‘LeCorbeil?’ Raphael asked.
‘Certainly. One thing is constant. Beside the corpses of my brother, de la Pole, Beaufort and others, a dead crow was left. The message is clear: LeCorbeil hold us personally responsible for the massacre.’
‘But why?’ Monkshood demanded. ‘Beaufort didn’t hire the Écorcheurs.’
‘The company who ravaged LeCorbeil,’ Simon replied, ‘had links with Beaufort. It was led by a mercenary captain – I forget his name – who had acquired a reputation for ferocious cruelty.’
‘But you were not responsible,’ Raphael said. ‘Surely? And nor was Beaufort.’
‘I have racked my brain,’ Simon confessed. ‘Edmund and I visited the town on Beaufort’s orders; that company was under his command. We were as shocked as anyone. I can’t recall seeing any survivors, yet now LeCorbeil appears to summon up a cohort of mercenaries to wreak its revenge.’
‘Which gives them a path into England,’ said Raphael. ‘All the great lords are hiring mercenaries, French, Spanish, German and the rest.’
‘I suspect that LeCorbeil…’ Simon paused, ‘yes I am sure of it, have sealed indentures with the Duke of York; they will also carry letters of marque from him, a sure defence against any sheriff or royal bailiff courageous enough to confront well-armed mercenaries. My mystery, the one that has haunted me for five years, is how they were able to entice a shrewd, seasoned soldier like Edmund to his death.’
‘So they are here to assist York?’ Father Benedict asked.
‘Oh, LeCorbeil hate the Beauforts, but they also hate the English. I have learnt a little about them. They are here to agitate, to stir up violence, to set York against Lancaster like two fighting cocks locked in a struggle to the death. They will weaken the English Crown so that this realm never again threatens the kingdom of France. Little wonder they are well financed by the secret chancery in Paris while being given free rein to pursue their own blood feud.’
Simon sipped from his goblet. ‘Heart speaks to heart,’ he continued. ‘As I have said, the day of the great slaughter is imminent. York will march. Our enemies will lay siege, either to convert us to their cause – which would cast us as Judases, never to be trusted – or,’ he shifted his goblet, ‘to destroy us completely. They have to. I control the scavengers, rakers and refuse collectors in every ward. I can dispatch rumour swifter than a pigeon, whilst a thousand eyes and ears watch and listen for me.’ He gestured round. ‘The Roseblood stands on the river. We can send or receive whoever and whatever we want. Our enemies cannot, will not tolerate this; hence our summons to the Guildhall tomorrow.’
‘But Candlemas and Cross-Biter,’ Raphael warned, ‘will take the oath.’
‘If they are there.’
‘And if they are?’ Raphael insisted, curbing the panic pains in his already nervous belly.
‘I will challenge them to trial by combat, as is my right. Now, business as normal.
The Excalibur
awaits.’
‘What about Sevigny?’ Father Benedict asked. He waited as Simon translated the question for Ignacio, followed by the henchman’s reply.
‘He will strike whenever he can and we shall certainly strike back.’
‘And the stranger?’ Katherine spoke up. ‘Master Reginald Bray? He sits in our tavern like a sparrow on a branch watching everything.’
‘He will reveal his hand soon enough.’ Simon chewed his lip. ‘I cannot decide whether he is friend or foe. But come,
The Glory of Gascony
is making its way up the Thames. The Fraternity of the Doomed must be ready. I shall go with you this evening. Prior Aelred at Greyfriars wants to speak to me.’
A short while later, Raphael, heavily cloaked and hooded, joined the rest leaving by the water gate, making their way past the old Roman ruin down to the quayside. He rubbed his stomach. It was a brilliant evening; indeed, too bright. The stars were clear and full, while the moon hung like a thick silver disc. Nevertheless, the day had been warm and a river mist was gathering, a grey mass of weaving wisps that seemed to gather in the middle of the river before spreading. Some concealment would be possible. Seven other figures slid through the dark either side of him: his father, Ignacio, Monkshood and four of their captains. They paused at the old lighthouse where Pennywort and Loosestrife kept their nightly watch. The two beggars, sheltered by the ruins and warmed by a bed of crackling charcoal, told them strange tales about shuttered lanterns flickering close by the Roseblood and fire arrows being loosed against the sky, though what these betokened remained a mystery. Raphael was concerned, though his father believed both beggars had gulped too many black jacks of strong ale.
