Candle Flame

by Paul Doherty

  ‘The Holy Thorn,’ Cranston whispered. ‘A play on our taverner’s name.’

  ‘I think so but,’ Athelstan spread his hands, ‘the actual details I cannot say. Perhaps Scrope had enjoyed the pun before. I suspect he deliberately opened it on that page during those last few heartbeats of his life.’

  ‘Impossible!’ Thorne protested. Nonetheless, Athelstan could see the sheer desperation in the taverner’s eyes only deepened by the shrill cries of his wife which rang chillingly through the tavern.

  ‘If Scrope was struck he would have died instantly …’

  ‘Come now, Master Thorne,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You have served in France and so have I and Sir John. Men, mortally wounded, may continue to act as if nothing had happened. Sometimes this can last as long as it would take to recite ten Aves. Some mortal wounds are instant; others afford a brief respite.’

  ‘I’ve seen that,’ one of the crossbowmen interjected. ‘I’ve seen it on more than one occasion.’

  ‘Even men who have lost a hand or arm,’ another added.

  ‘And so have I,’ Athelstan declared, ‘very recently. Lascelles received a crossbow bolt here, high in the chest. He still continued to walk forward almost unaware of his wound. Only a second crossbow bolt which struck him deep in his head brought him down. Physician Scrope, clutching that document, certainly had enough time to turn a key, draw a bolt and fumble for a page before collapsing. The poor man didn’t realize he was dying, so intent was he on protecting himself against further attack and trying to leave some sign as to whom his assailant had been. Finally,’ Athelstan pointed to the chamber opposite Scrope’s, ‘on the morning in question you had to unlock that: you used it as your murder place then hastily locked it again and,’ he gestured at the nearby stairs, ‘hurried up those, along the gallery above then down to act all busy in the taproom. Only you, Master Taverner, had the means to do that, no one else.’ Athelstan breathed in deeply. ‘Sir John, we are finished here.’

  Cranston closed the doors to both chambers and ordered Thorne to be taken back to the Dark Parlour. Once again they had to pass Mistress Eleanor, who could only stretch out her arms and cry pityingly. Thorne’s deepening agitation was so intense that when they entered the Dark Parlour, Sir John ordered the taverner to be bound, whilst two of the crossbow men, with weapons primed, were ordered to stay with them.

  ‘Ronseval was killed just as swiftly,’ Athelstan continued, retaking his seat, ‘once you had lured him to his death. Some of this I cannot prove; I admit it is only conjecture, though it’s logical. Ronseval and Hornsey trusted you. I have demonstrated why. Now, on the night of the murders, Hornsey saw something, or guessed something but then fled. No one knows what he told Ronseval but the very fact that Hornsey had been out on the Palisade meant that he had to die and so had his lover. Ronseval, the sensitive but terrified troubadour, was easy prey. He was searching for his lover. You – Thorne – promised to help. You told him to pack all his possessions, slip out of the tavern and meet you along that lonely stretch of the Thames. Ronseval did so, walking causally towards you, only to receive his death wound.’

  ‘I was elsewhere the night he was killed!’ Thorne yelled.

  ‘Who informed you he was killed at night?’ Athelstan countered. ‘Where were you that night? You did leave the tavern. I want the times, the places and witnesses.’

  Thorne kept his head down. Athelstan rose to his feet. ‘Sir John, excuse me. I need to fetch something.’ The friar pointed at the two crossbowmen. ‘Whilst I am gone you are to allow no one into this room except me.’ Cranston grunted; the two guards nodded in agreement. ‘Only me,’ the friar repeated and left. Cranston, mystified, glared at the door then shifted his gaze to Thorne. The coroner was convinced, as would any jury before King’s Bench, that Thorne was guilty of the most malicious murder. He was also a traitor because those he had slain were Crown officials, whilst the treasure had been stolen from the king. If that was the case, Thorne would be condemned to a most terrifying death here at the scene of his crimes. An execution platform would be set up in the Palisade. The Southwark Carnifex, together with his assistants, would carry out all the horrors of the legal punishment for treason. Thorne would be dragged on a hurdle from the Bocardo. He would be stripped, his body carefully painted to indicate where the executioner would plunge his knife. He would be half-hanged before being slit from throat to crotch, his belly opened, his entrails plucked out and burnt before his still-seeing eyes … Cranston’s reverie was broken by an insistent rapping at the door. He gestured at one of the crossbow men to answer it. The soldier pulled down the eyelet, grunted and swung the door open. Cranston glanced up. He immediately wondered why Athelstan had drawn his cowl over his head, then stared in disbelief as the cowl was pushed back to reveal the smiling face of one of the guards outside.

