Candle Flame

PART FOUR

‘Mattachin’: a mimed battle dance.

The execution cortege moved more swiftly as they approached the Palisade. Athelstan realized that this was the first time he had entered The Candle-Flame from this direction. It was a lonely place, a long line of mudbanks, desolate and windswept, littered with rubbish washed up by the tide: stacks of peeling driftwood, shattered barrels and the crumbling skeletons of former river craft. Gulls swept backwards and forwards, swooping up and down, their constant strident calls buffeted by the wind. Athelstan stared along the river bank. He noticed the clumps of reeds and wild, straggling bushes which sprouted over mud-caked pools.

‘This is where you died, Ronseval,’ Athelstan whispered to himself. ‘You were lured here, but how and by whom?’ Athelstan stared down at Sparwell, who, thankfully, had lapsed into unconsciousness. Athelstan returned to his prayers as the grim cortege, sledges and hurdle rattling and bouncing, made their way up a slight rise on to the Palisade. The crowd thronging here were as dense and noisy as at any summer fair at Smithfield, a restless and unruly mob eager to watch this macabre spectacle unfold. The execution place was on a piece of raised ground opposite the Barbican. Athelstan glanced at that fire-scarred donjon. He recalled battling for his own life against the inferno which had almost engulfed him. The friar grimly promised himself to revisit that dark tower. He would pluck its macabre secrets. For the moment, however, Athelstan decided to concentrate on the present. Sparwell was about to be executed. The clamour of the crowd, the press of sweaty bodies and the smell of such a throng had brought the usually desolate Palisade to gruesome life. All the villains and mountebanks had swarmed here together with the different guilds and fraternities dedicated to offering some consolation to those executed by the Crown. Not that they could, or really wanted to, achieve anything practical. Cranston was correct – heresy was an infection. A mere kindness towards someone like Sparwell might provoke the interest of the Church. Undoubtedly the Bishop of London’s spies would be slinking through the crowd, eyes and ears sharp for any sympathizer.

The Carnifex and his assistants became busy leaping about like imps from Hell. Sparwell, his body one open wound, was unstrapped from the hurdle and dragged to the soaring execution stake driven into a steep hummock of piled earth. Athelstan followed and started with surprise as Cranston strode out of the crowd, his chain of office clear to see, the miraculous wineskin in one hand and a pewter cup in the other. He winked at Athelstan as he planted himself firmly in front of the executioners.

‘A drink?’ Cranston filled the deep bowled cup. One of the bishop’s party rushed forward to object but Cranston bellowed he didn’t give a piece of dried snot what he thought. The coroner was supported by the sheriff’s men, who hadn’t forgotten Cranston’s promise of a free blackjack of ale. Sir John filled the cup to the brim and virtually forced it down Sparwell’s throat. The prisoner drank greedily, coughing and spluttering. Cranston stepped back and the spectacle continued. The executioners had already slipped the barrel over the pole. They now seized Sparwell, bound hand and foot, and lowered him into the barrel. A herald of the bishop’s court read out the billa mortis – the bill of death. How Sparwell ‘was a sinner, obdurate and recalcitrant, steeped in his hellish ways and so deserving of death by the secular arm’. Athelstan had followed Sparwell to the execution stake, but had to step back as the Carnifex and his assistants heaped the brushwood and stacked the bundles of faggots. Athelstan studied these. Cranston was correct. A great deal of the wood was green to the point of suppleness.

‘Homo lupus homini – man is truly a wolf to man,’ Athelstan whispered to himself. He stared over the crowd, now pressing in against the cordon of soldiery: a mass of faces, a babble of voices. Some cursed and yelled; others chanted songs of mourning or hymns for the departed. Athelstan glimpsed members of his parish clustered around Mauger the bell clerk. What caught his attention, however, was Paston’s daughter Martha standing close to the ever-faithful Foulkes. Both young people were markedly different from the crowd on either side. They stood so quietly, staring at the grisly ritual as if memorizing every detail.

‘Let it begin!’ the herald shouted. Athelstan blinked and stared around. The hurdle, sledges and great dray horse were being pulled away. The execution pyre was ready. Oil-drenched branches were fired from a bowl of glowing coals. The air grew thick with the stench of grey-black smoke. The flames on the fire-fed torches leapt up, almost exuding the horror they were about to inflict on this freezing February afternoon under a lowering winter sky. Athelstan glanced at the stake. Sparwell had fallen very silent. In fact, he just lolled against the barrel as if deeply asleep.

‘Fire the wood!’ the herald shouted. The executioners raced forward, torches held out, thrusting them into the kindling. Smoke and flame erupted, though the fire seemed to find the faggots stacked closer to the condemned man more difficult to burn. The smoke plumed up and billowed out, almost hiding that pathetic, lolling figure. The crowd strained to watch. The smoke grew thicker, forcing the sheriff’s men and the executioners further back, leaving the execution ground to that great, fearsome cloud lit by darting flames, which seemed to just thrust itself up from the earth. The crowd had now fallen silent as if straining to listen to the cries and shrieks of the condemned man. There was nothing.

‘He’s gone,’ Cranston whispered, coming up beside Athelstan. ‘When I left you, Brother, I visited an apothecary and bought the strongest juice of the poppy.’

‘The wine?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh yes, Brother. It was in the wine or rather the cup. Sparwell was already exhausted. Such a potion would have put him into a sleep very close to death.’

‘Sleep is the brother of death,’ Athelstan retorted. He forced a smile. ‘Or so a Greek poet wrote. Sir John, I cannot stay here.’ Athelstan raised his hand and blessed the air in the direction of the execution pyre. The smell of smoke was now tinged with something else: a foul odour like fat being left to burn. The flames had reached Sparwell! Athelstan took off his stole and walked away. One of the bishop’s men tried to catch him by the sleeve but Athelstan ignored it and, pushing through the crowd, walked quickly towards The Candle-Flame.

‘Brother Athelstan?’ He turned. Master Tuddenham, face as white as a ghost, strode towards him. The man was deeply agitated, all a tremble.

‘What is it?’ Athelstan walked back to meet him. Tuddenham stopped, crossed himself and went down on one knee.

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

‘I bless you indeed,’ Athelstan declared, ‘even though I am very surprised. Get to your feet, man. What is the matter?’

Tuddenham glanced over his shoulder at that great pillar of smoke rising against the sky. The reek was now truly offensive, and the crowd, disgusted at the stench, was already breaking up. ‘That was my first burning of a heretic, Brother, and, by God’s good favour, it will be my last. You see,’ Tuddenham tweaked the sleeve of the friar’s robe, indicating that they walk on, ‘I am a canon lawyer, a notary. For me, heresy is a blot on the soul of the Church.’ He blessed himself again. ‘Today I found out different. I was shocked by what you did but,’ he stopped to stare straight at Athelstan, ‘I admired it. Sparwell was pathetic. A poor tailor who had certain ideas and could not give them up. Stupid but …’

‘If stupidity was a burning offence?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘We’d all be living torches, yes, my friend?’ Athelstan stared at this confused cleric. A good man, the friar reflected, who had just realized that heresy was not just a matter of belief but the arbiter of a very gruesome death.

