Paul Doherty: Herald of Hell

Athelstan hurried forward. He pushed his way through, climbed on to the swaying handcart, lifted the noose from the young whore’s neck and, with a dramatic gesture, placed it around his own. Silence immediately descended. Cranston raised his sword in salute and resheathed it. Thibault turned away, hands on hips, and walked back to the entrance of the brothel. The archers released their captive. Athelstan slipped off the noose, climbed down from the cart and exchanged the osculum pacis – the kiss of peace – with Cranston. The coroner’s bristling moustache and beard tickled Athelstan’s face as Sir John clasped him close.

‘Be careful, little friar. Thibault is in a murderous rage. His chancery clerk, Amaury Whitfield, attending the Festival of Cokayne here has been found hanged …’

‘And his scrivener, Oliver Lebarge, fled.’ Athelstan smiled as he freed himself from Cranston’s embrace. ‘He has taken sanctuary in St Erconwald’s.’

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan!’ a voice interrupted.

‘Our master summons us,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Remember, watch your tongue!’

They entered the Golden Hall, the great taproom of the brothel: a dark, sombre chamber where guests could sit at tables and be served from the food bench close to the kitchen, the doors to which were now flung open. The air was savoury with cooking fragrances from the bread ovens either side of the mantled hearth, carved in the shape of a gaping dragon’s mouth. Athelstan noticed how the fire irons hanging close by were priapic in shape, a motif repeated in the torch brackets and candle-spigots around the hall. Here and there were replicas of the huge sign hanging outside, a golden Oliphant, or a curved drinking horn, encased in precious metal, the actual cup covered by a lid surmounted by a bejewelled cross. The ‘Oliphant’ was a subtle title for a brothel, the horn symbolizing good wine, cheer and all the pleasures of both bed and board. The friar had learnt from his parishioners how the word ‘horn’, cornu in Latin, was a priapic symbol often used to describe the penis.

The Golden Oliphant undoubtedly did a prosperous trade: its taproom walls were strangely bare but its floor was of waxed, scented wood with rope matting placed to catch the slops. They passed through this into the heart of the brothel: a sumptuously decorated parlour with its adjoining ‘betrothal chamber’ as it was called, where guests could meet the ladies of their choice and negotiate what they wanted and how much they would pay. Rooms ranged either side of the grand gallery, similar accommodation being on offer above stairs. Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne, along with her hard-faced assistant Joycelina, walked in front, leading Athelstan, Cranston and Thibault and his escort up an extremely steep staircase and on to the top gallery. Narrower, its ceiling rather low, this gallery contained only two chambers, their doors set back in a slight recess. One of these lay open, the door, wrenched off its leather hinges, resting against the inside wall. A bleak, low-ceilinged room, with a broad bed of stuffed straw supporting a thick mattress, the starched, homespun linen sheets thrown back. Nevertheless, all the chamber’s meagre comfort was shattered by the corpse swinging slightly from the oiled hempen rope which had been lashed to a lantern hook on the ceiling beam. Nearby lay an overturned stool. Thibault ignored the corpse. He went and stood at the door window, all its shutters pulled back, staring at the oiled pigskin covering which allowed in a yellowish light. Athelstan gazed swiftly round at the elmwood coffer and cloth poles, the chancery satchel and saddle bags heaped in the corner. The air smelt foul and Athelstan glimpsed a half-covered chamber pot beneath the table close to the bed.

Albinus, Thibault’s henchman, drew his dagger and moved to saw at the hempen rope. Athelstan told him to stop. Albinus half smiled and glanced in the direction of his master, who weakly raised his hand as a sign to let Athelstan have his way. The friar stared up at the corpse. Amaury Whitfield’s plump face was a hideously mottled hue under a mop of reddish hair, a stout man, his belly bulging out. Athelstan wrinkled his nose; the dead man’s bowels and bladder must have emptied as he died his choking death. The friar swiftly blessed the corpse and whispered words of absolution followed by the requiem before returning to his study. He noted Amaury’s bulging, watery eyes, the swollen tongue twisted through bloodless lips, the dried saliva on the corner of the gaping mouth. Athelstan pulled back the cuffs of the dead man’s dark green jerkin; he could find no marks to the wrists. Athelstan picked up the stool and placed it beneath the dangling feet, allowing the soft-soled boots to brush against it. He took this away and his gaze was caught by the scarlet gown and blonde wig hanging on a wall hook. He walked across, took these down and glanced at Mistress Cheyne standing in the doorway.

‘The Festival of Cokayne,’ she declared, her harsh face betraying a smile.

‘Ah, yes, Cokayne,’ Athelstan replied, ‘the world turned topsy-turvy! Where hares hunt hounds, males become female, piglets roast themselves and birds land on your plate fully cooked.’ Keeping a watchful eye on Thibault, who was still standing with his back to him, Athelstan gestured at the gown and wig. ‘Master Amaury’s?’ he queried. Mistress Cheyne nodded. Athelstan walked slowly around the chamber, observing the different items: an old sack full of clothing, a jerkin of dark murrey which bore the fading insignia of the royal chancery, a finely stitched leather belt with Amaury’s name etched on it and other items.

‘He dressed for death,’ Athelstan murmured. He pointed to the sack bulging with clothing. ‘And why were these kept separate from the rest? And what’s this?’

He knelt and opened a chancery satchel, filled with writing materials including a pumice stone, ink horn, quills, wax and rolls of parchment. Athelstan shook his head and continued his scrutiny. He picked up an empty wine goblet from a dusty wall ledge, swilled the dregs and sniffed, but he could only detect the rich tang of Bordeaux. He walked back to the corpse, the rope creaking, boots toed down as if even in death Whitfield was desperate to secure a foothold.

‘What do you see, friar?’ Thibault still stood at the window.

‘Master,’ Mistress Cheyne broke in, ‘I have other business to …’

‘Get out!’ Thibault screamed over his shoulder. ‘Leave us, you painted bitches, you false-faced whores!’

Mistress Cheyne and Joycelina scurried off, their footsteps echoing down the stairs. Thibault was breathing noisily and Athelstan recalled stories of how this lord of intrigue loathed prostitutes with a passion beyond understanding. How once he had left here, Thibault would strip and cleanse himself, an act of purification more suitable to an ascetic than Gaunt’s master of mischief.

‘Why are you really here, Master Thibault?’ Athelstan asked softly. ‘Why have you graced this place?’

Thibault half turned and thrust a piece of parchment at Athelstan. In colour and texture this was very similar to that in the dead man’s chancery satchel. Athelstan held it up to the light and read the elegant, courtly hand. Its message was stark and brutal. ‘All is lost. The Herald of Hell has called my name, better to die in peace than live in terror. Pray for my soul on its journey, God have mercy on me and all of us.’ It was signed, ‘Magister Amaury Whitfield, clericus – clerk.’

‘Did Master Amaury Whitfield kill himself,’ Athelstan asked, ‘because of this Herald of Hell? I have heard rumours about him.’

‘A mysterious figure,’ Albinus said, his voice hardly above a whisper, ‘an envoy of the traitorous Upright Men. He appears at all hours of night outside the lodgings of loyal servants to the crown. He threatens them with doggerel verse and leaves a pot brimming with blood and stalks, onions on their tips, like heads spiked above London Bridge.’