by Paul Doherty
‘Listen Ye!’ the Crow proclaimed. ‘Marsen’s death at The Candle-Flame is now well known, despatched to Hell as he deserves.’ He paused at the stifled cheer. ‘The plunder Marsen carried, the fruit of his wickedness has disappeared. Look on Grapeseed’s head and be warned. The Upright Men will not be trifled with. The treasure Marsen was taking to his satanic master Gaunt belongs to the people and the Upright Men are the true and only guardians of the people. Such treasure is ours and should be, must be, handed over.’ The Crow shook the severed head. ‘Know Ye also that Hugh of Hornsey, former captain of archers at the Tower and Marsen’s erstwhile helpmate in wickedness, has fled. Information about the stolen treasure, good, sound information, will earn you the protection of the Upright Men and five gold pieces. The apprehension of Hugh of Hornsey alive will bring you firmly within the love of the Upright Men as well as a reward of seven gold pieces. I have left with your self-proclaimed squire, Master Wasp, a description of the fugitive.’ He dropped the severed head to splash noisily into the bucket of bloody wine, wiped his hands and held them up. ‘I have now chanted my own vespers. I leave you our peace until the next time …’
oOoOo
Brother Athelstan left through the devil’s door built into the north wall of St Erconwald’s. He stood in the freezing darkness and peered up at the night sky swarming with stars – faint stars, bright stars, a maze of stars. The heavens sparkled brilliantly but, in the cemetery of St Erconwald’s, deep shadows clustered around the outlines of the winter-bound trees. Athelstan gazed up again.
‘I promise you, Brother,’ he murmured, ‘when spring erupts green, lovely and lush, I shall climb to the top of this tower and study those stars most closely, all to the glory of God. And will you join me, Bonaventure?’ Athelstan stared down at the one-eyed, fierce-looking tomcat who had adopted Athelstan and become his companion during the lonely watches of the night. ‘Holy cat, Catholic cat,’ Athelstan whispered. Bonaventure just glared imperiously back. ‘Many thanks for joining me.’ The cat had been his sole companion in church. Even the Hangman of Rochester who lived in the ankerhold Athelstan had constructed along one of the transepts was absent. The anchorite had joined the rest of Athelstan’s wayward flock in The Piebald tavern, where, after eating hot, juicy, pies from Merrylegs’ cookshop, they would be downing tankards of ale as they set the world to rights. Athelstan chewed the corner of his lip. The Hangman of Rochester had been a tragic figure when he arrived at St Erconwald’s. He had earned his name whilst serving as one of England’s finest hangmen after losing his wife and child to outlaws. The Hangman, who had been baptized Giles of Sempringham, had also proved to be a truly talented painter who had begun to sketch out a series of eye-catching tableaux, some of which troubled Athelstan with their stark message. The friar closed his eyes. ‘Giles of Sempringham,’ he murmured, recalling the Hangman’s long, yellow, straw-like hair framing that tragic, cadaverous face, ‘I am glad you have become a member of our community.’ He opened his eyes and stared down at Bonaventure, who gazed hungrily back. ‘I just pray my flock don’t draw you into their nefarious schemes.’
Athelstan crossed himself swiftly. He had arrived back in his parish just as the vesper bells tolled to find all in order. The church had been used during the day by the different guilds, fraternities and brotherhoods. The sacristy and sanctuary had been tidied – Benedicta and Crim had seen to that. Nevertheless, Athelstan had walked every inch of his church to ensure all was as it should be; it was not unknown for Watkin and Pike to set up shop in the nave to sell certain goods they’d found ‘lying about’. Athelstan stared across God’s Acre at the old death house now converted into a comfortable dwelling for the beggar Godbless, who had adopted Thaddeus, the omnivorous parish goat. ‘At least you control Thaddeus,’ Athelstan whispered, watching the candlelight dance at the shuttered window. Other animal keepers were not so successful. Ursula the pig woman’s extraordinary fat sow, which accompanied her everywhere, even to Mass, was the bane of Athelstan’s life, or rather that of his small garden. Athelstan felt a spurt of pleasure. The garden was now coming into its own. The friar wondered if Crispin the carpenter had finished the ‘Hermitage’ as Athelstan called it, a comfortable box for the large hedgehog which had taken up residence in Athelstan’s herb plot and been given the name of Hubert the Monk. Athelstan pulled his cloak tighter about him.
