Candle Flame

by Paul Doherty

  ‘But Marsen escaped at Leveret Copse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And, because of that, the Upright Men were planning their own assault when the murders took place?’

  ‘That is true, Father.’ Pike wiped the sweaty dirt from his face. ‘The Upright Men were as puzzled as anyone else. There is a feeling that the massacre in the Barbican was not the work of Beowulf even though, well,’ Pike coughed, ‘as we know from our friends at the Guildhall, the usual message was left.’

  ‘This Beowulf,’ Cranston demanded, ‘he works independently of the Upright Men yet he supports their cause. He marks down for death Thibault’s minions, particularly his tax collectors. That is a fact. I just wonder how the Upright Men first became acquainted with him.’

  ‘Sir John,’ Watkin scoffed, ‘as scripture says, “Those who are not against us are with us.” We heard about Beowulf’s bloody handiwork in the shires around London. We rejoiced at the news. His reputation grew – it was only a matter of time. Our leaders are well known even though they are in hiding. Eventually Beowulf and the council exchanged good wishes.’

  ‘Surely,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘there must be speculation about his identity?’

  ‘Father,’ Pike retorted, ‘we will not betray the cause. We will say nothing to weaken the work of the Great Community but surely it is obvious. Beowulf is schooled. He must have experience in war as well as the means to move from one place to another. He is not like us, tied like a dog to its post.’

  ‘And the night you were captured, the attack on The Candle-Flame, you were searching for Marsen’s treasure?’

  Watkin and Pike glanced at each other. Athelstan’s heart skipped a beat – he was always fascinated by how intelligent his little flock could be when they wanted, these two worthies in particular.

  ‘Watkin, Pike,’ Athelstan held his hand up as if swearing an oath, ‘I vow solemnly as your priest that I will regard what you say here, and so will Sir John, as if told under the seal of confession. Now, we know Master Thorne at The Candle-Flame is in Thibault’s pay.’

  ‘And in ours,’ Watkin smirked. ‘Oh, Father, don’t look so surprised. All the worthies of London, both high and low, are taking surety against the evil day.’

  ‘You hide weapons there, food, stores?’

  Watkin snorted with laughter.

  ‘He makes a contribution towards the cause, doesn’t he?’ Cranston asked. ‘Like scores of others the length and breadth of this city?’

  ‘Which is why,’ Athelstan added, ‘no harm was done to Thorne or his people – I understand that. But Sir Robert Paston?’

  ‘We would have eventually,’ Watkin blurted out, but Athelstan caught a shift in Pike’s eyes.

  ‘So you have no business with Sir Robert?’

  ‘Why should we? He criticizes Gaunt so we leave him be.’

  ‘And his daughter?’

  ‘A mere child.’

  ‘And Master William Foulkes?’ Athelstan glimpsed Pike’s hand brushing that of Watkin’s, a sign to be wary. ‘Ah, well. Let’s go back to my previous questions. Who told you that Marsen’s treasure was there?’

  ‘Oh, Beowulf.’ Pike seemed relieved at the change in direction the questioning had taken. Sounds from the passageway drifted in. Cranston went outside to have words with Blanchard, who was hurriedly trying to comply with Athelstan’s earlier demands on behalf of the prisoners. Athelstan waited until he returned.

  ‘Well?’ he continued. ‘How did Beowulf inform you? In God’s name,’ Athelstan’s voice turned hard, ‘I am trying to save you from being strangled over Tyburn stream or the cattle market at Smithfield.’

  ‘Letters were left,’ Pike confessed. He glanced at Watkin. ‘What does it matter? Scraps of parchment,’ he continued, ‘pushed under my door and that of Watkin’s. They were written in a clerkly hand like yours, Father.’

  ‘Liar!’ Athelstan accused. ‘Neither you nor Watkin can truly read. But the Hangman of Rochester can.’

  ‘As does Mauger the bell clerk,’ Pike added a little too hastily, eager to spread the doubt about who had read the letters for them.

  ‘Giles of Sempringham,’ Athelstan declared, ‘also known as the Hangman of Rochester, is a trained scribe. Let us say he read both messages for you.’

  ‘Very simple,’ Pike screwed his eyes up, ‘the message was something like this: “Marsen’s treasure is still held deep, protected by the candle’s flame.” Pike opened his red-rimmed eyes and scratched at the suppurating ulcer on his arm. ‘We know what it meant, Father. That is all I can and will tell you.’

