Roseblood (16 page)
He left the taverns and walked across to the ancient church of St Alphege. He was about to enter through the Devil’s door when his name was called. He turned. Shadows emerged from the billowing mist blown in from the river.
‘Master Sevigny, you must come with us. Ravenspur awaits you.’ The speaker was wrapped in cloak and mantle. Sevigny glimpsed a young, shaven face, one hand held up in a gesture of peace, the other offering a scroll of parchment, a request from Ravenspur courteously asking Sevigny to join the escort provided. Sevigny nodded his agreement and six other strangers similarly attired came out of the murk, their leader whispering how they would escort the clerk back to the Golden Harp.
On his return to the tavern, Sevigny collected a few possessions, saddled Leonardo and followed his mysterious escort out into the mist-filled streets. The sun had risen but the mist was stubbornly thick, cloaking his view and dulling all sound. Candle and lantern horn shimmered a dirty yellow. Images swam out of the murk: the chapped, wounded faces of beggars, the round smoothness of curious urchins, the white, skeletal features of some hooded friar. They crossed London Bridge and journeyed down past the majestic stone walls and soaring turrets of the Tower, lit by fiery brands and flaming braziers. Eventually they reached the Mile End Road, heading for Bow Bridge and the marshes that separated London from the wild Essex countryside.
It was an eerie journey. Sevigny’s escort remained as cloaked and cowled as a group of black monks; only the occasional glint of weapons or the clatter of scabbards betrayed who they really were, a group of mercenaries, one of the many now journeying through England. Sevigny listened to their chatter, usually French, though in a patois he could not understand. He wondered if they were Brabantines, as each rider carried a powerful crossbow looped over his saddle horn. On one occasion he witnessed their skill when they surprised a flock of pheasants that broke from the thick undergrowth, their harsh calls shattering the silence of the countryside. Immediately, three of the escort unhitched their crossbows, swinging them up, each loosing a bolt to bring down a bird in a splutter of feathers and blood. The carcasses were collected, heads shorn off and the bodies hung for a short while from a tree branch until the blood drained out. Once they were cleaned, they were tossed into a sack and the journey continued.
Sevigny watched and changed his mind, curbing the excitement in his belly. He grew certain that these were no ordinary mercenaries. He glimpsed an insignia on a dark red quilted jerkin: a crow, wings extended, against a light blue field. LeCorbeil! He was sure that he was now surrounded by those mysterious French mercenaries who came and went like shadows in the night. They were well armed and horsed, and with the kingdom slipping into war, few would dare challenge them. Even if they did, they probably carried some form of documentation, forged or genuine, that would allow them safe passage. If these men were LeCorbeil – and Sevigny became convinced that they were – then Ravenspur was not only a warlock but their leader. York had not informed him about that.
He tried to draw them into conversation, but the only one who replied was Bertrand, their leader, a handsome young man with a smooth Italianate face, dark eyes and a blunt manner. He assured the clerk that he was in no danger, that he would be treated with every respect, but conceded nothing else. Sevigny could only ride on. The cavalcade kept well away from villages and hamlets such as Leighton and Wodeford. They eventually entered the dark greenness of Epping Forest, where the trees thinned though the brooding stillness of that ancient woodland still hung heavy. The mist had lifted slightly but the sky was now blocked with heavy grey clouds.
The journey reminded Sevigny of boyhood rides across the harsh Yorkshire moors, going on pilgrimage with his parents to the Carthusian house at Mount Grace or the great abbey of St Hilda at Whitby. He reflected on where such days had led, before his mind drifted back to Katherine Roseblood staring at him so coquettishly from the steps of the Tun. He also plotted how he would break in to the leper house at St Giles, whilst he hoped that Cosmas and Damian would be able to offer help in solving the mysterious deaths of Candlemas and Cross-Biter. Sevigny felt personally insulted by these; the two men had perished in his care, so he was determined to resolve the mystery. He wondered again about Katherine, and decided to visit the Roseblood on the night of the great celebration, a welcome relief against the menacing shadow of Duchess Cecily and this sombre journey.
