Candle Flame

PART ONE

‘Flesh-Shambles’: butchers’ yard.

‘Oh City of Dreadful Night!’ Athelstan whispered. The Dominican parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, secretarius atque clericus – secretary and clerk to Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner in the City of London – could only close his eyes and pray. Once again he and Sir John were about to enter the treacherous mire of murder. The hunt for the sons and daughters of Cain would begin afresh; God only knew what sinister paths their pursuit would lead them down. Athelstan’s olive-skinned face was sharp with stubble, his black-and-white gown not too clean, his sandals wrongly latched, whilst his empty belly grumbled noisily. The little friar, his dark eyes heavy with sleep, had been pulled from his cot bed by Cranston, who now stood behind him. The coroner had been most insistent. The Angel of Murder had swept The Candle-Flame tavern and brushed many with its killing wings. Edmund Marsen, his clerk, two whores and five Tower archers had been brutally murdered. The gold and silver, harvested south of the Thames and intended for the ever-yawning coffers of John of Gaunt had been stolen. Thibault, master of the Regent’s secret chancery, had sent that raven of a henchman Lascelles to rouse Sir John to discover what had happened and, above all, recover the looted treasure.

Athelstan stood just within the wicket gate leading into the Palisade. He peered through the misty murk at the forbidding donjon, the Barbican, and, beyond it, the expanse of rough land which stretched down to the piggeries and slaughter pens.

‘Lord,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘I am about to enter the domain of murder. If I become so busy as to forget you, do not thou forget me.’ He crossed himself and turned to where Cranston stood in hushed conversation with the burly taverner Thorne. Two great hulking men, though Mine Host was clean-shaven and more wiry than the generously proportioned coroner. Both men wore close-fitting beaver hats and heavy military cloaks. Cranston had whispered to his ‘good friar’, as he called Athelstan, how he and Thorne had both served in France under the Black Prince’s banner. Thorne was a veteran, a captain of hobelars who had secured enough ransoms to make him a wealthy man and buy The Candle-Flame.

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan called, ‘we should shelter from the cold and view this place of slaughter.’ All three walked over to the remains of the campfire, where a few embers glowed and sparked. Athelstan crouched down, staring at the shifting heap of grey ash.

‘A cold night,’ he murmured. ‘Yet this fire has not been fed for hours.’ He rose and walked over to the corpses of the bowmen, knelt between them, closed his eyes and whispered the words of absolution. Opening the wallet on the cord around his waist, he pulled out the stoppered phial of holy oil and sketched a cross on the dead men’s foreheads. Their skin was ice cold; the blood which they coughed up through their noses and mouths was as frozen as the congealed mess on their chests. Both men had been armed but there was little evidence that they had used the weapons lying beside them.

‘They were killed. I am sorry.’ Athelstan held up a hand. ‘They were murdered, foully so, in the early hours. The fire has burnt low, their corpses are icy to the touch and their hot blood is frozen.’ Athelstan pointed into the darkness. ‘Their assassin crept very close.’ Athelstan indicated the blackjacks drained of ale and a half-full waterskin lying near the corpses. ‘These two unfortunates were crouching, warming themselves by the fire enjoying their drink. They would make easy targets against the flame light.’ Athelstan sighed, sketched a blessing in the air and rose to his feet. He stared around at a bleak, stark stretch of land frozen hard by winter, the trees stripped of leaves, their empty branches twisted, dark shapes against the light and that Barbican, solitary and forbidding.

‘Executions take place here, don’t they?’

‘Yes, Brother,’ Thorne replied. ‘By ancient charter the Palisade must serve, when required, as a gallows field.’

‘It’s certainly a field of blood,’ Cranston declared, bringing out the miraculous wineskin from beneath his cloak and offering this to Thorne then Athelstan. Both refused. The friar stared at the larger-than-life coroner. Sir John stood legs apart, white hair, beard and moustache bristling, beaver hat pulled low, almost covering those large, bulbous blue eyes which could dance with glee, though Sir John was not so merry now. Athelstan could sense the shadow lying across his great friend’s generous soul. London bubbled and crackled with unrest. The dirt and filth of the city’s restless soul was being stirred. The monster within, the city mob, was honing its greedy appetite as well as its weapons. John of Gaunt was plotting a military expedition, a great chevauchee against the Scots. Cranston and others feared that once Gaunt left for the north the Great Community of the Realm would make its move. The Upright Men would raise their red and black banners of revolt and London would slide into bloody strife and turmoil. Cranston had already sent his buxom wife, the Lady Maude, together with the two poppets, their twin sons Stephen and Francis, into the country for shelter. Cranston’s personal steward with the coroner’s great wolfhounds, Gog and Magog, had followed, leaving Sir John alone. As for the future? Athelstan gnawed his lip. He agreed with Sir John: London would burn and he knew from chatter amongst his parishioners that Gaunt’s palace of the Savoy would be the scene of a great riot. Athelstan had begged his portly friend that when this happened Cranston would seek sanctuary in the Tower. The coroner had gruffly agreed, as long as Athelstan joined him. Ah, well … The friar felt beneath his cloak to ensure his chancery satchel was secure.

‘We should go,’ Cranston called out, stamping his feet. ‘Murder awaits us.’ The taverner led them across to the Barbican with the white-faced, shivering Mooncalf trailing behind. Athelstan pushed against the heavy oaken door, stepped into the lower storey and stopped in shock at the slaughterhouse awaiting them. Fresh candles had been lit. Lantern horns flared, a flickering, eerie light which sent the shadows shifting. Athelstan blessed himself and walked across. He stopped to dig at the fresh rushes covering the floor and, despite the foul odours which polluted the air, caught the spring freshness of newly crushed herbs.

‘There is no trapdoor to any cell below?’ he asked. ‘No secret passageway or tunnel?’

‘None, Brother,’ Thorne replied. ‘The only entrance from outside is the door or the window on the second storey. There’s a trapdoor to the upper chamber where you will find another which leads out on to the top of the tower.’ Athelstan walked across to the ladder on the far side of the chamber. He carefully climbed up, pushed back the trapdoor and clambered into the upper storey. He immediately closed his eyes at the savagery awaiting him. Four corpses, two men and two women, lay tossed on the rope matting covering the floor. The candlelight dancing in the freezing breeze through the half-open window made the chamber even more of a nightmare. Athelstan opened his eyes. For a few heartbeats he had to fight the panic welling within him, a deep revulsion at seeing human flesh hacked and hewn, sword-split, gashed, their lifeblood thickening in dark-red, glistening puddles. ‘Jesu Miserere,’ he whispered and climbed back down the ladder. Athelstan took a set of Ave beads from his wallet. He just wished the others would stop staring at him. He wanted to be away from here. This macabre tower reeked of blood; it was polluted by mortal sin. Demons gathered close, their wickedness souring the air. He wanted to flee; to be back in his little priest house sitting on a stool before a roaring fire with Bonaventure, the great one-eyed tomcat, nestling beside him. He needed to pray, to kneel in the sanctuary of St Erconwald’s …

‘Brother?’ He glanced up. Cranston offered him the miraculous wineskin, his red, bewhiskered face all concerned, the beaver hat now pushed well back. Behind the coroner stood Thorne, one hand on Mooncalf’s shoulder. The taverner shuffled his boots and stared around at the murderous mayhem. Athelstan smiled. He could feel his own panic easing. He refused the wineskin and sat down on a stool. He let his cloak slip and loosened the straps of the chancery satchel across his shoulder. He found it comforting as he took out a tablet of neatly cut vellum sheets and uncapped the inkhorn and quill from their case on the thick cord around his waist. He put this on a nearby stool and made himself comfortable. He felt better. So it begins, he thought. He stood in murder’s own chamber. All was chaos and confusion within. He would, with God’s own help and that of Sir John, impose order, some form of harmony. He must apply strict logic and close observation to achieve this.

‘Very well, Sir John.’ He looked up. ‘Tell me, what have we seen?’

Cranston bowed mockingly as he now broke from his own mournful reverie. He recognized what his little friar was doing and he rejoiced in it. Murder was about to meet its match, mystery its master.

‘Well, Sir John?’

‘Two corpses outside,’ the coroner declared, ‘both killed by crossbow bolts. They were clear targets in the firelight. It would take no more than a few heartbeats. Three corpses in here,’ Cranston intoned solemnly. ‘All Tower bowmen; they were relaxing – boots off, leather jerkins untied. According to Mooncalf the front door was locked and bolted and so was that trapdoor from the other side. There is only this.’ The coroner went across into the shadows. He opened a narrow door and peered into the shabby closet which served as the garderobe and housed the jake’s pot. ‘Definitely been used.’ He came back wrinkling his nose.

‘And that drains off where?’ Athelstan glanced at Thorne.

‘Into an old sewer deep beneath the ground,’ Mine Host shrugged, ‘not really big enough for a rat. The garderobe would serve all who would stay here.’ Athelstan put down his writing tablet and went across to inspect. The garderobe was cold and stinking, the jake’s hole built into the cracked wooden seat fairly narrow.

‘Nothing,’ Athelstan murmured to himself and smiled, ‘could come out of there except for foul smells.’ He walked back into the chamber studying the floor and walls. ‘This is hard, close and secure,’ he declared, ‘as any dungeon in the most formidable castle. Who built it?’

‘The present king’s great, great grandfather,’ Cranston replied. ‘Such buildings will appear in my chronicle of the history of this city.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I mean, why a fortified tower like this?’

‘It served as a guard post on the Thames, a place of refuge and a weapons store in case French galleys and war cogs appeared along the river. We could do with such defences now,’ Cranston continued. ‘Rumour has it that the French are mustering hulkes, even caravels, off Harfleur.’ Athelstan thanked him and went over to inspect the corpses of the three archers. He had already decided on what he would do with the murder victims. Now he concentrated on learning all he could. The dead were of different ages though somewhat alike in looks: heads and faces closely shaved, skin weathered by the sun, they wore braces on their left wrists, leather jerkins over ragged fustian shirts, leggings of buckram and threadbare woollen stockings, and tawdry jewellery which glittered on their wrists and fingers. They had apparently drawn swords and daggers; these lay close by, tinged with blood. The weapons had proved no defence against their ferocious body wounds.

‘Did you strike your assassin?’ Athelstan murmured aloud. ‘How could such veterans be so easily despatched?’ Athelstan steeled himself against the agony of death which contorted their faces in a last hideous grimace as they fought for their final breath. The barrel tables and stools had been overturned. The corpses lay in different positions across the chamber, indications of an assassin who had managed to divide his opponents. Athelstan walked around the room tapping at the wall, stopping to inspect the chafing dish full of spent ash. The archer’s cloaks and bundles of clothing had been spread out to form makeshift beds. He could tell by the creases and folds that they had been lying there when the assassin struck. Athelstan crouched and went quickly through their saddlebags and pouches. He found nothing untoward, just the paltry remnants of professional soldiers – men who had wandered far from their woodland villages to serve in the royal array then stayed to seal indentures for military service in this castle or that. He rose and continued his inspection. On a bench table near the wall empty platters were stacked, stained horn-spoons, a small tun of ale, still quite full, and bowls of dried fruit and congealed spiced capon. Athelstan stooped and sniffed the platters but could detect only the sharp tang of spices and herbs. Around the room lay tankards; he picked one of these up and observed the dregs, but he could smell nothing tainted. Meanwhile, Cranston and Thorne remained deep in conversation whilst Mooncalf stood rubbing his arms and stamping his feet. Athelstan called him over.

