Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

The friar just shook his head.

‘Look around, Sir John, we are in the company of rogues. Look at their crafty, gleaming eyes, fingers ready to pick purses. They slide out of their dirty dens like slugs after the rain.’ Athelstan pointed to a cunning man offering the heart of a turtledove wrapped in the skin of a dog to passers-by as a sure remedy against unchaste thoughts.

‘Oh, Brother,’ Cranston followed his direction, ‘and they all come my way. There are many here who’ll be buried in the air at the end of a piece of hempen rope – that’s how these rogues describe a hanging.’

‘But not today,’ Athelstan murmured. He stood, swaying slightly.

‘Athelstan?’ Cranston was now concerned. He knew this little friar sometimes experienced attacks of numbing panic.

‘Sir John, are we in danger? I can feel …’ Athelstan broke off. The convoy of carts to the Tower had now been blocked by a group of Flecti – the Kneelers. These men, their faces hidden behind white masks and garbed in bright yellow robes with a crude red star painted on their backs, were following their own high-backed cart, which displayed a soaring wooden cross in the centre. Such pilgrim groups were becoming increasingly common in London: public penitents doing reparation for their sins through processions, fasting and visiting city churches. Times were hard and fast changing. Plague and Pestilence walked hand in hand. The war in France was lost. Heresy and dissent flourished in the Church. The papacy was still weak, having just returned from its exile in Avignon. Prices were high. Food scarce. Taxes heavy. Trade disrupted. A deeply unwholesome broth was being cooked to bubbling and soon it would spill over. Groups like the Flecti were simply an expression of a deep underlying anxiety. Athelstan watched as the Flecti, about fifty in number, crept behind their cart. The leader would shout, ‘ Flectamus Genua ’ – ‘Let us bend the knee,’ and all would crouch down, heads bowed.

‘ Orate! ’ Pray! the leader shouted.

‘ Miserere Nobis Domine! ’ his followers bellowed back. ‘Lord have mercy on us!’

‘ Levate! ’ Arise, the leader cried, and the Flecti stood up and continued their rhythmic ritual. Yet something was amiss. The Flecti appeared very organized, moving in a military phalanx. Such groups were notorious for wandering about, breaking up in a crowd. Moreover, the Flecti were now spilling around the Tower carts, coming between them and the military escort. The officers in charge were also alarmed. Abruptly the Flecti surged forward, swords, daggers and clubs appearing from beneath their cloaks.

‘Flecti be damned!’ Cranston shouted, drawing both his weapons. ‘Upright Men! And they are after those carts.’ The ambuscade was now sprung. Some of the Upright Men knelt and released crossbow quarrels to empty the saddles of the military escort. Others attacked the line of foot and swarmed over the carts. A broad black banner was abruptly hoisted aloft to ripple ominously in the freezing breeze. The Upright Men were not only intent on seizing Gaunt’s stores but on displaying their power. For a few heartbeats the crowd thronging about fell silent, watching the sharp change of events in shocked surprise. This soon gave way to noisy panic. Many fled the battle now raging around the carts. Women, shrieking with terror, grabbed their children and fled to the nearest church for sanctuary. Others sought shelter in alehouses and taverns yet, even as the crowd scattered, the legion of rogues and rifflers, roaring boys and ruffians surged towards the fierce bloody struggle in the hope of plunder. The fighting was now spreading. A convoy of knights appeared, drawn swords shimmering as they strove to clear the carts of attackers, but more Upright Men streamed out of the mouths of alleys and runnels. Sir John grasped Athelstan and pulled him away, only to be surrounded by a group of Upright Men garbed in white masks and yellow robes. They glimpsed the royal insignia and chain of office around the coroner’s neck and swiftly closed in a clash of whirling steel. Cranston met them sharply. Athelstan picked up a fallen morning star and rushed to help his friend. Swinging the club, the friar beat back one attacker, whilst Sir John, surprisingly light and fast on his feet, closed with the other assailants. Athelstan forgot the freezing cold, only aware of scraping steel, the rasp of sharp breath and the litany of hissed curses. He struck and struck again but his opponent was swift, moving backwards and forwards eyes glittering behind the mask as he searched for an opening. Athelstan lunged, the attacker stepped back and the friar stumbled to one knee. He raised an arm against the expected blow but others had come between him and his assailant. Athelstan staggered to his feet and stumbled back. Sir John was also being protected. Four men, cloaked and hooded, armed with sword and dagger, were driving the Upright Men away in a glittering arc of steel. They were professional swordsmen more interested in forcing their assailants to flee than inflicting bloody wounds. Athelstan glimpsed dark, swarthy faces. He noticed the cloaks of these unexpected angels were of good quality. The same was true of their high-heeled boots, silver spurs clinking at every step. Sir John grabbed Athelstan’s arm, dragging him away from the conflict. The assault on the carts faded, the Upright Men disappearing into the maze of alleyways with what plunder they had seized. More soldiers were streaming into the great enclosure stretching down to Aldgate: archers from the Tower and even a company of Spanish mercenaries camped out at Moorfields. Athelstan stared around. Their mysterious rescuers had disappeared as swiftly and as silently as they had emerged. The friar felt the savage attack had purged his own anxiety as he followed Sir John across Aldgate and on to a thoroughfare leading down to the river. The coroner, having readjusted his warbelt, paused to take a generous slurp from the miraculous wineskin before offering it to Athelstan.

‘We still go to Firecrest Manor, Brother?’

Athelstan took a full mouthful of the rich Bordeaux.

‘Of course we do.’ Athelstan handed the wineskin back. ‘Sir John, I am truly sorry about earlier. I was daydreaming.’

‘You were anxious, highly so?’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan conceded. ‘This business at Firecrest, “The Book of Fires”, the attacks, it’s different from the other mysteries that have challenged us. I feel there is something important we have missed. And, of course, there is the business at St Erconwald’s.’ He smiled up at the coroner. ‘Trust me, Sir John, I would love to experience a miracle.’ Athelstan slumped down on a plinth of stone and stared up the lane. He wasn’t speaking the full truth. He dare not tell Sir John how sometimes, as today, he wished to be free of all this. He would love to escape back to the calm serenity of the cloisters, some hall at Oxford or Cambridge or even a village parish deep in the countryside. He scrutinized the narrow thoroughfare, the filthy sewer choked with filth and sludge, the shuttered windows, lock-fast doors, the crumbling plaster and decaying beams of the houses three or four storeys high, some held up by crutches as they leaned over to block out the sky. The stench was offensive, the cold now tingling the sweat on his body. Athelstan closed his eyes, breathed a prayer and got up.

‘Come, Sir John, enough of my morbid thoughts.’ They walked further down the street. Athelstan saw dust trailing from the scaffolding holding up one of these tottering tenements. He heard a shout behind him and turned. Four men stood at the mouth of the alleyway, dark shapes against the poor light. Athelstan’s heart sank – more grief and trouble!

‘Sir John?’ The coroner had also noticed the strangers and drawn both sword and dagger.