Herald of Hell Read online

  He soon established that it had rained. The mastiffs had been loose in the garden but, in the end, nothing remarkable had occurred, or so they said. Master Whitfield, along with his comrade Lebarge, had eaten and drunk deeply here in the taproom before going their separate ways. Lebarge stayed to converse with Hawisa, one of the moppets, whilst Whitfield had climbed the stairs to his chamber. Apparently, Mistress Cheyne pointed out, the Festival of Cokayne was over; the dinner parties and topsy-turvy chamber games had finished, and Whitfield was due to leave the following morning. Eventually the explanations and answers petered out. Athelstan continued to stand on the bench and stare around. He realized he could not detain them for long but insisted that, for the time being at least, all retainers of the Golden Oliphant, together with those who had participated in the Cokayne festivities, should stay lodged under pain of arrest and confinement in Newgate. They could leave to do this or that but they had to return to the Golden Oliphant by nightfall.

  Athelstan and Sir John then retired to what Mistress Cheyne called her ‘Exchequer Chamber’, where she kept accounts, a pleasant, wood-panelled room with a large window overlooking the sweet-smelling kitchen garden. The chamber boasted a chancery desk, chairs and stools all polished to gleaming like the waxed floorboards. Athelstan noticed, from the marks on both the wall and floor, that items such as pictures, painted cloths and carpets had been removed. He had observed the same elsewhere on his tour of the house.

  Cranston sat behind the desk with Athelstan next to him on a high chancery stool. The friar opened his satchel while Cranston summoned in Elizabeth Cheyne and her principal maid, Joycelina. The two women sat together on the high-backed cushioned settle which Cranston had moved in front of what he called his ‘judgement table’. Athelstan, under the pretext of laying out his writing instruments, closely studied these two ladies of the night. Elizabeh Cheyne, Mistress of the Moppets, was dressed in a dark blue gown fastened at the neck with a silver brooch carved in the shape of a leaping stag; her auburn hair was clamped with jewelled pins and hidden under a gauze veil. Despite her homely dress and head gear, she was harsh-faced and hard-eyed, her bloodless lips twisted into a sour pout. Nevertheless, Athelstan caught traces of her former beauty and grace: the way she sat and the delicate gestures of her long, snow-white fingers as she adjusted her headdress or the brooch on the neck of her gown. Joycelina, her principal maid, was equally demure in her light grey gown with white bands at cuff and neck; thin-faced and sly-eyed, Joycelina exuded the air of a woman very sure of both herself and her talents. She sat, legs crossed, skirts slightly hitched back; on her feet soft, red-gold buskins, well tied, with thickened soles.

  ‘You have kept us waiting, Sir John. We all have lives, duties and tasks …’

  ‘As I have mine, Mistress Elizabeth.’ Cranston spread his hands. ‘And principal amongst these is mysterious, violent death such as Master Amaury’s in that chamber on the top gallery of your, some would say, notorious establishment.’

  ‘Some say a great deal about you, Sir John.’

  ‘Why did Whitfield hire a chamber on the very top gallery?’ Athelstan asked brusquely.

  ‘He was a customer, a guest, that’s what he asked for. Perhaps he liked to be away from the sounds of the taproom to enjoy his games.’

  ‘What games?’

  ‘Brother, you are in the Golden Oliphant. During the last week of May we celebrate the ancient Festival of Cokayne.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘As the poem says.’ Cheyne closed her eyes.

  ‘We all make happy and dance to the sound

  of lovely women being taken and bound.

  Nothing to fear, nothing so tame,

  but pleasure and laughter without any blame.’

  She opened her eyes. ‘You have never heard of such pleasure, Brother?’

  ‘Oh, yes, it’s common enough in confession when penitants come to be shrived.’

  ‘But you are not a sinner, Friar?’

  ‘Greater than you think and one who constantly stands in need of God’s mercy.’

  ‘Mistress Elizabeth,’ Cranston interjected, ‘you held festivities here not just to make the rafters ring with merriment but for good coin and plenty of custom. Some would claim you run a bawdy house, a place of ill-repute. You host a bevy of whores and prostitutes.’

  ‘Then, Sir John, arrest me. Let Flaxwith and your bailiffs raid this house. I am sure,’ she added drily, ‘most of them, not to mention the justices I would appear before, will know all about what happens here.’

