Candle Flame

PART THREE

‘Lollard’: old Dutch word for a mutterer or stammerer.

Athelstan and Cranston had just finished their deliberations with the Fisher of Men when a breathless Grubcatcher, courier for his master, came slipping and slithering across the quayside. War barges were on the river, crammed with soldiery, all heading across to the deserted quayside near The Candle-Flame. Athelstan and Cranston hurried down to the Fisher of Men’s barge. Icthus agreed to transport them swiftly across the swell and they cast off. A mist had billowed in, thick and curling. Nevertheless, Athelstan glimpsed the war barges surging before them, all despatched from the Tower quayside and displaying the blue, scarlet and gold of the royal household. Trumpets bellowed and horns brayed, telling other craft to swiftly pull away. Athelstan sat under the awning and wondered what was happening.

‘You are well named,’ he whispered. ‘Candle-Flame – you certainly draw in all the moths of murder.’

Cranston, half asleep, stirred and asked him what he said. ‘Just a prayer, Sir John; as the pot stirs, this mess of trouble thickens.’

They disembarked at the quayside to find the royal standard had been set up on a war cart with Thibault, Lascelles and officers from the Tower. They all stood about in half armour beneath floating standards and fiercely burning torches.

‘Sir John,’ Thibault greeted them, ‘Brother Athelstan, we have the Earthworms trapped.’

‘How?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Why?’

‘I received information that the Upright Men were plotting to visit The Candle-Flame after dark to search for Marsen’s looted treasure.’

‘Who gave that to you?’ Athelstan turned his head against the stiffening breeze.

‘Does it matter? A written message left at the Guildhall. It was well scripted, the message stark and simple.’

‘I suppose,’ Athelstan declared, ‘it was delivered by a ragged urchin who promptly disappeared?’

Thibault made a face and turned away.

‘You have Hugh of Hornsey at St Erconwald’s?’ Lascelles declared. ‘If we cannot seize him …’

‘And you will not!’ Athelstan intervened sharply, half-listening to the sounds drifting across the Palisade; peering through the darkness he could make out the sinister outline of the Barbican.

‘We could at least question him,’ Lascelles insisted.

‘No, I shall do that,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘The law of sanctuary is quite explicit. No officer, and that includes Sir John, can approach the fugitive in sanctuary after the felon has grasped the horn of the altar. I, as the priest, however-’ Athelstan broke off at the clatter of armour. A serjeant-at-arms, face almost hidden by the broad nose guard of his helmet, came hurrying out of the gloom.

‘Master Thibault,’ he gasped, ‘we have despatched archers and men-at-arms but the enemy command all approaches to the tavern. We could attack or encircle them but, I suspect, their defence will be fierce.’

‘Or,’ Lascelles snapped, ‘we could wait for those troops crossing the bridge to approach the south side and seal it off.’

‘They will have to thread their way through the needle-thin lanes of Southwark,’ Cranston declared. ‘They will not be able to move swiftly.’

‘Try and encircle them now,’ Thibault ordered.

‘They will resist fiercely,’ Cranston urged. ‘They will know what you plan and be prepared.’

‘Sir John, I hear what you say but time is passing and we should attack now.’

The serjeant glanced at Cranston, who just turned away. The officer hurried back to his post. Thibault, Lascelles and their escort followed. Cranston seized Athelstan’s arm.

‘The Earthworms are more cunning than Thibault thinks. The south side of the tavern looks out over a maze of alleyways; it could take hours before reinforcements arrive. The Earthworms will plot to break out. All they have to do is run a few yards deep into the protection of a dark Southwark night. There will be …’ Cranston’s words were drowned by screams of pain shrilling through the night. Both Athelstan and Cranston hurried across the Palisade, past the Barbican to the place of battle. Thibault’s men had lit fires. Cranston cursed this as a mistake as they only provided light for the Earthworms hiding behind the different windows of the tavern; their archers had already loosed a shower of shafts and bolts. Many of the Earthworms were master bowmen who had served in the royal arrays in France and elsewhere. They rarely missed their mark. Already corpses littered the ground. The screams of the wounded echoed through the night; these did nothing to hide the deadly sound of arrows and quarrels whirling through the darkness. Thibault’s officers tried to rush a door only to be beaten back, whilst their attempt to encircle the tavern had been reduced to a creeping crawl. The rain of arrows increased, their speed and accuracy frightening. Cranston and Athelstan hid behind a cart, watching the deadly hail fall time and again.

‘They are going to break out,’ Cranston murmured. ‘They have increased the intensity to numb us. An old trick which rarely fails.’ The volleys of arrows abruptly ceased. Lascelles shouted the order to advance. A few hapless souls did only to be immediately cut down. Again the death-bearing silence, only this time Thibault’s men remained hidden, the cries of their wounded comrades pitiful to hear. Athelstan tried to crawl to the nearest stricken man but Cranston pulled him back.

‘For God’s sake, wait,’ he urged. The silence lengthened, broken only by the fading moans of wounded and dying men. A door to the tavern was suddenly flung open. Thorne, a white cloth in one hand, a crucifix in the other, came tentatively out.

‘They are gone!’ he cried. Thibault’s men rose, hurried into the tavern and out through the main doorway. There was no one. Cranston and Athelstan followed. Thorne explained how the Earthworms had begun to slip away whilst the others had gathered at certain windows in an ever-diminishing mass.

‘You are correct, Sir John. The enemy will now be deep in the warren of streets beyond,’ Lascelles muttered. ‘The reinforcements will not be needed.’

Athelstan wondered whether he should go back to minister to the wounded and the dying. He just felt so tired, bleakly exhausted, drained by the fury of battle which had closed about him like a veil. Voices shouted, pleaded and cried. Armour clattered. Torches flared. Thibault was shouting for a search to be made. The smell of fire smoke, horse dung and sweat heightened Athelstan’s awareness of those spiritual odours: hate, fear, pain and desperation. Thibault was furiously deep in conversation. Lascelles made to walk away when Athelstan heard the angry whirr of a crossbow bolt. Lascelles stopped, hands reaching out; one shoulder slightly drooped. He walked towards Athelstan, entering a pool of light. He was blinking then he gagged, swaying on his feet, staring down in surprise at the crossbow bolt embedded deep in the right side of his chest. Lascelles walked forward again only to stagger sideways and, in doing so, intercepted a second quarrel aimed for his master but now shielded by himself. The quarrel smashed Lascelles’ skull and he tipped forward. Athelstan, ignoring Cranston’s cries and the clash of kite shields as a ring of steel was thrown around Thibault, hurried to the fallen man. Lascelles, however, was past all caring, his face a mottled mask of bloody froth, red skin and broken bone. He lay twitching and trembling as Athelstan tried to give him what spiritual comfort he could. The friar tried to calm his pitching stomach, the evening cold freezing the sweat on his body, the stinking muck of the yard and, above all, his curdling rage as the sheer futility of it all racked both mind and body. Horsemen appeared, hooves clattering, their leader shouting about how he had taken two prisoners, captured them, hooded and visored, as they tried to hide in a nearby alleyway. Thibault, screaming at his men to find the archer who killed Lascelles, abruptly fell silent. Athelstan rose wearily to his feet. Cranston’s hissed curse warned him. He glanced to his right; the two prisoners, arms bound tightly, staggered into the light. Athelstan stared in horror as Pike and Watkin, their faces blackened, scraps of the masks still tangled in their greasy hair, were pushed forward to fall on their knees. Thibault swept through his escort and, before he could be stopped, punched both prisoners viciously in the face. He pointed to the poles jutting out above the entrance to the tavern.

‘Hang them!’ he screamed. ‘They have been taken in arms against the crown. Hang them now!’ Thibault’s bully boys hurried both prisoners over to the tavern entrance. Athelstan could only watch. Ropes were produced, nooses fashioned and slung round the prisoners’ necks. Watkin shouted Athelstan’s name before he was hustled over to stand beneath one of the poles. Thibault’s men moved swiftly. Looping the rope over, they pulled and Watkin, gargling and choking, legs kicking, was hoisted off the ground. Athelstan recovered from his shock and lunged towards him. Cranston, with a speed that belied his size, swept forward, his sword creasing the air to slice the rope. Watkin crashed to the ground, coughing and spluttering.

‘Due process!’ Cranston yelled, turning round and drawing his dagger with his other hand. ‘Master Thibault, I am the king’s Lord High Coroner. I will not be a witness to summary murder.’

Thibault, his usual cherubic face glinting with sweat, his chest heaving and his lips twitching with rage, glared at Cranston.

‘Your brain is nimble as a clerk’s pen. Think, Master Thibault,’ Cranston warned. ‘If you hang them,’ he lifted both sword and dagger, ‘I will arrest you for murder. Both these men should be interrogated, indicted, tried and, if found guilty, hanged, but only then.’ The clamour of battle was fading. Brothers Marcel and Roger appeared in the tavern porch. Messengers approached but stood back, aware of this dangerous confrontation. Thibault was talking to himself; now and again he would glance at Lascelles’ corpse, then the two prisoners.

‘Take them away,’ the Master of Secrets barked. ‘Drag them, kick them and throw them into the Bocardo. They live in Southwark, they can rot in Southwark and, when I have my way, they will hang in Southwark.’

‘Wait.’ Athelstan walked over to the two prisoners. ‘God protect you,’ he whispered. ‘I will tell your families.’

Pike and Watkin, however, seemed different, no longer the two jesters of the parish but hard, solemn men, former soldiers, peasants who’d confronted all the cruelty of life. They didn’t seem interested in him but glared at Thibault. Athelstan caught the real hatred simmering there. He felt guilty at underestimating the fierce resentment which curdled these men’s souls and now threatened their very lives. Athelstan turned away to hide his own bitter tears.

‘I had better minister to the wounded,’ he murmured, ‘see to the dying and the dead.’

‘No need to,’ Cranston declared. ‘Brother Marcel, Brother Roger, you will help?’ Both men agreed. Pike and Watkin were dragged away. Athelstan just stood, arms crossed, staring down at the ground half-listening to Thibault’s officers report to their master how they had swept the tavern and found nothing. Thibault nodded and walked over to kneel in the mud beside Lascelles’ corpse. He took out his Ave beads and, eyes closed, began to loudly recite one Ave after another. Eleanor’s sobbing and that of Martha could now be heard, followed by the gruff voices of their menfolk trying to give comfort.

Cranston walked over to Athelstan and grasped his shoulder. ‘Little friar, come.’

‘No, Sir John.’ Athelstan gently prised himself loose. ‘Thank you for what you did, but I need to go home.’ Athelstan walked out into the warren of streets leading back to St Erconwald’s. By the time he reached the church the news had already arrived and families clustered anxiously in the nave. Athelstan gave whatever comfort he could to Watkin and Pike’s families, reassuring them, though he knew the truth of it, that all would be well and their menfolk released.

