by Paul Doherty
‘Lascelles is dead,’ Athelstan replied and he described in a few pithy sentences what had happened. ‘Anyway,’ Athelstan concluded, ‘this does not resolve the mysteries confronting me. You and Ronseval were lovers but these murders …?’
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’
‘No!’ Athelstan almost shouted. ‘I will not shrive you. I will not hear your confession. I know what you want. Once you have told me under the seal I cannot discuss it. This is not the time for games but for the truth. Moreover, such a confession would be invalid.’
Hornsey’s eyes shifted, glancing down the church as if he feared someone lurking in the darkness. He opened and shut his mouth.
‘The truth?’ Athelstan insisted.
‘Marsen was hated,’ Hornsey replied slowly. ‘But that is stating the obvious. We all knew he had a violent past. There must have been many who would have loved to take his head. Indeed, on the night he died, the entire tavern seemed to be as busy as a rabbit warren in spring. Sir Robert Paston was up along the galleries. He saw me, I saw him. He looked worried, anxious. A young woman visited him.’
‘His daughter?’
‘No, a whore, a well-cut and prosperous one but still a whore. She knocked on Paston’s door and went in. She must have left some time later. There were others walking about. I am talking about very late in the evening.’
‘Who?’
‘Paston’s daughter, Martha, and her lovelorn clerk, Foulkes. I saw them together with that gormless-looking ostler Mooncalf in the Dark Parlour.’
‘And Brother Roger?’
‘I never saw him. He must have been in his chamber and stayed there.’
‘And Scrope the physician?’
‘Oh, he was wandering about slightly drunk, unsteady on his feet. I saw him come from outside. He was carrying a lantern horn. He said he wanted to visit Marsen.’
‘And Master Thorne, Mine Host?’
‘Busy in the taproom and out in the stableyard.’
‘And finally the killer?’
Hornsey just stared, his lower lip jutting out. Athelstan caught a mere shift in the man’s eyes. This sharp-witted captain of archers was keeping his own counsel. Athelstan quietly considered the possibilities. Hornsey was finished as a royal retainer. He might be innocent of murder and theft but he had left his post without good reason and there was every possibility that he could be exposed, tried and punished, not only as a deserter but as a self-confessed sodomite. Hornsey himself must have accepted that. So was he planning for the future? A vast amount of money had been stolen. Had Hornsey seen the killer? Or could he prove who it was? Was Hornsey hoping that he might escape and use his knowledge to acquire a share of the plunder, a small fortune to set himself up as a prosperous peasant farmer, merchant or trader far beyond this city? Hornsey would not be the first to assume a new name, an identity, a fresh start to a different life.
‘Brother, do you have more questions?’
‘Oh, of course I do but I am not too sure if they will be answered truthfully. I suspect, Master Hornsey, that you know more than you have told me.’
‘Brother,’ Hornsey held a hand up, ‘I have told you the truth.’
‘But not the full truth.’ Athelstan tried to curb his welling temper. ‘Tell me now: why did Marsen choose The Candle-Flame? I have asked the others the same question but I would like to hear it from you.’
‘I suspect it was chosen for him. Master Thorne is probably in the pay of Thibault. The tavern has many entrances by land and by river. The Barbican is a strong, fortified tower, ideal for Marsen, or so he thought, to protect himself and his treasure.’
Athelstan nodded in agreement. Hornsey’s assertion was logical. Most of London’s taverners worked for Thibault, be it out of fear or favour or both. Athelstan decided to take another direction.
‘Marsen,’ he declared, ‘collected taxes. He was good at it, yes?’
‘Yes. He took to it like a rat gnawing cheese.’
‘But he collected information as well, didn’t he?’
‘Of course. Marsen sifted all the gossip and—’
‘No,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘Marsen was just not a snapper-up of mere trifles, he was hunting, wasn’t he? In fact,’ Athelstan jabbed a finger, ‘he was hunting people like yourself because that was Marsen’s nature, so he could control, bully and blackmail. That was the cause of your quarrel with Ronseval, wasn’t it?’
‘True.’ Hornsey rubbed his face. ‘Ronseval and I used to meet. On that day late in the evening he invited me to his chamber. He wanted me to relax with him. I told him that was far too dangerous. We argued and we sulked, sometimes we whispered and on one occasion we just sat silently. Ronseval didn’t realize how evil Marsen truly was.’
‘Do you think Marsen suspected your secret?’
‘It’s possible. I was adamant in protecting it. Yes, there was a quarrel. I drew my knife and a little blood was spilt, but only a cut. I eventually left and returned to my post.’
