Roseblood (6 page)

‘Were you?’

Simon just smiled. Despite his sea of troubles, he was quietly revelling in the subtle trickery he had played.

‘Simon, I remember Candlemas: a defrocked priest, a roaring boy with flame-coloured hair and a raucous mouth. Would he have the wit to plan such a robbery? Surely someone else…’ Eleanor paused in a fit of coughing, then abruptly gripped her stomach.

Simon walked over to her and stared down at the face he loved. The skin was taut, her eyes slightly starting; she was biting her lip as if in pain. He studied her carefully. Father Benedict had mentioned that she had asked for physic, medicines for her stomach. She glanced away, both hands nursing her belly.

‘Eleanor, are you well?’

‘I fast too much, too often.’ she confessed. ‘That is all.’ She rested a hand on his arm, ‘If you were not involved in this robbery, how do you know so much?’

Simon just winked at her.

‘Simon!’ she added warningly.

‘Everything can be bought, Eleanor.’

‘No, Simon.’ She half smiled, relaxing as the pain in her belly faded. ‘Not everything. Now,’ she added briskly, ‘our good sheriff will use Candlemas to indict you. Why didn’t they offer the same pardon to those executed?’

‘Somebody had to die for that robbery. Four of the gang were caught. What could Malpas do? The city would expect it. More importantly, they wanted to terrorise Candlemas and his companions, which they certainly have.’

Eleanor swiftly crossed herself. Roseblood wished he could stretch out his hand and cup her beautiful face, push back that hood and wimple to see her gorgeous black hair, though this would now be shorn and crimped. He also wondered, not for the first time, at this recluse’s absorption with the affairs of the city.

‘Eleanor?’ He touched her gently on her cheek. ‘Eleanor, why this? Why the flight from the world? Why not petition the bishop to be released from your vows? You know how I feel.’

‘Simon, how many years is it since your wife died?’

‘A good number of years.’

‘Do you still miss her?’

‘Of course,’ he lied. ‘Every day I speak her name and say the requiem.’ Eleanor’s grey eyes held his. You know I am lying, Simon thought. I did love Rohesia, but not as much, God forgive me, as I love you. ‘Why, Eleanor?’ he repeated. ‘This has nothing to do with Rohesia. Why have you locked yourself away?’

‘Atonement, reparation.’

‘For what? What did you do? You loved Edmund.’

‘Passionately. One heart, one soul, one mind, one body, breath for breath, life for life.’

Roseblood kept his face impassive, yet the very essence of his being surged at those passionate words.

‘So why?’

Eleanor glanced away. Simon turned, blinking furiously, staring at the two magnificent swans Eleanor had painted either side of the narrow door: beautiful, heavenly white, with their fluffed feathers and arching necks. Eleanor had always loved these birds. She used to beg Edmund to take her out on the great tavern barge,
The Glastonbury
, to feed them or just stare at their exquisite beauty. All around the chamber were other reminders of the anchorite’s fascination with swans, be it an incense holder or a hand-painted jug displaying the mythical Knights of the Swan. Little wonder parishioners referred to the anchorhold as the Swan’s-Nest.

‘Why did he leave?’ Roseblood asked, as he had so many times. ‘The night Cade’s men stormed through the city, Edmund left the tavern. We had it secure, fortified like any castle under siege. I’d summoned a legion of rifflers, yet Edmund slipped out. Why?’

Eleanor just stared dully back, as if the very life had drained from her.

‘Why, Eleanor?’

‘I don’t know,’ she muttered. ‘He talked of men called LeCorbeil, Cade’s men…’ Her voice trailed away.

‘I know of LeCorbeil,’ Roseblood sighed. ‘God knows what Edmund had to do with them!’

Eleanor simply sat threading beads through her fingers. Roseblood marvelled at the change in her. She had been Eleanor Philpot when he first met her ten years ago, around the anniversary of his wife’s death. He had never thought any woman could catch his eye and heart so swiftly. She was the vivacious daughter of a failing, sickly London merchant who had lost his wealth due to sea monsters – Breton pirates in the northern seas. Simon had been deeply smitten, but so had Edmund, and Eleanor only had eyes for him.

‘Simon, this sea of troubles?’

‘Like any brother and sister, we’ll face it out.’ He paused.

‘Simon?’

‘Nothing, nothing.’ Roseblood fell silent; then, ‘I cannot walk away Eleanor, they will not let me. Out there,’ he pointed at the door, ‘are a multitude of empty bellies, not to mention my own kith and kin who depend on me. In the end, the life that I have is the life that I lead, and the life that I lead is the life that has been thrust on me.’ That was the real difference between him and Edmund.

