The Teller of Tales had tried to divert the attention of passersby with a spine-tingling story of the Strigoi, the undead, trooping, according to miraculous report, along the old Roman road to the north of the city. No one had really been interested; indeed neither was the Teller of Tales, for his heart was intent on murder. He’d chosen the time and place most carefully. Newgate was a surge of colour and noise. Silversmiths’ apprentices paraded a gorgeous mazer to entice would-be customers to visit their masters’ shops in Cheapside. Butchers yelled the price of sweet duckling, pigs and fat juicy capons. Whoremongers, taken up by the bailiffs, heads all shaven and carrying their breeches, were being paraded to the strident wailing of bagpipes towards the stocks. A night-walker who had kidnapped a child so as to enhance her begging had been fastened to a punishment post, her filthy skirts raised so that burly baileys could lash her grimy buttocks. The belled pigs of St Anthony’s hospital, the only pigs allowed to wander, snuffled the piles of ordure heaped close to a horse trough. Nearby a jackanapes was being ducked for daring to pass through the Skinners’ quarter saying ‘meow’, a public insult to that worthy guild. Once he was punished, a line of drunks and roisterers also waited to be drenched in the filthy water.
Shouts and cries, the crash of gong carts and the clip-clop of hooves drowned the prayers of the Fraternity of Salve Regina processing solemnly with bell, candle and incense to the Lady Chapel at St Mary le Bow. Merchants and aldermen garbed in glowing robes of samite and velvet lined with expensive fur, fat necks and fingers glittering with jewellery, strolled arm in arm with their plump, richly dressed wives. Market beadles shouted warnings about how the sale of charcoal was forbidden in sacks weighing less than eight bushels. The Goodmen of St Dunstan, led by a Friar of the Sack, threaded their pardon beads as they made holy pilgrimage to St Paul’s to pray at the tomb of Thomas à Becket’s parents. A group of knights, escorted by their pages and squires, brilliantly embroidered pennants glistening in the sharp morning light, pushed their way down towards the tourney field at Smithfield. Fripperers, dragging their handcarts piled with second-hand clothes, shouted abuse at the group as they tried to force their barrows through. Enterprising vendors were already moving amongst crowds of the poor offering mouldy bread, rancid pork, slimy veal, flat beer and stale fish to those hungry and desperate enough to eat such rotten food. The Teller of Tales watched all this and quietly rejoiced, for he knew that such clamour and bustle would help to conceal his murderous plans.
The bell in one of the Newgate towers tolled, and the ribauds noisily thronged closer to the great gates. These swung back and the riffler leaders swaggered out to the cheers and shouts of their now much-depleted followers. Waldene was a giant of a man with shaggy grey hair and beard. He was dressed in a cote-hardie of tawny damask, Lincoln-green leggings and stout Castilian boots. Hubert the Monk, balding head and shaven face all gleaming with nard, looked diminutive beside him. Hubert was dressed in a long white robe, which gave him his name, his plump feet, warmed by woollen stockings, encased in stout, thick-soled shoes. The news that these two reprobates, like Pilate and Herod, had agreed to a lasting peace had been common talk around the prison. Both gang-leaders took a generous swig from a proffered wineskin, exchanged the kiss of peace and, hands raised in greeting, moved across into the sweet, tangy darkness of the Angel’s Salutation. No one really took any notice. The good citizens and honest traders gave the rifflers short shrift, whilst their followers, greeted with shouts and curses, began to drift away.
The Teller of Tales watched and smiled deep in his cowl. He adjusted his mask, got down from the plinth and, with a sack firmly gripped beneath his cloak, strolled leisurely across into the tavern. He glanced at the casks at the far end of the taproom, which were covered by gleaming planks so as to serve as a counter. Above this, onions, cheese and bacon hung in nets from the gilded beams’ exuding a spicy, mouthwatering smell. It was a spacious chamber, its narrow horn-filled windows, candles and oil-wick pots providing some light, though shadows still thronged deep enough to hide in.
