Roseblood (9 page)

The sound of voices grew louder. The barn door opened and her father, accompanied by Raphael and Ignacio, carrying a tray bearing a jug and three goblets, came in. Whilst Ignacio served the goblets, Raphael positioned two heavy lantern horns. Blackshanks and his companions stood slurping the wine, unaware of the danger closing in like a hawk. There was movement, her father crossing to the left, Ignacio to the right. Raphael had slipped behind the three wolfsheads. Katherine could feel her heart beating, her jaw tightly clenched.

‘Well?’ Blackshanks bellowed, taking another gulp of claret. ‘What do you have to say?’

‘Never drink wine with your enemies.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if you are holding a goblet…’

Blackshanks dropped his cup, but it was too late. Her father’s sword came hissing out of its scabbard, and in a glittering arc of steel he severed Blackshanks’s head. At the same time, Gull-Groper was dealt with by one swift cut from Ignacio, while Scalding-Boy, still grasping his goblet in shocked surprise, never even saw Raphael’s sword as it whipped through the air.

Katherine froze to the spot. She could only stare at the severed trunks, the spouting blood, heads rolling away as the bodies collapsed. She closed her eyes, but all she saw was Sevigny’s brooding face.

London, April 1455

R
aphael Roseblood crossed himself and gazed around the beautifully furnished solar. The Camelot Chamber was exquisitely decorated, and its carved mantled hearth, with a woodwose in the middle and a Robin Goodfellow face on either side, housed a merrily spitting fire. The flames crackled the pine-scented logs and illuminated the gorgeous arras that adorned the pink-plastered walls above the polished oak wainscoting. The floor had a tiled mosaic replicating what the master mason had seen in an ancient Roman villa along the Great North Road: a brilliant depiction of leaping dolphins above cream-crested blue waves. The chamber was dominated by the splendid round table furnished with high-backed chairs cushioned in purple and red stuffing. In the centre of the table rose the gold-encrusted replica of the ship that took Arthur into the Eternal West. Simon Roseblood always met his council of sworn men here. Tonight the conclave was most serious in the face of the threats gathering against him.

Raphael stared hard at his father: his black and silver hair was combed back to reveal his leathery face, and those clever eyes looked deeply troubled, whilst the resolute chin and mouth betrayed some of the tension he must be feeling. Father Benedict, sitting on Simon Roseblood’s left, claimed that his patron’s face was one well lived in. Raphael wondered what plots and counterplots his father’s teeming brain was sifting. Ignacio, Monkshood, Wormwood and the other principal henchmen were present; all had served with his father under Beaufort’s banner in France. Raphael smiled to himself. The only persons here who had not served in such an array were himself and his sister Katherine, who, hair decorously hidden under a veil, now sat nervously on her chair. Raphael had objected to her presence, rejecting her as being a woman of tender years, but his father had been adamant.

‘Blood is blood,’ he’d muttered. ‘If mine flows, so will hers. She deserves to be one of us. Mark my words, Raphael. Katherine is a better man than many we know.’

His sister seemed lost in her own thoughts. Raphael suspected she had been in the tithe barn earlier that evening. Indeed, he was sure he’d glimpsed her white face between the bales in the hay loft. She had probably witnessed her first executions. Raphael had grown used to them, slaying men who threatened him and his family. For a brief moment he fought a surge of anger at his younger brother, Gabriel, safely closeted away in holy seclusion at Greyfriars. He breathed out; but that was Gabriel! The two of them often laughed at the names given to them, their mother insisting that her sons be named after God’s great archangels.

Raphael sat back in his chair, relaxing against the softness of the cushion. Ignacio lit more candles and Monkshood served white wine and marchpane. Raphael wondered how he would make reparation to God for the man he’d killed that day: either by creeping to the cross on Fridays or through a rigorous fast on holy days. Sometimes he would reveal the burden of his guilt to the priests, but they just echoed the words of their patron: ‘The life that we have is the life that we lead.’

‘In praise of the Blessed Peter, God’s own fisherman!’ Simon Roseblood tapped the table with his hand and took a generous sip, his first of the evening, from the jewel-encrusted Glastonbury goblet. ‘The business before us now…’

He paused and stared at Raphael, who nodded. All was in order. Men stood on guard outside, the doors were sealed, the windows of thick mullion glass had no gaps or slits for traitorous eavesdroppers. The chamber fell silent, all eyes on Simon Roseblood, the only movement the shifting shadow of flickering candle flame.

