Candle Flame

PART TWO

‘Via Dolorosa’: the way of anguish.

The Vault of Hell was a much decayed though magnificently constructed tavern at the heart of the deepest darkness around Whitefriars. Here one of the most notorious captains of the slums, a true Knight of the Knife, a Lord of the Dunghill, Humphrey Wasp, held court on behalf of even more sinister overlords. Sharp as a tooth on a finely honed saw was Humphrey Wasp. He usually sat enthroned on a velvet-draped throne chair, formerly a bishop’s but appropriated during a recent riot in Norwich and despatched south for Humphrey’s use. Indeed, most of the costly goods stolen from the shops and stalls along Cheapside and elsewhere were brought to the Vault of Hell – the finest plunder: rolls of velvet and damask from Venice, lace from Lille, leather from Castile, wood and furs from Cracow. Here the most elegant pieces of art and craftsmanship, filched from their owners, were offered for sale: leather caskets cleverly embossed with symbols brought to vivid life by incised scroll-work, ivory tablet covers from Paris, delicate bone caskets from Cologne carved at the seams with the legend of Tristram and Isolde. All these were offered for sale along with jewel-studded brooches with inscriptions such as ‘You have my heart’ or ‘Love conquers all’. Humphrey was particularly keen to collect mazers fashioned in Flanders from a rare speckled wood known as Bird’s Eye Maple and set on a silver-gilt stand. Naturally such plunder glowed as fierce as any beacon light, attracting in all the rogues: the children of the horn-thumb, the trillibubs, the cackling cheats, cock-pimps, tart-dames and other land pirates, the Fraternity of the Filch and the Foist, not to mention the Brethren of the Block, who rejoiced in names such as Blow Blood, Tickle Pitcher and Jack Pudding. They all assembled at the Vault of Hell to eat and drink the finest food, wine and ale stolen from the best establishments.

A sumptuous banquet had been laid out along the common table of the great taproom called the Hall of Darkness, even though it was brightly lit by a myriad of pure beeswax candles stolen from churches the length and breadth of the city. The chamber was warmed by a great roaring fire in the massive hearth carved like a cathedral porch, as well as by clusters of braziers which crackled as merrily as the coals of Hell. However, on the night of 17 February, the eve of the feast of the Blessed Simeon bishop and martyr, there was a difference. Humphrey Wasp’s herald, the red-haired Chanticleer, had brayed for silence and no one dare disobey. The Earthworms had appeared, at least two score of them, dressed in dark leather and with their faces blackened, their hair dyed red and stiffened into plaits which stood up from their heads like devil’s horns. They were well armed with rounded shields, bows, clubs and arrows, and led by captains known as the Rook, the Jackdaw, Magpie, Hawk and Falcon. Fearsome in appearance, ruthless in reputation, the Earthworms were the envoys from the leaders of the Upright Men: Simon Grindcobb, Jack Straw, Wat Tyler and others. They had soon brought the midnight revelry at the Vault of Hell to an abrupt close. Their leader, the Crow, now stood on the dais next to a drunken Humphrey Wasp and drew out from a bucket of red wine the severed head of Grapeseed, former rope-dancer and mountebank, well-known for his drunken boasts that he had no fear of the Upright Men. The Crow just stood there grasping the roughly cut head whilst his companions around the Hall of Darkness nocked their bows.

‘Listen Ye!’ the Crow proclaimed. ‘Marsen’s death at The Candle-Flame is now well known, despatched to Hell as he deserves.’ He paused at the stifled cheer. ‘The plunder Marsen carried, the fruit of his wickedness has disappeared. Look on Grapeseed’s head and be warned. The Upright Men will not be trifled with. The treasure Marsen was taking to his satanic master Gaunt belongs to the people and the Upright Men are the true and only guardians of the people. Such treasure is ours and should be, must be, handed over.’ The Crow shook the severed head. ‘Know Ye also that Hugh of Hornsey, former captain of archers at the Tower and Marsen’s erstwhile helpmate in wickedness, has fled. Information about the stolen treasure, good, sound information, will earn you the protection of the Upright Men and five gold pieces. The apprehension of Hugh of Hornsey alive will bring you firmly within the love of the Upright Men as well as a reward of seven gold pieces. I have left with your self-proclaimed squire, Master Wasp, a description of the fugitive.’ He dropped the severed head to splash noisily into the bucket of bloody wine, wiped his hands and held them up. ‘I have now chanted my own vespers. I leave you our peace until the next time …’

oOoOo

Brother Athelstan left through the devil’s door built into the north wall of St Erconwald’s. He stood in the freezing darkness and peered up at the night sky swarming with stars – faint stars, bright stars, a maze of stars. The heavens sparkled brilliantly but, in the cemetery of St Erconwald’s, deep shadows clustered around the outlines of the winter-bound trees. Athelstan gazed up again.

‘I promise you, Brother,’ he murmured, ‘when spring erupts green, lovely and lush, I shall climb to the top of this tower and study those stars most closely, all to the glory of God. And will you join me, Bonaventure?’ Athelstan stared down at the one-eyed, fierce-looking tomcat who had adopted Athelstan and become his companion during the lonely watches of the night. ‘Holy cat, Catholic cat,’ Athelstan whispered. Bonaventure just glared imperiously back. ‘Many thanks for joining me.’ The cat had been his sole companion in church. Even the Hangman of Rochester who lived in the ankerhold Athelstan had constructed along one of the transepts was absent. The anchorite had joined the rest of Athelstan’s wayward flock in The Piebald tavern, where, after eating hot, juicy, pies from Merrylegs’ cookshop, they would be downing tankards of ale as they set the world to rights. Athelstan chewed the corner of his lip. The Hangman of Rochester had been a tragic figure when he arrived at St Erconwald’s. He had earned his name whilst serving as one of England’s finest hangmen after losing his wife and child to outlaws. The Hangman, who had been baptized Giles of Sempringham, had also proved to be a truly talented painter who had begun to sketch out a series of eye-catching tableaux, some of which troubled Athelstan with their stark message. The friar closed his eyes. ‘Giles of Sempringham,’ he murmured, recalling the Hangman’s long, yellow, straw-like hair framing that tragic, cadaverous face, ‘I am glad you have become a member of our community.’ He opened his eyes and stared down at Bonaventure, who gazed hungrily back. ‘I just pray my flock don’t draw you into their nefarious schemes.’

Athelstan crossed himself swiftly. He had arrived back in his parish just as the vesper bells tolled to find all in order. The church had been used during the day by the different guilds, fraternities and brotherhoods. The sacristy and sanctuary had been tidied – Benedicta and Crim had seen to that. Nevertheless, Athelstan had walked every inch of his church to ensure all was as it should be; it was not unknown for Watkin and Pike to set up shop in the nave to sell certain goods they’d found ‘lying about’. Athelstan stared across God’s Acre at the old death house now converted into a comfortable dwelling for the beggar Godbless, who had adopted Thaddeus, the omnivorous parish goat. ‘At least you control Thaddeus,’ Athelstan whispered, watching the candlelight dance at the shuttered window. Other animal keepers were not so successful. Ursula the pig woman’s extraordinary fat sow, which accompanied her everywhere, even to Mass, was the bane of Athelstan’s life, or rather that of his small garden. Athelstan felt a spurt of pleasure. The garden was now coming into its own. The friar wondered if Crispin the carpenter had finished the ‘Hermitage’ as Athelstan called it, a comfortable box for the large hedgehog which had taken up residence in Athelstan’s herb plot and been given the name of Hubert the Monk. Athelstan pulled his cloak tighter about him.

‘Are you well, Godbless,’ he called out, ‘on this freezing cold night?’

‘Godbless you too, Father,’ came the reply. ‘Thaddeus and I are as warm and crisp as a Christmas pie. Not even the ghosts who swarm like buzzing bees around us disturb our humours. Cream-faced they are, black-eyed, but they are wary of Thaddeus.’

Athelstan smiled. Godbless was as mad as a box of frogs; he claimed to be related to Oberon, king of the fairies; even so, Athelstan had insisted that he take up residence as Guardian of God’s Acre. Godbless had proved to be a sure defence against the warlocks and wizards who prowled city cemeteries at the dead of night to practise their abominable rites. Athelstan had recently heard of such an incident at the nearby Church of St Mary Overy, where a coven of witches and warlocks had assembled to sacrifice black cockerels to the demon lords of the air. They had fashioned oils and salves from their sacrifices, mixing them with worms, dead men’s teeth, the garments of suicides and many other heinous ingredients, all boiled together over an oak fire in the severed skull of a beheaded felon. Athelstan recalled the Inquisitor Brother Marcel and smiled grimly. If his fellow friar looked hard enough, Southwark would provide him with a glut of heresies and a veritable litany of evil practices. Something about Marcel deeply disturbed him, something not quite right. To calm himself Athelstan went and checked on the old warhorse Philomel sleeping in his stable before moving across into the priest’s house. Athelstan had scrubbed it clean the previous day and he was proud of what he had achieved. The flagstone kitchen floor gleamed, the bed loft was neatly ordered, whilst all the cooking utensils and platters shimmered in the light of the banked hearth fire. He busily lit candles and the lantern on the table, which served both for eating and study. Once satisfied Athelstan stoked up the fire, used the bellows on the braziers then locked and bolted the door for the night. Benedicta had left one of Merryleg’s pies in the small oven built next to the hearth. Athelstan poured a stoup of ale, polished his horn-spoon on a napkin, blessed himself and Bonaventure and began to eat, his every mouthful being watched by Bonaventure, who had lapped his milk in the twinkling of his one good eye.

‘This is excellent!’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I will leave you some juicy venison, Bonaventure. I do wonder how Merrylegs obtained such good meat in the depth of winter.’ He leaned over and stroked the cat’s head. ‘On second thoughts, perhaps it’s best not to ask.’ Athelstan put the platter down near the fire beside Bonaventure. He opened his chancery casket and took out sheets of vellum, a clasped ink horn and fresh quill pen all courtesy of Sir John. He then emptied his satchel and made himself ready by intoning the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’, asking for divine help with the murderous mystery confronting him. Certain matters had already been clarified. Earlier in the evening a Guildhall courier had brought him information on how all the corpses taken from The Candle-Flame had been examined by no lesser person than Bertrand de Troyes, a royal physician. He declared how he could detect no trace of poison or any other potion except ale and wine. All victims had died brutally of their wounds. The same physician had been with Lascelles when the scraps and dregs served in the Barbican had been examined. They could discover very little. A horde of rats had devoured the lot but with no ill effect. Lascelles had even called in the services of the Guildhall rat-catcher, who searched about but concluded there was nothing amiss which a gaggle of ferrets could not resolve. So, Athelstan wondered, how had all those murders been perpetrated so mysteriously?