Shouts and cries roused him from his reverie. He glanced around. They had entered a deserted village, its buildings much decayed, almost hidden by the coarse undergrowth thrusting up around them. An ancient well, its wall cracked and crumbling, stood at a weed-choked crossroads under the shadow of a three-branched gibbet. Wisps of hempen rope still twirled from its rusty hooks. It was one of those ghostly, deserted hamlets through which the Great Pestilence had swept over a hundred years ago, extinguishing all life as swiftly and surely as snuffing out a candle. Rotting signs, dangling from rusty chains, moved in a macabre creaking melody. Empty windows gazed sightlessly out above crumbling doorways and entrances. Garden fences and palisades, benches and horse troughs lay topsy-turvy, their decaying wood snagged by creeping grass and trailing bramble. An oppressive, baleful silence closed about them, as if ghosts and spectres swirled full of resentment at being disturbed.
Above a clump of trees Sevigny glimpsed a decaying square church tower. Bertrand lifted a hand and pointed in its direction. They made their way up the potholed trackway, through a gap in the cemetery wall and into the wild heathland that had once served as God’s Acre, most of its tombstones and crosses now hidden from view. The yew trees planted there had grown untended, their heavy branches hanging down to create small chambers of shadows. The cavalcade approached the main door of the church, which had been recently mended; this opened, and a man dressed as if for the hunt came out on to the steps. He wore long riding boots, and bottle-green jerkin and hose under a heavy military cloak clasped at the throat. In appearance he reminded Sevigny of Sheriff Malpas, with his silver hair and beard that only emphasised dark weathered features. When he came closer, Sevigny was struck by his eyes: a light grey with a hard, piercing stare. He offered his hand, gaze unflinching. Sevigny leaned down, clasped this, then dismounted.
‘I am Ravenspur. You are most welcome, Amadeus.’ Ravenspur gestured at the escort. ‘Have no worries. Your splendid horse – Leonardo, isn’t it? – will be well looked after, as will you. You shall be given good food and a safe guide back to the London road.’ He grinned, his eye teeth white and sharp like the fangs of a hunting dog. ‘Now come.’
He led Sevigny into the dark church. Sevigny tried to identify the man’s accent. French? Or was that pretence, a ploy to hide his true identity? His clothing was dull and sober but of the costliest wool, while on his wrist a silver bracelet glinted, jewelled rings shimmering on his fingers. The door shut behind them. Sevigny stared around. The church was ancient, with a long nave like a manor hall, with wooden rafter beams and stout drum pillars down each side. Cresset torches flickered along the narrow, shadow-filled transepts. A line of braziers glowed in the centre of the church, providing both heat and light. Wall paintings had been whitewashed over. Crucifixes, statues, rood screen, lectern and pulpit had been removed. Only the square stone high altar at the far end of the chancel remained. Two thick red candles glowed there, haloes of light in the murk that hung heavy as any mist despite the light piercing the arrow-slit windows high in the walls either side.
Ravenspur beckoned Sevigny to the table and chairs where the rood screen had once stood. The warlock sat, fingers steepled, staring gently, even sadly at Sevigny. The clerk swiftly recalled how York considered this sorcerer, who now looked as pious as any country parson, a most powerful necromancer. York believed that Ravenspur was responsible for the mysterious death of the King’s uncle, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, whilst under house arrest at St Edmundsbury. A shocking, sudden death that had never been resolved.
‘You must wonder about the journey.’ Ravenspur smiled. ‘The mummery at being brought to a deserted church in a long-forgotten village peopled by ghosts.’
‘And my escort?’ Sevigny demanded. ‘They are LeCorbeil? You are their leader?’
‘Acolytes, disciples,’ Ravenspur replied evasively.
Sevigny stared down the nave. He would leave that for the time being. ‘So why here? Why this, as you say, like some mummer’s masque?’
‘You know my answer, Amadeus: you are York’s principal chancery clerk.’ Ravenspur played with the bracelet around his wrist. ‘Even though you are fiercely resented by the lovely but deadly duchess, a true witch. Anyway,’ he continued briskly, ‘you are in London and you are probably being watched. However, you are well protected; I am not. I cannot meet you there. I do not want Beaufort’s bully boys bursting through the door with warrants for our arrest.’ He pulled a face. ‘I don’t want to suffer the same death as Bolingbroke. You’ve heard of him, the former Dominican? Hanged, drawn and quartered in St Paul’s churchyard for witchcraft? So that is why you have been brought here. The duke trusts me. I prophesied the death of Suffolk, as I did the King’s malady of the mind.’
‘And now?’
‘And now, my friend, you will eat, drink and relax.’
