oOoOo
Athelstan and Cranston stood outside the house of the Minoresses and stared down Aldgate.
‘Interesting,’ Cranston murmured. ‘I’ve just remembered Didymus. Despite his apparent folly, he has reputation for being sharp-eyed. On reflection I would say he is a reliable witness. I just wonder who our assailant was, heavily robed and reeking of a woman’s perfume? Anyway, what now, Brother?’
‘I think we should return to Firecrest Manor, Sir John. I have more questions for them all. And that’s the problem,’ he added, ‘many questions, few answers.’ Athelstan stared around. He felt uncomfortable, that chill of apprehension when he suspected he was being watched had returned yet he could not detect the cause, though that would be difficult in this part of the city. The world and its wife processed through here; the good and the great as well as that shifting, constant swarm of London’s underworld, those who lived, lurked and prowled in its shadow. Athelstan stepped aside as a troop of Poor Toms swung by bare-legged and bare-armed, their hair gathered in elf-locks, hollow boots shuffling along the ground. Nearby a line of lunatics, shaking their chains and roaring some madcap song, distracted others making their way to dine at the many cook shops. The colour, noise and stench were intense after the hallowed serenity of the Minoresses. Cranston led him off, Athelstan walking just behind, remained ever-vigilant, searching the crowd for anything suspicious. He was shoved and pushed by emaciated beggars pleading with hands outstretched, waving their clacking dishes under his nose. Gaunt faces glared out of ragged hoods and tattered capuchons. Horses neighed, donkeys brayed and dogs constantly barked. Athelstan glimpsed a slow-moving, lumbering convoy of supply carts with its military escort on its way to the Tower. Shouts, yells and screams pierced the air as two market bailiffs chased a cunning man they had unmasked. The miscreant, his crutch over his shoulder, now leapt like a hare through the crowd. A group of musicians took up residence near a horse trough, but they were so drunk, one of them, wailing on a set of bagpipes, tipped over and fell into the water, provoking raucous laughter from a group of traders bringing their mounts to drink. The toper kept playing his bagpipes provoking the wandering dogs to snarl and bark even more. Horsemen trotted by. Dust clouds swirled in the ice-cold air. Athelstan tried to shake off his unease. He conceded that the true cause might not be so much the noisy crowd but the mysteries they were facing. Truly tangled, probably more than any they had ever confronted. The friar felt many lies had been peddled …
‘Brother, Brother?’ Cranston had walked back. ‘Athelstan, what is the matter? Why are you …?’
The friar just shook his head.
‘Look around, Sir John, we are in the company of rogues. Look at their crafty, gleaming eyes, fingers ready to pick purses. They slide out of their dirty dens like slugs after the rain.’ Athelstan pointed to a cunning man offering the heart of a turtledove wrapped in the skin of a dog to passers-by as a sure remedy against unchaste thoughts.
‘Oh, Brother,’ Cranston followed his direction, ‘and they all come my way. There are many here who’ll be buried in the air at the end of a piece of hempen rope – that’s how these rogues describe a hanging.’
‘But not today,’ Athelstan murmured. He stood, swaying slightly.
‘Athelstan?’ Cranston was now concerned. He knew this little friar sometimes experienced attacks of numbing panic.
‘Sir John, are we in danger? I can feel …’ Athelstan broke off. The convoy of carts to the Tower had now been blocked by a group of Flecti – the Kneelers. These men, their faces hidden behind white masks and garbed in bright yellow robes with a crude red star painted on their backs, were following their own high-backed cart, which displayed a soaring wooden cross in the centre. Such pilgrim groups were becoming increasingly common in London: public penitents doing reparation for their sins through processions, fasting and visiting city churches. Times were hard and fast changing. Plague and Pestilence walked hand in hand. The war in France was lost. Heresy and dissent flourished in the Church. The papacy was still weak, having just returned from its exile in Avignon. Prices were high. Food scarce. Taxes heavy. Trade disrupted. A deeply unwholesome broth was being cooked to bubbling and soon it would spill over. Groups like the Flecti were simply an expression of a deep underlying anxiety. Athelstan watched as the Flecti, about fifty in number, crept behind their cart. The leader would shout, ‘Flectamus Genua’ – ‘Let us bend the knee,’ and all would crouch down, heads bowed.