‘Primo, Bonaventure.’ The friar spoke as he wrote. Occasionally he would glance up; the great cat had demolished what was left of the venison and now squatted on the table watching Athelstan expectantly. ‘Primo, Bonaventure,’ he repeated, ‘those two archers killed by the campfire were tired and cold. The flames would illuminate them as clear targets for the assassin. In a matter of a few heartbeats, crossbow bolts struck one and then the other. Secundo, how did the assassin, or assassins, enter that Barbican? The solitary window was locked, closed and shuttered firmly on both sides. Apparently the tavern has no ladder long enough to reach it; moreover, Marsen and the rest would surely have killed any intruder attempting to break in? The door? Mooncalf, and I believe him, swears that it was locked and bolted. More mysteriously, so was the trapdoor which governs access to and from the second storey. Both entrance and flight from the roof is nigh impossible. Tertio,’ Athelstan paused to dip his quill in ink, ‘the assassin must be a skilled master-at-arms to slay seasoned archers, veterans, not to mention Marsen and Mauclerc who would surely resist. More mysterious still, why hadn’t those on the upper storey who heard the swordplay below be warned and gone to their help or, if the assassin abruptly appeared in the upper storey, though only God knows how, surely those on the ground floor would have been alerted? Quarto, the exchequer coffer. How was that opened and plundered? It had three locks. When Marsen and Mauclerc’s corpses had been stripped in the death house at the Guildhall, a key had been found on chains around each of their necks. The third must be held by Hugh of Hornsey, who has disappeared. So, how had the exchequer chest been opened and riffled so easily? Quinto, how did that assassin leave carrying the treasure without using window or door?’ Athelstan paused as Bonaventure padded closer, head going out to Athelstan’s tankard. ‘Judas cat!’ the friar whispered. ‘You act all humble but in truth you are hungry. Let us continue.’ Athelstan smoothed the parchment in front of him. ‘Sexto, Hugh of Hornsey. Victim or perpetrator? Did that elegant gauntlet and the chainmail wristguard belong to him? Was the captain of archers dead or alive? If the former, why hasn’t his corpse been found like the rest? If alive, why the flight, which obviously casts him as the murderer? Septimo, which is seventh to you, cat.’ Athelstan ruffled the fur between Bonaventure’s scarred ears, battle trophies of the cat’s ferocious fights along the alleyways of Southwark. ‘Was that mysterious assassin, Beowulf, the secret friend and ally of the Upright Men, responsible? Was Beowulf a stranger or someone at the tavern? Octavo, had Beowulf also been responsible for physician Scrope’s murder, and if so why? The physician was Marsen’s implacable foe, preparing to indict him before the Court of King’s Bench. So why should Beowulf risk killing him and so mysteriously? Again, how did the murderer enter and leave a locked chamber without hurt or hindrance? He must have come through that door as the only window overlooked a busy stableyard. Friar Roger claimed to have heard knocking on Scrope’s door, yet when he looked out, the Franciscan could see no one in the gallery.’ Athelstan paused to take a sip of ale and, as Bonaventure edged closer, abruptly rose to his feet. If a cat could smile it did at the success of its strategy. The little friar, as usual, went across to the buttery and brought back the milk jug to fill Bonventure’s bowl in front of the fire. The cat leapt down and nestled in the warmth to tongue the milk and revel in his achievement.

Athelstan studied what he had written. ‘Nono, Physician Scrope was fastidiously clean. According to witnesses he had been closeted in his chamber, yet his costly boots and cloak were splattered with blood. The same is true of the lantern horn, whilst the candle inside had burnt low. Scrope must have gone out on the night of the murder and didn’t have time to get the mud cleaned off his clothing. He must have, or might have, seen or heard something suspicious, so he was silenced. Decimo, the attack on Lascelles? Undoubtedly Beowulf, but was he also responsible for the other murders? Postremo.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Finally, the spy who declares he is residing at The Candle-Flame … is he only a spy or an assassin?’ Athelstan pulled across the sheets of parchment given to him by Thibault. ‘So many questions, Friar,’ he muttered, ‘and I am so tired.’ Athelstan kept reading but his eyes grew heavy and, putting his head on his arms, he slipped into a deep sleep.

oOoOo

Cranston had risen very early in the principal bedchamber of his now empty, rather desolate house. He’d stoutly resisted the temptation to mope and mourn the absence of the Lady Maude and the two poppets. Instead, he had washed thoroughly and clipped his hair, moustache and beard using an enamel-backed mirror, a Twelfth Night gift from the Lady Maude. Once satisfied, Cranston had dressed in one of his finest lawn shirts, a sea-green woollen hose, a blue jerkin and a dark-red mantle. He donned his silver chain of office, rubbed perfumed oil on to his face, collected his boots, cloak and sword then paused by the front door to recite a short prayer for his loved ones. He crossed himself, opened the door and went out to brave the freezing night mist which still cloaked Cheapside. Cranston strolled down the thoroughfare until he reached the Church of St Mary-le-Bow. He entered its incensed-hallowed darkness, which was lit fitfully by golden tongues of candle flame before the Lady altar. Cranston genuflected and entered the Chantry Chapel of St Alphege, where the Jesus Mass of the day was about to begin. Afterwards Cranston ambled across to what he called ‘his other chapel’ – The Holy Lamb of God – to be soothed by the tender ministrations of the landlady. Cranston dined on cormarie, a dish of the house: pork roasted in red wine, cloves, garlic and black pepper, served with freshly baked white bread. Cranston gave thanks to her and God as he ate and drank lustfully. Of course, within a heartbeat of entering the tavern the coroner was joined by two beggars, the constant bane of Cranston’s life: Leif the One-Legged and his comrade Rawbum, a former cook who, under the influence, had sat down on a pan of bubbling oil. Cranston was able to fend them off with a few pennies and so they left, shouting their praise and thanks.

At peace with God and man, Sir John then adjourned to his judgement chamber in the Guildhall where his two acolytes, Osbert the plump-faced clerk and Simon the meagre-featured scrivener had prepared the agreed schedule. The coroner ruefully conceded that the business of the day had begun. He listened to both men even though he was distracted by memories of what he had seen and heard the previous day. The murders at The Candle-Flame were truly baffling. Athelstan had left early in the evening equally mystified. Cranston had reviewed and scrutinized all he had learnt and wondered if Athelstan had reached the same conclusion as he had, a rather minor solution yet still interesting. Cranston had not bothered about Beowulf or the possible spy. He had been fascinated by the costly blue gauntlet and the expensive chainmail wristguard. Had these been deliberately left by the assassin, who had excelled himself in the deadly skill of his murderous enterprise? If the killer had been wearing these, and Cranston accepted Athelstan’s theory that neither item fitted any of the corpses in the Barbican, surely the killer would have noticed they were missing? He would have searched for them. Moreover, both items were quite difficult to take off, especially the wristguard. And why take one off and not both gauntlets and wristguards? If the items had been deliberately, left, for what purpose? The killer would not incriminate himself, so who was he trying to blame? Moreover, if those items belonged to an innocent party, how did the killer obtain them and why leave them in that murder chamber? Cranston was also intrigued by what they had found on the physician’s corpse. Why was Scrope clutching that vademecum, the pilgrim book about the wonders of Glastonbury? The book had been open at a certain page stained with the dead man’s blood. Was it a mere accident, a coincidence? Had the physician been reminiscing about his pilgrimage?

Cranston was roused from his reflections by Oswald and Simon who, helped by Flaxwith and his bailiffs, had now assembled the usual litany of offences with their perpetrators. Mooncurser, who believed demons, disguised as a gang of sparrows, were massing in the eaves of houses ready to strike. He and his comrade Hugh the Howlet, who believed he was Master of the Owls, had noisily proclaimed with trumpet and bagpipe such a message along the entire length of Cheapside well after the chimes of midnight. Eventually they had been arrested by the bailiffs, given a good thrashing and lodged in the cage on the tun. Cranston bellowed at them and let both go. Make-bait and Duck-legs appeared next, accused of drunkenness. They had the charges quashed in return for providing valuable information about the jakemen who issued counterfeit licences to the glimmers so the latter could go begging the length and breadth of the city. Cranston took careful note of these as he did the Queen of the Night, who claimed she ran a family of love in a chamber above a tavern in Dowgate. Cranston declared that she was a bawd supervising a brothel. He fined her as such and bound her over to keep the peace. Cranston sat as the whole sorry gaggle of petty malefactors appeared and disappeared before him as he issued his judgements. The market horn was braying for the start of business along Cheapside when Cranston noticed Muckworm, one of his most trusted informants, slide into the judgement chamber to stand statue-like in his long brown robe until the room emptied. Once it had, Muckworm, his bald head and girlish face all glistening with perfumed oil, sidled forward.

‘My Lord Coroner …’

‘Two shillings,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Four shillings if the information is useful.’

‘The business at The Candle-Flame?

‘What of it?’

‘None of the plunder has appeared on the streets. No one is saying anything. Rumour claims the Upright Men, though rejoicing in Marsen’s death, had no part in it.’

‘And?’

‘They have issued the ban against anyone who tries to profit from the stolen treasure. Any information about the murders and robbery must be conveyed to them. They have also issued their own warrant and posted a reward for the capture of Hugh of Hornsey.’

‘Have they now?’ Cranston breathed, stirring in his chair. ‘In other words, the Upright Men do not know what happened at The Candle-Flame. They had no part in it, which brings us back to the original question. Who did? Ah, well, Muckworm, see Osbert and collect three shillings.’

Muckworm bowed and left the chamber. Cranston sighed and pulled across a copy of an indictment: how Thomas Elan in Farringdon ward feloniously entered the close and house of Margaret Perman of the same ward, attempted to rape her feloniously, and feloniously bit the said Margaret with his teeth so that he ripped off the said Margaret’s nose with that bite and broke three of her ribs so that four days later the said Margaret died because of infection and pain of that bite … ‘Satan’s tits!’ Cranston swore quietly and immediately took a slurp from the miraculous wineskin. He grasped a quill and scribbled across the indictment that Elan be arraigned before the justices of oyer and terminer at Westminster.

‘Sir John?’ He glanced up. Oswald and Simon stood in the doorway, both looking highly anxious. Cranston felt a pang of pity. These two faithful servants of his court were always ready to tease him, but not today. The coroner realized how that rising tide of fear creeping through the city was beginning to lap along the corridors of the Guildhall. Horrors like Thomas Elan could be dealt with but the appearance of the Earthworms yesterday, erupting into the heart of the city, audacious enough to attack crown officials, heightened the tension. These two men were terrified. Yesterday royal troops had invaded Cheapside but when the revolt came these would be pulled back to defend Westminster and the Tower. And what then?