‘I hear what you say, Father,’ Pike’s wife Imelda declared, her hard eyes brimming with tears, ‘but Pike knows, you know and I know the way of the world.’

Athelstan could only sketch a blessing in the air above her head. The Bocardo was a rat-infested, stinking, foul prison down near the river. Cranston believed it was worse than Newgate or the Fleet, a living Hell where corrupt turnkeys, beadles and keepers ruled underground cells which would have disgraced a filthy hog pen.

The church eventually emptied, Athelstan’s reassurances ringing hollow along the nave. Once they were gone the friar slumped down at the base of a pillar and stared at the rood screen. Beyond it Hugh of Hornsey sheltered in sanctuary but Athelstan could not go there, not yet. He simply did not have the strength for more interrogation, more lies and sly evasions. Perhaps he should go across to the priest’s house and open that flask of wine Cranston had given him as a Yuletide gift. He would drink the rich red juice until sleep swallowed him.

‘Father?’

He glanced up. Benedicta was standing just behind him. ‘I thought you had left with the rest?’

‘You look tired, Father. Why not go to your house? I have left you a stew, rich and brown, the meat soft and minced, or you could eat at my house. I have wine?’ Athelstan held her gaze. ‘We could talk, plot what to do for poor Pike and Watkin.’

‘An invitation which cannot be resisted,’ Athelstan replied, clambering to his feet. ‘I am tired, I am lonely and I am angry.’

‘Father!’ Ranulf the rat-catcher came hurrying up the nave, banging the door behind him. ‘Father, I have to do a great ratting tonight in the cellars of a merchant’s house. He has offered me good silver. I need …’ The rat-catcher paused at the look on Athelstan’s face and glanced at Benedicta. ‘I am sorry,’ he muttered. Athelstan studied his peaked-white face peeping out of the stiffened tarred hood. Once again the friar was struck by the likeness between Ranulf and his two ferrets, Ferox and Audax. He abruptly leaned forward and pulled back the rat-catcher’s hood, studying his scrawny scalp and lined cheeks. ‘Father, what have I done?’

‘Nothing,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘except remind me that I am your priest. Ranulf, Benedicta, angels come in many forms. Now, Benedicta, fetch the holy water stoup from the sacristy. Let’s give Ferox and Audax the holiest of blessings.’ The widow woman hurried away. Athelstan stepped closer. ‘You are not really here about the ferrets, God save them, are you, Ranulf?’ The rat-catcher glared unblinkingly back. ‘You were there tonight, weren’t you, disguised as an Earthworm?’ Athelstan pointed to Ranulf’s head. ‘I can see the remains of the mask. What where you? The Jackdaw, the Magpie? Sir John has told me all about the Earthworms and their eerie disguises.’

‘Father, I have no idea …’

‘Of course you don’t, but you want to ask me what is going to happen to those other two birds of a feather, Watkin and Pike. Yes? Well, let me tell you the truth. They will hang within the week unless God or Sir John Cranston intervenes.’

‘And you, Father?’

Athelstan bit back his tart reply as Benedicta, all flustered, hurried back. To ease the tension Athelstan grasped the Asperges rod and intoned the blessing.

‘May the Lord turn his face to you and smile …’ Athelstan sprinkled the cages, ‘and may God make you what he always intended you to be, the finest ferrets ever.’ Ranulf, embarrassed by this little priest’s mood, grabbed the cages and left. Benedicta made to follow. Athelstan called her back. He grasped her hand and smiled.

‘Benedicta,’ he kissed her softly on the forehead and cheeks, ‘some angels are more welcome than others.’ He squeezed her hands. ‘Goodnight and God bless you for your kindness.’

She stepped back. ‘You will be all right, Father?’

‘Knowing that I have your love, Benedicta, of course.’ He watched her go, fighting the overwhelming urge to call her back. He closed his eyes and said a prayer before going round the church to lock and bolt the different doors. The Hangman of Rochester was fast asleep in his ankerhold, or at least pretending to be, and the friar wondered what role, if any, the enigmatic recluse had played in the dire events of that evening. Athelstan paused by the chantry chapel. In truth he was deeply worried about Pike and Watkin. Thibault’s justice would be swift and brutal. The two prisoners would appear before the justices of oyer and terminer: if found guilty, and Athelstan believed they would be, they’d hang. He knew about Thibault’s macabre sense of humour: the Hangman of Rochester might well be hired to carry out the execution, which could take place just outside St Erconwald’s for all to see. Would the Upright Men allow that? And what about these mysteries? Athelstan walked into the centre of the nave and stared down at the paving slabs, row upon row of oblong stone. He walked carefully along, putting one foot in front of the other. What happens, he wondered, if the mysteries which confronted him were all tangled but with one root, like some shrub in God’s Acre? He conceded to himself this was the direction he was tempted to follow: to dig deep, find that root and pull it up. But what if it was otherwise, like these paving stones? Three lines which ran parallel but never crossed. It would be easy to argue that Beowulf was both the spy and the murderer. But perhaps he should keep them separate? Should he accept that he was in fact hunting three people, not one? Athelstan paused at the thought. ‘I’ll do that,’ he murmured, ‘when I have the time, energy and peace. I am going to sit and think.’ Already memories and images floated through his mind, but he considered them to be like leaves on the wind – nothing substantial: a phrase here, a remark there.

‘I said the Candle-Flame attracted the moths of murder,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I should really go back there.’ He crossed himself, went through the rood screen and up into the sanctuary. Hugh of Hornsey was dozing in the mercy enclave. Athelstan took a stool and sat down close to him. Hornsey woke, blinking his eyes and rubbing his face.

‘Brother Athelstan, the hour is late.’ He pointed to the heavy-lidded jake pot. ‘My apologies, I have used that, the smell …?’

‘Incense covers a multitude of sins,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘but, Master Hugh, I have dire news. Ronseval lies dead – murdered. His corpse has been taken from-’ Athelstan broke off at Hornsey’s cry of disbelief. The archer, mouth half-open, rocked backwards and forwards, hands half-raised in supplication.

‘God assoil him,’ Athelstan continued gently. ‘God loves him as did you, didn’t you? You share that love which David had for Jonathon in the Old Testament, the love which surpasses that of a man for any woman?’ Athelstan’s remark calmed some of Hornsey’s obvious grief. He lowered his hands and sobbed, head down, a heart-rending sound which provoked Athelstan’s compassion. He stretched out and placed his hand on the archer’s head, quietly reciting a blessing.

‘He has gone to God, Master Hugh. I have prayed over him and I will do so again. Tomorrow morning,’ Athelstan turned to the altar, ‘I will offer the Jesus Mass for Ronseval’s long journey into the light so that when the accuser, the adversary, presents his challenge, Christ’s blood will answer it. But now, you must tell me the truth and I shall help you.’ Athelstan paused, listening to the profound silence which hung deep throughout the church. The stillness was broken only by Hornsey’s quiet sobbing, like that of a child, and the scrape of the sanctuary stool as the former archer shifted in his grief.

‘Tell me, Master Hugh, the truth for the love of God and the saving of all our souls.’ Hornsey stopped rocking backwards and forwards; he took his hands away from his face.

‘Ronseval,’ he began tentatively, ‘the troubadour did not follow Marsen because of any ballad or poem.’ Hornsey lifted his head, breathing in deeply. ‘I am, Father, what you see: a soldier, a bowman, a captain of archers. I met Ronseval years ago when we both served in the royal array. From my youth I have never felt any love or urge for a woman. I have tried but,’ he shrugged and glanced away, ‘in his youth Ronseval was beautiful. He and I became brothers in soul, heart-clasped, two comrades. We knew the danger of such a love. If we had been caught in the act, we could have been burnt or impaled on stakes. Life swept us apart. I met him again here in Southwark. There are places, taverns, alehouses.’ He half-smiled. ‘I am sure Sir John and his law officers will have a list of such establishments.’ Hornsey paused. Athelstan sensed the fugitive was thinking swiftly, like a ship preparing to trim its sails against the shifting wind. ‘Oh, by the way,’ Hornsey indicated with his head, ‘I heard the clamour, the snatches of words about men being taken up by Thibault and his coven?’

‘Lascelles is dead,’ Athelstan replied and he described in a few pithy sentences what had happened. ‘Anyway,’ Athelstan concluded, ‘this does not resolve the mysteries confronting me. You and Ronseval were lovers but these murders …?’

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

‘No!’ Athelstan almost shouted. ‘I will not shrive you. I will not hear your confession. I know what you want. Once you have told me under the seal I cannot discuss it. This is not the time for games but for the truth. Moreover, such a confession would be invalid.’

Hornsey’s eyes shifted, glancing down the church as if he feared someone lurking in the darkness. He opened and shut his mouth.

‘The truth?’ Athelstan insisted.

‘Marsen was hated,’ Hornsey replied slowly. ‘But that is stating the obvious. We all knew he had a violent past. There must have been many who would have loved to take his head. Indeed, on the night he died, the entire tavern seemed to be as busy as a rabbit warren in spring. Sir Robert Paston was up along the galleries. He saw me, I saw him. He looked worried, anxious. A young woman visited him.’

‘His daughter?’

‘No, a whore, a well-cut and prosperous one but still a whore. She knocked on Paston’s door and went in. She must have left some time later. There were others walking about. I am talking about very late in the evening.’

‘Who?’

‘Paston’s daughter, Martha, and her lovelorn clerk, Foulkes. I saw them together with that gormless-looking ostler Mooncalf in the Dark Parlour.’

‘And Brother Roger?’

‘I never saw him. He must have been in his chamber and stayed there.’

‘And Scrope the physician?’

‘Oh, he was wandering about slightly drunk, unsteady on his feet. I saw him come from outside. He was carrying a lantern horn. He said he wanted to visit Marsen.’

‘And Master Thorne, Mine Host?’

‘Busy in the taproom and out in the stableyard.’

‘And finally the killer?’

Hornsey just stared, his lower lip jutting out. Athelstan caught a mere shift in the man’s eyes. This sharp-witted captain of archers was keeping his own counsel. Athelstan quietly considered the possibilities. Hornsey was finished as a royal retainer. He might be innocent of murder and theft but he had left his post without good reason and there was every possibility that he could be exposed, tried and punished, not only as a deserter but as a self-confessed sodomite. Hornsey himself must have accepted that. So was he planning for the future? A vast amount of money had been stolen. Had Hornsey seen the killer? Or could he prove who it was? Was Hornsey hoping that he might escape and use his knowledge to acquire a share of the plunder, a small fortune to set himself up as a prosperous peasant farmer, merchant or trader far beyond this city? Hornsey would not be the first to assume a new name, an identity, a fresh start to a different life.

‘Brother, do you have more questions?’

‘Oh, of course I do but I am not too sure if they will be answered truthfully. I suspect, Master Hornsey, that you know more than you have told me.’