  ‘But why that particular evening?’ Cranston asked. ‘First, let me tell you something, gentlemen. Beowulf must have kept you under close watch. He was waiting for you to take action. He would see you leave your houses and deduce that you and your confederates were assembling. Once convinced, he sent a second message to Thibault at the Guildhall. Hence the delay in Gaunt’s troops arriving—’ Cranston broke off at the protests of denial from the two prisoners.

  ‘No, no, listen,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Beowulf did not betray you. He just used you. He wanted to lure Thibault and Lascelles out of the fastness of the Guildhall. He created the opportunity for both to emerge as clear targets for his crossbow. This time he was successful: Lascelles was killed.’

  ‘May the Devil welcome him into Hell,’ Pike retorted.

  ‘For that both of you might hang,’ Cranston rasped.

  ‘Enough of that!’ Athelstan did not want Sir John to be so harsh. He needed such information as he slowly edged his way through this maze of murder. He was determined to discover something so that he could barter with the Crown for the lives of these two parishioners.

  ‘I am your priest.’ Athelstan pulled the stool closer. ‘I walk those needle-thin runnels and no one accosts me. True?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Footpads, felons and foists swarm there as plentiful as the rats. They keep a sharp eye on any likely prey as Ranulf’s ferrets do vermin. And, of course, there is the Upright Men, who have their legion of watchmen, isn’t that what you call them?’ Pike grunted his agreement. ‘And yet you say this Beowulf was an educated, prosperous man, certainly a stranger to St Erconwald’s? So how could he slip along Hogpen Alley to you, Pike, or Muffin Lane to you, Watkin, without being noticed, because that is what he did.’

  ‘The messages were delivered after dark,’ Watkin grumbled. ‘We took them down to The Piebald.’

  ‘Oh, I am sure you did,’ Athelstan snapped.

  ‘But the problem still remains.’ Despite the deep shadows which cloaked the prisoners as well as their own guarded concern, Athelstan sensed both men were as baffled as he was.

  ‘How were you captured?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘We stopped at an alehouse,’ Pike replied, ‘and became separated from the rest. Father, we are sorry. Sorry for you, sorry for our families …’

  ‘The parish will do what it can. I, we, will do what we can.’

  ‘I have moved a writ in the courts,’ Cranston leaned down to study both prisoners, ‘you will not be arraigned before the justices immediately. I just hope,’ he added menacingly, ‘your comrades amongst the Upright Men do not attempt a rescue. Believe me, this time you might not escape unscathed.’

  Athelstan gave a few final words of comfort, blessed both prisoners and stepped outside. Cranston emphasized with the turnkeys that the prisoners were to be well treated. They left the cell, Pike and Watkin’s good wishes ringing clear, followed by more song, which faded as Cranston and Athelstan walked back up that long, gloomy tunnel. They reached the open chamber where Sparwell was being prepared for his gruesome death. The sheriff’s men, garbed in the city livery of blue and murrey, had stripped the prisoner and were now pulling a piece of coarse sacking over him to use as a tunic. On the ground lay a long hurdle with leather straps on each of the four jutting poles. Sparwell, crying and protesting, was forced to lie down face up. When the hurdle was dragged across the frozen, rutted streets his back
would only be protected by the leather sheet covering the main body of the hurdle. The prisoner struggled and kicked until a reign of blows forced him to comply. He was stretched out, wrists and ankles being tightly clasped in the leather straps. Sparwell begged for a drink and one of the sheriff’s men unloosened the points of his hose, preparing to urinate on the condemned man’s face. Athelstan, horrified, sprang forward. He knocked the man away. The would-be tormentor stumbled and fell and, ugly face snarling, he drew both sword and dagger and lurched forward, only to be sent spinning by Cranston’s punch to the face. Uproar ensued. Athelstan staggered to kneel over the prisoner. Swords and daggers were drawn in a clatter of steel. Cranston, cloak thrown back, unsheathed both his weapons; he stood at a half-crouch, turning to the left and right. The sheriff’s men edged closer.

  ‘Think, my lovelies!’ the coroner bellowed. ‘I am Jack Cranston, Lord High Coroner. You have assaulted a priest, a cleric and now me. This man,’ Cranston pointed his sword at Sparwell, ‘has been sentenced to die according to due process. He is not to be used as a pisspot. So be good lads and reflect on what I have said. Lower your swords and, when we reach The Candle-Flame, it will be a blackjack of ale for each and every one of you, courtesy of Jack Cranston.’ The coroner’s words sounded like a bell around that yawning chamber where the flames leapt, shadows danced and Sparwell’s groans mixed with the laboured breathing of the sheriff’s comitatus. Athelstan struggled to his feet.

