by Paul Doherty
‘You cannot prove that. I was preparing to leave for the city.’
‘Seventhly,’ Athelstan pressed on like a lawyer before King’s Bench, ‘I know from my enquiries that Lascelles arrived here cloaked and cowled. No one was expecting him. Only when he reached here did he pull back his cowl, reveal himself and begin an argument about whether the tavern gates should be closed or not.’
‘Which means?’
‘Listen now,’ Athelstan urged. ‘I had met you earlier. You were all ready to leave. Consequently when Lascelles arrived you acted swiftly. You slipped out into the street and gave that beggar boy the hastily scribbled note and a coin. You then returned. Like the professional assassin you are, you know all there is about The Candle-Flame: the different galleries, empty chambers and lonely vantage points. Beneath your cloak you carry an arbalest and a quiver of bolts. You tried to kill Lascelles but failed because of me. Now, I recall vividly who was in the yard that morning when the attack took place. You certainly weren’t!’
Friar Roger simply stared back.
‘Thorne was talking to Mooncalf. The Pastons and William Foulkes were closeted together in the Dark Parlour both before and after the attack. Ronseval was also in the yard. The only person missing was you.’ Athelstan moved the parchment before him. ‘You came down later and, as an act of impudence, asked to join Lascelles’ escort into the city. Later, when you visited St Erconwald’s, I mistakenly made reference to Pike and Watkin being involved with the Upright Men. I saw you cultivate them when you visited St Erconwald’s. I have questioned them. They distinctly recall you asking both where they lived; in fact, they invited you to their houses. This is my ninth charge against you. You used that knowledge to provoke that conflict here at The Candle-Flame. You knew where Pike and Watkin lived. You are a friar, popular with the people and certainly on good terms with those leading lights amongst the Upright Men, Watkin and Pike. Once twilight had fallen, you slipped along to their houses dressed in a simple robe and hood and delivered those messages about Marsen’s treasure still lying here at The Candle-Flame. All you had to do was wait for them to leave for their muster. You knew they would. The Upright Men would be delighted to steal such wealth from Master Thibault. Only then do you send that letter to the Guildhall and bring about the confrontation. The Upright Men disappear but Thibault and Lascelles remain. Of course, everyone in the tavern is alarmed. Once again, you choose your vantage point, strike and kill at least one of your intended victims.’ Athelstan fell silent, tapping the table with his fingers. ‘Brother Roger, let me weave all this together. Your Saxon heritage, your absorption with the epic Beowulf, your constant quotations from it, your presence close in time and place to all the assaults, successful or not, against Thibault’s minions and Marsen’s veiled allegations against you. Then your presence in The Candle-Flame when those saddles were primed so the horses would rear and throw their riders. Your where-abouts when Lascelles was attacked in the stableyard and, again, after the Earthworms occupied The Candle-Flame. Your knowledge of Pike and Watkin being placed amongst the Upright Men as well as where they lived. Finally, and I admit only I know this but cannot reveal all as I have not yet finished, the elimination of other possible suspects leaving only you. Of course,’ Athelstan gestured towards the door, ‘a search is now being carried out in your chamber and all your possessions.’
‘Sit down!’ Cranston bellowed as the Franciscan sprang to his feet. ‘Sit down,’ the coroner repeated, ‘or I will have you chained. What does it matter, Brother Roger, the case weighs heavily against you. If all this was submitted to a jury they would, I assure you, return a true bill of indictment for murder, treason and a litany of other felonies.’
‘I am a Franciscan!’ Friar Roger shouted back. ‘My order works with and for the poor. I am a true son of the soil. I wander the shires of this kingdom and see the lords of the soil bully, harass and exploit the humble. So yes, I am like Beowulf: I fight monsters, I slay them.’
‘No one gave you that right,’ Athelstan countered.
‘I will not confess to you what I did or why,’ Brother Roger sneered. ‘I plead benefit of clergy. More importantly, I quote the constitutions of my order accepted by Holy Mother Church and the Crown of England that I can only be questioned, tried and, if found guilty, convicted by my own Minister General in full chapter at our mother house in Assisi. I appeal to that process. I will not, shall not say any more.’
