Candle Flame

PART FIVE

‘Mainpernor’: surety for someone under arrest.

‘Know ye now, Richard, by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland and France, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Aquitaine has appointed his faithful subject, Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London to be his own justiciar in all the wards of the king’s borough of Southwark and those shires south of the Thames. He has, at our own pleasure and with full royal licence, power to hear, determine and to decide on all cases brought before him by Athelstan, Dominican priest of St Erconwald’s in the above mentioned borough.’ The royal herald, standing on a stool outside the entrance of The Candle-Flame, cleared his throat. He lowered the proclamation and stared at the two squires garbed in the gorgeous blue, scarlet and gold tabard of the royal household. Each of these stood either side of the herald holding a royal standard and were fighting to keep these steady against the buffeting breeze. Once satisfied they were, the herald continued.

‘The said Sir John Cranston has the power of axe, tumbril, pillory and gallows both immediate and without appeal. Know ye too …’ The herald’s powerful voice continued to roll out the list of dire penalties imposed against anyone who tried to impede or obstruct. Such powers were being emphasized by the tavern being ringed by troops of the royal household, men-at-arms and archers under the personal command of King Richard’s tutor, Sir Simon Burley, Knight Banneret of the royal chamber. Athelstan nudged Cranston and they entered the sweet-smelling Dark Parlour. All the furniture had been swept to one side except for a trestle table with a candelabra strategically placed to create pools of light around the insignia of the court: a bronze crucifix on its stand; a leather-bound Book of the Gospels close to where those summoned would sit; Cranston’s commission bearing the seals of the royal chancery and his sword on one side of the manuscript; a small but cruel-edged flail on the other. At the end of the table Athelstan had laid out his writing materials: parchment, quill pens, ink horn, knife, pumice stone and sander. He had also arranged for a small crossbow to be primed and placed near at hand. Before the trestle table, now termed the ‘Royal Bench’, were three high-backed chairs for those who had been summoned to answer. The windows of the Dark Parlour were shuttered. Once in session the doors would be closed and guarded. No one would be admitted without Cranston’s permission. Master Thorne had objected but Athelstan had assured him that any monies lost would be reimbursed by the royal exchequer. The taverner was given a brief, succinct lecture by Cranston on the rights of the Crown, how no one was to interfere with the administration of royal justice, how the tavern was to be sealed and secured by soldiers, whilst the herald and his entourage would signify the king’s own presence.

Athelstan took his place on the chancery stool whilst Cranston sat on the cushioned judgement chair. The coroner looked every inch the royal justiciar with his black felt cap and ermined scarlet robe. Cranston had ensured the side table would be used to hold the refreshment he might need but not now. Athelstan was impatient to begin. After their supper meeting Athelstan had spent an agonizing day waiting for the king’s response and, when it came, it was fulsome and direct. The king had also enclosed a personal letter to Athelstan as well as a sealed chancery roll. Athelstan had put these into his writing satchel. For the moment he had obtained what he wanted. The justiciar court would sit the following morning.

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan sharpened the quill pen, ‘we are ready. We will use Tiptoft as our court officer.’ Athelstan picked up the small hand bell and rang it. When Tiptoft appeared, Athelstan told him to bring in Sir Robert Paston, waiting with his family in the buttery. The merchant manor lord bustled in all red-faced, protesting volubly until Cranston roared at him to shut up and sit down. Athelstan rose, took the Book of the Gospels and thrust it into Paston’s hands. He made him repeat the words of the oath, warning him that a failure to plead an answer was a felony which could be dealt with in the press yard of Newgate prison; Paston would be stretched out on the cobbles, a heavy door placed on him, then increasingly powerful weights dropped on top of that. He also warned him how perjury could mean that final journey in the death cart to the gallows at Tyburn or Smithfield. Athelstan accepted he was being dramatic but he had to hide all compassion in order to establish the truth and the sooner the better.

‘Let us move swiftly to the heart of this matter,’ Athelstan declared, taking his seat. ‘Let us grasp the substance and ignore the shadows. You, Sir Robert, are a merchant, a manor lord, the widowed father of Martha, whom I suspect you love dearly; she in turn is deeply smitten with William Foulkes, a trained clerk, a skilled scribe and, I suspect, like your daughter, a fervent member of the Lollard coven, a disciple of Master John Wycliffe. Foulkes is very discreet. He has hardly spoken during my searches but keeps his own counsel and stays well out of my way. An educated man, Master William does not so much fear me but my order, who act, God forgive them, as the Inquisition of Holy Mother Church.’

‘I …’ Paston stuttered.

‘Please,’ Athelstan replied. ‘For all I know, Sir Robert, you too may be a Lollard, but I don’t want to know and I don’t really care. I am not here to debate religious belief. I am not too sure what true heresy is but I am aware of the temptations of the flesh. You, Sir Robert, are a regular visitor to The Golden Oliphant, well known for the Mistress of the Moppets and her midnight ladies. I know of your games there. Please.’ Athelstan ignored Paston’s attempt to interrupt. ‘You are also the owner of a handsome cog, The Five Wounds. You carry on a legitimate trade exporting wool and importing wine and other goods, all according to the law, except, of course, for those weapons purchased in Flanders, where the red-coloured oxhide roundel shields are popular. These are, of course, to escape the hawk-eye of the harbour masters, brought in piecemeal by ships of other nations. You have an agreement with their captains: you visit these and transport the weapons back on a barge to the armament store on board your own cog. You buy these weapons, bring them into London and put them at the disposal of the Upright Men. Hush now!’ Athelstan insisted. ‘As I said, these weapons are stored deep in the hold of your cog. They remain hidden until you are ready to send the wine and the other goods you have imported to different parts of Southwark and the city. I am sure your customers and clients are manifold: taverns, alehouses, hospitals, the mansions of the wealthy – all of course, in turn, provide excellent hiding places …’

‘But the tavern masters, the merchants of the city, would have no dealings with the Upright Men and the Earthworms.’

‘You do,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Sir Robert, we know more than you think. Most prosperous Londoners are taking protection against the evil day. Moreover, what I describe is not difficult to organize. I suspect it’s the servants, the retainers, the tapsters, the scullions and slatterns, the workmen and the labourers who are personally involved, whilst their masters look the other way. If such secret weapon stores were ever discovered, everyone would throw their hands in the air and declare they had no knowledge of what was happening. In addition, the Upright Men are very cunning. The more places they have to store weapons, the more they can scatter them around and the less obvious it will be. Coghill, master of The Five Wounds, tried to pass off the weapons I saw in the hold of your cog as the armaments to be found on any fighting merchantman. In fact, they are part of a secret hoard. The Upright Men and their Earthworms have, I wager, a myriad of such hidden caches all over this city and elsewhere. When they plan an attack such as the recent one in Cheapside, the summons goes out. I suspect they would have appeared whatever happened that day; they were fortunate in that a group of Thibault’s retainers presented themselves. I suggest the Earthworms have a routine which is orderly as any monk’s horarium: ponies housed in the countless stables across London are prepared, disguises are donned and weapons taken up, all swiftly carried out along that warren of needle-thin alleyways stretching either side of Cheapside. The Earthworms converge, attack then retreat. They have made their mark. They have demonstrated how they can come and go as they wish. Once over, their mounts are left at the stables, masks are removed and weapons returned to their hiding place.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘Of course, such locations can be discovered but it’s like trying to stop the rain by catching its drops. New hiding stores are found, and so it continues.’ Athelstan pointed a finger at Paston. ‘Of course, the Upright Men value you because you provide a service which is quite exceptional.’

‘I am sorry,’ Paston mumbled, scratching the side of his face. ‘I don’t understand …’

‘First, you hide weapons as well as transport them into the city along with your barrels of wine and crates of goods. More importantly, you import them. After all, where can the Upright Men purchase weapons in England without provoking the sharp interest of a royal official or one of Thibault’s legion of spies? You buy them and bring all this weaponry into the heart of London.’ Athelstan paused. He sensed Paston would not deny the charges but he wanted a full confession so he and Cranston could dig further.

‘Why should I,’ Paston tried one protest, ‘a manor lord, a shire knight and a member of the Commons-?’

‘Why indeed?’ Cranston leaned forward then looked quizzically at Athelstan.

‘Because the Upright Men are the same as you and I, Sir John. They are also privy to Sir Robert’s secret pleasures at The Golden Oliphant. More importantly, amongst their own ranks are members of the Lollard sect. The Upright Men have enough evidence to indict Sir Robert’s daughter and her beloved William for heresy. Marsen and Mauclerc were hunting for the same knowledge. They found something out about you and the Mistress of the Moppets but perhaps they sensed there was more. Do you remember Marsen baiting you about your own daughter here in the Dark Parlour? That salacious remark about Martha being sent to him? He was hinting at your secret life at The Golden Oliphant, whether your daughter knew about it or, perhaps, that she was involved in much more serious matters. Oh, yes,’ Athelstan nodded, ‘Marsen was a demon incarnate, a vicious, very dangerous man. If he could, he would have destroyed you and your family.’ The manor lord now sat face in his hands and began to sob. Cranston looked at Athelstan, who just shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

‘We are ruined anyway.’ Paston took his hands away. ‘I could be indicted for treason, even heresy. My lands and goods will be seized, my daughter and her beloved taken up for questioning.’

‘Sir Robert, I assure you I am not here for your destruction. Such fear is not necessary, so compose yourself. Have you written the account I asked for? Did you keep it confidential to yourself?’

‘Yes, every word.’ Paston dug into his wallet, took out a scroll and handed it over. ‘I dictated this to William Foulkes. I would trust him with my life.’

‘And what did Foulkes say?’

‘Like myself, on reflection he thought it very strange. I mean, Brother, it is. Once you start recalling this conversation or that.’

‘I am grateful,’ Athelstan murmured. He undid the scroll and read the neat clerkly hand. He was correct. Foulkes was an excellent clerk and the report provided chapter and verse – it more than confirmed Athelstan’s suspicions on another matter. He read and re-read it until he was satisfied, then glanced up.

‘You may stay, Sir Robert. I am now going to question your daughter and Master Foulkes. Rest assured I saw you separately; it would have been unjust to let her know about The Golden Oliphant.’ Paston took a deep breath and sank down into his chair. Athelstan picked up the bell and rang it. Tiptoft, accompanied by Sir Simon Burley, came into the Dark Parlour.

‘Sir Simon, all those summoned are being kept separate and closely guarded?’

‘Yes, Sir John.’

‘Very good. Master Tiptoft, bring Martha Paston and William Foulkes here. Sir Robert will be staying also.’

‘And you have sent a messenger to St Erconwald’s asking for that person to present himself here?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I have.’

‘When he arrives I want him kept hooded and masked alone in some chamber; no one is to see him.’

Burley nodded his agreement. A short while later Tiptoft ushered Martha and Foulkes into the Dark Parlour. Looking highly nervous, they took the chairs either side of Sir Robert. Athelstan noticed how both young people were very soberly garbed in dark-brown robes. He wondered if the Lollards adopted their own distinctive dress: dark, unassuming clothing with little or no concession to frippery or fashion.

‘Mistress Martha, Master William. Let me be brief and blunt. I know where Sir Robert was on the night of the murder. He was in the gallery above, restless about his own concerns, although I would hazard that he was also worried about you. On that same night both of you were preparing to leave with Mooncalf because both of you and the ostler are members of the Lollard sect. You were planning to go to one of your conventicles, though I suspect something much more serious happened. Didn’t it? No, no,’ Athelstan raised a hand, ‘please don’t protest. I remember the first time we met in the small refectory. I gave a blessing which as Lollards you could not acknowledge. Martha, you wear no religious insignia, nor do you, Master William. Lollards are as hot against such practices as they are against priests. You seem to tolerate my presence rather than welcome it. I also noticed the rather strange signage between yourself and Mooncalf. I am sure the Lollards, like every sect, have their own tokens so members can identify themselves to each other. I also watched you as poor Sparwell died. Why were you there? I don’t think you are the sort of people to watch a man burn to death. You were present as witnesses, to offer some comfort and consolation, to demonstrate that he was not alone. You watched that horrible scene with profound sadness. I assure you, I too gave Sparwell what comfort I could. Sir John here did better: a goblet of drugged wine put Sparwell into a sleep close to death.’ Foulkes held Athelstan’s stare but Martha bowed her head, now and again quickly dabbing at her eyes. ‘You later returned to collect what little remained of your comrade – shards of bones, shrivelled, blackened flesh. You wanted to provide a holy and decent burial performed secretly either in a London churchyard or some village cemetery when you returned home. I am sure, though it will not be necessary, that a search of your chambers would reveal a funeral urn as well as documents, handbills and prayer books – enough evidence to prove your Lollardy.’ Athelstan tried to hide his compassion, though his heart went out to these two poor innocents stumbling towards a death as gruesome and horrific as Sparwell’s.

