‘Explain yourself, Brother.’
‘Captain, I would love to but I cannot. I just believe you could tell us more about the nights of revelry, the conversations you had and the words you overheard. Perhaps also the real reason for you being here? So, Master Gray, Sir John here will ensure the harbour masters at the mouth of the Thames do not issue you with clear licence to dip your sails three times in honour of the Trinity and make a run for the open sea. You, like all the rest,’ Athelstan got to his feet, ‘will remain here until I am satisfied that we have the truth.’
PART TWO
‘Mithras: the Roman Sun-God beloved by the Legions until the Emperor Constantine replaced him with Christ’s Cross.’
Oliver Lebarge crouched on the mercy seat in the sanctuary enclave at St Erconwald’s. The scrivener was in mortal fear for his life. The pillars of his humdrum existence had collapsed all about him with the mysterious and unexpected death of his patron, his magister, Amaury Whitfield. Teeth chattering, Lebarge pulled his cloak closer about him. He felt in the pockets of his grease-stained jerkin and fingered the dirty piece of parchment he had found close to the enclave. It was crumpled and stained, but Lebarge still recognized the threat it carried: a crude but clear drawing of a human eye and beneath it in doggerel Latin, the ominous words, ‘Semper nos spectantes – We are always watching.’ Whitfield and he had received similar warnings at the Golden Oliphant, left on the bolsters of their beds or thrust beneath their chamber doors. Like those others, Lebarge would push this one down the jakes’ hole. The scrivener wondered who was responsible, but, there again, that was a measure of his own stupidity. He had fled to St Erconwald’s because its priest, the Dominican Athelstan, was regarded as a man of integrity, the secretarius of Sir John Cranston, who could also be trusted. However, the parishioners of St Erconwald’s were another matter. The Upright Men had their adherents here, high-ranking ones, even captains of their companies. Lebarge had glimpsed different individuals slip through the rood screen and stare up at him. The scrivener picked up the tankard and sipped from it. He was grateful for the Dominican’s kindness. Before the friar had left, Lebarge had begged him that only those whom the priest trusted should feed him, and this had been agreed. Victuals and drink had been brought by either the beautiful widow woman Benedicta, with her black hair and soulful eyes, or that tousle-haired urchin, the altar boy, Crim, who, like Benedicta, insisted on handing the tray of food and drink directly to him.
Lebarge did not trust anyone, not now. After Amaury had died in such a mysterious fashion, what was the use of going back to that narrow garret in Fairlop Lane, or worse, being dragged down to the dark dungeons of the Tower to be questioned by Thibault and his henchmen? He and Amaury had shaken the dust from their feet and drunk the cup to its dregs. No, it would be best, Lebarge reflected, if he sheltered here for the statutory forty days then allowed himself to be escorted to the nearest port and shipped to Dordrecht or some other port in Hainault or Flanders. Once there, he could offer his skill as a scrivener, settle down and begin a new life.
He drew comfort from such thoughts as he recalled what had happened at the Golden Oliphant. He could not truly understand it. Amaury had been so determined. They had discussed what to do after that mysterious figure, the Herald of Hell, had delivered his warning. They had stripped their chambers, made ready to leave, then both he and Amaury had joined the revelry of Cokayne at the brothel. Odo Gray had appeared and all was settled. He and Whitfield had both visited the Tavern of Lost Souls and completed their business. So why had Amaury allegedly killed himself? Or was it, as Lebarge suspected, murder? There had been no warning the previous evening. Lebarge had been in the taproom, the Golden Hall, roistering with the rest, whispering with Hawisa, Whitfield with Joycelina. Then Amaury, much the worse for wear, even though Lebarge suspected he had other secret business to attend to, had staggered upstairs with Joycelina, saying that he needed an early sleep. She had returned almost immediately, claiming Amaury was intent on sleep. Lebarge followed suit at least an hour after the chimes of midnight. He had tried Whitfield’s door but it was secure, the eyelet sealed as was the keyhole when he peered through it. Lebarge had taken a goblet of wine up, drunk it and enjoyed a refreshing night’s sleep until roused by Master Griffin announcing that victuals were being prepared in the kitchen. He needed no second invitation. Mistress Cheyne had promised him his favourites; simnel cakes, fresh and hot from the oven smeared with butter and honey. Lebarge had been feasting on these when he noticed Amaury had not appeared. Joycelina had left to rouse him and the nightmare had descended. He could not believe the dire news which trickled down. Even Hawisa could provide no comfort.
Lebarge shifted on the mercy seat and peered across the sanctuary, alert to the sounds beyond the rood screen. He started as a shadow flittered, only to sigh with relief: Bonaventure, the one-eyed tom cat, bosom friend of the Dominican Athelstan. The cat waged unceasing war on the vermin which apparently plagued this church, or so Radegund had informed him. Lebarge again supped from the tankard of light ale resting on the floor before him. In fact, where was Radegund? The relic seller had taken sanctuary, apparently fleeing from some irate customer. Radegund had proved to be a thoroughgoing nuisance, asking Lebarge a litany of questions, flitting like a bat around the sanctuary until two leading parishioners had appeared, Pike the Ditcher and Watkin the Dung Collector. From snatches of conversation which Lebarge overheard, Watkin, Pike and Radegund had been gleeful at the news that the relic seller’s most recent victim had been one of John of Gaunt’s household. They offered to shelter him and the relic seller, cloaked and cowled, had slipped out of sanctuary. As he left, Radegund had thrown dagger glances at Lebarge, and the scrivener now wondered why. He thought he would be safe here – after all, it was not far from Hawisa and the Golden Oliphant …
To distract himself, Lebarge rose and walked around the sanctuary, studying the different paintings. Some of these looked eerie in the half-light pouring through the lancet windows. Hellish scenes: the Garden of Eden after the fall with a giant mollusc shell ready to snap shut on Adam and Eve. A tainted paradise illuminated by the colour of dangling jewels, yet the gemstones were sharply spiked, whilst deep in the foliage berry-headed half-demons hunted a hawk-billed raven perched on a huge apple. Lebarge stared. He recalled a recent story from Annecy in France about an apple which emitted such strange and confused noises that people believed it was full of demons and belonged to a witch who had failed to give it to someone. Lebarge glanced away. He must keep his wits sharp and not allow his imagination to drag him deeper into fear.
He wandered over to peer through the lattice window of the rood screen. Shapes and shadows moved around. He glimpsed Giles of Sempringham, better known as the Hangman of Rochester, deep in conversation with the tar-hooded Ranulf the Rat-Catcher and Moleskin the Bargeman. Lebarge shivered. A deep chill of ghostly fear gripped him. He had fled here to be safe, free from Thibault’s questioning, protected from the nightmare of Amaury’s corpse swinging by its neck, the pestering of Adam Stretton, the ominous warnings of the Upright Men. He recalled that greasy scrap of parchment with its horrid symbol of the all-seeing eye. Was he being watched by Thibault or the Upright Men? Would someone deal out sudden, brutal death to him, here in this holy place? Lebarge chewed on his nails and stared up at the sanctuary cross. Was it too late, he wondered, to pray for salvation in this world as well as the next …?