,’ he rasped. ‘Both men are dead, murdered, hanging by their necks.’
‘In heaven’s name,’ Benedicta exclaimed.
‘How can that be?’ Watkin murmured. ‘Last night was most enjoyable, an evening of merry roistering, and now this?’
‘And how?’ Joscelyn exclaimed. ‘My tavern enjoys a good reputation. Both men were hale and hearty when they adjourned to their chamber.’
‘Force the door,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘Force it now. The chamber has a lock?’
‘Yes, Father, a good stout one. The key still hangs on the inside. The door is bolted at top and bottom from within.’
‘Come, it is time.’
Athelstan strode back into the taproom and up to the chamber. Watkin and his companions, at Athelstan’s insistence, followed, carrying a yule log from the store. Athelstan crouched down and peered through the keyhole. The key was still there. Athelstan then pressed at the top and bottom of the door until he was satisfied that both bolts had been pulled fully across. He then studied the hinges; thick, dust-laid, leather clasps pressed in and glued to connect the door to the lintel. Athelstan turned to his parishioners. They just stood silently, watching him intently. Athelstan repressed a slight shiver. There was something very, very wrong here. True, two men had been hanged and yet …
‘Father?’
‘The door hangs secure, it must be forced.’
‘It’s best if we aim for the hinges.’ Crispin the carpenter shouldered his way through. ‘Father, the lock and bolts will be harder to smash.’
Athelstan agreed. The yule log was lifted by six parishioners and, under their priest’s direction, they began to pound the door, smashing the wood close to both hinges. The battering continued. The men paused now and again to catch their breath and ease the soreness of muscle and limb. Joscelyn’s minions brought up stoups of ale then the crashing continued. The ruined door sagged, hanging off its tattered hinges so it could be forced back to create an entry. Athelstan ordered everyone to stay outside then squeezed into the chamber. The room smelt foul. A still burning taper candle afforded some light to illuminate the horror of those two corpses swinging gently by their necks. A truly silent, sombre place, just those corpses moving, the rope and beam creaking.
Athelstan, warning others not to cross the threshold, swiftly scrutinized the chamber. He picked up an almost empty wine jug and goblets, sniffing at their contents, swilling the wine around, yet he could detect nothing amiss. He quickly emptied the remains of food left on a platter into the jug followed by the dregs from the goblets. Ignoring the rising murmur at the doorway, Athelstan carefully continued his scrutiny. The window was nothing more than a small square of wood carefully fixed into the stonework and filled with stiffened parchment still intact. The shutters were firmly barred; even if they had been open, no one could have used such a narrow gap to get in and out of the room. The floor and ceiling were sound, as were the plastered walls. There was certainly no trace or indication of a secret entrance.
Athelstan turned to the two corpses. He gave both a blessing then glanced around. The clothing and warbelts of both victims lay heaped on top of a chamber chest. Both sword and dagger were firmly sheathed, nor did the room betray any sign of violence. Athelstan examined the ice-cold wrists and fingers of the murder victims. He could detect no sign of resistance, no mark or ligature around the wrists to indicate they had been bound, no wisps of rope in their fingernails. Athelstan could only conclude that both men had been hanged, offering no resistance to the ropes choking them to death.
‘It looks like suicide,’ Athelstan whispered to himself. ‘But that’s ridiculous. Two men in the same chamber, hanging themselves at the same time. Utter nonsense! Moreover, if they did hang themselves, what did they stand on? Where is the stool, the ladder, the table which they would have used then kicked away to begin their death struggle? And the why.’ Athelstan went between the swinging corpses and glimpsed the small scraps of parchment pinned to the sleeve of each nightshirt. A square piece of well-scrubbed parchment. He loosened both, crossed to the candle and peered down at the two words scrawled in red ink. ‘Justica Fiat – let justice be done,’ and underneath a crudely drawn sickle which Athelstan recognized as the insignia of the Reapers. Still ignoring the clamour at the doorway, Athelstan stared down at the scraps of parchment. The Reapers were truly a menacing threat. They were the most ardent of the Upright Men, ruthless leaders of the Earthworms. Both before and during the revolt they had imposed order to protect the purity of their dogma, summed up in that doggerel verse:
‘When Adam dug and Eve span
Who was then the gentleman?’
After the revolt had been crushed, the Reapers became a coven dealing out summary punishment to those they considered deserved it. But how and why now? Athelstan turned and snapped his fingers at Pike and the rest thronging in the doorway.
‘Cut the corpses down.’ The leading members of the parish council edged nervously in.
‘Come, come,’ Athelstan urged, ‘we have seen enough corpses in our day.’
