Stone of Destiny, page 12
Once finished the Flayer squatted with his back to the wall, taking deep breaths as he reflected on what was happening. He felt sated, relaxed, even ready for a sleep. He took another gulp from his wineskin and let his mind wander back to his former life as a mercenary, fighting … no, he wasn’t really fighting, more plundering whatever he and others came across in France. As a hired mercenary, a member of a free company, the Flayer could do what he wanted when he wanted and be commended for it. Some village in Normandy turned into a sea of flame was just part of a day’s work, as was his cruel torture and abuse of any prisoner, be they man, woman or child.
The Flayer had returned home with other veterans and he soon realized that what he had done in France could not be done here. Sheriffs, bailiffs and beadles imposed order. Above all, the likes of fat Jack Cranston, the Lord High Coroner and his faithful friend Friar Athelstan posed a real danger. These men hunted the likes of the Flayer and, he understood, they had done so with outstanding success. Cranston loved to spread a net, to provoke those he hunted to break cover. The Flayer ground his teeth. He had heard about the proclamations coming out of the Guildhall, the rewards being offered for information leading to his arrest and a slow hanging from one of London’s gibbets. The Flayer quietly cursed. He turned and looked at the corpse of his most recent victim. ‘How dare they?’ he demanded. ‘How dare Cranston and Athelstan interfere in my world, my life! How dare they boast that one day I will be caught and despatched to dance in the air for the delight of the London mob.’ The Flayer wiped his lips on the back of his hand. Earlier in the day he had risen to the challenge and sent Cranston a small present, a token of the Flayer’s sheer contempt for the coroner. Indeed, that was the problem, Cranston personified it. Order and good government! What a contrast to those years of the plague when he and Adele had done whatever pleased them so they could prowl the City and beyond without let or hindrance.
The Flayer closed his eyes. He recalled God’s Acre, that vast lonely cemetery around St Erconwald’s, when it was a truly desolate place. Now it was all changed, transformed by that Dominican friar. The Flayer snorted with fury. He opened his eyes and, leaning forward, breathed out noisily, as if this very gasp could inflict a wound on his opponents.
The Flayer crossed his arms, wetting his lips as he recalled the dramatic events in that cemetery some twenty years ago. The dark night, the flaring torches and the cowled, visored figures. Now it was different, yet it shouldn’t be. The cemetery of St Erconwald’s was his fief and he should really wage war against those who had persecuted Adele to a most cruel death. Nevertheless, he knew no names. The parishioners who tried Adele were strangers, hooded and visored, though he had his suspicion! Ursula the pig woman! He believed she, or those of her family, had been involved in the capture and destruction of Adele.
The Flayer leaned forward, cracking his finger knuckles. Ursula was a fat bitch who smelt like the creature she fussed, that great lumbering sow with its flapping flanks and ears. ‘Two great mounds of fat,’ the Flayer whispered. ‘I’d love to skin, to peel both of them, but that would be difficult.’ The Flayer’s mouth watered at the prospect of such a killing! He hated Ursula for what she was and her endless chatter to anyone who bothered to reply to her. She warbled like a bird about angels shedding their wings as they flew through God’s Acre. What a nonsense, what a nuisance! The Flayer was also intrigued. He’d recently learnt that Ursula was the widow of the hangman of the parish, so he may well have been one of those who tried Adele. One day he must bring Ursula and her sow to a place like this. The Flayer scrambled to his feet. ‘So much to do,’ he murmured, ‘and so little time to do it. Busy, busy, all the day long.’
Cranston and Athelstan were grateful to reach the main Cheapside thoroughfare with its Standard, Cross and Tun. A frenetically busy market place, row upon row of stalls sold everything under the sun, from leather saddles made in Cordoba to the finest gold-chased goblets from Cologne. Despite the freezing cold, the crowds pressed backwards and forwards, a mass of moving colour and different scenes, be it a funeral party carrying a coffin to a nearby church or a cohort of market beadles leading a line of peace-breakers down to the stocks. Chanteurs, standing on plinths or barrels, proclaimed the most fantastical stories about kingdoms of glass far to the East, or a castle in the dark forests along the Rhine, where demons gathered to plot man’s downfall. Whores in their gaudy wigs, their sly-eyed pimps not far behind, solicited for custom, keeping a wary eye on their herders as well as the bailiffs.
