The King's Fixer

By Howard M Crawshaw

Thomas Crookes, a depraved 15th century priest driven by an insatiable pursuit of power, resorts to murder and blackmail to rise within the medieval Church, itself rife with corruption maintaining its hold over the people by expounding the threat of hell-fire whilst tolerating iniquity and immorality in its own ranks.

Thomas, full of ambition, ingratiates himself with King Edward IV becoming his close confidant and fixer, thus thrusting him into machination and intrigue at the very heart of the kingdom.

This is medieval society in the raw with its bawdiness, brutality and violence brought to life in colourful detail. The bloody battles of Towton and Tewkesbury, the hunting, feasting, whore-houses, public executions, superstition and bustling markets all combine to make a gritty gripping story in an extremely evocative 15th century setting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Dec 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398429239

Howard M Crawshaw

As a boy Howard was a chorister at Exeter Cathedral. He studied medicine at Edinburgh University, then trained in surgery becoming a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh. He spent a year working in Boston, Massachusetts, and later was appointed consultant surgeon to the Edinburgh hospitals and honorary senior lecturer in the university department of clinical surgery. Later in life, he worked as a lay clerk and chapter clerk at Ripon Cathedral. Howard is now retired and lives with his wife Susan in Ripon, North Yorkshire.

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About the Author

As a boy Howard was a chorister at Exeter Cathedral. He studied medicine at Edinburgh University, then trained in surgery becoming a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh. He spent a year working in Boston, Massachusetts, and later was appointed consultant surgeon to the Edinburgh hospitals and honorary senior lecturer in the university department of clinical surgery. Later in life, he worked as a lay clerk and chapter clerk at Ripon Cathedral.

Howard is now retired and lives with his wife Susan in Ripon, North Yorkshire.

Dedication

To my darling wife Susan and my wonderful children Amanda, Emma, Simon and Meghan.

Copyright Information ©

Howard M Crawshaw 2022

The right of Howard M Crawshaw to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398429222 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398429239 (ePub e-book)

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First Published 2022

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Chapter 1

Ripon, November 1455

Thomas Crookes marvelled at the ease with which his blade glided through the flesh. He hesitated for a moment, intoxicated by a surge of power; power over his victim, power over life and death. Blood, dark red, welled up into the gaping throat, and then, as the knife cut deeper it sprayed the dank air with a force that startled him. The man went limp and slowly sank to the ground. Thomas looked, trembling yet elated. There in a pool of blood and with throat slit wide open lay the lifeless body of Canon Richard, Prebendary of Sharow, revered priest of Ripon Minster, holy man of God, hypocrite, fornicator and murderer.

Thomas, tall but slight of frame, eyes dark and penetrating, lips thin and mean, sat with a mug of ale in a corner of the drinking room of the alehouse in Low Skellgate identified only by a pole garlanded with a little foliage above its door. It consisted of a single room, worn and shabby, with benches and tables on which were a number of wooden ale jugs and leather beakers. To one side of the floor stood seven or eight wooden buckets in which wives and sweethearts carried ale to their menfolk who worked the land throughout the day.

The alehouse was run by Walter Nash, a seedy character who sometimes worked with the local gravedigger, together with his wife Winifred and two daughters Beatrix and Millicent. The three women made their own ale in the back room using malted barley, sometimes adding nettles or dandelions for flavour. Walter had recently tried serving some basic food, bread and buns, in an attempt to compete with the fashionable Unicorn Inn in Market Place which had successfully started providing proper meals, pies, fish and meat. He soon gave it up, however, for this was not what his own customers wanted. They were there for the ale and for the services of Beatrix and Millicent who used the two upstairs rooms to proffer other delights.

Thomas was in reflective mood. He recalled his father William, a canny resourceful man who had died when Thomas was 11 years old, leaving him and his mother to fend for themselves. He shuddered as he remembered the stinking pus-pool of an ulcer that had eaten away half of his father’s face, the distended belly, the monstrous bloated legs, the cries of pain and anguish and then the callous way his wretched body had been taken in a cart and tossed into a foetid pit with beggars, thieves and vagabonds. Before he died, however, William had shown Thomas many ways of making a living from the streets; how to cut a purse from the belt of a merchant as he walked through Market Place or, together with a small gang of other boys, how to lift a loaf of bread having distracted the baker or pilfer some vegetables having flustered the farmer’s wife. All this Thomas continued to do after his father had gone to keep him and his family fed.

He thought about Anna, his mother, a spirited woman who, after her husband’s death and from sheer desperation, had found it necessary to prostitute herself in order to make a few extra pennies or in exchange for some item of clothing or bread and ale. There was no shortage of custom with men from all walks of life always ready to use her. Some were appreciative and paid readily whilst arranging their next visit. Others appeared ungrateful and needed persuasion to open their purses, and many were drunk and often violent.