‘Fetch a wash tub.’ He smiled at the ostler’s blank gaze. ‘A wash tub,’ he repeated. ‘An empty one. I want you to collect the tankards, the ale-tun, bowls and platters and put them in it along with any scraps or dregs.’ Athelstan dug into his purse and handed over one of his precious pennies. ‘Do that,’ he urged, ‘and keep them safe. Collect the same from the camp outside and, once I have inspected it, the upper chamber. Do you understand?’ Mooncalf nodded and hurried off, ignoring his own master’s shouted questions.

‘He has got work to do,’ Athelstan called out. ‘Now, Master Thorne, Sir John.’ Athelstan paused, his gaze caught by a large bowl of water with ragged napkins beside it. He went across and stared down at the dirt-strewn water.

‘The lavarium,’ Thorne called out. ‘The water was once clean and hot. Brother, what do you want me to do?’

‘Master Thorne, Sir John?’ Athelstan picked up a dagger and weighed it in his hands. ‘You have fought in battles. Each of you is, I suppose, a master-at-arms. Have these weapons been used recently in a fight?’ Cranston and Thorne needed no second bidding. Taking up some of the fallen blades they pointed to the scrapes, the streaks, the nicks on the steel and the flecks of blood around their hilts and handles. Athelstan nodded as Cranston explained his conclusion that the weapons had been used very recently. Athelstan shook his head in amazement.

‘Why, Brother?’ Cranston asked. ‘Do you think all this,’ he gestured around, ‘is a mummer’s play, some masque staged to mock and hide the truth?’

‘It’s just a thought,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But that’s impossible. So, let us view the upper storey.’ They climbed the ladder through the trapdoor into the more luxurious solar of the Barbican. The rounded walls were plastered white, rope matting covered the floor and there were cushioned stools, candle holders and a triptych celebrating the Passion of St Sebastian. Nonetheless, the chamber reeked of the same hideous stench as the chamber below, whilst the ghastly sight of four corpses, brutally cut and hacked, chilled the blood and darkened the soul. Athelstan blessed the room before walking around. He noted the wine jugs, goblets, tankards and platters of congealed food; the tankards were clean, whilst the small cask of ale stood untouched.

‘Marsen cursed me,’ Thorne declared. ‘Said he did not want my stinking ale, only the best Bordeaux out of Gascony.’

Athelstan heard Mooncalf busy below. He went to the trapdoor and shouted that once the ostler was finished he must join them. The friar then moved from corpse to corpse. Thorne pointed out Marsen garbed in a costly gown. The tax collector was sprawled against the wall drenched in his own heart’s blood, an ugly white-faced, red-haired man with a thick moustache and straggly beard. He looked grotesque, all twisted, squatting in his own dried blood. Mauclerc lay on his back, fingers curled as if frozen in shock at the wounds which sliced his flesh. The two whores, their scarlet wigs askew, gaudy painted faces now hideous, had been despatched into the dark with deep lacerating cuts. The two women were unarmed. Mauclerc had drawn a dagger which lay near him, but there was nothing to suggest that Marsen had time to protect himself.

‘The exchequer coffer.’ Cranston pointed across to where the chest, its concave lid thrown back, perched on a table stool. ‘My Lord of Gaunt,’ Cranston grumbled, ‘will be furious, not to mention Master Thibault.’ Athelstan studied the coffer closely. It was fashioned out of sturdy wood reinforced with iron bands. He had seen similar in the exchequer and chancery of his own mother house at Blackfriars. The chest was slightly marked but sound, its heavy lid held secure by stout hinges: it would be difficult to force when clasped shut by its three locks, yet there was no sign this had happened.

‘A key to each of them, yes, Sir John?’ Athelstan queried.

‘Undoubtedly. One would be carried by Marsen; Mauclerc would hold the second.’

‘And the third?’

‘I would hazard a guess that would be Hugh of Hornsey, who seems to have disappeared.’ The coroner clapped his gauntleted hands. ‘Oh, Satan’s tits! This is a filthy, bubbling pot. My Lord of Gaunt will want answers.’

‘My Lord of Gaunt will have to learn patience.’ Athelstan now stood near the window shutters. So far he had avoided this. He recalled what Mooncalf had told him: the only real evidence left by the killer was a piece of costly parchment cut in a neat square and pinned with a slender tack to the wood. The writing was clerkly, that of a professional scribe. The letters carefully formed, the message most threatening: ‘“Mene, mene, teqel and parsin,”’ Athelstan murmured. ‘The same warning carved on the walls of the King of Babylon’s palace by the finger of God and translated by the prophet Daniel. ‘I have numbered, I have weighed in the balance and I have found wanting.’

‘Beowulf!’

Athelstan turned quickly.

‘Beowulf!’ the coroner grimly repeated. ‘You have not heard of him, Brother?’

‘Of course. The Saxon warrior hero, the keeper of the shield-ring, the slayer of the monster Grendel and its mother.’

‘It’s not that,’ Thorne declared, ‘is it, Sir John?’

Athelstan blinked and took the parchment down; it felt soft and yielding. ‘I’ve heard something …’

‘A skilled assassin,’ Cranston explained, ‘hired by, or certainly working for the Upright Men. He, she, they – whoever the demon is – has wreaked grievous damage.’

‘Of course.’ Athelstan breathed. ‘Justice Folevile and an escort of three men-at-arms at Ospring on the road to Canterbury. They stayed at The Silver Harp. All four were brutally murdered.’

‘Robert de Stokes,’ Cranston took up the story, ‘and his clerk collector of the poll tax in south Essex. Both were found dead, stripped naked in a filthy ditch.’ Cranston waved his hand. ‘And so on, and so on. A true will-o’-the-wisp, a sinister shape-shifter, a Hell-born wraith.’ Cranston warmed to his theme. ‘Beowulf being Saxon stands for the Great Community of the Realm against their Norman French masters. Gaunt, of course, is the monster Grendel, and his mother the power which spawned him.’

‘And Beowulf was responsible for all this murderous mayhem?’ Athelstan shook his head in wonderment. ‘Master Thorne, I would be grateful if you would help Mooncalf. I want every cup, platter and morsel heaped in that washtub. Meanwhile …’ Athelstan and Cranston searched the chamber as well as the panniers and chancery satchels of the murdered men. These were full of memoranda, billae, indentures and rolls of greasy thumb-marked parchment. The more he searched the more suspicious Athelstan became.

‘Mauclerc was a skilled chancery scribe, Sir John?’

‘One of the Master of Secrets’ favourites, a veritable ferret of a man. He was Thibault’s spy, a henchman appointed to watch Marsen. Why, little monk?’

‘Friar, Sir John. I am a friar.’

Cranston grinned and took another sip from the miraculous wineskin. ‘Why, my little friar?’

‘I am sure these panniers and saddlebags have been riffled. Someone has gone through them. Certain items were taken, just by the way the scrolls are piled together.’ Athelstan paused. ‘One other thing: have you noticed, Sir John, that none of the victims have coins on them? They were killed and their bodies robbed. Even the whores! From the little I know don’t such ladies of the night ask for coin before custom?’

‘They certainly do, little friar, and look at this.’ The coroner, crouching down, had moved a stool. He now held up a gauntlet and a piece of shiny, oiled chainmail. The gauntlet was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship: the velvet coat over the stiffened Cordova leather was finely stitched in gold, with small pearls along the finger furrows. Athelstan took both items over to the squat, evil-smelling tallow candle and examined them carefully. The chainmail was finely wrought. Athelstan suspected it was the best, probably Milanese; the links were fine and shiny with clasps on each corner. The gauntlet was also costly. Athelstan noticed the fingertips were smudged with dry blood. He glanced swiftly at the hands of the four murder victims: the two whores would not wear such items, whilst the gauntlet would certainly not fit the stout-fingered hands of Marsen or Mauclerc.

‘The chainmail,’ Cranston called out, ‘probably served as a wristguard.’

Athelstan summoned Thorne, but the taverner could not recall Marsen or any of his group carrying such items.

‘Both are the property of a knight,’ Thorne declared, scratching his reddish face with stubby fingers. ‘Surely such chainmail, a gauntlet … they might even belong to Beowulf?’

Athelstan turned back to Cranston. ‘Sir John, does Beowulf always leave those verses with his victims?’

‘Yes, Brother, he certainly does, and he is putting the fear of God into all of Gaunt’s servants. Master Thibault’s minions now go everywhere with a well-armed comitatus, be it in the cobbled square of some market town or the darkest greenwood. But how could it happen here?’

Athelstan held up a hand. ‘Not now, Sir John, and not here. We are harvesting the grain of bloody murder. Once the harvest is in we shall grind it and,’ he smiled, ‘never forget, the Mills of God may grind exceedingly slow but they do grind exceedingly small. So.’ Athelstan turned back to the window. There were shutters on both the inside and outside held together by large, sharp hooks which rested in clasps. Athelstan fully closed the shutters, scrutinized the gap and could see how a dagger could be inserted to lift the hooks. The window in between had a wooden frame with a horn covering that worked like a door with hinges and a latch on the inside. Thorne agreed that he had to rip the horn to lift the handle. Athelstan, mystified, could only stare, baffled at how the murderer came in and left. Both Thorne and Mooncalf were resolute in their assertion that the shutters were clasped shut and the window undisturbed. Athelstan walked around, sifting through the tumbled furniture, the blankets and sheets of the two cot beds. He was aware of Cranston lifting the rope matting. The taverner and Mooncalf were now collecting the last of the tankards, goblets and platters in a large iron-rimmed tub. Athelstan climbed the steep ladder, pushing open the trapdoor and carefully pulled himself up on to the top of the tower. A piercing cold wind buffeted him as he staggered across the thick shale to grasp a rusting iron bar which connected the ancient, moss-eaten crenellations. Athelstan took a deep breath as he stared around. To the north glinted the river – he could see the war cogs riding at anchor and a myriad of small boats, barges and wherries. The sky was now brightening but the day promised to remain freezing cold. The friar stared up at the wisps of cloud, then down at the huddle of buildings below. He turned. Somewhere to the south nestled his own church; his parishioners would be stirring. Benedicta, the beautiful dark-eyed woman would be in the church along with Crim the altar boy and Mauger the bell clerk. Athelstan realized he would have to celebrate his Mass late. He was also determined to meet his parish council so they could discuss the events of the recent ‘Love Day’ which had gone disastrously wrong. He heard Cranston call his name and made his way gingerly down. Cranston, Mooncalf and Thorne were examining two crossbow bolts taken from a small pouch. The coroner held them up. The steel barbs were blunted, their flight feathers split.

‘Apparently a trophy,’ Cranston remarked. ‘Mine Host claims that on his journey here Marsen was attacked as he crossed the small footbridge near Leveret Copse, a little to the south. Both bolts missed. Marsen crowed in triumph like a cock on its dunghill.’

‘They are the same.’ Athelstan studied both carefully. ‘Identical, I think, to those used to kill the archers outside. Ah, well, let’s continue.’ Athelstan went out into the bitter cold morning, Cranston and the others trailing behind. The air reeked of the nearby piggeries and trails of smoke from the dying campfire. Athelstan walked to the ladder, still positioned on the handcart. He made sure it was secure and carefully climbed up to the window. He noticed how the ladder hooks fixed securely under the sill. He pulled the shutters open, ignoring Cranston’s call to be careful and studied the woodwork, split horn and the handle to the window. Satisfied, he climbed back down.