They whispered farewell and moved on down to where the Fisher-King and his barge
The Excalibur
were ready to cast off. Lantern horns glowed either side of the prow and a powerful stern light flared against the darkness. The six oarsmen took their places; Raphael and the rest squatted in the canopied stern. The order was given and
The Excalibur
eased away on the swell, a tilt boat towed securely behind it. The tide was running strong, the breeze light; only the river mist was a reminder of how treacherous the Thames could be. Raphael stared up at the midnight sky and wondered if it was pregnant with fresh terrors for the new day. The lights of the Guildhall would burn low tonight as Malpas and Sevigny plotted their strategy. He forced himself to relax, to concentrate on what was happening.
The barge headed downriver, aiming for the great reed banks. Along the wharves and quaysides bonfires flared, torches spluttered, sounds and cries echoed strangely. The air was rich with the tang of the river and its added swirl of odours: thick mud, burning pitch tar, salted herring and the ever-clinging smell of fish sauce. The barge passed scaffolds and gibbets where river pirates hung; their corpses, left for three turns of the tide, turned slightly on the swell.
The Fraternity of the Doom now became involved in their great work of charity, searching for corpses swept by the tide into the thick forest of reed and water sedge. They found two: an old man clothed in a threadbare tunic floating face down, the body bobbing out as if to greet them and beg to be plucked out; the second, on the edge of the reed beds, a flaxen-haired woman, a red shawl spreading out like a cloud around her. They bundled the old man’s corpse into the barge, then turned the woman over. In the dancing light her face was truly gruesome, a mask of horror, twisted and discoloured. The rough twine round her throat had strangled her as tight as any chicken, according to Cat’s-Head, the principal rower. Raphael took one look and agreed with the rest that this was Calista, who had recently disappeared.
The Excalibur
nosed for a while amongst the reeds and then turned, its grisly cargo lying sheeted on the floor, and rowed out to midstream, going down to where the cogs, carracks and ships of many kinds and nations rode at anchor. They passed Broken Wharfe and Trygge Lane, heading towards the grim dark mass of Baynard Castle. Raphael and Ignacio studied the shadowy outlines of various ships: the glittering sterns of Venetian carracks, the big-bellied cogs from Lubeck.
‘There!’ Raphael pointed to the darkness. ‘The Sanctus sign.’ He watched as a shuttered lantern flashed the words of the mass: ‘Holy, holy, holy.’ He murmured a prayer. The light flashed again and he recited along with it, finishing with ‘Hosanna.’ The rhythm of his speech was identical to the flashes from the lantern horn.
‘It’s safe, pull in,’ he ordered. The barge did so. Raphael tried to ignore the corpses hidden under their rough sacking, to forget the horrid anguish on Calista’s face, her throat all tight.
‘Raphael!’ his father hissed. Raphael shook himself free of his dire reverie and left the canopied stern to ensure that the tilt boat remained secure. As they closed in on
The Glory of Gascony
, its master Jean Betoun whispered greetings over the taffrail. Simon responded, and the finest claret from the fertile vineyards of Saint-Emilion, outside Bordeaux, was swiftly lowered down into both barge and tilt boat. Good-natured insults were exchanged between the crews. At last, just before they left the deep-bellied cog, Betoun leaned over the gap where the rail had been removed.
‘For what it’s worth,’ he hissed through the darkness, ‘rumour has it that French war galleys are mustering off Boulogne. Thank God you are not living in the Cinque Ports.’
Raphael acknowledged this. He wanted to be away. The tide was turning, the barge rising and falling against the hull of the wine ship. He was also anxious, and Betoun’s warning did little to soothe him. He recalled those two beggars sheltering in the ancient ruin, chattering about lanterns gleaming and fire arrows red against the sky. Why so close to the Roseblood? He tried to raise the matter with Simon, but his father was more phlegmatic, checking the tuns and barrels, though Betoun was a man of honour, innocent of any trickery.
‘Father, we should go,’ Raphael insisted. ‘Those strange lights, the fire arrows! God knows what mischief the council are up to; there might even be war barges on the river.’
Simon simply grunted, pressing his seal against the last two barrels being loaded on to the barge. Raphael waited impatiently. Only twice before had they been forced to pitch their cargo into the Thames; he didn’t want a third time.