‘Brother,’ Hornsey held a hand up, ‘I have told you the truth.’

‘But not the full truth.’ Athelstan tried to curb his welling temper. ‘Tell me now: why did Marsen choose The Candle-Flame? I have asked the others the same question but I would like to hear it from you.’

‘I suspect it was chosen for him. Master Thorne is probably in the pay of Thibault. The tavern has many entrances by land and by river. The Barbican is a strong, fortified tower, ideal for Marsen, or so he thought, to protect himself and his treasure.’

Athelstan nodded in agreement. Hornsey’s assertion was logical. Most of London’s taverners worked for Thibault, be it out of fear or favour or both. Athelstan decided to take another direction.

‘Marsen,’ he declared, ‘collected taxes. He was good at it, yes?’

‘Yes. He took to it like a rat gnawing cheese.’

‘But he collected information as well, didn’t he?’

‘Of course. Marsen sifted all the gossip and-’

‘No,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘Marsen was just not a snapper-up of mere trifles, he was hunting, wasn’t he? In fact,’ Athelstan jabbed a finger, ‘he was hunting people like yourself because that was Marsen’s nature, so he could control, bully and blackmail. That was the cause of your quarrel with Ronseval, wasn’t it?’

‘True.’ Hornsey rubbed his face. ‘Ronseval and I used to meet. On that day late in the evening he invited me to his chamber. He wanted me to relax with him. I told him that was far too dangerous. We argued and we sulked, sometimes we whispered and on one occasion we just sat silently. Ronseval didn’t realize how evil Marsen truly was.’

‘Do you think Marsen suspected your secret?’

‘It’s possible. I was adamant in protecting it. Yes, there was a quarrel. I drew my knife and a little blood was spilt, but only a cut. I eventually left and returned to my post.’

‘And?’ Athelstan intervened.

‘The two archers were dead. I was still carrying Ronseval’s dagger. I was so shocked I dropped it. I was fearful-’

‘No, stop.’ Athelstan held a hand up. ‘You left Ronseval’s chamber, yes? The tavern lay quiet, yes? So when you entered the Palisade what did you actually see?’

‘The campfire had burnt down. My two comrades lay sprawled, crossbow quarrels deep in their chest. Apart from that there was a deathly silence. I could not see nor hear anything untoward.’

‘How along had you been away – the truth?’

‘By the time candle in Ronseval’s chamber about three hours.’

‘Paston said you appeared around midnight.’

‘No, that was pretence. I had in fact been there for some time. I didn’t want anyone to realize that. So I went outside the chamber and knocked on the door, pretending to have just arrived.’

‘Your comrades, I mean, if they had survived?’

‘Brother, I was their captain. I told them I was going to patrol the tavern and the surrounding streets – that was part of the quarrel. I wanted Ronseval to leave his chamber,’ he flailed a hand, ‘to walk with me, to go elsewhere. He refused to acknowledge how dangerous Marsen truly was.’ Hornsey picked up the tankard beside him and drained it. ‘As I said, I found both men dead. I immediately ran to the Barbican and knocked. No one answered. I could hear no sound. It was obvious a hideous mischief had been perpetrated. By then I was so terrified I staggered away to be sick. Once I’d recovered, I returned to Ronseval. I told him what I had seen. He asked for his dagger. I told him I had dropped it. We quarrelled. He wanted me to stay but I begged him to flee with me.’ He shook his head. ‘On reflection it was stupid, but I was terrified more than on any battle day. I had deserted my post and my comrades lay slain – the man I was supposed to protect probably so as well.’

‘These two archers … before you left them, how were they?’

‘Oh, they were good men, tired and weary after a day’s work, resentful at being given such an onerous watch. But they had fire and food. They said they had eaten well. Thorne’s meal was hot and spicy. They tried to entice me with what they had left but I couldn’t eat. I said I wasn’t hungry. In fact, I was too nervous.’

‘So they had eaten and drank before you left?’

‘Oh, yes, and with no ill effects.’

‘And Marsen had instructed you to unlock the third clasp of the exchequer chest?’

Hornsey nodded in agreement.

‘So,’ Athelstan mused, ‘what happened? Did Marsen and Mauclerc unlock the other two?’

‘Brother, I cannot say.’

‘And the two whores?’

‘Mere shadows. I saw them slip into the Barbican.’

‘Had Marsen visited The Golden Oliphant, the brothel run by the Mistress of the Moppets?’

‘Of course. Marsen swept in there like Gaunt himself demanding this and that. He would know a few of her secrets as well.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Athelstan stirred on the stool, fighting a deep exhaustion which wearied him. ‘Marsen collected information, knowledge. Was he searching for anything specific?’

‘Certainly,’ Hornsey replied, ‘I heard about what happened in Cheapside, the attack by the Earthworms. Haven’t you or Cranston ever wondered how the Earthworms can suddenly appear on horses in deep disguise all weaponed for war?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, horses can be stabled all over the city but those shields and spears, the masks – where can they be stored? How can a throng of armed men abruptly emerge in the heart of the city? How could they bring in such weaponry without being noticed? Marsen was searching for where those arms were bought, where they could be stored and how they could be transported hither and thither with impunity.’

Athelstan sat silent. Again what Hornsey said was logical. Horses could be stabled at alehouses or taverns, but there were at least forty Earthworms involved with that affray in Cheapside – all those spears, swords and clubs?

‘You see, Brother, the Upright Men have learnt their lesson. A year ago they stored such weapons in taverns, brothels, alehouses, even cemeteries and crypts. They could dig pits but these could be found. Thibault’s searchers were hot in pursuit so now the Upright Men have moved on. Marsen had more than a passing interest in discovering just where these weapons were bought, where they were kept and how they were moved about. Before you ask, Marsen discovered nothing. He was furious. I suspect that’s why Lascelles visited him just for a short while on the evening before the murders. Thibault wanted the taxes but information can be just as precious.’

‘Anything else?’ Athelstan demanded.

‘You told me about Lascelles being killed. Brother, I give this to you in gratitude for what you have done for me. You do realize Thibault was tricked and trapped tonight?’

‘By the Upright Men?’

‘No, by Beowulf the assassin. Somehow or other,’ Hornsey smiled grimly, ‘that murderous will-o’-the-wisp brought Thibault and the Upright Men together. He pedalled information to the Upright Men, enticed them into The Candle-Flame, then gave similar information to Master Thibault. He knew there would be a confrontation. What better time to hide and wait for the opportunity to destroy Thibault and his henchman?’

Athelstan sat still, surprised. He had suspicions about what had truly caused the confrontation at The Candle-Flame. Hornsey’s explanation was logical. Marsen’s treasure, heavy to carry, could well be buried or hidden somewhere in The Candle-Flame or the land around it. The Upright Men would be keen to seize it – they had proclaimed as much. On the other hand, Thibault would grasp any opportunity to inflict bloody damage on his enemy. Hornsey was right. Thibault and Lascelles had rushed into Beowulf’s ambush. Lascelles had been killed and it was only by sheer chance that Thibault had narrowly escaped a similar fate. Athelstan rose to stand beneath the pyx. Mentally he beat his breast and confessed his arrogance. Hugh of Hornsey was not just a simple soldier. He was more cunning and subtle than Athelstan had judged. He was an archer who had risen through the ranks, stood in the line of battle and survived on his wits, whilst hiding his own dangerous secrets. Was he also cunning enough to plot that massacre at the Barbican? The former captain of archers was steadily climbing what Athelstan called ‘the Devil’s staircase’. True, he had fled The Candle-Flame and taken sanctuary. However, at the same time he was taking one step away from the disaster which had nearly engulfed him. He was climbing away from both the truth and his own mistakes. Hornsey had seen something but he was determined to keep this to himself, to use further up the Devil’s staircase. Athelstan closed his eyes and prayed. It would be futile to continue the questioning, to pursue this any further. He crossed himself, opened his eyes and pointed to the door to the sacristy.

‘Master Hugh, bolt and lock that after me. The same for the door in the rood screen. Once you have done that no one can enter from the nave. Use the jakes pot and do not go out. If anyone tries to come through the sacristy they will have to knock on the outside door. Make sure that’s bolted as well. Use the eyelet to determine friend or foe. I trust you consider me, Benedicta, Crim or the Hangman amongst the former.’ He extended a hand for Hornsey to clasp. ‘Goodnight, Master Hugh.’

Athelstan wearily left the church. He heard Hornsey bolt the doors behind him and plodded back through the dark to his house. He unlocked the door; the kitchen was cold, the fire had burnt low. Athelstan felt so tired he didn’t care. He slumped down at the table and fell fast asleep. He was given a rude awakening by a pounding on his door just after dawn. He jumped to his feet, his heart a-flutter and his flesh tingling cold. The fire and brazier had burnt out; the candles were no more than stubs. Grey dawn light peeked through the shutters and tendrils of mist curled beneath the door. Athelstan stared around. Bonaventure was nowhere to be seen. ‘I don’t blame you, cat, this is not a place of rest.’ Again the pounding at the door. Athelstan hastily unlocked and unbolted it. The Hangman, together with Benedicta and Crim, stood gasping in the bleak dawn light.

‘Father, quickly! It’s the fugitive!’

Athelstan followed them out, slipping and slithering on the icy rutted trackway up the steps, through the porch and into the church. It was freezing cold. The Hangman muttered something but Athelstan already had a premonition which proved true. Hugh of Hornsey lay dead in the sacristy almost as if he was floating on a wide, shimmering pool of dark red blood. He had been killed with a crossbow bolt loosed deep into his chest, almost the same way as his lover, Ronseval. He laid tangled and twisted, eyes staring blindly, blood-encrusted lips parted.

‘I think you paid for what you saw,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘and so you were marked down for slaughter.’ Athelstan blessed the corpse and glanced over his shoulder at the Hangman. ‘You were here all night? You never left?’

‘Father, I heard you leave, then the fugitive bolting all three doors. After that, nothing.’

‘I came in to prepare for Mass,’ Benedicta spoke up. ‘The doors to the nave were all locked. That door,’ she pointed to the one which sealed the sanctuary from the sacristy, ‘that door,’ she repeated, ‘was wide open, as was the door from the sacristy to the cemetery. The fugitive was lying as you found him. He must have been killed when he opened the door to use the garderobe.’

‘No.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I told him not to do that.’ He went over to the mercy enclave and inspected the covered jakes pot. He hastily resealed it, wrinkling his nose, and returned to stand over the corpse. ‘He had no need to go out. Not only did I warn him but Hornsey was an experienced soldier; he would be wary of leaving the safety of the sanctuary. Moreover, if that did happen it would mean his killer might have had to wait for hours in the freezing cold. No,’ Athelstan paused, ‘once more the paradox. Hornsey must have truly trusted his assassin.’ Athelstan walked into the sacristy to inspect the door to the outside. ‘Look, the eyelet hatch is down. Hornsey must have lowered it, looked out, recognized his killer, but felt safe enough to unlock the door. The bolts and locks,’ Athelstan crouched down, ‘are unmarked. No sign of force. Yes, yes,’ Athelstan continued, ‘it must have been so. Somehow the killer deceived Hornsey, who actually scrutinized his would-be assassin and utterly trusted him.’