‘Gentlemen.’ Cranston smiled. ‘You have family?’

‘Yes, Sir John,’ they chorused.

‘Get them out of this city as soon as possible.’

‘Where, Sir John?’ Oswald pleaded.

‘They can join the Lady Maude in a well-fortified manor deep in the countryside, your wives, your children and the rest of your households. I will leave you the details but mark my words, they should be gone by tomorrow’s vesper’s bell. Also,’ Cranston gestured around, ‘start stripping my chambers here. Have all the tapestries and other moveables chested away. Any weapons and monies must be hidden. The coroner’s rolls and all other documents should be locked in the war chests in the cellars. Oh, by the way, have those corpses from The Candle-Flame been moved to St Mary-le-Bow yet?

‘Yes, Sir John,’ they chorused.

‘Good, now do what I say.’

‘Of course, Sir John.’ The relief of both officials was obvious.

‘By the way,’ Simon piped up, ‘Sir John, you have two visitors who wish to speak to you urgently, the taverner Master Thorne and Sir Robert Paston …’

A short while later both men were ushered up into the chamber, Oswald closing the door as Cranston waved his visitors to the cushioned window seat. Refreshments were offered and refused. Thorne, his hard-favoured face slightly red, eyes constantly blinking, came swiftly to the point.

‘Sir John, we have information for you. Sir Robert here has discussed it with me. We thought it best to come to you.’

‘On the night of the murders,’ Paston broke in, ‘I heard a disagreement, a fairly violent one as I walked down the gallery and passed Ronseval’s chamber. Voices were raised. Ronseval was challenging Hugh of Hornsey. I recognized the captain’s Yorkshire burr; he apparently hails from Pontefract.’

‘This disagreement?’ Cranston asked.

‘I could only hear catches of their conversation. Ronseval was accusing Hornsey of cowardice, of being too frightened to confront Marsen. I passed on and returned to my chamber.’

‘When was this?’

‘I would guess about an hour before midnight. But listen, Sir John, I am sure that Hornsey left that chamber. I heard the door open and close. However, I am equally certain that sometime later he returned. I am sure I heard a knock. Again, I went out on to the gallery. I heard raised voices, a scuffle. I hid in the shadows. The door was thrown open and Hornsey stormed out.’

‘So.’ Cranston paused. ‘What you are saying is that Hugh of Hornsey left his post at the campfire at least twice to quarrel with Ronseval? But why him? Why should a captain of archers consort with a wandering minstrel?’

‘All I can say,’ Thorne replied, ‘is that both have stayed at The Candle-Flame. There is more. Yesterday, after you left, the tavern fell silent. Your bailiff Flaxwith and the others carted away the corpses and what remained of the food and drink. On his way out Flaxwith removed your seals and declared the Barbican could now be used, that is correct?’

Cranston nodded.

‘As I said, everything quietened down. Everyone was stricken by what had happened. My wife Eleanor is sorely aggrieved.’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘Mooncalf, just before twilight set in, glimpsed Ronseval out on the Palisade. He seemed to be searching for something. Mooncalf decided to hide and watch.’

‘And?’ Cranston leaned forward.

‘Mooncalf saw Ronseval pick up a dagger and hurry back into the tavern. Now, I left The Candle-Flame in the early evening; everything remained quiet. Sir Robert will attest to that. You had instructed myself and all the guests to remain until you issued licence to leave.’

Cranston grunted his agreement.

‘Well, between vespers and compline bell, sometime before the curfew sounded and the steeple lights were lit, Ronseval fled the tavern.’

‘What!’

‘Sir John, I was not there. Mooncalf met Ronseval in the Dark Parlour, preparing to leave. Mooncalf had words with him about that. Ronseval said he was leaving for a short while and would return. He never did. This morning a Dominican, the Papal Inquisitor, Brother Marcel, arrived to lodge at the tavern. I gave him the Lombard chamber, spacious and comfortable, next door to the minstrel’s. I had been expecting him for days.’ He sniffed. ‘Whilst doing so I could hear no sound from Ronseval’s room. I unlocked the door but he and all his baggage were gone. He had left the chamber tidy enough, though I detected blood smatterings on the rope matting and turkey rug. It looked as if Ronseval had tried to wash it off and failed. I asked Sir Thomas to come and witness what I had discovered. He did. Sir John, Ronseval has disappeared; he has fled.’

‘Why?’ Cranston asked himself loudly. ‘No, I don’t expect you to answer that but what actually happened at your tavern, Master Thorne, during those dark hours of the night?’

oOoOo

Brother Athelstan was wondering about the same problem as he took his seat in the sanctuary chair, moved specially through the rood screen so he could meet and converse with his parish council, who were now sitting on three long benches before him. They had all turned up for the Jesus Mass. Athelstan had been waiting for them; the candles had been lit and the braziers fired so St Erconwald’s lost some of its misty chill. Athelstan glanced at Mauger the bell clerk, who sat hunched over his small chancery table taking notes. Athelstan was pleased they had covered a great deal of business including the collapse of the recent Love Day, so carefully prepared by Athelstan. Relationships amongst some of the parishioners had soured and Athelstan had hoped that a Love Day would soothe all these problems. There had been a Mass followed by a solemn exchange of singing bread and the kiss of peace with revelry planned in the nave. At first everything had gone smoothly, until Pike’s game of Hodman’s Bluff descended into Hot Cockles: a lewd, bawdy ritual where participants blindfolded each other then tried to slap their opponent’s buttocks. Of course, Pike had cheated. He immediately spied on Cecily the courtesan’s beautiful round bottom and, drunkenly lecherous, led the rest in hot pursuit, provoking the dire wrath of their wives, Pike’s Imelda in particular.

This morning’s parish council meeting had restored peace and harmony, and Athelstan and his little flock were moving swiftly down a list of outstanding business. They had agreed to the creation of new paintings on the south side of the church. The Hangman of Rochester, now smiling beatifically to himself, had described in great detail the story of Elijah and the Prophets of Hell. The Hangman also solemnly vowed that no one from the parish would recognize themselves in the painting. A new lid for the baptismal font had been decided. Purple candles had been ordered for Lent. The time and liturgy for the distribution of ashes on Ash Wednesday were fixed, whilst the cleansing of the mort-pall used to cover the parish funeral bier was also agreed. Judith, once a mummer, a former player in the Straw Men acting troupe, had been studying Athelstan’s precious book of plays. She had announced how the mystery play at Easter would centre around the betrayal of Christ. Judith had asked for volunteers for the difficult roles: Pilate, Herod, the two high priests, Judas, Pilate’s wife and Pilate’s daughter. Athelstan had never heard of the latter but he thought it more prudent not to comment. Judith’s announcement had distracted everyone and of course stirred the latent rivalry amongst the parishioners. Once Judith had finished, Athelstan revealed his cherished plan. On Good Friday, during the celebration of Christ’s Passion, he hoped to arrange a three-voice choir to sing the ‘Ecce Lignum Crucis’ and the ‘Christus factus est’ – ‘Behold the wood of the Cross’ and ‘Christ made himself obedient’. Athelstan was determined on this. He would personally teach them the Latin phrases, easy to memorize as well as recite. This, as planned, had deeply flattered his flock, who would be very eager to show off their newfound learning – Latin no less, in all the taverns of Southwark. The parishioners discussed this heatedly amongst themselves before falling strangely quiet. Athelstan’s heart sank. The council sat staring at him. All remained silent, even Ranulf the rat-catcher’s two ferrets, Ferox and Audax, who crouched placidly in the cage between their master’s feet, whilst Ursula the pig woman’s massive sow sprawled docilely on the floor. Athelstan recalled Pedro the Cruel at The Candle-Flame. Perhaps, Athelstan smiled to himself, the two pigs should be introduced to one another! Only Thaddeus the goat moved, trying as usual to chew his master’s ragged cloak. Athelstan glanced at the lovely face of Benedicta but she seemed totally distracted by her hood, lined with squirrel hair. Athelstan waited patiently. The council members were now turning on their benches to peer at Watkin and Pike. The friar suspected what was about to happen.

‘Father?’ Pike shot to his feet. ‘Father?’

‘Yes, Pike.’

‘Father we heard about what happened at The Candle-Flame.’

‘I am sure you have, as you would about the attack by the Earthworms in Cheapside.’ Athelstan paused, the winter light pouring through the lancet windows seemed to dim, the shadows creeping closer.

‘Father,’ Pike blurted out, ‘we are worried about you. I mean, when the time comes …’

‘When God’s time comes, Pike, when my time comes …’ Athelstan rose to his feet, fighting back tears of sheer frustration as he studied the faces of these men and women whom he truly loved and cared for. They could infuriate him beyond belief, and heaven knows they did, but they were funny, kind and generous with a deep mocking humour, a love of the ridiculous, even if they themselves were often the brunt of such comedy. He baptized their children. He schooled, whenever he could, the older ones in their horn-book. He visited them in their homes and celebrated the much-loved rhythms of both the year and the Church’s liturgy. These poor people shuffled through life; now they were all stumbling towards disaster. Athelstan felt his temper break. ‘I have preached on this before,’ he thundered, ‘and I will do so again. The Lord Jesus sees all men and women equal in the sight of God. Christ, I assure you, weeps bitter tears at the greed and power of the great ones of the soil. God does interfere through the grace he sends to change the way things are to the way things should be. The only obstacle to God’s grace is the stubborn, obdurate and evil self-centeredness of those who block God’s plan. Nevertheless, God will achieve what he wants. The community of this realm is growing stronger. The good will flower. The seed, however, lies deep, the soil is hard yet still the seed grows. Bondage to the master is being broken. The Commons sit to question the Crown and its lackies-’

‘And still we starve.’ Pike had, as he could so often do, dropped his usual foolish antics, showing that sharp leadership which had made him so favoured amongst the Upright Men.

‘Yes Pike, sometimes we starve but violence will not put food on your children’s platters. The revolt will come, I know that. I pray against the day because Sion will not come to Southwark. The new Jerusalem will not rise in Cheapside. The great ones will mass their armed men to the north, south, east and west. It will be a time of great slaughter …’

‘When even the strongholds fall.’

Athelstan whirled round at the voice behind him. Brother Marcel appeared through the door of the rood screen and walked quietly into the nave. He held out his arms to his fellow Dominican.

