Paul Doherty - Herald of Hell

‘I will say no more,’ she shouted.

‘You will,’ Cranston intervened, ‘when you are taken to the press yard in Newgate and forced to lie under a huge door. Great iron weights will be placed on top, one after the other, until you confess the truth. Flaxwith, take her out to one of the outhouses, keep her safe until we leave. For the rest,’ Cranston drew himself up, hands extended, ‘everyone stays here until the Golden Oliphant is searched and the stolen money found. And that,’ Cranston gestured at Stretton, ‘includes you. If anyone does try to leave they will be arrested or, if they flee, put to the horn as outlaws.’

Athelstan bent down to pick up his chancery satchel. When he felt himself being pushed, he glanced up. Mistress Cheyne, despite being held by two burly bailiffs, had flung herself against him. Now she pulled back, eyes hot with hatred, lips bared in a snarl.

‘I have secrets,’ she hissed. ‘I will proclaim such secrets before the King’s Bench, I will …’

‘Take her away.’ Athelstan turned his back on the prisoner. He walked over to Foxley, deep in conversation with one of the ostlers, Mistress Cheyne’s curses echoing behind him. The friar plucked at the Master of Horse’s sleeve and apologised to the ostler. ‘Master Foxley, a word.’ Athelstan took him away from the rest, opened his chancery satchel and thrust a small, red-ribboned scroll into Foxley’s hand.

‘I owe you my life, certainly my health,’ the friar murmured. ‘You protected a Domini canis – a Hound of the Lord,’ he explained the Latin pun on the name of his order, ‘from other, more dangerous hounds. Now,’ Athelstan continued briskly, ‘take this, Master Foxley. The day of tribulation will soon be upon us and, whatever you believe, the Lords of the Soil will crush you. No,’ Athelstan stepped closer, ‘just take the scroll. You saved my life and this will save yours when the Retribution comes and your comrades are fleeing for their lives only to find churches locked and sanctuaries closely guarded. Take this to Blackfriars, my brothers will shelter you. Now …’ Athelstan turned as Cranston gripped his arm.

‘The horsemen we heard earlier, Brother,’ the coroner murmured, ‘were outriders, Thibault and his henchmen have arrived.’

Foxley duly slipped away. The Golden Hall swiftly emptied as Thibault, slapping leather gauntlets against his thigh, swaggered into the great taproom, Albinus slinking in behind him.

‘Spies at the Guildhall,’ Cranston whispered, ‘Thibault must have been aware that something was afoot.’

‘Brother Athelstan! Sir John! So good to see you.’ Thibault exchanged the kiss of peace with both, pulling back the quilted leather hood which hid his face. ‘I gather a murderess has been caught and your work is done. So,’ Thibault gestured to one of the tables, ‘appraise me of what has happened. I thought you would have done so earlier, hence my eagerness.’ He grinned falsely. ‘But here we are and the truth will out.’

Once his soldiers had sealed the doorways, Thibault, with Albinus sitting beside him, listened as the friar tersely explained his conclusions. Thibault betrayed little emotion at Whitfield’s intended desertion or Mistress Cheyne’s murderous plot. He simply sat, close-faced, interrupting with the occasional question or staring round the Golden Hall as if he was already assessing the true value of this busy brothel.

‘I congratulate you, Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ Thibault declared once the explanation had finished. ‘And once again, I thank you for your discovery of the Upright Men’s plot to seize the towers of certain churches. The arrest and conviction of Malfort and the unmasking of the self-proclaimed Herald of Hell is a magnificent achievement. As for Whitfield,’ Thibault grimaced, ‘I should have seen the signs. Everything is breaking down, old allegiances are dying, new loyalties being formed as people shift, twist and turn against the coming storm.’ He gestured around. ‘I will seize this place. Mistress Cheyne committed treason, slaying a royal clerk, so all her property is forfeit.’ Thibault’s soft, round face twisted into a smirk. ‘My men will stay here until Whitfield’s gold is found. I also claim that in the name of the Crown. As for the murderous bitch herself …’ He glanced at Athelstan from the corner of his eye. ‘Oh, by the way, I heard about Radegund, but he is no great loss.’ The Master of Secrets rose to his feet, beckoning Albinus to join him. ‘I will have words with Mistress Cheyne myself. My men will guard the outhouse and everything else here. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you may stay a little longer. You have told me everything?’

‘Everything you should know.’ Athelstan smiled back. He’d say nothing about Grindcobbe or Sir John’s dramatic meeting with the Queen Mother at Westminster. ‘As you said, Master Thibault, everything is in a state of flux. The killer may be caught but Mistress Cheyne looks for protection from you, claims she knows certain things.’

‘Does she now?’ Thibault jibed. ‘But not as much as you, Athelstan, eh?’

Thibault and Albinus sauntered off, out into the stable yard. Athelstan opened his chancery satchel, took out the little parcel, opened it and offered Cranston some of the simnel cake. The coroner shook his head, produced his miraculous wineskin and took a generous mouthful; he offered it to Athelstan, now munching cheerfully on the simnel cake. For a while they sat in silence, half-listening to the sounds of the household.

‘Clever little friar!’

‘Not really, Sir John.’ Athelstan took a swig from the wineskin and returned it. ‘Mistress Cheyne convicted herself by her care and preparations for each murder. In themselves, her actions appeared to be of no importance whatsoever, the sheer humdrum routine of any household. When isolated and scrutinized, they merge into clever preparations for subtle murder: the burning of the bread, sending Anna to call Joycelina …’ Athelstan broke off as Thibault and Albinus re-entered the hall.

‘Mistress Cheyne,’ Thibault took his seat patting his jerkin, ‘will be committed for summary judgement before the Justices of Oyer and Terminer who now sit in a special commission at the Tower to deal with all attacks on the Crown, its property and servants. She has told me where the money lies hidden so I have commuted her punishment from being burnt alive at Smithfield to a swift hanging on the Tower scaffold. And that will happen before sunset. Throughout the process she will remain gagged and under close custody. So …’ Thibault turned swiftly as a royal messenger, his scarlet and gold livery coated with dust, burst through the cordon of men-at-arms guarding the door, holding aloft two scrolls of parchment which Thibault seized and took over to the light from the nearest window. He read both and sat down on a stall, whispering a prayer. Athelstan caught the words of ‘ Jesu Miserere , Jesu Miserere , Jesus have mercy’ repeated a number of times. Intrigued, the friar rose and walked across, Cranston following behind.

‘Master Thibault?’ The Master of Secrets did not look up but handed both documents to Cranston, who read them swiftly and cursed beneath his breath.

‘Sir John?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Reports from royal watchers,’ the coroner murmured, ‘at Wodeford in Essex, to the north of Mile End, and a similar one from Ospring on the Canterbury road. The revolt has begun. Two armies, hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of men marching on London. They’ve unfurled huge red and black banners and issued their proclamations. They intend to destroy the Babylon of Satan and set up the New Jerusalem. God, they say, will punish us for our sins.’

‘God does not punish us,’ Athelstan replied, staring down at Thibault. ‘Our sins do. We have sown the tempest and now we are about to reap the whirlwind.’