Candle Flame

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Brother Athelstan?’ Thorne wiped his hands on a napkin, which he passed to his wife. ‘What do you want now?’

  ‘You keep a journal of who stays here, who hires a chamber,’ Athelstan waved a hand, ‘and so on. I think you do.’ He smiled. ‘Mistress Eleanor, I understand you keep records as skilled as any chancery clerk?’

  ‘Of course,’ Thorne declared. ‘I will show you.’ He brought the ledger and Athelstan took it over to the window seat to study the entries. He leafed through the pages and soon found what he was looking for.

  ‘It is as I thought,’ he murmured. He rose, handed the ledger back and informed the taverner that he wanted to wander around The Candle-Flame so he could acquaint himself a little more closely. Thorne agreed and offered some refreshment. Athelstan refused and led his small escort out into the Palisade. All the remnants of the burning had been removed. The only scar was a stretch of blackened, ash-strewn earth where the execution stake had stood. Athelstan strode on. He pushed open the door to the Barbican and crossed to where he believed the inferno had been deliberately started. He calculated the size of the searing scorch mark against the wall. Athelstan stood staring; in his mind’s eye he imagined the assassin slipping into the Barbican with sacks of oil. His assailant split the skins, dousing the cot beds and other furniture, then a flame would be thrown. Of course, before this happened, the assassin secured the trapdoor with bolts from below, thus trapping him on the upper storey. Athelstan shivered at what might have happened and shook his head at Tiptoft’s questions.

  ‘This is a seat of murder,’ he whispered. ‘And I have seen enough.’ Athelstan led his escort back outside. He walked across the Palisade and paused to visualize what the assassin must have seen on the night those two archers were murdered. Satisfied, the friar returned to the tavern. He walked up the stairs and inspected the loft chambers on the topmost storey. He noticed in one gallery the narrow bed chambers overlooking the stableyard and Athelstan, who had entered one room, realized he had a clear view of where Lascelles had been standing the morning Beowulf had loosed that crossbow bolt. The friar opened the small horn-covered door window. He leaned out, pretending to be a bowman and, once again, tried to recall those who had been with him in the stableyard below. Afterwards Athelstan went down to the gallery where Scrope had his chamber; both that and the one opposite were open, being cleaned by maids and slatterns. Athelstan inspected each room carefully before scrutinizing the bolt and lock on the door to Scrope’s chamber. He noted what he wanted as well as the staircase at the near end of the gallery, which would provide swift escape to the floor above. Athelstan, his mind now buzzing like a beehive as he confessed to Tiptoft, thanked Mine Host and made his way back to St Erconwald’s. Two relic-sellers tried to pester them, and Athelstan recalled the relics described in Scrope’s vademecum on Glastonbury. As soon as he was back in his own house, Athelstan studied the pilgrim’s guide.

  ‘Sancta spina,’ he breathed, ‘and, talking of holy things …’ Athelstan left and visited the church to have words with Pike and Watkin. They seemed as happy as Bonaventure before a fire. Benedicta and the rest had brought hot food as well as a small tun of ale. Looking around the church, Athelstan was amused at how pious his parishioners and others had become. Usually at this hour, the nave would lie empty. Now people wandered about inspecting statues, shrines and the chantry chapel. Visitors clustered around the ankerhold, whilst another group, escorted by the Hangman, seemed fascinated by the different wall paintings. Athelstan smiled to himself. Watkin and Pike were being closely watched by both friend and foe. Leaving the church, he asked Benedicta to take Tiptoft and the men-at-arms to The Piebald to break their fast, then begged her to buy supplies for his own house. He asked her to spread the word that he was not to be disturbed; ordinary parish business would have to wait. After that Athelstan retreated into himself, locking himself away, chatting now and again with Benedicta and Tipftoft, whom he despatched into the city with sealed letters for Sir John and other individuals. For the rest, Athelstan sat at his kitchen table testing the hypotheses he had constructed: four strands, each of them quite separate and distinct but all intertwined around two different clasps, the season and the place. Eventually he received replies, all despatched in confidence, from the city. Athelstan’s conviction that he was following the right path strengthened. He sent a letter to Sir Robert Paston, closeted against his will at The Candle-Flame. He instructed Tiptoft to deliver the letter, wait for a reply and spend the time making certain discreet enquiries amongst the servants. Athelstan, brooding on what might happen, became concerned that those whom he wanted kept at The Candle-Flame might slip away, so he petitioned Cranston to have a ring of steel placed around the tavern and two war barges stand off the quayside close to it.

