Paul Doherty - Herald of Hell

‘In constant pain,’ the vintner boomed, shaking Malfort like a terrier would a rat, ‘we brought Simeon here, Margot and I, because we could not take his moaning from matins to compline.’ He shoved the terrified Malfort, his long, ugly face now strained with fear, into Flaxwith’s custody. ‘We heard noises from the stairs above, though he,’ the vintner pointed at Malfort, ‘told us it was workmen repairing the steps. Then you arrived. It was as if the very doors of Hell had been forced, Earthworms leaping about like Satan’s imps as they fled. Malfort,’ he jabbed with his thumb, ‘well, we didn’t know about his involvement. We thought we would all be safe further up.’

Athelstan asked a few questions, satisfying himself that the vintner was innocent. The friar thanked all three, gave them a special blessing that Simeon’s mouth would heal well, then he dismissed them. In the meantime, Flaxwith had bound the now shaking Malfort, who crouched in a corner, shivering and jabbering a stream of nonsense. A serjeant came in to report that three Earthworms had been slain in God’s Acre; the rest of their company had scaled the cemetery wall and fled into the maze of Cheapside. Cranston ordered the corpses of the dead be stripped and displayed on the church steps while Flaxwith and his bailiffs climbed the steep, spiral staircase to inspect the different stairwells. They returned with water-skins and leather sacks bulging with dried food, as well as a variety of arbalests, quivers crammed full of quarrels, longbows and bundles of yard-long shafts, feathered flights bristling, their barbed points sharp as razors. They also reported that the amount of kindling and charcoal for the beacon light in the steeple seemed more than plentiful, ‘As if to create a bonfire.’ They’d also discovered kite shields which could be used to defend the tower staircase, along with barrels of oil which, once spilt and torched, would create a powerful barrier against troops trying to retake the tower.

‘Like a castle preparing for a siege,’ Cranston murmured. He ordered the tower to be stripped of all such armaments before kicking Malfort to his feet.

They left the church, the hapless bell clerk pinioned in the centre of a phalanx of men-at-arms, halberds and spears bristling. Only when the reinforced, towering gates of the Guildhall swung closed behind them did the phalanx break up. Along that short journey back, Athelstan sensed the deepening tension over Cheapside and, bearing in mind what he’d seen in St Mary’s tower, believed the revolt must be imminent. Once back in the Guildhall, he urged Sir John that Malfort be immediately questioned. The coroner agreed.

Flaxwith hustled the cowed bell clerk down the dank, dark steps leading to the dungeons beneath the main hall. The passageway below was mildewed and crusted with dirt; pools of light flared from the sconce torches pushed into brackets on the walls. Rats scurried across shimmering puddles of slime. They made their way past the different cells into a circular space where braziers glowed, making the shadows dance against the wall festooned with clasps and chains. Cranston, winking at Athelstan, ordered Malfort to be stripped to his loincloth and stretched out on the flagstone floor, wrists and ankles secured in heavy gyves.

Athelstan stood chilled by this macabre, sombre sight. The torture room of the Guildhall bore witness to its gruesome history, a gloomy, menacing place lit by dancing flames which shimmered in the chains and fitfully illuminated the dark bloodstains on the plastered walls. The floor was covered with slime, the air a thick fug of stale smoke and foul odours. The oppressive silence was broken only by the drip, drip of water splashing into puddles and the constant moaning and cries trailing along the gloomy galleries which branched off from this chamber of terror. Athelstan gazed pitifully at Malfort, now spread out, his thin, ugly face framed by matted, sweaty hair, his bony body all a-tremble. Cranston placed two stools either side of the chained prisoner, gesturing that Athelstan should take one whilst he squatted on the other. He took a generous gulp from the miraculous wineskin and poured a little between Malfort’s dried lips before leaning down.

‘Come, sir. Tell me everything.’

‘They will kill me, execute me horribly,’ Malfort pleaded.

‘I will do the same.’ Cranston indicated that Athelstan should remain seated as he rose and beckoned his chief bailiff. ‘Remember France, Flaxwith? That mercenary company, the Flayers? We will do the same.’

The chief bailiff walked away and talked to the turnkeys. A short while later Flaxwith returned, stepping into the pool of light around Malfort to hand over a leather funnel with straps. Cranston took this and held it above the prisoner.

‘Master Malfort, I could fasten this over your mouth and keep pouring water until you choke or,’ the coroner crouched down beside Malfort, ‘I could lash the funnel to your side.’ The coroner did so deftly, fixing the funnel firmly to the prisoner’s flank. ‘Then,’ Cranston continued conversationally, snapping his fingers, ‘I could do this.’ He stretched out and took from Flaxwith the long, wire-mesh cage containing a huge rat, ears back against its knobbly head, eyes gleaming, its hairy snout pushing against the mesh, jaws gaping to expose sharpened teeth. ‘The rat is starving.’ Cranston stared down at Malfort who was now blinking furiously, his sweat-soaked face all aghast, mouth gaping, opening and shutting as if desperate for air. ‘We place the rat in the funnel,’ Cranston continued, ‘and light a fire at the open end. Rats hate fire. It will try and escape. The leather is as thick and sturdy as armour but your flesh, Master Malfort, is soft; it’s also food, as well as the only way out.’

Athelstan steeled himself against the sheer terror in Malfort’s eyes. The bell clerk, he reminded himself, was dangerous. He had plotted treason, rebellion and murder.

‘Now,’ Cranston patted the side of Malfort’s face, ‘you can tell me all you know and I might consider letting you get dressed, be given a coin and a parcel of food and be put on the next cog heading for foreign parts on the strict understanding that you never return to this kingdom under pain of being arrested for treason and torn apart at Tyburn. Do you understand?’

Malfort, eyes crazed with fear, nodded, banging his head against the floor. Cranston began his questions, and Malfort replied as both the coroner and Athelstan expected. He had been suborned by the Upright Men and given the task of preparing the bell tower of St Mary’s as a fortress. Edmund Lacy had proved to be an obstacle, so the Upright Men had despatched Reynard to remove him. Malfort confessed to this but added that he did not know the names or the identities of the Upright Men concerned, as they remained shadowy, midnight visitors who hid under the names of birds, animals or exotic beasts. Cranston nodded in agreement; he had discovered the same in other investigations he’d carried out. Malfort, however, terrified by the sound of the rat scrabbling and squeaking in the cage, hastened on.

‘Reynard was supposed to leave the cipher and its key in a crevice in St Stephen’s chantry chapel, the one housing Camoys’ corpse. He carried them separate on his person. One without the other was useless; only a trained cipher clerk like Whitfield might be skilled enough to break it.’

‘The cipher,’ Athelstan urged, ‘contained instructions about the seizing of church towers, belfries and steeples, did it not?’

‘Yes.’

‘But how do you know that?’ Athelstan persisted. ‘If both cipher and key were taken? Master Malfort,’ the friar leaned closer, ‘you are in gravi periculo mortis – in grave danger of death. Tell the truth. Let me help you. The Upright Men were furious at Reynard, weren’t they? I suspect they only recently retrieved the key to the cipher, but they sent you another message through an envoy who gave you strict verbal instructions on what to do, isn’t that right? Answer me!’