Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘Where the body lies, there will the vultures gather.’ The verse from scripture was hoarsely whispered by the hedge priest John Ball as he and his confederates watched their cohorts muster on the great wasteland south of London Bridge. The local outlaws, Friar Foxtail and his coven, had quietly fled, leaving that haunted, bleak stretch of common land to the Great Community of the Realm. An attack was imminent. The captains of the Upright Men, the Raven, Crow, Hawk, Falcon and so on, swiftly marshalled their ranks along the barren heathland stretching down to the Southwark quay and the great boat yard where Gaunt was preparing his flotilla of barges. The carriers of the pots were also ready, as well those armed with torches and flint. They had all assembled around the Devil’s Oak, their armour and weapons hidden with no flame or fire to betray the glint of steel.

‘In the name of the Lord’s own commonwealth,’ Ball hissed through the darkness. Orders were issued and the line moved soundlessly off. Men sloped like hunting wolves through the darkness, heading down towards the river. The attackers surged forward, swiftly gathering speed, spreading out, eager to get as close as possible to the barges. John Ball’s scouts, men from Southwark including the parish of St Erconwald’s, had carefully studied Gaunt’s defences. The quayside and boat yard were protected by a ditch or moat with spiked stakes and, on the other side, a fortified palisade with a fighting platform. This arc of defence, half-moon in shape, sealed the quayside from all approaches by land, whilst war barges patrolled the river. The Upright Men had counted on surprise and the possibility of probing a weakened position where the palisade arched down to the quayside. A column of archers and footmen now aimed for that gap like a well-aimed spear. They reached the moat – fascines of bracken and wood were hurled into the ditch, a makeshift platform lowered across it and the attackers surged forward, siege ladders at the ready. The Upright Men, many of them veterans, skilled in siege craft from their years in France, swarmed over the pointed palisade. Only then was the alarm raised. A horn sounded. Trumpets brayed but the attackers, brushing aside the sleep-soaked guard, were now through the defences and the quayside stretched before them. Part of the palisade was swiftly hacked down, pushed out to create a drawbridge across the moat so more attackers could stream over. Gaunt’s forces were now alert. The knights banneret and serjeant-at-arms realized the futility of trying to defend the breached fortifications. They fled their tents and bothies, falling back on to the broad, well-lit quayside, dragging carts to form a barricade between the different buildings. Gaunt’s captains were confident – they may have lost the palisade but they could easily hold this new line of defence. The Upright Men, however, had their own strategy. They pushed their assault as close as they could to the quayside then paused to take care of their own wounded and finish off those of the enemy. The screams and cries of the injured faded. An eerie lull descended. The captains of the Upright Men hissed their instructions. Six small trebuchets or catapults were pushed forward. These easily constructed engines of war, their wheels well oiled, were positioned carefully on the slight rise stretching down to the quayside. Crews skilled in their use calculated distances and prepared. Ropes creaked and tightened as the deep cup at the end of each long throwing beam was pulled back, the cords on either side becoming taut as drawn bow strings. Once ready, sealed clay pots carefully stacked beside each machine were placed in position. All six catapults were primed with two pots to every throwing cup. Tinder was struck. Flaming brands were plucked from the campfires of the defenders. Row upon row of archers took up position, their war bows at the ready.

‘Loose!’ one of the captains screamed. Cords and ropes sang, wood clattered and clashed, wheels creaked. The catapults loosed their burdens into the night sky. The clay pots disappeared into the darkness then fell. Some shattered on the quayside, smashed into buildings or the hastily assembled barricade. At first the defenders were puzzled, shouts and cries echoed, but the captains of the catapults had learnt their lesson: peering through the poor light, they noted that a few of the pots had risen high over the quayside to crash on to the host of barges bobbing on the water. Winches, levers, ropes and cords were adjusted accordingly. The catapults were repositioned. A fresh volley of sealed pots seared the night sky. Orders were rapped out. The line of archers, bows slung, arrows notched, waited as footmen raced down their ranks with flaming torches. The fire arrows glowed. The war bows swung up and, in a fearsome whoosh, the blazing long shafts streaked the night sky before falling on to the quayside and the barges beyond. For a few heartbeats, a strange stillness descended then the fire arrows caught the oil seeping from the pots and both the quayside and the barges erupted in a blazing inferno.

The fire attack on the barges roused all of Southwark and St Erconwald’s in particular. Athelstan was woken by Crim hammering on the door with the startling news of a fire raging along the riverside. Athelstan, braving the cold, immediately hurried across to the church with his escort of archers trailing behind him. The friar forced his way through the throng of pilgrims and visitors, now all agog about the attack along the Thames. Athelstan told the archers to wait and, with Crim trotting behind him, climbed to the top of the tower to see the fires blazing against the lightening sky.

‘They’ll all be there, won’t they, Crim? Watkin, Pike and the rest, up to their necks in devilry. God save them.’ Crim did not reply. Athelstan stretched out and tousled the boy’s greasy hair. ‘Don’t worry, lad, I know you can’t say anything. Just pray that they not be taken or slain.’ Athelstan returned to his house. He could not settle. Dawn would come and the busyness of the day press in with its demands. The friar shaved, washed, donned fresh robes and sat drinking a cup of water, staring into the strengthening flames of the fire he had stoked in the small hearth.

‘My soul is ready, O Lord,’ he prayed. ‘My soul is ready. Awake, my heart, awake, lyre and harp. I will awake the dawn.’ Athelstan said a brief prayer to the Holy Spirit before returning to the mysteries of the Ignifer, Firecrest Manor and ‘The Book of Fires’. ‘A jumble of veritable facts and details,’ he murmured, ‘with no coherence or pattern. Ah, well.’ He rose at the scratching against the door and let in Bonaventure, who streaked to the hearth where he sprawled, washing his paws until Athelstan brought him a bowl of milk and a platter of diced ham.

‘Eat, drink and be merry, my friend.’ Athelstan stroked Bonaventure’s head. ‘For now I must pray.’ He blessed the great tomcat and left for the church. Crim and Benedicta had prepared the sanctuary for Mass. The widow woman tried to question him about the fire but Athelstan pressed a finger against her lips, ‘Silence,’ he whispered, ‘and discretion. Pilgrims and visitors flock here as, undoubtedly, do Gaunt’s spies.’

Athelstan swiftly vested and prepared himself. He decided to preach a homily before intoning the opening rite of the Mass. He also used the occasion to carefully study his congregation. The throng of people had definitely thinned. The attack on the barges must have frightened them but Athelstan immediately noticed, as he had when Crim first roused him and he crossed to the tower, how many of the young men, strangers who had allegedly come to view the Great Miracle, had now disappeared. Members of his parish were also conspicuous in their absence and the list was long. After the attack on the barges, the Upright Men would flee south into the countryside. The group would break up and would drift back towards their homes as if nothing had happened. Athelstan finished his homily and celebrated his Mass. He found this difficult, being distracted by thoughts which whirled through his mind like a flock of noisy sparrows. Once he had received the Eucharist, Athelstan paused and prayed fiercely for divine guidance. He then continued the Mass, reached the final blessing and raised his hand, staring round. Others were absent! Fulchard of Richmond, together with his witnesses and his keeper, the defrocked priest, Fitzosbert! Athelstan finished the blessing, bowed his head and thanked God for guidance. He returned to the sacristy, divested and hurried across to his house. He told the escort of archers to break their fast in a rota, shelter from the cold yet choose a place where they could keep a strict eye on anyone approaching his house.