‘I will not lie,’ Foulkes declared.

‘I deliberately did not make you swear,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Moreover, I am not too sure whether a Lollard would take such an oath or recognize its validity. I also wish to be kind. And believe me,’ Athelstan rose and walked round the table and, standing behind Foulkes, stretched out his own hand to touch the Book of the Gospel. ‘I swear by the living God,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I mean you no harm.’ He withdrew his hand. ‘I cannot say the same for your ostler friend, Master Mooncalf.’

‘What do you mean?’ Martha asked, all flustered.

‘You know about him, don’t you?’ Foulkes asked, turning in his chair to face Athelstan, who’d now returned to his own seat. ‘You know?’ he repeated.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘What?’ Cranston barked.

‘Sparwell was not denounced by an enemy,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I doubt if that poor tailor had any. He was betrayed by a traitor at the heart of the Lollard conventicle here in London. I believe that Judas to be Mooncalf. He went to the shriving pew at St Mary-le-Bow and gave Sparwell’s name, trade and house to a priest. This priest did not hear it in confession so he had no choice but to pass such information on to the Bishop of London’s curia. Mooncalf tried to remain anonymous, though the priest clearly recalls a coarse voice and the stench of the stableyard. Mooncalf would fit such a description. Now, on the evening the murders took place, he didn’t take you to a meeting of the conventicle but to some lonely place outside this tavern. I am correct?’

‘Yes,’ Foulkes replied, ignoring Martha’s cry of protest. ‘I am committed to the truth. Mooncalf houses a wicked spirit. He informed us that he had denounced Sparwell and, unless we paid him good silver, he would betray us and others.’

‘Did he make a similar threat to Sparwell?’ Cranston asked.

‘No, he did not.’ Athelstan answered the coroner’s question. ‘Master Foulkes is correct. Mooncalf is possessed by a nasty spirit. Sparwell was the innocent lamb of sacrifice. He was both a warning and proof of what Mooncalf could do, that his threats, his blackmail, were potent and real. Yes, Master Foulkes?’

The clerk nodded his head.

‘Many a man,’ Cranston asked quietly, ‘would have killed Mooncalf on the spot. He was a villain who not only threatened you but your beloved as well.’

‘The Lollards are not like that, are they?’ Athelstan offered. ‘They are quietists. They reject violence of any sort.’

‘Yes, we are,’ Foulkes agreed. ‘I once served as a crossbowman. I saw service in Brabant, where my mother comes from. I have killed and seen killing. I confess,’ he hurried on, ‘when Mooncalf made his threat my hand fell to …’ Foulkes smiled thinly, ‘where my dagger should have been.’

‘But Mooncalf had prepared for that, hadn’t he?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes,’ Foulkes admitted. ‘He certainly had. He informed us how he had invested good silver in drawing up a bill of indictment which he had lodged with a notable serjeant of law at the Inns Court. He assured us that if anything happened to him, Mooncalf, the lawyer would immediately send the bill of indictment to the Bishop of London’s curia. He told us that we each had to make a payment and he would never raise the matter again. He gave us until the end of this month. If we had not paid by St David’s Day, he would denounce us as he had Sparwell.’ Foulkes shrugged and stared at Sir Robert, who had sat through the questioning, hands on the table, staring down at the Book of the Gospels.

‘Mooncalf,’ Foulkes added slowly, ‘said we would have to make a third payment for Sir Robert, not for any heresy but for lechery.’

‘I confess,’ Sir Robert raised a hand, ‘that neither my daughter nor Master William told me any of this directly, though I suspected.’

‘Did Marsen know?’ Cranston asked.

‘I cannot say and I don’t really care,’ Sir Robert whispered. He lifted his head. ‘My daughter thinks I may be responsible for his murder and that of the others.’ He turned to face his daughter. ‘You said as much with your eyes …’ His voice trailed off and he sat as if deaf to his daughter’s heated denials.

‘You are Lollards,’ Athelstan declared. ‘You face harassment and persecution. Now tell me something. Whom do you fear, I mean, apart from the likes of Mooncalf?’

‘The Bishop of London.’

‘What about the Papal Inquisitor? Have you or your conventicle had any dealings with him?’

‘No we have not. We raised this matter with Mooncalf. He simply replied that the Inquisitor meant nothing to him.’ Foulkes spread his hands. ‘What will happen to us?’

‘Wait and see,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘for we have not finished.’ He summoned Tiptoft and asked him to bring Mooncalf from where he had been detained in one of the loft chambers. A short while later the sweaty-faced ostler was pushed into the room. Mooncalf was all a-tremble as Athelstan indicated he sit on the stool at the other end of the table facing him. The friar then rose, picked up the Book of the Gospels and walked round, placing it before the terrified ostler. Athelstan demanded that Mooncalf put his hand on the book and repeat the oath he administered. The ostler did so in a harsh, stuttering voice. Once he had finished, Athelstan put the book back and returned to place his hand on Mooncalf’s shoulder. The ostler was trembling so much he couldn’t sit still.

‘Sir John.’ The friar winked at Cranston. ‘What is the punishment for a blackmailer convicted on at least three or four counts?’

‘Strangling.’ Cranston’s blunt reply rang through the chamber. ‘Strangling on a special gibbet. However, according to ancient custom, blackmail ranks with heresy so it can mean hanging over a slow-burning fire.’ Mooncalf moaned a long, drawn-out sound which came from the heart.

‘You are a blackmailer,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly. ‘Three of your planned victims sit close by. Death, however, draws near. It stretches out its cold, skeletal fingers to seize you by the nape of your neck.’ Athelstan moved his own hand accordingly. ‘You are going to die, Mooncalf, just as horribly as Sparwell, whose innocent soul you sent for judgement.’ Athelstan walked back to his own place. He warned Cranston with his eyes to let the silence deepen. They needed Mooncalf. If he cooperated, Cranston would inflict just punishment. ‘You want to escape the rigours of the law?’ Athelstan eventually asked. Mooncalf, half-choking, grunted his assent. ‘Master Foulkes, you too want to assist me?’

‘Of course,’ the clerk replied.

‘Good.’ Athelstan rose and took a piece of parchment from his chancery satchel. ‘You and Mooncalf will be taken to a private chamber. You will ask him the questions listed here. You will carefully write his responses. Mooncalf, I want the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. No additions or subtractions, just honest and accurate replies to very simple questions. Do you understand?’ Mooncalf nodded, rubbing his hands together and peering nervously over his shoulder. Athelstan summoned Tiptoft and Sir Simon, giving them strict instructions how the Pastons should be kept under close guard. Foulkes and Mooncalf were to be given a separate chamber and the clerk furnished with all the writing necessaries he would require.

Once the door closed behind them all, Cranston rose, stretched and walked across to the side table. He filled a goblet with the sweet white wine and, at Athelstan’s request, half a cup for the friar.

‘Very good.’ Cranston smacked his lips. ‘I must remember that. The Piebald holds wine as good as its ale.’ The coroner drank again. ‘So the Pastons have nothing to do with Marsen’s murder?’ he asked.

‘All things are still possible, Sir John. Until we have a full confession nothing is certain. I have certainly made mistakes.’

‘Such as?’

‘Foulkes is a learned scribe, a clerk from the schools …’

‘And a former crossbowman? A possible suspect, like Beowulf?’

‘Precisely, Sir John. Foulkes may now be a Lollard but,’ Athelstan laughed sharply, ‘in my brief and sheltered life I have met priests, monks and friars who have killed, killed and killed again. The old proverb is true: “The cowl does not make the monk nor the tonsure the saint”, which brings us to our next guest, Brother Marcel.’

The Inquisitor was full of himself as he strode into the Dark Parlour. Even from where he sat Athelstan could smell the perfumed oil rubbed into Marcel’s smooth, shaven face. His robes were spotless, the strapped sandals a gleaming oaken brown. Athelstan offered him the Book of Gospels but he pushed it away, quoting certain clauses from canon law. Both the coroner and friar had met similar clerical recalcitrance before.

‘Shall we, Sir John?’ Athelstan turned to Cranston.

‘Whatever you wish, Brother Athelstan.’

‘What?’ Marcel pushed his hands up the sleeves of his gown.

‘Brother Marcel, I am going to have you arrested on a charge of high treason. You will be taken to Newgate Prison or the Tower, perhaps the latter. It contains a chamber called “Little Ease” dug beneath the level of the river so it sometimes floods. Rats swarm there. You will be held in such a place – what’s the Norman French for it? Ah, yes: Sous peine dure et forte – punishment strong and hard. Of course, our order will argue for your release but the Dominican Minster General, not to mention Father Provincial and Prior Anslem at Blackfriars will find themselves in a veritable quandary.’

‘What do you mean?’ Marcel had now lost a great deal of his arrogance.

‘Well, our order will argue all sorts of things. They will appeal to the Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Sudbury, not to mention the Holy Father and sundry others amongst the great and noble. However, the allegations being levelled are those involving crimes against the English Crown, and they are not brought by some troublemaker but no lesser person than Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London, the king’s own justiciar south of the Thames, and also a fellow Dominican, Brother Athelstan of Southwark. Oh, I am sure that eventually some satisfactory conclusion will be reached. Nevertheless, that could take months, even years, whilst you are left to float in the filth and foul stink of “Little Ease”.’ Athelstan paused. ‘For the love of God, man, take the oath and let’s have done with this business. You were given a task and failed. Logic dictates you have to answer. Years ago we clashed in the schools, we engaged in fierce debate – we shall do so again.’

‘Take the oath,’ Cranston snapped, ‘or I will send for the guard.’ Marcel had recovered his composure, drawing deep breaths, a faint smile as if he conceded he had panicked and made a mistake but that could soon be rectified. He placed his hand on the Book of the Gospels and repeated the words as Athelstan dictated the oath. Afterwards the Inquisitor sniffed and pushed back the chair so he could stretch his legs.

‘I will dispense with the usual courtesies, Brother. You came to this kingdom as a Papal Inquisitor. Oh, I am sure,’ Athelstan waved a hand, ‘that the Holy Father has furnished you with all the necessary documentation. Indeed, my discoveries will come as a great surprise to him. I would even say a nasty shock. Brother Marcel, you are not just a Papal Inquisitor or a Dominican friar but the most secret emissary of Oliver de Clisson, High Constable of France. You were given privy instructions from him to discover and report on the strength and extent of this kingdom’s naval power, particularly along the Thames and in the city of London.’ Athelstan paused as Marcel sprang to his feet.

‘How dare you!’ the Inquisitor thundered. Athelstan clapped his hands as if applauding a mummer’s play.

‘Very good, Brother. There is nothing more engaging than outraged innocence when it’s false.’ Athelstan’s smile faded. ‘This is not some debating hall but a court of law. You must not forget the “Little Ease”, where no one except the rats will be entertained by your false outbursts of hurt innocence. So sit down and let me continue.’

‘Sit down!’ Cranston roared. ‘I am growing tired of this, Brother Marcel. Time is passing and we are very busy. If you are innocent, prove it, then dine with me, but you are not leaving this chamber until we have the truth. Or, if you wish, you can leave for the Tower.’ The Inquisitor slumped back in his chair.

