Candle Flame

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ Cranston exclaimed. ‘The scripture is correct: no rest for the wicked!’

  Athelstan had a few admonitory words for his two fugitives and followed Cranston and Flaxwith into the nave, telling the Hangman to go and help Mauger and Benedicta. Once he had gone, the chief bailiff gave a pithy summary on what had happened at the Bocardo, interspersed by Cranston’s quiet curses and Athelstan’s exclamations of surprise.

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘From two young whores Blanchard had locked in the waiting cell. They won’t be having the pleasure of him. Anyway, they heard the conversation, Pike and Watkin’s exclamations and realized what had happened. Blanchard was tricked by Dominicans.’

  ‘Dominicans.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I wonder where they got the robes from – but, there again, I am sure the Upright Men have chests full of what they need.’ He laughed quietly to himself. ‘Prior Anslem will have a great deal to say in Chapter, whilst Brother Marcel must be feeling highly embarrassed.’

  ‘Very clever,’ Cranston declared as Flaxwith let Samson out through the corpse door so the mastiff could run in the cemetery. Athelstan just prayed that Bonaventure and the dog did not meet, for the one-eyed tomcat nursed a passionate hatred for Samson which the mastiff replied in good measure.

  ‘Very clever,’ the coroner repeated. ‘The Upright Men have taken Pike and Watkin out of the murderous clutches of both Blanchard and Thibault. Brother, I did not wish you to brood, but the Bocardo enjoyed the most sinister reputation. Blanchard was equally notorious for his senseless cruelty. In the meantime, no one will dare accost those rascals here, not in sanctuary at their parish church with its priest Athelstan a friend and colleague of the Lord High Coroner. No, no, they will be safe here, close to you, close to their family, and, if the worst happens, they can always swear to abjure the realm. The Upright Men would give then safe escort to the nearest port. Brother, I will drink to them.’ Sir John took a generous swig from the miraculous wineskin even as he quietly promised himself that he would have a hand in Blanchard’s replacement. He glanced quickly at the friar. Athelstan seemed perplexed; he had turned away, staring through the open door of the rood screen as if trying to memorize every detail of what he was studying.

  ‘Brother?’ Cranston asked. There was no reply, so Cranston wandered over to examine one of the Hangman of Rochester’s fresh paintings on the north wall. Sir John smiled. The scene described a story from the Acts of the Apostles about Peter being freed by an angel from Herod’s prison. In the background was a river with what was probably Peter’s barque, his fishing boat, though it looked more like a war cog on the Thames. Cranston narrowed his eyes. He knew what Athelstan had found and discovered on board The Five Wounds. Sir John had promised Athelstan he would not yet interfere, though the coroner had already instructed Flaxwith to approach Sir Robert and give him two warnings under pain of high treason. First, The Five Wounds must stay in its berth. Nothing must be unloaded from it. Secondly, Paston and his family were to reside at The Candle-Flame. If they left without his permission all three would be put to the horn as outlaws. Cranston now wondered what path Athelstan was following.

  The friar was thinking the same himself as he stared across the sanctuary, his mind twisting and turning with snatches and glimpses of what he had seen and heard. Different voices echoed like the trailing verses of half-heard songs. Athelstan conceded to himself that he was now deep in the maze. He was certain of that. All he had collected, garnered and stored needed to be winnowed, sifted, crushed and milled to produce the truth. The reality of what happened was out there, that was logical. All he had to do was fit the pieces together, to reject what was false and to grasp what was real. The wine press was now ready, the grapes of God’s wrath full to bursting. The dreadful sin of murder had been committed. Now the press would be turned. It was just a matter of time before it produced the juice of justice. Athelstan glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘Sir John, we should go. But first, follow me whilst I preach the gospel, as it is, and as it shall be, to our two fugitives.’ Athelstan then walked into the nave and called Benedicta and the bell clerk to join him. Once they had, he re-entered the sanctuary and lectured Watkin and Pike on what they could and couldn’t do. He promised that Benedicta and Mauger, assisted by the Hangman, would bring them food, light and whatever else was needed for their comfort. Athelstan, however, had a few worries; the parish should protect this precious pair, whilst representatives of the Upright Men would soon take up position ever so cleverly around the church. What happened to Hugh of Hornsey would certainly not happen again. Athelstan then walked Cranston outside, where he immediately glimpsed a number of shadowy figures move in and out of the meagre pools of light. He was correct. The envoys of the Upright Men had already arrived. Thibault, on the other hand, would not be so hasty in coming here after the bloody affray at The Candle-Flame.