  Naturally this quickening of events attracted the attention of Thibault, whose spies kept a rigorous watch over St Erconwald’s. The Master of Secrets sent Albinus, a sinister-looking mailed clerk and Lascelles’ apparent successor, to make enquiries, which Athelstan deftly deflected. The two friars, Roger and Marcel, also objected, pleading benefit of clergy, the rights of Holy Mother Church and the pressure of important business. Athelstan replied that what he needed them for was the unmasking of murder and the restoration of justice; this was their God-given duty as much as his. Painstakingly, Athelstan continued to build his case. He spent three days on it before despatching Tiptoft late in the afternoon to ask Sir John Cranston to join him in sharing one of Merryleg’s finest creations. Cranston arrived to find Athelstan’s kitchen scrubbed clean, the platters, knives, horn-spoons, jugs and mazers glimmering in the light. Athelstan served freshly minced beef pie, a fine Bordeaux, pots of vegetables and sugared almonds to add, as he teased Sir John, a little sweetness. He reported how the two sanctuary men now lived in the lap of luxury, being better served than My Lord of Gaunt in his palace at the Savoy. Only when the friar fell silent did Cranston lean across and squeeze his arm.

  ‘What have you discovered?’ the coroner asked.

  ‘I cannot tell you, Sir John, not yet. It’s not because I don’t trust you. I need you to listen and I need you to judge. You will sit and hear the case I prosecute. Now, I have little knowledge of the law,’ Athelstan paused. ‘Sir John, what powers do you have, I mean, as a judge?’ Cranston sipped at his wine.

  ‘Well, I am Lord High Coroner, a justice of the peace—’

  ‘You have the power of oyer et terminer, to hear and decide?’ Cranston screwed his eyes up.

  ‘I can, in times of great danger to the Crown, the realm and the community, assume certain powers and listen to pleas of the Crown.’

  ‘I would like you to do that.’

  ‘It will mean going to Thibault … Oh, no.’ Cranston paused at the look on Athelstan’s face. ‘You mean Gaunt?’ Again the look.

  ‘Oh, sweet God in heaven,’ Cranston whispered, ‘the young king himself?’

  ‘Go to him tonight, Sir John, where he shelters at the Savoy. Beg him for my sake to commission you as the king’s own justiciar in the wards of Southwark with special power to sit, listen, judge and condemn at a special session to be held in The Candle-Flame tavern.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘At the very latest the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘But why, Athelstan?’

  ‘Sir John, I swear, you will sit and have to judge heinous offences: treason, murder, theft, blackmail and horrid conspiracy. If these cases were referred to King’s Bench or an ordinary assize, certain people would flee and escape true justice. Others, because of cruel threats against them, risk being adjudged guilty as those who practice such cruelty. Thibault would interfere. He is secretive but also a bully boy. I want justice, Sir John, not revenge.’

  ‘In which case …’ Cranston lurched to his feet.

  ‘Sir John?’ Athelstan also rose. He went across to his chancery satchel and took out a roll of pure cream vellum, delicately sealed with red wax and tied with a scarlet ribbon. Athelstan handed this to Cransto
n.

  ‘When you meet His Grace the king and go down on one knee, beg him to accept this humble petition from his loyal and true subject, Brother Athelstan, Dominican priest of St Erconwald’s.’

  The coroner weighed this in his hand. ‘Little friar?’

  ‘Please, Sir John.’

  oOoOo

  PART FIVE

  ‘Mainpernor’: surety for someone under arrest.