‘You were also sent,’ Athelstan continued, ‘to discover as much as possible about the growing unrest in and around London. In addition you were told to seek out some military post which could be an advantage to any invading fleet. As we all know, Brother Marcel, England has lost its war in France. Our king is only a child; his self-proclaimed Regent is despised by both lords and commons. The peasants and the poor seethe with discontent. Tax collectors and others move across the shires like some pack of rapacious beasts. Our exchequer is empty. No wonder the French perceive a marvellous opportunity to bring war, fire and sword to this kingdom. To let us, God forgive us, experience the same destruction our armies wreaked in France, to teach us a lesson we shall never forget.’ Athelstan sipped from his goblet. Marcel was now quiet and attentive. ‘Good.’ Athelstan breathed in. ‘You, Marcel, are of Gascon parentage but, like many of your countrymen, you have come to resent any alliance with England. You see yourself as French through and through and you wish to prove that. You are a master of the University of Paris. I’m sure Monseigneur Clisson secretly approached you and your present mandate would only be a matter of manipulation. The papal curia has a good number of French cardinals. You have a praiseworthy reputation as a theologian and debater. You are of keen mind and sharp of wit, personable, charming and, of course, utterly ruthless in your quest. You were confirmed as Papal Inquisitor to England but, in truth, you are a French spy.’

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Marcel wetted his lips, ‘what you say, well,’ he shrugged elegantly, ‘most of what you say could be the truth. But where is the evidence for your last claim?’

‘First,’ Athelstan countered, ‘you arrive in England. I have made careful enquiries at Blackfriars. You spent little time at our mother house, whilst you made it very clear to me from the outset that you would not lodge in the Dominican parish of St Erconwald’s. Consequently, instead of staying in one place, you move along the south bank of the Thames, a marvellous opportunity to scrutinize and assess the strength of English shipping. You take very careful note of various craft, the different fortifications and defences, anything which may be of use to Monseigneur Clisson in Paris. You lodge at St Mary Overy, a fact I shall return to, before moving here to The Candle-Flame. This tavern is an ideal watching place; its desolate Palisade and the towering Barbican would be of great use should a French fleet breach our river defences and sail as far as they can up the Thames, which is of course to London Bridge, a mere walk away. The Candle-Flame would be ideal for an invasion force to pitch camp. The French could launch attacks across the river against the city, assault the Tower, seize the bridge …’

‘Proof! Evidence!’ Marcel shouted, yet beneath the pretended outrage Athelstan sensed a deeply agitated soul, wary and watchful.

‘You move to The Candle-Flame because of its location, but also because Sir Robert Paston resides here during his attendance at the Commons,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Paston is an excellent quarry. Bitter, disillusioned and a publicly vowed opponent of John of Gaunt, Paston is also an authority on English shipping. You have marked Paston down whilst, at the same time, you are moving through Southwark, a hotbed of unrest and intrigue. Sir John here believes that we friars are the only people who can move through the slums, which lie only an arrow flight from where we now sit. You take advantage of that. You visited my parish and learnt all you could about the Upright Men, the Great Community of the Realm, the coming revolt, but, above all, you strike up conversations with the Pastons, Sir Robert in particular. You feed his vanity, not that he needs much prompting. Sir Robert holds forth, yielding all kinds of information about English shipping.’ Athelstan took another sip of wine. ‘Do you remember the afternoon I escaped from the fire in the Barbican? I first climbed to the top of that tower. You were there, provided with a spectacular view of the ships, ports, quaysides and defences on both the north and south bank of the river. Even better, Sir Robert was holding forth, an excellent guide, a true source of sound information. In truth, you had a man who could have been Admiral of the Eastern Fleet providing you, a French spy, with your heart’s desire. To everyone else, you just appeared to be a friar, a visitor to these shores asking innocent questions, perhaps developing an interest in shipping. To all appearances you are a Papal Inquisitor, not an expert on cogs of war or river defences. I remember when I escaped from the fire, you were preparing to meet Sir Robert yet again over supper. I suggest by the time that supper was finished you knew as much about English shipping as Master Thibault or any member of the king’s council.’ Athelstan held up a scroll. ‘I asked Sir Robert to draw a report on what you and he discussed; only then, in the cold light of listing items, did Sir Robert become suspicious. He has confessed that quite deftly and cunningly you always brought the conversation back to caravels, hulkes, cogs of war and the state of English defences, be it the ships at the Tower quayside or those patrolling the estuary. I recall you at St Erconwald’s. You were examining a war painting; you lectured Crim, our altar boy, on the difference between a cog and a caravel.’

‘I enjoy looking at ships and talking about them,’ Marcel countered. ‘I have done so since I was a boy. We all have our interests. You, I understand, are fascinated by the stars.’

‘No, Brother Marcel, your interest isn’t shipping, your interest is in spying. Let me continue. On the night of the murders at The Candle-Flame you were lodged at St Mary Overy. Earlier that day Ruat, a Hainault sailor and your emissary, or at least one of them, to Constable Clisson, came here.’ Athelstan glanced up. Marcel started plucking at his robe. Athelstan hid his quiet satisfaction; he had gambled, and would do so again, that Marcel knew nothing about the attack on Ruat, his brutal murder and Thibault’s seizure of that most incriminating document.

‘Ostensibly Ruat had been visiting the Shrine of the Virgin of the Narrow Seas; in fact, he visited St Mary Overy to collect this.’ He pushed Thibault’s documents towards the Papal Inquisitor. Marcel took one look, desperate to hide his agitation. ‘You gave Ruat a comprehensive report on shipping and the naval defences along the Thames. You also gave him a purse of silver. By chance Ruat came here to celebrate his good fortune. He drank, became merry and hurried across the river to his ship berthed at Queenhithe. Unfortunately, within a short distance of that vessel, Ruat was assaulted, robbed and killed, his corpse thrown into the river. The perpetrators were caught and hanged out of hand. Ruat’s dead body was dragged from the Thames. Your report to Clisson was found on him, waterlogged but still decipherable.’

‘It was not mine. I don’t know …’

‘It’s obvious that Ruat’s death and Thibault’s discovery remained unknown to you. You thought Ruat was safely despatched back across the Narrow Seas. Nor did you realize that, later that same day, a drinking dirge was held in Ruat’s memory here at The Candle-Flame.’

Marcel stared back, his shock obvious.

‘As for proof,’ Athelstan pressed on, ‘well, we could compare your handwriting with that of the report. I am sure there is a very strong resemblance.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘Oh, there is more than just handwriting. At the end of this document,’ Athelstan kept his tone conversational, ‘there is a sentence. Thibault deciphered and translated it as “I reside at The Candle-Flame, 16 February”,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘the same evening the murders took place here. Thibault, however, was incorrect. The manuscript was water-stained. Your use of a cipher and the usual abbreviations of a trained chancery clerk make its study more difficult. Thibault thought you wrote resideo – I reside; in actual fact you use the future tense, residebo – I shall reside – a simple, understandable mistake. Thibault also overlooked another word, because it was faded and abbreviated, the Latin word post – after. Once we correct this sentence it reads, “I shall reside at The Candle-Flame after 16 February.” I investigated this with Mine Host. I have closely inspected the tavern ledger. You, Marcel, are the only person who, days earlier, hired a chamber for after 16 February. You hired a very comfortable one. You wanted to make sure that you would be well housed and fed.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I can show you the ledger?’ Marcel simply waved a hand. ‘There is more. You are supposed to be a Papal Inquisitor, that’s the proclaimed reason for your arrival in this kingdom. By your own admission you have a special interest in the Lollard sect. However, when I ask Lollards about you, including one imprisoned and condemned to death in the Bocardo, they make no mention of you. I am sure, and I can check this, that Master Thibault must have told you about Sparwell. What a splendid opportunity to find out more. You could have visited him.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Indeed,’ he smiled, ‘if you had, Blanchard would have met you. He would have been prepared for the imposter which led to two prisoners escaping and the keeper himself and some of his turnkeys being brutally slaughtered.’

‘I heard about that,’ Marcel snapped. ‘Such men should be rigorously punished.’

‘That’s not your concern,’ Athelstan declared. ‘My point is that you have shown no real interest in the Lollards. That’s not just my opinion but that of the Bishop of London’s curia. Of course, you believed no one would dare challenge a Papal Inquisitor going about his business. My question is very simple. What business? According to all the evidence it is English shipping rather than English heresy. Finally,’ Athelstan glanced down as if he was studying a document, when in fact he was quietly praying that Marcel would step into the trap, ‘what you also don’t know is that Master William Foulkes once served in Brabant as a crossbowman. On the afternoon Ruat came here to celebrate in the Dark Parlour, he struck up a friendship with Foulkes, whom he regarded as a Brabantine, an ally of Hainault. Ruat informed Foulkes how you had given him the silver-’

‘Ruat couldn’t have …’ Marcel stopped his outburst and closed his eyes, a gesture of defeat. Athelstan sat watching the flame on the nearest candle burn away another ring. He allowed the silence to deepen, broken by a knock at the door. Sir Simon Burley came in. The knight placed a sheaf of documents before Athelstan and left just as quietly.

‘You were going to say, Brother Marcel, how Ruat could not possibly know because you met him deep in the shadows of St Mary Overy. Yes? But who would know the truth about that except you?’ Athelstan stared down at the documents, sifting through them quickly. ‘We have ransacked your chamber and been through your chancery satchel. No, please spare us your protests. And what do we find? What looks like an innocent list of ships, including Sir Oliver Beresford’s great new war cog out of Yarmouth now berthed at Baynard Castle. So …’ Athelstan gestured at Marcel.

‘I admit,’ Marcel waved his hands, ‘that in the interest of a lasting peace between England and France, I decided to take careful note of England’s naval strength whilst here on papal business. My motive was to discourage the French from any hostile action.’ He paused at Cranston’s snorting laughter. ‘I appeal to a higher court. I plead benefit of clergy. I demand that as a subject of the king of France I be returned safely to that kingdom or to one of its officers here in England. Finally, I am a Dominican-’

‘You are a spy!’ Cranston broke in. ‘You will be detained as such until His Grace, Richard King of England, Ireland, Scotland and France,’ the coroner emphasized the last word, ‘decides what to do. Brother Athelstan?’

The friar summoned Tiptoft, who brought back Sir Simon and a military escort. Cranston gestured that the Papal Inquisitor should go with them. Once their footsteps in the gallery outside faded, Cranston and Athelstan left the table and quickly ate some of the food the friar had bought together with white wine in a sealed jug, a gift from The Piebald.

‘The mills of God, eh, little friar?’

‘Yes, Sir John. The mills of God are grinding slowly but surely. Nevertheless, deep in my heart, nothing we do in this chamber will fully restore God’s justice or his harmony. All we can do is deal with mortal sin and its malignant consequences.’ Athelstan finished his food then washed his hands and face at the lavarium. Cranston also prepared himself, leaving the chamber for the garderobe. Once he returned, Athelstan asked Thibault to fetch Brother Roger.

The Franciscan sauntered in as if attending a colloquium, a friendly debate in some refectory. He blithely took the oath and sat with an amused smile on his face as if rather surprised at the proceedings.

‘Ic waes lytel?’ Athelstan asked.

‘When I was little,’ Brother Roger translated. ‘My friend, I did not know you were skilled in the Saxon tongue.’

‘I am not but you certainly are. You are Roger Godwinson, that’s your family name. You claim descent from the ancient royal Saxon family displaced by William the Norman.’

‘Roger Godwinson,’ the Franciscan agreed, becoming more wary.

‘A scholar of the Saxon tongue as we have just proved and you have admitted,’ Athelstan replied. ‘A man recognized in his own order, by the ancients who taught him at Greyfriars, as a scholar deeply immersed in the study of all things Saxon. A man who, by common recollection, studied the poem Beowulf and could quote it line by line. Indeed, time and again, ever since we met, you have unwittingly quoted verses from that poem.’

The Franciscan raised his eyebrows.

‘Three examples will suffice,’ Athelstan replied, ‘though I could quote others. First, when the Earthworms attacked us in Cheapside you made a unique reference to fighting as long as the World’s Candle shines, a phrase quoted directly from Beowulf. Secondly, after I escaped from the inferno in the Barbican, you talked about your fear of fire and how each man nursed his own special fear within him. You also joked about how I had escaped from the Dragon’s breath. Again, direct quotations from Beowulf. Finally, when we first met, you referred to “this fierce hostility, this murderous lust between men”, a phrase which can also be found in your favourite poem.’

