Roseblood (20 page)

Simon shifted his gaze. Raphael was deep in conversation with Katherine. Simon whistled under his breath as he recalled Sevigny’s battle madness. A strange man, he mused. Sevigny looked and dressed like a priest, but he was certainly a warrior and also a troubadour deeply smitten by Katherine, as she was by him. Simon grudgingly conceded that he had underestimated Sevigny. He and Ignacio had plotted the mysterious deaths of Candlemas and Cross-Biter, a ploy to baffle Malpas so that he could never lay their deaths at his door. Sevigny had outwitted them. He had concentrated on the possibility of a traitor and spy on the sheriff’s own council, tested his theory and so uncovered Ramler’s scandalous secret, as Roseblood and Ignacio had done so many months ago. Ramler had been surprisingly cooperative, dominated as he conceded by his hidden sins. He had cheerfully agreed to betray his master in return for safe lodgings and protection. Sevigny had brought that to an end. Malpas might soon find out, but… Simon grinned to himself. Ramler had been sent packing on a grain ship. Cornwall might be lonely, but it was the best Simon could offer and certainly not as dangerous for the scribe as Cheapside would be. The taverner was surprised by Sevigny’s clemency. Was that the effect of Katherine, or something else?

‘Raphael?’ He turned. ‘You say Sevigny was attacked in St Mary-le-Bow?’

‘So rumour has it. He killed one assailant; the other two escaped. I made careful enquiries. That was not us, was it?’

Simon shook his head and turned back to the window. Ramler had certainly told him something interesting. How Sevigny might be York’s man, body and soul, but Duchess Cecily fiercely resented her husband’s faithful clerk.

‘Will you welcome him back, Father?’ Simon turned. Katherine was staring beseechingly at him.

‘He is always welcome here,’ he replied, leaning down to kiss her brow. ‘I assure you,’ he smiled, ‘you could do a lot worse than win the heart of a royal clerk.’

He was tempted to continue the teasing, but Reginald Bray, still garbed in his travelling cloak, picked up a knife and chimed it against a decanter. The Camelot Chamber fell silent. Simon returned to his seat at the head of the table.

‘Time is passing,’ he began. ‘I must go with Master Reginald. I have described to you the present dangers and possible outcomes. My absence, and the reasons for it, will remain secret. Raphael knows what I have to do. He will be in charge whilst I am away. He will make sure that all signs of the recent attack are removed and will use our friends and allies amongst the river folk to keep sharp guard against any fresh assault. After I leave, Ignacio will return.’ He used his fingers to translate what he had said for his henchman.

Once finished, Simon clasped hands and kissed Katherine on the brow. A short while later, he, Ignacio and Master Reginald Bray slipped out of the Roseblood along the narrow lanes leading down to the riverside. It was a cold evening; the rain had ceased, but a snapping breeze wafted the mist along the runnels. Simon pulled his cowl forward to hide his face, though he and his party kept their swords and daggers clear to frighten off the hooded shades lurking in alcoves and filth-strewn corners. Ignacio carried a torch, its busy flame creating a moving pool of light.

They passed painted whores of every description and variety, hurrying down to the quayside to satisfy the lusts of the sailors from the royal cogs gathering in the shabby quayside alehouses. Two blowsy slatterns shuffled by holding between them some young coxcomb, so drunk he could hardly stand. Simon glimpsed Milwort, a stumbling shadow of a beggar, carrying as usual his tattered leather sack containing the dried severed head of an Ottoman Turk, or so he boasted. Simon wondered about the beggar, who claimed to have fought in the armies of the east and taken the head of a Turkish champion. Occasionally Milwort would change his story and describe the salted head as that of Herod the Great, plundered from his tomb in the valley of Gehenna outside Jerusalem. Simon realised he was about to enter the make-believe world of men like Milwort. He would become one of those floating, repulsive figures with a strange story and even more loathsome diseases.

They passed the gibbet on the corner of Thames Street and hurried down arrow-thin alleyways to Quicksilver Manor, the home of the Alchemist. They pushed open the wicket gate, went along the garden path and pulled at the bell under its gleaming iron coping. A taciturn manservant welcomed them through the battered metal-studded door and led them along a maze of gloomy passageways and up rickety stairs. They stopped at a door; the servant pulled back the oxhide covering and rapped the iron carving of a satyr. The door flew back and Simon and his two companions were ushered into the most luxurious chamber. Turkey rugs dyed a deep scarlet covered the coloured tiled floor; black wooden panelling shimmered against the walls; a fire crackled vigorously in the mantled hearth, whilst candlelight dazzled the eye with its golden glow.

