Paul Doherty - Herald of Hell

Cranston sat behind the desk with Athelstan next to him on a high chancery stool. The friar opened his satchel while Cranston summoned in Elizabeth Cheyne and her principal maid, Joycelina. The two women sat together on the high-backed cushioned settle which Cranston had moved in front of what he called his ‘judgement table’. Athelstan, under the pretext of laying out his writing instruments, closely studied these two ladies of the night. Elizabeh Cheyne, Mistress of the Moppets, was dressed in a dark blue gown fastened at the neck with a silver brooch carved in the shape of a leaping stag; her auburn hair was clamped with jewelled pins and hidden under a gauze veil. Despite her homely dress and head gear, she was harsh-faced and hard-eyed, her bloodless lips twisted into a sour pout. Nevertheless, Athelstan caught traces of her former beauty and grace: the way she sat and the delicate gestures of her long, snow-white fingers as she adjusted her headdress or the brooch on the neck of her gown. Joycelina, her principal maid, was equally demure in her light grey gown with white bands at cuff and neck; thin-faced and sly-eyed, Joycelina exuded the air of a woman very sure of both herself and her talents. She sat, legs crossed, skirts slightly hitched back; on her feet soft, red-gold buskins, well tied, with thickened soles.

‘You have kept us waiting, Sir John. We all have lives, duties and tasks …’

‘As I have mine, Mistress Elizabeth.’ Cranston spread his hands. ‘And principal amongst these is mysterious, violent death such as Master Amaury’s in that chamber on the top gallery of your, some would say, notorious establishment.’

‘Some say a great deal about you, Sir John.’

‘Why did Whitfield hire a chamber on the very top gallery?’ Athelstan asked brusquely.

‘He was a customer, a guest, that’s what he asked for. Perhaps he liked to be away from the sounds of the taproom to enjoy his games.’

‘What games?’

‘Brother, you are in the Golden Oliphant. During the last week of May we celebrate the ancient Festival of Cokayne.’

‘And?’

‘As the poem says.’ Cheyne closed her eyes.

‘ We all make happy and dance to the sound

of lovely women being taken and bound.

Nothing to fear, nothing so tame,

but pleasure and laughter without any blame.’

She opened her eyes. ‘You have never heard of such pleasure, Brother?’

‘Oh, yes, it’s common enough in confession when penitants come to be shrived.’

‘But you are not a sinner, Friar?’

‘Greater than you think and one who constantly stands in need of God’s mercy.’

‘Mistress Elizabeth,’ Cranston interjected, ‘you held festivities here not just to make the rafters ring with merriment but for good coin and plenty of custom. Some would claim you run a bawdy house, a place of ill-repute. You host a bevy of whores and prostitutes.’

‘Then, Sir John, arrest me. Let Flaxwith and your bailiffs raid this house. I am sure,’ she added drily, ‘most of them, not to mention the justices I would appear before, will know all about what happens here.’

‘And what is Cokayne here?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘Feasting, music, dancing? The Lord of Misrule and his festive games in a world that’s gone topsy-turvy?’

Cheyne nodded, and Joycelina smirked behind a velvet-mittened hand.

‘Including,’ Athelstan continued, ‘men dressing up as women and women as men. Master Amaury did that, yes? We found a woman’s robe and wig in his bedchamber.’

‘Joycelina knows more about that.’ Cheyne sniffed.

‘I allowed Amaury to be what he wanted and do what he liked,’ the maid murmured, eyes rounded in mock innocence. ‘It brought him some satisfaction, eventually.’

Athelstan decided to change the thrust of his questioning. ‘When did Master Whitfield arrive here?’

‘Three days ago.’

‘He died on his last night here?’

‘Yes,’ Cheyne agreed.

‘How was he during his stay?’

‘Deeply troubled, Brother. Highly anxious and greatly agitated. He talked, when sober, of the coming doom which hovers like a cloud of deep night over the city. He was terrified that when London was stormed, he would be hunted like a coney through the streets, caught, trapped, mocked and ridiculed before suffering the cruellest death, and what could we say?’ Cheyne shrugged. ‘He spoke the truth. Amaury Whitfield, in the eyes of the Great Community, was a tainted traitor worthy of death. He would have been hauled through the city on a sledge, barbarously executed, his head poled, his mouth stuffed with straw to face that of his dead master.’

‘So he was frightened even until death and thought to immerse himself in the soft pleasures of this house?’

‘In truth, Sir John.’

‘Did he manifest or betray in any way a desire to take his own life?’

‘Sir John, in his terror, in his fear, Whitfield might have, though he did relax. Joycelina took care of him.’

Athelstan glanced at the maid, who winked mischievously back. The friar smiled.

‘And last night?’ he asked.

‘Everyone was tired, the festivities were over. Whitfield and Lebarge were to leave after breaking their fast this morning. Amaury went upstairs, Joycelina was with him.’

‘And?’ Athelstan glanced at the maid.

‘He was tired. He pulled back the sheets of the bed and fondled me for a while. I do remember he made sure the shutters were closed and barred. He did the same for the window, ensuring the latch was firmly down. I asked him if he was fearful, and he replied, “Only of the sweating terrors of the night.” I kissed him, said I would see him in the morning and left. I recall, very distinctly, him locking and bolting the door behind me. I came down immediately. Ask the others. I didn’t tarry long.’

‘And Lebarge?’

‘He stayed below stairs conversing with some of the guests.’

‘Who?’ Cranston snapped.

‘Odo Gray, Captain of the Leaping Horse , and the mailed clerk Adam Stretton.’

Elizabeth Cheyne paused as Cranston chortled with laughter, rocking backwards and forwards in his chair.

‘Sir John?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You know these worthies?’

‘Oh, Brother, I certainly do. Gray is a man involved in so many pies he has to use his toes as well as his fingers: pirate and smuggler, merchant and mercenary, he would sell his mother for any price.’

‘And Stretton?’

‘A mailed clerk, a graduate of St Paul’s and the Halls of Oxford. A man of peace and war who has performed military service on land and sea; the destrier in the stables must belong to him. Stretton is the most trusted retainer of Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel.’

‘John of Gaunt’s great rival?’

‘John of Gaunt’s great enemy,’ Cranston confirmed. ‘So, this precious pair were also revellers?’

‘Oh, yes, Sir John,’ Cheyne replied. ‘There were five in all: Whitfield, Lebarge, Stretton, Gray and, to a certain extent, Matthias Camoys.’

‘To a certain extent?’ Athelstan queried.

‘Matthias comes here to drink and lust but he nourishes a great ambition to discover the whereabouts of the Cross of Lothar.’ Cheyne rubbed her brow. ‘He is so importunate with his questions. He believes the Golden Oliphant retains some subtle device or secret cipher which will reveal the whereabouts of Lothar’s Cross. I thank God that he also believes the same is true of the chantry chapel at St Mary Le Bow, where my beloved Reginald lies buried. Matthias divides his time between both places.’

For a mere heartbeat Elizabeth Cheyne’s face and voice softened. Athelstan glimpsed the great beauty which must have captivated Reginald Camoys.

‘You never married?’