‘Frater,’ he whispered. ‘Pax et Bonum. I did not mean to startle you. I wanted to visit your church. I walked its precincts and saw the sacristy door open, so I came in.’ Athelstan embraced the Inquisitor, exchanging the kiss of peace on each cheek. For all his surprise Athelstan was amused by his colleague. Marcel, as he had been in the novitiate, was extremely fastidious: his face was smoothly shaven and smelt fragrantly of perfumed oil, his hands were gloved in soft deerskin, whilst his black-and-white robe was of the purest lambswool and fresh as the day.

‘You are most welcome, Brother.’ Athelstan stood back and gestured at his parishioners. ‘We were discussing matters close to our hearts.’

‘So I heard, so I heard.’ Marcel turned to the council, who immediately fell to their knees as the Inquisitor raised his hand to deliver a solemn blessing. Once finished, the council resumed their seats, whilst Marcel took the stool next to Athelstan.

‘Brother,’ he declared, ‘I heard what you said. I wonder if I could have a word with your parishioners?’

Athelstan agreed, introducing Marcel as a visitor from the Holy Father who wished to learn more about the state of affairs in England.

‘We can tell him a tale or two,’ Pike muttered but loud enough to provoke muted laughter.

‘I am interested,’ declared Marcel blithely, ‘in what you think of the state of Christ’s Church in this kingdom.’

‘You mean the one founded by the Carpenter of Nazareth?’ Crispin challenged. ‘The man who worked with wood, who blessed the poor and warned the rich and powerful?’

Athelstan just stared down at the floor.

‘But the Church,’ Marcel persisted, ‘the Holy Father, your Bishop-’

‘Don’t know them!’ Pike shouted back. ‘Athelstan’s our pope and our bishop.’

Pernel the Fleming began to croon one of her madcap songs whilst she threaded her orange-dyed hair between her fingers. Ursula’s sow promptly clambered to its feet, trotters skittering on the paving stones.

‘Will you join the revolt?’ Marcel’s stark question imposed silence. ‘I ask you as a guest in your parish about something which will profoundly change your lives.’

Athelstan, alarmed, rose to his feet. He did not want any of his parishioners to convict themselves out of their own mouths. Thibault’s spies swarmed everywhere, even here. Athelstan had not forgotten Huddle, their former painter. Huddle, because of his gambling debts, had been forced to act as Thibault’s spy and paid for his mistake with his life. Athelstan sighed with relief when the corpse door leading to the cemetery quietly opened and two cowled figures walked into the nave. One of these pulled back the deep capuchon to reveal the harsh features and cynical eyes of Brother Roger. The Franciscan extended his hands, whilst his companion, still hooded, quickly side-stepped Athelstan. He almost ran into the sanctuary, up the steps to the mercy enclave on the right side of the altar. As he passed this he grasped a corner, the usual gesture of someone claiming sanctuary. Only when he reached the mercy enclave did the figure turn and pull back his hood to reveal a hard-bitten face, pock-marked, the high cheekbones rawed by wind and rain, thin lips and narrow eyes. The man’s head was completely shaven, though his face was stubbled, dirty and drawn. Athelstan could see the man was clearly exhausted.

‘Sit down.’ Athelstan noticed the brace on the man’s left wrist, whilst the two forefingers of his right hand were slightly curved and calloused. ‘You are Hugh of Hornsey, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, captain of the archers at the Tower. I claim sanctuary here. I invoke all the protection of Holy Mother Church.’

‘And you shall have it as long as you observe canon law,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You cannot leave here. You cannot receive visitors and you cannot bear arms. In forty days’ time you must either surrender to the sheriff or abjure this realm.’ Hugh of Hornsey, however, had slumped down on the mercy chair, face in hands. Athelstan, hearing the growing tumult behind him, walked back into the nave. The parish council were now grouped around the Inquisitor, questioning him closely. They had taken Marcel over to show him the wall painting depicting St Peter, the patron saint of Moleskin’s boatmen. Crim was describing one of the ships as a caravel, but Marcel gently corrected him as he explained the difference between a hulke, a cog and a galley. Marcel acted all charming, ruffling the lad’s hair whilst chatting to members of the parish council.

‘Like Herod dancing amongst the innocents,’ Athelstan whispered to himself. Pike, Watkin and Ranulf the rat-catcher, however, stood apart in a place where they could peer through the door of the rood screen at the fugitive hiding in the sanctuary. Athelstan did not like the look on their faces and, calling Mauger and Benedicta over, urged them to clear the church. He then turned and walked over to where Brother Roger was admiring a wall painting in the chantry chapel of St Erconwald’s.

‘Father!’ Athelstan whirled round. Pike, Watkin and Ranulf were standing behind him.

‘Yes?’

‘Father, we want to know, I mean about Hugh of Hornsey …’

‘Why, Pike,’ Athelstan walked forward, ‘how do you know our captain of archers?’

‘Just,’ Pike pulled a face, ‘why did he flee to here of all places? I mean, we’ve all heard about The Candle-Flame murders …’

‘Have you now?’ Friar Roger came over. He winked quickly at Athelstan. ‘Well, I’m very thirsty. After I’ve talked to your parish priest, perhaps you could buy a poor friar a tankard of The Piebald’s splendid ale; it would slake the thirst and certainly soothe my humours.’

Pike and the others beamed with pleasure, saying they would wait for him outside. Athelstan watched them go. ‘Be careful, Brother,’ he warned. ‘I do not betray any secrets, but that unholy trinity sit high in the councils of the Upright Men. They’ll be very interested to hear of Marsen’s death.’

‘As I am in St Erconwald’s.’

‘Are you?’ Athelstan exclaimed.

‘A great Bishop of London, surely?’ And the Franciscan insisted on informing Athelstan about all he’d learnt of St Erconwald. How the saintly Bishop of London had been of the royal line; he had founded religious houses at Barking and Chertsey, so holy even Erconwald’s horse litter was now regarded as a sacred relic. Friar Roger paused as Marcel shouted his farewells and left.

‘Your fellow Dominican is rather strange.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Brother Roger, welcome to my church. By all means study this parish consecrated to St Erconwald. But how on earth did you meet Hugh of Hornsey and why did you bring him here?’

‘Oh, I had words with him in the tavern before the murders occurred – the usual courtesies.’ Brother Roger’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘I am not my brother’s keeper but Hugh of Hornsey thought differently. Early this morning he presented himself before the pauper’s gate at Greyfriars, joining the others begging for bread and a bowl of pottage. He informed the almoner that he needed sanctuary and asked for me. According to our charter Greyfriars cannot provide such refuge, though Hornsey himself was already insisting that he lodge with you. He claims to be innocent of any crime, yet he is being hunted both by the law and the minions of the gang leaders in London. What could I do? I disguised him in a Franciscan robe and hurried him here. More than that, Brother, I cannot say.’ The Franciscan exchanged the kiss of peace with Athelstan and left saying he would relish his visit to The Piebald.

For a while Athelstan busied himself with the fugitive bringing him all the necessaries: a wash bowl, napkin, jug, as well as food and drink. Hugh of Hornsey remained taciturn, especially when members of the parish such as Mauger the bell clerk and Benedicta came into the sacristy with items donated by the parish: pies from Merryleg’s cook shop and a small tun of ale from The Piebald. Benedicta plucked at Athelstan’s sleeve and led him back into the sacristy.

‘Father, be careful,’ she pleaded. ‘Ranulf told me how your sanctuary man is not only being hunted by Sir John but scurriers despatched by the Upright Men. They have posted rich rewards on his head.’

‘So there you are, my lovely.’

‘Sir John!’ Athelstan exclaimed and hurried back into the sanctuary. Cranston stood just within the rood screen along with Flaxwith, who, of course, had brought his mastiff Samson with him, a dog Athelstan secretly considered to be the ugliest animal created by God.

‘Sir John!’ Hornsey warned. ‘I have been given sanctuary.’

‘And you are welcome to it. Brother Athelstan, a word.’

The coroner took the friar over to the privacy of the chantry chapel. Resting against the shrine of St Erconwald, Cranston swiftly summarized his suspicions about both the gauntlet and the chainmail wristguard found in the Barbican. He relayed what Paston had told him. He also warned Athelstan what the friar already knew: how the Upright Men were hunting Hornsey and might not give a fig about sanctuary. ‘Thibault,’ Cranston murmured, ‘will also learn what has happened. Lascelles and his bully boys will certainly pay you a visit, so I best leave some of my bailiffs here. Now I must go. Ronseval has fled and remains so …’ Cranston raised a hand and strolled off, shouting at Flaxwith and his bailiffs to mount guard outside.

Athelstan watched them leave. He agreed with Cranston’s suspicions about the gauntlet and wristguard: they weren’t dropped accidently, so why were they left? More importantly, why was Hornsey so reluctant to talk? The friar closed his eyes. He just wished he could gather every item he’d learnt about the swirling mysteries confronting him. He must impose order on them, analyse them with logic, form a conclusion and test them against all the available evidence, but, he thought as he opened his eyes, that would have to wait.

Athelstan went back into the sanctuary. Hugh of Hornsey squatted on the ground. He had eaten all the food and drained his tankard; now he was sleepy. Athelstan stared around. The church lay silent. He was fairly confident that no one would dare accost the fugitive. Sanctuary was a sacred, inviolable right; anyone who broke it faced the full rigour of the law, both secular and religious. Holy Mother Church was jealous of such a privilege and protected it with bell, book and candle as well as the most fearsome sentence of immediate excommunication in this life and eternal damnation in the next. The only person who could accost the fugitive was himself. He certainly had questions for his unexpected guest but they would have to wait. Athelstan went into the sacristy. He ensured the outside door was unlocked so Hornsey could, when he wished, use the jakes built into an ancient but crude garderobe in the corner of one of the bulwarks next to the leper squint. Athelstan stared at the bolts on the door and recalled those in Scrope’s chamber. How had that physician been murdered, and why?

Athelstan shook his head, unlocked the parish chest, took out his chancery satchel and found the blood-stained vademecum, the pilgrim’s book of Glastonbury. The source of the information it contained was the Magna Tabula, the great wooden boards hanging in Glastonbury Abbey church. Each of these was covered in parchment which listed the fabulous relics of that ancient Benedictine house. Athelstan had visited it himself and studied both the lists and the treasures themselves: Arthur’s tomb, Merlin’s cave, the Holy Grail, St Joseph of Arimathea’s staff planted miraculously so it bloomed every year. Glastonbury also owned the relics of St Patrick and St David, both of whom, the Benedictines claimed, were buried in their sacred precincts … Athelstan noticed how Scrope’s blood was at its thickest on the two pages describing Joseph of Arimathea’s visit to the site of the abbey after Christ’s resurrection.