  ‘What on earth …’ Cranston roared. The crossbowmen were now laughing.

  ‘Peace, Sir John,’ Athelstan declared as he swept back into the room. Thorne, who had watched all this, just slumped in defeat. Athelstan thanked the guard and once the door closed behind him, retook his seat.

  ‘I have just demonstrated how Hornsey, a veteran soldier, a cunning man, was killed. He took sanctuary in St Erconwald’s. He thought he would be safe there. Perhaps his close proximity to me was a silent threat to you, Thorne. He sat in the mercy enclave. I retired to my house and the night wore on. Hornsey had no reason to leave and believed he was safe. He hears a knock on the door, leading from the sacristy to God’s Acre. He goes to answer, pulls back the eyelet and sees a Dominican standing there, head down, cowl pulled over, which is understandable as the night was very cold. Hornsey makes a most hideous mistake. He thinks it’s me. He draws the bolt, opens the door and you release the crossbow bolt, which sends him staggering back to collapse in the sacristy. You then flee. I’ve said this before and I will say it again: friars can walk the streets of Southwark in safety,’ Athelstan smiled grimly, ‘and in the dark I suppose we are like cats – one looks very much like another. Nobody would accost you.’

  ‘And where did I get the robe?’ Thorne sneered.

  ‘Oh, my learned colleague Brother Marcel unwittingly supplied it. A most fastidious man, Marcel insisted on changing his robes at least once a day. He sent the used one to your wash house. I saw your washer woman and she commented on it. You and Marcel are of the same build and size.’ Athelstan rose. He walked behind Thorne, bent down and whispered in his ear. ‘You are guilty, Master Thorne. I have established a burden of proof which you cannot answer. You will be condemned to the most gruesome death, but not before Thibault has racked and twisted your body with the most terrible torture. Suspicion will fall on your wife; she too might be questioned. You will be adjudged a traitor. Consequently, even if she is innocent, Mistress Eleanor will lose everything because all your property will be forfeit to the Crown.’ Athelstan straightened up before leaning down again. ‘I invite you to make a full confession. Reveal the whereabouts of the treasure, which, in fact, I know already; confess and express your sorrow. I will ensure a priest shrives you, whilst the Hangman of Rochester, whom I have brought secretly to this tavern, will carry out sentence immediately. The Hangman is most skilled. You would not strangle but die instantly.’ Athelstan turned and walked away. ‘The choice is yours. I suggest you make haste because it’s only a matter of time before Master Thibault interferes. Sir John, tell me, what I offer is both legitimate and judicial?’

  ‘I am the king’s justiciar,’ Cranston replied, holding Athelstan’s gaze. ‘I have the power to hear and decide. I have authority to carry out, in the king’s own name, the sentence of death be it now or on some appointed day. I can also exercise mercy in the manner of that death. I believe we have said enough.’ Cranston snapped his fingers. ‘Have the prisoner taken down to the cellar. Keep a close watch on him.’ Cranston pointed to the hour candle glowing on its stand under a broad copper cap. ‘By the time the flame reaches midway to the next ring, you, Master Tho
rne, must decide or it will be decided for you.’ The prisoner was dragged to his feet. He tried to resist, until one of the soldiers punched him hard in the stomach and dragged him groaning from the room.

  ‘I hope he confesses,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I pray that he does. He murdered twelve people, Sir John, and all for the sake of filthy greed. The love of money is indeed the root of all evil. If he confesses …’ Athelstan took a deep breath.

  ‘The tavern sign can be his gallows,’ Cranston declared. ‘It stretches high and strong. We will use the same ladder he did to enter the Barbican.’