‘I never realized what it would entail.’ Tuddenham shrugged. ‘The Bocardo, the sheriff’s men, Blanchard, who really should decorate a gibbet, the crowd baying for poor Sparwell’s blood …’ Tuddenham’s voice faltered, tears in his eyes. ‘Sir John?’ he asked.

‘The Lord High Coroner gave Sparwell wine laced with a strong potion which dulled the prisoner, a true act of compassion. I assure you, Master Tuddenham, for doing less a mercy many a soul will surely enter Heaven. But tell me,’ Athelstan indicated they walk on. ‘Sparwell was denounced?’

‘No.’ Tuddenham’s voice was harsh. ‘That is the other reason I have approached you, Brother. Sparwell was not denounced, he was betrayed. There is a traitor in his conventicle, as the Lollards call it.’

‘Who?’

‘We don’t know but, Brother Athelstan, it makes me fearful. Sparwell’s execution might be the first of many such horrors.’

‘Did Sparwell know of this traitor?’

‘Of course not. It was kept hidden lest, somehow, Sparwell communicated to other members of his conventicle. He was simply informed that he had been denounced.’ Tuddenham pulled a face. ‘Of course, he then convicted himself out of his own mouth. In the end we had no need for witnesses or proof.’

‘And the traitor?’

‘We know very little. He recently appeared in the shriving chair at St Mary-le-Bow. He was protected by the mercy screen. Let me hasten to add he made no confession, just gave Sparwell’s name, his trade and where he lived, then added that there would be more.’

‘Any indication of his identity?’ Athelstan glanced over Tuddenham’s shoulder; the smoke was thinning, the crowd clearing. He gestured for Tuddenham to follow him away from the throng now intent on slaking their thirst in the Dark Parlour. They walked over to a small enclosure shrouded by bushes.

‘We know nothing,’ Tuddenham replied. ‘The priest reported the spy had a coarse voice, how he’d caught the odour of the farmyard. Whoever he was, his information proved correct.’

‘And the Papal Inquisitor, Brother Marcel?’

‘What of him?’

‘He has talked to you?’

‘He knows of us. Of course, he presented his credentials to the bishop’s curia but apart from that little else. You know how it is, Brother: no bishop likes interference in his own diocese, whilst there are deep differences between religious and secular clergy.’ Athelstan nodded in agreement: papal and diocesan, foreign and domestic, religious and secular, the different rivalries between clerics were infamous.

‘You agree?’ Tuddenham asked.

‘I recall that quotation from the Book of Proverbs: “Brothers united are as a fortress.” It’s certainly doesn’t apply to us priests, does it? So you have had little to do with our visitor from the Holy Father?’

‘No. He has left us truly alone.’ Tuddenham stretched out a hand. ‘Athelstan, the day is going and so must I. Farewell.’

Athelstan clasped his hand. ‘What will you do?’

‘Seek a fresh benefice. Who knows?’ Tuddenham smiled. ‘I might even go to Blackfriars and become a Dominican.’

Athelstan laughed and watched Tuddenham stride away.

The friar remained where he was. He glimpsed Cranston leading the sheriff’s men into the tavern, bellowing at the top of his voice about the virtues of Thorne’s ale. Athelstan silently sketched a blessing in the coroner’s direction. Cranston would be deeply disturbed by Sparwell’s horrid death. The coroner had a good heart and he would hide his true feelings behind his usual exuberant bonhomie. Athelstan continued to wait. Now calm and composed he recited the ‘De Profundis’ and other prayers for the dead. Athelstan’s mind drifted back to the execution and the glimpses which had caught his eye and quickened his curiosity. He left the shelter and made his way back over the Palisade. Twilight time, the hour of the bat. The light drizzle had begun again. The execution ground was empty. The crowd had dispersed. All that remained of the burning was a mound of smouldering grey-white ash blown about by the breeze and an occasional spark breaking free to rise and vanish in the air. Athelstan murmured a prayer and stared around; there was no one. Strange, he thought, that despite the clamour and the busyness of so many to see a man burn, once he had people became highly fearful of the very place they had fought so hard to occupy only a short while beforehand. Were they frightened of his vengeful ghost or the powerful spirits such a violent death summoned into the affairs of men?

Athelstan, whispering the words of a psalm, walked towards the Barbican. He’d noticed earlier how the door hung off its latch. The fire had certainly ravaged that thick wedge of oak, blackening the wood, searing it deep with ash-filled gouges. The door hung drunkenly on its remaining heavy hinges. Athelstan found it difficult to push back but eventually he did and stepped into the lower chamber. The inside of the Barbican had been truly devastated by the fire. Nothing more than a stone cell, all the woodwork on both stories had simply disintegrated, with the occasional piece left hanging. ‘I was almost murdered here,’ Athelstan whispered to himself. ‘And God knows what evidence that inferno destroyed.’ Thorne had already begun to clear away the rubbish. Athelstan peered around; the light was murky but he noticed the deep, black stain on the far wall where refuse was still piled. The place, Athelstan reasoned, where the fire had probably started. He carefully made his way across and, taking a stick, began to sift amongst the rubbish. Athelstan paused at the clear stench of oil. He crouched, poked again and caught the same odour. He dropped the stick in surprise, rubbing his hands together to clear the dust. ‘I wonder,’ he declared. ‘I truly do but let us wait and see.’ A sound from outside alerted him. He rose and quietly turned to stand in the shadow of the main doorway. He looked out and, despite the deepening twilight, glimpsed two people, a man and a woman, both cloaked against the cold, digging and scraping around the execution stake. They worked feverishly and, once they were finished, hurried off into the darkness. Athelstan watched them go and followed them, pausing now and again so that he entered the tavern by himself.

Cranston was in the Dark Parlour roistering with the sheriff’s men, regaling them with stories about his military service in France. Athelstan raised a hand in greeting and moved around the tavern, noting where everything was. Servants bustled by, now used to his presence and constant curiosity. Athelstan entered the spacious, cobbled tavern yard with its different buildings: smithy, stables, storerooms and wash house. As he passed the latter, a door was flung open and a woman bustled out with a tub of dirty water, which she tipped on to the cobbles.

‘Good evening, Father,’ she called out. ‘So many guests, so much to wash.’ She made to go back. ‘Oh, by the way, Father, are all you monks the same?’

‘I beg your pardon, mistress, but I am a friar.’

‘Just like the other one,’ the woman replied.

‘Brother Marcel?’

‘Yes, that’s him. Ever so clean, he is. Fresh robes every day and of the purest wool.’ She gestured at Athelstan’s dirt-stained robe. ‘Not like yours. But you see, pure wool is difficult to wash. Not that I am complaining …’ And the woman promptly disappeared back into the wash house. Athelstan was about to walk on when he remembered his conversation with the maid at The Golden Oliphant. He hastened back into the Dark Parlour, nodding at Roger and Marcel, who were closeted together in a window seat. At another table, Sir Robert Paston, Martha and Foulkes were deep in conversation. The friar tried to catch Cranston’s eye but failed. Sir John was now lecturing the sheriff’s men on the Black Prince’s campaign in Spain. Athelstan felt a touch on his arm. Eleanor, Thorne’s wife, beckoned at him pleadingly. Athelstan followed her out of the taproom into the small, well-furnished buttery, where her husband sat at the top of the table with Mooncalf beside him. Athelstan took a stool.

