The Godless Read online

  ‘Madame,’ the man declared, his voice low and guttural, ‘we are wandering mendicants intent on preaching along the great road to Calais. Perhaps we can help the Goddams to hasten even faster to their boats.’ The friar’s voice was low but carrying, he spoke Norman French haltingly, stumbling over certain words; his two companions remained quiet. Like their leader, they had pulled back their hoods to reveal thick, matted hair, bushy moustaches and beards. Gaspard narrowed his eyes as he stared through the grille. Most friars shaved both their head and face, yet there were so many orders and a number of mendicants visited The Heron on their pilgrimage to this shrine or that.

  ‘Madame?’ The leading friar supped from the tankard Mistress Agnes had served.

  ‘Yes, Father?’

  ‘We have left a sumpter pony outside. We would be grateful for its stabling.’

  Agnes gestured at one of the chapmen to assist and hurried out of the taproom. Gaspard felt guilty. He really should help, and was about to climb down from the cask when the three friars abruptly stood up. One of them hastened to the door, closed it and brought down the beam to keep it locked. The second chapman sprang to his feet but the leading friar suddenly produced a hand-held arbalest, primed and ready. He released the catch and the barbed bolt shattered the chapman’s face. Lavalle the cook could only stand, fingers fluttering to her cheeks; she was about to scream when one of these terrifying visitors came up swiftly behind her, putting an arm around her throat and pressing the tip of a dagger just beneath her chin. Gaspard, heart beating, could hardly breathe. The violence had been so sudden and abrupt, the chapman had collapsed in a pool of blood pouring from the horrid wound in his face. Lavalle could only clatter her sandalled feet against the floor. The leading friar crossed to the door, pulled up the beam then stood back. The door opened. Madame Agnes came in, the chapman trailing behind her.

  ‘Father, there is no sumpter pony?’

  ‘Of course not,’ the friar grated, and pointed the arbalest, primed with a fresh bolt, at the chapman. He tried to turn and flee but the sharp quarrel shattered the back of his head. He staggered against the wall then collapsed to the floor. One of the attackers, dagger out, pulled Madame Agnes towards him, forcing her to kneel. Lavalle was pushed into the centre of the taproom and two of the assailants began to strip her. Once finished, they bound her hands with rope collected from the stables. They threw one end of the cord over a ceiling beam and hoisted Lavalle up to hang like some piece of meat. They then turned on Agnes and did the same to her. The two women dangled beside each other, so shocked they could only mutter and moan at the indignities inflicted on them. One of the tormentors left and returned with a sack. He emptied the contents out on the floor; each then picked up a fiery red horsehair wig, put it on their heads with white masks across their faces. Gaspard could not understand what was happening, though he realized this ancient tavern now housed three demons bent – not so much on plunder – but the horrific abuse of these two women. Their leader, once he was garbed in his grotesque costume, bowed mockingly before the two captive women.

  ‘My name is Brother Samuel, Samuel Moleskin, and my two friends are Walter Desant and Alexander Cromer. Ladies, you are here to entertain us.’

  Gaspard could not watch the horror unfold. Getting down from the cask, he crawled into a dark-filled corner, hands across his ears, as he tried not to listen to the blood-chilling screams from the taproom above him.

  PART ONE

  The Thames: November 1381

  Tenebrae facta: Darkness fell

  Reginald Dorset, master of the royal cog The Knave of Hearts, stared up at the clouds hanging so gloweringly over the Thames. Faint daylight remained, but soon it would be completely dark. Dorset just hoped that the thickening mist and the fast-flowing river would be protection enough as he, his ship and its precious cargo made its way out into the Narrow Seas. Dorset prayed for fair winds and calm weather in his journey to English-held Calais on the Normandy coast. Thibault, John of Gaunt’s Master of Secrets, had paid him well for this expedition. He’d also insisted that Dorset take a solemn oath over an exquisitely bound bible in the Chapel of St Edward the Confessor at Westminster. Thibault had watched him intently; Dorset knew that England might be ruled by John of Gaunt, the self-proclaimed regent on behalf of his young nephew Richard, but Thibault was the real power behind the throne.