‘Nor shall you,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You, Brother Roger, are a killer, an assassin. You are not the son of the Poor Man of Assisi, the great St Francis, but the offspring of Cain. You are as arrogant as the Lord Satan, full of false pride at your heritage. You decided not to pray or administer to the poor but act as their so-called, self-proclaimed champion in slaughtering those you, and only you, consider worthy of death. You have made yourself your own idol, turned yourself into a graven image of God himself.’ Athelstan rang the hand bell. ‘Think, Brother, think long and hard. Do not be so proud or confident. Remember the words of the psalm: “Put not your trust in Egypt, nor your confidence in the war chariots of Pharaoh or the swift horses of Syria. God’s power is the truth.” Athelstan slammed the bell down, rose and walked away as Cranston supervised the Franciscan’s arrest, instructing Burley that Brother Roger be chained and kept under close watch. The door had hardly closed when a ferocious knocking brought Athelstan back. Tiptoft stood there with William Foulkes.
‘He has something for you,’ the messenger declared. Foulkes handed over the small scrolls detailing Athelstan’s questions and Mooncalf’s answers. Athelstan swiftly read the latter and smiled. He had what he needed.
‘Ask Mine Host,’ he declared, ‘to bring us some wine.’ A short while later Thorne, aproned and carrying a tray, came into the chamber. He put the tray down on the side table. Athelstan walked to the door and opened it. He had warned Tiptoft before and felt reassured at the crossbowmen, all wearing the royal livery, quietly taking up their position outside. Athelstan sketched a blessing in their direction and walked back to Thorne, who was tutting under his breath at the food and wine Athelstan had brought from The Piebald. Cranston stood looking rather perplexed, though the coroner sensed danger and his right hand now rested on the silver-hilted dagger in its sheath beneath his cloak. Athelstan clapped the taverner on his shoulder.
‘Take off your apron, Master Simon,’ he urged, ‘and there is no need for this either.’ He plucked the dagger from the taverner’s belt, threw it on the floor and kicked it away.
Thorne raised his big, muscular hands. ‘Brother Athelstan, what is this?’ he protested. ‘Why do you bring wine and food to my tavern?’
‘I don’t want to be poisoned,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘I don’t want to be sent into that sleep close to death. Sit down, Master Thorne. Take the oath, for your very life is to be challenged. You are a true brother of the man we have just questioned. Like him you have murdered and snatched the souls of others out of this life and hurled them unprepared into the eternal dark.’
Thorne staggered back, his hand clawing for where his dagger should have been, but Cranston had slid behind him and the coroner’s razor-edged sword brushed the side of his neck.
‘Sit down, Thorne!’ Athelstan almost pushed the taverner into the chair in front of the table. ‘Simon Thorne.’ Athelstan took his seat as Cranston, hiding his own surprise, went to sit opposite the accused.
‘Simon Thorne,’ the friar repeated, ‘I formally accuse you of murder on many counts.’
‘This is not true!’ Thorne made to rise.
‘I wouldn’t leave that chair.’ Cranston leaned across the table, his podgy finger jabbing. ‘You must not leave that chair. You will remain silent or I shall order the guards to bind and gag you.’ Cranston tapped the hilt of his sword, its blade pointing towards Thorne. The taverner slumped back. Athelstan studied the accused’s hard, muscular face, the pock-marked skin drawn tight, the slightly bulbous eyes bright with cunning and fear. The taverner was sweating
, his breath heavy. Now and again his thick fingers would scratch at his black, wiry hair. Athelstan recalled their first meeting. He quietly marvelled at how so many individuals could hide their true soul, the karpos, as he called it, the dominant spirit which could shift, hide and lurk for a lifetime yet rarely manifest its true self. Athelstan had plotted this carefully. Once he had eliminated others, logic and evidence pointed to this guilty taverner. Athelstan had been anxious lest Thorne discover that he was suspected. Flight from the law was common enough. Men disappear never to be seen again. Thorne might lose his tavern, but he would take with him the stolen treasure from where Athelstan suspected he had hidden it and flee to any part of the kingdom or beyond.
‘Master Thorne, you are a taverner. I know very little of your previous life. I understand you fought in France. You were a captain of hobelars. Now, Sir John, correct me if I am wrong, but a hobelar is a man-at-arms and a bowman? Not just one of the levy but skilled and seasoned. Hobelars are often used as scouts or despatched under the cover of dark to kill enemy sentries before a night attack is launched.’
Thorne just glanced away.
‘You know that to be true,’ Cranston remarked quietly. ‘You have as much experience in war as I have.’