  ‘And what is Cokayne here?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘Feasting, music, dancing? The Lord of Misrule and his festive games in a world that’s gone topsy-turvy?’

  Cheyne nodded, and Joycelina smirked behind a velvet-mittened hand.

  ‘Including,’ Athelstan continued, ‘men dressing up as women and women as men. Master Amaury did that, yes? We found a woman’s robe and wig in his bedchamber.’

  ‘Joycelina knows more about that.’ Cheyne sniffed.

  ‘I allowed Amaury to be what he wanted and do what he liked,’ the maid murmured, eyes rounded in mock innocence. ‘It brought him some satisfaction, eventually.’

  Athelstan decided to change the thrust of his questioning. ‘When did Master Whitfield arrive here?’

  ‘Three days ago.’

  ‘He died on his last night here?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cheyne agreed.

  ‘How was he during his stay?’

  ‘Deeply troubled, Brother. Highly anxious and greatly agitated. He talked, when sober, of the coming doom which hovers like a cloud of deep night over the city. He was terrified that when London was stormed, he would be hunted like a coney through the streets, caught, trapped, mocked and ridiculed before suffering the cruellest death, and what could we say?’ Cheyne shrugged. ‘He spoke the truth. Amaury Whitfield, in the eyes of the Great Community, was a tainted traitor worthy of death. He would have been hauled through the city on a sledge, barbarously executed, his head poled, his mouth stuffed with straw to face that of his dead master.’

  ‘So he was frightened even until death and thought to immerse himself in the soft pleasures of this house?’

  ‘In truth, Sir John.’

  ‘Did he manifest or betray in any way a desire to take his own life?’

  ‘Sir John, in his terror, in his fear, Whitfield might have, though he did relax. Joycelina took care of him.’

  Athelstan glanced at the maid, who winked mischievously back. The friar smiled.

  ‘And last night?’ he asked.

  ‘Everyone was tired, the festivities were over. Whitfield and Lebarge were to leave after breaking their fast this morning. Amaury went upstairs, Joycelina was with him.’

  ‘And?’ Athelstan glanced at the maid.

  ‘He was tired. He pulled back the sheets of the bed and fondled me for a while. I do remember he made sure the shutters were closed and barred. He did the same for the window, ensuring the latch was firmly down. I asked him if he was fearful, and he replied, “Only of the sweating terrors of the night.” I kissed him, said I would see him in the morning and left. I recall, very distinctly, him locking and bolting the door behind me. I came down immediately. Ask the others. I didn’t tarry long.’

  ‘And Lebarge?’

  ‘He stayed below stairs conversing with some of the guests.’

  ‘Who?’ Cranston snapped.

  ‘Odo Gray, Captain of the Leaping Horse, and the mailed clerk Adam Stretton.’

  Elizabeth Cheyne paused as Cranston chortled with laughter, rocking backwards and forwards in his chair.

  ‘Sir John?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You know these worthies?’

  ‘Oh, Brother, I certainly do. Gray is a man involved in so many pies he has to use his toes as well as his fingers: pirate and smuggler, merchant and mercenary, he would sell his mother for any price.’

  ‘And Stretton?’

  ‘A mailed clerk, a graduate of St Paul’s and the Halls of Oxford. A man of peace a
nd war who has performed military service on land and sea; the destrier in the stables must belong to him. Stretton is the most trusted retainer of Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel.’

  ‘John of Gaunt’s great rival?’

  ‘John of Gaunt’s great enemy,’ Cranston confirmed. ‘So, this precious pair were also revellers?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Sir John,’ Cheyne replied. ‘There were five in all: Whitfield, Lebarge, Stretton, Gray and, to a certain extent, Matthias Camoys.’

  ‘To a certain extent?’ Athelstan queried.

  ‘Matthias comes here to drink and lust but he nourishes a great ambition to discover the whereabouts of the Cross of Lothar.’ Cheyne rubbed her brow. ‘He is so importunate with his questions. He believes the Golden Oliphant retains some subtle device or secret cipher which will reveal the whereabouts of Lothar’s Cross. I thank God that he also believes the same is true of the chantry chapel at St Mary Le Bow, where my beloved Reginald lies buried. Matthias divides his time between both places.’