  ‘Know ye now, Richard, by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland and France, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Aquitaine has appointed his faithful subject, Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London to be his own justiciar in all the wards of the king’s borough of Southwark and those shires south of the Thames. He has, at our own pleasure and with full royal licence, power to hear, determine and to decide on all cases brought before him by Athelstan, Dominican priest of St Erconwald’s in the above mentioned borough.’ The royal herald, standing on a stool outside the entrance of The Candle-Flame, cleared his throat. He lowered the proclamation and stared at the two squires garbed in the gorgeous blue, scarlet and gold tabard of the royal household. Each of these stood either side of the herald holding a royal standard and were fighting to keep these steady against the buffeting breeze. Once satisfied they were, the herald continued.

  ‘The said Sir John Cranston has the power of axe, tumbril, pillory and gallows both immediate and without appeal. Know ye too …’ The herald’s powerful voice continued to roll out the list of dire penalties imposed against anyone who tried to impede or obstruct. Such powers were being emphasized by the tavern being ringed by troops of the royal household, men-at-arms and archers under the personal command of King Richard’s tutor, Sir Simon Burley, Knight Banneret of the royal chamber. Athelstan nudged Cranston and they entered the sweet-smelling Dark Parlour. All the furniture had been swept to one side except for a trestle table with a candelabra strategically placed to create pools of light around the insignia of the court: a bronze crucifix on its stand; a leather-bound Book of the Gospels close to where those summoned would sit; Cranston’s commission bearing the seals of the royal chancery and his sword on one side of the manuscript; a small but cruel-edged flail on the other. At the end of the table Athelstan had laid out his writing materials: parchment, quill pens, ink horn, knife, pumice stone and sander. He had also arranged for a small crossbow to be primed and placed near at hand. Before the trestle table, now termed the ‘Royal Bench’, were three high-backed chairs for those who had been summoned to answer. The windows of the Dark Parlour were shuttered. Once in session the doors would be closed and guarded. No one would be admitted without Cranston’s permission. Master Thorne had objected but Athelstan had assured him that any monies lost would be reimbursed by the royal exchequer. The taverner was given a brief, succinct lecture by Cranston on the rights of the Crown, how no one was to interfere with the administration of royal justice, how the tavern was to be sealed and secured by soldiers, whilst the herald and his entourage would signify the king’s own presence.

  Athelstan took his place on the chancery stool whilst Cranston sat on the cushioned judgement chair. The coroner looked every inch the royal justiciar with his black felt cap and ermined scarlet robe. Cranston had ensured the side table would be used to hold the refreshment he might need but not now. Athelstan was impatient to begin. After their supper meeting Athelstan had spent an agonizing day waiting for the king’s response and, when it came, it was fulsome and direct. The king had also enclosed a personal letter to Athelstan as well as a sealed chancery roll. Athelstan had put these into his writing satchel. For the moment he had obtained what he wanted. The justiciar court would sit the following morning.

  ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan sharpened the quill pen, ‘we are ready. We will use Tiptoft as our court officer.’ Athelstan picked up the small hand bell and rang it. When Tiptoft appeared, Athelstan told him to bring in Sir Robert Paston, waiting with his family in the buttery. The merchant manor lord bustled in all red-faced, protesting volubly until Cranston roared at him to shut up and sit down. Athelstan rose, took the Book of the Gospels and thrust it into Paston’s hands. He made him repeat the words of the oath, warning him that a failure to plead an answer was a felony which could be dealt with in the press yard of Newgate prison; Paston would be stretched out on the cobbles, a heavy door placed on him, then increasingly powerful weights dropped on top of that. He also warned him how perjury could mean that final journey in the death cart to the gallows at Tyburn or Smithfield. Athelstan accepted he was being dramatic but he had to hide all compassion in order to establish the truth and the sooner the better.