‘So I quote lines from an ancient poem,’ the friar laughingly replied. ‘There is no crime in that.’

‘A Franciscan,’ Athelstan pressed the point, ‘who also travels the shires around London begging alms, one who was always in close vicinity when Beowulf, that secret assassin, attacked Master Thibault’s minions.’

‘You are accusing me of being Beowulf. You are, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am. Let me lay my indictment against you.’ Athelstan emphasized his points on his fingers. ‘First, you are very proud of your Saxon heritage. I have proved this and you have admitted it. Secondly, as a novice at Greyfriars you won a reputation of being steeped in your heritage as well as proving yourself to be a scholar in both the tongue and literature of the Saxon people. I understand that.’ Athelstan tapped his chest. ‘My own family also claims descent from the ancient earls, hence my own name which, as you know, is also that of a great Saxon king. I have proved this and you have admitted as much. Thirdly, even in conversation you make reference to your Saxon heritage and, in particular, that great epic Beowulf. Indeed,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘you know more about Erconwald, the great Saxon saint, than I do. You are undoubtedly a fervent student of all things Saxon, including their sermons, which often quote those ominous words from the prophet Daniel about God numbering, weighing in the balance and being found wanting. Only a scholar, albeit a very arrogant one, could quote such a phrase in its original tongue. Fourthly, you have a licence to beg for your order in and around London. You move in a circuit from place to place residing where you wish …’

‘You have proved that and I admit it.’ Friar Roger mockingly echoed Athelstan’s phrase. ‘But tell me, where is the wrong in that?’

‘Fifthly,’ Athelstan moved inexorably on, ‘every time one of Thibault’s minions is attacked you are close by on your so-called begging circuit. Indeed, I believe Marsen, despite his wickedness, was also a man of sharp wit; he was growing increasingly suspicious about you. He once made reference that he knew someone was following him but that he would take care of it in his own way. Marsen was also a killer. He would know how difficult it was to challenge you; after all, you are a priest, a Fransiscan. I believe that one day, and that day would have come sooner than you think, Marsen would have tried to murder you. Indeed,’ Athelstan pointed at the Franciscan, ‘I openly concede that what I say here is garbled. Marsen, deep in his cups, once referred to Beowulf then to slaying the Wolf of Guttio. Why should he say that? He was in fact referring to St Francis of Assisi who in his life tamed the savage Wolf of Gubbio. Marsen, or his listener, in this case a prostitute, mismatched the words. St Francis took care of the ravenous Wolf of Gubbio. Marsen would take care of his Wolf of Gubbio, which mistakenly became Guttio, a worldly friar, very much a wolf in sheep’s clothing – a skilled assassin. Marsen was parodying a story which, in its original, exemplifies all the idealism of the Franciscan Order. Furthermore,’ Athelstan tapped the manuscripts in front of him, ‘Sir John provided me with a list of places and times when Beowulf was attacked. I also asked Father Guardian at Greyfriars to send me an extract from the alms rolls, a true record of what monies you collected, where and when. Friar Roger, there is virtual concordance between the places where such attacks occurred and your whereabouts.’ Athelstan stared at the Franciscan. Brother Roger was now more attentive and not so supercilious. You are all the same, Athelstan reflected. Murderers are steeped in sin which is always rooted in a deep pride. You truly believe you are superior to everyone else. You think you have a God-given right to judge, condemn and execute as you think fit.’

‘I believe Athelstan has proved his point,’ Cranston observed, ‘but whether you admit to it or not …?’

‘Who do you think you are?’ Athelstan decided to taunt his opponent. ‘Some great Saxon hero defending the poor with your sly, furtive attacks, arrows whipping out of the darkness? The real Beowulf didn’t do that. He confronted the monsters, met them face-to-face in heroic combat.’

Friar Roger just sat, lip jutting out. He glanced swiftly at Athelstan and gently shook his head.

‘The same happened during Marsen’s journey to The Candle-Flame: he was attacked at Leveret Copse. According to your Father Guardian you were close by. You lodged at this tavern to plot fresh mischief. You planned to strike on the morning of the seventeenth of February. The previous evening you entered the stables and placed miniature caltrops under the saddles of both Marsen and Mauclerc’s horses. The next morning they would hoist themselves in the saddle, ready for another day’s wickedness. They would drive the caltrops into their horses’ backs. The animals would rear in agony and both men would be thrown, at least injured, and so rendered suitable targets for you and your crossbow. In the end your plot was overtaken by another more deadly. Nevertheless, a more important target presented itself when Lascelles unexpectedly arrived here.’

‘You cannot prove that. I was preparing to leave for the city.’

‘Seventhly,’ Athelstan pressed on like a lawyer before King’s Bench, ‘I know from my enquiries that Lascelles arrived here cloaked and cowled. No one was expecting him. Only when he reached here did he pull back his cowl, reveal himself and begin an argument about whether the tavern gates should be closed or not.’

‘Which means?’

‘Listen now,’ Athelstan urged. ‘I had met you earlier. You were all ready to leave. Consequently when Lascelles arrived you acted swiftly. You slipped out into the street and gave that beggar boy the hastily scribbled note and a coin. You then returned. Like the professional assassin you are, you know all there is about The Candle-Flame: the different galleries, empty chambers and lonely vantage points. Beneath your cloak you carry an arbalest and a quiver of bolts. You tried to kill Lascelles but failed because of me. Now, I recall vividly who was in the yard that morning when the attack took place. You certainly weren’t!’

Friar Roger simply stared back.

‘Thorne was talking to Mooncalf. The Pastons and William Foulkes were closeted together in the Dark Parlour both before and after the attack. Ronseval was also in the yard. The only person missing was you.’ Athelstan moved the parchment before him. ‘You came down later and, as an act of impudence, asked to join Lascelles’ escort into the city. Later, when you visited St Erconwald’s, I mistakenly made reference to Pike and Watkin being involved with the Upright Men. I saw you cultivate them when you visited St Erconwald’s. I have questioned them. They distinctly recall you asking both where they lived; in fact, they invited you to their houses. This is my ninth charge against you. You used that knowledge to provoke that conflict here at The Candle-Flame. You knew where Pike and Watkin lived. You are a friar, popular with the people and certainly on good terms with those leading lights amongst the Upright Men, Watkin and Pike. Once twilight had fallen, you slipped along to their houses dressed in a simple robe and hood and delivered those messages about Marsen’s treasure still lying here at The Candle-Flame. All you had to do was wait for them to leave for their muster. You knew they would. The Upright Men would be delighted to steal such wealth from Master Thibault. Only then do you send that letter to the Guildhall and bring about the confrontation. The Upright Men disappear but Thibault and Lascelles remain. Of course, everyone in the tavern is alarmed. Once again, you choose your vantage point, strike and kill at least one of your intended victims.’ Athelstan fell silent, tapping the table with his fingers. ‘Brother Roger, let me weave all this together. Your Saxon heritage, your absorption with the epic Beowulf, your constant quotations from it, your presence close in time and place to all the assaults, successful or not, against Thibault’s minions and Marsen’s veiled allegations against you. Then your presence in The Candle-Flame when those saddles were primed so the horses would rear and throw their riders. Your where-abouts when Lascelles was attacked in the stableyard and, again, after the Earthworms occupied The Candle-Flame. Your knowledge of Pike and Watkin being placed amongst the Upright Men as well as where they lived. Finally, and I admit only I know this but cannot reveal all as I have not yet finished, the elimination of other possible suspects leaving only you. Of course,’ Athelstan gestured towards the door, ‘a search is now being carried out in your chamber and all your possessions.’

‘Sit down!’ Cranston bellowed as the Franciscan sprang to his feet. ‘Sit down,’ the coroner repeated, ‘or I will have you chained. What does it matter, Brother Roger, the case weighs heavily against you. If all this was submitted to a jury they would, I assure you, return a true bill of indictment for murder, treason and a litany of other felonies.’

‘I am a Franciscan!’ Friar Roger shouted back. ‘My order works with and for the poor. I am a true son of the soil. I wander the shires of this kingdom and see the lords of the soil bully, harass and exploit the humble. So yes, I am like Beowulf: I fight monsters, I slay them.’

‘No one gave you that right,’ Athelstan countered.

‘I will not confess to you what I did or why,’ Brother Roger sneered. ‘I plead benefit of clergy. More importantly, I quote the constitutions of my order accepted by Holy Mother Church and the Crown of England that I can only be questioned, tried and, if found guilty, convicted by my own Minister General in full chapter at our mother house in Assisi. I appeal to that process. I will not, shall not say any more.’

‘Nor shall you,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You, Brother Roger, are a killer, an assassin. You are not the son of the Poor Man of Assisi, the great St Francis, but the offspring of Cain. You are as arrogant as the Lord Satan, full of false pride at your heritage. You decided not to pray or administer to the poor but act as their so-called, self-proclaimed champion in slaughtering those you, and only you, consider worthy of death. You have made yourself your own idol, turned yourself into a graven image of God himself.’ Athelstan rang the hand bell. ‘Think, Brother, think long and hard. Do not be so proud or confident. Remember the words of the psalm: “Put not your trust in Egypt, nor your confidence in the war chariots of Pharaoh or the swift horses of Syria. God’s power is the truth.” Athelstan slammed the bell down, rose and walked away as Cranston supervised the Franciscan’s arrest, instructing Burley that Brother Roger be chained and kept under close watch. The door had hardly closed when a ferocious knocking brought Athelstan back. Tiptoft stood there with William Foulkes.

‘He has something for you,’ the messenger declared. Foulkes handed over the small scrolls detailing Athelstan’s questions and Mooncalf’s answers. Athelstan swiftly read the latter and smiled. He had what he needed.

‘Ask Mine Host,’ he declared, ‘to bring us some wine.’ A short while later Thorne, aproned and carrying a tray, came into the chamber. He put the tray down on the side table. Athelstan walked to the door and opened it. He had warned Tiptoft before and felt reassured at the crossbowmen, all wearing the royal livery, quietly taking up their position outside. Athelstan sketched a blessing in their direction and walked back to Thorne, who was tutting under his breath at the food and wine Athelstan had brought from The Piebald. Cranston stood looking rather perplexed, though the coroner sensed danger and his right hand now rested on the silver-hilted dagger in its sheath beneath his cloak. Athelstan clapped the taverner on his shoulder.

‘Take off your apron, Master Simon,’ he urged, ‘and there is no need for this either.’ He plucked the dagger from the taverner’s belt, threw it on the floor and kicked it away.

Thorne raised his big, muscular hands. ‘Brother Athelstan, what is this?’ he protested. ‘Why do you bring wine and food to my tavern?’

‘I don’t want to be poisoned,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘I don’t want to be sent into that sleep close to death. Sit down, Master Thorne. Take the oath, for your very life is to be challenged. You are a true brother of the man we have just questioned. Like him you have murdered and snatched the souls of others out of this life and hurled them unprepared into the eternal dark.’

Thorne staggered back, his hand clawing for where his dagger should have been, but Cranston had slid behind him and the coroner’s razor-edged sword brushed the side of his neck.

‘Sit down, Thorne!’ Athelstan almost pushed the taverner into the chair in front of the table. ‘Simon Thorne.’ Athelstan took his seat as Cranston, hiding his own surprise, went to sit opposite the accused.

‘Simon Thorne,’ the friar repeated, ‘I formally accuse you of murder on many counts.’

‘This is not true!’ Thorne made to rise.

‘I wouldn’t leave that chair.’ Cranston leaned across the table, his podgy finger jabbing. ‘You must not leave that chair. You will remain silent or I shall order the guards to bind and gag you.’ Cranston tapped the hilt of his sword, its blade pointing towards Thorne. The taverner slumped back. Athelstan studied the accused’s hard, muscular face, the pock-marked skin drawn tight, the slightly bulbous eyes bright with cunning and fear. The taverner was sweating, his breath heavy. Now and again his thick fingers would scratch at his black, wiry hair. Athelstan recalled their first meeting. He quietly marvelled at how so many individuals could hide their true soul, the karpos, as he called it, the dominant spirit which could shift, hide and lurk for a lifetime yet rarely manifest its true self. Athelstan had plotted this carefully. Once he had eliminated others, logic and evidence pointed to this guilty taverner. Athelstan had been anxious lest Thorne discover that he was suspected. Flight from the law was common enough. Men disappear never to be seen again. Thorne might lose his tavern, but he would take with him the stolen treasure from where Athelstan suspected he had hidden it and flee to any part of the kingdom or beyond.