  ‘In God’s name,’ he shouted, ‘we are men, not animals!’ One of the sheriff’s men sheathed his weapon and the rest followed. Cranston did the same before moving amongst the escort, clapping shoulders in infectious bonhomie. Harmony was restored, although the macabre ritual of execution continued. Athelstan, crouching by the hurdle, mopped Sparwell’s face with a rag and fed him sips of water. The executioners arrived. The principal Carnifex and four apprentices, their faces covered with grotesque demon masks painted red and black with twisting yellow horns. All of them were garbed in black sleeveless jerkins and thick leather hoses, their boots soled in layers as protection against the flames and hot ash. They brought with them all the dreadful necessaries for Sparwell’s burning: a barrel with its top and bottom removed, to be looped over the great pole and Sparwell placed in it. Bundles of kindling, faggots and brushwood were being fastened to long sledges which would be pulled by the Carnifex and his assistants. Athelstan tried to distract the prisoner by offering to shrive him and administer the last rites.

  ‘Father,’ Sparwell gasped, ‘I am condemned because I refused in the bishop’s court to accept the power of the Pope, his priests and their sacraments. I believe solely in the scripture – that is God’s word. Everything else is of human fashioning.’ He licked cracked lips. ‘What I ask of you, Father, is that you accompany me, pray with me and for me, nothing more. No priest, no cleric will do it, that’s why I am begging you.’

  ‘I will go with you, but wait.’ Athelstan rose, walked over to Cranston and informed him of his decision. The coroner, who had been in deep conversation with the Carnifex, gripped Athelstan’s shoulder and led him away.

  ‘My apologies for any harsh treatment of those two madcaps Pike and Watkin, but what you propose is even more foolish. Heresy is like a plague. The Church believes such infection spreads swiftly. Suspicion will fall on you, a preacher, a priest who works amongst the poor. They will drag you in for questioning and, in their eyes, that’s guilt enough. They will trap you—’

  ‘Sir John, I assure you, they may well question me but they will not trap me. No priest will help Sparwell because he fears he will lose all hope of preferment and be doomed to some paltry benefice. Now tell me, Sir John,’ Athelstan grinned, ‘where could they send me? They regard St Erconwald’s as punishment enough.’

  ‘Very well, Brother, but I will stay with you. The Carnifex has already despatched more of his assistants to the Palisade, Southwark’s old execution ground. I wager Thorne will make a good profit from the crowds. We will make our way through the streets and take the riverside path on to the Palisade. Brother, this will be heinous. The Carnifex has informed me how the bishop’s court has ruled mors sine misericordia – death without mercy.’

  ‘Death without mercy. For God’s sake, Sir John, that is obvious enough.’ Cranston drew Athelstan closer.

  ‘Oh no, Brother, worse than that. Sparwell will have green wood stacked close around him so the flames will be slow burning. The Carnifex has been instructed not to offer the mercy of a swift strangulation or, even better, a pouch of gunpowder around his neck. Sparwell will die slowly. Remember that.’ Athelstan gazed pitifully at Sparwell, now lying moaning on the hurdle. He squeezed Cranston’s hand and walked back to kneel by the prisoner.

  ‘I shall stay with you,’ he promised. ‘But Master Sparwell, what brought you to this? I know the Papal Inquisitor Brother Marcel has come to hunt the likes of you.’

  ‘Oh, we know he has arrived in England.’ Sparwell turned his face towards Athelstan, leaning forward as much as he could. His lips were dry and his tongue swollen, so Athelstan fetched more water, which he fed to him in small sips. The chamber was now filling with other guards and a small party from the Bishop of London’s court. One of these, a high-browed, pale-faced cleric, approached Athelstan, his mouth all twitching: the friar rose to meet him.

  ‘Brother!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘We understand that you will accompany the prisoner, a condemned heretic?’

  ‘A soul,’ Athelstan retorted fiercely. ‘A human being in his last extremities, a very frightened man, bruised and injured. He is alone. He has no family?’

  ‘None that we know of. A tailor who thought he could dabble in theology, a follower of the damnable Wycliffe. Brother, the bishop will not be pleased.’

  ‘Jesus might be.’ Athelstan grinned at the shock in the cleric’s face. ‘Who knows, I might even convert Sparwell. The bishop would not object to that would he, Master …?’

  ‘Master Tuddenham.’

  ‘Well, Master Tuddenham, you deal with your business and leave me to deal with God’s.’

  The cleric spun on his heel and, bony body all twitching, scurried across to gossip in a huddle with the rest of his party.