‘Are you well, Godbless,’ he called out, ‘on this freezing cold night?’
‘Godbless you too, Father,’ came the reply. ‘Thaddeus and I are as warm and crisp as a Christmas pie. Not even the ghosts who swarm like buzzing bees around us disturb our humours. Cream-faced they are, black-eyed, but they are wary of Thaddeus.’
Athelstan smiled. Godbless was as mad as a box of frogs; he claimed to be related to Oberon, king of the fairies; even so, Athelstan had insisted that he take up residence as Guardian of God’s Acre. Godbless had proved to be a sure defence against the warlocks and wizards who prowled city cemeteries at the dead of night to practise their abominable rites. Athelstan had recently heard of such an incident at the nearby Church of St Mary Overy, where a coven of witches and warlocks had assembled to sacrifice black cockerels to the demon lords of the air. They had fashioned oils and salves from their sacrifices, mixing them with worms, dead men’s teeth, the garments of suicides and many other heinous ingredients, all boiled together over an oak fire in the severed skull of a beheaded felon. Athelstan recalled the Inquisitor Brother Marcel and smiled grimly. If his fellow friar looked hard enough, Southwark would provide him with a glut of heresies and a veritable litany of evil practices. Something about Marcel deeply disturbed him, something not quite right. To calm himself Athelstan went and checked on the old warhorse Philomel sleeping in his stable before moving across into the priest’s house. Athelstan had scrubbed it clean the previous day and he was proud of what he had achieved. The flagstone kitchen floor gleamed, the bed loft was neatly ordered, whilst all the cooking utensils and platters shimmered in the light of the banked hearth fire. He busily lit candles and the lantern on the table, which served both for eating and study. Once satisfied Athelstan stoked up the fire, used the bellows on the braziers then locked and bolted the door for the night. Benedicta had left one of Merryleg’s pies in the small oven built next to the hearth. Athelstan poured a stoup of ale, polished his horn-spoon on a napkin, blessed himself and Bonaventure and began to eat, his every mouthful being watched by Bonaventure, who had lapped his milk in the twinkling of his one good eye.
‘This is excellent!’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I will leave you some juicy venison, Bonaventure. I do wonder how Merrylegs obtained such good meat in the depth of winter.’ He leaned over and stroked the cat’s head. ‘On second thoughts, perhaps it’s best not to ask.’ Athelstan put the platter down near the fire beside Bonaventure. He opened his chancery casket and took out sheets of vellum, a clasped ink horn and fresh quill pen all courtesy of Sir John. He then emptied his satchel and made himself ready by intoning the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’, asking for divine help with the murderous mystery confronting him. Certain matters had already been clarified. Earlier in the evening a Guildhall courier had brought him information on how all the corpses taken from The Candle-Flame had been examined by no lesser person than Bertrand de Troyes, a royal physician. He declared how he could detect no trace of poison or any other potion except ale and wine. All victims had died brutally of their wounds. The same physician had been with Lascelles when the scraps and dregs served in the Barbican had been examined. They could discover very little. A horde of rats had devoured the lot but with no ill effect. Lascelles had even called in the services of the Guildhall rat-catcher, who searched about but concluded there was nothing amiss which a gaggle of ferrets could not resolve. So, Athelstan wondered, how had all those murders been perpetrated so mysteriously?