‘Master Thorne, mistress, what can I do? Why do you-?’

‘This.’ Thorne undid his wallet and placed six miniature caltrops on the table, very small but cruelly spiked barbs no bigger than polished pebbles. Athelstan picked one up and scrutinized it carefully. Once he had, he sent Mooncalf into the taproom to ask Sir John to join them urgently. He waited until the coroner swaggered in, face all red, lips smacking, in one hand a piece of capon pie, in the other a blackjack of ale. Cranston sat at the far end of the table toasting them all until he glimpsed the caltrops.

‘Satan’s tits,’ he breathed, putting down both food and drink. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve clapped eyes on such vicious instruments. Where did you find them?’

‘Let me explain.’ Eleanor Thorne, despite all her pretty ways, was now cold and determined. ‘On the night of the murders, my husband left our bed.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I …’

‘Simon.’ Eleanor indicated that she would answer for him. ‘Well, we were both concerned about the goings and comings in our tavern. Earlier in the evening Mooncalf had glimpsed someone slip out of the stables.’

‘A mere shadow,’ the ostler added. Athelstan studied Mooncalf’s pocked and shaven face, his rough voice and leather garb all splattered with mud. The friar had promised himself to have close words with Mooncalf, though not now – that would have to wait.

‘A mere shadow?’ Athelstan repeated.

‘Mooncalf informed me.’ Thorne wiped his hands on a napkin and picked at the minced chicken on the platter before him. ‘I went down to the stableyard but I could not find anything wrong, yet you know how it is, Sir John. Like it was in the fields of Normandy when you can see or hear no enemy but you know they are close by. I was uneasy. I checked the horses but could discover nothing. After I retired, what with Marsen and his coven carousing and others moving about the tavern, I still remained agitated about the stables. I couldn’t rest.’ He waved a hand. ‘I went down again. I was away some time but I truly searched, yet all remained quiet. The horses were having their evening feed, saddles and harnesses were hung drying after the day’s rain. I found this close by.’ Thorne tossed across a pouch. Athelstan examined it, battered and empty, the ragged neck pulled tight by a filthy cord. ‘I wondered why it was lying there and who had dropped it. I continued my search but I eventually gave up. What with the hideous murders, the deaths here, I didn’t give it a second thought until this morning. I was preparing to send back Marsen and Mauclerc’s possessions to Master Thibault. I decided to clean the harnesses of their horses. I brought the saddles down from their rests and discovered these caltrops embedded deep in the woollen underbelly of both Marsen and Mauclerc’s saddles.’

‘I have seen the likes before,’ Athelstan spoke up.

‘An evil trick,’ Cranston declared. ‘The saddle is thrown over the horse’s back, the girths and stirrups are fastened. These sharp pebbles might graze the horse and cause some petty discomfort …’

‘But when the rider mounts,’ Athelstan picked up where Sir John had left off, ‘his full weight in the saddle drives the spikes down into the horse, which will rear in agony, certainly throwing its rider.’ Athelstan rolled a spiked ball from one hand to the other. It was sharp to the touch. He recalled the mysterious attack on Lascelles the morning after the murders. ‘I wonder,’ he murmured, ‘if these belong to our good friend, Beowulf, a plot which never came to fruition? Can you imagine …’ He broke off. ‘Never mind, it certainly proves one thing.’

‘Which is?’ Thorne asked anxiously.

‘Nothing for the moment, Mine Host, but I have a question for you. On the afternoon before the murders took place, a Hainault sailor Ruat came into The Candle-Flame. He claimed to have visited a shrine much loved by his fellow countrymen, the Virgin of the Narrow Seas at St Mary Overy. Do you remember him?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Thorne replied. ‘I remember him well, replete with good humour and even better silver. He was about to join his ship at Queenhithe. He drank and drank again, then left.’

‘Did anyone accost him here?’

‘No, the company was jovial.’

‘And what was he talking about?’

Thorne pulled a face. ‘Like all sailors, he was looking forward to going home. He seemed very pleased with himself, like a gambler who has won at hazard or a merchant who has made a good profit from his trade.’

‘Or a man,’ Athelstan asked, ‘who has just been paid for carrying out a task?’

‘Certainly, Brother; as I said, he had a heavy purse. I suspect he had just acquired it because he talked about his family and what he would like to buy them, but that would have to wait until he reached home because his ship was leaving on the evening tide.’

‘Can you remember anyone leaving with him at the same time?’

‘No.’

‘Did he meet anyone here, anyone in particular?’

‘Brother, I assure you he did not. He came in here, ate and drank, grew very jovial then left.’

‘As must we.’ Athelstan caught at Sir John’s sleeve. ‘Darkness is falling and our day’s work is not yet done …’

‘What were you going to say in there?’ Cranston asked once they were free of the tavern, striding through the wet evening.

‘Very simple, Sir John. Thorne was correct,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Someone stole into those stables that evening. They placed those spikes into the woollen flock beneath the saddles – mere pebbles, very difficult to detect. I suspect it was Beowulf. Can you imagine what would have happened the following morning? Marsen and Mauclerc swinging themselves into the saddle, their horses rearing violently, throwing their riders, who could be injured, perhaps even killed, and, just to make sure, somewhere close by is Beowulf with his crossbow all primed. Our two tax collectors would be an easy target. Two of Thibault’s creatures humiliated then killed. Which means,’ Athelstan paused and stared up at the night sky, ‘if Beowulf was already planning his murders, those which took place at the Barbican were, despite that note, not his work. Beowulf was waiting for the morning. Of course Mauclerc and Marsen were killed, but Beowulf wouldn’t let an opportunity slip. Lascelles appeared and Beowulf struck.’

‘I agree, little friar. But who is this mysterious assassin?’

‘I don’t know. Our killer may have already been murdered or indeed one of those slain might have been an accomplice who had to be disposed of. But, I am making progress, Sir John. God help me, but I am. Now, let’s visit the nearby quayside where Sir Robert Paston’s cog, The Five Wounds, lies berthed in splendid isolation.’

The Southwark quayside was deserted when they reached it. The long wharf shone in the light of bonfires torched to burn the day’s rubbish as well as provide warmth for the beggars and ragamuffins who haunted that place. These stood, dark shapes in their tattered clothes, warming themselves or trying to roast scraps of meat collected earlier in the day. Athelstan’s stomach lurched at the smell, which brought back memories of poor Sparwell’s burning. The Five Wounds was also illuminated by these fires as well as by the torches fixed either side of the gangplank, guarded by three fully armed men. The ship itself was handsome; it’s raised prow and stern brilliantly painted, the two masts, fore and main, gilded brightly amidst all the cordage and reefed-white canvas sails. There was a cabin under the stern and the deep-bellied hold meant the cog was both a fighting ship and a merchantman. Cranston strode straight towards the gangplank and, when one of the guards tried to block his path, the coroner drew his sword whilst pulling down the rim of his heavy cloak to display his chain of office.

‘Jack Cranston, Lord High Coroner!’ he bawled. ‘And you must be Coghill, master of this craft?’

‘Yes, yes I am,’ the man spluttered, pulling back his hood to reveal a bearded, weathered face. ‘And I am responsible for the watch on this ship.’ He threw his own cloak back to display the war belt strapped around his waist.