‘Master Thorne, you are a taverner. I know very little of your previous life. I understand you fought in France. You were a captain of hobelars. Now, Sir John, correct me if I am wrong, but a hobelar is a man-at-arms and a bowman? Not just one of the levy but skilled and seasoned. Hobelars are often used as scouts or despatched under the cover of dark to kill enemy sentries before a night attack is launched.’

Thorne just glanced away.

‘You know that to be true,’ Cranston remarked quietly. ‘You have as much experience in war as I have.’

‘I simply say that,’ Athelstan declared, ‘to demonstrate that you, Thorne, have killed, albeit the king’s enemies. I suspect you were very good at it. You amassed considerable wealth from the war in France. Your first wife dies and you marry again. You invest in this tavern. Of course, you wonder sometimes, more often than not, whether it was such a prosperous venture. London seethes with unrest. When the Great Community of the Realm raises the black banner of anarchy, I truly believe that Southwark will burn. Oh, you make payments to the Upright Men and you also curry favour with Master Thibault, but you know that that can’t save The Candle-Flame from devastation. Now, your wife Eleanor is the daughter of a tavern keeper who owns the The Silver Harp on the Canterbury road. Last summer the assassin Beowulf successfully attacked and killed Justice Folevile, one of Thibault’s horde of tax collectors. Of course, families meet and mingle. You must have heard about such an attack and, I suspect, the seeds of the heinous murders committed here were sown: a plot to seize a treasure which would be your surety in the time of trouble.’

‘You are very much mistaken,’ Thorne spluttered. ‘I …’

‘I shall prove I am not,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Marsen arrived here with his treasure chest. He was a most unsavoury character, Mauclerc not much better. You leave them to their own devices. Mooncalf serves the food whilst you visit occasionally. We know the reason why and I shall return to that later. In the main, you act the busy taverner who resents having to pay court to the likes of Master Thibault, as well as contribute just as secretly to the Upright Men. You hate them both but, as I’ve said, you have your own devious plan to escape the coming fury. Undoubtedly I could summon your father-in-law from The Silver Harp on the Canterbury road. I would place him on oath. I am certain that he will agree with me that he provided you with a very detailed description, at your insistence, of the crossbow bolts used to kill Folevile and others. I am more than certain that he would have repeated those mocking verses taken from the prophet Daniel. A search of your muniments will reveal a copy. I could ask why a taverner has written down such verses.’

‘There is no law against that!’ Thorne retorted. ‘True, I have heard the verses before. I find them compelling, like many lines from the scriptures. I, too, am a scholar, Brother Athelstan, learned in my horn-book. I have read the scriptures, I understand Latin. Certain verses, as I have said, appeal to me.’

‘Oh, I am sure they do.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Such as “By their fruits ye shall know them”. But to return to my indictment. On the night of the murders, you pretended to be concerned about a possible intruder in the stables.’

‘But there was one!’ Thorne beat against the table, hastily withdrawing his hand as Cranston’s fingers fell to the sword lying close to him.

‘Oh, I know there was an intruder. However, on that particular evening, you used that as an excuse, a pretence to explain your absence from your own bed. Master Thorne, I shall be swift. You had planned well and your motive was the oldest of sins – pure greed. You must have seen the heavy exchequer coffer during your visits to Marsen. You observed how he loved to throw back the lid to glory at the gold and silver heaped within. There was no need for any keys. Marsen thought he was safe. He had a guard of six veteran archers and he was locked and secured in the formidable Barbican. You did see the gold and silver, didn’t you?’ Thorne grudgingly nodded his head. ‘Such a sight would only whet your appetite and hone your greed. Under the cover of darkness you took a stout cask of your famous ale from the cellar. You pulled back the bung and poured in a very powerful sleeping potion. You walked across the Palisade and stopped before the campfire. Two of the archers were there but, of course, Hugh of Hornsey was missing. You would know that, wouldn’t you? Because you keep everything under close watch, yes, Master Thorne?’ The taverner, now more wary than angry, simply stared back. ‘Hornsey and Ronseval were lovers. You knew that because they had lodged in your tavern before. I have inspected your chamber ledger; your wife is very methodical. The last time they were here was during the festivities at Christmas. Of course, they stayed in separate chambers, but that was only a pretence. They had to protect themselves against being discovered, public humiliation and execution. I shall return to both these victims of your murderous heart. On the evening in question, however, you offer cheer to those two archers. They are cold, tired and of course they would love to sample your tastiest ale, which I am sure is markedly better than what the niggardly Marsen bought for them. Moreover,’ Athelstan gestured to his right, ‘I made discreet enquiries with your cook. I understand that on the night of the murders you helped him prepare the dishes for Marsen and his comitatus. He recalled you making the capon highly spiced and very strong, which of course only deepened their thirst. You fill their blackjacks and wait. They drink and soon lapse into sleep. I suspect the potion was very strong and would soon have an effect. You then take the tankards and empty what is left of the tainted ale on to the ground. You use the common ale the archers have brought out with them to clean those tankards as well as remove any trace of the sleeping draught.

‘Juice of the poppy?’ Cranston asked.

‘Perhaps,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You have some here, Master Thorne?’ Again the only reply was that hard, unblinking glare. You tried to murder me, Athelstan thought. You are quite prepared to watch me burn a horrible death simply to conceal your own dire, wicked acts. I was to be silenced so you could hide your host of mortal sins.

‘Brother?’ Cranston asked.

‘Quieta non movere, quieta non movere,’ Athelstan declared, ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ I recall seeing a bear fast asleep on a corner in Southwark. Its owner claimed the animal had been given a sleeping draught. On other occasions my cat Bonaventure, who drank my ale, lay fast asleep on the hearth and, at the other extreme, Sparwell lurched in that execution barrel bereft of all consciousness. Such images made me recall this tavern’s great pig, the boar Pedro the Cruel, falling fast asleep outside its sty on a freezing winter night. Pedro, I suspect, is a benevolent animal but still a very greedy one, with a snout for any titbit left lying about, including all the drugged ale you poured out of the tankards used by those archers. On reflection, I concluded, that could be the only explanation for a pig who loves its comfort not to return to sleep in its sty on such a night.’ Athelstan sipped from his own goblet. ‘Of course, unlike poison, a sleeping potion leaves no visible effect. Even the rats in the Guildhall dungeon would just creep back into their holes to sleep. So let us return to the Palisade, shrouded in an icy darkness. You leave the archers sleeping and move to the Barbican.’

‘What if Hornsey had returned?’ Thorne, his lower lip trembling, gestured with his hand.

‘Quite understandable: he would have found two guards asleep. He would probably welcome that and go back to his lover, Ronseval. Oh no, that didn’t pose any danger. The only real threat to you, Master Thorne, was someone actually finding you in the Barbican when the murders were taking place, though that would be nigh impossible because you were going to seal yourself in. Even afterwards, if someone had stopped you on the Palisade, it wouldn’t be proof enough. After all, you are the tavern master here.’ Athelstan breathed in deeply. ‘Oh no, what you plotted and planned was very devious. You arrive at the Barbican and the guards in the lower chamber welcome you; after all, you are the genial Mine Host making sure everyone is comfortable. You brought that tun of your special ale. You insist on sharing it out before climbing up into the storey above. Again, Marsen and Mauclerc cordially greet you. They like that, someone dancing attendance on them, eager to please. You are their host, a man who has to report to Master Thibault. You carry a gift and they are certainly deep in their cups. Of course, the exchequer chest lies open as you suspected it would be. Marsen had insisted that Hornsey unclasp the third lock – he and Mauclerc have unfastened the other two. I suspect even if it had been locked, once you had dealt with your victims you would have just forced the locks, but Marsen’s glorying in his greed made your task all the easier. You measure out the ale containing that powerful sleeping draught. You are serving a refreshing drink to men and women who have eaten your highly spiced capon, which would only sharpen their thirst. You tried to claim Marsen wouldn’t want cheap ale – he didn’t, but a tankard of your best is another matter. Toasts are exchanged and, within a very short while, your victims are deep in a drugged sleep. You then move swiftly. You leave the Barbican and bring in the hooked ladder as well as a small crossbow and quiver of bolts you’ve hidden close by. You also move a barrow or cart from that tangle of conveyances beneath the tarpaulin to stand just beneath the window. Once inside, you lock and bolt the main door and carry the ladder to the upper chamber and continue your plan. In both chambers you make it look as if the most violent conflict had occurred. Indeed, you will make people wonder if there was one attacker involved or more. You confuse matters even more by drawing the weapons of your sleeping victims and placing them nearby. You ensure that the blades rasp together in case they are closely scrutinized.’ Athelstan gathered himself as he approached the black heart of this matter. ‘God forgive you,’ he whispered. ‘You then carry out dreadful murder in different ways, inflicting on each victim a mortal wound. Tax collectors, archers and whores, every single soul in that Barbican you slaughter without mercy.’ Athelstan sat staring at the accused. ‘Now you must cover your sin, you make sure the tankards in both chambers are clean. You pour the tainted drink into the great water bucket on the lavarium. You swill out those tankards and use the ordinary ale to refill them. Of course, once I’d left, you made sure that the bucket of dirty water was taken and poured into the river. You’ve achieved what you wanted – all traces of any sleeping potion are removed. The taunting verses about being numbered and weighed in the balance, purportedly the words of Beowulf, are pinned to the inside of the window shutter.’

‘And the money?’ Thorne broke in. ‘How was I supposed to-’

‘I wondered about that, Master Thorne, I really did. It was far too dangerous to carry a clinking sack across the Palisade and into the tavern. For a while I suspected you concealed it in the piggery or somewhere along the Palisade, but that would be highly dangerous. You suspected Thibault and others might come hunting for the lost treasure. If it was found outside the Barbican, somewhere in your tavern or the land around it, suspicion would naturally fall on you. So I concluded that the treasure is still in the Barbican.’

‘Nonsense! The fire …’ Thorne fell quiet, almost squirming in the chair.

‘Oh, Master Thorne, what did you just nearly say? That you wouldn’t hide your plunder in a place you tried to burn?’

‘You are tricking me. You trip me up with words.’

‘No, Thorne, you stumble over your own lies. You started that fire. I saw the scorch marks against the wall where it began. I smelt the oil. I asked myself then who could so easily bring oil into the Barbican?’

‘Someone coming in from the river. Many people wander here, trespassers on tavern land. Anyone of these could have brought in the oil.’

‘But you did realize that the fire was deliberately started by oil being poured?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Well, yes.’

‘But on the afternoon when the fire occurred, when I escaped and came here into the Dark Parlour, you claimed it must have been an accident.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

‘But even then, as owner of the Barbican, you must have wondered what caused a fire to rage so violently.’ Thorne just glared back. ‘Anyway,’ Athelstan continued serenely, ‘you must have searched the Barbican after the fire and, like me, smelt the oil?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you, the owner, must have realized that there was no oil in the Barbican to begin with. I certainly didn’t see any. It must have been specially brought in, so the fire was no accident but an attempt to murder me.’ Thorne just blinked, wetting his lips.

‘In which case,’ Athelstan spread his hands, ‘why didn’t you inform me, send an urgent message to St Erconwald’s or to Sir John at the Guildhall? After all, you did assure me it was probably an accident, then you discovered that the opposite was the case.’

‘I am sorry, I made a mistake.’ Thorne blinked. ‘I am not too sure whether I really did know it was oil.’

‘Master Thorne, your attempt to murder me was a terrible mistake. You didn’t think it through, or perhaps you did but wagered I would never survive to question you. I will go back to the beginning. You must have gone into the Barbican to satisfy your own curiosity about why your property had been burnt. In fact, you did more than that; a great deal of the wreckage had been removed.’

‘I hired la-labourers,’ Thorne stammered.

‘Which labourers?’ Cranston roared as the realization dawned on the coroner that the accused had almost murdered his beloved Athelstan. ‘Which labourers, Thorne, and I want every detail!’

