Athelstan climbed these, knocked on the iron-studded door and was ushered into what the mannekin Robert Burdon called his ‘workshop’. Custos of the Bridge and Keeper of the Heads, Burdon was scarcely five feet tall, a small, pot-bellied man who loved to dress in blood-red taffeta, the colour of what he jokingly called his ‘fraternity of the shearing knife’.
In the chambers above Athelstan could hear the screams and shouts of Burdon’s brood of children.
‘Brother Athelstan! Brother Athelstan, come deeper in.’ The friar walked up the macabre chamber, long and narrow, lit only by arrow-slit windows, its wooden floor scrubbed clean, as was the long table which ran down the centre of the room. On shelves along the wall ranged rows of freshly severed heads; these had been washed in brine and recently tarred at the neck, glassy eyes above gaping, bloody mouths gazing sightlessly at him from under half-open lids. Athelstan refused Burdon’s offer of refreshment. He explained why he had come and placed the sack on the table. Burdon, calling blessings down on Sir John, undid the twine and brought out both heads. Clicking his tongue noisily as he critically examined them, the mannekin picked each up, sniffed at them in turn, wetted his fingers and stroked the grey, wizened skin of the two severed heads. He then examined the cut necks. Athelstan had to turn away when Burdon prised open the mouths, poking around with his fingers. Once finished he placed both heads in a space along the shelves.
‘Do you know, Brother,’ Burdon smiled, ‘at night, when darkness falls like a sheet of blackness and the river mists billow in, they come for their heads. Oh, yes! Heart-stricken, bloated and dangerous, the ghosts, the terrormongers, rise from the dismal woods of Hell. They gather here, ushered in by the night hags, a synod of wraiths.’ Athelstan stared at him in disbelief.
‘True, true,’ Burdon lifted his hands towards the shelves, ‘the ghosts of all my guests. I hear them pattering up the steps. Sometimes I glimpse them, smaller than me, hell-borne goblins. They bang on the walls. They gabble like Abraham men then they whisper, a sound like roasted fish hissing on a skillet. But,’ Burdon rose to his feet, ‘not these two. You see, their ghosts cannot cross the sea though their heads did, mind you. I detect salt water on their skins, while I’m sure both were severed not by an English axe but a two-handed broad sword, the execution weapon of Brabant?’ Burdon raised his eyebrows. ‘Flanders? Both heads are dry. The skin withering, the carrion birds will soon peck them to the bone. One head belongs to an old woman, the other to a fairly youngish man. Both have had their tongues plucked out.’
‘So,’ Athelstan sketched a blessing in the direction of the heads, ‘two heads brought from Flanders by Gaunt’s agents. They were undoubtedly the victims of judicial decapitation, probably carried out in secret. Before execution, their tongues were plucked out, the usual statutory punishment for those guilty of grievous calumny and slander. Both heads were to be shown to My Lord of Gaunt.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I suspect the heads were taken by the Upright Men during their assault near Aldgate and searched for when Thibault’s men stormed the Roundhoop.’
‘I heard about both incidents, Brother. I took custody of a number of heads…’
‘Well, Robert,’ Athelstan clasped him on the shoulder, ‘you have two more.’ He bowed and walked towards the door, reluctant to say any more. After all, Master Burdon might be Thibault’s spy. The friar whispered goodbye and walked into the freezing cold.
Part Four
‘Vermis: The Serpent’
The light was dying. People, wrapped in cloaks, mantles and hoods, hurried home. The Southwark gallows rose fearsome and sombre through the murk, the corpses hanging there already freezing hard. The stocks nearby were full of miscreants, locked by neck, wrist or ankle. The moans of the prisoners were so pitiful Athelstan begged the bailiffs, for the love of God and the honour of Sir John, to free them. A couple of coins provided the necessary encouragement. Athelstan walked up the main thoroughfare into the tangle of alleyways leading towards his church. The friar paused, still lost in thought. ‘The heads were severed in Ghent,’ he murmured, ‘their tongues plucked out beforehand. They must have uttered some terrible slander against My Lord of Gaunt, but what? Something connected with that mysterious prisoner?’
‘Brother, are you well?’ Athelstan blinked and stared at the sharp features of Ranulf the rat catcher peering out at him from the shelter of his tarred, pointed hood. Ranulf lifted his cage carrying his ferocious ferrets, Ferox and Audax. ‘All quiet at the church, Brother. Master Thibault’s gifts disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. Slices of roast pork and stoups of ale. Well,’ Ranulf shook his cage, ‘Moleskin the boatmen’s shed is plagued by rats. The cold has driven the enemy out into the open,’ and, muttering to himself, Ranulf wandered off, swaying slightly on his feet.
Athelstan continued up the alleyway on to the open enclosure before St Erconwald’s. The old church rose eerily in the murky light under its carpet of frozen snow, a white wilderness which only emphasized the dull, black mass of the sombre church. A beacon light, lit by Mauger the bell clerk, glowed from the steeple. Candlelight flared behind the shutters of the death house where Godbless and his goat sheltered. Athelstan stared around at the sheer bleakness. He wondered what visions lurked here beyond the veil? He walked to the cemetery lychgate. Did the Soul-harrier, Satan’s apostate angel, hide among the gravestones? Did the shadow spirits, the wandering wraiths and shade-souls, hover to plot dark designs against the living? Athelstan closed his eyes. Was Godbless right? Did the dead swarm here like larvae, squalid ghosts, eyes the colour of boxwood in faces of waxen yellow? The beggar claimed he had heard their night shrieks. Athelstan rubbed his eyes. ‘And you, Friar,’