‘True,’ Benedicta followed him over, ‘the killer must have struck swiftly, not tarrying outside in the freezing night.’

‘Precisely,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘So who was it? Why did Hornsey trust him so much?’ He smiled absent-mindedly at Benedicta and walked back to the corpse. He administered the last rites then knelt on the bottom altar step, whilst the Hangman and Benedicta fetched the bailiffs, a shambling, drink-sodden group of men, bitterly complaining about the cold. They were shocked by what had happened, gazing fearfully at the corpse. All raised their hands and swore in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament that during the previous night they had seen no one approach the church nor heard anything to alarm them. Athelstan wondered how alert they had been but, as he whispered to himself, ‘Alea iacta – the dice is thrown.’ He instructed them to remove Hornsey’s corpse to the new parish death house. Benedicta promised that she would help Beadle Bladdersmith, Godbless and the Hangman of Rochester prepare the cadaver for burial. They discussed the cleansing of the church and the need to inform the bishop. Athelstan declared he would not celebrate his daily Mass or meet any of his parishioners. By now Benedicta and the Hangman had been joined by the bell clerk, Judith and Ranulf; they all assured Athelstan that they would look after the church, its precincts and, once he had gone, the priest’s house.

Athelstan left and hurried across to the house, having despatched Crim to rouse Sir John. Once inside Athelstan locked the door. For a while he just sat feeding the meagre fire, allowing the tears of sheer frustration and despondency to well up, even as he murmured lines from the psalms asking for divine help. When Bonaventure scratched at the door to be let in, Athelstan crossed himself and smiled at the crucifix nailed to the wall. ‘So that’s your response,’ he murmured. ‘You have sent Bonaventure to help.’ He allowed the cat in and for a while fussed over him, feeding him morsels from the buttery. At last, feeling more composed, Athelstan stripped, washed and shaved, donning new linen underwear and taking fresh robes from the clothes chest. He rubbed oil into his hands and face, took a deep breath and wondered what he would do. ‘Distraction,’ he whispered to a sleeping Bonaventure lounging across the hearth, ‘is good for the soul.’

Athelstan began to walk up and down the kitchen, reciting, as he would a litany, the questions and problems which prevented him from unlocking the mysteries challenging him. Athelstan had been taught the technique by Brother Siward, Master of Logic at Blackfriars. ‘Siward!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘A Saxon name. He was always so very proud of his Saxon ancestors. He loved to quote their poem about the Battle at Maldon and of course his precious Beowulf. He always had a soft spot for me, Bonaventure, because I bore the name of the great Saxon king. I wonder if Siward would loan me his manuscripts. Anyway …’ Athelstan continued walking up and down, watched curiously by a bemused Bonaventure, who was fascinated by this little priest who shared his home and food with him. ‘Now,’ Athelstan sketched a blessing in Bonaventure’s direction, ‘we have Marsen and his company arrive at The Candle-Flame. They chose it because of the Barbican, a safe and secure refuge, or so they thought. A prosperous tavern, its master is probably in Thibault’s pay. Marsen was a great sinner against the Lord like Ahab in the Old Testament, given to double-dealing in everything he did. He collected taxes as well as every scrap of information, either for own nefarious use or that of his master. Marsen loved his task, Bonaventure; he seemed to relish making enemies. He insulted Paston but there is little evidence of any relationship between him and the other chamber guests. The only exception is Physician Scrope, Marsen’s secret enemy, who was preparing an indictment against him for previous crimes.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Marsen sets up the outside watch under Hornsey. They camp on the Palisade, where they are given food and drink by Thorne. In the Barbican’s lower chamber is the internal watch, three archers who lock and bolt the door behind them. Marsen believes he can relax, he has food and drink and the company of two whores. One of them arrives with a bag which clinked. Was it money, Bonaventure, or was it that chainmail wristguard? If it was, why was it brought to the Barbican by a whore and, more importantly, why was it left?’ Athelstan stared down at the cat. ‘I must apologize to my congregation, even though it is only you, Bonaventure. You also have your needs.’

Athelstan went into the buttery, poured himself a stoup of ale and filled Bonaventure’s bowl with some of the milk Benedicta had brought. The friar watched the cat hungrily lap his morning drink. ‘Good,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Then there is the exchequer chest. Had it been opened, and why? Marsen and Mauclerc would be careful, especially with two whores in the chamber. Yet, even if it was partially locked, why would the other two keys still be left on cords hanging round their owners’ neck? Apparently the killer-thief did not need them.’ Athelstan sipped at his ale. ‘No potion or poison could be traced in the food or drink. So, Bonaventure, we move to the heart of this mystery. Two archers were slain by the campfire. Three more in the lower chamber, four souls in the one above, yet both window and door were locked and bolted, whilst the trapdoor to Marsen’s chamber was clasped shut from the upper side. How could a killer inflict such damage, provoke no real resistance and open a locked exchequer chest, even if the third clasp had been released, then remove the treasure and leave, passing as it were through sheer stone?’

Athelstan stopped to listen to the sounds echoing from outside, shouts and cries as Hornsey’s corpse was removed. ‘Yet another mystery, Bonaventure. Hornsey’s murderer could have only entered our church by the door to the sacristy. Hornsey first peered through the eyelet and then, all trusting, opened the door and was immediately killed. The same, Bonaventure,’ Athelstan started his pacing again, ‘yes, just like Physician Scrope, only his death is even more mysterious. He was killed in a locked, bolted chamber. Wait now.’ Athelstan’s fingers flew to his lips as he recalled Lascelles being struck the previous evening. He must, he promised himself, truly reflect on what he’d seen last night, but, for the moment, he was too tired; it would have to wait. ‘Why, oh why, Bonaventure, was Scrope killed in such a way? What did he see when he went out? Why was he clutching that pilgrim book on Glastonbury?’ Athelstan, sipping his ale, crouched by the hearth, using a poker to shatter the crumbling, flame-flickering ash. ‘As for the spy, well, Master Thibault will have to wait. And Beowulf – a silent, skilled killer, like you, Bonaventure? He has undoubtedly struck twice: at Lascelles that morning in the stableyard and more successfully last night. This time, he killed Lascelles and nearly did the same to Thibault. I wonder.’ Athelstan put the poker down; a thought had occurred to him. Was Beowulf sheltering at The Candle-Flame or was he simply using the tavern as a shield? Athelstan got to his feet. ‘And there are other strands to this mystery, Bonaventure. I must have a word with Mooncalf, Martha and Master Foulkes. Where were they going on the night those murders occurred? And why did a young whore visit Paston? Questions, questions, Bonaventure! Those two lovers Ronseval and Hornsey executed in the same way, the killer very close. Both men undoubtedly trusted that son of Cain. And why did Ronseval leave the tavern …?’ Athelstan paused in his self-lecture at a pounding at the door. He hurriedly unlocked it, drew the bolts and stood back as Cranston swept in, his cloak billowing out as if he was the herald of God Almighty.

‘I heard what happened, Athelstan. Hornsey’s slain, the fool!’ Cranston paused as Bonaventure, who seemed to adore the coroner, padded across to brush himself against Sir John’s boots, his one eye staring up in mute admiration. ‘God’s teeth, I can’t stand cats!’

‘He certainly likes you.’ Athelstan shooed Bonaventure away and made Sir John sit and listen to what he had learnt from Hornsey. Once he had finished, Cranston, threading his beaver hat through his hands, stared bleakly at Athelstan.

‘Do you think we will ever solve this, Brother?’

‘Sir John, I do not know.’

‘Thibault is furious. He regarded Lascelles as kith and kin. He visited me at the Guildhall and told me that was Beowulf’s work last night. Master Thorne found Beowulf’s usual message pinned to a newel post on the tavern staircase. He sent it immediately to the Guildhall. Brother Athelstan, I do fear for Pike and Watkin. Thibault may well make an example of them. I have used all the influence I can to delay their arraignment before the justices. Now, Brother,’ Cranston got to his feet, ‘let’s go deeper into this maze. We must visit The Golden Oliphant and the Mistress of the Moppets. Let us see what that madam has to say for herself. Brother, what is it?’

‘Just a thought, Sir John, but isn’t it rather strange? The Upright Men invade The Candle-Flame. I could understand why they would not lift a hand against Brother Marcel or Roger, as they are priests. Violence against clerics incurs spiritual penalties and, whatever the Upright Men may boast, old habits die hard. What is remarkable is that no violence was offered to Sir Robert Paston, a manor lord, a natural enemy of the Upright Men, or even to Thorne or his own household.’

‘Whom they probably regard as in Thibault’s pay.’

‘The Upright Men,’ Athelstan declared, ‘would be angry. They apparently searched and found no treasure, yet they didn’t turn on their hostages.’

‘Which they certainly can do,’ Cranston added quickly. ‘One of my spies informed me how the Upright Men executed Grapeseed, who mocked them. They used his severed head as a public display of their power. Yes, it’s an interesting thought.’ Cranston chewed the corner of his lip. ‘But we must not be too hasty. Remember, the Upright Men were disturbed in their search by the arrival of Thibault and his soldiers. God knows what they would have done if that hadn’t happened. But come, Brother, let me broaden your experience of this world.’

They left the precincts of St Erconwald’s. Athelstan, head down, hood pulled over, did not wish to converse with parishioners all agog with the news of Pike and Watkin being taken up and Hornsey slain in sanctuary. The exception was Benedicta, whom he called over. He opened his wallet and took out a seal of the Dominican order with a cross on one side and a crowned lily on the other.

‘Take this to Brother Siward at Blackfriars, would you, please? I appreciate the weather is harsh but this is important …’

‘I was planning to visit Cheapside,’ she replied, ‘and remember, Brother, I have been to Blackfriars before on your behalf. I’ve met Brother Siward.’

