Candle Flame

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Why should I,’ Paston tried one protest, ‘a manor lord, a shire knight and a member of the Commons—?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ Cranston leaned forward then looked quizzically at Athelstan.

  ‘Because the Upright Men are the same as you and I, Sir John. They are also privy to Sir Robert’s secret pleasures at The Golden Oliphant. More importantly, amongst their own ranks are members of the Lollard sect. The Upright Men have enough evidence to indict Sir Robert’s daughter and her beloved William for heresy. Marsen and Mauclerc were hunting for the same knowledge. They found something out about you and the Mistress of the Moppets but perhaps they sensed there was more. Do you remember Marsen baiting you about your own daughter here in the Dark Parlour? That salacious remark about Martha being sent to him? He was hinting at your secret life at The Golden Oliphant, whether your daughter knew about it or, perhaps, that she was involved in much more serious matters. Oh, yes,’ Athelstan nodded, ‘Marsen was a demon incarnate, a vicious, very dangerous man. If he could, he would have destroyed you and your family.’ The manor lord now sat face in his hands and began to sob. Cranston looked at Athelstan, who just shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

  ‘We are ruined anyway.’ Paston took his hands away. ‘I could be indicted for treason, even heresy. My lands and goods will be seized, my daughter and her beloved taken up for questioning.’

  ‘Sir Robert, I assure you I am not here for your destruction. Such fear is not necessary, so compose yourself. Have you written the account I asked for? Did you keep it confidential to yourself?’

  ‘Yes, every word.’ Paston dug into his wallet, took out a scroll and handed it over. ‘I dictated this to William Foulkes. I would trust him with my life.’

  ‘And what did Foulkes say?’

  ‘Like myself, on reflection he thought it very strange. I mean, Brother, it is. Once you start recalling this conversation or that.’

  ‘I am grateful,’ Athelstan murmured. He undid the scroll and read the neat clerkly hand. He was correct. Foulkes was an excellent clerk and the report provided chapter and verse – it more than confirmed Athelstan’s suspicions on another matter. He read and re-read it until he was satisfied, then glanced up.

  ‘You may stay, Sir Robert. I am now going to question your daughter and Master Foulkes. Rest assured I saw you separately; it would have been unjust to let her know about The Golden Oliphant.’ Paston took a deep breath and sank down into his chair. Athelstan picked up the bell and rang it. Tiptoft, accompanied by Sir Simon Burley, came into the Dark Parlour.

  ‘Sir Simon, all those summoned are being kept separate and closely guarded?’

  ‘Yes, Sir John.’

  ‘Very good. Master Tiptoft, bring Martha Paston and William Foulkes here. Sir Robert will be staying also.’

  ‘And you have sent a messenger to St Erconwald’s asking for that person to present himself here?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘When he arrives I want him kept hooded and masked alone in some chamber; no one is to see him.’

  Burley nodded his agreement. A short while later Tiptoft ushered Martha and Foulkes into the Dark Parlour. Looking highly nervous, they took the chairs either side of Sir Robert. Athelstan noticed how both young people were very soberly garbed in dark-brown robes. He wondered if the Lollards adopted their own distinctive dress: dark, unassuming clothing with little or no concession to frippery or fashion.

  ‘Mistress Martha, Master William. Let me be brief and blunt. I know where Sir Robert was on the night of the murder. He was in the gallery above, restless about his own concerns, although I would hazard that he was also worried about you. On that same night both of you were preparing to leave with Mooncalf because both of you and the ostler are members of the Lollard sect. You were planning to go to one of your conventicles, though I suspect something much more serious happened. Didn’t it? No, no,’ Athelstan raised a hand, ‘please don’t protest. I remember the first time we met in the small refectory. I gave a blessing which as Lollards you could not acknowledge. Martha, you wear no religious insignia, nor do you, Master William. Lollards are as hot against such practices as they are against priests. You seem to tolerate my presence rather than welcome it. I also noticed the rather strange signage between yourself and Mooncalf. I am sure the Lollards, like every sect, have their own tokens so members can identify themselves to each other. I also watched you as poor Sparwell died. Why were you there? I don’t think you are the sort of people to watch a man burn to death. You were present as witnesses, to offer some comfort and consolation, to demonstrate that he was not alone. You watched that horrible scene with profound sadness. I assure you, I too gave Sparwell what comfort I could. Sir John here did better: a goblet of drugged wine put Sparwell into a sleep close to death.’ Foulkes held Athelstan’s stare but Martha bowed her head, now and again quickly dabbing at her eyes. ‘You later returned to collect what little remained of your comrade – shards of bones, shrivelled, blackened flesh. You wanted to provide a holy and decent burial performed secretly either in a London churchyard or some village cemetery when you returned home. I am sure, though it will not be necessary, that a search of your chambers would reveal a funeral urn as well as documents, handbills and prayer books – enough evidence to prove your Lollardy.’ Athelstan tried to hide his compassion, though his heart went out to these two poor innocents stumbling towards a death as gruesome and horrific as Sparwell’s.

