Paul Doherty - Herald of Hell

Cecily and Clarissa were hiding in the tower chamber whilst outside in the nave ranged their defenders led by Ranulf the Rat-catcher, Hig the Pigman, Mauger, Moleskin the boatman and a host of others. These would protect the ladies against the coven of the evil black knight – Watkin, ably assisted by Pike and their followers. Athelstan’s gaze was caught by a miniature painting executed on one of the drum-like pillars which separated the nave from the chancel, the work of their parish artist, Giles of Sempringham, also known as the Hangman of Rochester. Athelstan stared at this depiction of the death of Dives, the rich man in the gospels, damned and ready for burial deep in the fiery bowels of Hell. The hangman had caught the dramatic scene so accurately that Athelstan could almost feel the symptoms of approaching death which now plagued Dives: the misty eyes, the drooping skin, the furry tongue thrust through blackened lips and the rigid feet. Athelstan wondered what the hangman was doing now – carrying out executions at Smithfield or above Tyburn Stream? Would the Hangman know anything about what had happened at the Golden Oliphant, Southwark’s most notorious brothel, from which one of his ‘enforced guests’ had so recently fled?

Athelstan turned in his chair and peered across the sanctuary at the mercy enclave, where fugitives from the law could remain unmolested once they had grasped the altar horn and demanded the church’s protection. The recess now housed two such guests. The first was Oliver Lebarge, a slender, mouse-faced man dressed in drab fustian, his grey hair unkempt, a scrivener, obviously, from the inkstains on his fingers. Lebarge had walked quietly into St Erconwald’s just after Mass, touched the corner of the altar, demanded sanctuary and allowed Athelstan to usher him into the mercy enclave. He had given his name almost in a whisper. Lebarge refused to declare what he had done except that he had fled from the Golden Oliphant, where a violent death had occurred so he feared for his own life and safety. Lebarge had surrendered his dagger to Athelstan in accordance with the law and allowed the friar to search his person, but the Dominican had found nothing else. Lebarge had remained taciturn, sullen and withdrawn. Appearing highly nervous, the scrivener had informed Athelstan that he would only eat and drink what the parish provided and that he would wait for justice. Athelstan shrugged, blessed him and walked away. Benedicta the widow woman, together with Crim the altar boy, had later taken the fugitive some bread, meat and ale. Once Lebarge had established who they were and the origin of the food, he reluctantly accepted it, and now sat huddled, lost in his own thoughts.

The second fugitive next to Lebarge made Athelstan grin. Radegund the Relic Seller! This cunning charlatan now lay stretched out, head resting against his ‘Holy Satchel’ as he called his bag of religious artefacts. Athelstan had never really decided whether he should indulge in limitless admiration for Radegund’s persuasive patter or sheer pity for the relic seller’s many victims: men and women who blithely bought a scrap of Jesus’ napkin, nails pared from the Virgin Mary, hair from St Joseph’s beard, a feather from Gabriel’s wing, straw from the manger, a loaf from the Last Supper, Salome’s bracelet, or even dung from the donkey in the stable at Bethlehem! Radegund sold these ridiculous forgeries yet people kept coming back for more – except for now. Apparently Radegund had been busy selling a bloodstained tunic purportedly worn by one of the Holy Innocents slaughtered by Herod to some court notable. Unfortunately, the tunic was recognized by a flesher’s wife who, in a voice as brazen as the last trump, accosted Radegund, boldly proclaiming that the tunic had been stolen from her washing line and steeped in a vat of blood near her husband’s stall. Radegund had tried to defend himself, or so he said, claiming the clothing was almost 1,400 years old. However, when the relic seller held up a bloodstained hand in protest, the crowd had decided against him, so Radegund had fled here for sanctuary. As usual Radegund would lie low for a while and, when the time was opportune, slip back to his usual mischief.

‘Brother! Brother!’

Athelstan turned back. The masque of ‘The Lady of the Tower’ had descended into chaos, with Judith shouting at everyone that this was a parish play, not a time of misrule.

‘Brother!’ Athelstan glanced up. Tiptoft, messenger of Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London, stood smiling down at him. Athelstan narrowed his eyes at this most eccentric of retainers, garbed in Lincoln green like some forest verderer, his flame-red hair spiked with nard.

