by Paul Doherty
‘He has got work to do,’ Athelstan called out. ‘Now, Master Thorne, Sir John.’ Athelstan paused, his gaze caught by a large bowl of water with ragged napkins beside it. He went across and stared down at the dirt-strewn water.
‘The lavarium,’ Thorne called out. ‘The water was once clean and hot. Brother, what do you want me to do?’
‘Master Thorne, Sir John?’ Athelstan picked up a dagger and weighed it in his hands. ‘You have fought in battles. Each of you is, I suppose, a master-at-arms. Have these weapons been used recently in a fight?’ Cranston and Thorne needed no second bidding. Taking up some of the fallen blades they pointed to the scrapes, the streaks, the nicks on the steel and the flecks of blood around their hilts and handles. Athelstan nodded as Cranston explained his conclusion that the weapons had been used very recently. Athelstan shook his head in amazement.
‘Why, Brother?’ Cranston asked. ‘Do you think all this,’ he gestured around, ‘is a mummer’s play, some masque staged to mock and hide the truth?’
‘It’s just a thought,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But that’s impossible. So, let us view the upper storey.’ They climbed the ladder through the trapdoor into the more luxurious solar of the Barbican. The rounded walls were plastered white, rope matting covered the floor and there were cushioned stools, candle holders and a triptych celebrating the Passion of St Sebastian. Nonetheless, the chamber reeked of the same hideous stench as the chamber below, whilst the ghastly sight of four corpses, brutally cut and hacked, chilled the blood and darkened the soul. Athelstan blessed the room before walking around. He noted the wine jugs, goblets, tankards and platters of congealed food; the tankards were clean, whilst the small cask of ale stood untouched.
‘Marsen cursed me,’ Thorne declared. ‘Said he did not want my stinking ale, only the best Bordeaux out of Gascony.’
Athelstan heard Mooncalf busy below. He went to the trapdoor and shouted that once the ostler was finished he must join them. The friar then moved from corpse to corpse. Thorne pointed out Marsen garbed in a costly gown. The tax collector was sprawled against the wall drenched in his own heart’s blood, an ugly white-faced, red-haired man with a thick moustache and straggly beard. He looked grotesque, all twisted, squatting in his own dried blood. Mauclerc lay on his back, fingers curled as if frozen in shock at the wounds which sliced his flesh. The two whores, their scarlet wigs askew, gaudy painted faces now hideous, had been despatched into the dark with deep lacerating cuts. The two women were unarmed. Mauclerc had drawn a dagger which lay near him, but there was nothing to suggest that Marsen had time to protect himself.
‘The exchequer coffer.’ Cranston pointed across to where the chest, its concave lid thrown back, perched on a table stool. ‘My Lord of Gaunt,’ Cranston grumbled, ‘will be furious, not to mention Master Thibault.’ Athelstan studied the coffer closely. It was fashioned out of sturdy wood reinforced with iron bands. He had seen similar in the exchequer and chancery of his own mother house at Blackfriars. The chest was slightly marked but sound, its heavy lid held secure by stout hinges: it would be difficult to force when clasped shut by its three locks, yet there was no sign this had happened.
‘A key to each of them, yes, Sir John?’ Athelstan queried.
‘Undoubtedly. One would be carried by Marsen; Mauclerc would hold the second.’
‘And the third?’
‘I would hazard a guess that would be Hugh of Hornsey, who seems to have disappeared.’ The coroner clapped his gauntleted hands. ‘Oh, Satan’s tits! This is a filthy, bubbling pot. My Lord of Gaunt will want answers.’
‘My Lord of Gaunt will have to learn patience.’ Athelstan now stood near the window shutters. So far he had avoided this. He recalled what Mooncalf had told him: the only real evidence left by the killer was a piece of costly parchment cut in a neat square and pinned with a slender tack to the wood. The writing was clerkly, that of a professional scribe. The letters carefully formed, the message most threatening: ‘“Mene, mene, teqel and parsin,”’ Athelstan murmured. ‘The same warning carved on the walls of the King of Babylon’s palace by the finger of God and translated by the prophet Daniel. ‘I have numbered, I have weighed in the balance and I have found wanting.’
‘Beowulf!’
Athelstan turned quickly.