‘Now I wouldn’t do that, my friend.’ Cranston’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘Not against a royal official, surely, who is visiting your craft on royal business? Now get out of my way!’ Cranston shoved the man aside and strode up the gangplank, Athelstan following behind. Once on deck, dark shapes emerged from the gloom. Athelstan caught the glimpse of sword and dagger.

‘Peace! Peace’ Peace!’ Cranston bawled, raising his own sword. ‘Brother?’ he whispered hotly. ‘What are we doing here?’

‘Inspecting its cargo.’

Cranston relayed this to the master and crew now coming up from the hold or their resting places in the shadowy gulleys beneath the taffrail. Coghill, a hard-faced, sober-sided man, realized he had no choice, though Athelstan glimpsed the young boy despatched down the gangplank, probably a messenger hurrying to inform Sir Robert Paston about what was happening. Cranston sheathed his sword and Coghill led him reluctantly down into the hold, which reeked of tar, fish and the sharp tang of saltpetre, used to fumigate it whilst it was in port. Coghill, carrying a powerful lantern, explained how The Five Wounds’ hold, crammed with barrels, had recently returned from Bordeaux with wine and other goods. Athelstan hid his disappointment as he forced his way through the narrow gaps between the cargo. Cranston followed, checking seals on barrels, tapping the wood and, on one occasion, tipping a cask so he could hear the wine within swirl back and forth. Athelstan searched for any apparent concealment or deception. There appeared to be nothing wrong, yet why was such a close guard kept? He could understand the master wanting to protect his cargo but the crew also seemed eager to challenge and impede him. Athelstan glimpsed the padlock on the inbuilt cupboard built beneath what must be the master’s cabin on the deck above.

‘What’s in there?’ he asked.

‘Our weapons store,’ Coghill grated. ‘We are a fighting ship as well. Corsairs, pirates and French warships prowl the Narrow Seas. We carry what is necessary to protect ourselves.’

‘Open it,’ Athelstan urged. Coghill seemed reluctant, but then he shrugged and squeezed between the casks, boxes and barrels and undid the padlock. Athelstan followed and asked for the lantern. This was handed over and the friar entered the musty darkness. He raised the lantern. The dancing light revealed the spears, swords and rounded shields stacked there. He studied the red-painted oxhide covering over a shield close to the door and smiled. He had at least solved one problem.

At the Bocardo prison, keeper Blanchard was intent on enjoying himself: two buxom young whores had been caught soliciting beyond Taplash alley, the prescribed limit. Both prostitutes had been seized by the bailiffs who were paid by Blanchard for making such arrests and bringing these street-walkers here for his own delectation and delight. Blanchard now sat on his cushioned stool in the waiting cell just within the main doorway opposite his chancery office. He still seethed with fury at being humiliated by Cranston and that little ferret of a friar. This was his kingdom. This was where Blanchard ruled and now he was being made to dance to the tune of a dung collector and ditcher. Blanchard’s rage bubbled like filthy water in a pot. He would not forget such humiliation! Many of his turnkeys were still absent at the heretic’s burning. Blanchard knew they would be laughing at him behind their hands – he would show them! Blanchard never prayed. He had given that up during his years as a wandering mercenary in France. But now he was tempted to. Blanchard knew all about Lascelles’ death during the affray at The Candle-Flame. There was always the chance that Thibault, in his frustration and fury, would ignore the court’s writs and arraignments and have those two felons dragged off and hanged out of hand. Blanchard sipped the tankard and watched as one whore began to undress the other. If Thibault didn’t act, perhaps he could? Many prisoners died in the Bocardo of one cause or another. Blanchard grinned to himself. Prisoners fell down stairs. A few committed suicide; some were even killed whilst trying to escape. It was just a matter of choice. Those two peasants might luxuriate in the so-called protection of Cranston and their parish priest but they might be in for a very nasty surprise. In the meantime, these two delicious young wenches could strip each other and he would sport with both of them on the nearby bed. Blanchard cradled his blackjack as he watched one whore undo the buttons and clasps of the other’s gown. The young prostitute prettily protested but started in genuine fear at the hammering and shouting from outside.

‘Master Blanchard! Master Blanchard, we have visitors. We have …’ The keeper cursed. He slammed the tankard down on the nearby overturned barrel, lifted a finger to his lips as a sign for silence from his ‘two guests’ and slipped out of the cell, locking the door behind him. Three turnkeys stood gathered around the grille high in the main door. Blanchard pushed them away, looked out and groaned. He reckoned there were five men, all wearing the black-and-white robes of the Dominican order.

‘Master Blanchard?’ The leading friar pressed up his face against the grill. ‘I am Brother Marcel of the preaching order of St Dominic, Papal Inquisitor, despatched by no less a person than our Holy Father. I am his legatus a latere – accredited emissary and envoy of Holy Mother Church. I have sought an audience with Master Thibault and His Grace, the Bishop of London.’ The friar withdrew his face and pressed a warrant against the grill so as to display the scarlet wax seals; this was then withdrawn.

‘What do you want?’ Blanchard slurred.

‘The bodies of two traitors: Watkin the so-called dung-collector and Pike the self-proclaimed ditcher. We have good evidence that these are not only traitors but self-professed heretics, followers of the accursed Wycliffe, sinners who have infected others with their foul contagion. They are to be surrendered into our custody. We hope that you will help us in putting them to the question.’

‘Alleluia! Alleluia!’ Blanchard slurred, indicating to his turnkeys to open the door. The friars slipped through, pulling their hoods close against the freezing cold in the passageway. The leader, Brother Marcel, grasped Blanchard’s hand and pushed two silver coins into his palm.

‘We need your help, Master Blanchard. Those two malignants have the names of others and we must break them swiftly.’

‘But Cranston, his friar?’

‘The coroner is simply a lackey of the secular arm. Brother Athelstan has acted ultra vires – beyond his powers. He is a simple parish priest and should not interfere in matters which are in manus ordinarii – in the hands of the bishop – in accordance with section seven of the Codex Juris Canonici – the Code of Canon Law. Now, the prisoner.’

Blanchard was delighted. He slipped the silver into his purse, collected the keyring from his chancery and, with three turnkeys carrying torches, led the Dominicans down the passageway to the prisoners’ cell. He unlocked the door, swung it open and knocked aside the makeshift stool with its tankards and platters.

‘Release them,’ the Dominican demanded. ‘Then, Brother, we shall need two of your men as an escort. The two prisoners are to be taken to the Tower to be questioned until they confess.’

‘What are you doing?’ Pike screamed, scrambling to his feet in a clatter of chains only to receive Blanchard’s punch to his face. Pike stood swaying, staring at the Dominicans, mouthing protest. Watkin, face between his hands, rocked backwards and forwards, crying like a child.