At last they pulled away. The oarsmen, cowled against the cold river mist, leaned over their oars, quietly chanting the verses of some song as they ploughed the now choppy river, heading towards the quayside close to Greyfriars, a lonely wharf used solely by the Franciscans. As they drew alongside, lay brothers appeared out of the murk, whispering ‘Alleluia!’ This was followed by subdued laughter as the good brothers lifted the wine on to the waiting carts. It would be taken to the friary cellars, decanted into barrels from the Roseblood, and then quietly carted to the tavern. The tuns would be given back to
The Glory of Gascony
when it next docked. Consequently no custom official would find a barrel of Bordeaux unstamped in the cellars of either Greyfriars or the Roseblood. The smuggling was much suspected but never proved. Raphael, who kept the ledgers, reckoned they would make heavy profits, especially during this present sea war with France. The money paid to Betoun and Prior Aelred was proving to be a most lucrative investment.
When they entered the cold, incense-smelling precincts of Greyfriars, however, the bony-faced prior seemed agitated. He greeted his midnight guests in his parlour, served them spiced posset and explained how Brother Gabriel was on a journey to Canterbury so could not meet his family, whilst Beaufort and his retinue had moved to the Tower. Every so often he would pause as a lay brother hurried in to whisper in his ear. Eventually Aelred put his goblet down and took Simon and Raphael down to the friary’s icy, whitewashed vaulted death house. The corpse of the old man they had plucked from the river had been washed, blessed and rolled in a linen shroud emblazoned with a black cross. Calista, however, was sprawled on a corpse table. Her clothes had been removed and placed on the floor, and a linen scrap covered her privy parts. When the infirmarian removed this, Raphael glanced away, pushing the pomander provided against both mouth and nose. He could not control his stomach and fled the death house to vomit in the yard.
His father eventually came out to join him. ‘From what I understand,’ Simon declared, one hand on his son’s shoulder, ‘whoever did that strangled her first with a rough cord. He then took a knife and mutilated her Venus parts, God assoile her. I’ve paid Aelred to sing three requiems. He’ll sheet her and bury the corpse honourably in the poor man’s lot. What you saw, Raphael, keep to yourself. Rumour and gossip fly swifter than sparrows along the streets of our ward. There is enough turmoil and tumult. Now come, I understand we have a visitor.’
‘In a while.’ Raphael could still feel his stomach lurching. He turned his face to the cold breeze. What he’d seen deeply repelled him. He felt a sickness of both heart and soul, a cloying weariness that killed all joy. He recalled meeting Calista one May’s eve; how they’d fumbled, kissed and laughed in those ruins overlooking the Thames.
‘Sweet Jesus, have mercy on her,’ he prayed. Who could have done that? When had these disappearances started? Who was the first? He closed his eyes. Surely it was Damana, about a month ago? But why then? Who had emerged in the ward during that time? Sevigny? LeCorbeil? He opened his eyes. Then there was that innocent-looking pilgrim, the one Katherine called a sparrow, with his sharp eyes and benign smile.
‘Raphael!’ He glanced to his right. A shadow moved. Confused, his mind riven by what he’d just seen, and tired after the river journey, Raphael was sluggish. ‘Raphael!’ the voice hissed. ‘A message for your father. We are both the slave and the master of what we were, what we are, what we’ve done and what we do. We watch and wait. Our day is fast approaching. Vengeance will be ours…’
The voice was so mocking, Raphael leapt to his feet, the fury curdling within him coursing like a fire. He flung himself in the direction of the voice, so swift he caught the edge of a cloak. He stumbled, but steadied himself, drawing both sword and dagger. He lunged and gasped in pleasure as his blades caught steel, their scraping clash ringing like a bell across the deserted courtyard. He lunged again, using every trick Ignacio had taught him, dagger constant, sword blade whirling, turning slightly sideways as he attempted to drive his opponent across to where torchlight flared against the blackness. He drew a deep breath. He had caught and engaged his opponent, but his adversary was equally swift and skilful. He concentrated on the slither of steel swirling before him.
Shouts of, ‘Out! Out! Out! Harrow! Harrow!’ showed that the alarm had been raised at this clash of weaponry. Doors were flung open. Raphael could hear his father shouting, yet he fought on, driving his opponent back. They reached a runnel, a narrow gap between the friary buildings, and his adversary was gone. Raphael crouched to catch his breath, aware of the sweat drenching his skin; his father, Prior Aelred and others gathered round. Swords were being drawn; the sound of footsteps echoed.