  ‘I’d best inform the Hangman, he is also a skilled clerk.’ Athelstan left. Cranston gestured at the two crossbowmen to follow and sat staring at the empty chairs in front of him. Thorne certainly deserved his death but he wondered what Athelstan would do with the others. The coroner dozed for a short while. Now and again he would stir and peer at the hour candle, its flame burning merrily away. Athelstan returned. He spoke to people waiting in the gallery outside and closed the door.

  ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan walked slowly towards the table. ‘I am going to ask you for an indulgence regarding the Pastons.’

  The coroner chewed the corner of his lip. ‘In theory, Brother …’

  ‘In practice, Sir John, Paston is a good man. He has told the truth and he is guilty of no more than many of his kind in this city. I do not want to see him become the object of Gaunt’s vindictiveness.’ Athelstan kept his face composed. He knew nothing would persuade Cranston more than a dig at the self-proclaimed Regent.

  ‘His daughter, Martha, and William the clerk are deeply in love. They were of great help to us.’

  Cranston waved a hand. ‘As you wish, little friar.’

  Athelstan went back, opened the door and ushered Paston, his daughter and Foulkes into the chamber. Once they had taken their seats Athelstan went to stand beside Cranston.

  ‘Please.’ He smiled. ‘I beg you not to look so anxious. Master William, I thank you for your help as I do you, Sir Robert. Now this is what Sir John and I have decided. Sir Robert, I want you to clear the hold of The Five Wounds of all weapons. You will move your ship to another harbour. You will return to Surrey and resign your post as a member of the Commons. You will not become embroiled in politics and cease forthwith your attacks on His Grace the Regent. You will not return to this city unless it is with the special permission of Sir John here and only to do business. Master William, Mistress Martha, you too will not enter this city which is so dangerous for you.’ Athelstan lowered his voice. ‘Go home,’ he urged. ‘Marry each other, love each other. Steer clear of all danger. Keep what you believe in the secrecy of the heart.’ The relief on Sir Robert’s face was obvious. Foulkes looked at Martha, who nodded her agreement.

  ‘Sir Robert, I suggest you make to leave very, very swiftly.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Paston got to his feet, ‘everything is packed already, Brother. I know what is going to happen here. A special commission of oyer and terminer invariably ends in blood …’

  ‘True, true,’ Cranston murmured, ‘and Master Thibault will be here very soon.’

  The coroner rose and clasped Sir Robert’s hand and that of his daughter and Foulkes. Athelstan did likewise. He sketched a blessing over them and noticed with relief that Martha and William crossed themselves. They had hardly left the chamber when there was a rap on the door and the Hangman of Rochester walked in holding a piece of parchment, which he handed to Athelstan.

  ‘God knows what happened here, Brother, but Thorne has made a full confession.’ The Hangman fought to keep the surprise out of his voice. ‘He murdered twelve people, he stole the gold …’

  ‘Did he say where it is?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘No, Sir John.’ The Hangman clawed at his long, yellowish hair. ‘He just said that Brother Athelstan would know where it is.’ The Hangman’s skeletal face creased into the smile. ‘I suppose he didn’t trust me. Thorne is a broken man, all juddering and trembling. He cries like a baby. He wishes to see his wife and be shriven by a priest.’

  ‘Let Mistress Eleanor see him then ask Brother Marcel to hear his confession – swiftly, mind you. Tell Marcel to issue a general absolution.’

  ‘And execution?’

  Cranston repeated what he told Athelstan earlier.

  The Hangman nodded. ‘I will arrange it.’

  ‘Do so quickly,’ Athelstan urged. ‘Before Thibault arrives.’ The Hangman left. Athelstan asked to be alone. Sir John clapped him on the shoulder and murmured something about supervising the arrangements. The coroner sheathed his sword, finished his wine and quietly left. Athelstan bolted the door and went to kneel beside the table. He leaned back, eyes closed, as he murmured the ‘De Profundis’ and the ‘Miserere Mei.’ All was resolved, he thought, yet lives had been shattered, souls despatched to judgement and the storm was still raging. Evil was like a seed, Athelstan thought: it took root and erupted into a wild, malignant tangle. Taverner Thorne probably regretted spending the profits of war on The Candle-Flame and decided to recoup his losses in a most sinister way. He had planned and plotted well but totally underestimated the souls around him, filled with their own private passions, be it Sir Robert Paston’s dabbling in power, Physician Scrope’s desire for vengeance or the highly illicit relationship between Ronseval and Hornsey. Now he was to pay the price. For a while Athelstan made himself relax, thumbing his Ave beads as he prayed for the souls of the departed and for Thorne’s, who would soon be brought to judgement. He dozed until roused by Cranston, his beaver hat pulled down, cloak tied tightly around him.