Encouraged by their priest, the parishioners pulled across a chest. Pike climbed on, dagger drawn, and severed both hanging ropes, whilst the rest, joined by others including Benedicta and Mauger, caught the corpses and laid them out on the floor. Athelstan, holding the phials of sacred oils that Crim had hastily fetched from the priest’s house, administered the requiem. Moving swiftly, he tried to ignore the twisted, purple faces and swollen tongues caught between rotting teeth, the dried spit coating the stubbled chins of both dead men. Once he had finished, Athelstan examined the corpses for any sign of recent violence. Pike whispered how both men had once served in the royal array. Athelstan nodded as he inspected old scars and long healed wounds. Satisfied that he could find nothing amiss, Athelstan administered the final blessing. He then ordered the two corpses to be taken to the parish death house, adding that he would meet the full parish council immediately after the Jesus Mass.
Athelstan tried to keep his mind closed to the rush of thoughts threatening to distract him completely. He had returned to the priest’s house, shaved, washed and dressed properly. Once ready, he had hurried down to the church and, as reverentially as he could, celebrated the divine mysteries. The friar now heaved a sigh of relief as he sat down in the throne-like sanctuary chair. Mauger and others had arranged this as well as benches for this important meeting of the parish council. Athelstan could certainly sense the excitement and tension over the two killings. His parishioners being as keen as he was to discover the truth behind the murderous mystery.
‘No formal record will be kept,’ Athelstan declared, turning to Mauger, ‘a simple memorandum to my own satisfaction and that of Sir John Cranston.’ The Lord High Coroner’s name stilled the murmuring and whispering.
‘Oh yes.’ Athelstan rose to his feet and crossed to the lectern; he paused as Paltoc, cloaked and hooded, came sauntering in. The mercenary pulled back his hood, nodded at Athelstan then went and sat down with his back to the baptismal font. ‘There is no doubt,’ Athelstan continued, ‘that two hideous murders have been perpetrated at The Piebald. I cannot accept that Halpen and Mildew both committed suicide at the same time. They seemed contented enough, whilst there is no evidence that they brought about their own deaths. So,’ Athelstan moved back to sit in his chair, ‘Watkin, what happened last night?’
‘A very enjoyable evening,’ Prior Sinclair declared as he swept into the church, strode around the parish council and stopped to bow to Athelstan. ‘Brother, my apologies. I decided to return to my own chamber. I hope sooner rather than later I can celebrate my own Mass. In the meantime, may I join you?’
‘Of course.’ Athelstan smiled and gestured to an empty space next to Benedicta. ‘Prior Sinclair, you are most welcome. I would appreciate any contribution you make.’
‘Father, how long will we be here?’ Remart the relic seller, sitting on the edge of a bench, shuffled to his feet.
‘Were you there last night?’ Athelstan asked. Remart shook his head.
‘Father, I went out to sell items and returned long after the chimes of midnight.’
‘Is that so?’ Athelstan asked, staring around. A chorus of agreement answered his question.
‘In which case, Remart, you and any others not involved may go.’ Athelstan was quietly amused that the relic seller was the only one to leave; the rest, wherever they had actually been on that fateful evening, were riveted by the unfolding mystery. ‘Very good. So, Watkin, what happened?’
‘A night of revelry, Father, that’s all. Halpen and Mildew drank deep, very deep, and then adjourned to their chamber.’
‘One of the best,’ Joscelyn interrupted, ‘one of the very best rooms in my tavern.’
‘Quite, quite,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘More importantly, did anyone visit them?’
Watkin shuffled his mud-caked boots and grinned slyly.
‘Watkin?’
‘We did.’ Cecily the courtesan and her sister Clarissa leapt to their feet, both young women glaring defiantly around. The temper of these two ladies was legendary. No one dared even snigger or whisper. Members of the council just stared down at the floor or up at the cobwebbed ceiling. Athelstan followed their gaze and quietly promised himself to arrange a thorough clean once winter had passed.
‘As I said, we did,’ Cecily repeated.
‘Very well. And when you ladies left the chamber, Halpen and Mildew were very much alive?’
‘A little tired,’ Cecily replied, ignoring a snigger from behind her. ‘They were mawmsy with drink.’
‘They certainly were,’ Watkin agreed.
‘So Cecily and Clarissa leave the chamber. Nobody else went up and no one saw, glimpsed or heard anything amiss?’
‘No one, Father, no one at all.’ The Hangman of Rochester, who’d been standing in the shadow of the door, walked forward. ‘Father, I have scrutinized both corpses, the nooses and the knots which tied them.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘Certainly not my handiwork, but undoubtedly that of a professional, someone who has carried out hangings. A simple knot, Father, which would slip and tighten the noose. Both men would have choked to death in a most frightful way.’ The hangman’s words created a deep silence amongst the parishioners.