  The Master of Secrets had impressed upon Dorset how vital his journey was, and Dorset had solemnly vowed to do all in his power to protect and guard the gold as well as the black cannon powder intended for the garrison at Calais. Both precious cargoes were to be safely delivered and stored in the great treasure arca deep in the bowels of Hammes Castle, a formidable fortress which controlled the approaches to Calais, that English enclave situated so strategically, pointing like a dagger at the heart of France and all its power. The Valois King and his ministers, gathered in conclave in the Chamber of Secrets at the centre of the Louvre in Paris, dreamed of retaking Calais, of completely removing this threat from its coastline. In their eyes, English-held Calais was an open sore on the body politic of France, a pernicious canker full of rottenness. Of course it was no secret that as long as the English held Calais, they had a doorway into France: the war lords of England could lead swiftly moving chevauchées deep into the French countryside, threatening its principal cities, plundering to their heart’s content. Dorset knew all this. After all, he had served in Normandy and recognized only too well how important Calais really was. Dorset had been a member of a mercenary free company ‘The Godless’, who took their name from the war barge they’d served on. Dorset repressed a shiver. He must not think of those days, not now! He had other problems to confront. Instead, he went back to that exclusive jewel of a chapel where Thibault had hoarsely whispered how the garrison of Calais needed to be paid, its captain given the necessary to buy fresh supplies in preparation for any outbreak of war between England and France. The precious gold coin that The Knave of Hearts carried, would achieve all this. Dorset was also warned that the powder barrels for the garrison’s cannons, culverins and bombards were to be safely lodged in the dry cellars of Hammes Castle and elsewhere. Dorset had taken the oath recognizing only too well the price he’d pay for failure. He would lose his ship and be given no further preferments: nothing from the royal treasury; no patronage from the lords of the council.

  ‘Steady now,’ the tiller-man bellowed from the stern.

  ‘And how say you?’ Dorset called to the watchers in the prow. ‘What can you see?’

  ‘Sandbanks,’ they shouted back. ‘We approach sandbanks. Gently does it.’

  ‘Gently does it.’ Dorset repeated the refrain as he walked over to the taffrail and stared through the gathering murk. He felt the cog swerve beneath him as the mainsail creaked and twisted, the shouts of the mariners pulling at the cords and ropes so the ship could turn, catch the breeze and so move further to port. The real threat were the sandbanks: desolate islands thrusting up through the surface of the river; dark, sinister humps which gave the impression of some monster emerging from the deep. Dorset narrowed his eyes, fingers falling to the hilt of his dagger. These sandbanks were highly dangerous even on a summer’s day, a real hazard to the unwary. Places of shadow where pirates lurked and hid their narrow skiffs, ready to pounce on some slow-moving merchant barge or herring boat weighed down by its catch, but not tonight. The Knave of Hearts was a royal war cog; even the most foolhardy pirate would think twice before attacking it. Dorset smiled sourly as he glimpsed the corpses impaled on stakes along the sandbanks they were now passing. He gagged as he caught the foul stench of the decaying, rotting corpses of five outlaws. These malefactors had been caught plundering along the Thames, and so had suffered the full rigour and penalty for piracy; being stripped naked and impaled through the anus as a stark warning to other would-be marauders.

  The Knave of Hearts shuddered as the full surge of the river thrust it forward. The darkness was deepening. Occasionally a hunting gull would
shriek and float like a ghost over the ship. Strange, eerie sounds echoed across the water. The cog seemed to reply with its creaking timbers, the screech of rope and the clatter of the crew as they managed both the wheel and the sail. Dorset moved away from the taffrail, staring around to make sure all was well. He glanced across at the entrance to the hold where the treasure, locked away in a hand-held coffer, was guarded by two Cheshire archers. A cry from the prow sent him hurrying forward. The watchmen were pointing to a great barge with a high stern and jutting poop. A macabre, sinister-looking vessel, its black painted hull gleaming in the light of lanterns hanging along each side. The barge rowers could be clearly seen, hooded figures bending over the oars which rose and fell in close precision. Dorset peered through the mist. The barge abruptly changed tack, swinging further away to give The Knave of Hearts full clearance. A horn sounded from the barge, followed by the hollow blast of a trumpet, the usual sounds of river craft proclaiming their presence as well as exchanging fraternal greetings with another boat or ship. Dorset raised a hand and one of the watchmen in the prow of the cog answered the calls with a low, heavy wail of a river horn. The barge drew closer. Dorset recognized the shadowy figure sitting on a majestic throne-like chair in the stern.