‘The day of the great slaughter is imminent,’ Simon intoned. ‘The fortresses will fall.’ Raphael watched his father; he had never seen him so tense. ‘York will move south,’ Simon’s voice had fallen to a whisper, ‘and the days of Cade will return. That is why we are facing this sea of troubles. Now you are all sworn men, so I shall reveal to you my most secret thoughts.’ He paused again. ‘Candlemas and his coven, without my authority, were involved in that raid on the silver bullion intended for the royal mint. I can now tell you, as I learned from my own spy at the Guildhall, that the robbery was plotted by no less a person than Sir Philip Malpas, our noble lord sheriff. I learnt a few more details from Bolt-Head, God rest him, before he went into hiding.’ Simon stilled the gasps and exclamations. ‘York needs silver to pay his troops. Malpas intended to enrich York and of course weaken the King and my lord Beaufort.

‘Now you all know Candlemas: loud-mouthed, insubordinate, with no real loyalty to me. Malpas easily turned him, but the second part of our good sheriff’s plot was then to betray that stupid moon man to a bloody death. A few of Candlemas’s coven would be pardoned, but this is what Malpas truly revelled in: they would indict me as responsible for the robbery. Somehow or other, a little of the stolen silver would be found in this tavern. I thwarted their plot. My lord of Beaufort was alerted and the silver was replaced with rusty filings not worth a penny. Malpas and Sevigny, who had just arrived in the city, were furious. Four of Candlemas’s gang were apprehended and executed. The city would expect that. This was to terrify the rest: it would only be a matter of time before they were captured and the second part of the sheriff’s plot could go ahead. I would be indicted and Beaufort would lose a most powerful ally in this city. Tomorrow, Candlemas and Cross-Biter will be used to testify against me.’

‘And they will do that?’ Raphael exclaimed.

‘We shall see, we shall see.’ His father smiled.

‘And Blackshanks’s coven?’ asked the Fisher-King, captain of
The Excalibur
barge.

‘Monkshood,’ Simon gestured at his grizzled Captain of the Damned, ‘tell them what you have done.’

‘Their corpses lie in arrow chests.’ Monkshood grated. ‘Their heads stand poled just inside the gateway below. We have taken them to every tavern in the ward, a clear proclamation of Master Roseblood’s power.’

‘Can we justify what we have done?’ Raphael asked.

‘My son,’ Simon lifted his goblet in toast, ‘and you the lawyer?’ As he spoke, his fingers translated the words for Ignacio. ‘First, Blackshanks and the others were outlaws; they’d received no royal pardon. Second, they drew their weapons and publicly threatened me, an alderman of this city. Third, they intended to usurp the power of the council at the Guildhall.’ He pulled a face. ‘Blackshanks was arrogant, deep in his cups. He moved too swiftly. He brought about his own death and that of his companions. I will claim self-defence. Any justice of oyer and terminer, not to mention those of the King’s Bench, would agree.’

Raphael nodded in agreement. Who would plead for three wolfsheads, proclaimed
ut legati
– beyond the law – in the surrounding shires?

‘They had their uses.’ Simon murmured, provoking laughter.

Raphael glanced at Katherine, who sat white-faced, staring at the arras on the far wall. He had accompanied Ignacio, Toadflax and Monkshood through the ward, each bearing a severed head on a pole. They had stopped at alehouses, drinking booths and taverns as well as the lychgates of churches and chapels. The message was clear. Here were three wolfsheads, taken red-handed, weapons drawn against Alderman Roseblood; for this they had been brutally and swiftly executed, a warning to everyone to wait and see if Roseblood’s power had been truly weakened.

‘What other business?’ Simon gestured at Raphael.

‘Candlemas?’

‘His candle may have blown out,’ Simon joked. ‘Now listen,’ he continued. ‘Tomorrow we will surprise our noble sheriff with a pageant he’ll never forget.’ He drew himself up and described what would happen the following morning, his plans provoking laughter and further discussion.

Raphael tapped the table. ‘There is the question of the whores. In the last fortnight, three have disappeared as swift as smoke on a clear day. Now whispers claim that Calista has not been seen. She was supposed to join her sisters here before moving on to the Three Cranes, where the King’s sailors are mustering.’