‘Beowulf!’ the coroner grimly repeated. ‘You have not heard of him, Brother?’
‘Of course. The Saxon warrior hero, the keeper of the shield-ring, the slayer of the monster Grendel and its mother.’
‘It’s not that,’ Thorne declared, ‘is it, Sir John?’
Athelstan blinked and took the parchment down; it felt soft and yielding. ‘I’ve heard something …’
‘A skilled assassin,’ Cranston explained, ‘hired by, or certainly working for the Upright Men. He, she, they – whoever the demon is – has wreaked grievous damage.’
‘Of course.’ Athelstan breathed. ‘Justice Folevile and an escort of three men-at-arms at Ospring on the road to Canterbury. They stayed at The Silver Harp. All four were brutally murdered.’
‘Robert de Stokes,’ Cranston took up the story, ‘and his clerk collector of the poll tax in south Essex. Both were found dead, stripped naked in a filthy ditch.’ Cranston waved his hand. ‘And so on, and so on. A true will-o’-the-wisp, a sinister shape-shifter, a Hell-born wraith.’ Cranston warmed to his theme. ‘Beowulf being Saxon stands for the Great Community of the Realm against their Norman French masters. Gaunt, of course, is the monster Grendel, and his mother the power which spawned him.’
‘And Beowulf was responsible for all this murderous mayhem?’ Athelstan shook his head in wonderment. ‘Master Thorne, I would be grateful if you would help Mooncalf. I want every cup, platter and morsel heaped in that washtub. Meanwhile …’ Athelstan and Cranston searched the chamber as well as the panniers and chancery satchels of the murdered men. These were full of memoranda, billae, indentures and rolls of greasy thumb-marked parchment. The more he searched the more suspicious Athelstan became.
‘Mauclerc was a skilled chancery scribe, Sir John?’
‘One of the Master of Secrets’ favourites, a veritable ferret of a man. He was Thibault’s spy, a henchman appointed to watch Marsen. Why, little monk?’
‘Friar, Sir John. I am a friar.’
Cranston grinned and took another sip from the miraculous wineskin. ‘Why, my little friar?’
‘I am sure these panniers and saddlebags have been riffled. Someone has gone through them. Certain items were taken, just by the way the scrolls are piled together.’ Athelstan paused. ‘One other thing: have you noticed, Sir John, that none of the victims have coins on them? They were killed and their bodies robbed. Even the whores! From the little I know don’t such ladies of the night ask for coin before custom?’
‘They certainly do, little friar, and look at this.’ The coroner, crouching down, had moved a stool. He now held up a gauntlet and a piece of shiny, oiled chainmail. The gauntlet was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship: the velvet coat over the stiffened Cordova leather was finely stitched in gold, with small pearls along the finger furrows. Athelstan took both items over to the squat, evil-smelling tallow candle and examined them carefully. The chainmail was finely wrought. Athelstan suspected it was the best, probably Milanese; the links were fine and shiny with clasps on each corner. The gauntlet was also costly. Athelstan noticed the fingertips were smudged with dry blood. He glanced swiftly at the hands of the four murder victims: the two whores would not wear such items, whilst the gauntlet would certainly not fit the stout-fingered hands of Marsen or Mauclerc.
‘The chainmail,’ Cranston called out, ‘probably served as a wristguard.’
Athelstan summoned Thorne, but the taverner could not recall Marsen or any of his group carrying such items.
‘Both are the property of a knight,’ Thorne declared, scratching his reddish face with stubby fingers. ‘Surely such chainmail, a gauntlet … they might even belong to Beowulf?’
Athelstan turne
d back to Cranston. ‘Sir John, does Beowulf always leave those verses with his victims?’
‘Yes, Brother, he certainly does, and he is putting the fear of God into all of Gaunt’s servants. Master Thibault’s minions now go everywhere with a well-armed comitatus, be it in the cobbled square of some market town or the darkest greenwood. But how could it happen here?’