‘Brother Athelstan, I am sorry to intrude, but Sir John Cranston needs you immediately at the Golden Oliphant.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan murmured, staring across at Lebarge, ‘I did wonder …’

Athelstan crossed himself and went into the sacristy to collect his chancery satchel. He stopped and beckoned Benedicta to join him. Once inside, he half closed the sacristy door.

‘Benedicta, I must leave. Sir John awaits.’ He indicated with his head. ‘Let Judith deal with the mummers. Try to persuade our sanctuary man Lebarge to take comfort from where he is. Reassure him that only you or Crim will bring his food from my house and oh,’ Athelstan tapped the side of his head, ‘did you know that Pike the Ditcher has a cousin, Sister Matilda, a nun, one of the Poor Clares?’

‘No, Brother.’ Benedicta laughed. ‘Pike, of all people!’

‘Well, apparently she is passing through Southwark later today. Pike has asked to meet her here in the sacristy about the third hour after midday. He says he needs a little privacy. I can see no difficulty in that.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘I just wish I could meet her.’ The friar paused as the widow woman quickly turned and went back to the half-opened sacristy door and peered out. ‘Benedicta?’

‘My apologies, Brother.’ She smiled. ‘I must be hearing things.’ She handed him the chancery satchel. ‘Go, Brother, all will be well here, whilst Sir John must surely be fretting …’

The Golden Oliphant was in uproar when Athelstan reached it just before the bells of Southwark tolled the noon day Angelus. The brothel was ringed by Cheshire archers from the Tower sporting the young king’s personal insignia of the White Hart Couchant with a crown and chain around its elegant neck. Athelstan knew from Sir John that both Gaunt and his Master of Secrets, Thibault, depended more and more on these skilled and loyal bowmen with a personal allegiance to the popular young king. The Cheshires also enjoyed a reputation of being ruthless zealots: they had already taken over the brothel, frightening its occupants into corners. Sir John, cloaked in bottle green, a beaver hat clamped on his thick white hair, beard and moustache freshly trimmed, stamped his booted feet on the cobbles of the stable-yard. Master Thibault, along with his faithful shadow Albinus, stood opposing him. Gaunt’s principal henchman was dressed in dark robes with his blonde hair neatly crimped, his genial face shaven and oiled. He looked like some jovial Benedictine monk, the refectorian or cellar man. Athelstan knew different. Despite the ever genial smile, the pretty gestures and the soft voice, Thibault was a killer to the bone, a ruthless street fighter totally dedicated to his royal master John of Gaunt. This morning, however, the mask had truly slipped. Thibault was beside himself with fury, icy blue eyes popping in anger, bejewelled fingers clawing the air as he gestured at a group of women, amongst whom Athelstan recognized Elizabeth Cheyne, the mistress of the brothel.

Athelstan sensed the pressing threat and danger. Thibault was yelling at the whores whilst Albinus was preparing a makeshift scaffold. He had looped a noose over a wall bracket, removing the lantern hung there, and pushed a handcart beneath. Two Cheshire archers were shoving a young, blonde-haired prostitute on to the cart, one binding her hands behind her whilst the other looped a noose around her neck. Thibault shouted imprecations as the whore’s frightened screams pierced the air. Cranston, uncertain about what was happening, fingered the hilt of his sword as he acknowledged Athelstan’s arrival with a curt wave of his hand. Athelstan realized the tension was about to tip into hideous violence. Whatever had happened, Thibault, in a dancing rage, was determined to make someone pay for it. The shouting and screaming grew more intense. The archers had now seized the poles of the handcart, ready to push it away and let the whore dangle in the air. A mastiff, lips curled in a snarl, burst out of an outhouse and lunged at one of the archers, who drew his dagger and thrust it into the dog’s exposed throat. The animal collapsed, whimpering in a welter of blood. The chaos deepened. Horses in the stables overlooking the yard smelt the blood and grew increasingly restless. From inside the brothel echoed shouts and the barking of dogs. Cranston had now drawn his sword. Some of the archers were stringing their bows.