  ‘You’d best come, Athelstan,’ he declared quietly. ‘War barges have been glimpsed on the river. Thibault is probably on his way. We are ready. I have brought Mooncalf with me.’ The coroner shouted an order and two crossbowmen, escorting an ashen-faced, trembling Mooncalf came into the passageway.

  ‘What should we do with him, Brother?’ Cranston whispered. Athelstan walked forward and grasped the ostler’s white, unshaven face between his hands.

  ‘Master Mooncalf,’ he whispered, ‘you are about to witness the grisly end of a malefactor. Unless you are more prudent and more prayerful, one day you will make the same journey. So tell me now, who is the serjeant-at-law holding your letter denouncing the Pastons?’

  ‘Master Ravenscott,’ the ostler replied swiftly, eyes almost bulging with terror. ‘Master Jacob Ravenscott. He lodges at The Hoop of Heaven near the Inns of Court.’

  ‘I know it well,’ Cranston declared. ‘And, as an officer of the law, I will collect that letter and burn it. So, Brother, what shall we do with Mooncalf? Hang him?’

  ‘No, no.’ Athelstan still held the ostler’s face. He gently squeezed his hands. ‘Listen to me, Mooncalf, and listen well. We shall collect your letter and burn it. If I ever hear that you have troubled the Pastons again, I will have you hanged as high as heaven. You will watch your master suffer just sentence, after which you will pack your possessions and never be seen in London or Southwark again. If you are, my good friend, Sir John Cranston, will issue warrants for your arrest. Do you understand me? I make no idle threats but a vow as sacred as any taken in church. Do you understand?’ Athelstan took his hands away.

  ‘Yes, Brother!’ If Mooncalf hadn’t been held by the crossbowmen the ostler would have collapsed in nervous prostration.

  ‘Bring him with us,’ Athelstan ordered. Stepping round the ostler and his guard, Athelstan followed the coroner out into the front of the tavern. A small crowd had assembled, servants and slatterns. Eleanor Thorne was being led away by one of the maids, her heart-rending sobs almost muffled by the blankets thrown around her. The Hangman of Rochester had prepared well. The tavern sign had been removed from its hooks and a thick rope with a noose at the end hung down. Against the signpost leaned a ladder; the Hangman had climbed this and sat legs dangling either side of the projecting branch. The execution area was surrounded by crossbowmen. Thorne appeared. Athelstan was relieved that a sack had
been pulled over the taverner’s head. He could see the effect of the man’s laboured breathing. Thorne, hands bound behind his back, was taken to the foot of the ladder. Cranston, in a powerful voice, briefly proclaimed the name of the condemned man, his heinous crimes and how he deserved death. Thorne was immediately pushed up the ladder by the crossbowmen, who thrust him as high as the Hangman instructed, before turning him round. The Hangman leaned forward, shortened the rope and placed the noose over the condemned man’s head, tying the knot expertly just behind his right ear. The Hangman issued another instruction and the crossbowmen pushed the gasping Thorne further up the rungs. Once he was ready, the Hangman gestured at the crossbowmen to go down. He lifted his hand.

  ‘On my sign!’ he shouted. For a few heartbeats nothing could be heard except the gasps and moans of the condemned man. The sacking over his face was blowing out as he fought for his last breath. The Hangman’s gloved hand dropped. The ladder was twisted. Thorne, hands still tied behind his back, dropped like a stone. Athelstan closed his eyes as he heard the awful crack as the condemned man’s neck broke. He murmured the requiem, opened his eyes and stared at that grim sight. Thorne’s corpse swayed slightly. Athelstan sketched a blessing. At least Thorne had died in the twinkling of an eye. He had not choked as others did, sometimes for as long as it would take to say a rosary, whilst the taverner had escaped the full horrors inflicted by a traitor’s death.