Katherine suddenly stirred. She spoke carefully. ‘I was out near the lighthouse ruins this afternoon. I thought I saw Calista. She was with someone.’ She put a finger to her lips. ‘I could not say. I mean, it may not even have been her…’

Her voice trailed off as she darted a glance at Father Benedict. The parish priest, however, seemed lost in his own thoughts, and Raphael realised that Father Roger was not present: still grieving over the death of his mother? he wondered.

‘Anything else?’ Simon asked.

The Camelot Chamber remained silent. This was not the first time whores had disappeared. Raphael remembered other occasions: how his father had once told him that some men had to be violent to a woman to seek their pleasure. He recalled a line from the Psalms about demons prowling the other side of darkness. For all its beauty, the Roseblood tavern was a battlefield. Shadow armies moved. Ghostly warriors, troublesome spirits armoured in hate and seething malice, envy and jealousy against his father, ran swift like some filthy surging sewer, whilst Roseblood’s constant allegiance to the Beauforts posed a steely threat to York both in the city and beyond. Once again Raphael felt a stab of resentment towards his brother.

‘LeCorbeil.’ Simon’s voice was hard. ‘I have been threatened by LeCorbeil.’ He swiftly described what had happened near the lychgate of All Hallows. Raphael could see how agitated Ignacio, Monkshood and Father Benedict became. He spoke without thinking.

‘They say that during Cade’s rebellion, Uncle Edmund left the Roseblood to meet this LeCorbeil. Why?’

‘He went to his death,’ Simon admitted. ‘Edmund and I served Beaufort, first Duke of Somerset, in France. We fought well. I took many ransoms.’ He waved around the solar. ‘That is obvious. Then the tide of war turned against us. We burnt the Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc, in the marketplace at Rouen. Many, including myself, believed that we became cursed. We murdered a saint who had ordered us to go home in our ships or she would send us back in our coffins. Joan’s martyrdom certainly brought this about. English rule collapsed. Commissioners of array found it difficult to levy men here in London and in the shires both north and south of the Trent, so the prisons were emptied, be it Newgate or Windsor Castle.’

‘Les Écorcheurs!’ Father Benedict exclaimed abruptly, drawing himself up. ‘Les Écorcheurs!’ he repeated. ‘The Flayers.’

‘Les Écorcheurs,’ Simon agreed. ‘The scum of our prisons – rufflers and rifflers, cut-throats, murderers, rapists and worse – were dispatched by ship to Normandy. No rules of war for them. They raped, plundered and engaged in the cruellest methods of killing another human being. They particularly liked to flay their victims, peel their skin from their bodies as you would take off a tunic. No one was safe, be it man, woman, child or priest.’ He shook his head. ‘Beaufort hired companies, but he could not dictate what they did.’

‘LeCorbeil?’ Raphael insisted.

‘A town in Normandy. Edmund and I visited it after the Écorcheurs had been there: a true slaughterhouse. The wells and streams were choked with naked lacerated corpses. Cadavers hung from steeples, market crosses, gable ends and shop signs. The place stank like an open sewer. Plumes of black smoke billowed down narrow streets, their cobbles glistening red. We had no part in this, but I suspect we were blamed. Some survivors of the massacre – we do not know or cannot even imagine who they are – have sworn vengeance against the English, and Beaufort in particular. LeCorbeil is more than one person, and whoever they may be, they are generously financed and warmly supported by the French Crown. They are a veritable will-o’-the-wisp, a shape-shifter, a dark strider.’

‘What do they want with you?’

Simon paused to collect his thoughts. ‘To answer your question bluntly, I do not really know. LeCorbeil were certainly involved in Cade’s uprising. They had a hand in the seizure and execution of William de la Pole, the Duke of Suffolk, and they slaughtered other Beaufort adherents, both here and elsewhere. Somehow – and only God and his angels know the truth – LeCorbeil enticed Edmund away from the security and safety of this tavern and struck off his head.’ He rubbed his brow. ‘John Beaufort, first Duke of Somerset, was another of their victims. Gossips claim that he took his own life, distraught at being stripped of his command in France.’ He tapped both hands against the tabletop. ‘I do not think so. Shortly before his death, our good duke, sheltering in his castle, was visited by a Gascon minstrel, a very handsome, charming young man.’