Thomas found himself retracing the grim events of the past few days, the hypocrisy and foul play that led to his mother’s public disgrace. How, on the Eve of the Feast of Saint Edmund the Martyr, Canon Richard made one of his regular visits to Anna to slake his lust but this time he refused to pay. ‘You owe it to the Almighty to care for his ministers,’ he told her. ‘God needs you to serve his Church in many different ways.’

‘Yeah, an’ ‘e needs me to cut your pissin’ cock off if you don’t cough up,’ screamed Anna picking up a knife and pointing it at the canon’s crotch, ‘So give me my money, you moulderin’ dung heap.’

A great hullabaloo ensued, and Canon Richard, face heavy with rage, was forced to escape through a crowd of jeering onlookers.

Two days later, Anna answered a loud banging on her door to find Guy Mannering standing outside with two men-at-arms. She, who knew Guy to be a mean merciless man, found herself trembling as she recalled the many arrests made and punishments administered by him in his capacity as special bailiff employed by the Chapter of Canons, the senior priests of the minster.

‘I am commanded to escort you to the minster,’ declared Mannering, ‘and there present you to the canons’ court to answer certain charges that have been made against you.’

‘What charges?’ demanded Anna coming by a smidgen of defiance. She knew of others who had found themselves in this particular court, the proceedings of which were overseen entirely by the canons, not in the pursuit of justice but purely to further the interests of the priests themselves. The outcome for those summonsed was invariably bad.

‘By the power vested in me by The Holy Church,’ continued Mannering, ‘I charge you with harlotry, with lewd and salacious behaviour, and with keeping a whore-house which is offensive to both God and man.’

‘What a load o’ shit,’ snarled Anna standing disdainfully with hands on hips. ‘Offensive to both God an’ man? Men come back to me time an’ time again an’ God should be pleased for the joy an’ comfort I gives ‘em.’

Nevertheless, Anna knew that she had no choice but to obey the summons, and she was escorted by Mannering and the two men-at-arms through the streets of Ripon to the great west door of the minster. Here the men-at-arms stood down and Anna and Mannering were then joined by two vicars. She was walked the length of the lofty dark nave with windows only at the highest level, and as she went, she glanced across to the tiny space that was the chapel of Saint Margaret and shuddered, memories, such dreadful memories. They reached the heavy stone pulpitum screen and turned right into the south transept. From there she was taken into the chapter house where the court was assembled.

Anna had never been into the chapter house before with its slim pillars, its low vaulted ceiling and its two large round windows looking south down the hill to High Agnesgate and the River Skell beyond. Stone benches ran along the walls, and on the north bench sat three men of the town, their eyes fixing on her the moment she entered. Anna didn’t recognise any of them. On the south bench sat four vicars, tonsured and wearing full length black cassocks. They were joined by the two who had accompanied Anna from the west door. At the far end of the room were three large intricately carved chairs. In the centre sat Canon Gregory, the court president, and to his right Canon Richard, both also tonsured, but being senior priests of the minster clothed in red cassocks. Guy Mannering settled himself in the chair to the left.

Anna was placed in the centre of the room facing Canon Gregory. She looked at Canon Richard and knew that this was of his doing. She had wondered if there would be any comeback from his recent visit.

Canon Richard stood, bowed to the president, rose to his fullest height and spoke as if holding forth from the pulpit.

‘Reverend Father, I bring before you and before God this woman, Anna Crookes, so that she might be examined, and enquiries made as to the nature of her evil ways. I bring her before you and before God so that she may be enabled to confess her misdeeds. I bring her before you and before God so that she may be duly punished and thereby cleansed of her sins and once again know Jesus Christ our saviour.’

‘We need to hear the details of this woman’s wanton behaviour,’ directed Canon Gregory looking Anna up and down and sensing a fullness in his crotch. ‘What has she actually done?’

‘I ain’t done nothin’,’ howled Anna.

‘Silence,’ ordered Canon Gregory raising his hand. Anna whimpered and lowered her head. Canon Gregory motioned to Canon Richard to continue.

‘As Eve brought about the downfall of Adam showing us that the sinfulness of women is greater than all the wickedness in the world, so this foul temptress used her devilish womanly wiles to lure good and pious men to unwillingly perform the sexual act, that bestial coupling, which is loathsome in God’s eyes, all for her own gratification. Then, having taken her pleasure of these poor innocent creatures, beloved of Our Lord, she demanded payment. I tell you reverend sir, this woman is a whore and a strumpet and as such is but Satan’s bait, poison for men’s souls and…’

‘Yes, yes, enough of this,’ interrupted Canon Gregory waving his hand impatiently. ‘Let’s get on with it shall we. Call the first witness.’

