by Paul Doherty
‘Killed instantly,’ he declared. ‘And that is stating the obvious. The corpse is river-swilled. How long would you say it was in the water?’
‘At least a night. We have washed away some of the dirt but, apart from that, made little preparation.’
‘Notice the dagger,’ Athelstan declared, ‘still in its sheath, the cap buttoned, the money purse still on the belt. See how deep the arrow bolt is embedded. Ronseval was killed at very close quarters. He left yesterday evening going out in the dark. He was not the victim of a robbery. Ronseval met someone he trusted down on the river bank, a lonely, secluded place. He allowed his killer to draw very close. He suspected nothing. He didn’t even unclasp the strap on his dagger sheath.’ Athelstan peered closer. ‘The same barb was used against those two archers.’
‘We also found this.’ The Fisher crouched, drew a water-soaked chancery satchel from under the table and placed it on a nearby stool. Athelstan recognized it as Ronseval’s. He took it and shook out the contents: clothing, baubles, a knife, Ave beads, a purse and scrolls of parchment, most of these damaged by water. Whilst Cranston and Fisher discussed the situation in the city, Athelstan attempted to decipher some of the writings but decided he would have to wait until the parchment was dry. Nevertheless, his eye was caught by one scrap of parchment in which Ronseval had attempted the newly structured sonnet coming out of Italy. This piece of parchment had escaped relatively unscathed. Athelstan read it carefully: the poetry, both rhythm and rhyme, were uneven but the content was thought provoking, a love poem from one man to another.
‘Sir John?’ he called out. ‘The Fisher of Men has a claim on all such property, but I need this.’ He held up the scroll of parchment. The Fisher of Men shrugged his acceptance even as Cranston beckoned the friar over.
‘Brother, our friend here has some rather interesting information about our honourable Member of the Commons, Sir Robert Paston.’
‘Not here,’ the Fisher declared. ‘Brother Athelstan, are you finished?’
The friar said he was. Arrangements were agreed about the burial of Ronseval’s corpse and the disposal of his effects, and the Fisher of Men led them into his solar, a comfortable chamber off the Sanctuary of Souls with a mantled hearth and quilted chairs. Hot spiced posset was served, the Fisher toasting Cranston and Athelstan with his goblet.
‘If you use the river as we do,’ he said, smacking bloodless lips, ‘as a way of life, you observe many things.’
‘Be brief, my friend,’ Cranston intervened. ‘Darkness is falling. Night approaches and we must be gone.’
‘Sir Robert Paston is a wool merchant,’ the Fisher declared. ‘He owns The Five Wounds, a handsome, deep-bellied cog which takes his wool to Flanders.’
‘And?’ Cranston insisted.
‘The Five Wounds empties its cargo then sails down the west coast of France to Bordeaux.’
‘To collect wine and import it,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘a prosperous and very lawful trade.’
‘Sir Robert,’ the Fisher countered, ‘seems very inquisitive about other cogs. We often see him in a special barge hired at a La Reole. He stops at certain ships.’
‘Which ships?’
‘Brother, you name any standard and I’m sure Sir Robert knows it. He often goes aboard to confer with their masters.’
‘And?’
‘He is not so keen on others being as equally curious about his own cog, The Five Wounds, when it berths at quaysides on either side of the river: wherries, tilt boats and barges are warned off whilst on shore, its master Coghill maintains a strong watch over the boarding plank.’ The Fisher paused and held his hand out. Cranston sighed, dug into his purse and counted enough silver to cover the fee for Ronseval’s corpse as well as extra for this information. ‘Thank you, Sir John. More posset – no? In a word, My Lord Coroner, Sir Robert Paston is not the perfect gentle knight but a grubby merchant with dirty fingers in many filthy pots.’
‘Such as?’
‘He is a bosom friend of the Mistress of the Moppets at The Golden Oliphant. I just wonder, Sir John, if Paston exports more than wool.’
‘You mean young women for the flesh markets of Flanders?’