Athelstan held up a hand. ‘Not now, Sir John, and not here. We are harvesting the grain of bloody murder. Once the harvest is in we shall grind it and,’ he smiled, ‘never forget, the Mills of God may grind exceedingly slow but they do grind exceedingly small. So.’ Athelstan turned back to the window. There were shutters on both the inside and outside held together by large, sharp hooks which rested in clasps. Athelstan fully closed the shutters, scrutinized the gap and could see how a dagger could be inserted to lift the hooks. The window in between had a wooden frame with a horn covering that worked like a door with hinges and a latch on the inside. Thorne agreed that he had to rip the horn to lift the handle. Athelstan, mystified, could only stare, baffled at how the murderer came in and left. Both Thorne and Mooncalf were resolute in their assertion that the shutters were clasped shut and the window undisturbed. Athelstan walked around, sifting through the tumbled furniture, the blankets and sheets of the two cot beds. He was aware of Cranston lifting the rope matting. The taverner and Mooncalf were now collecting the last of the tankards, goblets and platters in a large iron-rimmed tub. Athelstan climbed the steep ladder, pushing open the trapdoor and carefully pulled himself up on to the top of the tower. A piercing cold wind buffeted him as he staggered across the thick shale to grasp a rusting iron bar which connected the ancient, moss-eaten crenellations. Athelstan took a deep breath as he stared around. To the north glinted the river – he could see the war cogs riding at anchor and a myriad of small boats, barges and wherries. The sky was now brightening but the day promised to remain freezing cold. The friar stared up at the wisps of cloud, then down at the huddle of buildings below. He turned. Somewhere to the south nestled his own church; his parishioners would be stirring. Benedicta, the beautiful dark-eyed woman would be in the church along with Crim the altar boy and Mauger the bell clerk. Athelstan realized he would have to celebrate his Mass late. He was also determined to meet his parish council so they could discuss the events of the recent ‘Love Day’ which had gone disastrously wrong. He heard Cranston call his name and made his way gingerly down. Cranston, Mooncalf and Thorne were examining two crossbow bolts taken from a small pouch. The coroner held them up. The steel barbs were blunted, their flight feathers split.
‘Apparently a trophy,’ Cranston remarked. ‘Mine Host claims that on his journey here Marsen was attacked as he crossed the small footbridge near Leveret Copse, a little to the south. Both bolts missed. Marsen crowed in triumph like a cock on its dunghill.’
‘They are the same.’ Athelstan studied both carefully. ‘Identical, I think, to those used to kill the archers outside. Ah, well, let’s continue.’ Athelstan went out into the bitter cold morning, Cranston and the others trailing behind. The air reeked of the nearby piggeries and trails of smoke from the dying campfire. Athelstan walked to the ladder, still positioned on the handcart. He made sure it was secure and carefully climbed up to the window. He noticed how the ladder hooks fixed securely under the sill. He pulled the shutters open, ignoring Cranston’s call to be careful and studied the woodwork, split horn and the handle to the window. Satisfied, he climbed back down.
‘Sir John, I have seen enough.’ He pointed to the door. ‘My Lord Coroner, Flaxwith, your master bailiff, must arrange for all the corpses to be removed to the death house at the Guildhall. They should be blessed by the chaplain and examined by the best physician that can be hired. The washing tub containing the tankards and the scraps and dregs must be taken down to one of those rat-infested dungeons beneath the Guildhall and spread out. The door is to be locked and guarded by the same Flaxwith, who must inform me about what happens next. Also, make sure the Barbican is sealed and guarded until all that is done. Sir John, you must, as soon as possible, issue an arrest warrant for Hugh of Hornsey, formerly Captain of the Tower archers. He is missing, fled. We have no sight of hide or hair of him. Now, Sir John, we truly should break our fast.’