‘You are traitors and you are also heretics,’ the Dominican’s voice thundered. ‘At the Tower you will be rigorously interrogated. Master Blanchard will assist us.’ The threats continued to roll out as Blanchard unlocked the gyves. The keeper grinned at Watkin, pulling away the dung collector’s fingers, only then did Blanchard’s fuddled brain sense something amiss. Watkin had not been crying but laughing, his eyes bright with merriment. There was something wrong. If the Dominicans were from the Tower where was their escort? What did that warrant actually say? Blanchard’s hand fell to his dagger but it was too late. The leading Dominican yanked back the keeper’s head and sliced his throat in one deep, clean cut from ear to ear, whilst the others turned on the turnkeys and despatched them with swift dagger thrusts. Pike watched all four men quiver and jerk as they died, their blood spluttering out on to the filthy straw. He smiled and clasped the hands of Simon Grindcobb, Wat Tyler, Jack Straw and the two other leaders of the Upright Men.

‘We borrowed the robes and shaved our faces,’ Tyler murmured. ‘We could not leave our friends here. Thibault and Blanchard cannot be trusted.’

‘And we have always wanted to visit Master Blanchard.’ Jack Straw kicked the dead keeper’s body. ‘We had more than a few scores to settle with him.’

‘And now?’ Watkin asked. ‘Where do we hide?’

‘Oh, you are not hiding.’ Grindcobb laughed. ‘We have the safest place in Southwark for you.’

Athelstan and Cranston knew fresh drama was awaiting them as soon as they turned into the narrow twisting alleyway leading up to St Erconwald’s. The Piebald tavern stood eerily deserted. Merryleg’s pie shop, which, with his large brood of children to assist, usually stayed open until the early hours of the morning, was all shuttered. The Fraternity of Free Love, a group of colourful characters who used St Erconwald’s for their meetings, came hastily up behind them. They wouldn’t even stop to answer Athelstan’s questions but merely shouted that something was happening at the church.

‘God knows that’s true,’ Athelstan groaned. ‘The question is what mischief is brewing now?’ They reached the enclosure before the church to find virtually all the parish had turned out. Gathering in groups, they were shouting at Mauger the bell clerk standing on top of the church steps. Athelstan heard the names Pike and Watkin mentioned. Mauger was shaking his head, throwing his hands in the air and, when he glimpsed Athelstan, cried shrilly as a cockerel greeting the dawn. The bell clerk virtually skipped down the steps, dragging Benedicta with him. He pushed his way through the crowd, almost colliding with Athelstan.

‘Pike and Watkin!’ he gasped, pointing at the open church door. ‘Pike and Watkin!’ he repeated. ‘The Upright Men took them out of the Bocardo. Keeper Blanchard and three of his turnkeys lie slain. Pike and Watkin escaped; they fled here seeking sanctuary.’

Athelstan bit back his angry retort, brushed by Mauger and hastened up the steps into the church; the nave was freezing cold and black as pitch. The Hangman of Rochester had set up guard on the door through the rood screen. Athelstan pushed by him and strode up the sanctuary steps. The two miscreants crouched in the mercy enclave, warming themselves over a bowl of charcoal and sharing a pot of ale and a platter of diced meat, courtesy probably of the Hangman who dolefully followed Cranston into the sanctuary.

‘Ye angels of heaven!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘What in the name of all that is holy?’

‘Nothing to do with us, Father,’ Pike brazenly declared. ‘The Bocardo was attacked by the Upright Men disguised as Dominicans.’

‘Dominicans!’

‘Yes, Father, we thought they had been sent by you.’ Pike’s grin widened. ‘It just goes to show you, doesn’t it, that you cannot trust anyone. They slipped into the prison, executed Blanchard and his turnkeys for their many crimes against our community. The doors were left open and so we fled here for sanctuary.’

‘Don’t feed me your dish of lies!’ Athelstan snapped, but at the same time the friar felt deeply relieved. Thibault was in a dangerous mood, whilst Athelstan could not forget the real sense of evil from the now dead Blanchard. Pike and Watkin were free of him, close to their families and parish, a clever, subtle move …

‘Sir John?’ a voice called. Athelstan turned. Flaxwith, cloak dripping, stood at the entrance to the rood screen, his ugly mastiff Samson as close to his muddy boots as any dog could get.

‘Hell’s teeth!’ Cranston exclaimed. ‘The scripture is correct: no rest for the wicked!’

Athelstan had a few admonitory words for his two fugitives and followed Cranston and Flaxwith into the nave, telling the Hangman to go and help Mauger and Benedicta. Once he had gone, the chief bailiff gave a pithy summary on what had happened at the Bocardo, interspersed by Cranston’s quiet curses and Athelstan’s exclamations of surprise.

‘How do you know all this?’ Cranston asked.

‘From two young whores Blanchard had locked in the waiting cell. They won’t be having the pleasure of him. Anyway, they heard the conversation, Pike and Watkin’s exclamations and realized what had happened. Blanchard was tricked by Dominicans.’

‘Dominicans.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I wonder where they got the robes from – but, there again, I am sure the Upright Men have chests full of what they need.’ He laughed quietly to himself. ‘Prior Anslem will have a great deal to say in Chapter, whilst Brother Marcel must be feeling highly embarrassed.’

‘Very clever,’ Cranston declared as Flaxwith let Samson out through the corpse door so the mastiff could run in the cemetery. Athelstan just prayed that Bonaventure and the dog did not meet, for the one-eyed tomcat nursed a passionate hatred for Samson which the mastiff replied in good measure.

‘Very clever,’ the coroner repeated. ‘The Upright Men have taken Pike and Watkin out of the murderous clutches of both Blanchard and Thibault. Brother, I did not wish you to brood, but the Bocardo enjoyed the most sinister reputation. Blanchard was equally notorious for his senseless cruelty. In the meantime, no one will dare accost those rascals here, not in sanctuary at their parish church with its priest Athelstan a friend and colleague of the Lord High Coroner. No, no, they will be safe here, close to you, close to their family, and, if the worst happens, they can always swear to abjure the realm. The Upright Men would give then safe escort to the nearest port. Brother, I will drink to them.’ Sir John took a generous swig from the miraculous wineskin even as he quietly promised himself that he would have a hand in Blanchard’s replacement. He glanced quickly at the friar. Athelstan seemed perplexed; he had turned away, staring through the open door of the rood screen as if trying to memorize every detail of what he was studying.

‘Brother?’ Cranston asked. There was no reply, so Cranston wandered over to examine one of the Hangman of Rochester’s fresh paintings on the north wall. Sir John smiled. The scene described a story from the Acts of the Apostles about Peter being freed by an angel from Herod’s prison. In the background was a river with what was probably Peter’s barque, his fishing boat, though it looked more like a war cog on the Thames. Cranston narrowed his eyes. He knew what Athelstan had found and discovered on board The Five Wounds. Sir John had promised Athelstan he would not yet interfere, though the coroner had already instructed Flaxwith to approach Sir Robert and give him two warnings under pain of high treason. First, The Five Wounds must stay in its berth. Nothing must be unloaded from it. Secondly, Paston and his family were to reside at The Candle-Flame. If they left without his permission all three would be put to the horn as outlaws. Cranston now wondered what path Athelstan was following.

The friar was thinking the same himself as he stared across the sanctuary, his mind twisting and turning with snatches and glimpses of what he had seen and heard. Different voices echoed like the trailing verses of half-heard songs. Athelstan conceded to himself that he was now deep in the maze. He was certain of that. All he had collected, garnered and stored needed to be winnowed, sifted, crushed and milled to produce the truth. The reality of what happened was out there, that was logical. All he had to do was fit the pieces together, to reject what was false and to grasp what was real. The wine press was now ready, the grapes of God’s wrath full to bursting. The dreadful sin of murder had been committed. Now the press would be turned. It was just a matter of time before it produced the juice of justice. Athelstan glanced over his shoulder.