‘Why?’ Athelstan murmured. He glanced up and stared at the bleak holy rood nailed to the far wall. ‘Why were you reading this, holding it when your assassin struck?’ Athelstan started as the door was flung open and Hugh of Hornsey limped through. He bowed at Athelstan and, clutching the points on his hose, hurried through the outside door. He came back a short while later and, under Athelstan’s direction, he washed his hands at the great wooden lavarium.

‘Sit down.’ Athelstan pulled a stool closer. ‘You are safe here,’ he reassured this most fearful man, ‘but, Master Hugh, I have to question you. However, I must also make you secure.’ He pointed to the sacristy door leading into the cemetery. ‘Once you return from the privy you can bolt and lock that from the inside. Open it only for me. At night, be careful. If you have to, relieve yourself and do so swiftly. Take great care, however, that no one approaches you in sanctuary apart from myself.’

The archer grunted his agreement.

‘Look at the outside door, Master Hugh. Study the eyelet high in the wood. Always use that if you hear anyone stirring about in the cemetery or there’s a knock on the door. Follow my instructions and you will be safe.’

‘What about the church?’ the archer replied. ‘They could creep up the nave and enter through the rood screen.’

‘No, no.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Those doors will be locked and bolted and, I suspect, closely watched by a number of people. Inside the church lives an anchorite, the Hangman of Rochester.’ Athelstan glanced away. The fugitive might not know it but, if he was captured, tried and sentenced, the same Hangman would despatch him either here in Southwark or on some gibbet in the city. Now,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the key? You hold the third key to Marsen’s exchequer coffer, yes?’ Hornsey undid the clasp on his filthy grey shirt, clutched the piece of cord around his neck which held a small key, snapped this and handed it to Athelstan.

‘Much good that was,’ Hornsey slurred.

‘Why?’

‘Oh, Marsen made sure the coffer was firmly locked during the day but at night when we rested secure,’ he pulled a face, ‘or so he thought, Marsen always made me unlock the third clasp. The tax collector loved the sight of gold and silver, his plunder, his glory or so he called it. He and Mauclerc would push the lid back and venerate their ill-gotten gains as any monk would a sacred relic.’ Hornsey drew a deep breath. ‘Marsen loved that display.’

‘Did he help himself?’

‘I don’t know, Brother. I don’t think so. Mauclerc was there to watch him. The scribe was Thibault’s man. Moreover, during our journey along the south bank of the Thames, Lascelles would occasionally meet us to ensure all was well.’

‘As he did at The Candle-Flame?’

‘Yes, Brother. Just as twilight deepened and the gloom thickened, Lascelles came. There was not much love lost between him and Marsen. Anyway, what does it matter? Apparently Lascelles was assured all was well. By then I was on watch outside the Barbican. I unlocked the third clasp; Marsen probably undid the other two to impress Lascelles.’

‘So what happened on the night of the murders?’

‘Very little, Brother. We arrived back at The Candle-Flame. Marsen made himself comfortable in the Barbican as a hog does in its sty. I was instructed to set the usual watch: three guards outside including myself and three in the lower chamber of the Barbican. Marsen then relaxed, as he described it, after the rigours of the day. Marsen was a toper, a tosspot, he loved his ale and food, wine and sweetmeats: he instructed the taverner to send the best across whilst Mauclerc was despatched to find two whores to amuse himself and his master.’

‘So nothing out of the ordinary happened that night?’

‘No. We returned from levying taxes. The horses were stabled, our watch was set. Food and drink were ordered. Whores brought in. The two archers outside, Adam and Breakspear, lit a campfire …’ His voice trailed off.

‘But something did happen?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘We know you visited the troubadour Ronseval at least twice in his chamber. You and he had an argument, blood was spilt. The following day Ronseval was seen searching the Palisade and found what he was probably looking for – a dagger.’ Hugh of Hornsey sat staring at Athelstan then lowered his head. ‘So what did happen?’ the friar insisted quietly. ‘Witnesses talk of raised voices. Why was Ronseval searching for a dagger? Why was blood found on the rug in his chamber? Master Hugh, in forty days’ time you will probably surrender to the king’s justices and the same questions will be asked. What was – is – your relationship with Ronseval? Why did you flee your post?’ The archer shifted on the stool, hands clasped, fingers weaved together. ‘You are a veteran soldier,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly. ‘Why are you so nervous? Tell me!’

‘We had been collecting the tax,’ Hornsey replied, not lifting his head. ‘We returned to The Candle-Flame at twilight. Marsen was full of himself. He unlocked the exchequer coffer as if he was revelling in the Holy Grail.’ Hornsey took a deep breath. ‘Ronseval had been following us, though Marsen dismissed him as a fool, a poet who was composing a ballad. Of course, Marsen was secretly flattered. Anyway, once the festivities had begun, Ronseval met me in the shadows of the tavern. He bitterly criticized my allegiance to such a man and such a cause. I resented what he said; his words rankled with me so I went to his chamber late at night.’

‘When?’

‘Brother Athelstan, I don’t know, perhaps midnight. And why not? Everything was quiet. I wanted to explain. True, there was an argument. Ronseval drew his dagger; he was deep in his cups and cut me but only slightly.’ Hornsey pulled back the ragged sleeve of his jerkin to display a fresh cut high on his forearm.

‘So you must have had your jacket off?’ Athelstan declared. Hornsey blinked, wetting his lips.

‘I don’t know,’ he stuttered. ‘All I remember is that I seized the dagger and left. I went back on to the Palisade where my comrades were on guard.’ Hornsey was now damp with sweat, his chest heaving. He kept his head down, refusing to meet Athelstan’s gaze. ‘I found both of my comrades slain. I dropped Ronseval’s dagger. I lost it in the grass. I was frightened, Brother. You see, despite the deaths everything lay quiet. I ran to the Barbican and pounded on the door. There was no answer. I realized something was very wrong. I admit I was terrified. I had left my post and two of my archers had been slain. I might even be accused of their murder. Either way I would hang. I slipped back into the tavern and told Ronseval what had happened. He tried to reason with me. Again we argued and I fled. I thought of reaching Dover or one of the Cinque Ports.’ He shook his head. ‘It was useless. Cranston,’ he now met Athelstan’s gaze, ‘the Lord Coroner’s people were searching for me as was every rogue in London. I decided to seek sanctuary, I sought out Brother Roger and he brought me here.’

‘Did you see anything to explain the death of your comrades or what you must now know as the massacre in the Barbican?’

‘Brother, I never saw the corpses there. True, the news is all over the city.’ He rubbed his sweaty hands on his hose. ‘Of course, at the time I realized something was wrong. The Barbican lay so silent. Brother, more than that I cannot say.’

‘More than that you can!’ Athelstan countered. ‘Hugh of Hornsey, look at me!’ The archer did. ‘You are lying,’ Athelstan accused. ‘You are too glib. What are you hiding? What do you mean you saw nothing? Why should you and Ronseval argue about Marsen to the point of daggers being drawn? Why didn’t you stay and raise the alarm? You are guilty of something.’

The archer arose abruptly to his feet. ‘I am in sanctuary,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I am protected by God’s own angel. I need to be.’ He walked to the door into the sanctuary then turned. ‘Brother, whatever you believe, whatever you think, I killed no one that night. I had no hand in that bloody business, though I am pleased Marsen has been despatched to Hell.’ He shrugged. ‘I am tired. I must sleep.’

Athelstan watched him go and heard him lock and bolt the door on the other side. Athelstan sat for a while and decided he must return to The Candle-Flame. He needed to search the Barbican again. Something might prick his mind or jog his memory. He knocked on the door; the eyelet was opened and Hornsey let him into the sanctuary. Athelstan quietly thanked him and watched him lock and bolt the door again. Athelstan walked down the steps and stopped for a while by the rood screen door, reciting a few Aves under his breath. He crossed himself, turned and stared down the nave. The day was beginning to fade, the light weakening. He glanced over his shoulder. Hugh of Hornsey slouched in the mercy enclave beneath the crimson-red sanctuary lamp, which kept constant vigil besides the pyx in its silken tassled coping. Athelstan walked into the nave. The murk was deepening. A river mist was sifting beneath the door and the shuttered windows. Athelstan listened to the silence. For a brief spurt he felt guilty at not going out to visit the sick, the aged and the housebound. ‘God forgive me,’ Athelstan prayed, ‘but you will have to wait.’ He knew what he had to do. He truly believed this was God’s work. In the Bible, after Adam and Eve fell, the first sin perpetrated was Cain slaying his brother Abel. God had hunted Cain down and branded him as a murderer, the wicked slayer of an innocent. Now Athelstan had to do the same; not for Gaunt or Thibault but because it was the right thing to do.

Athelstan lit a taper before the Lady altar, prayed for guidance and prepared to leave. He went out through the main door; his parishioners had long gone but he glimpsed different individuals seemingly going about their business: a hawker with his tray of goods, a fruiterer with his barrow, three wandering beggars roped together their clacking dishes out before them, and close by two tinkers stood offering ribbons and baubles. Athelstan glanced away; he was certain some of these were envoys or spies from the Upright Men. Flaxwith and his bailiffs also stood about, though Athelstan wondered how many of them were sober. He hooked the straps of his chancery satchel over his shoulder, pulled his cloak about him and strode into the tangle of alleyways which surrounded his church. He walked purposefully, stepping around midden heaps, piles of rubbish and deep puddles of frozen filth. He kept his head down as he passed through what he secretly called ‘the underworld of his parish’: strumpets stood brazenly in doorways, their fiery red wigs beacons of lust; cunning men nestled in crooks and crannies, ever vigilant for the opportunity to exploit; rifflers and roisterers, young men armed with cudgels and blades, grouped at the mouth of alleyways. Athelstan was safe from these. Pike and Watkin had spread the message that an attack on Athelstan was an attack on them and the Upright Men. Now and again the friar would glimpse one of his parishioners, those he defined as ‘Gospel Greeters’ – he would raise a hand and pass swiftly on.