‘Sir John, I have seen enough.’ He pointed to the door. ‘My Lord Coroner, Flaxwith, your master bailiff, must arrange for all the corpses to be removed to the death house at the Guildhall. They should be blessed by the chaplain and examined by the best physician that can be hired. The washing tub containing the tankards and the scraps and dregs must be taken down to one of those rat-infested dungeons beneath the Guildhall and spread out. The door is to be locked and guarded by the same Flaxwith, who must inform me about what happens next. Also, make sure the Barbican is sealed and guarded until all that is done. Sir John, you must, as soon as possible, issue an arrest warrant for Hugh of Hornsey, formerly Captain of the Tower archers. He is missing, fled. We have no sight of hide or hair of him. Now, Sir John, we truly should break our fast.’

They made their way across the Palisade, past the stiffening corpses of the two archers and into the tangy warmth of The Candle-Flame. Cranston shouted at Flaxwith and the other bailiffs, toasting themselves in front of the roaring fire in the Dark Parlour, to go out and guard the Barbican. Eleanor, Thorne’s wife, her comely face all concerned, then served Athelstan and the rest in the small, pink-plastered parlour with its gleaming dark-wood table and cushioned stools which led off from the main taproom. The food served was piping hot and delicious: black porray, roo broth and small white freshly baked manchet loaves thickly buttered and sprinkled with garlic, together with stoups of light ale. Sir John, once he had taken out his large horn-spoon and polished it with a napkin, ‘fell on the food’ as he himself observed, ‘like a hawk on a pigeon’. For a while no one spoke as platters were cleared and tankards emptied. Athelstan ate sparingly, complimenting Thorne on both the chamber and the food served. The taverner, crouched over his own dish, simply murmured how he wished to sell The Candle-Flame, adding that the turbulent times were not proving to be the best of seasons to host a tavern. Athelstan nodded understandingly; such sentiments were common amongst the tavern masters of Southwark. He also asked if Sir John’s earlier instruction about the other guests had been served. Mistress Eleanor, standing on the threshold, agreed, saying they had left their chambers but were breaking their fast in the buttery refectory. Athelstan waited until Sir John had finished eating and tapped the table with his horn-spoon. He smiled down the table at Mooncalf, the young ostler had recovered from both his terrors and the biting cold. He now sat sleepy-eyed and red-cheeked next to his master.

‘When did Marsen and his company arrive here?’

‘Four days ago,’ Thorne declared. ‘He sent Hugh of Hornsey ahead of them.’

‘When?’

‘About a week ago. Hornsey insisted that the Barbican be given over entirely to his master.’ Thorne pulled a face. ‘There was no problem with that. They arrived just as the Vespers bell tolled. Marsen acted the arrogant pig; Mauclerc no better. He proclaimed how he had been attacked on the road but God had intervened. He showed me the bolts loosed at him and said that no such danger better threaten him here.’ Thorne sniffed. ‘The Barbican was all prepared thanks to Mooncalf.’ Thorne patted the young man’s shoulder. ‘I told him to look after Marsen and his coven and he did, with great patience and good humour.’

‘Why didn’t Marsen cross London Bridge and shelter in the Tower?’ Cranston asked.

‘I suppose they had further business here in Southwark levying their devil tax, including what I owed.’

‘You paid it?’

‘Of course, Sir John. What choice do I, you or indeed anyone have?’

‘Before last night,’ Athelstan asked, ‘did anything happen – any strangers appear, whatever their business?’

‘You mean the Upright Men or their assassin, Beowulf?’ Thorne spread his hands. ‘Brother, this is a very busy tavern, not so much from the guests who stay but any who travel through Southwark. Of course, a gaggle of strange characters gathered; I’m sure some of these were despatched by the Upright Men who would have loved to take Marsen’s ugly head.’ He grinned. ‘We even had some of your parishioners, Brother; Pike the Ditcher, Watkin the dung collector, golden-haired Cecily the courtesan and Moleskin the boatman.’

Athelstan sighed and put his face in his hands. If he questioned his parishioners they would blink like baby owls and murmur all innocence even though Athelstan knew that the likes of Watkin and Pike were high in the hierarchy of the Upright Men.

‘But nothing untoward happened?’ Athelstan took his hands away.

‘No, Brother.’ Thorne sipped from his tankard. ‘Marsen would be up with the dawn. He and his coven would break their fast and go about their evil business, returning to the tavern at twilight after the market horn had sounded. They kept to themselves. Food and drink were served. Mauclerc went out to find whores for both himself and his master. They wallowed like pigs in their filthy muck. The Barbican became their sty.’

‘And where were these whores from?’

‘Oh, the stews of Southwark, a notorious brothel, a house of ill repute well known as the Golden Oliphant. It’s under a very strict keeper; she calls herself the “Mistress of the Moppets”. The two whores, I don’t know their names …’

‘We will find out,’ Cranston broke in. ‘I know the Mistress of the Moppets very well as she is widely advertised in the city. Despite their death wounds those two whores in life were very pretty young women. The mistress only hires the best but whether we get the truth from her is another matter.’ He jabbed a finger at Athelstan. ‘When we get the time we will give the mistress a visit.’

‘Would that explain why they were not carrying money? Marsen would do business with their keeper?’

‘Possibly, Brother,’ Cranston replied. ‘I suspect a man like Marsen got what he wanted free of any charge.’

‘But they were carrying something,’ Mooncalf broke in, surprising even his master.

‘What’s that, boy?’ the taverner asked.

‘One of the whores, she was carrying a leather bag and it clinked. I met her at the wicket gate and she stumbled. She could curse like the best of them but I heard it clink, the bag she was carrying.’

Cranston stared at Athelstan, who just shook his head. ‘We found no such bag in the Barbican, Sir John.’

‘Then the killer must have taken it,’ Mooncalf insisted. ‘I definitely saw it, I definitely heard it.’

‘Apart from the whores, were there any other visitors?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes,’ Thorne replied, ‘a black-garbed fellow, hair of the same colour drawn tightly back and tied behind the head, harsh-featured with the unblinking stare of a hawk.’

‘Lascelles,’ Cranston broke in. ‘Master Thibault’s henchman. When did he come?’

‘The night before last. He met Marsen in the Barbican then left. Sir John, I know nothing of their business.’

‘And this morning?’ Athelstan glanced at Mooncalf.

‘As usual I went to wake them. I found the two archers as you did. I hurried across to the Barbican and hammered on the door.’

‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary, boy?’ Cranston asked, helping himself to the miraculous wineskin.

‘Anything at all?’ Athelstan insisted.

‘No. Pedro the cruel,’ Mooncalf grimaced, ‘the tavern boar, was sleeping outside his sty. Sometimes he does that. Anyway,’ he shook his head, ‘I became frightened and hurried back to the tavern to raise the alarm.’

Athelstan turned to Thorne.

‘I came out with the others, all shaken from our sleep. You’ve seen the Barbican, Brother, it is built for defence. Apart from the heavy door the only way through is the window. There is no ladder long enough so I put the one we have on a handcart and climbed up. The outer shutter was still hooked. I inserted a blade and lifted that; the door window was clasped shut. I cut back the horn, put my hand through and lifted the latch. The inner shutter was easier; the hooks came up but,’ he patted his stomach, ‘too much baggage. I came back down and sent Mooncalf up.’

Athelstan glanced at the ostler.

‘Brother, you saw what I did. The upper chamber was warm as the shutters had been closed all night. The brazier still glowed, as well as the chafing dishes.’ Mooncalf screwed up his eyes. ‘All of the candles had burnt out – they were extinguished.’

‘And the trapdoors?’

‘I remember the one to the roof was locked – yes, both were. The trapdoor to the lower chamber was also bolted.’ Mooncalf paused at Cranston’s loud snoring. The fat coroner, warmed and fed, was now relaxing in the comfort. Mooncalf stared at him then back at Athelstan in open-mouthed wonderment.

‘Don’t worry,’ the friar reassured, ‘Sir John can sleep with his eyes open and see when they are closed.’

‘And the truth never escapes me.’ The coroner opened his eyes and smacked his lips. ‘The main door?’ he asked.

‘Bolted top and bottom, the key turned and still in the lock.’ The ostler’s reply created a profound stillness. Even the distant sounds of the tavern faded. Athelstan stared down at the table top. They were now approaching the true mystery of this murderous maze. Athelstan recalled his youth, working on his father’s farm in the West Country. He and the other children would be clearing the furrows following the massive hogged-maned drays which pulled the sharp-toothed plough. Warm, sun-bright days but out to the west he’d glimpse sombre clouds massing, the heralds of a coming storm. Athelstan closed his eyes as other memories surfaced. He recalled sitting on the brow of a snow-covered hill staring down at the dark line of forestry certain that shadows would creep out of the blackness across the hard-packed snow. So it was here as the mystery unfurled. Athelstan opened his eyes. What was the sinister truth behind this heinous massacre? Nine souls had been ruthlessly despatched along that mystical path stretching to God’s judgement and their eternal destiny. How did it, how could it happen? Two able-bodied archers, surprised and summarily executed, and then the real mystery: the same blood-seeking wraith had swirled into the Barbican. The well-armed guard on the ground floor were slaughtered before the demon moved up to murder four others in the upper chamber. Once done, he had apparently pillaged a three-locked coffer without using the keys. Afterwards this killer had left just as mysteriously with the windows still shuttered, the main entrance and the two inside trapdoors all firmly locked.

‘Brother?’

‘My apologies, Sir John.’ Athelstan sighed deeply. ‘I have said this before but I shall do so again. I want the corpses taken to the death house at the Guildhall. The chaplain should anoint them. Afterwards, hire the most able physician, strip and search each corpse, scrutinize them carefully. The tub of platters and cups must be scraped; all the dregs and scraps placed in one of the Guildhall dungeons.’ Athelstan blew his cheeks out. ‘Of course, there is also Hugh of Hornsey, holder of the third key and captain of archers. Where is he? Dead? Alive? Innocent or guilty? Sir John, this assassin, Beowulf? How long has he been waging his secret, bloody war?’

‘Oh, about two years.’

‘And does he confine himself to the city?’

‘The city and the shires around London, as far north as Colchester and as far south as Richmond.’

‘And, when he strikes, is he always successful?’

‘No, as with the attack on Marsen at Leveret Copse, sometimes he fails.’

‘And are his victims always crown officials?’ Athelstan held Cranston’s gaze as the friar hid his own fears. Does that include you, my fat, faithful friend? Athelstan thought. Are you also, incorruptible though you are, marked with the sign of the beast, an intended victim for slaughter?

‘No.’ Cranston’s beaming smile was eloquent enough. ‘Beowulf hunts Gaunt’s creatures, the minions of Master Thibault.’

‘And who are the other guests, those who roomed here last night?’ Athelstan hid his relief beneath his question to Thorne.

‘Philip Scrope, the physician, Sir Robert Paston, a member of the Commons from the shire of Surrey, together with his daughter Martha and his clerk, William Foulkes.’

‘I know Paston.’ Cranston spoke up. ‘Gaunt’s most bitter enemy. A critic of the poll tax, Gaunt paid him back in equal coin. Sir Robert is a seasoned mariner who believes he should have been appointed as admiral of the king’s ships from the mouth of the Thames along the east coast to the Scottish March. Instead, Gaunt appointed one of his own favourites. Paston constantly criticizes the lack of war cogs to protect English merchantmen. Paston should know. He makes his wealth out of wool. He would be no friend of Marsen.’

‘Ah, Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ Thorne leaned forward. ‘I am sorry, I should have told you this but it slipped my mind. Two nights ago, just after Marsen returned from collecting the tax, the same evening Lascelles appeared here, Sir Robert and Marsen met in the Dark Parlour. There was an angry exchange of words, fingers falling to daggers.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What happened?’

‘Sir Robert called Marsen a robber, a wolfshead, a vile plunderer.’

‘And Marsen?’