‘Sir John, we should go. But first, follow me whilst I preach the gospel, as it is, and as it shall be, to our two fugitives.’ Athelstan then walked into the nave and called Benedicta and the bell clerk to join him. Once they had, he re-entered the sanctuary and lectured Watkin and Pike on what they could and couldn’t do. He promised that Benedicta and Mauger, assisted by the Hangman, would bring them food, light and whatever else was needed for their comfort. Athelstan, however, had a few worries; the parish should protect this precious pair, whilst representatives of the Upright Men would soon take up position ever so cleverly around the church. What happened to Hugh of Hornsey would certainly not happen again. Athelstan then walked Cranston outside, where he immediately glimpsed a number of shadowy figures move in and out of the meagre pools of light. He was correct. The envoys of the Upright Men had already arrived. Thibault, on the other hand, would not be so hasty in coming here after the bloody affray at The Candle-Flame.

‘You have questions, little friar? I can tell that from your face.’

‘Of course, Sir John; it’s the answers which elude me. Nevertheless, the mills of God are grinding, slowly but surely. Now look, Sir John, I need a guard, a good one. Men who will protect me and my house.’

‘I will arrange that.’

‘I also need a courier, the best you have, someone whom I can send into the city to fetch this and that.’

‘Such as?’ Cranston asked.

‘Never mind, Sir John, just a good one. A veritable greyhound who can sally forth whenever I wish to parry out the truth.’

‘Tiptoft,’ Cranston replied. ‘Tiptoft is the best. I will summon him tomorrow and despatch him to you. Oh, by the way, as you may know, the Pastons, their clerk and their cog will be going nowhere.’

Athelstan thanked him, absent-mindedly commenting on how brilliant the stars looked, blessed the coroner and ambled back to the priest’s house. Benedicta was waiting for him inside. The kitchen, cleaned and scrubbed, glowed with warmth; the fire leapt merrily and the braziers crackled away. A bowl of pottage was warming in the small fireside oven and a jug of ale with Athelstan’s finest pewter goblet stood on the table under a crisp, white napkin. Athelstan noticed the leather box beside it. Benedicta informed him how old Siward at Blackfriars had duly complied with Athelstan’s request but begged his former student to take great care of the manuscript. Athelstan washed his hands at the lavarium, nodding his agreement. Bonaventure appeared, tail whipping the air, whiskers all a quiver, one eye glaring for his food. Benedicta chatted on about doings in the parish. Athelstan, now enjoying both the pottage and ale, half-listened. Once she had left, Athelstan wiped his hands, opened the leather case and took out the copy of Beowulf. He sat reading the Latin translation and abruptly his sleepy concentration sharpened. Athelstan had studied the poem during his novitiate; he also recalled it being read in the refectory during meals. Certain phrases and sentences, especially about the hero’s battle exploits, made Athelstan tense with excitement.

‘By their fruits ye shall know them.’ He whispered a line from the scriptures as he stared into the fire. The Greek word for fruit was karpos; it could also mean how a man’s inner spirit, for good or bad, would express itself in words and action. Athelstan sat for a while, applying this to the mysteries challenging him. He cut strips of parchment and began to list the images and memories of all that he had seen, heard and felt. He picked up his quill pen and wrote swiftly. The list would be fragmented. He would impose logic and order much later.

Item: The Candle-Flame on the night of the murders; Thorne going down to check the stables and discovering that battered wallet. Beowulf had been there. He’d planned for Marsen and Mauclerc’s horses to rear and throw their riders the following morning, when he’d probably intended to strike both of them down. On that same fateful night, Sir Robert Paston went out into the gallery. He was met by that maid despatched by the Mistress of the Moppets to warn him how Marsen knew of Paston’s secret preferences when he visited The Golden Oliphant. Meanwhile, Hugh of Hornsey was closeted with his lover, Ronseval. They quarrelled. Hornsey was deeply concerned that Marsen did not discover the true nature of their relationship. Eventually Hugh of Hornsey left but came hurrying back when he discovered his two comrades were slain and the Barbican sealed and eerily silent. Others in the tavern were just as busy. The ostler Mooncalf met with Martha Paston and William Foulkes in the Dark Parlour and then outside. What did he want with them? Where were they going? On that same night Brother Marcel was definitely not at The Candle-Flame, he was elsewhere, whilst Brother Roger remained in his own chamber, apparently impervious to all that was happening around him.

Item: Inside the Barbican the window, its shutters and door were all sealed, locked and bolted, as was even the trapdoor to the upper chamber. Nevertheless, a killer, as deadly and as silently as a viper, had slithered into that forbidding tower and taken seven lives, seven souls brutally despatched to judgement. Who was responsible for that? How and why? The exchequer coffer was robbed. There was no sign of it being forced, whilst the keys to its three locks remained with their holders. So how could that happen?

Item: The following morning just before dawn, Mooncalf makes his grisly discovery. He goes out to find the two archers slain. Pedro the Cruel, the huge tavern boar, lies fast asleep in the mud; he is roused and wanders off. Mooncalf raises the alarm. Mine Host Thorne goes out to investigate. He has no ladder long enough, so one is placed on a handcart and fixed on that shallow sill. If Athelstan remembered it correctly, the handcart provided considerable length to the ladder. Mine Host climbs up, opens the outer and inner shutters, cuts through the horn covering in the door window and loosens that. However, due to his size, Thorne decides that Mooncalf should make the entry. The taverner comes down, the ostler climbs up and the gruesome discovery is made.

Item: The meeting in The Candle-Flame when he and Cranston made their first acquaintance with the guests. How did they react? What did he see, hear and perceive there?

Item: The discovery of the gauntlet and chainmail wristguard. The origins and ownership of these two items were now well established. Marsen was going to use them against Paston. What did that say, if anything, about the identity of the killer?

Item: The murder of Physician Scrope. What was the origin of that mysterious knocking on his door? Nobody was seen in the gallery. The physician had eventually opened it and, in doing so, sealed his own fate. A short while later, he was discovered murdered in his own locked and bolted chamber; his corpse slumped close to the door. Scrope died clutching a pilgrim’s book on Glastonbury, open on the page listing some of the abbey’s famous relics. How was he murdered? Why was he clutching that manuscript?

Athelstan recalled Lascelles being struck by the first crossbow bolt, and how he reacted before being hit by a final killing blow.

Item: Ronseval. Why did he slip out of The Candle-Flame? Whom did he meet? Certainly someone he trusted so much his killer could draw very close to him. And why was he killed? Did he know something? Yet, according to all the evidence, he never left his chamber that night.

Item: Hugh of Hornsey. Undoubtedly he panicked and fled. Nevertheless, Hornsey must have seen something which he kept to himself as he waited for better days. But what? And, like his lover, why had he trusted his killer so much he opened that heavy sacristy door?

Athelstan paused to allow Bonaventure out before returning to his list.

Item: The food and drink found in the Barbican were free of any taint or evil potion. Nothing illicit had been detected.