A man sitting in a throne-like chair beside the fire rose and shuffled towards them, hands extended. His face was almost hidden by long iron-grey hair and a shaggy beard and moustache. He was dressed in a blue robe dusted with silver moons, whilst his fingers and wrists boasted gleaming precious stones. He embraced Simon in a gust of spices and rich red wine. They exchanged the kiss of peace and Simon introduced Master Reginald.

‘The Alchemist,’ declared the taverner as the two clasped hands. ‘Called so because he can change any man or woman into something completely different. He will transform me into a leper so loathsome even my own children would not recognise me.’

‘True.’ The Alchemist’s deep, rough voice held all the power and music of a professional preacher. ‘I can change base metals into gold and, on rare occasions, gold into dross.’ He gestured to his visitors to sit on cushioned stools before the fire. ‘I received your letter, as you must have received mine, Simon. I can do what you want.’

The Alchemist served them deep-bowled goblets of the finest wine as he chattered about all the gossip in the city: Simon’s triumphant procession to the Guildhall; the murder of the whores in Queenhithe, the attack by French corsairs, as well as the looming rift between the Beauforts and York. ‘All grist to the mill.’ He grabbed his goblet, sinking back into the cushions of his oaken chair. ‘People will need my help to change their appearance lest they lose their heads.’ He never asked Bray what his business was. Simon had given him every assurance about his companion, so the Alchemist cheerfully talked about his own experiences disguising important citizens of London as well as courtiers who had to flee. Simon half listened. The Alchemist was a veritable prince amongst the villains of the city, highly revered by the trugs, tumblers, wapping-morts and counterfeits, all those skilled in disguise. Never once had he been indicted nor seen the inside of a prison.

At last the Alchemist ceased his chatter and turned to the business in hand. ‘So you want to become a leper, Master Simon, and enter the lazar house at St Giles?’ He narrowed his eyes, ‘Joachim Brotherton is the master there, and…’ He paused.

‘And?’ Simon asked.

‘Strange stories,’ the Alchemist replied. ‘Even stranger,’ he grinned, ‘that you wish to enter a leper colony. It can be done, however. Let us begin.’ He turned to Master Bray. ‘You should leave with Ignacio now that you know what I can do.’

Simon lapsed into sign language, fingers twisting swiftly, watching Ignacio’s lips move as he silently repeated what he was learning. When he stopped, the mute nodded in agreement and they embraced, exchanging the kiss of peace. Simon shook Bray’s hand and waited whilst the Alchemist ushered his two companions out of the chamber and down the stairs.

On his return, the Alchemist busied himself in a small chamber off the main solar. Simon opened the chancery bag that he had placed next to his feet and took out the documents and purse Bray had given him. ‘You will assume a new identity,’ Bray had insisted in the secrecy of the Roseblood. ‘You will become Simon Meopham from Norwich, a hospitaller lay brother who has seen service in Outremer. You have been there, haven’t you, yes?’ He hadn’t even waited for Simon’s answer, thrusting documents into his hands. ‘These are letters of accreditation, memoranda of testimony, a physician’s verdict and, above all,’ he flicked the heavy purse, ‘enough silver to pay for a year’s lodgings and a little more. Master Joachim will accept you. The letters you carry are genuine; both the mayor and master at Norwich are like you,
viri jurati
, sworn men, Beaufort’s retainers body and soul. Money and power turn every lock. Remember, Simon, the Beauforts will never ever forget this, but you must be successful. Argentine must be silenced for good and his journal and any other documents seized.’

‘Are you ready?’ The Alchemist stood in the doorway of his chancery office. ‘You must come with me.’

Simon followed him out of the solar, down the stone-flagged corridor and into a stark cellar of a room, its whitewashed walls completely bare except for a crucifix with a sprig of green wound around it. There were a few sticks of furniture and a narrow garderobe in the corner. In the centre of that bleak chamber stood a throne-like chair similar to the one in the Alchemist’s solar. Above this hung a Catherine wheel, lowered so that its concentric rims crammed with candles bathed the chair in light.