  For a mere heartbeat Elizabeth Cheyne’s face and voice softened. Athelstan glimpsed the great beauty which must have captivated Reginald Camoys.

  ‘You never married?’

  ‘No, Brother Athelstan, never. Reginald, well,’ she smiled, ‘Reginald was Reginald: irreligious, a true devotee of the world and the Land of Cokayne.’

  ‘Yet he lies buried in a chantry chapel?’

  ‘Reginald maintained, better there next to his shield comrade Penchen than anywhere else. If chanting masses would help his soul he would surely profit. However, if there was nothing but eternal night after death, then he’d lost nothing.’

  ‘I have heard the same argument before,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘But to leave the Cross of Lothar for the moment. Do you know of anything during Whitfield’s stay here which would explain his mysterious death?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘He was well furnished with monies?’

  ‘And still is,’ Cheyne retorted. ‘Brother, you will find nothing stolen or borrowed from Master Amaury’s possessions, be it his chancery satchel or his purse. This house enjoys a reputation for honesty. We are not naps, foists or pickpockets. Any girl found stealing is handed over to the sheriff’s bailiffs. Sir John, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Not from personal experience,’ he quipped. ‘But I know enough of your dealings, Mistress Cheyne.’

  Athelstan caught the sarcasm in Cranston’s voice. The coroner was well versed in the secret affairs of London’s grim and gruesome underworld; the Halls of Hades and the Mansions of Midnight, as the coroner described the seedy twilight life of the city.

  ‘Did Whitfield mention that he had been visited by the Herald of Hell?’

  ‘Yes, both he and Lebarge referred to it. It apparently happened some days before they arrived here and, certainly, both men were terrified.’

  ‘Did they know who it was?’

  ‘No. Do you?’

  ‘Has the Herald visited your establishment?’

  ‘Of course not. Why should he?’

  ‘Why should he indeed?’ Cranston soothed. ‘I am sure you pay the Upright Men as well as pass on any information you glean from this customer or that, juicy morsels the Great Community might find interesting and yet,’ Cranston jabbed a finger, ‘when it suits you, you’re also of great assistance to Master Thibault. Is that not so?’

  ‘Sir John,’ Cheyne fluttered her eyelids, ‘we live in a true vale of tears, in the very shadow of the Valley of Death. So, what can a poor wench do to survive, earn a crust for her belly and keep a roof over her head?’

  ‘Whitfield brought a great deal of baggage here, didn’t he?’ Athelstan asked sharply. ‘Clothes, possessions?’

  Cheyne pulled a face. ‘God knows,’ she murmured.

  ‘And the letter he wrote despairing of his life?’

  ‘Again, Brother, God knows. Perhaps Amaury realized he was about to return to the Chancery in the Tower and all that entailed. Lebarge was no better, deep in his cups most of the time, furtive, withdrawn though he revelled merrily enough with some of the maids.’

  ‘Did either describe a certain memorandum taken from a wolfshead, Reynard?’

  ‘I have heard the name.’ Joycelina spoke up quickly. ‘A courier for the Upright Men. A travelling tinker who visited here declared how a certain Reynard had been taken up and thrown into Newgate.’ She forced a smile. ‘Brother Athelstan, with all due respect, men come here to forget their lives, their woes and tribulations. Master Amaury and Oliver Lebarge were no different.’

  ‘Was Lebarge ever talkative?’

  ‘No, he was taciturn, even in his cups, very much in the shadow of Master Amaury.’

  ‘And whom did they talk to?’

  ‘The other customers, the maids, the servants.’ Joycelina waved her hands airily. ‘But about what? You must ask them, not us. I suppose,’ she added, ‘they discussed the revels.’

  ‘Which were?’

  ‘Hodman’s bluff, mummer’s games, dances and masques, and, of course,’ Joycelina glanced slyly at her mistress, ‘antics in the bedchamber. Some men like to partake with two, others like to watch.’

  ‘To watch!’ Athelstan exclaimed, ignoring Cranston’s boot pressing on his foot.

  ‘Yes, Brother, to watch,’ Mistress Cheyne replied. ‘Each of our chambers has a small eyehole; of course, it can be closed from the inside. This allows someone in the gallery outside to watch what is happening on the bed. In the end,’ she sighed, ‘we strive to please all our customers. Why, Brother, does it shock you?’