‘He just jeered and jibed. He said he knew all about Sir Robert and didn’t care for him, though he would more than welcome a visit during the night from Paston’s daughter – that’s when fingers fell to daggers. I intervened. Marsen just sauntered off, laughing over his shoulder.’

‘What do you think Marsen meant when he said he knew all about Sir Robert?’

‘Brother Athelstan, you must ask Sir Robert yourself. I suspect Marsen was quietly mocking Paston for not being appointed as Admiral of the Eastern Seas. I know Sir Robert was very sensitive on the issue.’

‘And the rest of the guests?’ Cranston asked. ‘How were they to Marsen?’

‘I would say they were just as hostile but that’s based on tittle-tattle. There’s Brother Roger, a Franciscan from their house at Canterbury. I have mentioned the physician who claims he has been on pilgrimage to Glastonbury. Finally, there’s a professional chanteur, minstrel or whatever else he proclaims himself. I understand he enjoys quite a reputation as a troubadour. He calls himself Ronseval. I cannot say whether he was baptized as such; he claims he is against anyone who fetters the human spirit.’

‘In which case,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘he must champion most of London. I presume they are all waiting for us in the refectory?’

‘Then come.’ Cranston heaved himself up.

They left, crossing the Dark Parlour into the refectory. Five people sat around the common table. Athelstan was aware of hostile looks and bitter grimaces as introductions were made and they took their seats. Mine Host and Mooncalf stood in the doorway. Cranston asked if they wished for anything to eat or drink but all he received were muttered refusals. Athelstan sketched a blessing. Cranston then clapped his hands and moved swiftly to business.

He asked what each of them had done the previous evening and received the expected, perfunctory replies. All the chamber guests, as Thorne described them, had eaten supper, returned to their chambers and retired to bed. They had neither seen nor heard anything to report. Athelstan sensed they were lying. He was certain that the killer must be in this tavern, even though logic dictated the very strong possibility that last night’s massacre was the work of a professional assassin despatched by the Upright Men. Athelstan studied the guests closely. He noticed the easy flow of conversation, the relaxed attitude between them all and concluded they liked each other.

Sir Robert was a wealthy wool merchant, a manor lord, a grey-haired, sharp-eyed man with ever-twitching lips as if there was something unpleasant in his mouth. He was clean-shaven and dressed most conservatively in a houppelande, a long gown fringed with lambswool, clasped at throat and wrist with silver studs. A former soldier and a mariner who had fought in France as well as in the constant sea battles between Dover and Calais, he was a rather sad man, Athelstan considered, a widower who apparently doted on his delicately faced, blue-eyed daughter Martha: she sat close to him dressed as soberly as a Benedictine nun in her white-starched wimple, dark-blue veil and unadorned gown of the same colour. She wore doe-skinned gloves studded with pearls, her only concession to fashion. Nevertheless, despite all her coyness, Athelstan noticed the fervent glances between the seemingly doe-like Martha and her father’s clerk William Foulkes. Athelstan hid his smile; both young people were deeply in love, although Martha’s father appeared blithely unaware of it. Foulkes acted all precise and courtly: vigilant and keen-witted, an observer rather than a talker, probably a graduate of the halls of Oxford or Cambridge. Foulkes was dressed in buckram and dark fustian, constantly fiddling with the chancery ring on his finger, apparently resentful at being detained and questioned, although he tried to hide it. Athelstan noticed that the two young lovers wore no religious insignia, be it a cross, medal or ring. Young women such as Martha often carried crystal Ave beads entwined between their fingers, more a service to fashion than prayer, but she did not. Nor had she or Foulkes crossed themselves when Athelstan first entered the refectory and, as was customary, sketched a blessing in the air. He was also intrigued that, as each of the guests described what they had done the previous evening, both young people glanced at Mooncalf, who stared warningly back, fingers twitching as if the ostler was trying to communicate some secret message to them. Athelstan wondered why all three seemed so uncomfortable.

The same applied to Philip Scrope the physician. He sat cross-legged, his costly slashed robes gathered about his scrawny frame. An arrogant man with harsh dry features and heavy-lidded eyes, Physician Scrope apparently regarded himself as superior to those around him. He kept scratching his thinning hair, lips twisted in a sardonic grimace, tapping the table as if impatient to be gone. Ronseval, the wandering minstrel, troubadour and whatever else he claimed to be, exuded the same arrogance. Ronseval was dressed in a sky-blue jerkin, tight black hose and costly, ankle-high leather boots. His reddish hair was neatly coiffed and crimped, his smooth, swarthy face generously rubbed with perfumed oil. He slouched at the table, fingers smoothing its surface. Now and again he’d touch the hand-held harp lying nearby, a delicately carved instrument with finely taut strings. Despite Ronseval’s confident stare and poise, Athelstan detected a nervousness which expressed itself in what the friar could only judge as slightly feminine gestures of his mouth and eyes, the nervous twitching of long, well-manicured fingers and the way he kept touching his hair and glancing up at the ceiling. Brother Roger in contrast sat upright, still as a statue, his raw, high-boned face and slightly slanted eyes cold and impassive. A wiry man, the Franciscan was dressed in the clay-coloured robes of his order with stout sandals on his feet and the white cord around his waist displaying the three knots symbolizing his vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. He held Athelstan’s gaze, staring coldly back as he chewed the corner of his lip. Then he relaxed, smiled and winked quickly, as if he and the Dominican were conspirators and all this was some elaborate masque.

‘Pax et Bonum, Frater.’ The Franciscan’s voice was strong and carrying. ‘You ask what we did last night when the great sinner Marsen was sent to Hell. Thanks be to God, the Eternal Lord, that I lived to see this day. Now,’ he continued brusquely, ‘we have told you what we did. You have your business, I have mine.’

‘Which is?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Alms to collect. Brothers to meet at Greyfriars. Sermons to compose. Preaching to prepare. Shrivings and blessings to administer so that souls can be saved. Our business is not this fierce hostility, this murder lust between men.’

‘Did you try to save Marsen’s soul?’

‘No, Brother,’ Friar Roger grinned, white teeth bared like that of a mastiff, ‘isn’t it wonderful to recount how, in his magnanimity, the master of all things would allow the soul of such a man to wander in delight before judgement is imposed. I know Marsen and his ilk. They milk the poor of every last penny. They grind God’s people beneath the boot.’ The Franciscan gestured around. ‘No one here grieves for Marsen and his coven. Most of us, if not all, rejoice that such a malefactor has been sent to judgement but it does not mean we sent him there.’ Friar Roger’s words were greeted with grunts of approval. Ronseval, in a high-pitched voice, started to chant popular verses about the brotherhood of man. Paston delivered a diatribe as if he was gathered with the Commons in St Stephen’s Chapel at Westminster. Cranston, however, banged on the table imposing silence. Athelstan noticed how young Martha and Master William exchanged secret glances and furtive smiles, as if the issue was of no concern to them.

‘When did you all arrive here?’ Athelstan asked. Both the physician and Father Roger declared they had done so after Marsen and his coven had taken up residence in the Barbican. Sir Robert Paston said they had been at The Candle-Flame for at least a week because he had to attend the Westminster parliament. Ronseval declared he had arrived the same day as Marsen.

‘Have any of you,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘stayed at any other tavern when Marsen was there?’ Everyone shook their heads with cries of denial, except the minstrel, who kept weaving his fingers together. Athelstan recalled the gauntlet found in the Barbican. He had established that it did not fit any of the murder victims in the upper chamber but, glancing quickly at the fingers of the guests, Athelstan wondered if the gauntlet might belong to Ronseval, Physician Scrope or even Sir Robert Paston.

‘Master troubadour?’ Athelstan asked, ‘can you explain the coincidence that you arrived here the same day as Marsen?’

‘I was deliberately following Marsen,’ Ronseval replied slowly, not meeting Athelstan’s gaze. ‘I am composing a ballad against him which I hope to have copied by the scriveners along Paternoster Row. I can show you it if you wish.’ He picked up the chancery bag lying between his feet, opened it and drew out a scroll which he passed to Athelstan. The parchment was soft, cream-coloured, the writing clean and distinct though not at all like the proclamation left by Beowulf. Athelstan read the opening line about ‘Wolves being sent out amongst lambs, hawks roosting in a dovecote’. He smiled and handed it back.

‘Very good, Master Ronseval but,’ Athelstan pointed at the bag, ‘we may have to search that,’ he gestured around, ‘and all your property.’ Athelstan knew it was an empty threat; he suspected anything incriminating would be already hidden away if not destroyed.

‘This is not,’ Paston bellowed, half-rising to his feet, ‘acceptable.’

‘Treason.’ Cranston’s thunderous retort silenced everyone. ‘Treason,’ the coroner repeated. ‘Marsen, whatever he might have been, was a royal official foully murdered for collecting the king’s taxes, and those same taxes have been stolen. Now the lawyers can argue whether this is petty treason or misprision of treason, but treason it still is. We are searching for stolen royal treasure.’

‘And this is relevant to it.’ Athelstan opened his own chancery bag and passed round the gauntlet, the piece of chainmail and Beowulf’s proclamation. He found it difficult to judge their individual response to each item. Martha and young Foulkes simply passed these on, though Sir Robert appeared agitated. Athelstan could not decide whether the items were the cause of Sir Robert’s resentment at being detained here for questioning. Friar Roger, however, read the proclamation and laughed quietly to himself.

‘Marsen,’ he glanced down the table at Athelstan, ‘was truly found wanting.’ He crossed himself swiftly. ‘Though who found him so is a mystery.’

Athelstan nodded in agreement.

‘If there is nothing else,’ the Franciscan rose to his feet, ‘search my chamber if you wish – there is little to find. I have business in the city, Brother …?’

Athelstan nodded at Cranston.

‘You may all go,’ the coroner declared. ‘But you must return. No one is to leave this tavern without my written permission. By all means go about your business but this is your place of residence until these matters are resolved. If you disobey I shall have you put to the horn as a wolfshead, an outlaw.’

The guests rose and left, followed by Thorne, his wife and Mooncalf, who had been standing on the threshold. Once they had left the refectory, Athelstan collected the items he had distributed.

‘Sir John, what do you think?’ Athelstan closed the door and rested against a metal milk churn.

‘They have, all of them, a tale to tell and a truth to hide. However, one thing unites them all: they hated Marsen.’

Athelstan, lost in own thoughts, absent-mindedly agreed. Cranston said he would supervise the removal of the corpses and everything else and bustled out. Athelstan sat down at the table, staring at the painted cloth pinned to the far wall depicting a Catherine wheel, surmounted by a cross and crowned with lighted candles, which held off the darkness in which murky-faced demons could be glimpsed.

‘Come, kindly light,’ Athelstan whispered. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and recited the ‘Lavabo’ psalm, ‘“I will wash my hands among the innocent and encompass thy altar O Lord …”’

Athelstan dozed for a while and started awake at a heart-cutting shriek which echoed through the tavern. He jumped to his feet and entered the sweet-smelling Dark Parlour, where Thorne, standing on a barrel, was busy hanging fresh herbs and flitches of bacon from the smoke-stained rafters. He just stood gaping; the shriek was repeated and the taverner swiftly clambered down. He and Athelstan hurried out into the main hallway and up the stairs into the gallery. They pushed their way through the slatterns and servants milling about. Thorne shouted at them to be quiet. He and Athelstan strode down the gallery which ran past chambers on either side to another narrow stairwell at the far end. Eleanor Thorne stood stricken outside one of the chambers. She glanced up, her face white as snow, pointing at the blood seeping out from beneath the chamber door.

‘Scrope’s chamber,’ Thorne whispered, gathering his wife in his arms, comforting her and pushing her gently back down the gallery to the waiting maids. Athelstan tried the door but it was locked. He hammered on the dark oaken wood but realized it was futile. Thorne took a ring of keys from his apron pocket and tried to insert the master key but failed.