‘Primo, Bonaventure.’ The friar spoke as he wrote. Occasionally he would glance up; the great cat had demolished what was left of the venison and now squatted on t
he table watching Athelstan expectantly. ‘Primo, Bonaventure,’ he repeated, ‘those two archers killed by the campfire were tired and cold. The flames would illuminate them as clear targets for the assassin. In a matter of a few heartbeats, crossbow bolts struck one and then the other. Secundo, how did the assassin, or assassins, enter that Barbican? The solitary window was locked, closed and shuttered firmly on both sides. Apparently the tavern has no ladder long enough to reach it; moreover, Marsen and the rest would surely have killed any intruder attempting to break in? The door? Mooncalf, and I believe him, swears that it was locked and bolted. More mysteriously, so was the trapdoor which governs access to and from the second storey. Both entrance and flight from the roof is nigh impossible. Tertio,’ Athelstan paused to dip his quill in ink, ‘the assassin must be a skilled master-at-arms to slay seasoned archers, veterans, not to mention Marsen and Mauclerc who would surely resist. More mysterious still, why hadn’t those on the upper storey who heard the swordplay below be warned and gone to their help or, if the assassin abruptly appeared in the upper storey, though only God knows how, surely those on the ground floor would have been alerted? Quarto, the exchequer coffer. How was that opened and plundered? It had three locks. When Marsen and Mauclerc’s corpses had been stripped in the death house at the Guildhall, a key had been found on chains around each of their necks. The third must be held by Hugh of Hornsey, who has disappeared. So, how had the exchequer chest been opened and riffled so easily? Quinto, how did that assassin leave carrying the treasure without using window or door?’ Athelstan paused as Bonaventure padded closer, head going out to Athelstan’s tankard. ‘Judas cat!’ the friar whispered. ‘You act all humble but in truth you are hungry. Let us continue.’ Athelstan smoothed the parchment in front of him. ‘Sexto, Hugh of Hornsey. Victim or perpetrator? Did that elegant gauntlet and the chainmail wristguard belong to him? Was the captain of archers dead or alive? If the former, why hasn’t his corpse been found like the rest? If alive, why the flight, which obviously casts him as the murderer? Septimo, which is seventh to you, cat.’ Athelstan ruffled the fur between Bonaventure’s scarred ears, battle trophies of the cat’s ferocious fights along the alleyways of Southwark. ‘Was that mysterious assassin, Beowulf, the secret friend and ally of the Upright Men, responsible? Was Beowulf a stranger or someone at the tavern? Octavo, had Beowulf also been responsible for physician Scrope’s murder, and if so why? The physician was Marsen’s implacable foe, preparing to indict him before the Court of King’s Bench. So why should Beowulf risk killing him and so mysteriously? Again, how did the murderer enter and leave a locked chamber without hurt or hindrance? He must have come through that door as the only window overlooked a busy stableyard. Friar Roger claimed to have heard knocking on Scrope’s door, yet when he looked out, the Franciscan could see no one in the gallery.’ Athelstan paused to take a sip of ale and, as Bonaventure edged closer, abruptly rose to his feet. If a cat could smile it did at the success of its strategy. The little friar, as usual, went across to the buttery and brought back the milk jug to fill Bonventure’s bowl in front of the fire. The cat leapt down and nestled in the warmth to tongue the milk and revel in his achievement.
Athelstan studied what he had written. ‘Nono, Physician Scrope was fastidiously clean. According to witnesses he had been closeted in his chamber, yet his costly boots and cloak were splattered with blood. The same is true of the lantern horn, whilst the candle inside had burnt low. Scrope must have gone out on the night of the murder and didn’t have time to get the mud cleaned off his clothing. He must have, or might have, seen or heard something suspicious, so he was silenced. Decimo, the attack on Lascelles? Undoubtedly Beowulf, but was he also responsible for the other murders? Postremo.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Finally, the spy who declares he is residing at The Candle-Flame … is he only a spy or an assassin?’ Athelstan pulled across the sheets of parchment given to him by Thibault. ‘So many questions, Friar,’ he muttered, ‘and I am so tired.’ Athelstan kept reading but his eyes grew heavy and, putting his head on his arms, he slipped into a deep sleep.
