Paul Doherty - Herald of Hell

He took direction from a candle trimmer working on the wall spigots outside and climbed the staircase, along a narrow gallery where the dust motes danced in the air. He pushed open the chapel door and entered the warm, sweet-scented chamber. Sunlight lanced the casement windows on the far wall. Incense fragranced the air. Candles spluttered in front of a statue of the Virgin. Athelstan paused at the sound of voices. Two men crouched before the sanctuary rail working to replace floor tiles which had become loose. They paused and rose as Athelstan walked across to sit on a wall bench beneath one of the windows.

‘Do you want us to leave, Father? We can,’ the tiler called. Athelstan peered through the light. The man was oval-faced, beetle-browed with a noticeable harelip. His companion was almost girlish in appearance with long blonde hair, clean-shaven, though Athelstan noticed the sharp, sloe eyes; the young man carried a long stave, probably used for measuring, and on his left wrist a heavy archer’s guard.

‘We are just working on the floor.’ The tiler tapped his boots noisily, then grinned. ‘If you want, Brother, you can help us. Just tap your foot along the tiles and listen for an echo.’

Athelstan smiled and shook his head. He sketched a blessing in their direction, left the chapel and returned to the room close to the coroner’s judgement chamber.

Cranston eventually arrived, smacking his lips after a delicious repast in the Lamb of God, full of news about what he had been doing. The young king was now safely ensconced in the Tower. Most of the servants there had been dismissed and replaced with Cheshire archers. Only royal knights would be allowed into the King’s presence. War barges lay moored, guarding the river approaches to the Tower, whilst Cranston had despatched the best horsemen with fresh mounts to take up station at taverns along the main roads into Essex and Kent.

‘More than that,’ he declared, taking a generous mouthful from the miraculous wineskin, ‘I cannot do. Now, Brother …’

Athelstan informed him of his conclusions on certain matters. Cranston listened carefully, wiping his moustache with his fingers.

‘Satan’s tits!’ he crowed when the friar had finished. ‘My little ferret, you have been busy.’ His smile faded. ‘Those war dogs at the Golden Oliphant …’

‘They will wait,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The person who released them will be caught, indicted and suffer a hideous death. Now, Sir John, let us prepare for our visitors. I will need a carpenter, a good one. I know building work is going on here, though,’ he stared around, ‘your chambers are as bare as any hermit’s.’

‘Everything is packed away,’ Cranston retorted, ‘stored in the arca in the cellars, great iron and steel chests; they now hold cloths, writing materials, records, pictures, crucifixes, virtually anything which can be moved.’ The coroner breathed in noisily. ‘The Guildhall will come under attack; its gates have been fortified. You are correct. We have hired the best craftsmen.’

He left the room then returned with a quiet-faced, sandy-haired man, Guibert Tallifer, a carpenter and leading member of the city guild. Athelstan began to explain why he needed him when there was a knock at the door and Flaxwith entered to announce the first of their visitors had arrived, along with the sign from the Oliphant, which would be laid on the great bench in Cranston’s judgement chamber. They promptly adjourned there, a bleak, stark room with its blank walls and heavy oaken furniture. The Golden Oliphant sign had been placed on the judgement bench and Athelstan explained what he wanted. Tallifer, his leather apron bristling with pockets for tools, scrutinized the sign carefully.

‘It’s a box,’ he declared, ‘a shallow box with about six inches between front and back. And, what is this?’ He placed his finger into a hole piercing the cross-piece of the crucifix which decorated the lid over the Oliphant’s cup. The drinking horn was delicately and accurately depicted and Athelstan had to concede that its artist, Reginald Camoys, had a God-given talent. The carpenter explained that the sides of the sign were held together by a very powerful glue. Skilfully, using hammer, wedge and chisel, Tallifer began to loosen one side. He was almost finished when Athelstan told him to pause and asked Sir John to bring up Sir Everard and Matthias Camoys along with Mistress Cheyne.