‘The lock’s turned on the other side.’ Thorne, his craggy face now sweat-soaked, tried to push back the eyelet high in the door, a small square of wood hinged on the inside, but this was firmly closed. Other doors in the gallery opened, faces peered out. Athelstan glimpsed Father Roger’s fearful and wary face just before Cranston came pounding up the stairs shouting at everyone to stand aside or keep to their chambers. The coroner stared at the thick bloody plume still spreading out from beneath the door.

‘The window is open!’ Mooncalf shouted as he threw himself up the other set of stairs. ‘The shutters are pulled back, it would be easy to enter from the stableyard.’

‘Off and up you go lad,’ Cranston shouted, twirling a penny at the ostler, who deftly caught it. Athelstan turned and tried the latch on the door to the chamber facing Scrope’s.

‘Empty,’ Thorne murmured. The taverner inserted a key and opened it. Athelstan went in. The room was neat and tidy, the window opened to air it. Everything was in order. The four-poster bed was made up, its curtains drawn back. There was a high-back chair, two stools, tables and an open aumbry for clothes, although the pole between the uprights had been taken down. Athelstan shivered at the draught created by the open door and hastily retreated back into the warmth of the gallery. He heard movement in Scrope’s chamber. Mooncalf’s exclam-ation followed by gasps and cries. The bolts on top and bottom were pulled back and the key turned. The door swung open. Cranston immediately ordered the white-faced ostler to stand with his master in the gallery as he and Athelstan stepped over the physician’s body into the chamber. Athelstan glanced quickly around. The room was very similar to the one he had just visited, though the physician’s clothing and possessions lay scattered about. In order to open the door Scrope’s corpse had been pulled back and rolled on to one side. Athelstan crossed himself and pulled the corpse further into the room, turning it over so they could see the crossbow quarrel embedded deep in Scrope’s chest. The dead physician’s pallid face, twisted in agony, was caked with the blood which had erupted through his nose and mouth. Athelstan felt the corpse’s hand: it was still slightly warm.

‘He was murdered very recently,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Sir John, a moment, please.’

Athelstan took out the holy oils and anointed the corpse, reciting the absolution, followed by the final prayer for the departed. Once he had finished, Athelstan scrutinized the chamber door but could detect no interference with the bolts, lock and eyelet. He walked to the window, which was very similar to the one in the Barbican, with shutters on either side of a horn-covered door window. Athelstan pushed this back and stared down. The stableyard below was busy: yard ser-vants and customers were staring open-mouthed up at the chamber. Athelstan asked one of them to remove the ladder Mooncalf had used.

‘Did you see anything?’ he shouted. A chorus of denials answered his question.

‘Obviously not,’ Athelstan murmured, turning away. Anyone trying to climb into Scrope’s chamber would have been noticed. Athelstan went to the corpse and knelt by it, half-listening to Cranston’s theories. He noticed a manuscript, a small book, its pages tightly bound together by red twine. It had been opened and lay half-hidden by Scrope’s robes. He held this up.

‘Brother?’

‘A vademecum, Sir John.’ Athelstan leafed through the bloodstained pages. ‘A pilgrim’s book listing all the great relics at Glastonbury Abbey: Arthur’s tomb, Joseph of Arimathea’s staff. The Stella Cristi, the Star of Christ, a beautiful ruby. The Holy Thorn and other items. Scrope must have been clutching this when he died. I wonder why.’ Athelstan rose as Cranston opened the door and began to question others outside. The friar quickly sifted through the dead physician’s possessions: clothing, most of it very costly, two purses containing silver and gold coins, a set of spurs and a war belt finely stitched with gold thread. He emptied Scrope’s chancery bag on to the bed and sifted through the billae, memoranda, lists of herbs and other medicines as well as letters of attestation from different universities. He opened a bronze chancery cylinder, shook out a small roll of documents and went through these. His exclamations of surprise brought Cranston back in from the gallery. Athelstan handed over what he had found.

‘True bills, Sir John, drawn up by a notary in Coggeshall, Scrope’s home town. They contain a confession of one Alain Taillour, housebreaker. Apparently, about ten years ago, around the Feast of Michaelmas, Scrope’s house in Coggeshall was burgled and ransacked. Scrope was attending a guild meeting in town. On his return he found his house a place of mayhem and murder. Scrope’s wife and their manservant had been brutally slain. During the first week of Advent last, Taillour was caught red-handed breaking into a warehouse. He turned king’s approver; applying for a pardon he named all his confederates in his life of robbery.’ Athelstan drew a deep breath. ‘He clearly accused Edmund Marsen as the person responsible for the murder of Scrope’s wife and manservant. Taillour swore this on oath before a local justice providing the names of other witnesses. Apparently Scrope made his pilgrimage to Glastonbury in grateful thanks and as well as to seek divine help …’

‘To indict Marsen,’ the coroner interrupted. ‘Of course,’ Cranston whispered, ‘Marsen is, or was, a royal official. Scrope was planning to appear before the Court of King’s Bench in Westminster Hall. He would swear out a true indictment which Marsen would have to answer before a jury and three royal justices.’ Cranston sat down on a stool, cradling the miraculous wineskin. ‘Now both are dead,’ he continued, ‘sent to appear before Christ’s Assize. But how was Scrope murdered? Who was responsible and how? Friar Roger claims he was sure he heard a loud knocking on Scrope’s door and that this was repeated, but that is all. Father Roger opened his door but could see nobody. The assassin could not have entered by the window as the entire tavern would have seen him. So how could the assassin enter this room, kill Scrope then leave, locking and bolting the door behind him?’ He pointed to the corpse. ‘The same quarrels were used in the Barbican, loosed from a hand-held arbalest.’ Cranston got to his feet. ‘Brother, what is the matter – what are you staring at?’

‘Go back outside, Sir John. Ask Thorne, Mooncalf and the rest what our learned physician did after he arrived here two days ago. Did he go out? Were his boots cleaned? Please, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled at the coroner who shrugged and left, shouting for Thorne. Athelstan knelt by the lantern horn, standing on a small stool. The copper casing was mud-stained around the base, the horn covering was dirt-splattered and the squat tallow candle had burnt low. Athelstan then scrutinized the heavy cloak hanging from a wall peg. It was pure wool dyed a deep green but its silver-threaded hem was splattered with crusts of mud. The expensive Spanish riding boots standing nearby were also marked; their leggings were polished but the sole, heel and toe were caked in drying dirt. He glanced up as Cranston re-entered the chamber.

‘Brother, according to what I’ve heard, Scrope remained in his own chamber, probably preparing that indictment. Mooncalf and others polished his boots to a gleam after he arrived.’

‘Nevertheless, he did go out.’ Athelstan gestured at the cloak and boots. ‘That’s what caught my attention. According to reports our fastidious physician remained closeted in this chamber, never going out, making sure the likes of Mooncalf cleaned his boots. Yet Scrope’s cloak and boots are muddied, as is the lantern horn where it’s been put down, whilst its candle must have burnt for some time. Look, Sir John, at the mud drying on your boots – it’s similar in colour and texture to this. I suspect our physician went out last night. The mud is fairly recent. I believe he entered the Palisade and approached the Barbican.’

‘Is he the killer?’

‘No, but I suspect Scrope might have glimpsed the assassin or nursed deep suspicions about who he really is. That is why he was murdered, to silence him.’ Athelstan rose to his feet, stretched and crossed himself. ‘Sir John, have Scrope’s corpse join the rest at the Guildhall then seal this chamber with the signet of the Lord High Coroner.’

‘Brother?’

‘Yes, Sir John?’

‘Marsen was hated. He was Thibault’s creature, a vile, ruthless tax collector, yet he moved with impunity. Surely the Upright Men must have heard about his depredations as well as his stay here? You seem to be implying that they are not responsible, but why shouldn’t they spring a trap and snatch Marsen’s nasty soul from his filthy body?’

‘Perhaps they did, Sir John.’

‘So this is the work of the Upright Men?’

‘Umm.’ Athelstan pulled his cowl up, a sign to Cranston that he wanted to retreat and meditate in some quiet corner. ‘Truly, Sir John, I don’t know. This could be the doing of the Upright Men or it might not be. Perhaps they left all this to their assassin, Beowulf, and yet …’ Athelstan shook his head, blessed the corpse once more and left the chamber. He walked to the top of the stairs and paused at the clatter of hooves, shouts and the rattle of steel from the stableyard. By the time he reached there the horsemen who had entered, all wearing the blue, scarlet and gold livery of the royal household, were milling about, swords drawn, shouting orders at Thorne and Mooncalf to close the gates and to allow no one in or out until they were gone. Lascelles was in charge, dressed as usual in black leather and his helmet off, his harsh, pointed face twisted into a scowl. Mine Host Thorne crossed the yard and angry words were exchanged between the two. Lascelles dismounted as Thorne ordered the gates to remain open. Fearful of an ugly confrontation, Athelstan hastened across, relieved to see Cranston also come striding out. Calm was restored, Lascelles nodding at Cranston’s whispered advice.

‘Very good, Master Taverner.’ Lascelles smirked at Thorne. ‘Go about your business even though your tavern is now the haven of murder, felony and treason. I need to view the corpses.’

Cranston objected, pointing out that all the dead had been sheeted in mort cloths and were being removed. Lascelles, peeling off his black leather gloves, again nodded understandingly, his glittering dark eyes never leaving Athelstan’s face. ‘It does not matter,’ Lascelles wetted his lips. ‘The money is gone, yes? Cannot be found? Yes? Well, well. My business here, Sir John, is you and Brother Athelstan. His Grace My Lord of Gaunt and Master Thibault want to know what happened here and discover what you will do to remedy it. They also want to have words with you on other matters.’ He pointed across at the tavern stables. ‘Get two horses saddled. I want to be out of here as soon as possible.’ He frowned at Cranston’s loudly whispered curse. ‘My Lord High Coroner of London, the hour is passing, my business is pressing. We must be gone – now!’ Athelstan caught Cranston’s gaze, warning him with his eyes to be careful. Cranston strolled off, shouting for Mooncalf to saddle two horses. Ronseval sauntered out and stayed in the porch to watch proceedings. Athelstan looked past the troubadour and glimpsed Paston, his daughter and Foulkes deep in conversation at a table in the Dark Parlour. Lascelles, holding the reins of his horse, beckoned Athelstan closer and asked what had happened. The friar replied in short, blunt sentences.

Lascelles, that raven of a man, listened intently, the arrogance draining from his face at the litany of bloody destruction. ‘Master Thibault,’ he whispered, ‘will not be pleased, such a vast sum stolen. Beowulf the assassin must be in the city. Who is he hunting, Brother?’

Athelstan sensed the deep anxiety of Thibault’s principal henchman. That same cloying, creeping fear which was spreading through the city like some invisible mist, thickening and curling its way around the men of power. The day of judgement was approaching. Only God’s good grace could divert the bloody confrontation between the lords and the seething masses they ruled. The seed had been sown for generations, now harvest time was due. The wine press of God’s anger was about to be turned. No one would be safe. Lascelles could swagger about in his black leather garb, silver spurs clinking on his riding boots, cloak swirling back to reveal his heavy leather war belt, but what real protection could they offer against the silent knife thrust or the swift sling shot? Athelstan left Lascelles to his thoughts as Cranston led across the saddled horses. Athelstan made sure he had all his possessions and was about to swing himself up when he heard a piping voice.