Ravenspur left, closing the door behind him. Sevigny rose and walked around the deserted church. Images and memories drifted through his mind. Katherine Roseblood; the duchess; Candlemas and Cross-Biter sprawled dead in that chamber; Argentine, cowled and masked, hiding amongst a hideous horde of lepers; and now this. He smiled cynically at Ravenspur’s boasting. Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, might have died mysteriously, but he had ruined his health through drinking and dissipation. King Henry’s mind had also turned, but he had inherited such a weakness through his mother from Charles VI of France, who never washed because he believed he was made of painted glass.
And now? Ravenspur might be a charlatan, but Sevigny recognised a truly dangerous one. God only knew what power he had acquired. The Devil’s troop constantly prowled through the twilight, along that eternal frontier between the seen and the unseen. Would the Lord Satan cross to help the likes of Ravenspur? Or was it all trickery? Was he playing such games now?
Sevigny paused in his pacing. The church had grown remarkably cold. Sounds echoed eerily, as if sandalled feet slithered. Shadows darted around the pools of light. He startled at a sound above him, a fluttering, as if some bird had been shut in amongst the rafters, yet he could detect nothing. Dark and light flittered. He walked to the altar and stared down at its harsh stone surface. In the juddering glow of the red candles he thought he could detect bloodstains, but when he peered closer, these seemed to fade. He went for his sword as a faint chattering echoed from the gloomy transept. He drew his weapon and walked across, but the cold stone gallery lay desolate. He felt his heart quicken and his mouth grow dry. Above him, something scrabbled at the thick horn covering a window, as if desperate to get in or out.
Sevigny crossed to the door and opened it; he stood on the crumbling steps, staring out across the sea of gorse and bramble. All lay quiet. On the breeze he caught the sound of indistinct shouting and laughter, and smelled the mouth-watering fragrance of roasted meat. He sheathed his sword and went back into the church. A short while later, Ravenspur, accompanied by one of his acolytes, brought in a tray of food: freshly roasted pheasant, soft fruit bread, a flagon of wine and two cups. He served the food and filled the goblets, then gestured at his guest to begin. When the acolyte had left, Sevigny blessed himself and leaned across.
‘My apologies,’ he smiled. ‘Do not take offence.’ He swiftly changed his platter and goblet with those of Ravenspur. The warlock laughed merrily, his strange eyes crinkling.
‘I heard about the mysterious deaths of Candlemas and his companion. Do you believe they were poisoned?’
‘Possibly.’ Sevigny ate and drank in silence. He was still intrigued by the way Ravenspur had spoken. He was certain he had caught a slight tinge of a French accent. He also recalled his strange escort, their skill with the crossbow, and this sparked memories of defenders being killed by crossbow bolts on London Bridge during Cade’s rebellion, whilst a similar fate had befallen certain English captains in France. He had asked Ravenspur about LeCorbeil and not truly been answered. He was determined to resolve the matter.
He finished the meal and Ravenspur cleared the table, then moved the candle spigot into the centre, softly chanting to himself in a tongue Sevigny could not understand. The warlock closed his eyes.
‘You have heard that the King, his she-wolf wife and her lover Beaufort are to move to Leicester?’
Sevigny grunted in agreement.
‘Advise my lord of York to accept no peace offers but to attack savagely; he must not delay. Let him unleash his fierce war dog, Neville of Warwick.’ Ravenspur opened his eyes and smiled, as if savouring the thought of York’s most impetuous war captain being loosed against the court party. ‘Tell my noble duke that crowns will decorate his head.’ He blinked and flinched, as if he’d glimpsed something he didn’t like. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, ‘tell York that a crown will decorate his head as well as those of three of his sons.’
‘That cannot be!’
‘It shall be,’ Ravenspur continued remorselessly, ‘but each crown will be different. The greatest danger to York will come from within. Tell him his grandchildren shall inherit the crown.’ He paused, rubbed his face with his hands and glanced up. ‘York’s peril stems from fair faces – as does yours, Amadeus – rather than the cut and slash of battle swords.’ He leaned back, his face drained, as if he had delivered some long discourse in the schools. ‘You can stay,’ he murmured.
Sevigny recalled his soul-chilling walk around this neglected chapel. ‘It’s still daylight,’ he replied. ‘If a guide could take me back to the London road, I will be in the shadow of the Tower by nightfall.’