‘I forget, I forget,’ Thorne mumbled. He sat, head down, and, when he glanced up, Athelstan caught the man’s sheer desperation. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, I am confused. If I, as you allege, stole Marsen’s treasure and hid it in the Barbican, where, according you, it still remains hidden, then why should I deliberately start a fire in the same place?’

‘Oh, for many reasons. Never mind my murder, you deliberately made the Barbican a ruin, derelict, a place of little use to anyone. After the fire, who would go there? Which is why you insisted on clearing the wreckage yourself. You didn’t bring in any labourers, Mooncalf has informed me of that and Mooncalf would dare not lie to me. Oh, before the fire you allowed the likes of Paston and Brother Marcel to climb to the top of the tower to view the river.’ Athelstan pulled a face. ‘To try and stop them would have created suspicion, but of course,’ Athelstan lowered his voice, ‘I was different. You resented my snooping, my prying and, above all, me going anywhere near the Barbican, where the gold and silver you stole, held in a leather sack, has been pushed deep into that latrine, the ancient sewer beneath the garderobe.’

‘But the fire?’

‘The fire did not reach it. The bag is thrust down deep in a pit, sunk amongst the most filthy refuse. No one would think of searching for it there, especially now after the Barbican has been reduced to a ruin. Time would pass and, when all was quiet and memories faded, you would dig deep and remove what you had stolen.’ Athelstan stared at the taverner, who now kept glancing over his shoulder at the door. The friar had wondered if Eleanor Thorne was implicated but he concluded that she was not, which is why Thorne had told her the tale about searching for the intruder in the stables. However, did Eleanor herself secretly suspect her husband?

‘No one will come here, Master Thorne,’ Athelstan declared softly. ‘We have no need, as yet, to question your wife, so let us return to the Barbican the night you committed these murders. All your victims lay dead; both chambers left in chaos, the proclamation has been pinned, the gold and silver hidden away. Now you prepare to leave. You ensure that you have everything with you – you return to the lower chamber to check for the final time. The door is locked and bolted. You take the ladder into the upper storey, you secure the trapdoor and move swiftly. All lights are doused as you prepare to leave through the window.’ Athelstan held up a hand at a knocking at the door. He rose, crossed and opened it. Burley stood there holding a crossbow, three small quarrels and a wristguard. The knight put the quarrels and wristguard on the floor and held up the arbalest.

‘Found in Friar Roger’s chamber,’ he declared. ‘But very clever, look.’ The knight banneret swiftly unpinned the apparatus on the crossbow: the hand-drawn chord and the studs which held everything in place, the metal groove and release clasps could all be taken off. Burley did this swiftly and Athelstan smiled. The hand-held arbalest was no longer a deadly weapon but a Tau, the symbol beloved of the Franciscan order: a T-shaped cross which took its name from the Greek letter ‘Tau’, the symbol used by St Francis Assisi to sign his letters.

‘It can be assembled very swiftly,’ Burley explained, ‘and then just as speedily be stripped of all its war-like paraphernalia.’

‘And the quarrels?’

‘Found in his chamber. Again very cunning. All three can be taken apart, watch.’ Burley picked up one of the quarrels, removed the metal clasp with the miniature stiffened feathers which served as its flight, then the barbed steel tip. ‘All three were kept separate,’ Burley explained, ‘and unless you knew what you were looking for, it would be very difficult to realize that hidden amongst clothing, manuscripts, beads and other items, were these different pieces which, when brought together, would form a deadly hand-held arbalest and crossbow bolts.’ Athelstan took the flight and studied it carefully. He was certain that a similar bolt or quarrel had killed Thibault’s henchman. He recalled leaning over Lascelles to administer the last rites; the crossbow quarrels were the same and, more importantly, that could be proved. Lascelles’ corpse had been removed for burial; the quarrels, as the law laid down, would be stored away as evidence. It would be enough to despatch Brother Roger to the gallows, if he had not been a cleric.

‘Brother?’ Athelstan looked up at Burley’s lean, saturnine face.

‘You told me,’ the knight banneret declared, ‘to search his possessions but to forget that he was a friar and more probably a very skilled assassin. Everything we found we laid out on the floor of the chamber. It was like a puzzle, deciding which pieces would go together. I suspect when he travelled, as he was apparently preparing to do, the weapon would be dismantled. At other times, and it’s only a hand-held one, the arbalest would be readied, primed and hidden away.’

Athelstan thanked Burley, instructed him to keep the evidence safe and returned to the Dark Parlour. Thorne sat staring moodily into the goblet of white wine Cranston had poured for him. The coroner slouched stock-still in his judgement chair, watching the taverner as closely as a terrier would a rat hole.

‘You said I left by a ladder from the window,’ Thorne protested, ‘but that was locked from within and we have no ladder long enough …’

‘Silence, Master Thorne. This is how matters proceeded. You went up into the upper storey, locking the trapdoor from that side. You doused the candles and opened the shutters. Before you entered the Barbican you wheeled a handcart beneath the window. You dropped the ladder down on to the barrow; the hooks at either end of the ladder are secured on the sill which runs beneath the window. In fact, as I shall prove, the way you went down is the same way you later went up – that was an essential part of your plan.’ Athelstan stared down at the notes he had made. ‘You climbed out. You pull the inner shutter back; you slammed it shut to bring the hook down on the other side. Whether it did or not, I admit, is debatable because in the end it’s all pretence. The inner shutter looked sealed. You also closed the horn-covered window by simply loosening the horn and slipping your hand through to bring down the latch. You then repair the horn as well as you can before closing the outer shutters. Again the hooks could have swung down into their clasps just by the force of it being closed. If it did, all to the good. Whatever happened, for someone staring up through the murk with no light within and certainly none without, that window would appear sealed and locked as the main door of the Barbican. More importantly,’ Athelstan stared at the taverner, ‘you only had one person to convince.’

‘Who was that?’

‘You know full well. The ostler Mooncalf, who would go out to rouse them, stare up through the darkness and, full of panic, hasten back to raise the alarm. I shall come to that. You came down the ladder, the arbalest hooked on the war belt beneath your cloak. The night is pitch black. The Palisade stretched desolate, you are its owner, you know every inch of the ground. You move the barrow and ladder back to the nearby tangle of carts and other items stored under that tarpaulin. You then hurry across to the campfire. The archers lie fast asleep. What you have fed them would take hours to fade; anyone who did wander out would only see two very tired men who’d drank too much. In a few heartbeats you changed that. You primed your crossbow and loosed the killing shaft at close quarters into the heart of each of your victims. You return to the tavern and, in some narrow chamber, you would inspect yourself, hide your weapons, clean your boots. Oh,’ Athelstan held up his hand, ‘other matters. First, you are a very greedy man, Thorne, avaricious to the bone. You plundered the purses of your victims, stole every coin they owned. I suspect this lies with the rest. Secondly, you filched some of Mauclerc’s documents, his scribbles about what he’d discovered during his travels and stay at The Candle-Flame. You took care of these documents, burning them here in the tavern after you’d returned. You wanted everything to be safe!’

‘But Hugh of Hornsey?’

‘Really, Master Taverner? What could Hornsey say? That he had abandoned his post to meet his male lover? He’d either have to tell the truth or be swiftly cast as the killer – possibly both. You know what ensued. Hornsey returned and did what you, I and Sir John would expect – he panicked and fled. At first Hornsey was bound by terror; only later did he begin to reflect. Whatever happened, in your eyes, Hornsey was still dangerous. He had wandered round the Palisade. God knows what he might have glimpsed, which is why you killed both him and Ronseval.’

‘I didn’t-’

‘Let me finish. You returned to the tavern and your bed. Sure enough, early the next morning, Mooncalf raised the alarm. You were expecting him. You get up and go out to the Barbican. What happened then was crucial to your plan. You wanted to create the impression that the Barbican was totally sealed from within, both its door and window shutters. You make great play that the window is too high for any tavern ladder. Everyone is bustling around. You ask for a cart and ladder to be brought and up you climb. You prise open, or pretend to, the shutters and door window. Any suspicious indicator that they were loosed already is now removed. Once satisfied, you declare you are too bulky to enter. In fact, you are not, but you have accomplished your essential task. Mooncalf can now be used as the first witness to the horrors within. He climbs in, opens the door and you sweep in with the fresh opportunity to ensure you have not overlooked anything. Now,’ Athelstan picked up a scroll and let it drop, ‘Mooncalf has been terrified by me, and rightly so. I asked him, on his life, to reply to certain questions. He certainly recalls how you directed him to that tangle of carts and barrows under their canvas sheeting. He distinctly remembers you asking for the items which could be found there.’ Athelstan pulled a face. ‘I do wonder how you could be so precise on a freezing cold February dawn, that both cart and ladder are stored away there? Anyway, you climb that ladder. Mooncalf cannot say if the shutters were sealed, though, on reflection, he reports how you seemed to open them rather swiftly and made little attempt to climb inside. Again, I concede, I may be too suspicious.’ Athelstan paused and stared down at his sheet of vellum where he had constructed all these questions. ‘You see, Master Thorne, for the life of me, I cannot understand why you didn’t enter. Thanks to you, I stood in that window trying to escape the flames. There is plenty of space. Why didn’t you go in? You are a former soldier accustomed to danger?’ Thorne refused to reply. ‘After all, this is your Barbican, your tavern? Important guests have been beset by grave danger; two of their guards lie dead and no one appears to be alive in that tower? You have climbed a shaky ladder, perched perilously at the top, painstakingly opened shutters and windows yet you make no real attempt to enter? Mooncalf was certain of that. I would have gone in even if it was just to satisfy my own curiosity. Finally, and Mooncalf is very direct on this, you do not peer inside, nor do you call out. Why? That was the logical thing to do but of course you know there will be no answer, not from the horrors which lurk in the darkness.’

Thorne was now deeply agitated; sweat drops coursed down his face, his breathing was laboured and he found it difficult to sit still.

‘At the time,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you considered opening the Barbican as the most difficult problem you had to face. However, nothing in this vale of tears runs smoothly – certainly not murder.’ Athelstan pointed at the ceiling. ‘Physician Scrope had his own deep grievances against Marsen and, by mere coincidence, he was out on the Palisade that same night. We know that by the mud on his belongings. He certainly carried a lantern, so you must have glimpsed him. I cannot say whether he saw you, though he certainly entertained his own suspicions. He left us proof of that; anyway, only God knows what Scrope was trying to achieve but he certainly went out that night and for that alone he had to die.’ Athelstan rubbed his hands together. ‘What we see, hear and feel,’ the friar got to his feet, ‘is very strange. When it happens can be very different to what we later reflect upon. What we dismiss as ordinary or innocent can, in time, emerge as exceptional or even sinister. Scrope was a highly intelligent man. He went out that night full of hatred for Marsen and, as I have said, God knows what he came across. The dead archers? The sealed Barbican? Some dark shadow flitting through the night? In the end, he paid for it with his life and I will show you how.’ Athelstan walked to the door, opened it and ordered four of the royal crossbowmen to take Thorne under close guard up to the middle gallery. Once ready, they made their way to the stairs. Eleanor Thorne came out of the kitchen, face all stricken. She glimpsed what was happening and sank to her knees with the most heart-rending scream. The woman knelt, hands to her face, rocking backwards and forwards, refusing to be comforted by the slatterns and scullions around her. Thorne tried to break through the cordon of soldiers but was roughly pulled back and pushed up the stairs. Potboys and servants, all wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the grim spectacle unfolding before them, hastily scattered out of the way. They reached the chamber where Scrope had lodged. Athelstan ordered this to be unlocked as well as the one directly opposite. Once he had arranged things as he wished, Athelstan entered the empty chamber facing Scrope’s. He took the long pole from its two supports in the aumbry.