‘And beyond. The settlements along the Rhine are garrisoned by soldiers. Buxom young wenches can demand a high price – it’s just a suspicion. Sir Robert is a very skilled mariner and his knowledge of the sea and the English coast is second to none.’ The Fisher smiled. ‘All the attributes for a king’s admiral as well as those of a professional smuggler.’
‘And Master Simon Thorne?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Strange man. Former soldier. Married again after the death of his first wife. Mistress Eleanor is the daughter of a taverner who owns a hostelry on the Canterbury road. Apparently she is not just a pretty face but has a good business head and keeps careful ledgers, or so I understand. I have also heard rumours that Thorne would like to deepen the waters along that lonely quayside which serves his tavern. Again, a man who knows the river.’
‘And the murders there?’ Cranston asked.
‘I know nothing, Sir John,’ the Fisher whispered, ‘except Satan’s own misty messenger certainly visited that place.’
oOoOo
Mine Host Simon Thorne had prepared a sumptuous meal. The taverner had proclaimed how he wished his guests to be feasted like any king at court. Mooncalf’s empty belly strained at the savoury smells and mouth-watering odours curling out of both kitchen and buttery. The tavern refectory had been especially prepared. Fresh greenery had been brought in to bedeck the woodwork, along with pots of winter roses and jars of crushed spices and herbs. The sweetness of a summer garden mingled with that from the slender beeswax candles in their spigots along a table, covered by a silver samite cloth, with the tavern’s gold-encrusted nef standing in pride of place at the centre. The best pewter platters and silver-chased goblets had been brought up from the arca in the tavern’s strongrooms below ground. Snow-white napkins had been laid out for every guest and the best jugs gleamed, all brimming with water fresh from the spring, the richest reds of Bordeaux as well as tongue-tingling white wine, Lepe and Osey from Castile as well as that from the Rhineland. The gilt-edged maple-wood mazers were filled, and the chamber guests could look forward to an appetizing array of dishes from the cooks: roast chicken in jelly, goose with sauce and onions, venison in black crushed pepper, aloes of highly spiced beef and other mouth-watering dishes. Mine Host had invited the Pastons and Master Foulkes, Brother Roger and the Inquisitor Marcel together with himself and Mistress Eleanor. The taverner had declared that, despite the heinous slayings, this was a banquet of reparation for the inconvenience, as Master Thorne so tactfully put it, ‘caused by the dead on the living’. Now Thorne, with his comely wife sitting on his right, welcomed them all to feast on this cold February evening, with the winter’s wind still beating against the shutters and a fire leaping as merrily as it did in mid-winter.
Mooncalf, Nightingale, Thomasinus and all the other tavern servants could only gape in mouth-watering envy as the guests cut, sliced and feasted on the delicious dishes. Mooncalf kept staring at Mistress Martha and William Foulkes. He wondered when that inquisitive friar would discover that all had not been as quiet as it should be on the night of the murders. Worse – and Mooncalf forgot his hunger – what if Athelstan stumbled on the truth? The ostler, Martha and Foulkes couldn’t look for help from Sir Robert: if the whispers were true, he also had a great deal to explain. Mooncalf just wished it was all over. He felt like a guard dog, constantly alert, and, even as he stood there, he abruptly realized something was wrong. So lost in his own hunger and personal worries, Mooncalf became acutely aware of how all the noise from the adjoining taproom had faded. The Dark Parlour was sealed off from this select refectory by a thick oaken door. Nevertheless, all the usual chatter and laughter of a busy taproom had died completely. Something was very amiss. He tried to catch his master’s eye but failed. Mine Host was listening most attentively to his guests’ desc