At last they reached their haven, The Lamb of God. Cranston paused in the porchway to greet Leif the one-legged beggar and Rawbum, Leif’s loyal henchman. These two beggars plagued Sir John and haunted the entrance to his favourite tavern. Cranston knew that if they were not paid, they would visit the Lady Maude to inform her that, ‘The illustrious coroner, her most loving husband, was cheery and well, that he was enthroned in The Lamb of God at a time when he could be visiting her and their two sons the poppets, Stephen and Francis.’ Cranston spun each of them a penny and both beggars disappeared into the crowd, shouting Cranston’s praises and promising that they would pray for him in every church in Cheapside.
Cranston and Athelstan entered the tavern. Minehostess, pink-cheeked, blue eyes dancing, her buxom figure almost hidden by a snow-white apron, greeted Cranston enthusiastically. Once kisses had been exchanged, she ushered them both, her ‘special guests’, into the solar reserved for ‘visitors of quality’, Sir John Cranston in particular. It was well-known as the coroner’s favourite spot in Cheapside, if not in all of London. The solar was truly luxurious, with a deep-cushioned window seat providing a full view of the tavern garden, yet close enough to a roaring fire, its flames leaping merrily in a hearth shaped like a dragon’s mouth. Minehostess served stoups of home-brewed ale and platters of tender slices of capon and pheasant, all delicately cooked and spiced. Cranston and Athelstan ate in silence; they had both risen early and the harsh, cold weather had sharpened their appetites. Once they had finished, they waited for the table to be cleared, then Athelstan opened his chancery satchel and laid out his writing materials.
‘On reflection, not really necessary,’ Cranston murmured, sitting back against the cushion settle. ‘Summarize, my little friend, the sea of troublesome problems confronting us.’
‘Westminster, Sir John, the royal abbey, the home of the Benedictines, the Blackrobes. Peace and harmony reigned there until earlier this week when a most curious incident occurred. Brother Robert, the sub-sacristan, was to lock the entire abbey church. He was to make it secure except for the Devil’s door, a narrow postern in the north transept. According to what we have learnt, this was supposed to be left off, both lock and bolt, so the abbey could be swiftly emptied if some mishap occurred after dark. On that particular night it did. Our poor anchorite heard sounds echo through the abbey. He glimpsed a darting figure dancing about, bells ringing.’ Athelstan waved a hand. ‘The anchorite was certain that someone had entered the abbey at the dead of night. So, agitated and fearful, the anchorite left his anker-hold. He discovered nothing amiss except the Devil’s door was locked when it shouldn’t have been so. He raised the alarm. A few days later, Brother Robert the sub-sacristan admitted that he might well have locked the Devil’s door by mistake, yet this does not resolve our mystery. It’s a well-known fact that the anchorite raised the alarm by ringing the tocsin. There was no other way because he found the Devil’s door locked. Moreover, when Brother Robert, together with his superior, Sacristan Sylvester, reached the church, they and others also found the Devil’s door locked though nothing amiss in the church. However, if the door was locked, who was responsible for those strange sights and sounds?’
‘It might be the anchorite? Maybe he was fey-witted, seeing and hearing things which simply did not exist except in his own disturbed humours.’
‘Sir John, there is no evidence for such a conclusion on that particular night or any previous one.’
‘The intruders could have hidden away in the shadowy recesses; there are enough of them in the abbey church.’
‘Very dangerous, Sir John. Remember, after the tocsin was sounded, the Devil’s door was opened. No other. It would have been difficult for an intruder to leave at a time when that door was under the care of Sacristan Sylvester and Brother Robert, not to mention other monks streaming towards the church. In a word, any intruder would seriously risk being noticed and seized.’
‘In which case my little monk …’
‘Friar, Sir John.’
‘The intruder had a key. He opened the Devil’s door or some other postern, entered the church and left, locking the door behind him.’