Item: On the morning they had left The Candle-Flame to visit Thibault at the Guildhall, Beowulf launched his attack on Lascelles. The stableyard was thronged and busy. Who had been there? Who was missing? Afterwards they had ridden through Cheapside. The Earthworms had sprung their ambush. How did everyone react?

Item: Those two shadowy figures who had returned to the execution ground to dig and scrape, undoubtedly Martha Paston and William Foulkes. And why the strange signs between them and Mooncalf? How significant was Tuddenham’s remark about the Lollards sheltering a traitor close to their hearts?

Item: Sir Robert and what was stored in his cog. There were also the conversations and apparent friendship struck up between Paston and the Papal Inquisitor. Was Marcel hunting along the same path as he was? Did he suspect Paston might not be as orthodox in his religious beliefs as he should be?

Item: The rescue of Pike and Watkin by the Upright Men disguised as Dominicans, a most astute move. It certainly proved Cranston’s remark to be correct. Friars, be it Dominican or Franciscan, could walk anywhere with impunity …

Athelstan paused in his writing at a scratching on the door. He opened it to let Bonaventure slip into the room, heading straight for his usual resting place in front of the hearth. Athelstan hurried to the buttery and prepared both milk and the remains of the pie, which Bonaventure deigned to eat before flopping back on the hearth.

‘Thank God,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘you did not meet Samson.’ Athelstan sat closely watching the sleeping cat as he mentally reviewed all he had learnt before returning to Beowulf, reading out loud the occasional line as if to memorize it.

‘Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus – false in one thing, false in all things,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘But that will have to wait a little longer.’ He now turned to all the other manuscripts accumulated during his investigation. The memoranda drawn up in the Barbican; the warnings left by Beowulf the assassin; the vademecum from Glastonbury; the paltry poetry of Ronseval; and, finally, the lists of ships written by that enigmatic spy and carried by Ruat. Athelstan ignored the transcription, fixing his attention on the original. He stretched this out on the table, putting small weights on each corner. He opened his coffer and took out one glass of a precious pair of eye glasses, a gift from a brother at Blackfriars. Athelstan used these to scrutinize the manuscript. He found it clearer than before, the light was better and the manuscript had fully dried out. The actual letters emerged more distinct. Using the glass Athelstan studied the last few lines on both that and the transcript. He gasped in surprise. The document had been written in clerkly Latin but using the many abbreviations of the chancery: ‘filius – son’ became ‘fs’; ‘apud – at’ became ‘apd’; ‘nostra – ours’ became ‘nra’. Thibault had made two mistakes and Athelstan was astounded at the implications. ‘I wonder.’ He breathed. ‘I truly do.’ He was so excited he rose and paced the kitchen backwards and forwards, his mind racing about the possibilities and probable conclusions. ‘Very well.’ He sighed, staring at the crucifix nailed to the wall. ‘Very well, let us say there are three, not two or even one.’ Athelstan returned to his strips of parchment, writing a name at the top and listing all the evidence available. He stopped to eat and drink; only then did he realize how tiredness had caught up with him. He banked the fire, doused most of the taper lights and retired heavy-eyed to his bed loft. He tried to recite the night office from memory, only to drift off into the deepest sleep.

Bonaventure woke him just before dawn. Athelstan sleepily tended to him before building the fire and using the small bellows on the braziers. Eventually he broke from his half-sleep. He stripped, washed and shaved using water boiled over the fire. He took out new undergarments and his robe, dressed, drank a little water and left, making his way across to the church. Of course, the entire parish had assembled for the Jesus Mass, pressing into the sanctuary to catch a glimpse of the two fugitives openly regarded as heroes of the parish. Athelstan, now fully awake, just glared at the two miscreants, refusing to be drawn. He celebrated Mass and afterwards summoned the parish council into the sacristy. He told them he did not wish to be questioned or troubled and duly apportioned tasks for the day. Naturally, these included the care of Watkin and Pike. Athelstan repeated his short, sharp lecture on what the two fugitives could and could not do. Mauger, Benedicta, the solemn-faced Hangman and a nose-twitching Ranulf were left in charge. Flaxwith and his bailiffs appeared from their lodgings to announce four men-at-arms from the Guildhall would patrol the precincts to protect both church and house. Athelstan was pleased; the brutal attempt to burn him alive in the Barbican revealed the deeply sinful malice of the murderer he was hunting. Such a soul might plot fresh villainy. Athelstan returned to his house and broke his fast. A short while later Tiptoft appeared, slender as a reed and dressed completely in green with fiery red hair, with sharp blue eyes in a white, freckled face. Tiptoft slipped as silently as a thief into Athelstan’s house, quietly announcing that he was here to act as Athelstan’s courier.

‘Sir John gave me my orders,’ his voice was hardly above a whisper, ‘and what the Lord High Coroner decides is my duty to follow.’

‘Don’t worry, I will have work for you,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘But first, you can be my escort.’ The friar took his cloak from its peg on the wall. ‘We shall visit The Candle-Flame. They left the house, two men-at-arms trailing behind as the friar and his green-garbed escort disappeared into the warren of Southwark’s alleyways. Athelstan walked purposefully, head down, cowl pulled over, especially when he passed The Piebald, where all the great and the good of the ward met to discuss matters. Everyone was an expert with a story to tell and, of course, like attracts like. A wandering chanteur had also decided to exploit the occasion and set up his pitch outside the main door of tavern. He stood on a barrel, his powerful voice describing how ‘the corpse of Ymir the frost giant’ had led to the creation of heaven and earth. How Ymir’s blood provided the seasonal lakes; the soil came from the corpse’s flesh; the mountains from his massive bones; whilst the stone and gravel originated from the dead giant’s shattered molars. He concluded how the first two humans had been fashioned out of pieces of driftwood washed up on the shores of Asgard. Athelstan paused to listen to some of this. It reminded him of the poem Beowulf, whilst he was always fascinated by how these professional storytellers always appeared when news was being hotly discussed. Was it simply, the friar wondered, that once people have an appetite to listen it had to be satisfied? Athelstan plucked at the sleeve of his escort and they moved on, pushing their way through the now crowded streets. The usual shifting shoal of the denizens of the seedy slums and tumbling tenements were out, busy on their usual trade of selling what they had filched and keen for fresh mischief. Athelstan noticed how the chanteur now had rivals. Thibault’s assault on The Candle-Flame was clearly well known and the wandering gossipers were all offering dramatic accounts of ‘Southwark’s Great Battle’. Once they reached the tavern, however, Athelstan could detect little sign of the recent ambuscade. He met Thorne and his wife in the Dark Parlour, still empty as the Angelus bell had not yet summoned in the local traders and tinkers.

‘Brother Athelstan?’ Thorne wiped his hands on a napkin, which he passed to his wife. ‘What do you want now?’

‘You keep a journal of who stays here, who hires a chamber,’ Athelstan waved a hand, ‘and so on. I think you do.’ He smiled. ‘Mistress Eleanor, I understand you keep records as skilled as any chancery clerk?’

‘Of course,’ Thorne declared. ‘I will show you.’ He brought the ledger and Athelstan took it over to the window seat to study the entries. He leafed through the pages and soon found what he was looking for.