‘Master Lascelles, Master Lascelles?’ A ragged boy, face all dirty, his tunic no more than a discarded flour sack with holes cut for head and arms and tied around the waist with a dirty rope, caught Athelstan’s attention. He came running into the yard yelling Lascelles’ name, which he stumbled over as he held up the scrap of parchment in his grubby hand. Athelstan felt a cold, prickling premonition. The stableyard was busy. Local traders, tinkers and craftsmen were drifting in to break their fast. Slatterns and scullions hurried across. Doors slammed. Windows were unshuttered. Slops were being emptied, horses led in and out. The smith had begun his clanging. Thorne stood in the doorway shouting orders at a washer woman. Athelstan, however, watched that beggar boy. Lascelles was approaching him. The urchin handed over the scrap of parchment and fled like the wind through the main gate. Lascelles uncurled the parchment; he glanced up as Athelstan hurried towards him.

‘Brother, what is this?’ Athelstan lunged forward, knocking Lascelles away from his horse, which reared, hooves flailing as a crossbow bolt whipped the air between it and its rider. Athelstan crouched even as Lascelles tried to calm his horse, turning it to use a shield. Cries of ‘Harrow!’ were raised. The stableyard erupted in uproar as another bolt whistled through the air, smacking into the wall of an outhouse. Women screamed and grabbed their frightened children. Dogs snarled, racing about, agitating the horses further. Lascelles’ escort hurriedly grabbed kite-shaped shields from their saddle horns to form a protective ring around their master and Athelstan. For a while both men just sheltered. Athelstan closed his eyes and murmured the Jesus prayer whilst Lascelles cursed a litany of filth. Athelstan thanked God he could not understand it. At last, order was imposed. Cranston shouted how the mysterious bowman must have disappeared. The shield wall broke up. Lascelles grasped Athelstan’s hand, squeezing it, thanking him with his eyes before screaming a spate of abuse at his escort.

‘He’s gone!’ Cranston declared.

‘Where, Sir John, where was he?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Brother, God only knows! A window or somewhere here in the tavern yard, or did Beowulf – and I think it was our mutual friend – simply slip in from the street? The tavern is thronged with every rogue under the sun, the usual beauties, the school of Tyburn scholars and Newgate nuns.’ Athelstan walked over and picked up the deadly message. This time the parchment was faded and grease-marked, the scrawling hand uncouth, but the message was the same in all its stark menace.

‘Our assassin changes his hand,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘Sir John, we should be gone.’ People were now emerging from the tavern, all busy and inquisitive. Cranston had a word with Lascelles and the order was given to mount. They were joined by a smiling Father Roger, who asked if he could join their comitatus. Lascelles shrugged and the friar pushed his sorry-looking mount alongside Athelstan. They left the tavern yard and made their way towards the battlemented gatehouse and walls of London Bridge. Athelstan immediately experienced the inner panic that washed over him whenever he entered the turbulent, frenetic streets of Southwark. He became acutely aware of what he glimpsed, as if he was studying scenes from a stained-glass window or the intricate details of one of the Hangman of Rochester’s wall paintings at St Erconwald’s. Friar Roger was chattering like a sparrow on a twig, but Athelstan was distracted by the swirling images which surged out towards him on that brisk, cold February morning. Church bells clanged, marking the end of morning Mass and the beginning of the eleventh hour. Market horns brayed. Whores screamed and cursed as they were led down to the thews to the sound of blaring bagpipes. Traders, tinkers, fripperers and geegaw-sellers set up stalls and booths, ringing the air with their shouted offers of mousetraps, ratkillers, bird cages, bottles, ribbons, collops of meat and fresh fruit. Itinerant cooks, dressed in rotten, stinking weeds, pushed their battered barrows with portable stoves; around the cooks’ unwashed necks hung strips of ancient but heavily salted meat ready for grilling. An enterprising water-seller with a tub on his back trailed behind these offering ‘the freshest water from St Mary’s spring’ to slake, salted throats. The crowd pushed backwards and forwards, thronging down the narrow lanes where the grotesquely carved gables of shops and houses jutted out above dark and dingy chambers. Slops were being emptied into the already fetid, crammed sewers. Space was narrow; people had to step aside for Lascelles’ cavalcade. Curses and threats were hurled and, on a few occasions, slops from upper chambers narrowly missed them as night jars were emptied. Southwark, however, was different from the city, where resentments rankled deeper. In Southwark the dog-leeches, sow-gelders, rumagates, runaways, jingle-brains, tooth-drawers, broom men and a multitude of lowlife were hotly against any titled authority. All these denizens from their ‘ruffians’ hall’, as Cranston described them, wandered the streets looking for mischief or anything which might brighten their lives.

Justice was also busy. The Carnifex, the Southwark executioner, was performing his grisly trade on the approaches to the bridge. A moveable three-armed scaffold was being pushed along the riverside with a strangled, purple-faced malefactor hanging from each branch of the gallows; notices pinned to their filthy nightshirts proclaimed how these criminals were guilty of committing arson in the royal dockyards. A failed magician, who’d tricked people out of their coins for nothing in return and aptly rejoiced in the name of ‘Littlebit’ was being fastened in the stocks. Former customers had gathered, picking up rotting rubbish and even filth from the sewer running down the centre of the lane, intent on pelting him. A mad woman, her hair painted purple and garbed in rabbit skins, stood on a broken barrel. She proclaimed how once upon a time she had been a luxuriously adorned maiden who used to sit in a hazel grove until Satan had appeared in the guise of a bird-catcher and snared her soul. Next to her, three whores, whose grey, grimy naked buttocks had been soundly birched, were being fastened in the pillary for ‘lechery beyond their threshold’. Athelstan noticed with grim amusement the placards hanging around their clamped necks; these declared how the two younger ones were ‘Mea Culpa’ and ‘Mea Culpa’-‘my fault’ and ‘my fault’, whilst the third, their mother, was named ‘Maxima Culpa’ – ‘my most grievous fault’.

On the corner of the lane a preacher and his travelling troupe had rented the Eyrie, a plot of ground reserved for mummers and their plays. The preacher – Athelstan could not decide if he was acting or genuine – was garbed in horsehide, his sun-darkened face almost hidden by lank hair through which his eyes gleamed feverishly. He had attracted a good crowd. Athelstan, with a start, noticed a fellow Dominican garbed in the black-and-white robes of his order, standing a little forward of the crowd, fascinated by what was being enacted. The crowd was noisy. The air reeked with a fug of odours which mingled with the ever-present stench of stale, salted fish, rotting vegetables and human sweat. Nevertheless, the Dominican, tall and rugged, his black hair neatly tonsured, seemed impervious to his surroundings but listened intently to the rant of the preacher’s most scathing diatribe against the Church. Behind the preacher, the rest of his troupe was assembling cleverly painted panels, each depicting a message. On one a fiend jeeringly pulled the ropes of a prayer bell torturing a damned, fiery-red soul who served as the bell’s clapper. Below that on the same panel, a rat-headed demon was throttling a banker whilst another stabbed a goldsmith with a candle prick. On the second panel, a hare carrying a hunting horn, game-bag and a deer-spear was striding towards a castle with a wench slung by her feet to the spear. At the castle gate, a thorn-beaked lizard devil, dressed as an abbess, waited to welcome them. The third panel depicted the Prince of Hell, Lord Satan, with a gigantic sparrow hawk’s head and a spindle-shank thin body. The master of demons was busy devouring a damned spirit, whose perjured red-hot soul slipped from the Devil’s anus in the form of a swarm of ravens.

Lascelles stopped his cavalcade here. One of his lackies dismounted, pushed through the crowd and whispered to the Dominican; he reluctantly nodded and followed the man back, hoisting himself into the saddle of a spare horse. Athelstan caught his breath; he was sure he recognized that round, serene face from his days in the novitiate at Blackfriars. Athelstan stared again. He noted the sharp eyes, full lips, skin burnt brown by the sun and rather delicate hand gestures and how fastidiously clean this fellow friar appeared to be.

‘Brother Marcel.’ Friar Roger had been watching just as closely. ‘Don’t you recognize him, Athelstan, a man much loved by your order? Some say he will become Minister General of the Dominicans. Brother Marcel of St Sardos – the Papal Inquisitor from our Holy Father in Rome.’

Athelstan closed his eyes. He certainly remembered Marcel, the son of Anglo-Gascon parents born in English-held Bordeaux, a brilliant canon lawyer who particularly excelled in the disputation, the sharp cut and thrust of question and answer so popular in the halls of Oxford and Cambridge. What on earth was he doing in London? Athelstan glanced back at the mummers as Lascelles urged his cavalcade on. Such dramatic presentations were certainly not orthodox and, if what he recalled about Marcel was correct, would certainly be frowned on by the Papal Inquisitor.

At last they reached London Bridge. A firedrake was performing magic tricks with a torch he had inveigled from the keeper of the gatehouse, Robert Burden, that diminutive dresser of the severed heads of traitors which hung like black balls on their poles against the lightening sky. Burden, dressed in the usual blood-red taffeta, had assembled his large brood of offspring to watch the fire-swallower. Athelstan called out a greeting but Burden, engrossed in the spectacle, simply raised a hand in reply. They entered the lane which cut through the houses and shops which ranged either side of the bridge. As usual, Athelstan found such a journey frightening, literally crossing between heaven and earth. The sights and sounds always disturbed him. The clatter of nearby windmills, the stench from the tanneries, the stink of the lay stalls and that ever-crashing thunder as the river poured through the bridge’s twenty arches, pounding the lozenge-shaped starlings protecting the pillars below. Nevertheless, this was also a busy marketplace where everything was sold: Baltic furs, Muscovite leather, Paris linen, lace from Lieges and cloth from Arras. An apprentice ran up to offer a laver, a tripod pitcher with a nipped-in neck and spinous spout which ended in a dragon’s head. Athelstan examined the inscription around the bowl, ‘I am called a laver because I serve with love.’ In his other hand, the lad offered a shining bronze aquamanile from Lubeck carved in the shape of a naked man riding a roaring lion. Athelstan smilingly refused, though he quietly promised to remember both items as possible purchases by the parish council. He just wished they could just cross London Bridge, but they had to pause for a while as one of the lay stalls, heaped to fullness with smoking-hot filth, had collapsed to the merriment of some and the disgust of many, for the reeking stench crawled like a poisonous snake along the bridge.

Eventually they passed through the towered structures on the bridge’s northern side and made their way up into the city. The reaction to Gaunt’s party became more hostile. Oaths and curses followed them and, at one point, the escort had to draw swords against the flurry of flung filth. They passed under the shadow of high-towered St Paul’s, which, despite its spire being crammed with relics, had been recently struck by lightning. At last they reached the broad trading thoroughfare of Cheape. On either side elaborately hung stalls, shops and booths offered fabrics, precious metals, foodstuffs, footwear and weaponry of every kind. Here the court fops, resplendent in their elaborate headgear, brocaded short jackets, tight leggings, protuberant codpieces and fantastical long-toed shoes, brushed shoulders with the poor from the midden-heap manors and the dank, dark cellars of Whitefriars. The air was rich with a mixture of cooking smells from bakeries and pastry shops. Here also gathered Cranston’s ‘beloved parishioners’, the underworld of London: the Pages of the Pit, the Brotherhood of the Knife, the Squires of the Sewer, the nips and the foists, the glimmerers and the gold-droppers as well as whores both male and female. These surged about like dirt through water, all intent on seeking their prey: a heavy-bellied merchant’s pouch, a drunk’s half-open wallet, a young lady with an untied satchel or some distracted stall-owner. Cranston recognized them all, shouting out their names so everyone else would be wary: Spindleshank the foist, Short-pot the pickpocket, Shoulder-sham the counterfeit, Poison-pate the snatcher and Needle-point the sharper. Most of these disappeared like snow under the sun. Nevertheless, as they passed the great water conduit, the prison cage on its top crammed with more of Cranston’s ‘parishioners’, Athelstan sensed true danger. Mischief was being plotted. The crowd around was growing openly hostile.