  ‘I will not lie,’ Foulkes declared.

  ‘I deliberately did not make you swear,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Moreover, I am not too sure whether a Lollard would take such an oath or recognize its validity. I also wish to be kind. And believe me,’ Athelstan rose and walked round the table and, standing behind Foulkes, stretched out his own hand to touch the Book of the Gospel. ‘I swear by the living God,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I mean you no harm.’ He withdrew his hand. ‘I cannot say the same for your ostler friend, Master Mooncalf.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Martha asked, all flustered.

  ‘You know about him, don’t you?’ Foulkes asked, turning in his chair to face Athelstan, who’d now returned to his own seat. ‘You know?’ he repeated.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘What?’ Cranston barked.

  ‘Sparwell was not denounced by an enemy,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I doubt if that poor tailor had any. He was betrayed by a traitor at the heart of the Lollard conventicle here in London. I believe that Judas to be Mooncalf. He went to the shriving pew at St Mary-le-Bow and gave Sparwell’s name, trade and house to a priest. This priest did not hear it in confession so he had no choice but to pass such information on to the Bishop of London’s curia. Mooncalf tried to remain anonymous, though the priest clearly recalls a coarse voice and the stench of the stableyard. Mooncalf would fit such a description. Now, on the evening the murders took place, he didn’t take you to a meeting of the conventicle but to some lonely place outside this tavern. I am correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ Foulkes replied, ignoring Martha’s cry of protest. ‘I am committed to the truth. Mooncalf houses a wicked spirit. He informed us that he had denounced Sparwell and, unless we paid him good silver, he would betray us and others.’

  ‘Did he make a similar threat to Sparwell?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘No, he did not.’ Athelstan answered the coroner’s question. ‘Master Foulkes is correct. Mooncalf is possessed by a nasty spirit. Sparwell was the innocent lamb of sacrifice. He was both a warning and proof of what Mooncalf could do, that his threats, his blackmail, were potent and real. Yes, Master Foulkes?’

  The clerk nodded his head.

  ‘Many a man,’ Cranston asked quietly, ‘would have killed Mooncalf on the spot. He was a villain who not only threatened you but your beloved as well.’

  ‘The Lollards are not like that, are they?’ Athelstan offered. ‘They are quietists. They reject violence of any sort.’

  ‘Yes, we are,’ Foulkes agreed. ‘I once served as a crossbow
man. I saw service in Brabant, where my mother comes from. I have killed and seen killing. I confess,’ he hurried on, ‘when Mooncalf made his threat my hand fell to …’ Foulkes smiled thinly, ‘where my dagger should have been.’

  ‘But Mooncalf had prepared for that, hadn’t he?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Foulkes admitted. ‘He certainly had. He informed us how he had invested good silver in drawing up a bill of indictment which he had lodged with a notable serjeant of law at the Inns Court. He assured us that if anything happened to him, Mooncalf, the lawyer would immediately send the bill of indictment to the Bishop of London’s curia. He told us that we each had to make a payment and he would never raise the matter again. He gave us until the end of this month. If we had not paid by St David’s Day, he would denounce us as he had Sparwell.’ Foulkes shrugged and stared at Sir Robert, who had sat through the questioning, hands on the table, staring down at the Book of the Gospels.

  ‘Mooncalf,’ Foulkes added slowly, ‘said we would have to make a third payment for Sir Robert, not for any heresy but for lechery.’

  ‘I confess,’ Sir Robert raised a hand, ‘that neither my daughter nor Master William told me any of this directly, though I suspected.’

  ‘Did Marsen know?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘I cannot say and I don’t really care,’ Sir Robert whispered. He lifted his head. ‘My daughter thinks I may be responsible for his murder and that of the others.’ He turned to face his daughter. ‘You said as much with your eyes …’ His voice trailed off and he sat as if deaf to his daughter’s heated denials.