The Teller of Tales sat at an overturned barrel that served as a table. Sheltered by the darkness, he ordered a blackjack of ale and watched the staircase in the far corner. Waldene and Hubert had secured a chamber off the stairwell on the first gallery. Ale and food had been carried up to this precious pair, who’d been joined by two whores, local girls so a servant declared, Mistress Robinbreast and her companion Madame Catchseed. The Teller of Tales watched as the servants in their heavy shoes of undressed leather clattered up and down. Cries of wassail echoed loudly, and the guard on the stairwell sang a drunken song. Still the Teller waited. A blind jongleur, tapping the rush-covered floor with his cane, came in and sat down, nursing his pet ferret and loudly reciting a poem about how the devil was a sibulator, a hisser, and how whistling, together with holy water sprinkled with a sprig of St John’s wort, would frighten him off. The Teller of Tales ignored the newcomer. He rose to his feet, took a flask from his sack and moved to the staircase. The servitors were now back in the kitchens and sculleries, all busy for when the Angelus bell rang and local traders flocked in to break their fast. The Teller of Tales, his heart full of malice, softly climbed the stairs. The guard staggered to his feet. The Teller put down the sack and, one hand on the dagger beneath his cloak, wafted the unstoppered flask beneath the drunkard’s nose.
‘The best of Bordeaux,’ he murmured, ‘a gift from Minehost.’
‘I don’t think so,’ the guard slurred.
‘Very well.’ The Teller of Tales drew closer and shoved the dagger deep, a swift killing thrust up into the heart. The guard was so drunk he could only choke and gargle as he swayed backwards and forwards. The Teller of Tales pushed him back into the shadows, watching the soul light die in those startled red-rimmed eyes. He held the dagger fast until the final blood-spluttered sigh, then withdrew it, catching the corpse, lowering it to the floor and pushing it deeper into the dark-filled recess. Then he picked up the wine flask, rapped on the door and went in.
The chamber was large. Tapers lay strewn on the polished wooden floor, coloured cloths hung pinned to the whitewashed walls. The big window wasn’t shuttered; the thick piece of oil-strengthened linen across the opening had also been removed. Waldene and Hubert, deep in their cups, lounged at a table just near the window. The large four-poster bed that dominated the room had its drapes pulled back to reveal the two courtesans Robinbreast and Catchseed, naked as they were born, clasped in a drunken embrace. Waldene turned as the Teller of Tales walked across offering the flask.
‘Who are you?’ His voice was thick.
‘A friend.’ The Teller put down the sack and held up the flask. ‘The richest claret from the best vineyard in St Sardos, smooth as velvet. I explained this to your guard and he let me through. More importantly, I have a plan so that all three of us can share in dead Evesham’s buried treasure.’
Hubert grinned, sketched a mock blessing in the air and gestured at the Teller to draw up a stool. Waldene emptied his tankard on the floor, bawling at one of the whores to bring the goblet they were sharing. The Teller of Tales made himself comfortable. He poured claret into each of the tankards, and drained the rest into the cup Catchseed slammed down on the table in front of him. Then he raised the goblet.
‘The Blackness salutes the Night,’ he murmured.
The two rifflers glanced at each other, gulped one deep draught after another and sat back smacking their lips.
‘Good,’ purred Hubert the Monk. ‘Soft and velvety. It’s a long time since I’ve drunk such an earthly richness.’
‘Bats twittering in a cave,’ murmured the Teller of Tales.
Waldene, inebriated, belched and banged the table. ‘What do you mean? Why the mask? What’s this about Evesham’s treasure?’
‘Oh, I found it.’ The Teller nodded. ‘We must go through the Gate of Dreams where Satan waits amongst the swarming dead like some huge red wolf. Oh yes, the Angel of Death is preparing to empty the vials of God’s wrath.’
‘Who are you? Take off your mask!’ Hubert the Monk blinked, shook his head and drank even deeper of the poisoned claret.
‘I am the evoker of the spirits. I sing songs of mourning, and all around me cluster the warring wraiths of the vengeful dead.’
‘I don’t . . .’ Waldene tried to rise but found he couldn’t.
‘Who . . . what?’ stammered Hubert the Monk.
‘You’re dying,’ declared the Teller of Tales. ‘You cannot move, can you? You’ve lost the feeling in your legs. I killed your guard and mixed the deadliest hemlock with the claret, which I’ve not drunk. Can you,’ he leaned forward, grinning at his victims, ‘can you move? No! Death will swiftly grip your feet, coldness in your legs. There is nothing you can do but slip into the everlasting sleep of the gathering night.’ He paused as both the Monk and Waldene tried to reassert themselves.
‘Certain death,’ the Teller of Tales explained, ‘a creeping coldness that paralyses your limbs. Dark-clouded you’ve become as you approach the eternal gloom.’ He glanced at the two whores, who were oblivious to the vicious drama being played out around that shabby table.
‘Why?’ gasped Hubert.
‘Why? I represent the blood-drinking ghosts. I am Boniface Ippegrave, the Vengeance of the Lord.’