‘I simply say that,’ Athelstan declared, ‘to demonstrate that you, Thorne, have killed, albeit the king’s enemies. I suspect you were very good at it. You amassed considerable wealth from the war in France. Your first wife dies and you marry again. You invest in this tavern. Of course, you wonder sometimes, more often than not, whether it was such a prosperous venture. London seethes with unrest. When the Great Community of the Realm raises the black banner of anarchy, I truly believe that Southwark will burn. Oh, you make payments to the Upright Men and you also curry favour with Master Thibault, but you know that that can’t save The Candle-Flame from devastation. Now, your wife Eleanor is the daughter of a tavern keeper who owns the The Silver Harp on the Canterbury road. Last summer the assassin Beowulf successfully attacked and killed Justice Folevile, one of Thibault’s horde of tax collectors. Of course, families meet and mingle. You must have heard about such an attack and, I suspect, the seeds of the heinous murders committed here were sown: a plot to seize a treasure which would be your surety in the time of trouble.’
‘You are very much mistaken,’ Thorne spluttered. ‘I …’
‘I shall prove I am not,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Marsen arrived here with his treasure chest. He was a most unsavoury character, Mauclerc not much better. You leave them to their own devices. Mooncalf serves the food whilst you visit occasionally. We know the reason why and I shall return to that later. In the main, you act the busy taverner who resents having to pay court to the likes of Master Thibault, as well as contribute just as secretly to the Upright Men. You hate them both but, as I’ve said, you have your own devious plan to escape the coming fury. Undoubtedly I could summon your father-in-law from The Silver Harp on the Canterbury road. I would place him on oath. I am certain that he will agree with me that he provided you with a very detailed description, at your insistence, of the crossbow bolts used to kill Folevile and others. I am more than certain that he would have repeated those mocking verses taken from the prophet Daniel. A search of your muniments will reveal a copy. I could ask why a taverner has written down such verses.’
‘There is no law against that!’ Thorne retorted. ‘True, I have heard the verses before. I find them compelling, like many lines from the scriptures. I, too, am a scholar, Brother Athelstan, learned in my horn-book. I have read the scriptures, I understand Latin. Certain verses, as I have said, appeal to me.’
‘Oh, I am sure they do.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Such as “By their fruits ye shall know them”. But to return to my indictment. On the night of the murders, you pretended to be concerned about a possible intruder in the stables.’
‘But there was one!’ Thorne beat against the table, hastily withdrawing his hand as Cranston’s fingers fell to the sword lying close to him.
‘Oh, I know there was an intruder. However, on that particular evening, you used that as an excuse, a pretence to explain your absence from your own bed. Master Thorne, I shall be swift. You had planned well and your motive was the oldest of sins – pure greed. You must have seen the heavy exchequer coffer during your visits to Marsen. You observed how he loved to throw back the lid to glory at the gold and silver heaped within. There was no need for any keys. Marsen thought he was safe. He had a guard of six veteran archers and he was locked and secured in the formidable Barbican. You did see the gold and silver, didn’t you?’ Thorne grudgingly nodded his head. ‘Such a sight would only whet your appetite and hone your greed. Under the cover of darkness you took a stout cask of your famous ale from the cellar. You pulled back the bung and poured in a very powerful sleeping potion. You walked across the Palisade and stopped before the campfire. Two of the archers were there but, of course, Hugh of Hornsey was missing. You would know that, wouldn’t you? Because you keep everything under close watch, yes, Master Thorne?’ The taverner, now more wary than angry, simply stared back. ‘Hornsey and Ronseval were lovers. You knew that because they had lodged in your tavern before. I have inspected your chamber ledger; your wife is very methodical. The last time they were here was during the festivities at Christmas. Of course, they stayed in separate chambers, but that was only a pretence. They had to protect themselves against being discovered, public humiliation and execution. I shall return to both these victims of your murderous heart. On the evening in question, however, you offer cheer to those two archers. They are cold, tired and of course they would love to sample your tastiest ale, which I am sure is markedly better than what the niggardly Marsen bought for them. Moreover,’ Athelstan gestured to his right, ‘I made discreet enquiries with your cook. I understand that on the night of the murders you helped him prepare the dishes for Marsen and his comitatus. He recalled you making the capon highly spiced and very strong, which of course only deepened their thirst. You fill their blackjacks and wait. They drink and soon lapse into sleep. I suspect the potion was very strong and would soon have an effect. You then take the tankards and empty what is left of the tainted ale on to the ground. You use the common ale the archers have brought out with them to clean those tankards as well as remove any trace of the sleeping draught.