‘Yes, yes, so you have,’ Athelstan conceded. ‘Siward may be old but he is still partial to a fair face. Anyway, give him the seal. Ask him if I can borrow the library copy of a poem known as Beowulf.’ He made Benedicta repeat the message. ‘Take the Hangman of Rochester with you as a guard. He frightens the footpads as much as Sir John.’ Benedicta, eyes closed, repeated the word ‘Beowulf’ until she knew it by heart. Cranston gave her a hug and kiss and she hurried off. Athelstan and Cranston strode on into the mesh of narrow squalid streets of Southwark, which ran like a tangled web, reeking of poverty and all kinds of wickedness. The day was iron-hard cold, the ground under foot still frozen solid, the filth strewn there turning to rock to score the foot and trip the boot. Shutters flew open above them. Doors slammed. Children chased dogs or guided the family pig with a whipping cane. Carts, barrows and tumbrils rumbled and rattled, pushed by sweaty labourers or pulled by spare-ribbed street nags. The legion of tinkers and traders, trays hanging around their necks, offered a range of goods from strips of hard cooked meat to crude sharp knives to cut it. A wild-eyed preacher had commandeered a broken wheeled cart on the corner of Hairlip Lane; his powerful voice bellowed how long hair was a sign of pride and the banner of Hell, and how the world was full of such banners, especially London ale. According to the preacher, this was Satan’s own drink, making men yield to the temptations of fleshly women who bore in their person the marks of the great enemy of man. Athelstan couldn’t make sense of what the preacher was talking about, although he agreed with the man’s constant refrain of how London had become the seat of the Great Beast and idolatry peeked out of every corner.

In truth, the friar was so distracted by the hurly-burly of recent events that he almost forgot where he was. Cranston had to pull him around a funeral party, all drunk and trying to get a coffin out through a narrow door; its thin wooden side had split and a skeletal arm hung out to the distress of the tipsy mourners. They left Hairlip Lane and paused as a group of flagellantes proceeded by, their heads and faces hidden by bright yellow hoods and red masks. The tops of their gowns, both the men and women, were pulled down to expose them to the lashes of those behind, a ceaseless reign of cutting blows which ruptured the skin and sprayed the air with flicking blood. The flagellantes, swinging from foot to foot, lost in a trance, rhythmically chanted ‘Miserere, Miserere, Kyrie Eleison’ – ‘Have mercy, have mercy, Lord, have mercy on us.’ A few city urchins, encouraged by the layabouts standing in the crumbling doorways of shabby alehouses, threw refuse at the penitents. Cranston doffed his beaver hat and bellowed at the top of his voice until the miscreants fled. The coroner was about to move on when he caught sight of a well-known pickpocket, Bird-brain, and shouted a warning for the felon to spread his wings and fly.

They reached The Golden Oliphant, standing at the end of an alleyway with walls of sheer red brick ranging either side. The tavern boasted a magnificent doorway smartly painted in black and gilt; the same colours were reflected in its broad sign and the rest of the tavern frontage. Two oafs dressed in black-and-gold livery stood on guard. Once Cranston announced himself they threw open the door and escorted them into the sweet-smelling parlour, just off the well-scrubbed paving stone floor leading down to the Golden Hall, as one of the guards grandly called the taproom. The parlour reminded Athelstan of a rather luxurious monastic cell with its gleaming oaken furniture, lancet windows filled with painted glass, thick turkey floor rugs and slender candles burning under bright copper caps. Cranston and Athelstan sat down on quilted, leather-back chairs before a brilliantly polished elmwood table; at its centre was a three-branched candelabra next to a blue and gold mazer full of freshly crushed herbs mixed in rosewater. The guards left. A short while later Elizabeth Sheyne, the Mistress of the Moppets, came in accompanied by her maid, a slender but buxom young lady, dressed as discreetly as any novice in a well-heeled convent. Introductions were made, refreshments offered and tactfully refused. Cranston and Athelstan retook their seats and the two women perched on chairs opposite as demurely as any city matrons. The Mistress of the Moppets, however, was a brazen-faced, hard-eyed woman with knowing eyes and a rat-trap mouth. The maid, Joycelina, as she introduced herself, looked no better – a pale, rather peaked face with hostile eyes, her disdain at meeting them barely hidden.

‘You are most welcome, Sir John.’

‘No, I am not!’ Cranston barked. ‘You,’ he pointed at the mistress, ‘run a brothel, a whorehouse, and I am an officer of the law.’

‘Sir John, I have powerful protectors.’

‘I couldn’t give a fig if all the Pope’s cardinals are upstairs with your ladies. Your business is not mine but if you lie I will make your business my business. I shall leave, but return with a warrant to search and a summons to court. Rest assured, I will be escorted by the burliest bailiffs who have ever graced a brothel.’

The mistress fluttered her eyes, laced her fingers together and forced a smile.

‘What do you want, Sir John?’

‘Marsen,’ Cranston used his fingers to emphasize his points, ‘Mauclerc, Sir Robert Paston and not to forget two dead whores. Be attentive to my questions. Answer them truthfully and you are safe; lie and I will have you in the stocks for a week, the public pillory down near the bridge. I am sure the wives of some of Southwark’s leading gentlemen would love to see you there.’

Athelstan steeled himself against the fear he could sense in both women. They had lost their false demure attitude and were now becoming increasingly flustered. Apparently they had never done business with Cranston and were being given a rough schooling.

‘I don’t-’ the mistress began.

‘Oh, by Satan’s tits!’ Cranston thundered jabbing a finger at the maid. ‘On the evening of the murders, and you know what I am talking about, you met Sir Robert Paston at The Candle-Flame – why? Look, accept my apologies,’ the coroner persisted. ‘In many ways I am a knight and a gentleman, but I am also a coroner. Hideous murder has been, and still is being, perpetrated. I don’t want to sit here and parry words with you. I have no desire to convict you of anything. I just want information.’

‘Sir John, Sir John,’ the mistress lifted long, snow-white hands, ‘I will tell the truth. What does it matter? We live in the rough world of men. I have no choice but to be subject to their iron-hard temper.’

‘I will be fair and just,’ Cranston intervened. ‘I am here to do what is right, that is all. Help me and, if and when I can, I will assist you.’

‘Marsen was a demon,’ the mistress spoke quickly, ‘a blood-drinker, a soul-crusher and, above all, a blackmailer. He loved to bully defenceless women. Oh, he was a guest here but not an invited one. He took what he wanted and never paid for anything, be it food, drink or a wench. He accused me of having secret dealings with the Upright Men.’

‘Do you?’

The mistress just stared back.

‘Everybody does, don’t they, Elizabeth?’ Athelstan said gently. She nodded.

‘We help where we can,’ she murmured. ‘In return, we have guarantees that when the days dissolve into fire, The Golden Oliphant will be safe.’ She ignored Cranston’s mocking laugh.

‘Do you store their weapons?’

‘No, Sir John, that would be stupid. You know that. Someone like Marsen would soon find out.’

‘What else did he want?’ Athelstan asked, staring at the maid. ‘Why did you go to The Candle-Flame? Why did one of your sisters who was slain carry a bag which clinked? Did it contain, and I think it did, a blue expensive gauntlet and a chainmail wristguard?’

The mistress drew a sharp breath, rubbed her face and twitched the folds of her dark-green, samite gown.

‘Marsen knew,’ she replied. ‘One of the sisters told him how Sir Robert Paston is the most regular visitor here. After all, he is a widower and he has,’ she fluttered her eyelids, ‘his own needs. When he came here Sir Robert liked …’ She pulled a face. ‘Father, you are a priest?’

‘You would be very surprised, Elizabeth, at what I hear in confession. Some of my parishioners are most forthcoming about what happens in establishments such as this. I understand,’ Athelstan continued blithely, ‘that some men like to watch, others require two or more girls together, and others like to be beaten.’ The mistress stared at him in surprise. ‘Elizabeth,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘we are all sinners. We do what we are good at, which is sinning. I always think men who knock on a brothel door are searching for God. Now, Sir Robert?’

‘He likes to be playful.’

‘You mean rough?’

‘Yes, Father. He asks the girls to act like damsels in distress, to be taken by force by a rough soldier after her castle has fallen.’

‘And her drawbridge forced?’

The maid abruptly added, glaring at Athelstan, ‘Some men like that. What do you like, Father?’

‘Women,’ the friar replied before Cranston could intervene. ‘I do love a beautiful woman; in my eyes one of God’s greatest creations. I like to watch their eyes fill with laughter and admire their hair, long and lovely. It must be very easy to fall in love and so glorious for such a being to love you back. So, I have answered your question, lady. Now,’ Athelstan’s smile faded, ‘answer mine. Sir Robert liked to wear gauntlets, chainmail wristguards – they made him feel fierce, yes?’ The maid nodded, taken aback by this passionate little friar who seemed to be searching her soul.

‘Sir Robert left such items here, didn’t he? Marsen learnt about it and forced you, mistress,’ Athelstan pointed at the older woman, ‘to hand them over, or at least certain ones. He was going to publicly ridicule Paston, perhaps blackmail him or just pass such information on with the proof to Master Thibault.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I am correct?’ Both women nodded in agreement. ‘However, Sir Robert is a goodly man; he supports you, so you sent her,’ Athelstan gestured at the maid, ‘to The Candle-Flame to warn Sir Robert?’ Both women murmured their agreement. Athelstan sat, letting the silence deepen. He glanced at Cranston, who was staring in surprise. Athelstan winked at him before turning back to the two ladies. ‘And how did Sir Roger take the news?’

‘He seemed slightly relieved,’ the maid replied. ‘I had the impression he was, yes, relieved. All he said was, “Is that all?”’

‘Is that all,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘Why should he say that?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Does Sir Robert’s cog, The Five Wounds,’ Cranston asked, ‘have anything to do with your trade, my lovelies?’

‘No,’ the mistress replied. ‘Sir Robert is a very generous and kind patron but no more than that.’

‘And Marsen hired two of your beauties?’ Cranston demanded.

‘Yes. Merrybum and Lovelorn.’

Cranston burst out laughing and swiftly apologized as Athelstan nudged him sharply.

‘They also died,’ Athelstan conceded. ‘Brutally murdered. But listen, on his visit here, did Marsen say anything significant?’

The mistress undid the exquisitely embroidered purse on the silver cincture around her slim waist and took out two silver coins.

‘Father,’ she leaned over, ‘if you could celebrate a requiem for my two girls.’

Athelstan gently pushed her hand back. ‘I blessed their corpses,’ he replied. ‘I will say the Mass.’

For the briefest of moments the mistress’s hard face relaxed. She sat, head down.

‘Beowulf!’

‘What?’ Athelstan exclaimed.

‘Beowulf, Brother,’ the mistress repeated. ‘I know about him. We have heard the stories. When he came here, Marsen grew deep in his cups. He boasted how he had survived an attack by Beowulf at Leveret Copse. He said Beowulf was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Marsen swore he would trap and kill this wolf as sure and as certain as that of Guttio.’

‘Guttio? What does that mean? Where is it?’

‘Brother, I don’t know and I don’t really care. Marsen was arrogant. He said it was just a matter of time, how he had to be prudent, careful. He would do it his way.’ She spread her hands. ‘More than that I cannot say.’

‘When you visited Sir Robert,’ Athelstan asked the maid, ‘did you notice anything suspicious?’