All three visitors came into the chamber exclaiming with surprise when they saw the sign and Tallifer’s tools lying on top of it. Cranston demanded silence. Athelstan nodded at the carpenter to finish his work and lift the loosened side. He did so and Matthias Camoys cried with delight at the green and gold cross fixed firmly within. The cameo of the Roman emperor was carefully positioned so it lay accurately against the hole piercing the cross-piece of the crucifix on the lid of the Oliphant’s cup on both sides of the sign. Athelstan firmly knocked Matthias’ hand away.

‘The cross is glued,’ Athelstan explained, ‘positioned carefully within the sign, which, in turn, was hung so as to catch the first rays of the morning sun. I saw it this morning, a shaft of pure light as you find in certain churches where a lancet window is used to guide the sunlight on to the altar.’ He gestured. ‘Master carpenter, if you could loosen the cross.’

Tallifer did so, swiftly and expertly, then handed the relic to Athelstan.

‘I never knew!’ Mistress Cheyne exclaimed.

‘I don’t think you ever really cared,’ Athelstan retorted, holding his hand up to still her protests.

‘It’s mine!’ Matthias lunged forward; Athelstan thrust the cross into his hands.

‘You may have it, for what it’s worth; it’s a fake, a replica.’

‘No!’ Matthias looked wide-eyed at his father, who grasped the cross, holding it up to the light. He took out a thick piece of conclave glass from his wallet and used this to peer closely at the cross, concentrating especially on the gold fretting.

‘Very good,’ Sir Everard murmured. ‘Very fine, crafty and subtle, but you are correct, Athelstan, a most cunning forgery.’

Matthias jumped to his feet, knocking over the stool on which he was sitting. For a while Athelstan let him pace backwards and forwards before nodding at Sir John, who ordered the young man to sit down.

‘You are quiet, Mistress Cheyne?’ Athelstan smiled. ‘You always suspected it was a forgery, a replica, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did, but I didn’t have the heart to tell anyone, least of all you.’ She pointed at Matthias. Athelstan noticed that she and Sir Everard had barely acknowledged each other.

‘Sir Everard? Did you suspect?’

‘I did wonder.’ The goldsmith drew a sharp breath. ‘Why the Teutonic Knights, despite their difficulties against the Easterlings, never made any attempt to recover it.’

‘I followed the same logic,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘as you did, Mistress Cheyne. Reginald Camoys was a very skilled artist and sign maker. Formerly he had been a soldier who had lost a beloved comrade in the fighting. He stole the Cross of Lothar as some form of compensation or recompense. He brought his comrade’s corpse home for solemn entombment at St Mary Le Bow. Eventually he discovered, God knows how, that what he had stolen was a replica but he still persisted with the myth. He could not destroy the artefact which, in time, became the symbol of his love for Simon Penchen. He would not willingly let such an object go. As I said, Reginald was a cultivated, educated man. He chose St Mary Le Bow to house the shrine of his fallen comrade. He would wander round that church, especially the crypt, which contains the ruins of an ancient Roman temple dedicated to a god much beloved of Roman soldiers, Mithras, the Unconquerable Sun God. He also discovered one of the most commonly used dedications to that deity, “ Soli Invicto – to the Unconquerable Sun”. At the same time he read or recalled the famous story about the Emperor Constantine, the first Christian emperor who converted after he experienced a vision of the Cross with the message, “ In Hoc Signo Vinces – In this Sign you will conquer.” Constantine did; he won the battle of the Milvian Bridge and replaced Mithras with Christ. Reginald Camoys, a former soldier, would relish such a story, yet he had also learned that the cross he had stolen was a mere replica, so, instead of publishing the truth and destroying the symbol,’ Athelstan tapped the brothel sign, ‘he had this made and the replica placed carefully inside so that the cameo at the centre would catch the first rays of the rising sun. Reginald, on a fine morning like this, would love nothing better than to sit in the garden of the Golden Oliphant and watch that flash of light, is that not so, Mistress Cheyne?’