‘I would prefer open windows,’ the Alchemist ushered Simon into the seat, ‘but that always attracts the curious. Now,’ he pulled up a stool to face Simon, ‘my friend, I am going to hurt you. If you are a leper, your flesh is corrupt, its texture changed; your eyes become rounded and thinly lidded. There is a strange sparkle in your gaze. Your nose is shrivelled, your voice hoarse, your nails grow rough and coarse. Fingers become crooked, your breath reeks like a midden heap, your skin is so fleshy fat that water will roll off it as it does off an oiled hide. No hair, no moustache or beard, your eyebrows mere marks. So,’ he pushed his face closer, ‘are you ready for the journey to the dark side of the night? You will approach the very doors of hell. You will meet the key-jangling janitors of the shadowlands where bad men bustle no more and a profound silence reigns. When you walk abroad, windows become shuttered, street doors slam closed, birdsong dies; even the dogs and cats will avoid you.’

‘I have been warned and advised.’ Simon held the Alchemist’s gaze. ‘Red and brown nodules will appear on my face, upper body, fingers and hands. A leper’s face thickens so his features are similar to those of a cat. Ulcers appear, the limbs stiffen and the pits of my body will reek like those of a male goat on heat. The letters from Norwich claim that I am in the first stages of the disease.’

‘Good.’ The Alchemist breathed. ‘So you know. You will wear thick woollen gloves and stockings of the same texture. I will supply these, as I will the face mask, tunic, sandals and the grey-hooded cloak with its red cross.’

‘Ignacio will bring you payment.’

The Alchemist waved his hand as if that was of little importance.

‘And you have been closely instructed on how to protect yourself at St Giles?’ he asked.

‘Take no food or drink touched by a leper. Avoid their fetid breath and any of their body fluids. That will be easy. I am a wealthy guest. I will be given quarters similar to those of a Carthusian monk. I can eat—’

‘The only real danger,’ the Alchemist broke in, ‘would be a scrupulous study of your body by a trained, very skilled physician. However, knowing what I do of Master Joachim, that will not happen.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Simon, why are you really going?’

‘I am a sworn man.’ Simon shrugged. ‘What I am, the Beauforts made me. There are other reasons, but every man has his secrets.’

‘God rewards such loyalty.’ The Alchemist rubbed his hands. ‘Now we begin. You will become a leper, a revolting disease that has no cure.’ He tapped his head. ‘You must adopt the attitude that you are joining the living dead from which there is no respite or pardon. So, let the alchemy begin.’

Over the next four days, Simon experienced a harrowing of the soul. The Alchemist shaved all the hair from his body, deliberately cutting the skin to draw blood. Simon was covered with a thick, oozing fat, its reek making his stomach turn; his teeth were blackened with a special juice, his eyelids clipped, his flesh rubbed with a paste made from iron rust and unslaked lime. Tinctures of ratsbane provoked great blisters. He was not allowed out of the cell. The Alchemist tried to distract him by describing how he had prepared all the great counterfeit men of the city. Small yellow, brown and red buboes appeared on Simon’s hands and face. The Alchemist trained him on how to walk and speak and instructed him to practise this throughout the day. The pain and soreness robbed Simon of sleep and rest, although the Alchemist was very pleased.

‘You must assume the look of a man,’ he advised, ‘in whom the silver cord has snapped, the golden lamp broken, the pitcher shattered. Your life is darkness and the shadows threaten to engulf you completely. Your coffin lies ready and the mourners await.’

Simon was left to reflect on such sombre thoughts, but other memories and images came drifting back. He thought of his wife Rohesia, buried beneath the cold slabs of All Hallows, and his secret love for Eleanor. Why had she cut herself off so suddenly? Did she fear him? Was it guilt over the death of his brother? Eleanor had sent him a message after the attack by the corsairs saying how she wished to see him. He had not replied. Regrettably, that would have to wait until this present business was finished. Once it was, Simon was determined to confront Eleanor and demand that she speak the truth about the night Edmund had so foolishly left the tavern. He wanted to discover if LeCorbeil truly had had a hand in his murder, and how that malevolence, rooted in some hideous massacre in France years ago, had provoked such hatred as to claim Edmund’s life and carry out the brutal, bloody attack on the Roseblood.

The pain and cruel discomfort of his disguise deepened, forcing Simon to pace his cell during the death watches of the night. He had no choice but to reflect on his life and the dangers pressing in on him from every side. He must do something about the hideous murders of those whores. Prostitutes, strumpets and streetwalkers came and went; sometimes they were spirited aboard ships for the flesh markets of France, Flanders or even further afield. But these gruesome murders? Simon, tired and weary, racked his memory. Similar outrages had taken place many years ago in Dowgate; a tailor, that was it, had been responsible. Moonstruck and of hellish soul, he had inflicted various forms of cruelty on whores and tavern maids to satisfy his own deep hatred against all women. Eventually the murderer had been caught and strangled at Smithfield, but had the demon that possessed him returned to haunt some other soul?