A cart abruptly appeared and it stopped just near The Holy Lamb of God tavern. On it stood a puppet booth, narrow and curtained with a small stage on which gloved puppets shouted shrilly. One glance at these told everything. The central puppet had golden hair and a crown, the second was a plump cleric and the third, a mitred bishop, a clear allusion to Gaunt, Master Thibault and the hated Archbishop of Canterbury, Simon Sudbury. A fourth suddenly appeared, dressed in the mud-coloured garb of a peasant, who promptly began to beat the other three figures with a club, much to the merriment of the fast-gathering crowd. Lascelles’ party was noticed and the mob around them hemmed tighter. A hunting horn brayed and the puppetry immediately ceased. Cranston, swearing loudly, drew his sword. Out of the side streets debouched clusters of horsemen. Faces blackened, they all carried red cowhide shields, spears and clubs. Their hair was heavily greased and rolled up to resemble the horns of a goat.

‘Earthworms!’ Cranston shouted. ‘The Upright Men!’ The horsemen forced their way into the throng whilst the few footmen who followed opened the necks of the bulging grain sacks they carried to release an entire warren of rabbits loose in the crowd. Chaos and confusion immediately descended. Dogs snarled and broke free to pursue the rabbits, as did the horde of beggars who saw them as free fresh meat for the pot. The legion of ragged urchins who always frequented the market joined in the mad hunt. Horses skittered. Stalls overturned. Carts and barrows crashed on to their side. Apprentices tried to defend their masters’ goods from wholesale pilfering; others tried to rescue themselves from the cutting press. The real danger to Athelstan’s party were the fearsome Earthworms. Cranston, who had now taken over the cavalcade, ordered shields up and swords out but fresh danger emerged: more horsemen were spilling out of the side streets on the far side of Cheapside. Cranston urged the cavalcade forward. The Earthworms drew closer. One hurled his spear, which bounced off a raised shield; another followed, narrowly missing Lascelles, shattering against the helmet of one of his escort. Friar Roger snatched a club from an apprentice and grinned at Athelstan.

‘Let us go forth!’ he shouted. ‘Furnished with fire and sword to fight as long as the World Candle shines.’ Athelstan was about to follow suit, leaning down to grasp a staff, when trumpets shrilled and the crowd before them abruptly broke. A schiltrom of pikemen, kite shields locked in the testudo formation, long-axe spears jutting out, were advancing down the centre of Cheapside under the flowing banners of the royal standard. The mail-garbed, shield-protected footmen were fearsome enough. However, the real threat was the billowing royal banner. Anyone carrying arms in a hostile fashion when this standard was unfurled were traitors to be punished with summary but gruesome execution. The schiltrom reached Lascelles’ cavalcade and parted to gather them into its steel protection. They paused, turned and advanced back. A short while later they passed under the yawning, arched gateway of the Guildhall into the great bailey which stretched beneath the entrance portico dominated by the towering statues of Justice, Prudence and Truth. The schiltrom now broke up. Lascelles led them across the frozen cobbled yard, the air savoury with the mouth-watering smells from a nearby bakery. Friar Roger made his hasty farewells and left. Athelstan followed the rest as they were ushered up steps across floors, shiny mosaics of black, white and red lozenge-shaped tiles. Walls covered in oak panelling reflected the light from a myriad of candles glowing in alabaster jars of different colours. Beautifully embroidered tapestries proclaimed the history and glory of London city since its foundation by King Brutus. They reached a small buttery, where Lascelles told them to wait. White wines and waffle cakes were served. Only then could they relax after the hurly-burly of their journey. Athelstan waited until the servants had left and then walked over to Marcel to exchange the kiss of peace. Marcel grabbed Athelstan close before standing back.

‘Time is the Emperor of Life,’ he declared. ‘Yet you, Athelstan, have not changed.’

‘And you, Brother, look as studious as ever, but what are you doing here? I heard you were assigned to the Papal court, the Holy Father’s personal adviser?’

‘I am very busy in France, Athelstan, rooting out the weeds of heresy.’

‘So why are you here? The Inquisition has no power in England.’

‘I am here to observe, Athelstan, as a hawk does a field. You have your heretics, Wycliffe the Leicestershire parson and the Lollards, who object to the power of us priests.’

‘And mummers who perform near London Bridge!’

Marcel laughed deep and throatily. ‘I have been in London for about ten days, Athelstan. I have visited the Tower and all along the riverside. I watch and I listen.’ Marcel dropped all pretence of merriment. ‘Don’t you find such weeds in that little seedy parish of yours? Don’t you swim against a tide of heretical filth and radical aspiration?’

‘Marcel,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘I serve in a parish which is as poor as Nazareth, where a carpenter called Crispin tries to raise his family free of the tyranny of Herod.’ Marcel’s face turned harsh, mouth twisted in objection. ‘I work with poor people, Marcel, the lowest of the low. Yet, perhaps in the eyes of Christ, they are princes. Do you remember our vows Marcel, the vision of our founder? How Christ can be found amongst the poor? Marcel, you are a brilliant scholar, I recall your disputations. Don’t you remember arguing how Christ seemed happiest when he and others met for a meal with the outcasts of society?’

‘True, true,’ Marcel’s eyes softened, ‘but we have all grown older. Life turns colder. Christ’s banqueting hall has to be defended against the wild dogs which would invade it.’ The conversation was cut off by Lascelles entering, indicating that Athelstan and Cranston follow him out along the gallery into a warm, wood-panelled chancery office deep in the Guildhall. Two people sat at the long polished table. John of Gaunt, Regent and uncle of the king, slouched in a throne-like chair. Gaunt always reminded Athelstan of an artist’s depiction of Lucifer before he fell, golden-haired, steely blue eyes and perfectly formed features slightly kissed by the sun. In all things Gaunt was so elegant, be it his neatly cropped hair, moustache and beard or the high-collared gold and scarlet jerkin over the purest cambric shirt. Around Gaunt’s neck hung the SS collar of Lancaster. On his fingers dazzled rings, whilst the wall behind him proclaimed the banners of kingdoms Gaunt lay claim to: Portugal, Castile and Aragon. Thibault, sitting on Gaunt’s right, was dressed in the dark robes of a monk, though these were of the costliest wool, whilst the sapphire on his chancery ring glowed like a mini-ature candle. Thibault, with his corn-coloured hair and smooth round face, looked as cherubic as any novice sworn to God. Athelstan knew different. Thibault, despite his innocent appearance, was a highly dangerous man, totally dedicated to his dread master. Athelstan and Cranston bowed. Lascelles directed them to the stools at the far end of the table and sat with them. For a while there was silence. Athelstan watched the candlelight gleam and shift in the waxed, polished wood around him.

‘So,’ Thibault whispered, ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, what say you? What has happened?’ He pulled a face. ‘I am sorry that your journey here, how can I say it, was eventful.’

‘Yes, you can say,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Very eventful.’

‘My henchman,’ Thibault smiled at Lascelles, ‘has informed us about your quick thinking and courage at The Candle-Flame. My grateful thanks.’ His smile faded. ‘Beowulf shall hang at Smithfield. I shall be there to see his body ripped open, his entrails plucked out and his severed head balanced on a pole. Then we shall discover who has been found wanting.’

‘What do you know of him?’ Athelstan asked.

‘A traitor.’ Gaunt took his hand away from his mouth – even that was a delicate, studied movement. The Regent just sat staring at Athelstan with those strange blue eyes, as if he was trying to break into the friar’s very soul.

‘Your Grace,’ Athelstan leaned forward, ‘Beowulf’s origins … Who gave him that name?’

‘He assumed it himself,’ Thibault snapped, ‘at his very first murder. He left a message, “From Beowulf to Grendel, his enemy”. I suppose this Beowulf sees himself as a mixture of the pagan and the Christian, an Anglo-Saxon hero who can quote the sombre verses of the prophet Daniel from the Old Testament.’

‘Very good, very good,’ Athelstan mused.

‘What is, Brother?’ Gaunt snapped.

‘Well, Beowulf is a man who bestrides two traditions.’

‘He is a contagion, a pestilence.’ Gaunt’s voice thrilled with hatred. ‘He and his damnable proclamation appear here and there, as far north as Colchester and as far south as Richmond.’ Gaunt’s eyes slid to Thibault. ‘So far he has evaded capture. You, Brother, you and Sir John will trap him. Once you have, I shall kill him. So, what have you learnt?’

Athelstan faithfully reported all that happened: the mysteri-ous murders, the locked entrances, the plundered exchequer chest, the disappearance of Hugh of Hornsey and the murder of Scrope. He conceded that all the killings defied logic and explanation. Now and again he would turn to Cranston for confirmation. The coroner sat, eyes half-closed, calm and confident. Athelstan quietly prayed that he would remain so. There was bad blood between Gaunt and the Lord High Coroner of London stretching back years, when Sir John had been the Black Prince’s bannerman, body and soul. Cranston had resisted all approaches from Gaunt, be it through fear or favour. Sir John openly distrusted the Regent. On one occasion, deep in his cups, Cranston had confided to Athelstan how he suspected Gaunt secretly cherished and nursed dreams of seizing the crown. Sometimes the coroner feared for the safety and welfare of the young king.

Once Athelstan had finished, Gaunt and Thibault questioned them closely. The friar remained firm in his conclusion. He had as yet no explanation or evidence even to speculate on the murders at The Candle-Flame. Cranston added that he would issue writs immediately all over the city for the arrest of Hugh of Hornsey, if he was still alive.

‘My officials, royal archers, have been brutally murdered.’ Gaunt’s words hissed like the serpent he was. ‘My treasure,’ he beat his breast, ‘my treasure has been stolen. My name besmirched. My reputation ridiculed.’ He brought his fist down on the table. ‘For that, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, someone is going to die, and only after he has experienced the full horrors of Hell. Now there is more. Master Thibault show them.’ Thibault rose and opened a chancery pouch on a side table beneath an arras depicting the execution of England’s first martyr, St. Alban. Bearing in mind Gaunt’s threat, Athelstan was amused at the gory and gruesome picture, which reflected all the hidden menace of the Regent’s threat. Sir John had now closed his eyes, softly snoring, so Athelstan kicked him gently. The coroner sighed and pulled himself up. Thibault slid two pieces of parchment on to the table. The first was water-stained, the ink had run, the letters blurred. The second, on the costliest chancery parchment, was clerkly and clearly inscribed. It provided a list of stores, military impedimenta, siege machinery and war carts being brought to the Tower; also an estimate of the garrison there, the number of troops around London, river defences, the condition of the bridge and a list of the war cogs, caravels and hulkes being gathered in the estuary and further up river, their tonnage, armaments and what crews they carried. At the top of the costly sheet of vellum were the words, ‘To the Lord High Constable’, and at the bottom, ‘I reside at The Candle-Flame, 16 February.’

‘What is this?’ Athelstan asked.

‘A report from a spy,’ Thibault replied, going back to his seat. ‘Yesterday afternoon Ruat, a sailor from the Rose of Picardy, a Hainault merchantman bound for Dordrecht, was returning to his ship at Queenhithe when he was attacked, robbed and killed. Ruat’s two assailants were caught red-handed by the wharf master, their plunder seized. Both were hanged immediately on the river gallows. The wharf master looked at that document, now water-soaked. He could not make sense of the cipher.’ Athelstan picked it up and studied it; the words appeared to be pure nonsense.

