Candle Flame

by Paul Doherty

  Athelstan went into the buttery, poured himself a stoup of ale and filled Bonaventure’s bowl with some of the milk Benedicta had brought. The friar watched the cat hungrily lap his morning drink. ‘Good,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Then there is the exchequer chest. Had it been opened, and why? Marsen and Mauclerc would be careful, especially with two whores in the chamber. Yet, even if it was partially locked, why would the other two keys still be left on cords hanging round their owners’ neck? Apparently the killer-thief did not need them.’ Athelstan sipped at his ale. ‘No potion or poison could be traced in the food or drink. So, Bonaventure, we move to the heart of this mystery. Two archers were slain by the campfire. Three more in the lower chamber, four souls in the one above, yet both window and door were locked and bolted, whilst the trapdoor to Marsen’s chamber was clasped shut from the upper side. How could a killer inflict such damage, provoke no real resistance and open a locked exchequer chest, even if the third clasp had been released, then remove the treasure and leave, passing as it were through sheer stone?’

  Athelstan stopped to listen to the sounds echoing from outside, shouts and cries as Hornsey’s corpse was removed. ‘Yet another mystery, Bonaventure. Hornsey’s murderer could have only entered our church by the door to the sacristy. Hornsey first peered through the eyelet and then, all trusting, opened the door and was immediately killed. The same, Bonaventure,’ Athelstan started his pacing again, ‘yes, just like Physician Scrope, only his death is even more mysterious. He was killed in a locked, bolted chamber. Wait now.’ Athelstan’s fingers flew to his lips as he recalled Lascelles being struck the previous evening. He must, he promised himself, truly reflect on what he’d seen last night, but, for the moment, he was too tired; it would have to wait. ‘Why, oh why, Bonaventure, was Scrope killed in such a way? What did he see when he went out? Why was he clutching that pilgrim book on Glastonbury?’ Athelstan, sipping his ale, crouched by the hearth, using a poker to shatter the crumbling, flame-flickering ash. ‘As for the spy, well, Master Thibault will have to wait. And Beowulf – a silent, skilled killer, like you, Bonaventure? He has undoubtedly struck twice: at Lascelles that morning in the stableyard and more successfully last night. This time, he killed Lascelles and nearly did the same to Thibault. I wonder.’ Athelstan put the poker down; a thought had occurred to him. Was Beowulf sheltering at The Candle-Flame or was he simply using the tavern as a shield? Athelstan got to his feet. ‘And there are other strands to this mystery, Bonaventure. I must have a word with Mooncalf, Martha and Master Foulkes. Where were they going on the night those murders occurred? And why did a young whore visit Paston? Questions, questions, Bonaventure! Those two lovers Ronseval and Hornsey executed in the same way, the killer very close. Both men undoubtedly trusted that son of Cain. And why did Ronseval leave the tavern …?’ Athelstan paused in his self-lecture at a pounding at the door. He hurriedly unlocked it, drew the bolts and stood back as Cranston swept in, his cloak billowing out as if he was the herald of God Almighty.

  ‘I heard what happened, Athelstan. Hornsey’s slain, the fool!’ Cranston paused as Bonaventure, who seemed to adore the coroner, padded across to brush himself against Sir John’s boots, his one eye staring up in mute admiration. ‘God’s teeth, I can’t stand cats!’

  ‘He certainly likes you.’ Athelstan shooed Bonaventure away and made Sir John sit and listen to what he had learnt from Hornsey. Once he had finished, Cranston, threading his beaver hat through his hands, stared bleakly at Athelstan.

  ‘Do you think we will ever solve this, Brother?’

  ‘Sir John, I do not know.’

  ‘Thibault is furious. He regarded Lascelles as kith and kin. He visited me at the Guildhall and told me that was Beowulf’s work last night. Master Thorne found Beowulf’s usual message pinned to a newel post on the tavern staircase. He sent it immediately to the Guildhall. Brother Athelstan, I do fear for Pike and Watkin. Thibault may well make an example of them. I have used all the influence I can to delay their arraignment before the justices. Now, Brother,’ Cranston got to his feet, ‘let’s go deeper into this maze. We must visit The Golden Oliphant and the Mistress of the Moppets. Let us see what that madam has to say for herself. Brother, what is it?’

