Simon took to wandering the precincts, or at least the male quarters of the great lazar house. He chatted to servants and was most generous in slipping these a few coins, but failed to detect any conspiracy to conceal. Indeed, by the end of the third day of his stay, he was more concerned by the heavy, oppressive atmosphere of St Giles: walking, breathing and eating amongst the living dead. He had wandered battlefields in France searching for the bodies of wounded or slain comrades. He had sifted amongst shattered flesh, chunks of limbs, the slimy entrails of horse and rider mixed together. He had seen faces smashed, heads staved in, arms, legs, hands and feet severed by slicing steel. St Giles was more heinous; a fog-bound Purgatory hanging between Heaven and Hell. The sun shone down on cornices, ledges and fretted stonework. Light shimmered in stained glass or on the surface of carp ponds and fountain bowls. Gardens lush with flower beds and rich herb plots exuded heavy scents. Birdsong rang through the massy greenery of the orchards. Nevertheless, the brooding shadows of sickness and death clustered heavy and close.
As Simon walked, searching and probing, often distracted by some cleverly carved statue in its niche, he would meet the living dead in all their blood-chilling horror, shuffling along a path, arising ghostlike from a bench, or slipping through the dappled light of the church. His sense of danger deepened. Contagion corrupted the very air and he had to be most prudent where he washed, ate or defecated. He desperately wanted to find his quarry and be clear of all this. He also became aware of a new danger, of being carefully watched, kept under close scrutiny. As a newcomer this might be expected, but had someone seen through his disguise? At first he suspected the master, but Joachim, after their first meeting, never approached, and nor did Gervaise or any of the other officers.
On his fifth day at St Giles, Simon was roused from a noonday sleep by the sound of shouts and cries. He hobbled out of his cell and his heart sank. Across the cloister garth stood Amadeus Sevigny, surrounded by city bailiffs. All these were hooded and visored, gloves on their hands as protection against any poisonous miasma. Sevigny, however, stood bare-headed and open-faced, hands on his hips as he surveyed the cloisters. Simon retreated into the shadows and watched as York’s clerk divided his men into groups. A thorough search began, continuing for most of the afternoon.
Simon’s prayer that Sevigny would not be the one who visited him was answered. Skulkin crossed the cloister garth and immediately went into the cell next to Simon’s. Afterwards, he walked into Simon’s chamber, stared around, glanced at him, then promptly left. Simon breathed his relief. Skulkin would follow orders, but not too closely. Sevigny, however, was thorough, inspecting the dormitories, refectories and infirmary as well as the private quarters of the master and prior. Simon drew quiet comfort from that. Sevigny was searching for Argentine. York would love to silence that elusive physician, and if a powerful clerk could not find him, then perhaps Argentine was not hiding in St Giles at all, and his own mission was fruitless. He wondered about the French. LeCorbeil would be eager to seize Argentine. They might also conclude that St Giles was an ideal hiding place, or did they know that already? York and Lancaster wanted Argentine dead. LeCorbeil would very much like him alive and well. Did they know that he was here, and were simply biding their time? If so, their problem would be how to smuggle Argentine out of the hospital and through London to some lonely port or harbour and a waiting French ship.
By the time the bell rang for Vespers, Sevigny had finished his search with nothing to show for it. Ostensibly, or so the whispers ran, the clerk had been searching for outlaws who had attacked and murdered a Genoese merchant and thrown his naked corpse into the nearby Fleet river. Many found this difficult to believe, but after Sevigny left empty-handed, the hospital returned to its normal routine.
Simon decided not to attend Vespers or Compline. Instead he sat at his cell window, watching the shadows lengthen. He felt uncomfortable after Sevigny’s search and still could not shrug off the chilling feeling of being followed and watched. He picked at his food on a pewter platter and wondered if his stay here was no more useful than hunting moonbeams. The bells tolled again. Darkness edged the window and the breeze turned cool. Simon’s eyes grew heavy, but he wakened at a rattle on his door. When he opened it, a hooded, gowned figure crept out of the shadows of the cloister alley.
‘For the love of God, Simon Roseblood,’ the stranger hissed, ‘let me in and let us speak.’