ription of what they thought might have happened on the night of the great slaughter. Brother Marcel, who had made himself very much at home at The Candle-Flame, was now sitting very close to Sir Robert Paston. Mooncalf noticed how the two were often in deep conversation. The ostler drew a deep breath then started at a rapping on the door to the taproom. Due to all the merry noise no one else heard it. Intrigued, Mooncalf decided to settle all his doubts. He quietly opened the door and slid into the taproom, closing the door behind him. He immediately stood, mouth gaping in surprise. Despite the mysterious knocking the Dark Parlour was completely empty. Candles glowed, lantern horns flared, shadows fluttered and merged with the other slivers of darkness, but all the customers had gone. Half-filled tankards and food-strewn platters remained on the tables. The fire-eater, the snake-conjurer, the relic-seller recently returned from Nazareth, the bargemen, the tinkers, the tanners from London Bridge and the fishermen from Billingsgate had disappeared. Mooncalf shivered. The fire still glowed, as did the charcoal turning crimson in the braziers. He glanced towards the door on the other side of the parlour but, in the poor light, that seemed closed. Mooncalf felt the tremblings, as he called them, return. The Dark Parlour lay ominously silent and yet, Mooncalf blinked, there was movement. He was sure someone was there. He caught the sound of heavy breathing, a floorboard creaking, a shutter rattling and the drip-drip of an overturned tankard. A rat scuttled out of the darkness, slithering across a ring of candlelight. Mooncalf moaned quietly. He would have turned and fled back into the refectory but he could only stand transfixed as the shadows shifted. First one, then others merged into the meagre light. They moved soundlessly, boots wrapped in rags, the round oxhide shields they carried daubed a blood red. Swords and axes glittered. Mooncalf felt a blade point prick the side of his neck. He glanced sharply to his right at the nightmare figure, face visored by an ugly crow mask fashioned out of black feathers. The spectre’s hair, stiffened with grease, stood up in long tufts, which gave him the appearance of a frightful demon.
‘Mooncalf, Mooncalf.’ The voice was soft, pleasant. ‘Peace, Brother. It’s not your blood we want, or that of any of your customers or comrades, which is why they have fled.’
Mooncalf swallowed hard. The Dark Parlour now seemed full of these nightmare wraiths. He realized what had happened. The Earthworms had appeared and quietly persuaded everyone to disappear, not that they would need much encouragement.
‘Who is in the refectory?’ the voice whispered.
‘Master Thorne.’
‘Ah, Thibault’s creature.’ Mooncalf was so astonished he turned, gaping. ‘Oh, yes, Mooncalf. Thorne sells taproom tittle-tattle, tavern chatter and ale gossip to Thibault and his brood of vipers. We know that. Don’t be surprised – most of London is now in our pay. Who else is there?’
Mooncalf told him.
‘Now, master ostler,’ the voice continued, ‘the Council of the Upright Men has received good information that the money Marsen stole from others and then had taken from him still lies here. Where?’
‘The angels be my—’
‘Oh, I know!’ the voice replied. ‘You may have no know-ledge of it, but there again, you have no knowledge of us either, eh, Master Mooncalf? Why is that now? Do you have your own secrets, eh?’ The voice had turned ugly. ‘Not of this world, Mooncalf, but of the next. You are a follower of Wycliffe, aren’t you? A member of the Lollard sect. You meet them out on the wastelands, even here along the Palisade?’
Mooncalf could feel the sweat break out on him.
‘There are no secrets from the Upright Men or their riders, the Earthworms. However, our present business is Marsen’s gold. It would be difficult to carry away, which is why my comrades and I believe it still lies hidden here.’
‘You were told this?’ Mooncalf stuttered. ‘Who informed you about that?’
‘Never mind,’ the voice hissed. He paused as a burst of laughter from Friar Roger echoed through the stillness. Mooncalf could only stand and tremble. He was no longer nervous about the Upright Men, just shocked that they knew his secret. How many others knew? Would he be denounced before the Archdeacon’s court or even to that fearsome Inquisitor?
‘Come now,’ the voice urged. ‘Time is passing. Announce us.’ Mooncalf opened the door and was pushed into the refectory, followed by the Earthworms, their grotesque bird masks covering blackened faces. A sudden silence fell, shattered by Martha’s scream as she jumped to her feet in a clatter of plates and goblets. Foulkes half-rose, a platter in his hand. Thorne cursed and seized a carving knife from the saucery. Sir Robert sat like a toper, eyes glazed, mouth half-open, whilst the two friars could only protest. The commotion was silenced by the Crow raising his heavy arbalest and loosing a whirring quarrel to smash into a painted cloth hanging on the far wall.