  ‘Just a thought, Sir John, but isn’t it rather strange? The Upright Men invade The Candle-Flame. I could understand why they would not lift a hand against Brother Marcel or Roger, as they are priests. Violence against clerics incurs spiritual penalties and, whatever the Upright Men may boast, old habits die hard. What is remarkable is that no violence was offered to Sir Robert Paston, a manor lord, a natural enemy of the Upright Men, or even to Thorne or his own household.’

  ‘Whom they probably regard as in Thibault’s pay.’

  ‘The Upright Men,’ Athelstan declared, ‘would be angry. They apparently searched and found no treasure, yet they didn’t turn on their hostages.’

  ‘Which they certainly can do,’ Cranston added quickly. ‘One of my spies informed me how the Upright Men executed Grapeseed, who mocked them. They used his severed head as a public display of their power. Yes, it’s an interesting thought.’ Cranston chewed the corner of his lip. ‘But we must not be too hasty. Remember, the Upright Men were disturbed in their search by the arrival of Thibault and his soldiers. God knows what they would have done if that hadn’t happened. But come, Brother, let me broaden your experience of this world.’

  They left the precincts of St Erconwald’s. Athelstan, head down, hood pulled over, did not wish to converse with parishioners all agog with the news of Pike and Watkin being taken up and Hornsey slain in sanctuary. The exception was Benedicta, whom he called over. He opened his wallet and took out a seal of the Dominican order with a cross on one side and a crowned lily on the other.

  ‘Take this to Brother Siward at Blackfriars, would you, please? I appreciate the weather is harsh but this is important …’

  ‘I was planning to visit Cheapside,’ she replied, ‘and remember, Brother, I have been to Blackfriars before on your behalf. I’ve met Brother Siward.’

  ‘Yes, yes, so you have,’ Athelstan conceded. ‘Siward may be old but he is still partial to a fair face. Anyway, give him the seal. Ask him if I can borrow the library copy of a poem known as Beowulf.’ He made Benedicta repeat the message. ‘Take the Hangman of Rochester with you as a guard. He frightens the footpads as much as Sir John.’ Benedicta, eyes closed, repeated the word ‘Beowulf’ until she knew it by heart. Cranston gave her a hug and kiss and she hurried off. Athelstan and Cranston strode on into the mesh of narrow squalid streets of Southwark, which ran like a tangled web, reeking of poverty and all kinds of wickedness. The day was iron-hard cold, the ground under foot still frozen solid, the filth strewn there turning to rock to score the foot and trip the boot. Shutters flew open above them. Doors slammed. Children chased dogs or guided the family pig with a whipping cane. Carts, barrows and tumbrils rumbled and rattled, pushed by sweaty labourers or pulled by spare-ribbed street nags. The legion of tinkers and traders, trays hanging around their necks, offered a range of goods from strips of hard cooked meat to crude sharp knives to cut it. A wild-eyed preacher had commandeered a broken wheeled cart on the corner of Hairlip Lane; his powerful voice bellowed how long hair was a sign of pride and the banner of Hell, and how the world was full of such banners, especially London ale. According to the preacher, this was Satan’s own drink, making men yield to the temptations of fleshly women who bore in their person the marks of the great enemy of man. Athelstan couldn’t make sense of what the preacher was talking about, although he agreed with the man’s constant refrain of how London had become the seat of the Great Beast and idolatry peeked out of every corner.