  ‘God bless you, sir,’ the master shouted. ‘God bless you and your good work.’ The figure sitting enthroned, all cloaked and cowled, simply lifted a hand in reply.

  ‘The Fisher of Men,’ Dorset whispered to his henchman Bramley, who now joined him at the rail. ‘He combs the river for corpses and takes them to his own private chapel, The Chapel of the Drowned, on a deserted quayside near La Réole. He is paid by the city council. He dresses the corpses for burial and lays them out so family and friends can come to inspect and claim the remains of someone the river has taken; be it accident, suicide or murder.’

  Dorset peered at Bramley. Ever since they’d set sail, his henchman had seemed very nervous, ill at ease. Was something bothering him? Had he left his wife in good friendship, or had there been trouble at home? Bramley certainly seemed distracted, pacing up and down the cog, going down into the hold to inspect all was well – and was it? Bramley had not yet taken in the bum-barge, the ship’s boat, a sturdy skiff travelling behind the cog on a thick hempen rope tied to the stern.

  ‘I’ve heard about the Fisher,’ Bramley answered quickly, glancing away as if he couldn’t hold Dorset’s gaze, straining his neck to get a clear view of the death barge as it passed. ‘I wonder if he has collected any corpses, or will they harrow in vain tonight? I did glimpse the fish-boy.’

  ‘Ichthus,’ Dorset murmured. ‘He looks like a fish. He has no hair, not even on his eyelids. He has a mouth like a cod and the smallest nose I have ever seen. He’s an ugly creature, yet he can swim like a porpoise, and seems to have no fear of the river. One of the few who do not. As for me,’ Dorset watched as the barge disappeared into the mist, ‘I have never lost my fears of these waters.’ He added in a whisper: ‘Treacherous they are, and dangerous even on a clear day in June.’

  Bramley nodded his agreement and turned away to shout orders to the cog’s sacristan to light more lanterns and make sure their flames burned fiercely. Dorset sighed and moved back to stand beneath the mast. The Knave of Hearts was now running fast, making full use of the swollen turbulence of the Thames. The northeasterly breeze was growing stronger, and the cog strained in a screech of wood, cordage and flapping canvas. Dorset braced himself against the movement of the ship as it rose and fell before twisting from side to side. He glanced up; the sky was now clearing. The moon and stars hung low. Dorset smiled to himself. Soon they would be out in the Narrow Seas. A flicker of light caught his eye and he glanced to starboard. Bonfires burned merrily along the rise of the riverbank, a host of leaping flames which illuminated the three-branched gibbets, four in all, each arm of the gallows exhibiting a corpse, a stark warning of how dangerous the river could be. Dorset needed no such reminder. The Thames was truly dangerous; it was a highway to and from the heart of London, a river which could shift in mood as it swept up and down to the estuary. Once clear of the city, the banks on either side – with their closely crowded copses of trees; oak, elm and weeping willow – seemed to hedge the ancient river: an arras of greenery to conceal the inlets and narrow harbours fashioned out over the passage of the years. These riverside forests or woods were ideal places of concealment, a haunt for those plotting sudden attack and ambuscade.

  Dorset’s mind went back to another river, the Seine, which cut through Normandy. ‘The tributary of war’, as some of his former companions called it; a fitting description: control of the Seine, and the banks either side, had been fiercely contested by the armies of England and France.

  As if he could read his master’s mind, Bramley left the taffrail and, staggering against the abrupt jerking of the cog, moved across to grasp a sail rope and stand as close as he could to his captain. ‘Nights like this,’ Bramley breathed, ‘do you remember them, Master Dorset? That war barge, our white masks, the fiery red wigs, the sheer terror we inflicted on the French, who called us the Flames of Hell.’

