Paul Doherty - Herald of Hell

‘And he visited Whitfield?’

‘About a week ago,’ Albinus confirmed. ‘Whitfield reported it the following morning in the chancery chambers at the Tower.’

‘Was he frightened?’ Cranston asked, sipping swiftly from the miraculous wineskin he deftly hid beneath his cloak.

Athelstan studied his great friend’s usually jovial face. Cranston looked thinner, the icy blue eyes no longer crinkled in merriment. The friar also glimpsed the light coat of Milanese mail beneath the coroner’s bottle-green cloak. Athelstan glanced at Thibault and Albinus; he suspected both wore the same. The terrors were closing in. The Upright Men and their soldiers the Earthworms openly roamed the city, waiting for the day of the Great Slaughter to begin, for the strongholds to fall, for the blood to stream along Cheapside like wine pumped through a conduit. Citizens were fleeing the city. Cranston’s wife, Lady Maude, together with their two sons, the Poppets, their steward, dogs and other members of the coroner’s household had joined the great exodus, disappearing into the green fastness of the countryside against the violence about to engulf the city.

‘He was terrified!’ Thibault declared.

‘So did he commit suicide?’ Athelstan wondered aloud.

‘Why, Brother,’ Albinus exclaimed, ‘do you suspect murder?’

Athelstan shook his head and turned back to the corpse to scrutinize it more carefully. He then felt the pockets in the cloak and jerkin, which were slightly twisted. He found a few coins and the same in the unbuttoned belt wallet. Athelstan suspected someone had already searched the corpse.

‘Master Thibault, where did you find Amaury’s last letter?’

‘On the bed.’

‘Though you didn’t come here just to mourn your clerk?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You have already searched his corpse, haven’t you? You sent someone up from the yard, that’s when you really found his last letter.’ Athelstan pointed at Thibault. ‘You crossed into Southwark to visit a brothel, a place you deeply detest. You took a risk. You are a marked man, my friend,’ Athelstan added gently. ‘The Upright Men must know you are here and,’ the friar pointed at the window covered with oiled pigskin, ‘I would not stand so close to that. Now, what are you really here for? What were you hoping to find?’

‘A document,’ Albinus answered. ‘A manuscript holding a great secret which Master Amaury was striving to decipher. We have not found it.’

Athelstan gestured at the corpse. ‘Cut it down.’

Albinus hurried to obey, helped by the Captain of Archers who held the swaying corpse. Albinus severed the rope and they both lowered Whitfield’s mortal remains to the floor. Athelstan knelt down and, taking the phial of holy oils from his own satchel, swiftly anointed the corpse. He scrutinized it again for any mark of violence but, apart from the purplish mark around the throat caused by the noose as tight as any snare, he could detect nothing untoward.

‘A manuscript?’ Athelstan glanced at Thibault, who now sat on a stool well away from the window.

‘A manuscript,’ Thibault mockingly replied.

Athelstan searched the dead man’s clothing for any secret pocket. He was about to give up when he recalled how his own order, the Dominicans, conveyed important messages. He drew off the dead man’s boots and smiled as he searched the inside of the left and felt the secret pocket sewn into the woollen lining. He deftly opened this and drew out two scrolls of parchment. The first was greasy, worn and slightly tattered, the second the costliest any chancery could buy. Athelstan, ignoring Thibault’s exclamations, insisted on studying both. The first was simply an array of signs and symbols, numbers and letters. Some of these were from the Greek alphabet, a common device used in secret ciphers. The second was a triangle with a broad base, alongside it a litany of saints with a second triangle inverted so the apex of each met. Athelstan studied the litany of names. He could not recall seeing the likes before: St Alphege, St Giles, St Andrew and others. He curbed his temper as Thibault greedily plucked the parchments from his hand.

‘It makes no sense!’ the Master of Secrets whispered hoarsely. ‘I will …’ Thibault whirled around as a crossbow bolt shattered the pigskin-covered window and slammed into the opposite wall.

Athelstan leapt forward, dragging Thibault to the floor as a second bolt thudded against the window frame, followed by a third which whirled through to sink deep into the broken chamber door. Athelstan crawled across as if to open the window and peer out. Cranston roared at him to lie still. The coroner, despite his bulk, crept swiftly towards the door, bellowing at the Cheshires, now alarmed by Thibault’s cries, to remain outside. One of the archers opened the door to the adjoining chamber. Athelstan heard the coroner shout, yells echoed from the garden below followed by the clatter of armour and the braying of horns as the alarm was raised to shouts of, ‘Harrow! Harrow!’

Athelstan lay face down next to the corpse, staring at Whitfield’s swollen, mottled features all hideous in death. Did the dead speak to the living? Athelstan suppressed a shiver at the half-open, sightless, glassy eyes. Had Amaury Whitfield written that despairing letter and, his wits turned by fear and wine, taken his own life here in this chamber? Athelstan turned and stared across at the far corner where the fire rope lay half coiled. Whitfield must have cut some of this off to fashion a noose. He’d then stood on the stool and lashed the other end over a beam hook before stepping off into judgement. Or so it seemed. Nevertheless, Athelstan nursed a growing suspicion that Whitfield’s suicide was not so simple or so clear. Had fear of the coming revolt truly turned his wits? Certainly the Master of Secrets was marked down for destruction by the Upright Men, yet Whitfield had lived with that fear for months, even years, so why now? And why had Master Whitfield apparently brought all his possessions to this brothel – baggage, chancery satchel and other objects – only to commit suicide?

‘They are gone.’ Cranston strolled back into the room. ‘I suspect the Upright Men. They entered the garden and must have escaped the same way.’

‘Who told them which chamber Master Thibault was in?’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet.

‘Brother,’ Cranston shrugged, ‘the Upright Men’s spies are as thick as lice on a Newgate cloak. They know Master Thibault’s here and the reason for it: their assassins must throng in and around this blessed place.’

‘More like the sty of a filthy sow,’ Thibault retorted, sitting down on the bed. The Master of Secrets began to brush his clothes and whisper to Albinus. Athelstan walked to the door window. There were shutters both within and without. These had now been flung open, the bar to the inside one lying on the floor; the window was narrow but big enough for a slender man to enter. Athelstan stepped closer to continue his scrutiny. The pigskin covering, now in tatters, had been stretched out and fastened over small hooks. The hinges of the door window were of the hardest leather, the wood and paint tarred against the elements, and the handle was a clasp which fitted neatly into a metal socket on the frame. The window looked stout and in good repair except for the damage done by the crossbow bolt.

Athelstan pressed on the latch and pushed; the door window swung open on the outside. He peered down at the sheer drop to a well-cultivated flower bed, rich with spring flowers and ripening roses. Revelling in the fresh, breezy air, sweetened with fragrant garden smells, Athelstan turned his head to catch the strengthening sunlight and closed his eyes. This reminded the friar of his father’s farm and the sheer delight of a summer’s morning. Athelstan was convinced that such beauty could not be matched in any other kingdom, even in this place of ill-repute! He opened his eyes. The brothel was a wealthy house and its garden reflected this: the vegetable plots with sorrel, cabbage, spinach, lettuce, peas and broad beans; the numerous herb beds which undoubtedly produced marjoram, sage, snakeweed and rosemary amongst others. He glimpsed gooseberry and raspberry bushes as well as cherry, plum and apple trees. The garden was dissected by high walls against which black, wooden-trellis fencing was in the process of being fixed: long, narrow poles, the horizontal and vertical creating squares across which vines and rambling rose bushes would grow. Athelstan watched the soldiers move carefully through the garden, swordsmen first, a line of archers behind, the shouts of their officers clear on the morning air.