Waldene tried to lurch to his feet, but knocked over a stool and collapsed. The two whores shrieked. The Teller of Tales sprang to his feet and brought a small arbalest from the sack, a wicked little crossbow, its bolt already primed, the twine pulled back. He pointed this at the whores.
‘
Tace et vide
,’ he hissed. ‘Stay silent and watch.’
The two petrified women clung to each other as the Teller of Tales stepped back to watch the gang-leaders die, paralysed by the deadly hemlock. Then he drew his dagger and moved from one enervated victim to the other. Ignoring their coughing and groans, he etched, with the tip of his dagger, the letter ‘M’ on each of their foreheads. Once satisfied, he sheathed his blade, picked up the arbalest and pointed it at the two whores.
‘I will not kill you. You do not deserve to die, not yet. When they come, say that Boniface Ippegrave has returned!’
5
Waelstow
: the place of slaughter
Three hours later, long after the bells had tolled, Miles Fleschner, Clerk of St Botulph’s in Cripplegate, nervously approached the corpse door of his parish church. Although a former coroner, he was a timid man, fearful of the horrors perpetrated in this supposedly hallowed place. St Botulph’s accurately reflected the words of Scripture: ‘The Abomination of the Desolation had been set up in the holy place.’ The building had been desecrated by sacrilege and blasphemy, and now the Blessed Sacrament had been removed, the sanctuary lamp extinguished, the sacred vessels sealed away. No prayers could be said, no candles lit before the Virgin, no chants raised, no Mass offered until the Bishop of London purged, sanctified and reconsecrated the building as ‘a Holy Place, the House of God and the Gate of Heaven’. Miles recalled memories of twenty years ago when Boniface Ippegrave had sheltered here in sanctuary before disappearing. That had been in the parish clerk’s green and salad days, when he was an ambitious coroner still in the fresh spring of manhood. Now the memories drifted back like ghosts through Fleschner’s tired mind. He recalled Evesham, bullying and arrogant, but no, he couldn’t remember that, not here! Miles Fleschner sometimes wished he had nothing to do with this church. Was St Botulph’s cursed? One parson had lost his wits and fled to an abbey. Would Parson John, all tremulous and fearful, follow suit? The parson had asked Fleschner to join him in the sacristy three hours after the sext bell. There was still work to be done: pyxes, Little Marys, chalices, monstrances and cruets to be sealed in the heavy satin-lined parish fosser; candle wax, clothes, vestments, incense, charcoal and other items to be inventoried. St Botulph’s was under interdict – sealed until reconsecrated. No longer was it the home of the Seraphim, the Lords of Light, but the prowling place of demons and earthbound souls, all those poor unfortunates barbarously slain then laid out like chunks of bloodied meat along the nave.
Miles Fleschner paused under the outstretched branches of a yew tree and stared fearfully up through its ancient branches. The day was dying; soon it would be the hour of the bat, the screech-owl. He startled as he heard a sound from the church and cautiously approached the battered but rehung corpse door. Parson John had said he would leave it ajar, off the latch. Fleschner stepped around the remains of the fierce battle, pushed open the door and went into the clammy, cold darkness. Only the poor light trickling through the lancet windows pierced the gloom. The nave was a place of shifting shadows. He heard a sound and turned. A figure darted out of the door leading from the sacristy into the sanctuary.
‘Who . . .?’ Fleschner chilled with terror.
The figure disappeared back into the sacristy. Like a dream-walker Fleschner moved slowly forward. The sound of a door slamming shut made him start, and a sweaty fear gripped him. He wanted to turn and run. He fumbled at the dagger beneath his cloak and drew the blade. He was so nervous he could scarely put one foot in front of the other. He listened and peered around; the light was swiftly fading, the shadows lengthening from the corners where they lurked.
‘Who is there?’ he called out. He looked back down the church, where a slant of light lit up the great carved bowl of the baptismal font. ‘Who is there?’ he repeated. A groan like that of some petrified, disembodied soul echoed down the nave. Fleschner, legs shaking, sweat bathing his face, slowly climbed the sanctuary steps and glanced around, throat dry. This was his church, yet the carved, contorted face of demons, gargoyles and babewyns seemed to glare fiercely down at him. He pushed open the door to the sacristy, a dark room containing chests, stools, aumbries and the great vesting table. The air reeked strangely of wax and some other foul odour, as if a mound of refuse had been disturbed. Again the groan. He whirled around. Parson John was staring up at him in terror. Fleschner crouched down.