  ‘You have questions, little friar? I can tell that from your face.’

  ‘Of course, Sir John; it’s the answers which elude me. Nevertheless, the mills of God are grinding, slowly but surely. Now look, Sir John, I need a guard, a good one. Men who will protect me and my house.’

  ‘I will arrange that.’

  ‘I also need a courier, the best you have, someone whom I can send into the city to fetch this and that.’

  ‘Such as?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘Never mind, Sir John, just a good one. A veritable greyhound who can sally forth whenever I wish to parry out the truth.’

  ‘Tiptoft,’ Cranston replied. ‘Tiptoft is the best. I will summon him tomorrow and despatch him to you. Oh, by the way, as you may know, the Pastons, their clerk and their cog will be going nowhere.’

  Athelstan thanked him, absent-mindedly commenting on how brilliant the stars looked, blessed the coroner and ambled back to the priest’s house. Benedicta was waiting for him inside. The kitchen, cleaned and scrubbed, glowed with warmth; the fire leapt merrily and the braziers crackled away. A bowl of pottage was warming in the small fireside oven and a jug of ale with Athelstan’s finest pewter goblet stood on the table under a crisp, white napkin. Athelstan noticed the leather box beside it. Benedicta informed him how old Siward at Blackfriars had duly complied with Athelstan’s request but begged his former student to take great care of the manuscript. Athelstan washed his hands at the lavarium, nodding his agreement. Bonaventure appeared, tail whipping the air, whiskers all a quiver, one eye glaring for his food. Benedicta chatted on about doings in the parish. Athelstan, now enjoying both the pottage and ale, half-listened. Once she had left, Athelstan wiped his hands, opened the leather case and took out the copy of Beowulf. He sat reading the Latin translation and abruptly his sleepy concentration sharpened. Athelstan had studied the poem during his novitiate; he also recalled it being read in the refectory during meals. Certain phrases and sentences, especially about the hero’s battle exploits, made Athelstan tense with excitement.

  ‘By their fruits ye shall know them.’ He whispered a line from the scriptures as he stared into the fire. The Greek word for fruit was karpos; it could also mean how a man’s inner spirit, for good or bad, would express itself in words and action. Athelstan sat for a while, applying this to the mysteries challenging him. He cut strips of parchment and began to list the images and memories of all that he had seen, heard and felt. He picked up his quill pen and wrote swiftly. The list would be fragmented. He would impose logic and order much later.

  Item: The Candle-Flame on the night of the murders; Thorne going down to check the stables and discovering that battered wallet. Beowulf had been there. He’d planned for Marsen and Mauclerc’s horses to rear and throw their riders the following morning, when he’d probably intended to strike both of them down. On that same fateful night, Sir Robert Paston went out into the gallery. He was met by that maid despatched by the Mistress of the Moppets to warn him how Marsen knew of Paston’s secret preferences when he visited The Golden Oliphant. Meanwhil
e, Hugh of Hornsey was closeted with his lover, Ronseval. They quarrelled. Hornsey was deeply concerned that Marsen did not discover the true nature of their relationship. Eventually Hugh of Hornsey left but came hurrying back when he discovered his two comrades were slain and the Barbican sealed and eerily silent. Others in the tavern were just as busy. The ostler Mooncalf met with Martha Paston and William Foulkes in the Dark Parlour and then outside. What did he want with them? Where were they going? On that same night Brother Marcel was definitely not at The Candle-Flame, he was elsewhere, whilst Brother Roger remained in his own chamber, apparently impervious to all that was happening around him.

  Item: Inside the Barbican the window, its shutters and door were all sealed, locked and bolted, as was even the trapdoor to the upper chamber. Nevertheless, a killer, as deadly and as silently as a viper, had slithered into that forbidding tower and taken seven lives, seven souls brutally despatched to judgement. Who was responsible for that? How and why? The exchequer coffer was robbed. There was no sign of it being forced, whilst the keys to its three locks remained with their holders. So how could that happen?