‘There was a darkness in that tavern,’ the maid replied, ‘more of the spirit than a lack of candlelight. A disturbance of the humours. The tavern was busy but everybody knew Marsen was there. It was like sitting in a woodland glade, peaceful and pleasant, but you knew some ferocious animal lurks deep in the darkness. You could almost feel his malign influence – you just knew he was there. People were fearful.’ She paused, lost in her own thoughts. Once again, Athelstan mentally struck his breast as he sat, fascinated. This young woman, despite her appearance and occupation, was sharp of wit and keen of mind.

‘Joycelina,’ he said quietly, ‘you did see something, didn’t you?’

‘Just a glimpse. The ostler, Mooncalf, he was in the garden with Paston’s daughter, Martha, and that clerk who follows her everywhere. All three were in deep conversation, but about what I cannot say.’

‘Apart from that, anything else?’

‘No.’ The maid shook her head. ‘Ah,’ she raised a hand, ‘except in the Dark Parlour. The customers were hosting a drinking dirge to that Hainault seaman who had been attacked and knifed earlier in the day at Queenhithe. I think his name was Ruat.’

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan turned to Cranston, ‘wasn’t that the name of the courier carrying the list Master Thibault seized?’

‘Yes, yes, I think it was.’

Athelstan rose from his chair and walked over to the latticed window. He stared down at the light rain splashing the puddles. Was the business of the spy as simple as that? he wondered. Was the Hainault sailor the spy? He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Surely, if they were hosting a drinking dirge to a foreign sailor they must have known him?’

‘I cannot say. According to the gossip he had visited St Mary Overy, where there is a special shrine for Hainault sailors, the Virgin of the Narrow Seas. He had lit a taper there and visited The Candle-Flame for a celebratory drink. Apparently his purse was heavy and he was generous in buying ale for customers. They felt sorry about what later happened to him.’

‘Of course they would,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘a story as old as the hills. Some poor seaman, his purse well lined with silver, goes into a tavern and attracts the wrong kind of attention. I suppose he was followed from Southwark to Queenhithe. An easy victim, his belly full of ale and his purse full of coins.’ Athelstan turned back to the window. He was tempted to leave the identity of the spy as that Hainaulter, but that would be wrong. The sailor had a berth on his own ship, which was ready to sail on the next tide, yet the document Thibault seized claimed the spy would be residing at The Candle-Flame on 16 February when the Hainaulter and his ship would be long gone. Athelstan ran a finger round his lips. And what did Mooncalf, Mistress Martha and William Foulkes have so much in common? He recalled meeting the two lovebirds in the refectory the morning after the murders. He was sure he had noticed something amiss.

‘Brother?’ Cranston called. The friar walked back to his seat.

‘You are sure of that?’ Athelstan asked the maid. He hid a spasm of excitement. All these mysteries were perhaps not so tangled; matters were drifting apart. Perhaps he could find a path through them.

‘Sure of what, Brother?’

‘The Hainaulter, Ruat?’

‘Of course I am. I went up into the gallery to meet Sir Robert. I’d told Master Thorne I had a message for him. When I came down the taverner asked me if I wanted refreshment.’ She glanced swiftly at her mistress. ‘We have a good relationship with Master Thorne.’

‘You mean he sends you custom?’ Cranston asked.

‘You could say that. Anyway, I joined the drinking dirge. Of course, everyone was talking about the man we were mourning for.’

Athelstan sat, nodding his head. Did the sailor come to The Candle-Flame, he wondered, to meet someone? The friar mentally listed all those who had been at The Candle-Flame that day …

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, are we finished here?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan replied absent-mindedly. ‘We certainly are. I thank you.’

They left The Golden Oliphant, tramping back through the damp day. Athelstan, concerned about Pike and Watkin, insisted they visit the Bocardo prison to ensure all was as well as it could be. He also needed to question his two wayward parishioners on certain matters. They entered the grimy, dark heart of Southwark’s slums, making their way down arrow-thin runnels called Nosegay, across small enclosures known as Pillory Place or the Whipping Post. All along the way the makeshift stalls and booths set up in any available space offered a wide range of paltry goods and putrid food probably stolen from elsewhere in Southwark or beyond. The tenements, on either side, their wood and plaster walls held up by heavy wooden crutches, teetered close over their heads. Brothels and whorehouses of every kind did a flourishing business, offering services not to be found elsewhere in the city. Athelstan glimpsed the well fed and richly cloaked, the would-be customers of such establishments, slipping in and out of doorways. This part of Southwark was different from St Erconwald’s – that was a parish where everybody knew each other, but this was the world’s thoroughfare, where names were forged, no questions asked, and certainly no answers given. Everyone looked after their own. It was a place to pass through but not to stay. Wandering minstrels, chanteurs, troubadours, jesters and magicians offered entertainment. One group, the Brotherhood of the Bear, their faces plastered a thick white, their teeth deliberately blackened, had brought their tame bear to dance for pennies. Apparently the animal loved London ale; it had drunk too much and had promptly fallen asleep, a great huddle of slumbering fur almost blocking the lane. A dispute had broken out between the Brotherhood and a tinker selling powders and philtres. He was being accused of slipping a sleeping potion into the tankard the bear had drunk from, an allegation the tinker hotly disputed.

‘Where is the proof?’ the gap-toothed trader shrieked.

‘Such a potion leaves no trace!’ one of the Brotherhood screamed back.

Athelstan and Cranston passed on, dodging a high-backed execution cart painted a garish red and attended by three men dressed in devil’s masks. They had been clearing the gallows of the cadavers of the hanged who had been displayed and gibbeted; these now sprawled under a dirty canvas sheet, ready for the common burial pit. Such macabre squalor was swiftly swept aside by the delightful carolling of three altar boys from St Mary Overy who were escorting a funeral bier down to the church. Athelstan stopped and pulled back his hood to listen to the exquisite refrain, ‘In paradisum te seraphi portent – may the Seraphim carry you into paradise’. The boys’ faces were angelic, an impression heightened by the surplices which had miraculously escaped being stained by the grime and floating filth of the streets. The three boys led the funeral cortege down the alleyway. Merriment was caused by a St Anthony’s pig following a mourner who had given it something to eat; such generosity is never forgotten by a pig, and this one now resolutely pursued its benefactor. Athelstan studied the scene and recalled the sleeping bear, Ursula’s great sow and the lumbering mass of Pedro the Cruel being roused from its slumbers on the Palisade at The Candle-Flame. So lost in his thoughts was he that Cranston had to pull Athelstan aside as the window door above them was opened and the contents of a night jar tossed into the air.

Eventually they reached the lane stretching down to the dark, sinister mass of the black-stoned Bocardo prison, with iron bars over its arrow-thin windows and a massive reinforced main door. On either side of the entrance rose a two-branched gibbet. From each arm dangled a corpse sheeted in tarred black cloth. Deliberately beneath the dangling corpse stood the stocks with a prisoner held fast, a crude placard slung around their necks proclaiming their offence. The broad steps sweeping up to the main door were guarded by mail-shirted turnkeys armed with morning stars. Cranston showed his warrants. The two guards didn’t move swift enough, so the coroner drew his sword and, fiddling with his cloak, let his badge of office boasting the royal arms be clearly seen.

‘I will ask you again,’ he growled. ‘If you try to dilly-dally I am off to the Guildhall, where I will swear out warrants for your arrest on charges of treason. So open that door and get me Blanchard or-’

The door hastily swung open. Athelstan stepped into what Cranston called ‘the black heart of the darkest hell’. A stark, whitewashed chamber stood to the right – the keeper’s room, where he kept a faithful record in his Book of Crimes. The room opposite was a cell sealed by a thick, iron-studded door. Cranston whispered how freshly arrived prisoners were detained there to be stripped and searched.

‘And worse,’ Cranston murmured, ‘if you are pretty.’ Both chambers flanked a long, murky tunnel which ran steeply down into the gloomy bowels of the prison. The air was rancid with foul smells blown up from the ‘pits’, as the dungeons were called. A man dressed in a white gown came out of the keeper’s room. He just stood on the threshold, hands hanging by his side. For a few heartbeats Cranston ignored him as if fascinated with something further down the passageway. At last he turned.

‘Master Blanchard.’ Cranston threw his hands in the air. ‘What a pleasure …’ The keeper’s deep-set eyes in his furrowed face glowed with a suppressed rage. Athelstan recalled Cranston speaking of this official as a man who did more to shatter the king’s peace than any Cheapside cunning man, a prison official who had more than a close relationship with many of the leading gangs of the city, a corrupt servant of the Crown who, Cranston had publicly vowed, he’d watch being strangled at Tyburn. In turn Blanchard nurtured and nourished a deep resentment, even hatred for the coroner. A malignant soul, Athelstan considered, with his shaven pate, beaked nose, yellow-skinned face and sour, twisted mouth.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, welcome to my kingdom.’

‘And welcome to mine, Blanchard.’ Cranston took a step closer. ‘I represent the king. I exercise royal power here. I will see what I want. I will go where I want. I will do what I want …’ He paused as a soul-wrenching scream rang along the cavernous passageway.

‘Richard Sparwell,’ Blanchard jeered, ‘heretic, Lollard, follower of Wycliffe, condemned to be burnt alive at noon at Smithfield. The sheriff’s men will be arriving soon.’

‘Why the scream?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Is he being tortured?’

‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Blanchard lisped mockingly. ‘We wouldn’t do that here, would we, Sir John? Richard Sparwell mourns because he is going to die alone, bereft of any spiritual con-solation. No priest would tolerate being seen with a convicted Lollard. Now, Sir John, it is truly lovely to see you.’ Blanchard forced a smile. ‘I am sure you are here to visit Pike the ditcher and Watkin the dung collector, two birds being primed to have their necks twisted at the Crown’s earliest convenience.’

‘After their trial,’ Cranston snapped, ‘and they have yet to be convicted. I want to see them now.’ Blanchard shrugged and, taking a set of keys from a hook on the wall, led them down into what he called his ‘underworld’. Athelstan blessed himself. He felt as if he was walking through a truly wicked place; a malignant evil hung here, nourished by the breath of crushed spirits, tortured souls and torn bodies. The atmosphere seemed to seep from the very stones. The Bocardo’s deep, perpetual night of murk and gloom were lit by evil-smelling tallow candles and fiercely burning cressets, their flames leaping like demons in the sharp draught. The Bocardo was not far from the river and the prison was soaked in a constantly dripping, foul-smelling dampness. Rats and other vermin criss-crossed the ground in front of them. Lice and other filth crackled under their feet. Hard-rending shouts and cries echoed eerily like the mourning of some lost ghost. Now and again they would pass through open chambers where the turnkeys squatted and lounged around barrel tables, or busied themselves at the moveable grills, cooking food which looked as disgusting as it smelt: fat wedges of pork roasted in skillets bubbling with dirty oil. Other open chambers were reserved for the interrogation of prisoners, heavy with chains. Blanchard pointed out the Lollard Richard Sparwell; the convicted heretic sat chained in a hand barrow being fed sips of water from a bucket. The prisoner would gulp then stretch out his hands for more. He jolted around as Cranston and Athelstan entered, peering through the gloom.