‘Now,’ Thibault continued, ‘all port officials have been alerted against spying. The wharf master was suspicious; he passed the document to the sheriff, who of course delivered it to me. The document is stained, badly so because the sailor in question was thrown into the water.’

‘But he was only a messenger?’ Cranston asked.

‘Ruat carried a report written in a Latin cipher where the vowels AEIOU were replaced by five random numbers. In this case A is six, E is nine and so on. I broke the cipher and transcribed it. The report must be from a very high-ranking spy as he relates directly to the High Constable of France, Oliver de Clisson. More importantly, it gives us some clue to the identity and whereabouts of the spy. The last line in the cipher in clear Latin reads as follows, if I remember it correctly: “Apud Candelae Flammam XVI Febr, Resideo, I reside at The Candle-Flame, sixteenth of February.”’ Athelstan looked at both the stained manuscript and the clear Latin translation and nodded in agreement.

‘The sixteenth of February was yesterday,’ Thibault continued. ‘Consequently, is someone at that tavern not only an assassin but a traitor?’ Thibault held Athelstan’s gaze. ‘Is it the same individual or two different persons? I don’t know. I cannot say except the spy must be learned and skilled. He is also very good. He was only stopped, thanks be to God, by mere accident from supplying his masters in the Secret Chancery at the Louvre with a very detailed description of our river defences from the estuary to the Tower. Look again at the translation, Brother Athelstan.’ He waited until the friar did so. ‘You see the names of ships and other information but notice that enigmatic phrase which I have transcribed.’ Athelstan did. ‘“Et intra urbem et extra urbem populi ira crescit” – both within the city and outside,’ Athelstan translated, ‘the anger of the people grows.’ The friar kept a still tongue in his head even though he was inclined to agree with the spy’s sentiments. Cranston just coughed rather noisily, fumbled for his miraculous wineskin then thought otherwise.

‘We believe,’ Thibault continued, ‘the French are planning a landing along the Thames, a true chevauchee, a great assault on our city. They hope to break our defences and count on the unrest you have witnessed to render these defences even weaker.’

‘Why admit he was residing at The Candle-Flame?’ Cranston queried.

‘Perhaps,’ Thibault replied slowly, ‘he expected a reply as well as to assure his masters that he had entered the city …’

‘Or The Candle-Flame may be part of his task,’ Athelstan declared. Gaunt, who had remained passive throughout, leaned forward, rapping his fingers on the table. Athelstan listened to the silence abruptly broken by the piping voice of a young girl in an adjoining chamber. Thibault’s smooth, well-oiled face creased into a genuine smile. Athelstan recalled how this ambitious clerk, before taking minor orders, had fathered a child, a young girl, Isabella, who was the veritable apple of his eye.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Gaunt demanded, ‘explain.’

‘Your Grace, if French galleys pierce the Thames they can go no further than London Bridge. True?’

‘Of course.’

‘And the north bank of the Thames is, and can be, heavily fortified and defended.’

Gaunt grunted his agreement.

‘Now, The Candle-Flame overlooks the river; it stands opposite the Tower and close to the approaches to London Bridge. The French might be plotting to control the southern bank whilst they direct attacks against the quaysides of the city. The Candle-Flame would be an excellent place to set up camp.’

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Gaunt jibed, ‘you should have been a soldier.’

‘Like you, Your Grace?’

Gaunt’s smile faded.

‘Brother Athelstan may be correct,’ Cranston intervened swiftly. ‘The Candle-Flame can be fortified, the Barbican easily defended, and it would also be an excellent location to survey both the river and all approaches to the bridge.’

‘Find him then!’ Gaunt snapped. ‘This business, Sir John, is the king’s matter. It cannot be set aside for anything else.’

‘There is something else,’ Athelstan declared. ‘We have told you about the murder of Scrope. Master Thibault, did you know that Marsen was a housebreaker in Coggeshall, the murderer of an innocent woman and manservant?’

Thibault shook his head.

‘I would be the first to concede,’ Gaunt declared, ‘that not all royal officials are angels in disguise.’

‘They may well be demons!’ Athelstan retorted. ‘The murder of Marsen and the others could be the work of Beowulf, or even this spy. I also concede that the assassin and the spy might be the same person or …’ Athelstan paused.

‘Or what?’ Thibault asked.

‘There may be a number of strands here.’ Athelstan counted them out on his fingers. ‘The Upright Men, the spy, Beowulf or someone quite distinct with his or her own motive.’

‘Sir Robert Paston is one of the guests.’ Gaunt’s mouth creased into a fake smile. ‘He is my enemy – this could be his revenge.’

‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John,’ Thibault declared hastily, ‘we have no information to give you, no further assistance.’ He pointed to the two sheets of parchment. ‘Take them, study them. Is there anything else you need?’ Athelstan put the parchments into his chancery satchel then explained about the corpses being brought to the Guildhall. Thibault agreed, saying Lascelles would assist Flaxwith in hiring the finest physician in Cheapside, the cadavers would be scrutinized and Athelstan informed of his conclusions. Thibault then signalled to Lascelles, who left and returned with Brother Marcel.

‘I believe,’ Thibault smiled expansively, ‘that you and Marcel know each other. We are pleased to welcome the Pope’s legate, a member of the Holy Inquisition, here to London.’

‘What for?’ Athelstan demanded.

‘Heresy does flourish, Brother, whatever the soil.’ Marcel bowed to Gaunt and Thibault before sitting down on the chair pulled back by Lascelles. ‘We have spoken already, Your Grace,’ Marcel continued, ‘about the teaching of the Leicestershire priest John Wycliffe and the beliefs of the Lollard sect, who do not accept the authority of our Church or the Holy Father’s interpretation of scripture. They apparently do not understand the divinely revealed truths-’

‘That is because,’ Athelstan interrupted hastily, ‘most of them can’t read. They are just too poor, too hungry, too tired and too oppressed.’ Athelstan bit his tongue as Cranston kicked his ankle.

‘The Inquisition has no authority in England,’ the coroner offered. ‘Our Archdeacon’s court is weighty and powerful enough.’

‘Sir John, Sir John,’ Marcel winked at Athelstan as he held his hands up in a gesture of peace, ‘I am not here to interfere or probe. The Holy Father simply wishes to learn more about a kingdom where the papacy itself, the Blessed Gregory, sent its own apostle Augustine to convert and preach.’

Athelstan nodded understandingly though he strongly suspected the truth was that John of Gaunt was looking for papal support, and if licence issued to the Inquisition to meddle and interfere in the English Church brought him favour at the papal court, then so be it.

‘Brother Marcel had been in the city,’ Thibault explained. ‘Now he wishes to move to Southwark and what better place than a fellow Dominican’s parish at St Erconwald’s?’

Athelstan coughed to hide his surprise.

‘Do not worry, Brother,’ Marcel asserted, ‘I will not trouble you or yours or even lodge in your little house. I shall hire a chamber at The Candle-Flame, even though, unfortunately, that tavern seems to be the setting for murder and treason.’

‘We approve of that,’ Thibault added. ‘Brother Marcel may discover, see or learn something of interest to us as well as the Holy Father.’

‘Of course,’ Athelstan retorted. He paused. ‘Your Grace, Master Thibault, one more question.’ He gestured at Marcel. ‘What I have to say will, I am sure, be only of passing interest to the Papal Inquisitor. I speak in confidence which I know he will respect.’ Athelstan paused as Marcel agreed to what he’d said; the friar did not wish to alienate his visitor by asking him to leave.

‘Your question?’ Gaunt insisted.

‘How much, at a swift reckoning, was Marsen carrying in that exchequer coffer? You must know,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘You sent Lascelles here to visit him the night before his murder?’ The friar glanced at the henchman who just smirked and stared at his master.

‘Yes, Lascelles was sent to The Candle-Flame. He was under strict instruction to check on all monies. Marsen gave a proper accounting, as he would at the Exchequer of Receipt at Westminster.’

‘There is something else,’ Athelstan chose his words carefully, ‘Master Thibault, I would like the truth. Marsen collected taxes. I suspect Mauclerc was there to watch Marsen, a man with a highly unsavoury history and a malignant soul.’

‘You use the cruellest mastiff, Brother, to bring down a bear.’

‘I believe Mauclerc had other duties, didn’t he?’ Athelstan glimpsed the surprise in Thibault’s eyes.

‘What duties, Brother?’

‘Information, any information he could collect on the Great Community of the Realm and the Upright Men.’ Athelstan kept his voice steady. He believed certain records had been taken from Mauclerc’s chancery satchel but what he was saying was really a wild guess. ‘Indeed,’ he continued, ‘Mauclerc would have lists of possible sympathizers, rumours and gossip about who might be involved with the Upright Men?’

Thibault looked as if he was going to object. Brother Marcel now had his head down.

‘I also suspect …’ Athelstan realized this truly was a game of hazard, yet he had nothing to lose.

‘What else do you suspect, Brother?’

‘Well,’ Athelstan sighed, ‘if the Pope’s own Inquisitor is in London what better way of helping him than by providing him with a list of people tainted by the teaching of Wycliffe or even members of the Lollard sect?’

‘Very good,’ Thibault breathed, ‘very shrewd indeed, Brother. Yes, Mauclerc did have a list and yes, that list has probably gone but more than that we cannot say.’

‘And the money?’ Athelstan persisted. ‘Marsen must have boasted about what he had collected. He would be ever so proud of squeezing so much money out of those he taxed.’

‘Very proud, Brother,’ Lascelles replied. ‘When I visited him, he opened the coffer and it was crammed with gold and silver coins.’

‘How much?’ Cranston barked.

‘A king’s fortune. At least two thousand pounds sterling in the finest coin of the realm.’

Athelstan whistled in surprise.

‘Such a sum! Tell me now,’ Athelstan continued, ignoring Gaunt’s gesture of impatience, ‘Mauclerc and Marsen not only collected taxes but information which would be useful to you. Sir Robert Paston, as you have conceded, Your Grace, was – is – not your friend. Were this precious pair collecting titbits of gossip, slander about Paston and his family to, how can I say …?’

‘Blackmail him,’ Thibault interrupted. ‘Let us move to the arrow point, Brother. The answer is yes. I would not call it blackmail but the push and shove of fierce debate. Paston portrays himself as a protector of the people, a partisan of the truth, a merchant who gives to good causes, a master mariner cheated out of his dues.’ Thibault sneered and waved a hand. ‘Paston is no more a saint than I am. If he is going to climb into the pulpit to preach then perhaps he should make sure his own hands are clean.’

‘And are they?’

Thibault just twisted his mouth and stared away.

‘But that’s another reason why you despatched Lascelles to The Candle-Flame, isn’t it?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘You were impatient to find out what had been discovered about our worthy member of the Commons?’

‘Marsen said we would have to wait, that he hadn’t yet finished, whilst Mauclerc dare not oppose him,’ Lascelles replied.

‘And did Marsen know that Physician Scrope was hunting him, demanding justice?’

‘I suspect so.’ Thibault shrugged. ‘Marsen’s past was, as you say, highly unsavoury. He had applied to Chancery for a King’s Pardon for all past crimes and felonies. I told him that I might support this depending on the success he achieved in collecting the king’s taxes. On the night they met, Marsen informed Lascelles that I would be very pleased about what he had learnt.’

‘And Hugh of Hornsey?’

‘Most surprising, Brother. Hugh of Hornsey was a mercenary, a good captain of archers who kept to himself. I suspect he is dead. I cannot see him as an assassin. He is shrewd enough to know that flight is perhaps not the best protection. But,’ Thibault smiled falsely, ‘we all have our little secrets, Brother, only some of us are more successful at protecting those secrets than others …’