Paul Doherty - Herald of Hell

‘I will need to question this Reynard,’ Athelstan pushed himself away from the ledge, ‘as I do Oliver Lebarge, Whitfield’s scrivener who fled from here this morning to seek sanctuary at St Erconwald’s.’

‘So he is definitely there,’ Thibault murmured, glancing swiftly at Albinus. ‘We wondered why he should shelter in your church. According to Mistress Cheyne, Lebarge fled as soon as Whitfield’s corpse was discovered. He had the chamber next to this.’

‘And his possessions?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Also gone. Why, Brother, you look surprised.’

‘Because Lebarge came with nothing, Master Thibault, a true fugitive. No possessions except for the clothes on his back. What do you know about the man?’

‘Amaury Whitfield’s one and only friend,’ Albinus whispered. ‘Both bachelors with no close kinsmen. Lebarge and Whitfield occupied the same lodgings in an old ironmonger’s shop in Fairlop Lane. Whitfield was a senior clerk; he would deal with secreta negotia – secret business. Lebarge was his personal scrivener, skilled in his own right.’

Albinus paused as the captain of archers entered the room and bowed.

‘Master Thibault, we have searched the brothel, its outhouses and gardens. We’ve found no trace whatsoever of the attackers. I understand three bolts were found, which means,’ the man scratched his bearded face, ‘a trained archer, perhaps one of the Earthworms who might have followed us here, or someone sheltering in the brothel itself. But,’ he held up a leather-mittened hand, ‘we have no proof of that. The Golden Oliphant is now ringed with archers. Sir John, your chief bailiff Flaxwith and others have arrived. They too have taken up position.’ The captain coughed apologetically. ‘Oh, Sir John …?’

‘Yes?’

‘Your bailiff Flaxwith is accompanied by the ugliest mastiff I have ever seen!’

‘Keen-eyed, you are,’ Cranston grinned, ‘and, what is worse, the ugly bugger thinks I am his bosom comrade.’

The captain left, chuckling to himself as he clattered down the stairs.

‘So,’ Athelstan resumed, ‘Whitfield and Lebarge, two bachelors, came here to participate in the Festival of Cokayne, the topsy-turvy world, a stark contrast to the rigours and the discipline of the royal chancery at Westminster on the Tower. Then the festival turns fatal …’

Athelstan took a set of Ave beads from his pocket and threaded them through his fingers, a common gesture which always reminded him of other realities hidden from the human eye.

‘And you suspect murder?’ Thibault demanded, getting to his feet.

‘Yes, but I could be wrong.’ Athelstan pointed at the corpse. ‘Whitfield’s remains will begin to swell and stink: his cadaver should be taken to Brother Philippe in St Bartholomew’s at Smithfield. He must perform the most scrupulous search of the corpse and report his conclusions to me and the coroner as soon as possible. In the meantime, Master Thibault, Sir John, nobody must leave this tavern. I will need to meet the guests who resided here yesterday evening. Though,’ Athelstan pulled a face, ‘I am sure they are now as eager to depart this place as Lebarge was.’

The friar walked over and stared down at the corpse. ‘And this Herald of Hell?’ he asked. ‘What do we know of him?’

‘Nothing more than a title,’ Thibault replied. ‘Whether he truly exists or not cannot be proved. My sparrowhawks have skimmed the streets and shelter under the eaves and gables. They report that the leader of the Upright Men in London has assumed such a title. The only fact that I do know is that this herald mysteriously appears outside the dwellings of God-fearing citizens to deliver his warnings.’

‘But never here?’

‘Why should he, Brother? Though this house has its own mysteries. It was once owned by Sir Reginald Camoys. I believe his brother, Sir Everard, is a former shield companion of yours, Sir John? Sir Everard has recently been visited by the Herald of Hell but, as for the Golden Oliphant, all I can say is that this is a strange house with an even stranger history. Who knows, Sir John, you may even find Lothar’s Cross here. Now,’ Thibault beckoned at Albinus, ‘we must be gone.’ And both men swept from the room, Thibault shouting for his entourage to be ready.

Athelstan waited until the clatter on the stairs faded. Cranston moved across to the bed. He took out the miraculous wineskin, drank a generous mouthful and offered it to Athelstan, who shook his head. The coroner sat cradling the wineskin in his arms, staring moodily at the damaged door.

‘Thibault did not really tell us much,’ he remarked. ‘But, there again, Gaunt’s henchman never opens his soul to anyone.’

‘Sir John, you are quiet, withdrawn, querulous?’

‘I always am when Thibault is within spitting distance. I don’t trust him or his royal master John of Gaunt, our dear king’s loving uncle. I am sure Gaunt nurses a deep ambition to be king. Richard is only a boy, a mere child. Gaunt wouldn’t really mourn if his nephew died without an heir, leaving only him and the House of Lancaster to occupy St Edward’s throne and wear his sacred crown.’ He glanced quickly at Athelstan, ‘The preacher is correct: Vae regno ubi rex est puer. ’

‘Woe to the kingdom whose king is a child!’ Athelstan translated. He paused as a clerk of archers came up the stairs and into the chamber, accompanied by four Tower guards carrying a makeshift stretcher. They waited whilst Athelstan once again searched the corpse, but he could find nothing. The clerk lit a candle, took a sheet from the bed and used it as a shroud, sealing the linen cloth with blobs of wax from his writing satchel so the corpse and other items could not be interfered with. Whitfield’s baggage was then scrupulously searched. Athelstan declared himself satisfied that he had overlooked nothing and repeated his instructions: Whitfield’s remains and all his possessions were to be taken to Master Philippe at St Bartholomew’s for further scrutiny and examination. The busy-eyed clerk of archers promised all would be done and, with a little help from both Cranston and Athelstan, the corpse and the other impedimenta were taken out on to the gallery.

‘So bleak and empty.’ Athelstan gestured around.

‘Why, little monk, what did you expect?’ Cranston teased.

‘Pictures, paintings depicting love, lust and all the other fascinating things and, by the way, Sir John, I am a friar, not a monk.’

‘And one apparently acquainted with brothels?’

Cranston, his face all curious, came over and gently poked the Dominican in the chest.

‘Oh, yes,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘I visited one in Perugia, Italy. I was studying at Pavia but, in the summer months, I journeyed round the northern cities. One glorious afternoon, I was walking across a sun-washed piazza in Perugia. The square was a sea of brilliant colour. Beautiful young men and women dressed in multi-coloured silks and taffeta milled back and forth. Children were selling the freshest fruits. Open air, portable stoves cooked the most appetizing food: cheese and herbs on flat savoury bread with strips of quail and other meats grilled to perfection. A group of musicians played heart-plucking melodies. Anyway, I was there, all agog, when a beautiful nun, her face framed by a wimple, approached me and grasped my hand. She had the most brilliant smile. Although I could not understand her, she talked so softly, so prettily; she pulled at my hand, urging me to come with her.’ Athelstan paused. Cranston was now sitting on the stool, face in his hands, shoulders shaking. ‘She took me across the square to what she called her Domus , her convent.’ Athelstan ignored Cranston’s snort of laughter. ‘A truly exquisite place. The outside stone was honey coloured, the walls within covered in rich paintings, a shimmering black and white tiled floor reflected the light. Only when I entered what I thought was the convent parlour did I suddenly realize that something was very wrong.’ Cranston was now sobbing with laughter. ‘There was a painting of a young man, supposed to be Adonis, attended by two graceful young ladies, naked as when they were born …’