  In truth, the friar was so distracted by the hurly-burly of recent events that he almost forgot where he was. Cranston had to pull him around a funeral party, all drunk and trying to get a coffin out through a narrow door; its thin wooden side had split and a skeletal arm hung out to the distress of the tipsy mourners. They l
eft Hairlip Lane and paused as a group of flagellantes proceeded by, their heads and faces hidden by bright yellow hoods and red masks. The tops of their gowns, both the men and women, were pulled down to expose them to the lashes of those behind, a ceaseless reign of cutting blows which ruptured the skin and sprayed the air with flicking blood. The flagellantes, swinging from foot to foot, lost in a trance, rhythmically chanted ‘Miserere, Miserere, Kyrie Eleison’ – ‘Have mercy, have mercy, Lord, have mercy on us.’ A few city urchins, encouraged by the layabouts standing in the crumbling doorways of shabby alehouses, threw refuse at the penitents. Cranston doffed his beaver hat and bellowed at the top of his voice until the miscreants fled. The coroner was about to move on when he caught sight of a well-known pickpocket, Bird-brain, and shouted a warning for the felon to spread his wings and fly.

  They reached The Golden Oliphant, standing at the end of an alleyway with walls of sheer red brick ranging either side. The tavern boasted a magnificent doorway smartly painted in black and gilt; the same colours were reflected in its broad sign and the rest of the tavern frontage. Two oafs dressed in black-and-gold livery stood on guard. Once Cranston announced himself they threw open the door and escorted them into the sweet-smelling parlour, just off the well-scrubbed paving stone floor leading down to the Golden Hall, as one of the guards grandly called the taproom. The parlour reminded Athelstan of a rather luxurious monastic cell with its gleaming oaken furniture, lancet windows filled with painted glass, thick turkey floor rugs and slender candles burning under bright copper caps. Cranston and Athelstan sat down on quilted, leather-back chairs before a brilliantly polished elmwood table; at its centre was a three-branched candelabra next to a blue and gold mazer full of freshly crushed herbs mixed in rosewater. The guards left. A short while later Elizabeth Sheyne, the Mistress of the Moppets, came in accompanied by her maid, a slender but buxom young lady, dressed as discreetly as any novice in a well-heeled convent. Introductions were made, refreshments offered and tactfully refused. Cranston and Athelstan retook their seats and the two women perched on chairs opposite as demurely as any city matrons. The Mistress of the Moppets, however, was a brazen-faced, hard-eyed woman with knowing eyes and a rat-trap mouth. The maid, Joycelina, as she introduced herself, looked no better – a pale, rather peaked face with hostile eyes, her disdain at meeting them barely hidden.

  ‘You are most welcome, Sir John.’

  ‘No, I am not!’ Cranston barked. ‘You,’ he pointed at the mistress, ‘run a brothel, a whorehouse, and I am an officer of the law.’

  ‘Sir John, I have powerful protectors.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a fig if all the Pope’s cardinals are upstairs with your ladies. Your business is not mine but if you lie I will make your business my business. I shall leave, but return with a warrant to search and a summons to court. Rest assured, I will be escorted by the burliest bailiffs who have ever graced a brothel.’

  The mistress fluttered her eyes, laced her fingers together and forced a smile.

  ‘What do you want, Sir John?’

  ‘Marsen,’ Cranston used his fingers to emphasize his points, ‘Mauclerc, Sir Robert Paston and not to forget two dead whores. Be attentive to my questions. Answer them truthfully and you are safe; lie and I will have you in the stocks for a week, the public pillory down near the bridge. I am sure the wives of some of Southwark’s leading gentlemen would love to see you there.’

  Athelstan steeled himself against the fear he could sense in both women. They had lost their false demure attitude and were now becoming increasingly flustered. Apparently they had never done business with Cranston and were being given a rough schooling.

  ‘I don’t—’ the mistress began.

  ‘Oh, by Satan’s tits!’ Cranston thundered jabbing a finger at the maid. ‘On the evening of the murders, and you know what I am talking about, you met Sir Robert Paston at The Candle-Flame – why? Look, accept my apologies,’ the coroner persisted. ‘In many ways I am a knight and a gentleman, but I am also a coroner. Hideous murder has been, and still is being, perpetrated. I don’t want to sit here and parry words with you. I have no desire to convict you of anything. I just want information.’