  Item: The following morning just before dawn, Mooncalf makes his grisly discovery. He goes out to find the two archers slain. Pedro the Cruel, the huge tavern boar, lies fast asleep in the mud; he is roused and wanders off. Mooncalf raises the alarm. Mine Host Thorne goes out to investigate. He has no ladder long enough, so one is placed on a handcart and fixed on that shallow sill. If Athelstan remembered it correctly, the handcart provided considerable length to the ladder. Mine Host climbs up, opens the outer and inner shutters, cuts through the horn covering in the door window and loosens that. However, due to his size, Thorne decides that Mooncalf should make the entry. The taverner comes down, the ostler climbs up and the gruesome discovery is made.

  Item: The meeting in The Candle-Flame when he and Cranston made their first acquaintance with the guests. How did they react? What did he see, hear and perceive there?

  Item: The discovery of the gauntlet and chainmail wristguard. The origins and ownership of these two items were now well established. Marsen was going to use them against Paston. What did that say, if anything, about the identity of the killer?

  Item: The murder of Physician Scrope. What was the origin of that mysterious knocking on his door? Nobody was seen in the gallery. The physician had eventually opened it and, in doing so, sealed his own fate. A short while later, he was discovered murdered in his own locked and bolted chamber; his corpse slumped close to the door. Scrope died clutching a pilgrim’s book on Glastonbury, open on the page listing some of the abbey’s famous relics. How was he murdered? Why was he clutching that manuscript?

  Athelstan recalled Lascelles being struck by the first crossbow bolt, and how he reacted before being hit by a final killing blow.

  Item: Ronseval. Why did he slip out of The Candle-Flame? Whom did he meet? Certainly someone he trusted so much his killer could draw very close to him. And why was he killed? Did he know something? Yet, according to all the evidence, he never left his chamber that night.

  Item: Hugh of Hornsey. Undoubtedly he panicked and fled. Nevertheless, Hornsey must have seen something which he kept to himself as he waited for better days. But what? And, like his lover, why had he trusted his killer so much he opened that heavy sacristy door?

  Athelstan paused to allow Bonaventure out before returning to his list.

  Item: The food and drink found in the Barbican were free of any taint or evil potion. Nothing illicit had been detected.

  Item: On the morning they had left The Candle-Flame to visit Thibault at the Guildhall, Beowulf launched his attack on Lascelles. The stableyard was thronged and busy. Who had been there? Who was missing? Afterwards they had ridden through Cheapside. The Earthworms had sprung their ambush. How did everyone react?

  Item: Those two shadowy figures who had returned to the execution ground to dig and scrape, undoubtedly Martha Paston and William Foulkes. And why the strange signs between them and Mooncalf? How significant was Tuddenham’s remark about the Lollards sheltering a traitor close to their hearts?

  Item: Sir Robert and what was stored in his cog. There were also the conversations and apparent friendship struck up between Paston and the Papal Inquisitor. Was Marcel hunting along the same path as he was? Did he suspect Paston might not be as orthodox in his religious beliefs as he should be?

  Item: The rescue of Pike and Watkin by the Upright Men disguised as Dominicans, a most astute move. It certainly proved Cranston’s remark to be correct. Friars, be it Dominican or Franciscan, could walk anywhere with impunity …

  Athelstan paused in his writing at a scratching on the door. He opened it to let Bonaventure slip into the room, heading straight for his usual resting place in front of the hearth. Athelstan hurried to the buttery and prepared both milk and the remains of the pie, which Bonaventure deigned to eat before flopping back on the hearth.

  ‘Thank God,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘you did not meet Samson.’ Athelstan sat closely watching the sleeping cat as he mentally reviewed all he had learnt before returning to Beowulf, reading out loud the occasional line as if to memorize it.