‘And your children, how are they? I see them at mass; they talk to me, though I am never sure if they are just telling me the things I want to hear.’

‘Raphael is a pillar of strength; a serjeant at law, he has returned to help me in the tavern. He looks after all my business, which eases the humours of both mind and body. Gabriel is now a novice in the Franciscan order at Greyfriars under Prior Aelred.’

‘Edmund had a special regard for Gabriel. He saw him as the son he always wanted.’

Simon just shrugged.

‘And Katherine?’

‘As lovely as ever, though her right leg still pains her sometimes. She is just about her eighteenth summer, keen and sharp-witted. Others think she is slightly fey. She has read too much about Arthur and the romances of Avalon. I am sure,’ Simon laughed sharply, ‘that Katherine expects Galahad of the Grail to ride into the tavern courtyard. She is constantly retreating to what she calls her greensward bower in the orchard.’

‘And the Fraternity of the Doom?’ Eleanor smiled knowingly. ‘I know that they pray for Edmund’s soul. That in his name they do good work along the Thames, combing its waters for those who have drowned, bringing their corpses back to Greyfriars for Christian burial.’

Simon crouched beside her. ‘Of course you know, sister,’ he teased, ‘as you know how the Fraternity also meets the wine cogs from Bordeaux, taking and selling their claret without paying custom. But…’

He paused at a tumult from the other side of the church. He left the anchorhold and hurried to the men tangling on the threshold of the corpse door. Through the poor light he recognised the thickset figure and harsh features of the parish priest; beside him Benedict’s curate and keeper of the Chapel of the Doom, Father Roger, thin as a beanpole, his blond hair cropped. The two priests were trying to drag into the church a man whose chest and belly were a soggy, gleaming mass of blood, his face half hidden by a cowl. They clutched him tightly, at the same time striving to drive off the city bailiffs, who held on to the wounded man’s legs, attempting to drag him back.

‘Desist!’ Father Benedict bellowed. ‘
Hic est locus terribilis
.’ He intoned the official sanctuary greeting. ‘
Haec est porta Caeli et domus Dei
. This is indeed a terrible place, the gate of Heaven and the house of God. This man, like Joab of old, claims sanctuary according to the tenets of Holy Mother Church. You shall be excommunicated.’

The bailiffs, led by Skulkin, would not be cowed. ‘He has not reached the horns of the high altar,’ the chief bailiff bellowed. The fugitive was now screaming in pain, kicking his legs as the priests pulled him in.

‘One more step.’ Roseblood, sword and dagger drawn, stepped round the priests, the blades of his weapons darting dangerously close to Skulkin and his companions. ‘One more step,’ he repeated, ‘and you will die, whilst I will be hosted by Holy Mother Church as the champion of her liberties.’ He sheathed his dagger, dug into his purse and drew out a few coins, which he threw over the bailiffs’ heads. ‘For your pains. Withdraw your men. Wet your throats or,’ he smiled, ‘you can have them sliced.’

Skulkin and his men retreated. Roseblood helped the priests with the wounded fugitive, now jerking in and out of consciousness, his belly wound spluttering blood. They laid him on the cold paving stones of the nave and Roseblood pulled back the man’s cowl. His heart skipped a beat. Bolt-Head! He recognised that bony face, the head shaved as smooth as a pigeon’s. Whatever his baptismal name, the wounded man had acquired his title from his protruding skull, used in many a street fight.

‘You recognise him?’ Father Roger whispered.

‘Bolt-Head is a raker from Cripplegate ward, often seen in the company of Candlemas. He has been lying hidden for some days.’

The wounded man abruptly stirred. Arching in pain, he stared bulbous-eyed up at Roseblood.

‘Master Simon,’ he gasped, ‘thanks be to God. I was coming here when Skulkin’s men recognised me. I thought I was safe. I stopped…’

Roseblood leaned down; the smell of ale was rich on Bolt-Head’s blood-bubbling breath.

‘You stopped at some alehouse, where you would stand out like a friar amongst nuns! Come, let’s lift him into the sanctuary.’

They carried him up into the recess for fugitives. Father Benedict fetched some wine from the sacristy. Roseblood coaxed the wounded man to drink.

‘A physician?’ Father Roger murmured.

‘Not for me,’ Bolt-Head murmured. ‘I know belly wounds. The knife ripped deep and harsh; soon it will get worse.’

Roseblood pulled back the man’s tattered jerkin to reveal a savage black-red rent across the stomach. He shook his head.

‘Absolution?’ Father Benedict, nervous as ever, pulled a set of Ave beads through his fingers. ‘He must be absolved.’