‘A friar!’ he shouted. ‘Father, help me, some consolation.’ Athelstan stared pityingly at the bruised, dirty face of the prisoner, his hair and his beard thick with greasy dirt and dried blood, eyes frenetic with the fear of death. ‘Please,’ the prisoner whispered hoarsely. ‘For the love of God, to burn is hideous, but to die uncomforted is even worse.’

‘You have been judged a heretic.’ Athelstan hated his own reply even as the words slipped from his lips. ‘What need do you have for the rites of Holy Mother Church?’

‘I am not asking for them.’ Sparwell jerked back in the barrow as Blanchard struck him full in the face.

‘Do that again …’ Cranston warned, lifting his sword. ‘Come, Brother.’

‘I shall return,’ Athelstan called. ‘I promise you.’ Blanchard led them deeper into the darkness, the foul vapours thickening, the squeak and scamper of rodents constant. Athelstan stopped and smiled as he heard a hymn, the one practised in his parish, being chanted by two deep carrying voices, ‘Christus factus obediens usque ad mortem, mortem autem crucis – Christ was obedient unto death, even death on the cross.’ Watkin and Pike!

‘They have been singing since their arrival,’ Blanchard grumbled.

‘And I want them singing on their release,’ Athelstan retorted. The keeper stopped at a great wedge of a door. He unlocked this and beckoned Cranston and Athelstan inside; the cell was a filthy box, the mush of straw on the floor ankle-deep. Cranston demanded candles be brought. Athelstan approached the two men, weighted in clattering gyves, sitting on a rotting sack mattress which served as a bed.

‘Father?’ One of the figures half-rose in a jangle of chains.

‘Pike, Watkin. It’s good to see you, though not here. I am glad you are in fine voice.’

‘Father, we expected you.’ Athelstan took the stool Blanchard fetched, indicating that the two prisoners remain seated on the bed. The keeper also brought in candles and a cresset torch which provided meagre light. The two prisoners were garbed only in their tunics and, as the flames strengthened, Athelstan saw the bruises on the two men’s faces and along their arms. Their legs and feet were caked with prison dirt.

‘Give Master Blanchard some coins.’ Athelstan spoke over his shoulder to Cranston. ‘Once we go, these prisoners must have rushlights, good food and strong ale: their possessions must be returned, bruises and cuts tended to, their persons kept safe. If not, I will go to Westminster and go down on my knees before the king. His Grace Richard of Bordeaux once swore that he would grant any request of mine. In the meantime,’ Athelstan continued evenly, ‘you and I will be alone with these men. Master Blanchard will step outside and be busy on what I ask or, as God lives, by vespers he will be in a worse state than these.’ Athelstan’s soft but menacing tone even alarmed Sir John. He bundled Blanchard out of the cell, spitting out promises that this little friar was as good as his word. The coroner came back, slamming the door shut and standing behind Athelstan.

‘Very well,’ the friar began, ‘Pike, Watkin, let us begin. First, your families are well but fearful. Secondly, Sir John and I will do what we can, though at the moment that will not be much.’ Athelstan paused as a fearful cry rang through the prison.

‘Sparwell,’ Watkin grunted. ‘The poor bastard is for the fire.’

‘And poor Watkin,’ Athelstan countered, ‘is being prepared for the noose. Now look, we do not want to know the secrets of the Upright Men, but I do require certain information and I do not want to perform a May Day dance to learn it. Do you understand?’ Both men gave their agreement. ‘The night you visited The Candle-Flame with the likes of Cecily, you were hunting Marsen, weren’t you?’

‘Yes. We wanted to spy out both him and his escort.’

‘The Upright Men were plotting to kill him?’

‘Our leaders,’ Pike replied, ‘Grindcobb and Tyler had been assured by Beowulf that he would execute Marsen.’

‘How were they informed?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘But Marsen escaped at Leveret Copse?’

‘Yes.’

‘And, because of that, the Upright Men were planning their own assault when the murders took place?’

‘That is true, Father.’ Pike wiped the sweaty dirt from his face. ‘The Upright Men were as puzzled as anyone else. There is a feeling that the massacre in the Barbican was not the work of Beowulf even though, well,’ Pike coughed, ‘as we know from our friends at the Guildhall, the usual message was left.’

‘This Beowulf,’ Cranston demanded, ‘he works independently of the Upright Men yet he supports their cause. He marks down for death Thibault’s minions, particularly his tax collectors. That is a fact. I just wonder how the Upright Men first became acquainted with him.’

‘Sir John,’ Watkin scoffed, ‘as scripture says, “Those who are not against us are with us.” We heard about Beowulf’s bloody handiwork in the shires around London. We rejoiced at the news. His reputation grew – it was only a matter of time. Our leaders are well known even though they are in hiding. Eventually Beowulf and the council exchanged good wishes.’

‘Surely,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘there must be speculation about his identity?’

‘Father,’ Pike retorted, ‘we will not betray the cause. We will say nothing to weaken the work of the Great Community but surely it is obvious. Beowulf is schooled. He must have experience in war as well as the means to move from one place to another. He is not like us, tied like a dog to its post.’

‘And the night you were captured, the attack on The Candle-Flame, you were searching for Marsen’s treasure?’

Watkin and Pike glanced at each other. Athelstan’s heart skipped a beat – he was always fascinated by how intelligent his little flock could be when they wanted, these two worthies in particular.

‘Watkin, Pike,’ Athelstan held his hand up as if swearing an oath, ‘I vow solemnly as your priest that I will regard what you say here, and so will Sir John, as if told under the seal of confession. Now, we know Master Thorne at The Candle-Flame is in Thibault’s pay.’

‘And in ours,’ Watkin smirked. ‘Oh, Father, don’t look so surprised. All the worthies of London, both high and low, are taking surety against the evil day.’

‘You hide weapons there, food, stores?’

Watkin snorted with laughter.

‘He makes a contribution towards the cause, doesn’t he?’ Cranston asked. ‘Like scores of others the length and breadth of this city?’

‘Which is why,’ Athelstan added, ‘no harm was done to Thorne or his people – I understand that. But Sir Robert Paston?’

‘We would have eventually,’ Watkin blurted out, but Athelstan caught a shift in Pike’s eyes.

‘So you have no business with Sir Robert?’

‘Why should we? He criticizes Gaunt so we leave him be.’

‘And his daughter?’

‘A mere child.’

‘And Master William Foulkes?’ Athelstan glimpsed Pike’s hand brushing that of Watkin’s, a sign to be wary. ‘Ah, well. Let’s go back to my previous questions. Who told you that Marsen’s treasure was there?’

‘Oh, Beowulf.’ Pike seemed relieved at the change in direction the questioning had taken. Sounds from the passageway drifted in. Cranston went outside to have words with Blanchard, who was hurriedly trying to comply with Athelstan’s earlier demands on behalf of the prisoners. Athelstan waited until he returned.

‘Well?’ he continued. ‘How did Beowulf inform you? In God’s name,’ Athelstan’s voice turned hard, ‘I am trying to save you from being strangled over Tyburn stream or the cattle market at Smithfield.’

‘Letters were left,’ Pike confessed. He glanced at Watkin. ‘What does it matter? Scraps of parchment,’ he continued, ‘pushed under my door and that of Watkin’s. They were written in a clerkly hand like yours, Father.’

‘Liar!’ Athelstan accused. ‘Neither you nor Watkin can truly read. But the Hangman of Rochester can.’

‘As does Mauger the bell clerk,’ Pike added a little too hastily, eager to spread the doubt about who had read the letters for them.

‘Giles of Sempringham,’ Athelstan declared, ‘also known as the Hangman of Rochester, is a trained scribe. Let us say he read both messages for you.’

‘Very simple,’ Pike screwed his eyes up, ‘the message was something like this: “Marsen’s treasure is still held deep, protected by the candle’s flame.” Pike opened his red-rimmed eyes and scratched at the suppurating ulcer on his arm. ‘We know what it meant, Father. That is all I can and will tell you.’

‘But why that particular evening?’ Cranston asked. ‘First, let me tell you something, gentlemen. Beowulf must have kept you under close watch. He was waiting for you to take action. He would see you leave your houses and deduce that you and your confederates were assembling. Once convinced, he sent a second message to Thibault at the Guildhall. Hence the delay in Gaunt’s troops arriving-’ Cranston broke off at the protests of denial from the two prisoners.

‘No, no, listen,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Beowulf did not betray you. He just used you. He wanted to lure Thibault and Lascelles out of the fastness of the Guildhall. He created the opportunity for both to emerge as clear targets for his crossbow. This time he was successful: Lascelles was killed.’

‘May the Devil welcome him into Hell,’ Pike retorted.

‘For that both of you might hang,’ Cranston rasped.

‘Enough of that!’ Athelstan did not want Sir John to be so harsh. He needed such information as he slowly edged his way through this maze of murder. He was determined to discover something so that he could barter with the Crown for the lives of these two parishioners.

‘I am your priest.’ Athelstan pulled the stool closer. ‘I walk those needle-thin runnels and no one accosts me. True?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Footpads, felons and foists swarm there as plentiful as the rats. They keep a sharp eye on any likely prey as Ranulf’s ferrets do vermin. And, of course, there is the Upright Men, who have their legion of watchmen, isn’t that what you call them?’ Pike grunted his agreement. ‘And yet you say this Beowulf was an educated, prosperous man, certainly a stranger to St Erconwald’s? So how could he slip along Hogpen Alley to you, Pike, or Muffin Lane to you, Watkin, without being noticed, because that is what he did.’

‘The messages were delivered after dark,’ Watkin grumbled. ‘We took them down to The Piebald.’

‘Oh, I am sure you did,’ Athelstan snapped.

‘But the problem still remains.’ Despite the deep shadows which cloaked the prisoners as well as their own guarded concern, Athelstan sensed both men were as baffled as he was.

‘How were you captured?’ Cranston asked.

‘We stopped at an alehouse,’ Pike replied, ‘and became separated from the rest. Father, we are sorry. Sorry for you, sorry for our families …’

‘The parish will do what it can. I, we, will do what we can.’

‘I have moved a writ in the courts,’ Cranston leaned down to study both prisoners, ‘you will not be arraigned before the justices immediately. I just hope,’ he added menacingly, ‘your comrades amongst the Upright Men do not attempt a rescue. Believe me, this time you might not escape unscathed.’