‘And?’ Athelstan intervened.
‘The two archers were dead. I was still carrying Ronseval’s dagger. I was so shocked I dropped it. I was fearful—’
‘No, stop.’ Athelstan held a hand up. ‘You left Ronseval’s chamber, yes? The tavern lay quiet, yes? So when you entered the Palisade what did you actually see?’
‘The campfire had burnt down. My two comrades lay sprawled, crossbow quarrels deep in their chest. Apart from that there was a deathly silence. I could not see nor hear anything untoward.’
‘How along had you been away – the truth?’
‘By the time candle in Ronseval’s chamber about three hours.’
‘Paston said you appeared around midnight.’
‘No, that was pretence. I had in fact been there for some time. I didn’t want anyone to realize that. So I went outside the chamber and knocked on the door, pretending to have just arrived.’
‘Your comrades, I mean, if they had survived?’
‘Brother, I was their captain. I told them I was going to patrol the tavern and the surrounding streets – that was part of the quarrel. I wanted Ronseval to leave his chamber,’ he flailed a hand, ‘to walk with me, to go elsewhere. He refused to acknowledge how dangerous Marsen truly was.’ Hornsey picked up the tankard beside him and drained it. ‘As I said, I found both men dead. I immediately ran to the Barbican and knocked. No one answered. I could hear no sound. It was obvious a hideous mischief had been perpetrated. By then I was so terrified I staggered away to be sick. Once I’d recovered, I returned to Ronseval. I told him what I had seen. He asked for his dagger. I told him I had dropped it. We quarrelled. He wanted me to stay but I begged him to flee with me.’ He shook his head. ‘On reflection it was stupid, but I was terrified more than on any battle day. I had deserted my post and my comrades lay slain – the man I was supposed to protect probably so as well.’
‘These two archers … before you left them, how were they?’
‘Oh, they were good men, tired and weary after a day’s work, resentful at being given such an onerous watch. But they had fire and food. They said they had eaten well. Thorne’s meal was hot and spicy. They tried to entice me with what they had left but I couldn’t eat. I said I wasn’t hungry. In fact, I was too nervous.’
‘So they had eaten and drank before you left?’
‘Oh, yes, and with no ill effects.’
‘And Marsen had instructed you to unlock the third clasp of the exchequer chest?’
Hornsey nodded in agreement.
‘So,’ Athelstan mused, ‘what happened? Did Marsen and Mauclerc unlock the other two?’
‘Brother, I cannot say.’
‘And the two whores?’
‘Mere shadows. I saw them slip into the Barbican.’
‘Had Marsen visited The Golden Oliphant, the brothel run by the Mistress of the Moppets?’
‘Of course. Marsen swept in there like Gaunt himself demanding this and that. He would know a few of her secrets a
s well.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Athelstan stirred on the stool, fighting a deep exhaustion which wearied him. ‘Marsen collected information, knowledge. Was he searching for anything specific?’
‘Certainly,’ Hornsey replied, ‘I heard about what happened in Cheapside, the attack by the Earthworms. Haven’t you or Cranston ever wondered how the Earthworms can suddenly appear on horses in deep disguise all weaponed for war?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, horses can be stabled all over the city but those shields and spears, the masks – where can they be stored? How can a throng of armed men abruptly emerge in the heart of the city? How could they bring in such weaponry without being noticed? Marsen was searching for where those arms were bought, where they could be stored and how they could be transported hither and thither with impunity.’
Athelstan sat silent. Again what Hornsey said was logical. Horses could be stabled at alehouses or taverns, but there were at least forty Earthworms involved with that affray in Cheapside – all those spears, swords and clubs?
‘You see, Brother, the Upright Men have learnt their lesson. A year ago they stored such weapons in taverns, brothels, alehouses, even cemeteries and crypts. They could dig pits but these could be found. Thibault’s searchers were hot in pursuit so now the Upright Men have moved on. Marsen had more than a passing interest in discovering just where these weapons were bought, where they were kept and how they were moved about. Before you ask, Marsen discovered nothing. He was furious. I suspect that’s why Lascelles visited him just for a short while on the evening before the murders. Thibault wanted the taxes but information can be just as precious.’
‘Anything else?’ Athelstan demanded.
‘You told me about Lascelles being killed. Brother, I give this to you in gratitude for what you have done for me. You do realize Thibault was tricked and trapped tonight?’
‘By the Upright Men?’