  ‘Sir John, Sir John,’ the mistress lifted long, snow-white hands, ‘I will tell the truth. What does it matter? We live in the rough world of men. I have no choice but to be subject to their iron-hard temper.’

  ‘I will be fair and just,’ Cranston intervened. ‘I am here to do what is right, that is all. Help me and, if and when I can, I will assist you.’

  ‘Marsen was a demon,’ the mistress spoke quickly, ‘a blood-drinker, a soul-crusher and, above all, a blackmailer. He loved to bully defenceless women. Oh, he was a guest here but not an invited one. He took what he wanted and never paid for anything, be it food, drink or a wench. He accused me of having secret dealings with the Upright Men.’

  ‘Do you?’

  The mistress just stared back.

  ‘Everybody does, don’t they, Elizabeth?’ Athelstan said gently. She nodded.

  ‘We help where we can,’ she murmured. ‘In return, we have guarantees that when the days dissolve into fire, The Golden Oliphant will be safe.’ She ignored Cranston’s mocking laugh.

  ‘Do you store their weapons?’

  ‘No, Sir John, that would be stupid. You know that. Someone like Marsen would soon find out.’

  ‘What else did he want?’ Athelstan asked, staring at the maid. ‘Why did you go to The Candle-Flame? Why did one of your sisters who was slain carry a bag which clinked? Did it contain, and I think it did, a blue expensive gauntlet and a chainmail wristguard?’

  The mistress drew a sharp breath, rubbed her face and twitched the folds of her dark-green, samite gown.

  ‘Marsen knew,’ she replied. ‘One of the sisters told him how Sir Robert Paston is the most regular visitor here. After all, he is a widower and he has,’ she fluttered her eyelids, ‘his own needs. When he came here Sir Robert liked …’ She pulled a face. ‘Father, you are a priest?’

  ‘You would be very surprised, Elizabeth, at what I hear in confession. Some of my parishioners are most forthcoming about what happens in establishments such as this. I understand,’ Athelstan continued blithely, ‘that some men like to watch, others require two or more girls together, and others like to be beaten.’ The mistress stared at him in surprise. ‘Elizabeth,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘we are all sinners. We do what we are good at, which is sinning. I always think men who knock on a brothel door are searching for God. Now, Sir Robert?’

  ‘He likes to be playful.’

  ‘You mean rough?’

  ‘Yes, Father. He asks the girls to act like damsels in distress, to be taken by force by a rough soldier after her castle has fallen.’

  ‘And her drawbridge forced?’

  The maid abruptly added, glaring at Athelstan, ‘Some men like that. What do you like, Father?’

  ‘Women,’ the friar replied before Cranston could intervene. ‘I do love a beautiful woman; in my eyes one of God’s greatest creations. I like to watch their eyes fill with laughter and admire their hair, long and lovely. It must be very easy to fall in love and so glorious for such a being to love you back. So, I have answered your question, lady. Now,’ Athelstan’s smile faded, ‘answer mine. Sir Robert liked to wear gauntlets, chainmail wristguards – they made him feel fierce, yes?’ The maid nodded, taken aback by this passionate little friar who seemed to be searching her soul.

  ‘Sir Robert left such items here, didn’t he? Marsen learnt about it and forced you, mistress,’ Athelstan pointed at the older woman, ‘to hand them over, or at least certain ones. He was going to publicly ridicule Paston, perhaps blackmail him or just pass such information on with the proof to Master Thibault.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I am correct?’ Both women nodded in agreement. ‘However, Sir Robert is a goodly man; he supports you, so you sent her,’ Athelstan gestured at the maid, ‘to The Candle-Flame to warn Sir Robert?’ Both women murmured their agreement. Ath
elstan sat, letting the silence deepen. He glanced at Cranston, who was staring in surprise. Athelstan winked at him before turning back to the two ladies. ‘And how did Sir Roger take the news?’

  ‘He seemed slightly relieved,’ the maid replied. ‘I had the impression he was, yes, relieved. All he said was, “Is that all?”’

  ‘Is that all,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘Why should he say that?’