Paul Doherty - Herald of Hell

‘Victory or defeat?’ Athelstan murmured. ‘The young king, if he is still alive, must leave the Tower, and the broadest, swiftest route through the city is along Cheapside.’

‘Where,’ Cranston declared, ‘one soul amongst many lurks. Imagine our bowman, Brother, standing at a casement window, bow notched, waiting for the King, one shaft, two, perhaps, then the warbow is dropped and the assassin flees, just another panic-struck man amongst many others.’

Athelstan rubbed his face. ‘I cannot believe this is true. Gaunt is leaving for Scotland, his son Henry of Lancaster with him. The revolt will engulf the city and Gaunt’s creature, who calls himself Wat Tyler, will do all within his power to kill our king, Gaunt’s own blood?’

‘Brother, Edward II was deposed and killed by his wife Isabella, betrayed by his own half-brother Edmund Earl of Kent, father of our present king’s mother. The power of the Crown is price enough for someone’s soul, and Gaunt is prepared to pay it. Tyler, along with Actaeon, is proof enough – they were here. Accordingly, Tyler must have some special pass which allows him entry not only to the Guildhall but, God save us, to Westminster or even to the Tower, and that is something to truly fear.’ Cranston patted his jerkin. ‘I must be busy.’

‘Sir John, I want to stay here.’

‘Of course, little friar of deep cunning! There is a bedchamber above my judgement room: it is stark enough for an anchorite but it does have a cotbed, table, writing stool and a crucifix …’

‘Luxury indeed whilst I can celebrate mass here in the Guildhall chapel.’

‘So you intend to stay for more than a day?’

‘Oh yes, my Lord Coroner, for more than a day.’

‘ Omnium Finis : the end of all things.’

Athelstan made his home in the little chamber beneath the Guildhall loft. The only things he asked for were clean sheets and a prie-dieu to be placed beneath the stark black crucifix nailed to the lime-washed wall. He sent Tiptoft, Cranston’s messenger, to St Erconwald’s to deliver certain messages and collect other items he needed. Athelstan celebrated his morning mass in the small, timber-beamed chapel and broke his fast in the refectory used by the Guildhall servants. Despite his absorption in drafting and redrafting all he had learnt about the deaths of Whitfield, Joycelina and Lebarge, Athelstan sensed how frightened people were becoming, especially the Crown officials, men whom the rebels had publicly marked down for judgement. Already news was seeping in that the clerks, scriveners and other officials at the centre of royal government at Westminster were beginning to flee. Officials of the Exchequer, Chancery and the different courts sitting in the great hall, be it King’s Bench or the Court of Common Pleas, were sending in their excuses and refusing to attend. At the same time the Guildhall was being turned into a fortress; heavy shutters were fastened over windows; doors fortified against a siege; the well checked and cleaned; the barbican or weapon store placed under the command of city serjeants; the narrow postern doors closely guarded.

Cranston, however, refused to be cowed. Accompanied by troops from the Tower, the coroner swept the city streets, moving from church to church. Some of these, already alerted by the summary arrest of Malfort, were found deserted of both men and arms. At others Cranston found the same as they had at St Mary Le Bow. In many cases the priests had no knowledge of what was happening in their bell towers, though, as Cranston wryly observed, he had never come across so many church towers in the process of being repaired or refurbished. The plot to seize and fortify certain steeples became public knowledge. Many of the Upright Men fled, taking their weapons with them. A few were caught and faced summary justice. Thibault was very pleased and sent a letter of congratulation to both Athelstan and Cranston along with a pipe of the very best wine from Bordeaux, freshly slaughtered meat and other delicacies for the Guildhall kitchen. Cranston kept Athelstan informed, though he could not draw the friar into any meaningful discussion. Athelstan would beg for the coroner to be patient and return to the drafting and redrafting of his memoranda under each of their headings. Secretly, Athelstan believed he had trapped the assassin, though how he was to seal that trap was a different matter.

A few days after his arrival at the Guildhall, Athelstan joined Cranston for supper in the refectory. The friar ate little and drank even less but asked the coroner, along with Flaxwith and his bailiffs, to join him in the great bailey just after he celebrated his Jesus Mass. Athelstan refused to provide any details except that Sir John should also ensure that Tiptoft, his messenger, accompany them. Early the next morning they arrived at the Golden Oliphant. Athelstan strode through the great taproom, calling everybody to sit round the tables. Under the watchful eye of Flaxwith and his bailiffs, the entire household were guided in to take their seats. Athelstan glanced around; all were there: Stretton, Gray, Camoys, Griffin, Foxley, Mistress Cheyne and her moppets and servants. At Athelstan’s request, the bailiffs made a sweep of the galleries and chambers. Only when Cranston declared himself satisfied did Athelstan climb on to the dais in the Golden Hall, hands outstretched.

‘Beloved brethren,’ he began, ‘I thank you for your patience and cooperation. I ask you to sit here and reflect whilst I make certain preparations.’ He climbed down and beckoned at Tiptoft to follow him out of the Golden Hall, then gave him precise details on what to do. Tiptoft expressed his surprise, but Athelstan repeated his instructions before taking the messenger back into the taproom, where he demanded and received from Mistress Cheyne a ring of keys to all the chambers. Athelstan then visited the murder room on the top gallery. He entered the chamber next to where Whitfield had been found hanging, closely shuttered the window, put a stool in the middle just beneath the lantern hook, then returned to the Golden Hall, Tiptoft accompanying him.

‘Very well,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I shall now stage my masque based on the events of that morning when Amaury Whitfield was found hanged. Please, I beg you, correct me if I err in any way. Some of you are more knowledgeable than others. I would be grateful for your close attention to what I say. Now I appreciate the guests were in the refectory but for the present, that is too small to hold you all. This taproom will suffice well enough.’ He pointed at Tiptoft, who had been closely advised on what to do. ‘You, Sir, for the moment, will act the part of Master Griffin. You have been upstairs to rouse the guests, that’s what happened, yes?’ A murmur of agreement, led by Stretton and Gray, greeted his question. ‘Simnel cakes had been baked,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Lebarge in particular was greedy for them. Whitfield’s absence is eventually noticed, so Joycelina is sent up to rouse him. She returns claiming that she cannot and something must be wrong.’

‘That is correct,’ Griffin shouted to cries of approval.

Athelstan’s ‘congregation’, as he now called them, watched fascinated as they realized that the truth may be about to unfold.

‘Mistress Cheyne,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you then sent Master Foxley to fetch two of the labourers from the garden to bring in that battering ram. Joycelina had reported Whitfield’s chamber to be locked and barred; she’d glanced through the eyelet but that too was closed. I understand this battering ram has been used before when a chamber is locked and the guest within refuses to respond. Very well, Master Foxley, please do what you did that morning. Sir John, I would ask you act the part of Lebarge and follow exactly what he did. Tiptoft, you are now Joycelina; go along the galleries, assure anyone you meet not to be disturbed about what they may hear.’