‘If I stand here within the doorway and lean forward,’ Athelstan did so using the pole to bang on the door of Scrope’s former chamber, ‘that was the knocking heard on the morning of Scrope’s murder, though no one was seen in the gallery. Master Thorne,’ Athelstan pointed at the taverner held securely by the crossbow men, ‘you did that. You unlocked this chamber and used it to lure Scrope to his death. You knocked on his door with this pole which you later left when you fled. Scrope first used the eyelet but saw no one. By then you’d swiftly closed the door to this chamber. Scrope walked away. Again the knocking. Scrope, already agitated and holding his vademecum, the pilgrim book on Glastonbury, hastens back. He opens the door and sees you standing here, hidden in the threshold of this chamber with an arbalest primed and ready. You are swifter than he. You loose and the quarrel strikes Scrope here.’ Athelstan tapped himself high in the chest. ‘Scrope staggers back. He is dying but the full shock of the attack has not yet had its effect. Scrope hastily closed the door, locking and bolting it. I later detected faint stains of dried blood on both lock and bolt. Scrope finally slumps to the floor. I cannot say if he meant this or it was just an act of chance, or perhaps divine providence, but Scrope died with the vademecum open on the page which lists the famous lists of Glastonbury. Amongst them, the Spina Sacra.’

‘The Holy Thorn,’ Cranston whispered. ‘A play on our taverner’s name.’

‘I think so but,’ Athelstan spread his hands, ‘the actual details I cannot say. Perhaps Scrope had enjoyed the pun before. I suspect he deliberately opened it on that page during those last few heartbeats of his life.’

‘Impossible!’ Thorne protested. Nonetheless, Athelstan could see the sheer desperation in the taverner’s eyes only deepened by the shrill cries of his wife which rang chillingly through the tavern.

‘If Scrope was struck he would have died instantly …’

‘Come now, Master Thorne,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You have served in France and so have I and Sir John. Men, mortally wounded, may continue to act as if nothing had happened. Sometimes this can last as long as it would take to recite ten Aves. Some mortal wounds are instant; others afford a brief respite.’

‘I’ve seen that,’ one of the crossbowmen interjected. ‘I’ve seen it on more than one occasion.’

‘Even men who have lost a hand or arm,’ another added.

‘And so have I,’ Athelstan declared, ‘very recently. Lascelles received a crossbow bolt here, high in the chest. He still continued to walk forward almost unaware of his wound. Only a second crossbow bolt which struck him deep in his head brought him down. Physician Scrope, clutching that document, certainly had enough time to turn a key, draw a bolt and fumble for a page before collapsing. The poor man didn’t realize he was dying, so intent was he on protecting himself against further attack and trying to leave some sign as to whom his assailant had been. Finally,’ Athelstan pointed to the chamber opposite Scrope’s, ‘on the morning in question you had to unlock that: you used it as your murder place then hastily locked it again and,’ he gestured at the nearby stairs, ‘hurried up those, along the gallery above then down to act all busy in the taproom. Only you, Master Taverner, had the means to do that, no one else.’ Athelstan breathed in deeply. ‘Sir John, we are finished here.’

Cranston closed the doors to both chambers and ordered Thorne to be taken back to the Dark Parlour. Once again they had to pass Mistress Eleanor, who could only stretch out her arms and cry pityingly. Thorne’s deepening agitation was so intense that when they entered the Dark Parlour, Sir John ordered the taverner to be bound, whilst two of the crossbow men, with weapons primed, were ordered to stay with them.

‘Ronseval was killed just as swiftly,’ Athelstan continued, retaking his seat, ‘once you had lured him to his death. Some of this I cannot prove; I admit it is only conjecture, though it’s logical. Ronseval and Hornsey trusted you. I have demonstrated why. Now, on the night of the murders, Hornsey saw something, or guessed something but then fled. No one knows what he told Ronseval but the very fact that Hornsey had been out on the Palisade meant that he had to die and so had his lover. Ronseval, the sensitive but terrified troubadour, was easy prey. He was searching for his lover. You – Thorne – promised to help. You told him to pack all his possessions, slip out of the tavern and meet you along that lonely stretch of the Thames. Ronseval did so, walking causally towards you, only to receive his death wound.’

‘I was elsewhere the night he was killed!’ Thorne yelled.

‘Who informed you he was killed at night?’ Athelstan countered. ‘Where were you that night? You did leave the tavern. I want the times, the places and witnesses.’

Thorne kept his head down. Athelstan rose to his feet. ‘Sir John, excuse me. I need to fetch something.’ The friar pointed at the two crossbowmen. ‘Whilst I am gone you are to allow no one into this room except me.’ Cranston grunted; the two guards nodded in agreement. ‘Only me,’ the friar repeated and left. Cranston, mystified, glared at the door then shifted his gaze to Thorne. The coroner was convinced, as would any jury before King’s Bench, that Thorne was guilty of the most malicious murder. He was also a traitor because those he had slain were Crown officials, whilst the treasure had been stolen from the king. If that was the case, Thorne would be condemned to a most terrifying death here at the scene of his crimes. An execution platform would be set up in the Palisade. The Southwark Carnifex, together with his assistants, would carry out all the horrors of the legal punishment for treason. Thorne would be dragged on a hurdle from the Bocardo. He would be stripped, his body carefully painted to indicate where the executioner would plunge his knife. He would be half-hanged before being slit from throat to crotch, his belly opened, his entrails plucked out and burnt before his still-seeing eyes … Cranston’s reverie was broken by an insistent rapping at the door. He gestured at one of the crossbow men to answer it. The soldier pulled down the eyelet, grunted and swung the door open. Cranston glanced up. He immediately wondered why Athelstan had drawn his cowl over his head, then stared in disbelief as the cowl was pushed back to reveal the smiling face of one of the guards outside.

‘What on earth …’ Cranston roared. The crossbowmen were now laughing.

‘Peace, Sir John,’ Athelstan declared as he swept back into the room. Thorne, who had watched all this, just slumped in defeat. Athelstan thanked the guard and once the door closed behind him, retook his seat.

‘I have just demonstrated how Hornsey, a veteran soldier, a cunning man, was killed. He took sanctuary in St Erconwald’s. He thought he would be safe there. Perhaps his close proximity to me was a silent threat to you, Thorne. He sat in the mercy enclave. I retired to my house and the night wore on. Hornsey had no reason to leave and believed he was safe. He hears a knock on the door, leading from the sacristy to God’s Acre. He goes to answer, pulls back the eyelet and sees a Dominican standing there, head down, cowl pulled over, which is understandable as the night was very cold. Hornsey makes a most hideous mistake. He thinks it’s me. He draws the bolt, opens the door and you release the crossbow bolt, which sends him staggering back to collapse in the sacristy. You then flee. I’ve said this before and I will say it again: friars can walk the streets of Southwark in safety,’ Athelstan smiled grimly, ‘and in the dark I suppose we are like cats – one looks very much like another. Nobody would accost you.’

‘And where did I get the robe?’ Thorne sneered.

‘Oh, my learned colleague Brother Marcel unwittingly supplied it. A most fastidious man, Marcel insisted on changing his robes at least once a day. He sent the used one to your wash house. I saw your washer woman and she commented on it. You and Marcel are of the same build and size.’ Athelstan rose. He walked behind Thorne, bent down and whispered in his ear. ‘You are guilty, Master Thorne. I have established a burden of proof which you cannot answer. You will be condemned to the most gruesome death, but not before Thibault has racked and twisted your body with the most terrible torture. Suspicion will fall on your wife; she too might be questioned. You will be adjudged a traitor. Consequently, even if she is innocent, Mistress Eleanor will lose everything because all your property will be forfeit to the Crown.’ Athelstan straightened up before leaning down again. ‘I invite you to make a full confession. Reveal the whereabouts of the treasure, which, in fact, I know already; confess and express your sorrow. I will ensure a priest shrives you, whilst the Hangman of Rochester, whom I have brought secretly to this tavern, will carry out sentence immediately. The Hangman is most skilled. You would not strangle but die instantly.’ Athelstan turned and walked away. ‘The choice is yours. I suggest you make haste because it’s only a matter of time before Master Thibault interferes. Sir John, tell me, what I offer is both legitimate and judicial?’

‘I am the king’s justiciar,’ Cranston replied, holding Athelstan’s gaze. ‘I have the power to hear and decide. I have authority to carry out, in the king’s own name, the sentence of death be it now or on some appointed day. I can also exercise mercy in the manner of that death. I believe we have said enough.’ Cranston snapped his fingers. ‘Have the prisoner taken down to the cellar. Keep a close watch on him.’ Cranston pointed to the hour candle glowing on its stand under a broad copper cap. ‘By the time the flame reaches midway to the next ring, you, Master Thorne, must decide or it will be decided for you.’ The prisoner was dragged to his feet. He tried to resist, until one of the soldiers punched him hard in the stomach and dragged him groaning from the room.

‘I hope he confesses,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I pray that he does. He murdered twelve people, Sir John, and all for the sake of filthy greed. The love of money is indeed the root of all evil. If he confesses …’ Athelstan took a deep breath.

‘The tavern sign can be his gallows,’ Cranston declared. ‘It stretches high and strong. We will use the same ladder he did to enter the Barbican.’

‘I’d best inform the Hangman, he is also a skilled clerk.’ Athelstan left. Cranston gestured at the two crossbowmen to follow and sat staring at the empty chairs in front of him. Thorne certainly deserved his death but he wondered what Athelstan would do with the others. The coroner dozed for a short while. Now and again he would stir and peer at the hour candle, its flame burning merrily away. Athelstan returned. He spoke to people waiting in the gallery outside and closed the door.

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan walked slowly towards the table. ‘I am going to ask you for an indulgence regarding the Pastons.’

The coroner chewed the corner of his lip. ‘In theory, Brother …’

‘In practice, Sir John, Paston is a good man. He has told the truth and he is guilty of no more than many of his kind in this city. I do not want to see him become the object of Gaunt’s vindictiveness.’ Athelstan kept his face composed. He knew nothing would persuade Cranston more than a dig at the self-proclaimed Regent.

‘His daughter, Martha, and William the clerk are deeply in love. They were of great help to us.’

Cranston waved a hand. ‘As you wish, little friar.’

Athelstan went back, opened the door and ushered Paston, his daughter and Foulkes into the chamber. Once they had taken their seats Athelstan went to stand beside Cranston.

‘Please.’ He smiled. ‘I beg you not to look so anxious. Master William, I thank you for your help as I do you, Sir Robert. Now this is what Sir John and I have decided. Sir Robert, I want you to clear the hold of The Five Wounds of all weapons. You will move your ship to another harbour. You will return to Surrey and resign your post as a member of the Commons. You will not become embroiled in politics and cease forthwith your attacks on His Grace the Regent. You will not return to this city unless it is with the special permission of Sir John here and only to do business. Master William, Mistress Martha, you too will not enter this city which is so dangerous for you.’ Athelstan lowered his voice. ‘Go home,’ he urged. ‘Marry each other, love each other. Steer clear of all danger. Keep what you believe in the secrecy of the heart.’ The relief on Sir Robert’s face was obvious. Foulkes looked at Martha, who nodded her agreement.

‘Sir Robert, I suggest you make to leave very, very swiftly.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Paston got to his feet, ‘everything is packed already, Brother. I know what is going to happen here. A special commission of oyer and terminer invariably ends in blood …’

‘True, true,’ Cranston murmured, ‘and Master Thibault will be here very soon.’

The coroner rose and clasped Sir Robert’s hand and that of his daughter and Foulkes. Athelstan did likewise. He sketched a blessing over them and noticed with relief that Martha and William crossed themselves. They had hardly left the chamber when there was a rap on the door and the Hangman of Rochester walked in holding a piece of parchment, which he handed to Athelstan.

‘God knows what happened here, Brother, but Thorne has made a full confession.’ The Hangman fought to keep the surprise out of his voice. ‘He murdered twelve people, he stole the gold …’

‘Did he say where it is?’ Cranston asked.

‘No, Sir John.’ The Hangman clawed at his long, yellowish hair. ‘He just said that Brother Athelstan would know where it is.’ The Hangman’s skeletal face creased into the smile. ‘I suppose he didn’t trust me. Thorne is a broken man, all juddering and trembling. He cries like a baby. He wishes to see his wife and be shriven by a priest.’

‘Let Mistress Eleanor see him then ask Brother Marcel to hear his confession – swiftly, mind you. Tell Marcel to issue a general absolution.’

‘And execution?’

