The Herald of Hell by Paul Doherty

Author:Paul Doherty
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Canelo
Published: 2022-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Part Three

‘Murdrum: Murder.’

Cranston and Athelstan exchanged the kiss of peace and the friar left Sir John to his reflections and his wine and made his way out into Cheapside. The crowds had now broken up as the sun began to set. The market horns were blowing and the stall-beadles insisting that the day’s trading be completed. The denizens of the night were also slinking out: nightwalkers and shapeshifters in tattered clothes and cheap hoods with their harsh, pocked faces, glittering eyes and fingers which constantly hovered over the wooden hilts of stabbing daggers and dirks. Beggars whined for alms. Children, enjoying the last hours of daylight, screamed and chased each other, causing the skinny street dogs to yip and bark. Athelstan, his cowl covering both head and face, turned down an alleyway. He had to stand aside for a funeral party making its way down to one of the churches to conduct the death watch, the vigil of prayer before the requiem Mass was sung the following morning.

He retreated into a shabby tavern and was immediately accosted by the ale wife, an ugly-looking harridan with a hooked, dripping nose and skin rough as a sack. Bleary-eyed, she munched on her gums as she glared at Athelstan, one hand on her waist, the knuckles of her fingers glistening with grease. Beside her another woman, face wrinkled as a pig’s ear, blowsy and hot-eyed: Athelstan pulled back his cowl, smiled and sketched a blessing in their direction. The ale wife nodded and pointed to a greasy stool where the friar could sit while the noisy funeral party, which had stopped to drink, and already had done so deeply, organized itself to continue. Athelstan took his seat and stared round the dingy taproom. Hens roosted on the open ale-tubs; his stomach pitched as he saw droppings from the birds fall into the drink, but this did not concern the ale wife, who began to strain the dung through a hair net.

Customers came and went. Many had no money but brought a rabbit, a pot of honey, a spoon or a skillet in lieu of payment. One woman carried a jug but she first sat down to cut a piece of leather off the sole of her tallow-smeared shoe to stop a hole in the jug. Athelstan watched all this with deepening unease. Just a walk away rose the stately mansions of Cheapside hung with silks and brightly coloured cloths, chambers crammed with precious objects. Outside of these stood stalls heaped with goods imported from abroad: oranges, barrels of fruit, glass goblets, rolls of damask and satin, pipes of wine, ornamental needles, mantles of leopard skin. Yet here thrived a different world, one which plotted the bloody destruction of everything Cheapside represented. Athelstan pulled his cowl back over his head as he swiftly scrutinized the other customers grouped around the overturned ale casks and wine tuns, shadowy figures in the poor light from the smelly tallow candles. Here undoubtedly thronged the Upright Men of the ward with their foot soldiers the Earthworms.

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