  Athelstan shrugged and took a fresh stoup of water to Sparwell. Once he drank, Athelstan leaned down.

  ‘The Inquisitor, is this his handiwork?’

  ‘Brother, as I said, we knew about his arrival in England. We were terrified but so far he has posed no threat to our conventicles, our meetings.’ He spluttered through bloodied lips. ‘I trust you, Brother. True, cacullus non facit monachum – the cowl doesn’t make the monk – but in your case it does. You have a good heart, so I will tell you what brought me here. Our conventicles meet beyond the city walls, desolate places such as Moorfields or parts of Southwark where it is easy to escape the bishop’s spies. Our beliefs are well known. Pope and priest mean nothing to us. We will have nothing to do with superstitious geegaws, putrid relics, gaily painted statues or other religious baubles.’

  ‘But how were you captured?’ Athelstan insisted, his curiosity now roused.

  ‘I am tailor, a good one. Enemies, rivals must have denounced me. In truth it wouldn’t be hard. I stopped attending Sunday Mass, I did not observe the holy days. I did not pay my tithes.’

  ‘Do you,’ Athelstan sighed, ‘did you, want to die my friend? You certainly raised the banner which would attract the attention of those who mattered. Tell me, is Sir Robert Paston one of yours?’

  ‘No, no.’ The answer came so swiftly Athelstan wondered if Sparwell was defending the manor lord. Any further conversation was hampered by shouts and cries. The great prison door had been opened. A cold breeze swept the chamber with all the smells of Southwark. The execution was about to begin. Athelstan had to stand aside as the sledges and hurdle were secured and dragged by the Carnifex and his coven out of the chamber and down the passageway to the yard outside. Athelstan and Cranston followed close behind. The friar opened his chancer
y satchel and looped the purple-hued stole around his neck. Outside all the midnight folk of Southwark had assembled, a sea of hard-pinched faces: whores in their flame-coloured garb surrounded by their hooded pimps; the capuchoned counterfeits and cranks; the ill-witted and the sharp-eyed; and all the predators from the slums. Athelstan recalled what Cranston often said, that the only person who could safely walk unarmed through the streets of Southwark were friars such as himself. This horde of rifflers shouted and cursed. Mud and other filth rained down on Sparwell as his hurdle was harnessed to a massive dray horse caparisoned in a black-and-white sheet, its mane all hogged and festooned with red ribbons, its thick tail decorated with scraps of scarlet cloth. The hurdle was fastened tight, the Bishop of London’s people assembled at the front and the macabre procession moved off.

  Athelstan walked slowly behind the hurdle as Sparwell began his journey along what was known as the ‘path of thorns’, dragged across the cobbles, ruts and sharp-edged potholes of Southwark. Athelstan deliberately kept as close as he could so the filth-pelters might think twice before hurling refuse which might hit a priest they recognized. Cranston’s presence was also a help; curses and threats were hurled at him but his large, swaggering figure and gleaming drawn sword deterred any real mischief. Athelstan tried not to look at Sparwell, jerking and twisting in searing pain, as the hurdle bounced across the ground. The friar recited the Mercy Psalm but found he could not get past the opening line: ‘Have mercy on us O God in thy kindness; in thy infinite compassion blot out our offence.’ What kindness, what compassion? Athelstan thought bitterly, walking through this charnel house of broken souls, twisted spirits and bruised bodies. Athelstan could only recall a poem he’d learnt as a young soldier in France: ‘The moon is pretty on the wave, the blossoms of the sky bright as lights.’ Athelstan crossed himself. He glanced at the crowd, catching glimpses of those thronging around but held back by the burly sheriff’s men. Two workers from the tanneries at the Tower were offering homemade pomanders as protection against the smell. A beggar-monk stood holding a skull, all white and bony, as if it was some precious vessel. A woman clasped a frightened child close to her face. A painted doxy, drunk and raucous, screamed abuse as the thick paste covering her poxed face began to run in the persistent drizzle which had begun to fall. A fire-eater, dressed in the garish red and green costume of a salamander, held a candle as he intoned a prayer, whilst a pickpocket with clipped ears and a mangled nose tried to open the fire-eater’s purse. The reeking smells of the streets billowed sometimes, hidden by the gusts of incense from the thurible carried by the Bishop of London’s party. Eventually they turned, leaving the crumbling tenements behind them, going down an incline on to the path which ran along the riverbank. The rain stopped falling. Athelstan noticed Cranston had disappeared. The friar curbed his own anxiety and returned to reciting snatches of psalms, trying to keep calm amidst the raucous noise, foul smells and the sheer horror of what was happening.