‘No, by Beowulf the assassin. Somehow or other,’ Hornsey smiled grimly, ‘that murderous will-o’-the-wisp brought Thibault and the Upright Men together. He pedalled information to the Upright Men, enticed them into The Candle-Flame, then gave similar information to Master Thibault. He knew there would be a confrontation. What better time to hide and wait for the opportunity to destroy Thibault and his henchman?’
Athelstan sat still, surprised. He had suspicions about what had truly caused the confrontation at The Candle-Flame. Hornsey’s explanation was logical. Marsen’s treasure, heavy to carry, could well be buried or hidden somewhere in The Candle-Flame or the land around it. The Upright Men would be keen to seize it – they had proclaimed as much. On the other hand, Thibault would grasp any opportunity to inflict bloody damage on his enemy. Hornsey was right. Thibault and Lascelles had rushed into Beowulf’s ambush. Lascelles had been killed and it was only by sheer chance that Thibault had narrowly escaped a similar fate. Athelstan rose to stand beneath the pyx. Mentally he beat his breast and confessed his arrogance. Hugh of Hornsey was not just a simple soldier. He was more cunning and subtle than Athelstan had judged. He was an archer who had risen through the ranks, stood in the line of battle and survived on his wits, whilst hiding his own dangerous secrets. Was he also cunning enough to plot that massacre at the Barbican? The former captain of archers was steadily climbing what Athelstan called ‘the Devil’s staircase’. True, he had fled The Candle-Flame and taken sanctuary. However, at the same time he was taking one step away from the disaster which had nearly engulfed him. He was climbing away from both the truth and his own mistakes. Hornsey had seen something but he was determined to keep this to himself, to use further up the Devil’s staircase. Athelstan closed his eyes and prayed. It would be futile to continue the questioning, to pursue this any further. He crossed himself, opened his eyes and pointed to the door to the sacristy.
‘Master Hugh, bolt and lock that after me. The same for the door in the rood screen. Once you have done that no one can enter from the nave. Use the jakes pot and do not go out. If anyone tries to come through the sacristy they will have to knock on the outside door. Make sure that’s bolted as well. Use the eyelet to determine friend or foe. I trust you consider me, Benedicta, Crim or the Hangman amongst the former.’ He extended a hand for Hornsey to clasp. ‘Goodnight, Master Hugh.’
Athelstan wearily left the church. He heard Hornsey bolt the doors behind him and plodded back through the dark to his house. He unlocked the door; the kitchen was cold, the fire had burnt low. Athelstan felt so tired he didn’t care. He slumped down at the table and fell fast asleep. He was given a rude awakening by a pounding on his door just after dawn. He jumped to his feet, his heart a-flutter and his flesh tingling cold. The fire and brazier had burnt out; the candles were no more than stubs. Grey dawn light peeked through the shutters and tendrils of mist curled beneath the door. Athelstan stared around. Bonaventure was nowhere to be seen. ‘I don’t blame you, cat, this is not a place of rest.’ Again the pounding at the door. Athelstan hastily unlocked and unbolted it. The Hangman, together with Benedicta and Crim, stood gasping in the bleak dawn light.
‘Father, quickly! It’s the fugitive!’
Athelstan followed them out, slipping and slithering on the icy rutted trackway up the steps, through the porch and into the church. It was freezing cold. The Hangman muttered something but Athelstan already had a premonition which proved true. Hugh of Hornsey lay dead in the sacristy almost as if he was floating on a wide, shimmering pool of dark red blood. He had been killed with a crossbow bolt loosed deep into his chest, almost the same way as his lover, Ronseval. He laid tangled and twisted, eyes staring blindly, blood-encrusted lips parted.
‘I think you paid for what you saw,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘and so you were marked down for slaughter.’ Athelstan blessed the corpse and glanced over his shoulder at the Hangman. ‘You were here all night? You never left?’
‘Father, I heard you leave, then the fugitive bolting all three doors. After that, nothing.’
‘I came in to prepare for Mass,’ Benedicta spoke up. ‘The doors to the nave were all locked. That door,’ she pointed to the one which sealed the sanctuary from the sacristy, ‘that door,’ she repeated, ‘was wide open, as was the door from the sacristy to the cemetery. The fugitive was lying as you found him. He must have been killed when he opened the door to use the garderobe.’