‘It is as I thought,’ he murmured. He rose, handed the ledger back and informed the taverner that he wanted to wander around The Candle-Flame so he could acquaint himself a little more closely. Thorne agreed and offered some refreshment. Athelstan refused and led his small escort out into the Palisade. All the remnants of the burning had been removed. The only scar was a stretch of blackened, ash-strewn earth where the execution stake had stood. Athelstan strode on. He pushed open the door to the Barbican and crossed to where he believed the inferno had been deliberately started. He calculated the size of the searing scorch mark against the wall. Athelstan stood staring; in his mind’s eye he imagined the assassin slipping into the Barbican with sacks of oil. His assailant split the skins, dousing the cot beds and other furniture, then a flame would be thrown. Of course, before this happened, the assassin secured the trapdoor with bolts from below, thus trapping him on the upper storey. Athelstan shivered at what might have happened and shook his head at Tiptoft’s questions.

‘This is a seat of murder,’ he whispered. ‘And I have seen enough.’ Athelstan led his escort back outside. He walked across the Palisade and paused to visualize what the assassin must have seen on the night those two archers were murdered. Satisfied, the friar returned to the tavern. He walked up the stairs and inspected the loft chambers on the topmost storey. He noticed in one gallery the narrow bed chambers overlooking the stableyard and Athelstan, who had entered one room, realized he had a clear view of where Lascelles had been standing the morning Beowulf had loosed that crossbow bolt. The friar opened the small horn-covered door window. He leaned out, pretending to be a bowman and, once again, tried to recall those who had been with him in the stableyard below. Afterwards Athelstan went down to the gallery where Scrope had his chamber; both that and the one opposite were open, being cleaned by maids and slatterns. Athelstan inspected each room carefully before scrutinizing the bolt and lock on the door to Scrope’s chamber. He noted what he wanted as well as the staircase at the near end of the gallery, which would provide swift escape to the floor above. Athelstan, his mind now buzzing like a beehive as he confessed to Tiptoft, thanked Mine Host and made his way back to St Erconwald’s. Two relic-sellers tried to pester them, and Athelstan recalled the relics described in Scrope’s vademecum on Glastonbury. As soon as he was back in his own house, Athelstan studied the pilgrim’s guide.

‘Sancta spina,’ he breathed, ‘and, talking of holy things …’ Athelstan left and visited the church to have words with Pike and Watkin. They seemed as happy as Bonaventure before a fire. Benedicta and the rest had brought hot food as well as a small tun of ale. Looking around the church, Athelstan was amused at how pious his parishioners and others had become. Usually at this hour, the nave would lie empty. Now people wandered about inspecting statues, shrines and the chantry chapel. Visitors clustered around the ankerhold, whilst another group, escorted by the Hangman, seemed fascinated by the different wall paintings. Athelstan smiled to himself. Watkin and Pike were being closely watched by both friend and foe. Leaving the church, he asked Benedicta to take Tiptoft and the men-at-arms to The Piebald to break their fast, then begged her to buy supplies for his own house. He asked her to spread the word that he was not to be disturbed; ordinary parish business would have to wait. After that Athelstan retreated into himself, locking himself away, chatting now and again with Benedicta and Tipftoft, whom he despatched into the city with sealed letters for Sir John and other individuals. For the rest, Athelstan sat at his kitchen table testing the hypotheses he had constructed: four strands, each of them quite separate and distinct but all intertwined around two different clasps, the season and the place. Eventually he received replies, all despatched in confidence, from the city. Athelstan’s conviction that he was following the right path strengthened. He sent a letter to Sir Robert Paston, closeted against his will at The Candle-Flame. He instructed Tiptoft to deliver the letter, wait for a reply and spend the time making certain discreet enquiries amongst the servants. Athelstan, brooding on what might happen, became concerned that those whom he wanted kept at The Candle-Flame might slip away, so he petitioned Cranston to have a ring of steel placed around the tavern and two war barges stand off the quayside close to it.

Naturally this quickening of events attracted the attention of Thibault, whose spies kept a rigorous watch over St Erconwald’s. The Master of Secrets sent Albinus, a sinister-looking mailed clerk and Lascelles’ apparent successor, to make enquiries, which Athelstan deftly deflected. The two friars, Roger and Marcel, also objected, pleading benefit of clergy, the rights of Holy Mother Church and the pressure of important business. Athelstan replied that what he needed them for was the unmasking of murder and the restoration of justice; this was their God-given duty as much as his. Painstakingly, Athelstan continued to build his case. He spent three days on it before despatching Tiptoft late in the afternoon to ask Sir John Cranston to join him in sharing one of Merryleg’s finest creations. Cranston arrived to find Athelstan’s kitchen scrubbed clean, the platters, knives, horn-spoons, jugs and mazers glimmering in the light. Athelstan served freshly minced beef pie, a fine Bordeaux, pots of vegetables and sugared almonds to add, as he teased Sir John, a little sweetness. He reported how the two sanctuary men now lived in the lap of luxury, being better served than My Lord of Gaunt in his palace at the Savoy. Only when the friar fell silent did Cranston lean across and squeeze his arm.

‘What have you discovered?’ the coroner asked.

‘I cannot tell you, Sir John, not yet. It’s not because I don’t trust you. I need you to listen and I need you to judge. You will sit and hear the case I prosecute. Now, I have little knowledge of the law,’ Athelstan paused. ‘Sir John, what powers do you have, I mean, as a judge?’ Cranston sipped at his wine.

‘Well, I am Lord High Coroner, a justice of the peace-’

‘You have the power of oyer et terminer, to hear and decide?’ Cranston screwed his eyes up.

‘I can, in times of great danger to the Crown, the realm and the community, assume certain powers and listen to pleas of the Crown.’

‘I would like you to do that.’

‘It will mean going to Thibault … Oh, no.’ Cranston paused at the look on Athelstan’s face. ‘You mean Gaunt?’ Again the look.

‘Oh, sweet God in heaven,’ Cranston whispered, ‘the young king himself?’

‘Go to him tonight, Sir John, where he shelters at the Savoy. Beg him for my sake to commission you as the king’s own justiciar in the wards of Southwark with special power to sit, listen, judge and condemn at a special session to be held in The Candle-Flame tavern.’

‘When?’

‘At the very latest the day after tomorrow.’

‘But why, Athelstan?’

‘Sir John, I swear, you will sit and have to judge heinous offences: treason, murder, theft, blackmail and horrid conspiracy. If these cases were referred to King’s Bench or an ordinary assize, certain people would flee and escape true justice. Others, because of cruel threats against them, risk being adjudged guilty as those who practice such cruelty. Thibault would interfere. He is secretive but also a bully boy. I want justice, Sir John, not revenge.’

‘In which case …’ Cranston lurched to his feet.

‘Sir John?’ Athelstan also rose. He went across to his chancery satchel and took out a roll of pure cream vellum, delicately sealed with red wax and tied with a scarlet ribbon. Athelstan handed this to Cranston.

‘When you meet His Grace the king and go down on one knee, beg him to accept this humble petition from his loyal and true subject, Brother Athelstan, Dominican priest of St Erconwald’s.’

The coroner weighed this in his hand. ‘Little friar?’

‘Please, Sir John.’

oOoOo