‘But, Sir John, nothing was found missing, disturbed or damaged, so why? And if the intruder was busy in the church and had a key, surely someone would have noticed? The intruder would have left their mark, some trace of them being there?’
Cranston simply sipped from his tankard, shaking his head.
‘What happened that night is both unique and very strange,’ Athelstan mused. ‘And we must ask if it was connected to the next swirling mystery, the murder by poison of three Blackrobes as well as Ricard the anchorite? Why, how and who are the pressing questions. Was the anchorite poisoned because of what he saw or heard that night? One additional consideration. All four victims were Blackrobes, Scottish and, apart from the anchorite, self-proclaimed Guardians of the Stone, a coven bonded together to honour the Stone of Destiny, that sacred relic of Scottish kingship now held firmly by the English Crown.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Sir John, we do face a true mystery. These Blackrobes were poisoned, we don’t even know how it was done. We are now in Advent, when the Benedictine rule imposes a great fast in preparation for Christmas. The good brothers could only eat one full meal a day, taken late in the evening. Everything except water is strictly forbidden.’
‘And we have established that they all drank from the common supply, so how, and this must include the anchorite?’
‘I agree, Sir John. So far we have found no trace of any tainted food or drink.’
‘Or the source of the poison?’
‘Well, the abbey has its own infirmary, herbarium and medicine chest. The murderer could have helped himself, but not without the very real risk of being discovered.’ Athelstan bit the corner of his lip. ‘So we have this to contend with, Sir John; then we must stop that great sinner, the Flayer.’
‘Indeed, Brother, for there is nothing even remotely human about his filthy crimes.’
‘It could be anyone, Sir John. An unrepentant sinner and, I suspect, one with a deep and lasting hatred for women or, indeed, anyone else.’
‘Brother?’
‘Our evil-minded Flayer selects what he regards as the lowest of the low, the raddled, diseased, blighted whores who wander our streets, poor women forsaken by everyone.’ Athelstan sipped from his blackjack and stared around the comfortable, even luxurious solar, with its turkey cloth carpets, gleaming oak furniture and well-carved candelabra. The chamber’s walls were pink-plastered and decorated with delicately painted cloths, a sharp contrast to the cold dark horrors confronting them.
‘Brother, you said anyone else?’
‘Oh, I think the Flayer, a sick-souled killer, has a deep and lasting hatred for humankind, women in particular. He is a demon, a slayer, his soul echoes the words of Christ: “Satan was an assassin from the start.” The Flayer loathes fellow humans, yet this hatred, curdled by his own upbringing and experiences, has to be cunningly managed. He wants to vomit his loathing but not against anyone who enjoys some status in our community, an individual whose murder would provoke justice into action. Oh no, our assassin wants to kill and kill again with impunity, and he does so with his specially chosen victims. No one really cares for the raddled whores he’s tortured and killed. So believe me, Sir John, what you do now is God’s work.’
‘In which case I wish God would give us both a little help.’
‘Oh, he will, Sir John. What you said earlier to Paltoc was very shrewd. You have interfered with the Flayer’s murderous enjoyment. You have challenged him, but let’s leave that for the moment. You have sown the seed of a possible trap, you’ve prepared the lure. So let us now move to those two worthies, Halpen and Mildew. You received my brief message about their murders?’ Athelstan then described in detail what had happened at The Piebald. Cranston heard him out and softly whistled.
‘You mean to say, Athelstan, that two killers, professional assassins and Judas men, for that’s what they were, caroused, ate and drank in the taproom? Afterwards, they adjourned to bed in a locked, sealed chamber, all from within, yet both were found hanging by their necks?’ Cranston shook his head. ‘With no sign of forced entry or attack? Satan’s tits!’
‘What do you know about that precious pair, Sir John?’
‘Oh, I’ve been to the chancery office and searched the secret memoranda rolls. I also had urgent words with Thibault, our Master of Secrets. So listen,’ Cranston lowered his voice, ‘Halpen and Mildew were Upright Men. They sat high on the councils of the rebel leaders, Wat Tyler, Jack Straw, Grindcobbe and others of their ilk. Halpen and Mildew were also leading captains in the ranks of the Earthworms.’ Cranston took a gulp from his wineskin. ‘In truth, this was all a nonsense. From the very beginning, Halpen and Mildew were Thibault’s creatures, his spies, his henchmen, body and soul in this life and the life to come. That treacherous pair didn’t just turn King’s evidence, they were King’s evidence from the very start.’