They made their way across the Palisade, past the stiffening corpses of the two archers and into the tangy warmth of The Candle-Flame. Cranston shouted at Flaxwith and the other bailiffs, toasting themselves in front of the roaring fire in the Dark Parlour, to go out and guard the Barbican. Eleanor, Thorne’s wife, her comely face all concerned, then served Athelstan and the rest in the small, pink-plastered parlour with its gleaming dark-wood table and cushioned stools which led off from the main taproom. The food served was piping hot and delicious: black porray, roo broth and small white freshly baked manchet loaves thickly buttered and sprinkled with garlic, together with stoups of light ale. Sir John, once he had taken out his large horn-spoon and polished it with a napkin, ‘fell on the food’ as he himself observed, ‘like a hawk on a pigeon’. For a while no one spoke as platters were cleared and tankards emptied. Athelstan ate sparingly, complimenting Thorne on both the chamber and the food served. The taverner, crouched over his own dish, simply murmured how he wished to sell The Candle-Flame, adding that the turbulent times were not proving to be the best of seasons to host a tavern. Athelstan nodded understandingly; such sentiments were common amongst the tavern masters of Southwark. He also asked if Sir John’s earlier instruction about the other guests had been served. Mistress Eleanor, standing on the threshold, agreed, saying they had left their chambers but were breaking their fast in the buttery refectory. Athelstan waited until Sir John had finished eating and tapped the table with his horn-spoon. He smiled down the table at Mooncalf, the young ostler had recovered from both his terrors and the biting cold. He now sat sleepy-eyed and red-cheeked next to his master.
‘When did Marsen and his company arrive here?’
‘Four days ago,’ Thorne declared. ‘He sent Hugh of Hornsey ahead of them.’
‘When?’
‘About a week ago. Hornsey insisted that the Barbican be given over entirely to his master.’ Thorne pulled a face. ‘There was no problem with that. They arrived just as the Vespers bell tolled. Marsen acted the arrogant pig; Mauclerc no better. He proclaimed how he had been attacked on the road but God had intervened. He showed me the bolts loosed at him and said that no such danger better threaten him here.’ Thorne sniffed. ‘The Barbican was all prepared thanks to Mooncalf.’ Thorne patted the young man’s shoulder. ‘I told him to look after Marsen and his coven and he did, with great patience and good humour.’
‘Why didn’t Marsen cross London Bridge and shelter in the Tower?’ Cranston asked.
‘I suppose they had further business here in Southwark levying their devil tax, including what I owed.’
‘You paid it?’
‘Of course, Sir John. What choice do I, you or indeed anyone have?’
‘Before last night,’ Athelstan asked, ‘did anything happen – any strangers appear, whatever their business?’
‘You mean the Upright Men or their assassin, Beowulf?’ Thorne spread his hands. ‘Brother, this is a very busy tavern, not so much from the guests who stay but any who travel through Southwark. Of course, a gaggle of strange characters gathered; I’m sure some of these were despatched by the Upright Men who would have loved to take Marsen’s ugly head.’ He grinned. ‘We even had some of your parishioners, Brother; Pike the Ditcher, Watkin the dung collector, golden-haired Cecily the courtesan and Moleskin the boatman.’
Athelstan sighed and put his face in his hands. If he questioned his parishioners they would blink like baby owls and murmur all innocence even though Athelstan knew that the likes of Watkin and Pike were high in the hierarchy of the Upright Men.
‘But nothing untoward happened?’ Athelstan took his hands away.
‘No, Brother.’ Thorne sipped from his tankard. ‘Marsen would be up with th
e dawn. He and his coven would break their fast and go about their evil business, returning to the tavern at twilight after the market horn had sounded. They kept to themselves. Food and drink were served. Mauclerc went out to find whores for both himself and his master. They wallowed like pigs in their filthy muck. The Barbican became their sty.’
‘And where were these whores from?’
‘Oh, the stews of Southwark, a notorious brothel, a house of ill repute well known as the Golden Oliphant. It’s under a very strict keeper; she calls herself the “Mistress of the Moppets”. The two whores, I don’t know their names …’
‘We will find out,’ Cranston broke in. ‘I know the Mistress of the Moppets very well as she is widely advertised in the city. Despite their death wounds those two whores in life were very pretty young women. The mistress only hires the best but whether we get the truth from her is another matter.’ He jabbed a finger at Athelstan. ‘When we get the time we will give the mistress a visit.’
‘Would that explain why they were not carrying money? Marsen would do business with their keeper?’
‘Possibly, Brother,’ Cranston replied. ‘I suspect a man like Marsen got what he wanted free of any charge.’
‘But they were carrying something,’ Mooncalf broke in, surprising even his master.
‘What’s that, boy?’ the taverner asked.
‘One of the whores, she was carrying a leather bag and it clinked. I met her at the wicket gate and she stumbled. She could curse like the best of them but I heard it clink, the bag she was carrying.’