‘Orate!’ Pray! the leader shouted.
‘Miserere Nobis Domine!’ his followers bellowed back. ‘Lord have mercy on us!’
‘Levate!’ Arise, the leader cried, and the Flecti stood up and continued their rhythmic ritual. Yet something was amiss. The Flecti appeared very organized, moving in a military phalanx. Such groups were notorious for wandering about, breaking up in a crowd. Moreover, the Flecti were now spilling around the Tower carts, coming between them and the military escort. The officers in charge were also alarmed. Abruptly the Flecti surged forward, swords, daggers and clubs appearing from beneath their cloaks.
‘Flecti be damned!’ Cranston shouted, drawing both his weapons. ‘Upright Men! And they are after those carts.’ The ambuscade was now sprung. Some of the Upright Men knelt and released crossbow quarrels to empty the saddles of the military escort. Others attacked the line of foot and swarmed over the carts. A broad black banner was abruptly hoisted aloft to ripple ominously in the freezing breeze. The Upright Men were not only intent on seizing Gaunt’s stores but on displaying their power. For a few heartbeats the crowd thronging about fell silent, watching the sharp change of events in shocked surprise. This soon gave way to noisy panic. Many fled the battle now raging around the carts. Women, shrieking with terror, grabbed their children and fled to the nearest church for sanctuary. Others sought shelter in alehouses and taverns yet, even as the crowd scattered, the legion of rogues and rifflers, roaring boys and ruffians surged towards the fierce bloody struggle in the hope of plunder. The fighting was now spreading. A convoy of knights appeared, drawn swords shimmering as they strove to clear the carts of attackers, but more Upright Men streamed out of the mouths of alleys and runnels. Sir John grasped Athelstan and pulled him away, only to be surrounded by a group of Upright Men garbed in white masks and yellow robes. They glimpsed the royal insignia and chain of office around the coroner’s neck and swiftly closed in a clash of whirling steel. Cranston met them sharply. Athelstan picked up a fallen morning star and rushed to help his friend. Swinging the club, the friar beat back one attacker, whilst Sir John, surprisingly light and fast on his feet, closed with the other assailants. Athelstan forgot the freezing cold, only aware of scraping steel, the rasp of sharp breath and the litany of hissed curses. He struck and struck again but his opponent was swift, moving backwards and forwards eyes glittering behind the mask as he searched for an opening. Athelstan lunged, the attacker stepped back and the friar stumbled to one knee. He raised an arm against the expected blow but others had come between him and his assailant. Athelstan staggered to his feet and stumbled back. Sir John was also being protected. Four men, cloaked and hooded, armed with sword and dagger, were driving the Upright Men away in a glittering arc of steel. They were professional swordsmen more interested in forcing their assailants to flee than inflicting bloody wounds. Athelstan glimpsed dark, swarthy faces. He noticed the cloaks of these unexpected angels were of good quality. The same was true of their high-heeled boots, silver spurs clinking at every step. Sir John grabbed Athelstan’s arm, dragging him away from the conflict. The assault on the carts faded, the Upright Men disappearing into the maze of alleyways with what plunder they had seized. More soldiers were streaming into the great enclosure stretching down to Aldgate: archers from the Tower and even a company of Spanish mercenaries camped out at Moorfields. Athelstan stared around. Their mysterious rescuers had disappeared as swiftly and as silently as they had emerged. The friar felt the savage attack had purged his own anxiety as he followed Sir John across Aldgate and on to a thoroughfare leading down to the river. The coroner, having readjusted his warbelt, paused to take a generous slurp from the miraculous wineskin before offering it to Athelstan.