Paul Doherty - The Straw Men

Cranston jabbed a finger at the door. ‘Brother, we have a meeting at the Tower of Babel in the Cloisters of Hell, Whitefriars, to be precise. I am — we are — going to do business with Duke Ezra of Caesarea, leader of the rifflers, ruffians and roaring boys. I want to question him and one of his henchmen, the Herald of Hades, about what they know.’ Cranston squeezed himself out of the chair. ‘Gaunt and the Upright Men both pride themselves on their knowledge. Believe me,’ Cranston ran a finger across the spice counter, ‘they know nothing compared to Duke Ezra. All my spies, such as the Troubadour or Muckworm, report only what they have learnt from Duke Ezra and his coven, who speed throughout this city like a colony of rats. They sneak along runnels into the dingy dens, mumpers’ castles and dark dungeons of the counterfeits, the cozeners, the coney-catchers and the Jacob men. You’ll find them in taverns and alehouses, cook shops and bakeries. They thrive in the mansions of the mean as well as those of the wealthy. Palaces, friaries, priories, abbeys and monasteries are not free of them either.’ Cranston donned his beaver hat. ‘And now we go to the very source. Let’s leave all this horror to Bladdersmith and his wardsmen.’

Within the hour, having collected his writing satchel and other items for his continued stay at the Tower, Athelstan joined Cranston in the royal barge, specially summoned for the journey across the Thames from the Bishop of Winchester’s steps to those of the Temple. A perilous, freezing, choppy journey. The night was black as ink. The heavy wherry, despite its careful manning by royal bargemen, shook and shivered as it breasted the swells and turbulent tide pools of the Thames. A sea mist was gathering to block out the north bank so only the beacon lights in church steeples and the flaming bonfires of rubbish heaps lit along the different quaysides pierced the murk. Athelstan sat clutching his writing satchel. Around him huddled Cranston and his bailiffs. The mastiff whined against the cold; Flaxwith, tender as a mother with child, tried to soothe it. The bargemen, hooded and masked against the biting breeze, bent over their oars, pulling in unison to the soft chant of the prowman. The air reeked of salt, fish and sweat. Other barges and wherries swept by, the lanterns on their sterns glowing fiercely. Athelstan wondered about the Fisher of Men, that enigmatic recluse who, from his Chapel of the Dead, harvested the Thames of corpses, assisted by his henchman, Icthus, and other grotesques. Would they be busy on a night like this? The prowman called out an order and the barge turned a little to port, juddering as the river caught it. A bell sounded hollow and sombre in the dark. A barge laden with produce broke from the mist and cut across the bows of their craft. Athelstan tensed, Cranston cursed. The wherry swerved a little. The danger passed and they aimed like an arrow towards the host of torches flaring along Temple steps. They swiftly disembarked. Flaxwith and his companions ringed them, swords and daggers drawn, as they moved into the hideous underworld of the city. They entered a maze of narrow, crooked lanes, alleyways and runnels which snaked around the decaying, crumbling houses. Some of these were beginning to pitch forward, turning the paths beneath into hollow, dark tunnels, the sky blocked out by the leaning storeys and jutting gables. Dungeon-like doors, barred and studded, remained sealed shut, though Athelstan glimpsed light through the eyelets. Above them shutters abruptly opened only to slam shut just as swiftly. Box lanterns glowed on the end of their chains. Now and again a shout would ring out a warning. ‘Cranston,’ a voice called. ‘Cranston and his minions.’

A hunting horn brayed. ‘Let them pass.’

Another voice bellowed, ‘Allow those who come to pay service to our Duke safe passage.’ Shadows floated across their path. Ghostly shapes emerged out of doorways and alley mouths. Naked steel would glitter then disappear. Athelstan watched his step but the ground under foot was surprisingly firm and clear.

‘Saltpetre,’ Cranston whispered, ‘they have their own dung carts to clear the muck and spread that. Duke Ezra always looks after his own.’ They left the lanes and crossed a square where a mixture of smells wafted to greet them: the stench of dirty clothes on unclean bodies mingled with odours from the tallow chambers, melting rooms and tanners’ yards which thronged the area. Beggars raced across the square to meet them — ‘ill-looking vermin’ as Cranston described them with their long, dirty beards, their heads covered in old stocking tops. The hunting horn brayed twice again and these promptly scuttled away. They went down a further street, turned a corner and entered another square. On the far side of this rose an ancient gateway illuminated by a veritable forest of torches fastened to clasps above the yawning entrance and along its crenellated wall top; from these broad, silver-edged black banners swirled in the night breeze.

‘The Castle of the Fleet and Newgate Dogs. The Tower of Babel. Believe me, Brother, there are more bodies buried in its cellars and streets than in your graveyard. If you cross Duke Ezra, you are not punished, you simply disappear. Be on your guard. This is the place of jabbing daggers and slashing blades. Prepare to enter Satan’s dark pavilions, the tents of Hades, the bowels of Hell; false of heart and sick of soul are its citizens.’ Cranston turned to Flaxwith and the bailiffs. ‘They have given me their word, but remain careful. Do not draw your weapons unless I tell you. Do not wander off even for some glimmering mort or pretty doxy. So sheath your swords and follow Sir John into the Valley of Gehenna.’ Cranston led them across the square. Trumpets bellowed and the great gates swung open, allowing them into the notorious sanctuary of Whitefriars. This was the home of all the greasy, grimed rogues: the cogging naves, the courtesy men, the nighthawks, the nugging maids, the cheaters, shifters, cross-biters, the naps and the foists, the knights of the dusk and the squires of the sewers, the rifflers and the rutters.

Despite its reputation, Athelstan was surprised at how clean the lanes were. The smell of mulled sack hung heavy in the air, wafted out of the brightly lit taverns and ale shops. The houses were mean and shabby but, despite the cold, doors and windows remained open, the streets lighted and warmed by roaring bonfires and crackling braziers. At first glance this beggar’s town was not a hive of dark dens but a busy ward with markets still doing business selling goods — stolen, of course, from elsewhere. The ladies of the night strolled in their tawdry finery under the supervision of their two guardians: the venerable Mother of the Kind Matrons — Athelstan did not dare ask Cranston to explain this — and the Mistress of the Wicked Wenches. Lazarus men, as the coroner described them, kept order in the streets with club and cudgel. They passed a large, shabby house. Flaxwith agreed with Sir John that it was the infamous Cutpurse Manor, where pickpockets were tutored. They passed an ancient chapel, the Church of the Condemned, served by a defrocked priest called the ‘Vicar of Hell’. The crowds in the narrow lane parted before them. Curses were shouted at Cranston but he ignored them. The coroner plucked at Athelstan’s sleeve and pointed to where two old ladies stood in the door light of the aptly named Devil’s Tongue tavern. Athelstan peered at them as he passed; their faces were caked in paint, pursed lips brightly carmined.

‘Nightshade and Belladonna,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Two old ladies who visit to nurse and give their victims poison — eternal comfort, a quiet way to go into the dark. One day, Athelstan, I’ll catch them in the act and hang them out of hand.’