  ‘You are Lollards,’ Athelstan declared. ‘You face harassment and persecution. Now tell me something. Whom do you fear, I mean, apart from the likes of Mooncalf?’

  ‘The Bishop of London.’

  ‘What about the Papal Inquisitor? Have you or your conventicle had any dealings with him?’

  ‘No we have not. We raised this matter with Mooncalf. He simply replied that the Inquisitor meant nothing to him.’ Foulkes spread his hands. ‘What will happen to us?’

  ‘Wait and see,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘for we have not finished.’ He summoned Tiptoft and asked him to bring Mooncalf from where he had been detained in one of the loft chambers. A short while later the sweaty-faced ostler was pushed into the room. Mooncalf was all a-tremble as Athelstan indicated he sit on the stool at the other end of the table facing him. The friar then rose, picked up the Book of the Gospels and walked round, placing it before the terrified ostler. Athelstan demanded that Mooncalf put his hand on the book and repeat the oath he administered. The ostler did so in a harsh, stuttering voice. Once he had finished, Athelstan put the book back and returned to place his hand on Mooncalf’s shoulder. The ostler was trembling so much he couldn’t sit still.

  ‘Sir John.’ The friar winked at Cranston. ‘What is the punishment for a blackmailer convicted on at least three or four counts?’

  ‘Strangling.’ Cranston’s blunt reply rang through the chamber. ‘Strangling on a special gibbet. However, according to ancient custom, blackmail ranks with heresy so it can mean hanging over a slow-burning fire.’ Mooncalf moaned a long, drawn-out sound which came from the heart.

  ‘You are a blackmailer,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly. ‘Three of your planned victims sit close by. Death, however, draws near. It stretches out its cold, skeletal fingers to seize you by the nape of your neck.’ Athelstan moved his own hand accordingly. ‘You are going to die, Mooncalf, just as horribly as Sparwell, whose innocent soul you sent for judgement.’ Athelstan walked back to his own place. He warned Cranston with his eyes to let the silence deepen. They needed Mooncalf. If he cooperated, Cranston would inflict just punishment. ‘You want to escape the rigours of the law?’ Athelstan eventually asked. Mooncalf, half-choking, grunted his assent. ‘Master Foulkes, you too want to assist me?’

  ‘Of course,’ the clerk replied.

  ‘Good.’ Athelstan rose and took a piece of parchment from his chancery satchel. ‘You and Mooncalf will be taken to a private chamber. You will ask him the questions listed here. You will carefully write his responses. Mooncalf, I want the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. No additions or subtractions, just honest and accurate replies to very simple questions. Do you understand?’ Mooncalf nodded, rubbing his hands together and peering nervously over his shoulder. Athelstan summoned Tiptoft and Sir Simon, giving them strict instructions how the Pastons should be kept under close guard. Foulkes and Mooncalf were to be given a separate chamber and the clerk furnished with all the writing necessaries he would require.

  Once the door closed behind them all, Cranston rose, stretched and walked across to the side table. He filled a goblet with the sweet white wine and, at Athelstan’s request, half a cup for the friar.

  ‘Very good.’ Cranston smacked his lips. ‘I must remember that. The Piebald holds wine as good as its ale.’ The coroner drank again. ‘So the Pastons have nothing to do with Marsen’s murder?’ he asked.

  ‘All things are still possible, Sir John. Until we have a full confession nothing is certain. I have certainly made mistakes.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Foulkes is a learned scribe, a clerk from the schools …’

  ‘And a former crossbowman? A possible suspect, like Beowulf?’

  ‘Precisely, Sir John. Foulkes may now be a Lollard but,’ Athelstan laughed sharply, ‘in my brief and sheltered life I have met priests, monks and friars who have killed, killed and killed again. The old proverb is true: “The cowl does not make the monk nor the tonsure the saint”, which brings us to our next guest, Brother Marcel.’

  The Inquisitor was full of himself as he strode into the Dark Parlour. Even from where he sat Athelstan could smell the perfumed oil rubbed into Marcel’s smooth, shaven face. His robes were spotless, the strapped sandals a gleaming oaken brown. Athelstan offered him the Book of Gospels but he pushed it away, quoting certain clauses from canon law. Both the coroner and friar had met similar clerical recalcitrance before.

  ‘Shall we, Sir John?’ Athelstan turned to Cranston.

  ‘Whatever you wish, Brother Athelstan.’