The dismal world of Southwark engulfed him: the drunks pilloried in the stocks, hands and feet tightly clasped; the young whore, skirt thrown back, being lashed by a beadle; two drunken women roped together and paid to fist fight. Nearby, a relic-seller fresh from Canterbury touted relics from Becket’s shrine. People shrieked from open windows. Dogs fought and chased the cats that burrowed for vermin in the muck heaps. Half-naked children danced around a pole or chased an inflated pig’s bladder. A legion of food sellers shouted for trade, their trays displaying items filched from stalls and the public ovens. Above him, the crumbling tenements leaned over to block the sky and turn the alley below into a perpetually dark tunnel where all forms of nightlife scuffled. Athelstan passed doorways locked shut to hide the wickedness within; windows boarded up so those who passed could not witness what was happening inside. The friar dodged carts, barrows and sleds. He paused to bless a corpse covered with a filthy mort cloth being taken down to the corpse cottage at St Mary Overy. Eerie sounds assailed his ears. The excited cries of a woman were drowned by the curses of a man, whilst a chorister stood on a barrow and sang the opening lines of a psalm: ‘I lift my eyes to the hills from where my salvation comes.’ Prisoners were being led down to the Bocardo, Southwark’s filthy compter, clink or prison. Acrobats and jugglers tried to entice the crowd. Faces, hooded and cowled, pinched white or turned red raw from the wind and rain, peered out at him. Athelstan was pleased to leave the thoroughfare with all its macabre sights and sounds and hasten along Pepper Alley into the warmth of The Candle-Flame.

Mine Host was busy in the Dark Parlour adjusting a shutter, helped by Mooncalf. The taverner was short and curt: he informed Athelstan that the guests were about their business and he was busy with his, though the friar was welcome to wander around. Athelstan thanked him and walked out across the wasteland on to the Palisade. He paused at the remains of the camp where the archers had been slain, and recalled his conversation with Hugh of Horsey. He was sure the captain of archers was lying, withholding the truth of what truly happened. Yet that truth may have nothing to do with the gruesome murders. Athelstan believed Hornsey was innocent of those killings but what was he really hiding? Allegiance to Marsen? ‘Nonsense,’ Athelstan whispered to himself. ‘Hornsey is a professional soldier, a mercenary who has seen battle against the French and done his fair share of killing. So why should he have scruples about escorting the likes of Marsen?’ Athelstan fell silent and glanced around. He could hear snatches of conversation on the breeze. He was sure of it, but in this desolate place? The Palisade stretched bleak and stark around him. Ghosts hovered here, the stricken souls of those so brutally slain. A raven, sleek and as black as the night, floated across to perch on a hummock of grass, its raucous cawing shrill and harsh. The day was dying. The breeze from the river brought the stench of rich mud, dried fish and a heavy saltiness. The raven took flight, feathery wings extended, flying up to wheel above the Barbican, which rose sinister and forbidding, a fitting monument to the horrors perpetrated within. Athelstan walked towards it; the door hung open and again he heard those snatches of conversation. Shading his eyes, Athelstan stared up and glimpsed figures against the battlemented walls at the top of the tower. He hurried into the Barbican and climbed the ladder to the upper storey. Now the corpses and baggage had been removed both chambers were neat and tidy, yet this made them seem even more macabre, a silent witness to the murders committed there. He climbed the next ladder leading to the top. He could hear Sir Robert Paston and the harsh carrying voice of Brother Marcel. The conversation died as Athelstan clambered through the trapdoor and, braving the buffeting wind, carefully walked across the shale-covered floor to stand with them against the crenellations. Athelstan greeted them all. Brother Marcel and Sir Robert had apparently come here to enjoy the view of the river, which was not yet cloaked in mist, whilst Martha and Foulkes clustered together, more interested in each other than anything else. Marcel edged closer.

‘Brother Athelstan, Sir Robert was describing the different craft. Splendid sight, is it not?’

Athelstan, who always felt a little giddy on the top of any tower, nodded in agreement. The river was still clear, bustling with a frenetic busyness; Picard whelk boats, fishing craft, fighting hulkes, cogs of war, galleys, caravels, barges, bumboats and wherries moved majestically or scudded across the choppy water like water beetles. Banners, standards and flags fluttered their gorgeous colours in the snapping breeze. Sails of every shape and colour billowed vigorously or ruffled as they were drawn in. The very air was rich with all the pungent smells of the river craft.

‘You served against the French, Sir Robert?’ Athelstan asked more to make conversation than anything else.

‘I certainly did, and little reward it brought me,’ Paston replied hotly. ‘I know these waters and the entire coastline north to the Scottish march. I have written to Gaunt – My Lord of Gaunt,’ he added hastily, ‘for the construction of better ships. You see,’ Paston pointed down at the river, ‘as I told Brother Marcel, not all of those ships are seaworthy …’ His voice trailed off as Martha came hurrying over.

‘Father!’ she grasped Sir Robert’s arm, ‘I am sure the good brother does not need your homily on the king’s ships. You have lectured us long and hard about the fleet, or lack of it, and the weakness of our river defences. It’s growing dark and cold – we should go down.’

‘I certainly must go,’ Marcel replied. ‘Sir Robert, I will accept your invitation to dine with you after the vesper’s bell. First, I must finish my office and change my robes. Look, they’ve become dirty.’ The ever-fastidious Inquisitor made his farewells and carefully walked back to the ladder, followed by Paston’s group. Athelstan stayed. He ensured the trapdoor remained open and stood staring across the river, recalling all he had seen and heard. A deep unease welled up within him. Athelstan felt so agitated he tried to compose himself by searching for the emerging evening star. He watched fascinated as the twilight deepened, the birdsong died and the world prepared itself for the deep hush of night. He knelt down, protected by the battlements, and tried to recite a psalm, but stumbled over phrases such as ‘The wicked brace their bow, who will oppose them?’ He kept thinking about Hugh of Hornsey’s passionate quarrel with Ronseval.

‘You are lying,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘You couldn’t give a fig for Marsen.’ Athelstan recalled Ronseval’s rather girlish gestures. ‘Yes, the only logical explanation is that Paston overheard a lover’s quarrel.’ Athelstan crouched for a while as the darkness deepened and the air grew colder. He heard sounds below and realized it was time he was gone. He crept towards the trapdoor and went gratefully down the ladder. The upper storey felt strangely warm and Athelstan paused. He could smell smoke. He hurried to the trapdoor leading down to the storey below but the trapdoor was bolted shut from the other side and the ring-handle was hot to the touch. Athelstan, damp with fear, stared around. Tendrils of smoke curled up between the floorboards and an eerie crackling noise grew louder. A tongue of flame appeared against the far wall, followed by another. The floorboards, thick, oaken planks, were becoming hotter. Grey smoke curled like angry wraiths. Someone had bolted the trapdoor from below and started this conflagration. Athelstan recalled the dry furnishings and bedding. The swift leaping flames would be fanned by the draught through the open door, as they would by the window on the upper storey. Athelstan hurried across, clutching his chancery satchel. He pulled back the shutters, pushed open the window door and propped himself over the ledge, peering down. There was no ladder and the drop was steep and highly dangerous. If he jumped broken limbs would be the least he might suffer. Athelstan fought against the welling panic. These first flames would soon become a roaring fire; the trapdoor was sealed, the walls of thick stone. The only escape was the window. Athelstan glimpsed the iron ring beneath one of the shutters, some relict of when the barbican was a weapon store. He threw his chancery satchel out, took off his cloak and hurried across to the bed, pulling off the linen sheets and blankets. He tied these together, coughing at the smoke now billowing around him. He used his cloak as the last strand, tied one end of the makeshift rope to the iron ring and threaded the rest through the open window. He hauled himself up, turning to clasp the long cord he had fashioned and lowered himself carefully. He brushed the wall, now hot to the touch. Gasping and praying, Athelstan carefully slipped down, resisting the temptation to hurry. He realized the makeshift rope stopped at least a yard from the ground. Athelstan was preparing to jump, only to feel strong hands grasp him. Brother Roger had dragged across a barrel and used this to catch Athelstan. The Franciscan whispered that he was safe, he was there.

They clambered gingerly off the barrel. Athelstan crouched on the rain-soaked ground, head down and gasping for breath as he tried to recite a prayer of thanksgiving. He stared up. Flames now licked the window, whilst the surging plumes of grey smoke had already alerted the tavern. A toscin sounded. Voices carried. Athelstan heard footsteps; hands helped him up. Thorne was shouting at his grooms, servants and scullions to stand back and allow the fire to burn as it was too strong to fight. Athelstan, swaying on his feet, accepted a cloak from Mooncalf, found his chancery satchel and staggered back towards the tavern. In the Dark Parlour he washed himself at the lavarium, tending to the cuts and bruises on his hands, arms and legs. Mistress Eleanor served him a bowl of steaming hot pottage and a deep goblet of Bordeaux. Others came in and gathered round. Thorne, full of apologies which Athelstan gently acknowledged, muttered about candles or lanterns left glowing – some form of terrible accident. Athelstan kept his own counsel: that trapdoor had been deliberately locked, whilst the speed of the fire could only be explained by arson. Friar Roger came over.

‘I decided to visit the riverside,’ he remarked. ‘I smelt the smoke and saw you at the window. I admit, I hesitated. I was once a mariner. I served at sea. I hate fire. I have a secret dread of it but each man carries own his own special fear deep inside him. I wondered if I should seek help and find a ladder.’ He grinned. ‘But you were as nimble as any squirrel. You escaped the dragon’s breath. Now come, Friar, rejoice you were not fried.’ Athelstan grinned at the pun on his calling. The Franciscan lifted his cup in a toast. Brother Marcel appeared all washed and finely attired for the evening meal. He went back to his chamber and returned with a heavy cloak of the purest wool dyed a deep black.

‘Have this, Brother,’ Marcel offered. ‘I travel with a good wardrobe and a clean one. Our founder the blessed Dominic always maintained that dirt,’ he winked at Athelstan, ‘does not mean the same as holiness.’ Athelstan thanked him and the rest and slowly sipped the wine. The shock was now receding. He felt embarrassed and was highly relieved when Cranston bustled into the Dark Parlour, clapping his gloved hands and rubbing his arms against the cold.

‘I went to St Erconwald’s,’ he bellowed. ‘Those rogues you call parishioners said you might be here, as did Flaxwith.’ He paused, his eyes blinking as he caught Athelstan’s glance. ‘You had best come,’ he added quietly. ‘Gentlemen, lady. Come,’ he repeated. Athelstan needed no further bidding. He thanked everyone and followed Sir John out of the tavern, almost running beside him as the coroner strode along the lanes down to the nearby quayside. Moored alongside the wharf was a high-prowed barge lit by torches fixed in their sconces along the deck; brilliantly glowing lantern horns hung just below the standards on both prow and stern. These rippling banners displayed the heraldic device of that eerie harvester of the Thames, the Fisher of Men, an eye-catching insignia displaying a silver corpse, hands extended in greeting, rising from a golden sea.