‘Not yet, Father.’ Bolt-Head gagged at the pain. ‘Just you and me, master, for a while.’

The priests withdrew. Outside, the agitation and tumult had subsided. Simon knew that Ignacio had left, speeding like a lurcher to take care of certain matters, but others of his guard would be assembling.

‘What is it?’ Simon knelt down, his face almost touching that of the dying man.

‘Master, I went into hiding. You know I had to. I told you what I knew. Rumours milled about how there was no silver. How Candlemas and his company were either killed or taken up. People now smell trickery.’ He clutched Simon’s hand. ‘Master, who was behind that robbery? Who persuaded Candlemas?’ He coughed on his blood. ‘Was the silver replaced with sacks of rubbish? They are saying that Candlemas is going to blame you for the robbery.’

‘Hush now,’ Simon soothed.

‘I feel so cold,’ the dying man groaned. ‘So very cold. I had to come. I am your sworn man, aren’t I?’

‘You are a comrade,’ Simon assured him, ‘but why did you creep out of hiding now?’

‘Strange tales are told. Candlemas has turned King’s Approver.’ Bolt-Head shivered; the bloody froth between his lips had thickened. ‘They – I don’t know who; perhaps your enemies at the Guildhall – are sending all kinds of rumours to run like ferrets in a warren.’ He gasped noisily. ‘Last night, in the Palm of Jerusalem, three Essex wolfsheads – you might know them, Blackshanks, Gull-Groper and Scalding-Boy – announced that they would be taking over all the raking and scavenging in Cripplegate ward. They would hold an indenture from the city council.’ He coughed blood and gratefully sipped at the wine, only to jerk at another searing jab of pain that convulsed his entire body. ‘That is all I have to tell you, master. They say you will be indicted.’ His eyes pleaded with Roseblood. ‘Do what you have to do. Jesu miserere! Master, are men like us redeemed?’

‘We are sinners,’ Simon was already distracted by Bolt-Head’s news, ‘and we do what we are good at: sinning.’

He called across, and Father Benedict hurried to shrive the dying man. Simon withdrew until the priest had finished, making the sign of the cross in the air above Bolt-Head, who now lay against the sanctuary cushion coughing and spluttering.

‘Do what you have to,’ Father Benedict whispered to Simon as he passed. ‘There is nothing we can do. You know that. According to the law of sanctuary, not even medicine can be brought in.’

Simon crossed himself and knelt beside Bolt-Head, whose face was now as white as snow, mouth gaping in pain.

‘Please,’ the fugitive opened his eyes, ‘the mercy cut.’

Simon drew his misericord dagger and gently put his hand behind the dying man’s head. ‘Look at me, old friend.’ Bolt-Head did so, and Simon expertly drew the dagger across his throat, holding his comrade as he jerked and trembled. Once he was still, he withdrew his arm and knelt for a while reciting the requiem, trying to recall all those other comrades he’d sent into the dark; the friends lying gashed and wounded in the war-ravished fields of Normandy.

‘Simon.’ Father Benedict touched his shoulder, ‘Go now. Roger and I will dress the corpse. I will sing the requiem mass tomorrow and bury him in God’s Acre with a fine cross and a posy of spring flowers on the grave.’

Simon cleaned his dagger, shook Benedict’s hand, nodded at Father Roger and walked out through the corpse door. A beautiful evening; the sun was still strong and the market horn had yet to bray. The cemetery, God’s Acre, stretched down to its red-brick curtain wall and massive oaken lychgate. The crowd had thinned. A few city bailiffs, watched by Roseblood’s men, still lounged in the long grass around the stone tombs and wooden crosses. The wild roses and other late spring flowers had bloomed rich and full to incense the air with their perfume. As he walked along the path to stand in the shadow of the lychgate, his mind was elsewhere, swirling and turning like a lurcher hunting a hare. A sea of troubles was boiling up. York would soon march south, and what could Simon do except defend himself?

The sounds and smells of the ward wafted towards him. A market beadle – Simon couldn’t recall his name – was ringing a bell, his shrivelled face all furious, his hooked nose cutting the air. He bawled a proclamation ‘Against rotten mutton, beef that is turnip-fed, lean measly pork from hogs glutted on city muck. Against all meats charred and sweaty and thrice roasted.’ Simon recalled the delicious dishes served at his own tavern. A group of courtiers passed in their ridiculously padded jerkins, multicoloured hose and hats of the same florid design. Clean-shaven, they allowed their hair to fall down almost to cover their eyes and to lie ringleted and curled on their shoulders. All of them were armed.