‘No.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I told him not to do that.’ He went over to the mercy enclave and inspected the covered jakes pot. He hastily resealed it, wrinkling his nose, and returned to stand over the corpse. ‘He had no need to go out. Not only did I warn him but Hornsey was an experienced soldier; he would be wary of leaving the safety of the sanctuary. Moreover, if that did happen it would mean his killer might have had to wait for hours in the freezing cold. No,’ Athelstan paused, ‘once more the paradox. Hornsey must have truly trusted his assassin.’ Athelstan walked into the sacristy to inspect the door to the outside. ‘Look, the eyelet hatch is down. Hornsey must have lowered it, looked out, recognized his killer, but felt safe enough to unlock the door. The bolts and locks,’ Athelstan crouched down, ‘are unmarked. No sign of force. Yes, yes,’ Athelstan continued, ‘it must have been so. Somehow the killer deceived Hornsey, who actually scrutinized his would-be assassin and utterly trusted him.’
‘True,’ Benedicta followed him over, ‘the killer must have struck swiftly, not tarrying outside in the freezing night.’
‘Precisely,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘So who was it? Why did Hornsey trust him so much?’ He smiled absent-mindedly at Benedicta and walked back to the corpse. He administered the last rites then knelt on the bottom altar step, whilst the Hangman and Benedicta fetched the bailiffs, a shambling, drink-sodden group of men, bitterly complaining about the cold. They were shocked by what had happened, gazing fearfully at the corpse. All raised their hands and swore in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament that during the previous night they had seen no one approach the church nor heard anything to alarm them. Athelstan
wondered how alert they had been but, as he whispered to himself, ‘Alea iacta – the dice is thrown.’ He instructed them to remove Hornsey’s corpse to the new parish death house. Benedicta promised that she would help Beadle Bladdersmith, Godbless and the Hangman of Rochester prepare the cadaver for burial. They discussed the cleansing of the church and the need to inform the bishop. Athelstan declared he would not celebrate his daily Mass or meet any of his parishioners. By now Benedicta and the Hangman had been joined by the bell clerk, Judith and Ranulf; they all assured Athelstan that they would look after the church, its precincts and, once he had gone, the priest’s house.
Athelstan left and hurried across to the house, having despatched Crim to rouse Sir John. Once inside Athelstan locked the door. For a while he just sat feeding the meagre fire, allowing the tears of sheer frustration and despondency to well up, even as he murmured lines from the psalms asking for divine help. When Bonaventure scratched at the door to be let in, Athelstan crossed himself and smiled at the crucifix nailed to the wall. ‘So that’s your response,’ he murmured. ‘You have sent Bonaventure to help.’ He allowed the cat in and for a while fussed over him, feeding him morsels from the buttery. At last, feeling more composed, Athelstan stripped, washed and shaved, donning new linen underwear and taking fresh robes from the clothes chest. He rubbed oil into his hands and face, took a deep breath and wondered what he would do. ‘Distraction,’ he whispered to a sleeping Bonaventure lounging across the hearth, ‘is good for the soul.’
Athelstan began to walk up and down the kitchen, reciting, as he would a litany, the questions and problems which prevented him from unlocking the mysteries challenging him. Athelstan had been taught the technique by Brother Siward, Master of Logic at Blackfriars. ‘Siward!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘A Saxon name. He was always so very proud of his Saxon ancestors. He loved to quote their poem about the Battle at Maldon and of course his precious Beowulf. He always had a soft spot for me, Bonaventure, because I bore the name of the great Saxon king. I wonder if Siward would loan me his manuscripts. Anyway …’ Athelstan continued walking up and down, watched curiously by a bemused Bonaventure, who was fascinated by this little priest who shared his home and food with him. ‘Now,’ Athelstan sketched a blessing in Bonaventure’s direction, ‘we have Marsen and his company arrive at The Candle-Flame. They chose it because of the Barbican, a safe and secure refuge, or so they thought. A prosperous tavern, its master is probably in Thibault’s pay. Marsen was a great sinner against the Lord like Ahab in the Old Testament, given to double-dealing in everything he did. He collected taxes as well as every scrap of information, either for own nefarious use or that of his master. Marsen loved his task, Bonaventure; he seemed to relish making enemies. He insulted Paston but there is little evidence of any relationship between him and the other chamber guests. The only exception is Physician Scrope, Marsen’s secret enemy, who was preparing an indictment against him for previous crimes.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Marsen sets up the outside watch under Hornsey. They camp on the Palisade, where they are given food and drink by Thorne. In the Barbican’s lower chamber is the internal watch, three archers who lock and bolt the door behind them. Marsen believes he can relax, he has food and drink and the company of two whores. One of them arrives with a bag which clinked. Was it money, Bonaventure, or was it that chainmail wristguard? If it was, why was it brought to the Barbican by a whore and, more importantly, why was it left?’ Athelstan stared down at the cat. ‘I must apologize to my congregation, even though it is only you, Bonaventure. You also have your needs.’