‘Juice of the poppy?’ Cranston asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You have some here, Master Thorne?’ Again the only reply was that hard, unblinking glare. You tried to murder me, Athelstan thought. You are quite prepared to watch me burn a horrible death simply to conceal your own dire, wicked acts. I was to be silenced so you could hide your host of mortal sins.
‘Brother?’ Cranston asked.
‘Quieta non movere, quieta non movere,’ Athelstan declared, ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ I recall seeing a bear fast asleep on a corner in Southwark. Its owner claimed the animal had been given a sleeping draught. On other occasions my cat Bonaventure, who drank my ale, lay fast asleep on the hearth and, at the other extreme, Sparwell lurched in that execution barrel bereft of all consciousness. Such images made me recall this tavern’s great pig, the boar Pedro the Cruel, falling fast asleep outside its sty on a freezing winter night. Pedro, I suspect, is a benevolent animal but still a very greedy one, with a snout for any titbit left lying about, including all the drugged ale you poured out of the tankards used by those archers. On reflection, I concluded, that could be the only explanation for a pig who loves its comfort not to return to sleep in its sty on such a night.’ Athelstan sipped from his own goblet. ‘Of course, unlike poison, a sleeping potion leaves no visible effect. Even the rats in the Guildhall dungeon would just creep back into their holes to sleep. So let us return to the Palisade, shrouded in an icy darkness. You leave the archers sleeping and move to the Barbican.’
‘What if Hornsey had returned?’ Thorne, his lower lip trembling, gestured with his hand.
‘Quite understandable: he would have found two guards asl
eep. He would probably welcome that and go back to his lover, Ronseval. Oh no, that didn’t pose any danger. The only real threat to you, Master Thorne, was someone actually finding you in the Barbican when the murders were taking place, though that would be nigh impossible because you were going to seal yourself in. Even afterwards, if someone had stopped you on the Palisade, it wouldn’t be proof enough. After all, you are the tavern master here.’ Athelstan breathed in deeply. ‘Oh no, what you plotted and planned was very devious. You arrive at the Barbican and the guards in the lower chamber welcome you; after all, you are the genial Mine Host making sure everyone is comfortable. You brought that tun of your special ale. You insist on sharing it out before climbing up into the storey above. Again, Marsen and Mauclerc cordially greet you. They like that, someone dancing attendance on them, eager to please. You are their host, a man who has to report to Master Thibault. You carry a gift and they are certainly deep in their cups. Of course, the exchequer chest lies open as you suspected it would be. Marsen had insisted that Hornsey unclasp the third lock – he and Mauclerc have unfastened the other two. I suspect even if it had been locked, once you had dealt with your victims you would have just forced the locks, but Marsen’s glorying in his greed made your task all the easier. You measure out the ale containing that powerful sleeping draught. You are serving a refreshing drink to men and women who have eaten your highly spiced capon, which would only sharpen their thirst. You tried to claim Marsen wouldn’t want cheap ale – he didn’t, but a tankard of your best is another matter. Toasts are exchanged and, within a very short while, your victims are deep in a drugged sleep. You then move swiftly. You leave the Barbican and bring in the hooked ladder as well as a small crossbow and quiver of bolts you’ve hidden close by. You also move a barrow or cart from that tangle of conveyances beneath the tarpaulin to stand just beneath the window. Once inside, you lock and bolt the main door and carry the ladder to the upper chamber and continue your plan. In both chambers you make it look as if the most violent conflict had occurred. Indeed, you will make people wonder if there was one attacker involved or more. You confuse matters even more by drawing the weapons of your sleeping victims and placing them nearby. You ensure that the blades rasp together in case they are closely scrutinized.’ Athelstan gathered himself as he approached the black heart of this matter. ‘God forgive you,’ he whispered. ‘You then carry out dreadful murder in different ways, inflicting on each victim a mortal wound. Tax collectors, archers and whores, every single soul in that Barbican you slaughter without mercy.’ Athelstan sat staring at the accused. ‘Now you must cover your sin, you make sure the tankards in both chambers are clean. You pour the tainted drink into the great water bucket on the lavarium. You swill out those tankards and use the ordinary ale to refill them. Of course, once I’d left, you made sure that the bucket of dirty water was taken and poured into the river. You’ve achieved what you wanted – all traces of any sleeping potion are removed. The taunting verses about being numbered and weighed in the balance, purportedly the words of Beowulf, are pinned to the inside of the window shutter.’