‘I do wonder,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘why our path and that of the Fisher of Men constantly cross.’

‘Because, my dear friar, murderers in London have what they think is a great disguise, a subtle device at their fingertips, a moving deep pit to hide their nefarious handiwork: Old Father Thames. We and the Fisher of Men know different. The river always gives up its dead. In this case Ronseval.’ Athelstan didn’t reply; he felt slightly sick, distracted at how close Death had brushed him with its cold, feathery wings.

‘You don’t have to tell me but I know something happened, little friar.’ The coroner grabbed Athelstan’s arm. ‘I glimpsed smoke rising above the Palisade as I approached the tavern, whilst the smell of burning curled everywhere. So, little friar, tell me in your own good time.’ He tightened his grip. ‘I should really take you into an alehouse and have you drink some of Cranston’s holy water, but I don’t think this will wait.’ Athelstan, comforted, followed Sir John along the windswept wharf to the waiting barge, where the six oarsmen, garbed in their black-and-gold livery, greeted Cranston and the friar like old friends. Athelstan recognized them all: Maggot, Taffety-Head and the rest, the Fisher of Men’s coven, grotesques and outcasts rejected even by the poor of Southwark because of their repellent injuries. None of these, however, were as strange as the captain of the barge, Icthus, the Fisher’s leading henchman. Dressed in a night-black tunic, Icthus had a distinctive appearance, hence his name, the Greek word for fish. Icthus was completely devoid of any facial hair, be it eyelids or brows, whilst his bald head, bulging eyes, snub nose and protuberant cod-mouth in a completely oval-shaped face made him look extremely fish-like. In fact, he could swim like a porpoise whatever the mood of the river, which Icthus knew like the palm of his slightly webbed hands. The henchman bowed in welcome and waved them aboard to sit on the comfortable cushioned seats under the canopied stern. Once they were settled, Icthus in his eerie, high-pitched voice gave the order to cast off. The oarsmen pulled away in unison, chanting their favourite hymn, taught to them by Athelstan, ‘Ave Maris Stella’, Hail Star of the Sea. The barge rocked and swayed, sometimes pitching dangerously. Athelstan closed his eyes and murmured a prayer to St Christopher. The barge surged on, battling the water. Lanterns on other boats glowed through the murk. Icthus, sitting in the prow, pulled at the bell rope, warning others of their approach. Most barges and wherries were only too eager to pull away from the Fisher of Men’s barque, well known along the river for its grisly work, paid for by the city council to scavenge the Thames for the corpses of those who’d drowned, committed suicide or, as in this case, ‘been feloniously slain’. Cranston was correct, Athelstan mused: London truly was a city of murder, and many of its victims were hidden beneath the rushing waters of this river. Nevertheless, murder will out and corpses regularly surfaced in the sludge, shallows or reed banks of the Thames.

‘Well, little friar?’ Cranston offered him the miraculous wineskin. Athelstan shook his head. Cranston took a generous slurp, sighed noisily and made to share it with Icthus and the rowers. These all chorused back a polite refusal. Icthus added, shouting over his shoulder, how the Fisher of Men would never permit any of them to drink whilst they navigated the Thames.

‘Wise man,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Now, little friar, tell me what happened or I will bore you to death with an account of my history of this waterway.’

‘Terror indeed!’ Athelstan exclaimed. He then told the coroner exactly what had happened in the Barbican.

‘No accident!’ Cranston’s anger was as palpable as the strong breeze. ‘A murderous soul plotted that fire. He, she or they recognized your skill, little friar. Beowulf, or whoever slaughtered Marsen and the others, plotted a very devious and subtle design, certainly one which would baffle myself, my bailiffs, the sheriff and his people but not you, little friar, hopping around like some bright-eyed sparrow. This child of Cain recognized a true adversary, and what better way to silence you than trap the sparrow and kill it?’

‘Some sparrow, Sir John.’

‘Aye, and much faster than the hawk, Athelstan,’ Cranston squeezed his companion’s arm, ‘but for God’s sweet sake and mine, be careful.’

Any further conversation was frustrated by the cries of Icthus and the oarsmen. The barge shuddered as it turned swiftly on the swell and came along a quayside just past La Reole. The wharf looked deserted except for the moving shadows which leapt out of the dancing pools of light thrown by the flaring torches lashed to poles. Cranston and Athelstan disembarked. From the shadows, hooded, cowled figures clustered silently around and escorted them towards the grey-bricked, red-tiled house of the dead called a variety of names: ‘The Barque of St Peter’, ‘The Chapel of the Drowned Man’ or ‘The Mortuary of the Seas’. This building stood a little further back on the quayside, flanked by the wattle and daub cottages of the Fisher of Men and what he called ‘his beloved disciples’. On the right side of the mortuary door hung the great nets, stretched out like massive cobwebs, used by the Fisher of Men to harvest the deep. To the left of the door the usual proclamation, finely inscribed, listed the fees for the recovery of the corpse of a loved one or relative. Athelstan noticed how the price of a murder victim had risen steeply to three shillings. The Fisher of Men himself came outside to greet them. The Fisher’s bald head and skeletal face were framed by a shiny leather black cowl edged with lambswool; a heavy military coat, made of the purest wool, hid his body, hanging down to elegantly spurred, high-heeled riding boots. He clasped their hands and, as usual, asked Athelstan to deliver his most solemn blessing. Icthus sounded the horn to summon all the Fisher’s beloved disciples to gather on the cobbles. Once the eerie congregation was assembled, Athelstan intoned St Francis of Assisi’s blessing followed by the ‘Salve Regina’ – Hail Holy Queen.

Once vespers were over, the Fisher of Men led Cranston and Athelstan into the Sanctuary of Souls, a long rectangular chamber scrubbed with lime mixed with vinegar. On a dais at the far end stood an altar draped with a purple cloth; above it a huge crucifix. The Fisher’s guests, as he called the corpses, lay on trestle tables, covered by funeral cloths drenched in bitter pine juice. Despite this the stench of death and decay hung heavy. The Fisher gave them each a pomander soaked in rose water, whilst two of his grotesques, swinging thuribles, perfumed the air with sweet incense smoke. The Fisher took them over to one of the tables and pulled back the cloth to reveal the liverish face and bloated corpse of the minstrel Ronseval.

‘We heard about what happened at The Candle-Flame.’ The Fisher’s voice was pleasant, his Norman French as cultivated as any clerk in chancery. ‘I wondered if the waters there might bear fruit. Sir John, I know you have issued warrants for certain individuals who’ve apparently fled. My spies at the Standard in Cheapside and around the Cross at St Paul’s keep me informed. Anyway, late this morning, Icthus and my beloveds discovered this corpse floating in the reeds of Southwark side, not far from The Candle-Flame.’ Athelstan handed the pomander to Sir John, took out the phial of holy oil and anointed the corpse, bestowing absolution for any sins of a soul which may not yet have travelled to judgement. He did so swiftly, trying to ignore all the gruesome effects of violent, harrowing death: the staring eyes; the blood-encrusted, purple-hued face; the body almost swollen to bursting with stinking river water; and the cause of Ronseval’s death, the hard-quilled crossbow bolt driven so deeply into his chest. Athelstan suspected it had shattered the man’s heart. The friar stood back and scrutinized the corpse.

‘Killed instantly,’ he declared. ‘And that is stating the obvious. The corpse is river-swilled. How long would you say it was in the water?’

‘At least a night. We have washed away some of the dirt but, apart from that, made little preparation.’

‘Notice the dagger,’ Athelstan declared, ‘still in its sheath, the cap buttoned, the money purse still on the belt. See how deep the arrow bolt is embedded. Ronseval was killed at very close quarters. He left yesterday evening going out in the dark. He was not the victim of a robbery. Ronseval met someone he trusted down on the river bank, a lonely, secluded place. He allowed his killer to draw very close. He suspected nothing. He didn’t even unclasp the strap on his dagger sheath.’ Athelstan peered closer. ‘The same barb was used against those two archers.’

‘We also found this.’ The Fisher crouched, drew a water-soaked chancery satchel from under the table and placed it on a nearby stool. Athelstan recognized it as Ronseval’s. He took it and shook out the contents: clothing, baubles, a knife, Ave beads, a purse and scrolls of parchment, most of these damaged by water. Whilst Cranston and Fisher discussed the situation in the city, Athelstan attempted to decipher some of the writings but decided he would have to wait until the parchment was dry. Nevertheless, his eye was caught by one scrap of parchment in which Ronseval had attempted the newly structured sonnet coming out of Italy. This piece of parchment had escaped relatively unscathed. Athelstan read it carefully: the poetry, both rhythm and rhyme, were uneven but the content was thought provoking, a love poem from one man to another.

‘Sir John?’ he called out. ‘The Fisher of Men has a claim on all such property, but I need this.’ He held up the scroll of parchment. The Fisher of Men shrugged his acceptance even as Cranston beckoned the friar over.

‘Brother, our friend here has some rather interesting information about our honourable Member of the Commons, Sir Robert Paston.’

‘Not here,’ the Fisher declared. ‘Brother Athelstan, are you finished?’

The friar said he was. Arrangements were agreed about the burial of Ronseval’s corpse and the disposal of his effects, and the Fisher of Men led them into his solar, a comfortable chamber off the Sanctuary of Souls with a mantled hearth and quilted chairs. Hot spiced posset was served, the Fisher toasting Cranston and Athelstan with his goblet.

‘If you use the river as we do,’ he said, smacking bloodless lips, ‘as a way of life, you observe many things.’

‘Be brief, my friend,’ Cranston intervened. ‘Darkness is falling. Night approaches and we must be gone.’

‘Sir Robert Paston is a wool merchant,’ the Fisher declared. ‘He owns The Five Wounds, a handsome, deep-bellied cog which takes his wool to Flanders.’

‘And?’ Cranston insisted.

‘The Five Wounds empties its cargo then sails down the west coast of France to Bordeaux.’

‘To collect wine and import it,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘a prosperous and very lawful trade.’

‘Sir Robert,’ the Fisher countered, ‘seems very inquisitive about other cogs. We often see him in a special barge hired at a La Reole. He stops at certain ships.’

‘Which ships?’

‘Brother, you name any standard and I’m sure Sir Robert knows it. He often goes aboard to confer with their masters.’

‘And?’

‘He is not so keen on others being as equally curious about his own cog, The Five Wounds, when it berths at quaysides on either side of the river: wherries, tilt boats and barges are warned off whilst on shore, its master Coghill maintains a strong watch over the boarding plank.’ The Fisher paused and held his hand out. Cranston sighed, dug into his purse and counted enough silver to cover the fee for Ronseval’s corpse as well as extra for this information. ‘Thank you, Sir John. More posset – no? In a word, My Lord Coroner, Sir Robert Paston is not the perfect gentle knight but a grubby merchant with dirty fingers in many filthy pots.’