  ‘And we were,’ Dorset replied, clinging more tightly to the mast rope as the cog now battled against the full swell of the river. ‘We were the Flames of Hell. We created a fire of fear along either bank of the Seine. What we did …’ Dorset’s voice faltered.

  ‘You regret it?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Dorset snapped. ‘And don’t you? I have tried to make reparation. I ask a priest for a blessing on every voyage I make, including this one. You know that. You brought him on board.’ Dorset crossed himself. ‘I have been on pilgrimage along the sacred way to Compostela, Jerusalem, Rome, as well as to the shrines at Walsingham and Canterbury. Yet the ghosts of those I slaughtered still throng about me with their hideous groans and gruesome wounds.’

  Dorset startled as a gull swished low and disappeared into the gathering gloom. He took a deep breath. ‘You’ve heard the news?’ Dorset demanded. Bramley just stared back. ‘The French have arrived in London; well, they have been there for weeks. They have a task which should concern us.’

  ‘Master?’

  ‘They want the seizure of the Oriflamme and his henchmen. The years have passed. Peace now reigns between England and France, but those at the Louvre have unfinished business. They do not hunt the likes of us, thank God, but our former leader, his henchman and the keeper of the tavern, La Chèvre Dansante, The Dancing Goat … Crimes were committed by both sides,’ Dorset continued. ‘However, according to Master Thibault, the French want the Oriflamme arrested because of his particularly atrocious attack on an innocent French noblewoman just before the end of the war. You remember when we had to fall back to the coast? We had little choice? Either go home by ship or be sent home in our coffins. Anyway, this French noblewoman has powerful kin who now sit close to the seat of power at the Louvre. They believe the Oriflamme could still be lurking in England and want him seized. Naturally I am nervous. I recall those days of blood, and I worry. Awake or asleep, the past still haunts me.’

  ‘I am the same, but we were young, master. The blood ran hot …’

  ‘Other people’s blood,’ Dorset whispered back. ‘Innocent blood, Bramley! Women and children. You must remember the villages consumed in a sea of dancing flame and billowing smoke. The barges we plundered. The crews we slaughtered. The fires we lit.’ He paused.

  ‘And our leader, the Oriflamme, as he called himself,’ Bramley replied, ‘we never discovered who he really was. We would just receive the summons and our war host would muster.’

  ‘He came from the Lord Satan himself.’ Dorset shifted his grasp and stared around. Night had fallen. The river had grown more swollen, fast running, as if desperate to reach the estuary and so embrace the sea. Dorset checked that the ship’s lanterns in both prow and stern were burning fiercely, whilst the cabin boys, standing on the prow or high in the falcon nest at the top of the great mast, were awake and vigilant. Such watchers were chosen be
cause they had the keenest eyesight, ever ready to shout against some approaching danger. They also carried horns and hollow trumpets to proclaim a warning to any other craft. Bramley murmured something about checking the treasure, as well as prepare to lessen sail as they approached Sodom and Gomorrah, the names of two enormous sandbanks which thrust themselves up from the river in a tangle of briar, gorse and other hardy plants. Both sandbanks were great humps, highly dangerous because sometimes they shifted, pushing sand, soil, silt and gravel into the river. A true hazard for the unwary and inexperienced mariner.

  Dorset, now lost in memories about those days of fire along the Seine, half listened to his crew’s shouts and cries, the crack and snap of his ship battling the surging current. The Knave of Hearts began to slow, pitching and tossing on the river swell. Dorset, peering through the dark, moved across to the taffrail. He glimpsed the beacon lights placed along the sandbanks. The Knave of Hearts was now sidling its way through the swirling water. Dorset gripped the taffrail. He heard bumps against the side of the stern where the bum-barge trailed. He peered over the side. He felt something was wrong but he could not account for his unease. A sound made him turn. Dorset glimpsed two corpses sprawled on the deck and gazed in horror at the nightmare figure which was emerging abruptly from the dark. Hell’s own messenger had arrived! Memories started. For a few heartbeats, Dorset wondered if this was some horrid vision from the past. Had vengeance come to claim him? Surely this vision from the flames of Hell was punishment for past sins …?