oOoOo
Cranston had risen very early in the principal bedchamber of his now empty, rather desolate house. He’d stoutly resisted the temptation to mope and mourn the absence of the Lady Maude and the two poppets. Instead, he had washed thoroughly and clipped his hair, moustache and beard using an enamel-backed mirror, a Twelfth Night gift from the Lady Maude. Once satisfied, Cranston had dressed in one of his finest lawn shirts, a sea-green woollen hose, a blue jerkin and a dark-red mantle. He donned his silver chain of office, rubbed perfumed oil on to his face, collected his boots, cloak and sword then paused by the front door to recite a short prayer for his loved ones. He crossed himself, opened the door and went out to brave the freezing night mist which still cloaked Cheapside. Cranston strolled down the thoroughfare until he reached the Church of St Mary-le-Bow. He entered its incensed-hallowed darkness, which was lit fitfully by golden tongues of candle flame before the Lady altar. Cranston genuflected and entered the Chantry Chapel of St Alphege, where the Jesus Mass of the day was about to begin. Afterwards Cranston ambled across to what he called ‘his other chapel’ – The Holy Lamb of God – to be soothed by the tender ministrations of the landlady. Cranston dined on cormarie, a dish of the house: pork roasted in red wine, cloves, garlic and black pepper, served with freshly baked white bread. Cranston gave thanks to her and God as he ate and drank lustfully. Of course, within a heartbeat of entering the tavern the coroner was joined by two beggars, the constant bane of Cranston’s life: Leif the One-Legged and his comrade Rawbum, a former cook who, under the influence, had sat down on a pan of bubbling oil. Cranston was able to fend them off with a few pennies and so they left, shouting their praise and thanks.
At peace with God and man, Sir John then adjourned to his judgement chamber in the Guildhall where his two acolytes, Osbert the plump-faced clerk and Simon the meagre-featured scrivener had prepared the agreed schedule. The coroner ruefully conceded that the business of the day had begun. He listened to both men even though he was distracted by memories of what he had seen and heard the previous day. The murders at The Candle-Flame were truly baffling. Athelstan had left early in the evening equally mystified. Cranston had reviewed and scrutinized all he had learnt and wondered if Athelstan had reached the same conclusion as he had, a rather minor solution yet still interesting. Cranston had not bothered about Beowulf or the possible spy. He had been fascinated by the costly blue gauntlet and the expensive chainmail wristguard. Had these been deliberately left by the assassin, who had excelled himself in the deadly skill of his murderous enterprise? If the killer had been wearing these, and Cranston accepted Athelstan’s theory that neither item fitted any of the corpses in the Barbican, surely the killer would have noticed they were missing? He would have searched for them. Moreover, both items were quite difficult to take off, especially the wristguard. And why take one off and not both gauntlets and wristguards? If the items had been deliberately, left, for what purpose? The killer would not incriminate himself, so who was he trying to blame? Moreover, if those items belonged to an innocent party, how did the killer obtain them and why leave them in that murder chamber? Cranston was also intrigued by what they had found on the physician’s corpse. Why was Scrope clutching that vademecum, the pilgrim book about the wonders of Glastonbury? The book had been open at a certain page stained with the dead man’s blood. Was it a mere accident, a coincidence? Had the physician been reminiscing about his pilgrimage?
Cranston was roused from his reflections by Oswald and Simon who, helped by Flaxwith and his bailiffs, had now assembled the usual litany of offences with their perpetrators. Mooncurser, who believed demons, disguised as a gang of sparrows, were massing in the eaves of houses ready to strike. He and his comrade Hugh the Howlet, who believed he was Master of the Owls, had noisily proclaimed with trumpet and bagpipe such a message along the entire length of Cheapside well after the chimes of midnight. Eventually they had been arre
sted by the bailiffs, given a good thrashing and lodged in the cage on the tun. Cranston bellowed at them and let both go. Make-bait and Duck-legs appeared next, accused of drunkenness. They had the charges quashed in return for providing valuable information about the jakemen who issued counterfeit licences to the glimmers so the latter could go begging the length and breadth of the city. Cranston took careful note of these as he did the Queen of the Night, who claimed she ran a family of love in a chamber above a tavern in Dowgate. Cranston declared that she was a bawd supervising a brothel. He fined her as such and bound her over to keep the peace. Cranston sat as the whole sorry gaggle of petty malefactors appeared and disappeared before him as he issued his judgements. The market horn was braying for the start of business along Cheapside when Cranston noticed Muckworm, one of his most trusted informants, slide into the judgement chamber to stand statue-like in his long brown robe until the room emptied. Once it had, Muckworm, his bald head and girlish face all glistening with perfumed oil, sidled forward.