Simon gasped in consternation at being recognised so openly. He stared quickly around the cloisters and almost pulled the shrouded figure into his cell. Once inside, the stranger pushed back his cowl and removed his mask to reveal a face ravaged by leprosy. Dark blotchy tumours the size of walnuts disfigured his features; his eyelids were shrunken, his nostrils and lips chapped and cut by the disease; wisps of hair hung from a balding, blotchy pate and scabrous cheeks. The man sat down on a stool, small bright eyes glistening with mucus. Roseblood just stared back, wondering who this could be. A stranger, yet one who knew him well enough to see through his mask and disguise. The man lifted a claw-like hand, the fingers wreathed in wet rags.
‘Leprosy.’ The voice was strangely powerful, the hoarse whisper carrying across the cell. ‘Leprosy,’ he repeated, ‘is the firstborn of Death. I have studied you, Simon Roseblood. I can see through your pretence.’
‘Who are you?’ Simon drew the dagger concealed beneath his cloak.
‘No need to threaten,’ came the reply. ‘I am, I was Thomas Holand, routier, mercenary, a sinner twice, thrice, four times bound for Hell as any of them.’ The stranger leaned forward. ‘Once a drinking, swiving, lecherous captain of mercenaries in the Beaufort company; one of those cohorts that terrorised Normandy along with the likes of Glasdale. Remember him? The Maid of Orleans threatened to send him to Hell or to England.’ He paused. ‘My throat is dry as sand. Please.’
He took the goblet tied to the leather belt beneath his cloak and stretched it out so Simon could fill it with sweet white wine. Holand drank greedily, his ulcerated tongue lapping at the cup. He lifted his head.
‘Fourteen years ago, Master Roseblood, on Lady’s Day, I was captured by Brabantines serving in the Dauphin’s army. Ah yes, you remember? I was carrying messages that I successfully burnt in my campfire, so they thought they would use the same fire to loosen my tongue. They—’
‘Stripped you naked, pegged you out on the ground, fastened a hollow pipe against your side and put a hungry rat down it,’ Simon declared. ‘I remember it well. Of course! Thomas Holand!’
‘They put the rat down.’ Holand leaned across and clasped Simon’s gloved hand. ‘I could feel its cold, hard snout and the first skim of its teeth against my skin. God save me, and he did.’
Simon took up the story. ‘I remember they were so taken with their cruel amusement that we were upon them like hawks.’
‘You kicked the pipe away and speared the rat with your dagger.’ Holand pointed at Simon. ‘Despite the mail coif, I remember that face, those eyes. I always have. You could age to be a hundred and be as rotting as me, and I would still single you out as I do now.’
Simon picked up the dagger and pulled his stool closer. Holand held his bandaged hands up in a gesture of peace.
‘I mean no harm. No one else knows. At first I thought you were simply a new patient, until I stared into your face. Then I began to watch you. Your movements are a little too swift at times, but above all, you made one real mistake.’
‘Which is?’
‘Your eyes mark you out, so bright with curiosity.’ Holand cackled with laughter. ‘Like those of a child amongst old men. Oh do not worry. Others will never learn your secret. Why should they? People see what they want to see. No one would expect any but the most diseased to be closeted here, a healthy body amongst those of the living dead.’ Holand coughed on his laughter and greedily slurped the wine. ‘And why should I betray you? You who once saved me? No, friend, I am here to advise, to help if I can, and to beg a favour.’
‘What favour?’
‘To secure my release from here as swiftly as possible.’
‘You are not cured.’
‘Of course not. I am for the burial pit, but not here. I don’t want to be hurried to my grave by Master Joachim and his coven.’ Holand stretched out a hand. ‘And you should be careful of that as well. As you grow ill and become weaker, you are moved to the infirmary; well, at least those who have wealth.’
‘And?’ Simon had already noticed that two inmates in the cells around the cloisters had been moved since his arrival.
‘Master Joachim and Prior Gervaise love gold and silver. Rumour says they hurry the wealthy to their graves. All the dead man’s possessions are then rifled and a great deal stolen. Heirs and relatives are in no position to object. Very few want to enter here and handle goods, even precious ones, held so long by an infected person. Moreover, Joachim and the rest prepare their bills containing all sorts of spurious expenses.’
‘So why hurry them into the dark?’
‘To catch their victims unawares. Leprosy is a creeping disease. It can be a long time before you feel its final fatal embrace. The dying can summon their defendants and friends.’ Holand’s voice trailed off. ‘Master Joachim puts a stop to that. Once in the infirmary, death follows swiftly.’ He grimaced. ‘They also whisper how Joachim dreams of discovering a cure. How he experiments on the dying with oils, salves and potions.’
Simon recalled Joachim’s enigmatic words when they first met. Did the master use the dying to see if he could fashion a cure?