Cranston repeated what he told Athelstan earlier.

The Hangman nodded. ‘I will arrange it.’

‘Do so quickly,’ Athelstan urged. ‘Before Thibault arrives.’ The Hangman left. Athelstan asked to be alone. Sir John clapped him on the shoulder and murmured something about supervising the arrangements. The coroner sheathed his sword, finished his wine and quietly left. Athelstan bolted the door and went to kneel beside the table. He leaned back, eyes closed, as he murmured the ‘De Profundis’ and the ‘Miserere Mei.’ All was resolved, he thought, yet lives had been shattered, souls despatched to judgement and the storm was still raging. Evil was like a seed, Athelstan thought: it took root and erupted into a wild, malignant tangle. Taverner Thorne probably regretted spending the profits of war on The Candle-Flame and decided to recoup his losses in a most sinister way. He had planned and plotted well but totally underestimated the souls around him, filled with their own private passions, be it Sir Robert Paston’s dabbling in power, Physician Scrope’s desire for vengeance or the highly illicit relationship between Ronseval and Hornsey. Now he was to pay the price. For a while Athelstan made himself relax, thumbing his Ave beads as he prayed for the souls of the departed and for Thorne’s, who would soon be brought to judgement. He dozed until roused by Cranston, his beaver hat pulled down, cloak tied tightly around him.

‘You’d best come, Athelstan,’ he declared quietly. ‘War barges have been glimpsed on the river. Thibault is probably on his way. We are ready. I have brought Mooncalf with me.’ The coroner shouted an order and two crossbowmen, escorting an ashen-faced, trembling Mooncalf came into the passageway.

‘What should we do with him, Brother?’ Cranston whispered. Athelstan walked forward and grasped the ostler’s white, unshaven face between his hands.

‘Master Mooncalf,’ he whispered, ‘you are about to witness the grisly end of a malefactor. Unless you are more prudent and more prayerful, one day you will make the same journey. So tell me now, who is the serjeant-at-law holding your letter denouncing the Pastons?’

‘Master Ravenscott,’ the ostler replied swiftly, eyes almost bulging with terror. ‘Master Jacob Ravenscott. He lodges at The Hoop of Heaven near the Inns of Court.’

‘I know it well,’ Cranston declared. ‘And, as an officer of the law, I will collect that letter and burn it. So, Brother, what shall we do with Mooncalf? Hang him?’

‘No, no.’ Athelstan still held the ostler’s face. He gently squeezed his hands. ‘Listen to me, Mooncalf, and listen well. We shall collect your letter and burn it. If I ever hear that you have troubled the Pastons again, I will have you hanged as high as heaven. You will watch your master suffer just sentence, after which you will pack your possessions and never be seen in London or Southwark again. If you are, my good friend, Sir John Cranston, will issue warrants for your arrest. Do you understand me? I make no idle threats but a vow as sacred as any taken in church. Do you understand?’ Athelstan took his hands away.

‘Yes, Brother!’ If Mooncalf hadn’t been held by the crossbowmen the ostler would have collapsed in nervous prostration.

‘Bring him with us,’ Athelstan ordered. Stepping round the ostler and his guard, Athelstan followed the coroner out into the front of the tavern. A small crowd had assembled, servants and slatterns. Eleanor Thorne was being led away by one of the maids, her heart-rending sobs almost muffled by the blankets thrown around her. The Hangman of Rochester had prepared well. The tavern sign had been removed from its hooks and a thick rope with a noose at the end hung down. Against the signpost leaned a ladder; the Hangman had climbed this and sat legs dangling either side of the projecting branch. The execution area was surrounded by crossbowmen. Thorne appeared. Athelstan was relieved that a sack had been pulled over the taverner’s head. He could see the effect of the man’s laboured breathing. Thorne, hands bound behind his back, was taken to the foot of the ladder. Cranston, in a powerful voice, briefly proclaimed the name of the condemned man, his heinous crimes and how he deserved death. Thorne was immediately pushed up the ladder by the crossbowmen, who thrust him as high as the Hangman instructed, before turning him round. The Hangman leaned forward, shortened the rope and placed the noose over the condemned man’s head, tying the knot expertly just behind his right ear. The Hangman issued another instruction and the crossbowmen pushed the gasping Thorne further up the rungs. Once he was ready, the Hangman gestured at the crossbowmen to go down. He lifted his hand.

‘On my sign!’ he shouted. For a few heartbeats nothing could be heard except the gasps and moans of the condemned man. The sacking over his face was blowing out as he fought for his last breath. The Hangman’s gloved hand dropped. The ladder was twisted. Thorne, hands still tied behind his back, dropped like a stone. Athelstan closed his eyes as he heard the awful crack as the condemned man’s neck broke. He murmured the requiem, opened his eyes and stared at that grim sight. Thorne’s corpse swayed slightly. Athelstan sketched a blessing. At least Thorne had died in the twinkling of an eye. He had not choked as others did, sometimes for as long as it would take to say a rosary, whilst the taverner had escaped the full horrors inflicted by a traitor’s death.

‘Let him hang for an hour,’ Cranston proclaimed, ‘then cut him down. Let Mistress Eleanor have his corpse. Brother Athelstan?’ Cranston took the little friar by the elbow and steered him away. Sir John had witnessed many executions, but he could tell by the friar’s pale face that Athelstan was deeply agitated.

‘Come on, Brother,’ Cranston whispered. ‘We will share a goblet of Bordeaux and what is left of the food whilst we await the arrival of Master Thibault.’

Cranston was correct. They had scarcely poured the wine when Sir Simon Burley announced that the war barges had reached the nearby quayside and Master Thibault could be glimpsed crossing the Palisade. When questioned, the knight banneret assured Cranston that the Pastons had left almost immediately, whilst Mooncalf, almost a gibbering idiot after what he had witnessed, was hastily collecting his paltry possessions, determined at putting as much distance between himself and the ‘Terrible Sir John’. Burley also assured Cranston that the two friars were safely guarded in their respective chambers.

A short while later Thibault, accompanied by his new henchman Albinus, strode into the Dark Parlour. Athelstan lowered his head to hide his smile. Thibault was taking no chances. Both he and his henchman carried kite-shaped shields for protection and both wore long coats of chainmail, which fell beneath the knee. Thibault pushed both helmet and shield into Albinus’ hands, nodded at Cranston and Athelstan then sat down in the judgement chair, peeling off his leather gauntlets.

‘I’ve seen the corpse. I understand the Pastons have left and the guards are laughing at the antics of an ostler who is so terrified he’s soiled himself. A Franciscan priest lies under arrest, likewise a Dominican. In God’s name, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, what has happened here?’

Athelstan told him. He had anticipated this so he chose his words carefully. He made little reference to the Pastons except that Sir Robert now believed he should withdraw from public life in all its aspects. He would reside quietly in his manor, tending his lands and supervising his trade across the Narrow Seas. Thibault seemed slightly amused by this; he grinned over his shoulder at Albinus, a strange-looking man with snow-white hair and reddish skin, his icy-blue eyes ringed by pink.

‘My Lord of Gaunt will be very pleased,’ Thibault murmured, ‘to see the back of Sir Robert both literally and metaphorically. And the creature Mooncalf?’

‘He shouldn’t have meddled where he did,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Now he has seen the error of his ways, I suspect he will be leaving Southwark to seek employment in a tavern just south of the Scottish march.’

Thibault nodded and glanced down. Athelstan had noticed he had done the same when he described the treachery of Marcel and the murderous nature of Brother Roger. Athelstan recognized that gesture. Thibault, despite his innocent-looking face, was quietly seething with fury. The Master of Secrets breathed in deeply through his nose and brought his head back. Athelstan flinched at the fury raging in those eyes.

‘Brother Marcel will be sent back to France.’ Thibault played with his gauntlet. ‘His Grace the king will despatch a letter to the Holy Father and copy it to the Minister General of your order, Athelstan. He will demand that Brother Marcel be rigorously punished on bread and water for two years in some stinking monastery out in the wilds where he can learn true poverty, humility and obedience. I don’t think our Holy Father will need much persuading when he discovers that his own Inquisitor was being used as a French spy in this kingdom. The papacy needs English gold and support. As for Friar Roger,’ Thibault stared past Athelstan as if he was watching something else, ‘I will personally ensure that he is escorted back to Assisi. One of my sea captains, Eudo Tallifer, a kinsman of my henchman Albinus, will supervise his passage.’

‘Eudo Tallifer?’ Cranston asked. ‘The privateer, once a pirate off Goodwin Sands?’

‘And now the Crown’s most loyal subject,’ Thibault retorted. ‘His ship, The Dapifer is due to sail tomorrow.’ Thibault glowered knowingly over his shoulder at Albinus. ‘I am sure,’ he added caustically, ‘the Franciscan will be most royally welcome aboard. As for the rest, Thorne is now past judgement. I presume his wife is innocent and that he submitted a full confession? The felon escaped the penalty for treason and so his property cannot be forfeited. I will offer Widow Thorne a reasonable price; she can rejoin her kinsman on the Canterbury road. Now we come to the crux of this matter.’ Athelstan gestured at the door. ‘You trust Albinus?’ he asked.

‘With my life.’

‘You will find Marsen’s treasure,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘hidden deep beneath the garderobe in the Barbican. An ancient sewer runs there.’ Athelstan pointed to his papers still strewn across the table. ‘Thorne confessed as much before he died.’ Thibault clicked his fingers and pointed at the door.

‘Take two trusted guards,’ he ordered Albinus. ‘Seize whatever tools you need. I want every penny of that treasure.’

Once the henchman had left Thibault sat drumming his fingers on the table. ‘There is more, Brother Athelstan?’

‘You know there is, Master Thibault.’ Athelstan drew a scroll of white parchment from the pocket of his gown. ‘This is a charter issued by the king granting full and complete pardon, without any reservation, to Watkin the dung collector and Pike the ditcher now in sanctuary at St Erconwald’s in Southwark. A full pardon, Master Thibault! Indeed, both men are under royal protection and brought within the king’s love.’

Thibault spread his hands.

‘You must have seen copies,’ Athelstan continued, ‘on roll in the Chancery, the Exchequer and King’s Bench?’

‘His Grace the king thinks highly of you, Brother Athelstan.’

‘And I have the same high regard for His Grace.’

‘Your parishioners are safe.’ Thibault shrugged. ‘What does it matter if two more rogues are welcomed back by their kith and kin?’

‘In which case,’ Athelstan got to his feet, Cranston likewise. The friar had reached the door when Thibault called his name. He turned; the Master of Secrets beckoned him back.

‘Sir John, I implore your kindness. I would like a word alone with Brother Athelstan.’ Cranston pulled a face and left. Athelstan walked back to the table and stood staring down at Thibault, who put his face in his hands, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers. He took his hands away. Athelstan was surprised at the tears brimming in the eyes of this hard-souled man.

‘Brother Athelstan, you did good service. Very good service. You and Sir John. I assure you both the king and His Grace, My Lord of Gaunt, will be appraised of it.’

Athelstan sketched a bow. Thibault pushed back the chair and rose. Resting his hands on the table top he leaned across; the usual sly, sardonic look had disappeared. ‘Brother Athelstan, I have a great favour to ask. The Day of the Great Slaughter is fast closing upon us. The strongholds will fall and London will be riven by revolt.’

‘And?’

‘When that day of wrath arrives, I will send my daughter Isabella to you. I want your promise that she will be kept safe, unharmed. She will carry a letter giving you precise details of what I would like to be done should I not survive that terrible day.’

‘She would be safe in the Tower or sanctuary at Westminster Abbey?’

‘No, Brother Athelstan. You will be her tower, her sanctuary, her church. Just give me your promise. For God’s sake, Brother, she is only a child. You know what will happen to her if she falls into the hands of the mob.’ He extended a hand. ‘Please?’ he urged. ‘I am begging.’ Athelstan clasped it. Thibault relaxed and stepped back. ‘Thank you.’

‘Sir John is waiting,’ Athelstan declared. ‘And I am sure my parish is brimming with excitement.’ He sketched a blessing in Thibault’s direction. ‘You have my word. Believe me, Master Thibault, you are correct. The time of great tribulation will soon be upon us.’