Canon Richard, ruffled, stared at the court president for a second, sighed, then turned to the three townsmen seated on the stone bench.

‘Would Tybalt Fletcher come forward,’ he ordered.

A thickset muscular man, dirty and dishevelled, rose and stood cocksure as a king in the centre of the room, his broad calloused hands clasped together in front of his belly. His face was blotchy and pock-marked, and his large head was capped with a tangle of greasy shoulder-length hair.

‘You are Tybalt Fletcher?’ demanded Canon Richard.

‘Yes sir, yes sir I am.’

‘Well now Tybalt Fletcher, please tell the court of your recent dealings with this woman,’ said the canon.

‘Yes sir, thank you sir, I will,’ replied Tybalt clearing his throat. ‘The other day I just happened to be walking past her house, quite by chance you understand, I wasn’t looking for anything, nothing like that, when she comes up to me, bares her tits, puts her hand on my cock and says, I can see what you’re looking for and I’m your whore, good an’ cheap. I was shocked I tell you, really shocked, and I resisted, I resisted a lot, but she was very seductive, almost hypnotic, and before I knew it I was inside the house lying naked on my back on the floor with me in her and her pumping up and down on me. I could see a devilish look on her face and all I could think of was to pray to the Lord begging him to forgive this poor wretch. And then afterwards, after she’d had her way with me like, she asked me for money. She wanted tuppence I tell you, tuppence for the best fuck you’ve ever had, she said. Well, I gave her a halfpenny, but purely out of charity you understand, purely out of char…’

‘You lyin’ lump o’ dog shit,’ hissed Anna.

‘Silence woman,’ barked Canon Gregory. ‘You’ll speak only when you’re spoken to, do you understand?’

Anna’s head fell once more.

The two other men who had been sitting with Fletcher were presented to the court as witnesses and both gave similar accounts, very similar in fact, almost word for word. They had clearly made up their stories together and as likely as not rehearsed it with Canon Richard and had undoubtedly been paid well for their trouble.

Canon Gregory turned to Anna.

‘Anna Crookes,’ he said in a solemn voice, ‘You have heard the evidence given to this court. Do you have anything to say?’

‘You slimy toad,’ snarled Anna looking defiantly back at the canon. ‘You sit there in judgement on me when the whole world knows you’ve fucked me yourself often enough, an’ a tiddly little co…’

‘Enough, enough,’ roared Canon Gregory, sitting bolt upright and puffing out his chest to emphasise his authority. ‘Anna Crookes, you are guilty of prostitution, of seducing faithful and devout followers of Our Lord thereby placing their very souls in peril. It is my duty as God’s instrument on earth to sentence you to due punishment so as to wash away your unrighteousness, to save your soul from the terrors of hell and the Devil and to show you the way back to the loving embrace of Jesus Christ. I now give you over to the civic authorities. You will be taken from this place, you will be stripped naked to the waist, you will be tethered to a horse-drawn cart by your wrists, and you will be whipped whilst being led twice round Market Place.’

‘My God those canons are evil swine,’ Thomas said to himself topping up his mug from the jug of ale on the table and taking a few mouthfuls. ‘Anyway, Canon Richard’s dead now and surely he’s burning in the fires of hell.’ Thomas had never killed anybody before, tempted though he’d been. He relived the moment and felt that sense of exhilaration once more. ‘They’ll have found the body by now,’ he thought. ’They won’t work out who did it. Nobody saw me and they rarely bring a murderer to justice these days, useless half-wits that they are.’

This whole sorry episode concentrated Thomas’s mind on the future. What to do with his life. Despite his lowly status and criminal upbringing, he had managed to get himself educated. When he was 12 years old, shortly after his father’s death, he had presented himself to Henry Savage, master of Ripon Grammar School. Thomas was a very bright and intelligent boy and Henry Savage, being mightily impressed, had offered him a place. Here he had studied Latin with schoolmaster Savage, and music with Canon John Clere, the precentor and rector chori, or master of the choir, at the minster.

During his time at the school, Thomas had come into close contact with those working at Ripon Minster, in particular: the seven canons, senior priests, one of whom was Precentor John Clere himself and another, of course, Canon Richard. He had also become acquainted with the six vicars choral, junior priests, who, as well as performing pastoral duties in the parish, sang in the minster choir. Over the years, he had discovered first-hand the arrogance, the selfishness, the depravity and the godlessness of the clergy as evidenced by the recent treatment of his mother. Most of all, he had witnessed their unquenchable pursuit of power over everything around them, and over time he had assimilated this way of thinking until he himself had become saturated with self-interest and ambition.