‘Sir John!’
‘Don’t look so shocked, Brother. Halpen and Mildew were steeped in villainy. In a sense, they truly deserved their deaths and yet,’ Cranston pushed the stopper back into the wineskin, ‘two men were murdered.’
‘And I was threatened.’ The friar then described his meeting with his midnight visitors, the Reapers. Once again, Cranston whistled in surprise.
‘I am astonished,’ he murmured. ‘I always thought the great cause was finished, the revolt crushed. Most of the leaders, if not all, either dead or fled beyond the Narrow Seas. However,’ Cranston tapped the tabletop, ‘Halpen and Mildew took a leading part in the Great Revolt. They were both deeply involved in the rebel’s attack and plundering of John of Gaunt’s luxurious palace of the Savoy. Of course, they later asserted that they acted as secret servants of Gaunt and did their level best to save the palace and protect its many treasures.’ Cranston gave a short bark of laugher. ‘Now that was a tissue of lies if there ever was one, a folio of fables concocted to protect and enhance themselves. So, what did happen there? Well, as you know, Brother, the Savoy was sacked and burnt to the ground, along with most of its furnishings. However, a certain treasure chest containing sacred and precious items …’ Cranston paused and scratched his face. ‘I am not too sure if what Thibault told me is the truth. Anyway, this chest, according to Halpen and Mildew, was taken from its arca in the palace’s chancery room, transported down to Queenhithe quayside and taken over to Southwark side.’
‘What! How do you know this?’
‘Because Halpen and Mildew maintained they were forced to do this by the masked leader of a gang of rifflers. Remember Halpen and Midlew were born liars: their story is probably a mixture of truth and what they spun to enhance themselves. Anyway, on that afternoon they were told to carry the chest down to a waiting barge and row the same across the Thames. They were to berth at a small deserted quayside close to the church of St Mary’s Overy, not far from the Southwark stews, that hunting ground for a horde of whores. Once there, the masked stranger took care of the chest. He ordered Halpen and Mildew to row wherever they wished across the river. They could go anywhere except follow him and his coven who would take care of the chest. Halpen and Mildew had no choice but to agree. Now,’ Cranston clicked his tongue, ‘speculation abounds about what that chest contains.’
‘But Master Thibault has told you?’
‘Under oath, yes, little friar, but there again, I am not breaking my word but sharing what might be important in resolving the murderous mysteries which now confront us.’ Cranston took a generous mouthful from the miraculous wineskin. ‘So, Brother, let me give you a short, sharp lecture. In 1296 Edward I, the self-styled Hammer of the Scots, invaded Scotland, defeated its army and seized all the royal regalia enjoyed by a succession of Scottish kings.’
‘This included the Stone of Destiny.’
‘Oh yes, and much more. The Scottish royal orb, sceptre and crown, not to forget a most precious sacred relic commonly called “The Black Rood”, a fragment of the True Cross kept in the most exquisitely fashioned gold reliquary. Once possessed by the illustrious St Margaret.’
‘Scotland’s most famous saint and Queen.’
‘Very good, little friar. Edward I seized all this and took the precious items south. He deposited them in his treasury, the cavernous crypt of Westminster Abbey. In 1303 this treasury was violated, robbed by an audacious criminal, Richard Puddlicot. The Scottish treasures, along with others, were seized and taken. The gang was hunted down and broken, Puddlicot was captured, tried and hanged on a special gallows outside the gates of Westminster. Oh my goodness,’ Cranston’s fingers fluttered to his lips, ‘oh my goodness, what a coincidence,’ the coroner murmured, ‘Richard Puddlicot was hanged but then, on the express order of the King, his corpse was flayed and the skin nailed to a door leading down to the crypt. Strange, yes? We now have a prowling assassin who also skins his victims …’