  ‘What?’ Marcel pushed his hands up the sleeves of his gown.

  ‘Brother Marcel, I am going to have you arrested on a charge of high treason. You will be taken to Newgate Prison or the Tower, perhaps the latter. It contains a chamber called “Little Ease” dug beneath the level of the river so it sometimes floods. Rats swarm there. You will be held in such a place – what’s the Norman French for it? Ah, yes: Sous peine dure et forte – punishment strong and hard. Of course, our order will argue for your release but the Dominican Minster General, not to mention Father Provincial and Prior Anslem at Blackfriars will find themselves in a veritable quandary.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Marcel had now lost a great deal of his arrogance.

  ‘Well, our order will argue all sorts of things. They will appeal to the Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Sudbury, not to mention the Holy Father and sundry others amongst the great and noble. However, the allegations being levelled are those involving crimes against the English Crown, and they are not brought by some troublemaker but no lesser person than Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London, the king’s own justiciar south of the Thames, and also a fellow Dominican, Brother Athelstan of Southwark. Oh, I am sure that eventually some satisfactory conclusion will be reached. Nevertheless, that could take months, even years, whilst you are left to float in the filth and foul stink of “Little Ease”.’ Athelstan paused. ‘For the love of God, man, take the oath and let’s have done with this business. You were given a task and failed. Logic dictates you have to answer. Years ago we clashed in the schools, we engaged in fierce debate – we shall do so again.’

  ‘Take the oath,’ Cranston snapped, ‘or I will send for the guard.’ Marcel had recovered his composure, drawing deep breaths, a faint smile as if he conceded he had panicked and made a mistake but that could soon be rectified. He placed his hand on the Book
of the Gospels and repeated the words as Athelstan dictated the oath. Afterwards the Inquisitor sniffed and pushed back the chair so he could stretch his legs.

  ‘I will dispense with the usual courtesies, Brother. You came to this kingdom as a Papal Inquisitor. Oh, I am sure,’ Athelstan waved a hand, ‘that the Holy Father has furnished you with all the necessary documentation. Indeed, my discoveries will come as a great surprise to him. I would even say a nasty shock. Brother Marcel, you are not just a Papal Inquisitor or a Dominican friar but the most secret emissary of Oliver de Clisson, High Constable of France. You were given privy instructions from him to discover and report on the strength and extent of this kingdom’s naval power, particularly along the Thames and in the city of London.’ Athelstan paused as Marcel sprang to his feet.

  ‘How dare you!’ the Inquisitor thundered. Athelstan clapped his hands as if applauding a mummer’s play.

  ‘Very good, Brother. There is nothing more engaging than outraged innocence when it’s false.’ Athelstan’s smile faded. ‘This is not some debating hall but a court of law. You must not forget the “Little Ease”, where no one except the rats will be entertained by your false outbursts of hurt innocence. So sit down and let me continue.’

  ‘Sit down!’ Cranston roared. ‘I am growing tired of this, Brother Marcel. Time is passing and we are very busy. If you are innocent, prove it, then dine with me, but you are not leaving this chamber until we have the truth. Or, if you wish, you can leave for the Tower.’ The Inquisitor slumped back in his chair.

  ‘You were also sent,’ Athelstan continued, ‘to discover as much as possible about the growing unrest in and around London. In addition you were told to seek out some military post which could be an advantage to any invading fleet. As we all know, Brother Marcel, England has lost its war in France. Our king is only a child; his self-proclaimed Regent is despised by both lords and commons. The peasants and the poor seethe with discontent. Tax collectors and others move across the shires like some pack of rapacious beasts. Our exchequer is empty. No wonder the French perceive a marvellous opportunity to bring war, fire and sword to this kingdom. To let us, God forgive us, experience the same destruction our armies wreaked in France, to teach us a lesson we shall never forget.’ Athelstan sipped from his goblet. Marcel was now quiet and attentive. ‘Good.’ Athelstan breathed in. ‘You, Marcel, are of Gascon parentage but, like many of your countrymen, you have come to resent any alliance with England. You see yourself as French through and through and you wish to prove that. You are a master of the University of Paris. I’m sure Monseigneur Clisson secretly approached you and your present mandate would only be a matter of manipulation. The papal curia has a good number of French cardinals. You have a praiseworthy reputation as a theologian and debater. You are of keen mind and sharp of wit, personable, charming and, of course, utterly ruthless in your quest. You were confirmed as Papal Inquisitor to England but, in truth, you are a French spy.’