Holand shuffled his feet. ‘So, Master Roseblood, why are you here? How can I help? You search for something or someone, as did that mailed clerk earlier today.’
Simon pulled back his cowl and sat staring at the floor. He fully recalled Holand, even as he realised how little he was aware of how much his own life had touched others for good or ill. He crossed himself. Now was not the time for speculation. He made a decision. He would trust the man. He pulled his stool up closer, as if he was a penitent confessing his sins. He whispered about himself, his family and his determination to find Argentine for his Beaufort masters. He was surprised how agitated Holand became when he mentioned LeCorbeil.
Once he had finished, Holand demanded more wine. He took a sip, staggered to his feet, opened the cell door and went out to ensure all was quiet before returning. Hands trembling, he put the cup on the floor beside him.
‘Perhaps I can help you with Argentine,’ he murmured. ‘More importantly, friend, I lie at the heart of a great terror that confronts both of us.’ Simon stared in disbelief. ‘LeCorbeil!’ Holand hurried on. ‘I know the truth; I was there. You know how it was in Normandy before the great defeats at Castillon and Formigny. English free companies prowled northern France. This was about fifteen years ago, a different lifetime. I was part of it, a member of a company called the Beauforts, allegedly patronised by that great family. In truth, we were the scum of Hell. We rode under the black banner of anarchy, led by a professional killer, Gaultier.’ He paused, as if listening to the faint sounds of the lazar house. ‘Gaultier was a damned, doomed sinner who feared neither God nor man. He owed nominal allegiance to the Beauforts, but in fact he worshipped Satan and all his horde. Beaufort could not control him or our hellish troop.
‘Anyway,’ Holand continued, now lost in his bitter memories, ‘on the eve of the Feast of John the Baptist, we stumbled upon LeCorbeil, a sleepy, prosperous village deep in a wooded valley east of Provins. It was untouched by the furies of war. We soon changed that. Indeed, we annihilated the place. We rode in just before dusk. We looted a small chateau nearby and discovered that its cellar was crammed with fine wines, barrels of brandy and other liqueurs. We drank until we were sottish. God forgive us all. Every woman, young or old, was violated, raped repeatedly then gutted like a pig from crotch to throat.’
‘Did you…’
‘You will not believe me, but no, I did not. I would like to say that I refused. Instead, I lay like a drunken hog, although I awoke later to see the aftermath.’
‘As did I,’ Simon declared. ‘I told you about LeCorbeil and my brother.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The Beauforts heard about the outrage, and dispatched me and Edmund to see for ourselves. We arrived after the massacre. We saw the corpses of women hanging upside down from gibbets, trees, door lintels, shop signs; anything that would bear a corpse. The well in the marketplace was crammed with bloody cadavers, hacked, hanged or burnt. We were there briefly, a place of nightmare. We turned our horses and fled. Naturally the Beauforts were furious, but the war was over, the English were in retreat. Beaufort could do nothing about it and I forgot it. I later heard about Gaultier, or at least his name and reputation. He disappeared, didn’t he?’
‘Oh yes.’ Holand’s ruined lips curled back in a grin. ‘Two years afterwards, he was found in the Bois de Vincennes – or at least what was left of him. He had been captured, tortured and torn apart by four horses. His mangled remains dangled from a tree branch alongside his head and the corpse of a dead crow.’
‘And, as I have said, my brother Edmund also paid with his life.’
‘And you?’ Holand asked.
‘Oh, they threaten me.’ Simon quickly described his mysterious visitor outside All Hallows and the recent corsair attack on the Roseblood.
‘LeCorbeil,’ Holand agreed. ‘And do not think there is only one. Like the demon in the Gospels, their name is legion because they are many. Let me explain.’ He took a deep drink. ‘After LeCorbeil, the Beaufort company dissolved like snow under the sun. A deep sense of shame rankled even in our sin-stained souls, whilst Lord Beaufort’s displeasure meant no patronage, no wages. The indentures we had signed – and these later proved to be our damnation – were rescinded. I drifted into the Street of Swords, that long, murderous alleyway that stretches from London to the end of the world.’ He stretched out his hands. ‘These were trained for sword and dagger, club and shield, bow and arrow. I sold my skills abroad for the highest price. I fought for Genoa, Rome and Naples. Eventually I arrived in Constantinople and became an auxiliary in the Varangian guard. This was just before that great city was encircled and besieged by the Turks.