‘Such as?’

‘He is a bosom friend of the Mistress of the Moppets at The Golden Oliphant. I just wonder, Sir John, if Paston exports more than wool.’

‘You mean young women for the flesh markets of Flanders?’

‘And beyond. The settlements along the Rhine are garrisoned by soldiers. Buxom young wenches can demand a high price – it’s just a suspicion. Sir Robert is a very skilled mariner and his knowledge of the sea and the English coast is second to none.’ The Fisher smiled. ‘All the attributes for a king’s admiral as well as those of a professional smuggler.’

‘And Master Simon Thorne?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Strange man. Former soldier. Married again after the death of his first wife. Mistress Eleanor is the daughter of a taverner who owns a hostelry on the Canterbury road. Apparently she is not just a pretty face but has a good business head and keeps careful ledgers, or so I understand. I have also heard rumours that Thorne would like to deepen the waters along that lonely quayside which serves his tavern. Again, a man who knows the river.’

‘And the murders there?’ Cranston asked.

‘I know nothing, Sir John,’ the Fisher whispered, ‘except Satan’s own misty messenger certainly visited that place.’

Mine Host Simon Thorne had prepared a sumptuous meal. The taverner had proclaimed how he wished his guests to be feasted like any king at court. Mooncalf’s empty belly strained at the savoury smells and mouth-watering odours curling out of both kitchen and buttery. The tavern refectory had been especially prepared. Fresh greenery had been brought in to bedeck the woodwork, along with pots of winter roses and jars of crushed spices and herbs. The sweetness of a summer garden mingled with that from the slender beeswax candles in their spigots along a table, covered by a silver samite cloth, with the tavern’s gold-encrusted nef standing in pride of place at the centre. The best pewter platters and silver-chased goblets had been brought up from the arca in the tavern’s strongrooms below ground. Snow-white napkins had been laid out for every guest and the best jugs gleamed, all brimming with water fresh from the spring, the richest reds of Bordeaux as well as tongue-tingling white wine, Lepe and Osey from Castile as well as that from the Rhineland. The gilt-edged maple-wood mazers were filled, and the chamber guests could look forward to an appetizing array of dishes from the cooks: roast chicken in jelly, goose with sauce and onions, venison in black crushed pepper, aloes of highly spiced beef and other mouth-watering dishes. Mine Host had invited the Pastons and Master Foulkes, Brother Roger and the Inquisitor Marcel together with himself and Mistress Eleanor. The taverner had declared that, despite the heinous slayings, this was a banquet of reparation for the inconvenience, as Master Thorne so tactfully put it, ‘caused by the dead on the living’. Now Thorne, with his comely wife sitting on his right, welcomed them all to feast on this cold February evening, with the winter’s wind still beating against the shutters and a fire leaping as merrily as it did in mid-winter.

Mooncalf, Nightingale, Thomasinus and all the other tavern servants could only gape in mouth-watering envy as the guests cut, sliced and feasted on the delicious dishes. Mooncalf kept staring at Mistress Martha and William Foulkes. He wondered when that inquisitive friar would discover that all had not been as quiet as it should be on the night of the murders. Worse – and Mooncalf forgot his hunger – what if Athelstan stumbled on the truth? The ostler, Martha and Foulkes couldn’t look for help from Sir Robert: if the whispers were true, he also had a great deal to explain. Mooncalf just wished it was all over. He felt like a guard dog, constantly alert, and, even as he stood there, he abruptly realized something was wrong. So lost in his own hunger and personal worries, Mooncalf became acutely aware of how all the noise from the adjoining taproom had faded. The Dark Parlour was sealed off from this select refectory by a thick oaken door. Nevertheless, all the usual chatter and laughter of a busy taproom had died completely. Something was very amiss. He tried to catch his master’s eye but failed. Mine Host was listening most attentively to his guests’ description of what they thought might have happened on the night of the great slaughter. Brother Marcel, who had made himself very much at home at The Candle-Flame, was now sitting very close to Sir Robert Paston. Mooncalf noticed how the two were often in deep conversation. The ostler drew a deep breath then started at a rapping on the door to the taproom. Due to all the merry noise no one else heard it. Intrigued, Mooncalf decided to settle all his doubts. He quietly opened the door and slid into the taproom, closing the door behind him. He immediately stood, mouth gaping in surprise. Despite the mysterious knocking the Dark Parlour was completely empty. Candles glowed, lantern horns flared, shadows fluttered and merged with the other slivers of darkness, but all the customers had gone. Half-filled tankards and food-strewn platters remained on the tables. The fire-eater, the snake-conjurer, the relic-seller recently returned from Nazareth, the bargemen, the tinkers, the tanners from London Bridge and the fishermen from Billingsgate had disappeared. Mooncalf shivered. The fire still glowed, as did the charcoal turning crimson in the braziers. He glanced towards the door on the other side of the parlour but, in the poor light, that seemed closed. Mooncalf felt the tremblings, as he called them, return. The Dark Parlour lay ominously silent and yet, Mooncalf blinked, there was movement. He was sure someone was there. He caught the sound of heavy breathing, a floorboard creaking, a shutter rattling and the drip-drip of an overturned tankard. A rat scuttled out of the darkness, slithering across a ring of candlelight. Mooncalf moaned quietly. He would have turned and fled back into the refectory but he could only stand transfixed as the shadows shifted. First one, then others merged into the meagre light. They moved soundlessly, boots wrapped in rags, the round oxhide shields they carried daubed a blood red. Swords and axes glittered. Mooncalf felt a blade point prick the side of his neck. He glanced sharply to his right at the nightmare figure, face visored by an ugly crow mask fashioned out of black feathers. The spectre’s hair, stiffened with grease, stood up in long tufts, which gave him the appearance of a frightful demon.

‘Mooncalf, Mooncalf.’ The voice was soft, pleasant. ‘Peace, Brother. It’s not your blood we want, or that of any of your customers or comrades, which is why they have fled.’

Mooncalf swallowed hard. The Dark Parlour now seemed full of these nightmare wraiths. He realized what had happened. The Earthworms had appeared and quietly persuaded everyone to disappear, not that they would need much encouragement.

‘Who is in the refectory?’ the voice whispered.

‘Master Thorne.’

‘Ah, Thibault’s creature.’ Mooncalf was so astonished he turned, gaping. ‘Oh, yes, Mooncalf. Thorne sells taproom tittle-tattle, tavern chatter and ale gossip to Thibault and his brood of vipers. We know that. Don’t be surprised – most of London is now in our pay. Who else is there?’

Mooncalf told him.

‘Now, master ostler,’ the voice continued, ‘the Council of the Upright Men has received good information that the money Marsen stole from others and then had taken from him still lies here. Where?’

‘The angels be my-’

‘Oh, I know!’ the voice replied. ‘You may have no know-ledge of it, but there again, you have no knowledge of us either, eh, Master Mooncalf? Why is that now? Do you have your own secrets, eh?’ The voice had turned ugly. ‘Not of this world, Mooncalf, but of the next. You are a follower of Wycliffe, aren’t you? A member of the Lollard sect. You meet them out on the wastelands, even here along the Palisade?’

Mooncalf could feel the sweat break out on him.

‘There are no secrets from the Upright Men or their riders, the Earthworms. However, our present business is Marsen’s gold. It would be difficult to carry away, which is why my comrades and I believe it still lies hidden here.’

‘You were told this?’ Mooncalf stuttered. ‘Who informed you about that?’

‘Never mind,’ the voice hissed. He paused as a burst of laughter from Friar Roger echoed through the stillness. Mooncalf could only stand and tremble. He was no longer nervous about the Upright Men, just shocked that they knew his secret. How many others knew? Would he be denounced before the Archdeacon’s court or even to that fearsome Inquisitor?

‘Come now,’ the voice urged. ‘Time is passing. Announce us.’ Mooncalf opened the door and was pushed into the refectory, followed by the Earthworms, their grotesque bird masks covering blackened faces. A sudden silence fell, shattered by Martha’s scream as she jumped to her feet in a clatter of plates and goblets. Foulkes half-rose, a platter in his hand. Thorne cursed and seized a carving knife from the saucery. Sir Robert sat like a toper, eyes glazed, mouth half-open, whilst the two friars could only protest. The commotion was silenced by the Crow raising his heavy arbalest and loosing a whirring quarrel to smash into a painted cloth hanging on the far wall.

‘Sit down,’ the Crow ordered. ‘Peace be with you all. Master Thorne, we have business with you. Your customers have gone.’ He paused at sounds from the gallery above. ‘In fact, our business has already begun. We will search this tavern.’ He walked round the table and pressed the now-loaded arbalest against Eleanor’s forehead. She quivered in fear, whispering under her breath. Master Thorne would have lunged forward, but the Raven menaced him with an arbalest and he sat down.

‘If you cooperate,’ the Crow’s voice was almost a drawl, ‘nothing will happen. If you do not …’ He let the threat hang.

‘We are priests,’ Marcel spoke up, ‘clerics with benefit of clergy.’

‘It makes no difference, does it?’ Brother Roger shouted, face all flushed. The Franciscan grasped a goblet as if he wished to throw it at his tormentors. ‘To you we are …’

‘The oppressors, good brother?’ the Crow quipped. ‘As the Bible says, those who aren’t with us are against us. So hush now and let us do what we came for.’

Mooncalf could only stand, trying to hide his fear. He wanted to catch the eye of Foulkes and Mistress Martha, but that was futile. Both young people were more concerned in comforting each other. The noise and clattering in the tavern was now loud and continuous. The Earthworms demanded and seized the key to each and every chamber including the strongrooms in the cellar. Thorne objected but the Earthworms threatened the terrified Eleanor, whilst assuring Thorne that his property was safe. Marcel intoned a psalm, whilst Brother Roger sat tapping his sandaled feet against the floor. The evening drew on. Mooncalf tried to make signs to Martha but she was imprisoned deep in her fears. The search continued and the Earthworms grew more aggressive, threatening Thorne with torture. At this Marcel sprung to his feet.

‘I am a cleric!’

‘You will be a dead one!’ the Raven retorted.

‘You-’ He broke off as one of the Earthworms burst into the refectory and whispered in his ear. Mooncalf felt a chill; the danger was deepening. The Raven walked to the door and shouted a question. The response he received silenced all clamour. Royal troops were fast approaching the tavern.