‘Sit down,’ the Crow ordered. ‘Peace be with you all. Master Thorne, we have business with you. Your customers have gone.’ He paused at sounds from the gallery above. ‘In fact, our business has already begun. We will search this tavern.’ He walked round the table and pressed the now-loaded arbalest against Eleanor’s forehead. She quivered in fear, whispering under her breath. Master Thorne would have lunged forward, but the Raven menaced him with an arbalest and he sat down.
‘If you cooperate,’ the Crow’s voice was almost a drawl, ‘nothing will happen. If you do not …’ He let the threat hang.
‘We are priests,’ Marcel spoke up, ‘clerics with benefit of clergy.’
‘It makes no difference, does it?’ Brother Roger shouted, face all flushed. The Franciscan grasped a goblet as if he wished to throw it at his tormentors. ‘To you we are …’
‘The oppressors, good brother?’ the Crow quipped. ‘As the Bible says, those who aren’t with us are against us. So hush now and let us do what we came for.’
Mooncalf could only stand, trying to hide his fear. He wanted to catch the eye of Foulkes and Mistress Martha, but that was futile. Both young people were more concerned in comforting each other. The noise and clattering in the tavern was now loud and continuous. The Earthworms demanded and seized the key to each and every chamber including the strongrooms in the cellar. Thorne objected but the Earthworms threatened the terrified Eleanor, whilst assuring Thorne that his property was safe. Marcel intoned a psalm, whilst Brother Roger sat tapping his sandaled feet against the floor. The evening drew on. Mooncalf tried to make signs to Martha but she was imprisoned deep in her fears. The search continued and the Earthworms grew more aggressive, threatening Thorne with torture. At this Marcel sprung to his feet.
‘I am a cleric!’
‘You will be a dead one!’ the Raven retorted.
‘You—’ He broke off as one of the Earthworms burst into the refectory and whispered in his ear. Mooncalf felt a chill; the danger was deepening. The Raven walked to the door and shouted a question. The response he received silenced all clamour. Royal troops were fast approaching the tavern.
PART THREE
‘Lollard’: old Dutch word for a mutterer or stammerer.
Athelstan and Cranston had just finished their deliberations with the Fisher of Men when a breathless Grubcatcher, courier for his master, came slipping and slithering across the quayside. War barges were on the river, crammed with soldiery, all heading across to the deserted quayside near The Candle-Flame. Athelstan and Cranston hurried down to the Fisher of Men’s barge. Icthus agreed to transport them swiftly across the swell and they cast off. A mist had billowed in, thick and curling. Nevertheless, Athelstan glimpsed the war barges surging before them, all despatched from the Tower quayside and displaying the blue, scarlet and gold of the royal household. Trumpets bellowed and horns brayed, telling other craft to swiftly pull away. Athelstan sat under the awning and wondered what was happening.
‘You are well named,’ he whispered. ‘Candle-Flame – you certainly draw in all the moths of murder.’
Cranston, half asleep, stirred and asked him what he said. ‘Just a prayer, Sir John; as the pot stirs, t
his mess of trouble thickens.’
They disembarked at the quayside to find the royal standard had been set up on a war cart with Thibault, Lascelles and officers from the Tower. They all stood about in half armour beneath floating standards and fiercely burning torches.
‘Sir John,’ Thibault greeted them, ‘Brother Athelstan, we have the Earthworms trapped.’
‘How?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Why?’
‘I received information that the Upright Men were plotting to visit The Candle-Flame after dark to search for Marsen’s looted treasure.’
‘Who gave that to you?’ Athelstan turned his head against the stiffening breeze.
‘Does it matter? A written message left at the Guildhall. It was well scripted, the message stark and simple.’
‘I suppose,’ Athelstan declared, ‘it was delivered by a ragged urchin who promptly disappeared?’
Thibault made a face and turned away.
‘You have Hugh of Hornsey at St Erconwald’s?’ Lascelles declared. ‘If we cannot seize him …’
‘And you will not!’ Athelstan intervened sharply, half-listening to the sounds drifting across the Palisade; peering through the darkness he could make out the sinister outline of the Barbican.