Athelstan gave a few final words of comfort, blessed both prisoners and stepped outside. Cranston emphasized with the turnkeys that the prisoners were to be well treated. They left the cell, Pike and Watkin’s good wishes ringing clear, followed by more song, which faded as Cranston and Athelstan walked back up that long, gloomy tunnel. They reached the open chamber where Sparwell was being prepared for his gruesome death. The sheriff’s men, garbed in the city livery of blue and murrey, had stripped the prisoner and were now pulling a piece of coarse sacking over him to use as a tunic. On the ground lay a long hurdle with leather straps on each of the four jutting poles. Sparwell, crying and protesting, was forced to lie down face up. When the hurdle was dragged across the frozen, rutted streets his back would only be protected by the leather sheet covering the main body of the hurdle. The prisoner struggled and kicked until a reign of blows forced him to comply. He was stretched out, wrists and ankles being tightly clasped in the leather straps. Sparwell begged for a drink and one of the sheriff’s men unloosened the points of his hose, preparing to urinate on the condemned man’s face. Athelstan, horrified, sprang forward. He knocked the man away. The would-be tormentor stumbled and fell and, ugly face snarling, he drew both sword and dagger and lurched forward, only to be sent spinning by Cranston’s punch to the face. Uproar ensued. Athelstan staggered to kneel over the prisoner. Swords and daggers were drawn in a clatter of steel. Cranston, cloak thrown back, unsheathed both his weapons; he stood at a half-crouch, turning to the left and right. The sheriff’s men edged closer.

‘Think, my lovelies!’ the coroner bellowed. ‘I am Jack Cranston, Lord High Coroner. You have assaulted a priest, a cleric and now me. This man,’ Cranston pointed his sword at Sparwell, ‘has been sentenced to die according to due process. He is not to be used as a pisspot. So be good lads and reflect on what I have said. Lower your swords and, when we reach The Candle-Flame, it will be a blackjack of ale for each and every one of you, courtesy of Jack Cranston.’ The coroner’s words sounded like a bell around that yawning chamber where the flames leapt, shadows danced and Sparwell’s groans mixed with the laboured breathing of the sheriff’s comitatus. Athelstan struggled to his feet.

‘In God’s name,’ he shouted, ‘we are men, not animals!’ One of the sheriff’s men sheathed his weapon and the rest followed. Cranston did the same before moving amongst the escort, clapping shoulders in infectious bonhomie. Harmony was restored, although the macabre ritual of execution continued. Athelstan, crouching by the hurdle, mopped Sparwell’s face with a rag and fed him sips of water. The executioners arrived. The principal Carnifex and four apprentices, their faces covered with grotesque demon masks painted red and black with twisting yellow horns. All of them were garbed in black sleeveless jerkins and thick leather hoses, their boots soled in layers as protection against the flames and hot ash. They brought with them all the dreadful necessaries for Sparwell’s burning: a barrel with its top and bottom removed, to be looped over the great pole and Sparwell placed in it. Bundles of kindling, faggots and brushwood were being fastened to long sledges which would be pulled by the Carnifex and his assistants. Athelstan tried to distract the prisoner by offering to shrive him and administer the last rites.

‘Father,’ Sparwell gasped, ‘I am condemned because I refused in the bishop’s court to accept the power of the Pope, his priests and their sacraments. I believe solely in the scripture – that is God’s word. Everything else is of human fashioning.’ He licked cracked lips. ‘What I ask of you, Father, is that you accompany me, pray with me and for me, nothing more. No priest, no cleric will do it, that’s why I am begging you.’

‘I will go with you, but wait.’ Athelstan rose, walked over to Cranston and informed him of his decision. The coroner, who had been in deep conversation with the Carnifex, gripped Athelstan’s shoulder and led him away.

‘My apologies for any harsh treatment of those two madcaps Pike and Watkin, but what you propose is even more foolish. Heresy is like a plague. The Church believes such infection spreads swiftly. Suspicion will fall on you, a preacher, a priest who works amongst the poor. They will drag you in for questioning and, in their eyes, that’s guilt enough. They will trap you-’

‘Sir John, I assure you, they may well question me but they will not trap me. No priest will help Sparwell because he fears he will lose all hope of preferment and be doomed to some paltry benefice. Now tell me, Sir John,’ Athelstan grinned, ‘where could they send me? They regard St Erconwald’s as punishment enough.’

‘Very well, Brother, but I will stay with you. The Carnifex has already despatched more of his assistants to the Palisade, Southwark’s old execution ground. I wager Thorne will make a good profit from the crowds. We will make our way through the streets and take the riverside path on to the Palisade. Brother, this will be heinous. The Carnifex has informed me how the bishop’s court has ruled mors sine misericordia – death without mercy.’

‘Death without mercy. For God’s sake, Sir John, that is obvious enough.’ Cranston drew Athelstan closer.

‘Oh no, Brother, worse than that. Sparwell will have green wood stacked close around him so the flames will be slow burning. The Carnifex has been instructed not to offer the mercy of a swift strangulation or, even better, a pouch of gunpowder around his neck. Sparwell will die slowly. Remember that.’ Athelstan gazed pitifully at Sparwell, now lying moaning on the hurdle. He squeezed Cranston’s hand and walked back to kneel by the prisoner.

‘I shall stay with you,’ he promised. ‘But Master Sparwell, what brought you to this? I know the Papal Inquisitor Brother Marcel has come to hunt the likes of you.’

‘Oh, we know he has arrived in England.’ Sparwell turned his face towards Athelstan, leaning forward as much as he could. His lips were dry and his tongue swollen, so Athelstan fetched more water, which he fed to him in small sips. The chamber was now filling with other guards and a small party from the Bishop of London’s court. One of these, a high-browed, pale-faced cleric, approached Athelstan, his mouth all twitching: the friar rose to meet him.

‘Brother!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘We understand that you will accompany the prisoner, a condemned heretic?’

‘A soul,’ Athelstan retorted fiercely. ‘A human being in his last extremities, a very frightened man, bruised and injured. He is alone. He has no family?’

‘None that we know of. A tailor who thought he could dabble in theology, a follower of the damnable Wycliffe. Brother, the bishop will not be pleased.’

‘Jesus might be.’ Athelstan grinned at the shock in the cleric’s face. ‘Who knows, I might even convert Sparwell. The bishop would not object to that would he, Master …?’

‘Master Tuddenham.’

‘Well, Master Tuddenham, you deal with your business and leave me to deal with God’s.’

The cleric spun on his heel and, bony body all twitching, scurried across to gossip in a huddle with the rest of his party.

Athelstan shrugged and took a fresh stoup of water to Sparwell. Once he drank, Athelstan leaned down.

‘The Inquisitor, is this his handiwork?’

‘Brother, as I said, we knew about his arrival in England. We were terrified but so far he has posed no threat to our conventicles, our meetings.’ He spluttered through bloodied lips. ‘I trust you, Brother. True, cacullus non facit monachum – the cowl doesn’t make the monk – but in your case it does. You have a good heart, so I will tell you what brought me here. Our conventicles meet beyond the city walls, desolate places such as Moorfields or parts of Southwark where it is easy to escape the bishop’s spies. Our beliefs are well known. Pope and priest mean nothing to us. We will have nothing to do with superstitious geegaws, putrid relics, gaily painted statues or other religious baubles.’

‘But how were you captured?’ Athelstan insisted, his curiosity now roused.

‘I am tailor, a good one. Enemies, rivals must have denounced me. In truth it wouldn’t be hard. I stopped attending Sunday Mass, I did not observe the holy days. I did not pay my tithes.’

‘Do you,’ Athelstan sighed, ‘did you, want to die my friend? You certainly raised the banner which would attract the attention of those who mattered. Tell me, is Sir Robert Paston one of yours?’

‘No, no.’ The answer came so swiftly Athelstan wondered if Sparwell was defending the manor lord. Any further conversation was hampered by shouts and cries. The great prison door had been opened. A cold breeze swept the chamber with all the smells of Southwark. The execution was about to begin. Athelstan had to stand aside as the sledges and hurdle were secured and dragged by the Carnifex and his coven out of the chamber and down the passageway to the yard outside. Athelstan and Cranston followed close behind. The friar opened his chancery satchel and looped the purple-hued stole around his neck. Outside all the midnight folk of Southwark had assembled, a sea of hard-pinched faces: whores in their flame-coloured garb surrounded by their hooded pimps; the capuchoned counterfeits and cranks; the ill-witted and the sharp-eyed; and all the predators from the slums. Athelstan recalled what Cranston often said, that the only person who could safely walk unarmed through the streets of Southwark were friars such as himself. This horde of rifflers shouted and cursed. Mud and other filth rained down on Sparwell as his hurdle was harnessed to a massive dray horse caparisoned in a black-and-white sheet, its mane all hogged and festooned with red ribbons, its thick tail decorated with scraps of scarlet cloth. The hurdle was fastened tight, the Bishop of London’s people assembled at the front and the macabre procession moved off.

Athelstan walked slowly behind the hurdle as Sparwell began his journey along what was known as the ‘path of thorns’, dragged across the cobbles, ruts and sharp-edged potholes of Southwark. Athelstan deliberately kept as close as he could so the filth-pelters might think twice before hurling refuse which might hit a priest they recognized. Cranston’s presence was also a help; curses and threats were hurled at him but his large, swaggering figure and gleaming drawn sword deterred any real mischief. Athelstan tried not to look at Sparwell, jerking and twisting in searing pain, as the hurdle bounced across the ground. The friar recited the Mercy Psalm but found he could not get past the opening line: ‘Have mercy on us O God in thy kindness; in thy infinite compassion blot out our offence.’ What kindness, what compassion? Athelstan thought bitterly, walking through this charnel house of broken souls, twisted spirits and bruised bodies. Athelstan could only recall a poem he’d learnt as a young soldier in France: ‘The moon is pretty on the wave, the blossoms of the sky bright as lights.’ Athelstan crossed himself. He glanced at the crowd, catching glimpses of those thronging around but held back by the burly sheriff’s men. Two workers from the tanneries at the Tower were offering homemade pomanders as protection against the smell. A beggar-monk stood holding a skull, all white and bony, as if it was some precious vessel. A woman clasped a frightened child close to her face. A painted doxy, drunk and raucous, screamed abuse as the thick paste covering her poxed face began to run in the persistent drizzle which had begun to fall. A fire-eater, dressed in the garish red and green costume of a salamander, held a candle as he intoned a prayer, whilst a pickpocket with clipped ears and a mangled nose tried to open the fire-eater’s purse. The reeking smells of the streets billowed sometimes, hidden by the gusts of incense from the thurible carried by the Bishop of London’s party. Eventually they turned, leaving the crumbling tenements behind them, going down an incline on to the path which ran along the riverbank. The rain stopped falling. Athelstan noticed Cranston had disappeared. The friar curbed his own anxiety and returned to reciting snatches of psalms, trying to keep calm amidst the raucous noise, foul smells and the sheer horror of what was happening.