  ‘Let us move swiftly to the heart of this matter,’ Athelstan declared, taking his seat. ‘Let us grasp the substance and ignore the shadows. You, Sir Robert, are a merchant, a manor lord, the widowed father of Martha, whom I suspect you love dearly; she in turn is deeply smitten with William Foulkes, a trained clerk, a skilled scribe and, I suspect, like your daughter, a fervent member of the Lollard coven, a disciple of Master John Wycliffe. Foulkes is very discreet. He has hardly spoken during my searches but keeps his own counsel and stays well out of my way. An educated man, Master William does not so much fear me but my order, who act, God forgive them, as the Inquisition of Holy Mother Church.’

  ‘I …’ Paston stuttered.

  ‘Please,’ Athelstan replied. ‘For all I know, Sir Robert, you too may be a Lollard, but I don’t want to know and I don’t really care. I am not here to debate religious belief. I am not too sure what true heresy is but I am aware of the temptations of the flesh. You, Sir Robert, are a regular visitor to The Golden Oliphant, well known for the Mistress of the Moppets and her midnight ladies. I know of your games there. Please.’ Athelstan ignored Paston’s attempt to interrupt. ‘You are also the owner of a handsome cog, The Five Wounds. You carry on a legitimate trade exporting wool and importing wine and other goods, all according to the law, except, of course, for those weapons purchased in Flanders, where the red-coloured oxhide roundel shields are popular. These are, of course, to escape the hawk-eye of the harbour masters, brought in piecemeal by ships of other nations. You have an agreement with their captains: you visit these and transport the weapons back on a barge to the armament store on board your own cog. You buy these weapons, bring them into London and put them at the disposal of the Upright Men. Hush now!’ Athelstan insisted. ‘As I said, these weapons are stored deep in the hold of your cog. They remain hidden until you are ready to send the wine and the other goods you have imported to different parts of Southwark and the city. I am sure your customers and clients are manifold: taverns, alehouses, hospitals, the mansions of the wealthy – all of course, in turn, provide excellent hiding places …’

  ‘But the tavern masters, the merchants of the city, would have no dealings with the Upright Men and the Earthworms.’

  ‘You do,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Sir Robert, we know more than you think. Most prosperous Londoners are taking protection against the evil day. Moreover, what I describe is not difficult to organize. I suspect it’s the servants, the retainers, the tapsters, the scullions and slatterns, the workmen and the labourers who are personally involved, whilst their masters look the other way. If such secret weapon stores were ever discovered, everyone would throw their hands in the air and declare they had no knowledge of what was happening. In addition, the Upright Men are very cunning. The more places they have to store weapons, the more they can scatter them around and the less obvious it will be. Coghill, master of The Five Wounds, tried to pass off the weapons I saw in the hold of your cog as the armaments to be found on any fighting merchantman. In fact, they are part of a secret hoard. The Upright Men and their Earthworms have, I wager, a myriad of such hidden caches all over this city and elsewhere. When they plan an attack such as the recent one in Cheapside, the summons goes out. I suspect they would have appeared whatever happened that day; they were fortunate in that a group of Thibault’s retainers presented themselves. I suggest the Earthworms have a routine which is
orderly as any monk’s horarium: ponies housed in the countless stables across London are prepared, disguises are donned and weapons taken up, all swiftly carried out along that warren of needle-thin alleyways stretching either side of Cheapside. The Earthworms converge, attack then retreat. They have made their mark. They have demonstrated how they can come and go as they wish. Once over, their mounts are left at the stables, masks are removed and weapons returned to their hiding place.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘Of course, such locations can be discovered but it’s like trying to stop the rain by catching its drops. New hiding stores are found, and so it continues.’ Athelstan pointed a finger at Paston. ‘Of course, the Upright Men value you because you provide a service which is quite exceptional.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Paston mumbled, scratching the side of his face. ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘First, you hide weapons as well as transport them into the city along with your barrels of wine and crates of goods. More importantly, you import them. After all, where can the Upright Men purchase weapons in England without provoking the sharp interest of a royal official or one of Thibault’s legion of spies? You buy them and bring all this weaponry into the heart of London.’ Athelstan paused. He sensed Paston would not deny the charges but he wanted a full confession so he and Cranston could dig further.