Well, thought Thomas quaffing the last of his ale and slamming his mug down, The whole damned Church is corrupt, taking care of its own and to hell with everybody else, and the clergy behave in a way that’s about as godly as a pig’s fart. But it seems to me that they know better than anybody how to get the most out of life, and if I want the same then the choice is obvious. I’ll join them and become a priest myself. If they think they’re smart I’ll show them what real cunning is, and if I play the game well enough, I’ll trump the lot of them. But there’s one thing I must do first, one more score to settle.

Chapter 2

Archbishop of York’s Palace, Ripon

February 1456

The palace kitchens were as hectic as Ripon Market Place on the day of the Saint Wilfrid Fair. Scores of men were toiling over steaming pots, whilst others were kneading bread, fashioning pie coffins, gutting and preparing animals and generally making ready for the evening banquet. Cooks, poulterers, confectioners and sauce-makers were fussing over their own recipes and snapping impatiently at ham-fisted underlings. Umpteen menials were going to and fro, chopping and hauling wood and drawing water, while numerous scullions scrubbed worktops and the never-ending stream of used cooking utensils.

‘How long have you worked here now, Thomas?’ asked Walter.

Thomas turned to the man he was assisting and saw a stocky figure, older than most, perhaps 50, with a round cheery face sitting on a stool next to the fire-pit. Walter Overdale had worked in the Archbishop of York’s palace in Ripon since boyhood gradually mastering many of the skills required in the kitchen, but latterly, having become infirm, had been given the post of master cook of the roasting spits, an easy task since all the hard work was done by young subordinates.

‘Just under three weeks,’ replied Thomas knowing that the old man would delight in his lack of experience.

Walter smiled.

‘Well, you’ve a way to go before you catch me up,’ he said proudly just as he had told numerous previous assistants. ‘I’ve seen cooks come and go. I’ve seen archbishops come and go. Nobody’s been here as long as I have.’ This was true and Thomas had learned that Walter was of the old school.

‘We’re all born into our own particular station in life,’ he had said a few days before, ‘And there we should stay. Peasants will always be peasants and lords will always be lords. If dukes and earls consider themselves to be better than everybody else, then that’s because they are. Them to rule us and us to serve them is part of the natural order of things. That’s the way God made us and that’s the way he means us to stay.’

‘What bollocks,’ Thomas had replied much to Walter’s consternation. ‘That may be how people thought when you were young, but we’ve moved on a bit since then. It’s only the nobility and The Church that try to keep these ideas going as a way of protecting and preserving their power. I’m a peasant, but I tell you I’ve got plans. I’m not going to stay like this for ever.’

Thomas’s thoughts returned to the present. He looked around the kitchen keenly eyeing everybody, but there was no sign of the man he was waiting for.

The main kitchen was a capacious lofty rectangular space with several windows set high on the walls through which the pale winter sun filtered down on the hurly-burly below. Many heavy wooden worktables and chopping blocks were set upon a trodden earth floor now strewn with fresh rushes. Two expansive open fire-pits were blazing, one at each end of the room, both with hoods to vent the smoke. A series of wrought-iron hooks and cranes hung over one so that cauldrons could be swung to and fro and lowered into the flames, and at the other roasting spits of different sizes were propped up on firedogs. Two massive ovens which had been heated by wood burning fires stood charged with sundry pies and loaves of bread.

Cooking pots, frying pans, cauldrons and kettles were all around. One table was completely given over to the broyeur who worked the mortars and pestles and sieve cloths, thus providing the mashed and strained preparations for various recipes. Numerous pipkins holding black pepper, cinnamon, cumin, nutmeg, ginger, saffron and cloves were dotted about together with larger pots containing sugar, salt and almonds, and baskets of fresh herbs were sitting ready to be incorporated into the spectacular dishes being prepared.

A high pointed archway opened into a small chamber which led to three separate spaces serving the main kitchen. The pantry, where the bread was prepared, also held the cheeses and the table linen. A cool larder stored food prior to use particularly meat, game and fish, and the buttery housed the beer butts from which the butler served ale to the lower members of the household. A stone staircase ran down to a vaulted cellar, and here wine reserved for the archbishop, his guests and senior staff was carefully inventoried by the cellarer.

‘You can turn the spit a little slower now Thomas,’ said Walter.

The hog had been gutted and then spitted following which a boy had salted the skin. Meanwhile, Thomas had been building up the fire using bellows to get it really hot. Two porters had carried the carcass and placed it on the firedogs, and it was Thomas’s job, under Walter’s supervision, to turn the spit fairly quickly so the outside did not burn before the interior was cooked.

‘You’d think we were feeding a whole blessed army tonight,’ said Thomas thankful to be told to slow down.

‘Well, it’s the archbishop’s banquet,’ declared Walter. ‘He always has a banquet when he visits one of his palaces. It keeps the local dignitaries happy.’

‘How many god-damned palaces does he have?’ asked Thomas.

‘Oh