Paul Doherty: Herald of Hell

‘What has that to do with me?’

‘Oh, everything, Master Herald. Gaunt’s henchmen regard you as the leader of the Upright Men in London, but you are not. You are only our faithful servant, one who has been richly rewarded for his work. Anyway, I was supposed to meet Whitfield tonight whilst you were ordered to search this property. However, nothing runs smoothly in this valley of sorrows we call life. Whitfield, as I have said, did not appear. So I hastened across here with my friends, one of whom, Brother Raven,’ Grindcobbe chuckled, ‘now guards your back. We did your task for you, Master Herald. We have searched this house both here and above, only to find nothing. Swept clean, it is, bare as a poor widow’s pantry. Strange, is it not?’

‘Again, sir, I know nothing of that.’

‘But you are prepared?’ Grindcobbe snapped. The Herald peered into the darkness, but all he could make out was a shadowy outline moving slightly against the poor light. ‘You are prepared,’ Grindcobbe repeated, ‘for the day of the great slaughter?’

‘Of course. All is ready, but Whitfield …’ The Herald’s curiosity was now pricked. ‘He appears to have fled. My warning must have …’

‘So it would appear,’ Grindcobbe replied. ‘In the circumstances this is a little unfortunate, but I suspect that our clerk, like so many at the Tower and Westminster, fears for the future. Your warning may have simply spurred him on his way. Whitfield,’ Grindcobbe added almost as an afterthought, ‘has a great deal to fear from so many quarters.’

The Herald’s unease deepened in the ominous silence, broken only by the sound of his own breathing and the slither of footfall as Brother Raven moved behind him.

‘If Whitfield has stripped this place …’

‘He and his friend, Lebarge,’ Grindcobbe interrupted sharply. ‘Yes, apparently they have got busy on their own affairs, as you have been, Master Herald?’

‘Of course …’

‘Busy in particular tenements not far from here, buying warbows and quivers crammed with yard shafts, everything a master bowman needs? You have left these in certain chambers overlooking Cheapside?’

‘Of course,’ the Herald rushed to answer. ‘I was instructed to.’

‘By whom?’

‘By the Upright Men. I have been visited by another of your great captains. He meets me, as you do, deep in the shadows. He shows his warrant and …’ The Herald fell silent as Brother Raven pushed the sharp barb of the crossbow quarrel against the nape of his neck. The Herald tried to quieten his panic. ‘Was I not supposed to do that?’ he gabbled, his stomach pitching with fear. He fell silent as the sharp barb again brushed his skin. He had heard rumours about how serious divisions were appearing amongst the captains who sat high on the Council of the Upright Men. ‘I did,’ the Herald stammered, ‘what I was told. The warbows and arrows are stored. Why, do you want me …’

‘Never mind,’ Grindcobbe snapped. ‘You must be ready for the signal which will come soon enough.’

The dark shape moved through the murk. The lantern was lifted, its shutter pulled down, and the darkness returned.

‘Go,’ Grindcobbe ordered. ‘Master Herald, you may leave. Brother Raven will show you out.’

Grindcobbe watched the Herald stumble back up the passageway and through the door into the street. The Upright Man closed his eyes and reflected on what he knew to be the truth. He and his confederates had planned to build a new Sion, a holy city here in London where pauper and prince would be equal before God and the law. A return to the harmony of the Garden of Eden where no predator swaggered or heralded knight rode arrogantly on his warhorse. A new beginning was what they had planned, but now demons had invaded their carefully constructed paradise, snaking in amongst its trees. Divisions had appeared. The tapestry of interwoven ideals and dreams was rent. Disunity had emerged here, there and everywhere. Rumours swarmed like loathsome spiders and mistrust, like the croaking of some foulsome toad, could be clearly heard in certain voices of the Upright Men.

‘Master, what now?’

‘God knows.’ Grindcobbe opened his eyes and stared at Brother Raven. ‘Whitfield appears to have fled. He may or not be at the Golden Oliphant, or so drunk he’s incapable of movement.’ Grindcobbe drew in a deep breath. ‘Master Thibault has the cipher. More importantly, he has Reynard locked up in Newgate and our messenger may still carry the key to that cipher. If so …’

‘Can Reynard be trusted?’ Brother Raven’s voice echoed dully from behind the grotesque feathery mask.

‘No, he certainly can’t be. I suspect that Master Thibault may well offer him a pardon, an amnesty in return for everything Reynard can reveal, but that must not happen. So,’ Grindcobbe rubbed his hands together, ‘we have brothers in Newgate?’

‘Hydrus, Wyvern and the madcap Benedict Bedlam, all ripe for hanging.’

‘And I am sure,’ Grindcobbe murmured, ‘that Reynard is determined not to join their dance in the air above Tyburn stream. Get messages to our followers amongst the Newgate turnkeys. What has to be done should be done swiftly, eh?’

‘And the matter of longbows and arrows left in those chambers along Cheapside?’

‘It’s too late and far too dangerous to do anything about that,’ Grindcobbe retorted. ‘Leave it for the moment. Get messages to our friends at the Golden Oliphant. I want to know what has happened to Whitfield. Keep that brothel under close watch.’

‘And you, Master?’

Grindcobbe rose to his feet. ‘I think it’s best to say as little as possible. I intend to return to Southwark and visit our friends at St Erconwald’s.’

‘Master, be careful. Rumours abound that the parish houses one of Thibault’s spies, a traitor to our cause.’

‘I have heard the same,’ Grindcobbe murmured. ‘I will be careful, but I need you to get messages to our captains there. Swiftly now.’

Brother Raven left. Grindcobbe sat back on the stool. He tried to control his sense of urgency, yet time was now the most precious commodity. He had received messages from Kent and Essex; banners were about to unfurl and the season of slaughter was closer than ever.

‘Oliphant: a curved, ornately embellished drinking horn.’

Brother Athelstan, Dominican friar and parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, sat on the sanctuary chair placed in the entrance to the rood screen of his church. He stared in utter disbelief at the pageant being staged before him. Judith, once a member of the travelling players, ‘The Straw Men’, who had now settled in the parish, had been persuaded by his council, led by Watkin the Dung Collector and Pike the Ditcher, to prepare a play for midsummer. They had chosen the translation of a famous French masque, La Demoiselle de la Tour – ‘The Lady of the Tower’. The principal role had of course been given, despite the best efforts of the parish wives led by Imelda Pike’s hard-faced spouse, to Cecily the Courtesan with her sister Clarissa as her lady in waiting. Both madams had risen to the occasion, their gold-spun hair a glorious mass of curls framing pretty faces, their gowns cut deliberately low so, as Athelstan secretly reflected, they literally carried all before them.

Athelstan had risen before dawn and recited his office in the chantry chapel of St Erconwald’s. Bonaventure, the great, one-eyed tom cat who had adopted the friar as his closest friend, had been his only companion. Athelstan had then celebrated the Jesus Mass with this most faithful of gospel greeters amongst his parishioners. Afterwards the friar had broken his fast in the priest’s house and then returned to convene the parish council, where Mauger the bell clerk had taken careful note of the decisions about repairs that Crispin the Carpenter insisted must be done to the tower and its beacon light. According to Crispin, these needed to be carried out urgently. In fact, Crispin argued, until these essential repairs were completed, he would be grateful if their parish priest did not use the tower for his star-gazing at night. Once Athelstan had agreed, to the murmured approval of his parish council, Judith had insisted that their priest remain to see part of their mummer’s masque. The friar could only sit and stare in quiet wonderment.