  ‘Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus – false in one thing, false in all things,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘But that will have to wait a little longer.’ He now turned to all the other manuscripts accumulated during his investigation. The memoranda drawn up in the Barbican; the warnings left by Beowulf the assassin; the vademecum from Glastonbury; the paltry poetry of Ronseval; and, finally, the lists of ships written by that enigmatic spy and carried by Ruat. Athelstan ignored the transcription, fixing his attention on the original. He stretched this out on the table, putting small weights on each corner. He opened his coffer and took out one glass of a precious pair of eye glasses, a gift from a brother at Blackfriars. Athelstan used these to scrutinize the manuscript. He found it clearer than before, the light was better and the manuscript had fully dried out. The actual letters emerged more distinct. Using the glass Athelstan studied the last few lines on both that and the transcript. He gasped in surprise. The document had been written in clerkly Latin but using the many abbreviations of the chancery: ‘filius – son’ became ‘fs’; ‘apud – at’ became ‘apd’; ‘nostra – ours’ became ‘nra’. Thibault had made two mistakes and Athelstan was astounded at the implications. ‘I wonder.’ He breathed. ‘I truly do.’ He was so excited he rose and paced the kitchen backwards and forwards, his mind racing about the possibilities and probable conclusions. ‘Very well.’ He sighed, staring at the crucifix nailed to the wall. ‘Very well, let us say there are three, not two or even one.’ Athelstan returned to his strips of parchment, writing a name at the top and listing all the evidence available. He stopped to eat and drink; only then did he realize how tiredness had caught up with him. He banked the fire, doused most of the taper lights and retired heavy-eyed to his bed loft. He tried to recite the night office from memory, only to drift off into the deepest sleep.

  Bonaventure woke him just before dawn. Athelstan sleepily tended to him before building the fire and using the small bellows on the braziers. Eventually he broke from his half-sleep. He stripped, washed and shaved using water boiled over the fire. He took out new undergarments and his robe, dressed, drank a little water and left, making his way across to the church. Of course, the entire parish had assembled for the Jesus Mass, pressing into the sanctuary to catch a glimpse of the two fugitives openly regarded as heroes of the parish. Athelstan, now fully awake, just glared at the two miscreants, refusing to be drawn. He celebrated Mass and afterwards summoned the parish council into the sacristy. He told them he did not wish to be questioned or troubled and duly apportioned tasks for the day. Naturally, these included the care of Watkin and Pike. Athelstan repeated his short, sharp lecture on what the two fugitives could and could not do. Mauger, Benedicta, the solemn-faced Hangman and a nose-twitching Ranulf were left in charge. Flaxwith and his bailiffs appeared from their lodgings to announce four men-at-a
rms from the Guildhall would patrol the precincts to protect both church and house. Athelstan was pleased; the brutal attempt to burn him alive in the Barbican revealed the deeply sinful malice of the murderer he was hunting. Such a soul might plot fresh villainy. Athelstan returned to his house and broke his fast. A short while later Tiptoft appeared, slender as a reed and dressed completely in green with fiery red hair, with sharp blue eyes in a white, freckled face. Tiptoft slipped as silently as a thief into Athelstan’s house, quietly announcing that he was here to act as Athelstan’s courier.

  ‘Sir John gave me my orders,’ his voice was hardly above a whisper, ‘and what the Lord High Coroner decides is my duty to follow.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will have work for you,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘But first, you can be my escort.’ The friar took his cloak from its peg on the wall. ‘We shall visit The Candle-Flame. They left the house, two men-at-arms trailing behind as the friar and his green-garbed escort disappeared into the warren of Southwark’s alleyways. Athelstan walked purposefully, head down, cowl pulled over, especially when he passed The Piebald, where all the great and the good of the ward met to discuss matters. Everyone was an expert with a story to tell and, of course, like attracts like. A wandering chanteur had also decided to exploit the occasion and set up his pitch outside the main door of tavern. He stood on a barrel, his powerful voice describing how ‘the corpse of Ymir the frost giant’ had led to the creation of heaven and earth. How Ymir’s blood provided the seasonal lakes; the soil came from the corpse’s flesh; the mountains from his massive bones; whilst the stone and gravel originated from the dead giant’s shattered molars. He concluded how the first two humans had been fashioned out of pieces of driftwood washed up on the shores of Asgard. Athelstan paused to listen to some of this. It reminded him of the poem Beowulf, whilst he was always fascinated by how these professional storytellers always appeared when news was being hotly discussed. Was it simply, the friar wondered, that once people have an appetite to listen it had to be satisfied? Athelstan plucked at the sleeve of his escort and they moved on, pushing their way through the now crowded streets. The usual shifting shoal of the denizens of the seedy slums and tumbling tenements were out, busy on their usual trade of selling what they had filched and keen for fresh mischief. Athelstan noticed how the chanteur now had rivals. Thibault’s assault on The Candle-Flame was clearly well known and the wandering gossipers were all offering dramatic accounts of ‘Southwark’s Great Battle’. Once they reached the tavern, however, Athelstan could detect little sign of the recent ambuscade. He met Thorne and his wife in the Dark Parlour, still empty as the Angelus bell had not yet summoned in the local traders and tinkers.