  ‘No, I find it fascinating, I mean, man’s absorption with all aspects of loving, including watching others …’

  ‘Though who likes to watch whom?’ Joycelina murmured coyly. ‘Well, I just cannot comment.’

  ‘In the end, what Joycelina and I are saying,’ Mistress Cheyne added, ‘is that we know about the revelry, but why Amaury hanged himself or Lebarge fled this house for sanctuary in your church, Brother Athelstan …’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Brother, it’s common tittle-tattle in the taproom.’

  ‘What intrigues me …’ Cranston slurped from his miraculous wineskin and offered it to the ladies, who refused; Athelstan, hungry and thirsty, took a sip.

  ‘Sir John?’ Mistress Cheyne demanded.

  ‘What I would like to know is why?’ Cranston pushed the wine stopper back in. ‘Yes, why should Amaury dress himself as if to leave before hanging himself? He was found booted and cloaked?’

  ‘Yes, he was,’ both women agreed.

  ‘But Sir John,’ Mistress Cheyne declared, ‘as to why, I do not know. Perhaps some evil humour, some sickness of the night seized poor Amaury’s soul? It defies all logic. If he was of sound mind and keen wit this might not have happened …’ Her voice trailed off.

  Athelstan moved restlessly on the chancery stool. He was about to enter the maze of murder, to take a path which might lead him to the truth; nevertheless, that path would twist and turn, be fraught with danger. He needed to reflect very keenly on the answers he and Cranston had received since they had arrived here. Athelstan’s suspicions about Whitfield’s death had been sharply honed. The friar was certain that the dead clerk had been terrified out of his wits, but why hang himself as he had, in this place and at that time?

  ‘Joycelina,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you say you left Whitfield in his chamber, and he locked and bolted the door behind you.’ She nodded. ‘Did anything untoward happen during the night?’

  Joycelina glanced at her mistress, who shook her head vigorously.

  ‘Nothing,’ Mistress Cheyne whispered, ‘on my oath, ask the others.’

  ‘And this morning?’

  ‘Our guests were summoned to break their fast at eight. Griffin, Master of the Hall, rang the bell. He then went along the galleries knocking on each door. All came down except Whitfield. At the time, nothing untoward was heard or seen. Eventually we noticed Amaury was absent so I despatched Joycelina to rou
se him.’ She nudged her maid.

  ‘I went upstairs,’ Joycelina declared. ‘I knocked on the door but I could tell when I leaned against it that it was securely locked and bolted. I called his name, I knocked again. I stared through the eyelet and the keyhole; both were blocked. I grew concerned, so I went downstairs. Mistress Cheyne was in the refectory we use for both our guests and the household.’

  ‘Joycelina told me what had happened and I followed her up the stairs. Oh, no,’ Mistress Cheyne’s fingers flew to her lips, ‘I first told Master Griffin to keep everyone at the table, not to alarm them. I took Foxley, our Master of Horse, with me. I sent Joycelina ahead to quieten the maids on the other galleries as I had already decided what to do.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Brother Athelstan, in the Golden Oliphant men lock themselves in chambers with our young maids. Sometimes, rarely, matters of the bed get out of hand. We have a makeshift battering ram, a yule log with handles along its sides. I told Foxley to fetch that along with two of the labourers working on the trellis fencing in the garden.’

  ‘And the mastiffs?’

  ‘Dawn had broken, Foxley had secured them in their kennels. We went out into the garden and summoned two of the labourers – they are still out there. We went up to Amaury Whitfield’s chamber. I knocked on the door – no answer. I looked through the eyelet and keyhole: both were sealed. Foxley did the same. I ordered the labourers to break down the door. Joycelina, who later joined us in the gallery after I shouted for her, was correct: the door was obviously locked, bolted at both top and bottom. Foxley supervised the labourers and at last the door broke away. The light in the chamber was very poor, almost pitch black. The candles had burnt out and the window was firmly shuttered. I told the labourers to take the ram back into the garden and instruct Master Griffin to keep everyone in the refectory. I had already glimpsed poor Amaury’s body creaking on the end of that rope, head and neck all twisted. I ordered Foxley to cross and open the shutters. He did so, then the window. Joycelina and I entered the chamber. We waited until there was enough light. I wanted to …’ Her voice faltered.