by Paul Doherty
‘My Lord Coroner …’
‘Two shillings,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Four shillings if the information is useful.’
‘The business at The Candle-Flame?
‘What of it?’
‘None of the plunder has appeared on the streets. No one is saying anything. Rumour claims the Upright Men, though rejoicing in Marsen’s death, had no part in it.’
‘And?’
‘They have issued the ban against anyone who tries to profit from the stolen treasure. Any information about the murders and robbery must be conveyed to them. They have also issued their own warrant and posted a reward for the capture of Hugh of Hornsey.’
‘Have they now?’ Cranston breathed, stirring in his chair. ‘In other words, the Upright Men do not know what happened at The Candle-Flame. They had no part in it, which brings us back to the original question. Who did? Ah, well, Muckworm, see Osbert and collect three shillings.’
Muckworm bowed and left the chamber. Cranston sighed and pulled across a copy of an indictment: how Thomas Elan in Farringdon ward feloniously entered the close and house of Margaret Perman of the same ward, attempted to rape her feloniously, and feloniously bit the said Margaret with his teeth so that he ripped off the said Margaret’s nose with that bite and broke three of her ribs so that four days later the said Margaret died because of infection and pain of that bite … ‘Satan’s tits!’ Cranston swore quietly and immediately took a slurp from the miraculous wineskin. He grasped a quill and scribbled across the indictment that Elan be arraigned before the justices of oyer and terminer at Westminster.
‘Sir John?’ He glanced up. Oswald and Simon stood in the doorway, both looking highly anxious. Cranston felt a pang of pity. These two faithful servants of his court were always ready to tease him, but not today. The coroner realized how that rising tide of fear creeping through the city was beginning to lap along the corridors of the Guildhall. Horrors like Thomas Elan could be dealt with but the appearance of the Earthworms yesterday, erupting into the heart of the city, audacious enough to attack crown officials, heightened the tension. These two men were terrified. Yesterday royal troops had invaded Cheapside but when the revolt came these would be pulled back to defend Westminster and the Tower. And what then?
‘Gentlemen.’ Cranston smiled. ‘You have family?’
‘Yes, Sir John,’ they chorused.
‘Get them out of this city as soon as possible.’
‘Where, Sir John?’ Oswald pleaded.
‘They can join the Lady Maude in a well-fortified manor deep in the countryside, your wives, your children and the rest of your households. I will leave you the details but mark my words, they should be gone by tomorrow’s vesper’s bell. Also,’ Cranston gestured around, ‘start stripping my chambers here. Have all the tapestries and other moveables chested away. Any weapons and monies must be hidden. The coroner’s rolls and all other documents should be locked in the war chests in the cellars. Oh, by the way, have those corpses from The Candle-Flame been moved to St Mary-le-Bow yet?
‘Yes, Sir John,’ they chorused.
‘Good, now do what I say.’
‘Of course, Sir John.’ The relief of both officials was obvious.
‘By the way,’ Simon piped up, ‘Sir John, you have two visitors who wish to speak to you urgently, the taverner Master Thorne and Sir Robert Paston …’
A short while later both men were ushered up into the chamber, Oswald closing the door as Cranston waved his visitors to the cushioned window seat. Refreshments were offered and refused. Thorne, his hard-favoured face slightly red, eyes constantly blinking, came swiftly to the point.
‘Sir John, we have information for you. Sir Robert here has discussed it with me. We thought it best to come to you.’
‘On the night of the murders,’ Paston broke in, ‘I heard a disagreement, a fairly violent one as I walked down the gallery and passed Ronseval’s chamber. Voices were raised. Ronseval was challenging Hugh of Hornsey. I recognized the captain’s Yorkshire burr; he apparently hails from Pontefract.’
‘This disagreement?’ Cranston asked.
‘I could only hear catches of their conversation. Ronseval was accusing Hornsey of cowardice, of being too frightened to confront Marsen. I passed on and returned to my chamber.’
‘When was this?’
‘I would guess about an hour before midnight. But listen, Sir John, I am sure that Hornsey left that chamber. I heard the door open and close. However, I am equally certain that sometime later he returned. I am sure I heard a knock. Again, I went out on to the gallery. I heard raised voices, a scuffle. I hid in the shadows. The door was thrown open and Hornsey stormed out.’
‘So.’ Cranston paused. ‘What you are saying is that Hugh of Hornsey left his post at the campfire at least twice to quarrel with Ronseval? But why him? Why should a captain of archers consort with a wandering minstrel?’
‘All I can say,’ Thorne replied, ‘is that both have stayed at The Candle-Flame. There is more. Yesterday, after you left, the tavern fell silent. Your bailiff Flaxwith and the others carted away the corpses and what remained of the food and drink. On his way out Flaxwith removed your seals and declared the Barbican could now be used, that is correct?’
Cranston nodded.
‘As I said, everything quietened down. Everyone was stricken by what had happened. My wife Eleanor is sorely aggrieved.’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘Mooncalf, just before twilight set in, glimpsed Ronseval out on the Palisade. He seemed to be searching for something. Mooncalf decided to hide and watch.’
‘And?’ Cranston leaned forward.
‘Mooncalf saw Ronseval pick up a dagger and hurry back into the tavern. Now, I left The Candle-Flame in the early evening; everything remained quiet. Sir Robert will attest to that. You had instructed myself and all the guests to remain until you issued licence to leave.’
Cranston grunted his agreement.
‘Well, between vespers and compline bell, sometime before the curfew sounded and the steeple lights were lit, Ronseval fled the tavern.’
‘What!’
‘Sir John, I was not there. Mooncalf met Ronseval in the Dark Parlour, preparing to leave. Mooncalf had words with him about that. Ronseval said he was leaving for a short while and would return. He never did. This morning a Dominican, the Papal Inquisitor, Brother Marcel, arrived to lodge at the tavern. I gave him the Lombard chamber, spacious and comfortable, next door to the minstrel’s. I had been expecting him for days.’ He sniffed. ‘Whilst doing so I could hear no sound from Ronseval’s room. I unlocked the door but he and all his baggage were gone. He had left the chamber tidy enough, though I detected blood smatterings on the rope matting and turkey rug. It looked as if Ronseval had tried to wash it off and failed. I asked Sir Thomas to come and witness what I had discovered. He did. Sir John, Ronseval has disappeared; he has fled.’
‘Why?’ Cranston asked himself loudly. ‘No, I don’t expect you to answer that but what actually happened at your tavern, Master Thorne, during those dark hours of the night?’
oOoOo
Brother Athelstan was wondering about the same problem as he took his seat in the sanctuary chair, moved specially through the rood screen so he could meet and converse with his parish council, who were now sitting on three long benches before him. They had all turned up for the Jesus Mass. Athelstan had been waiting for them; the candles had been lit and the braziers fired so St Erconwald’s lost some of its misty chill. Athelstan glanced at Mauger the bell clerk, who sat hunched over his small chancery table taking notes. Athelstan was pleased they had covered a great deal of business including the collapse of the recent Love Day, so carefully prepared by Athelstan. Relationships amongst some of the parishioners had soured and Athelstan had hoped that a Love Day would soothe all these problems. There had been a Mass followed by a solemn exchange of singing bread and the kiss of peace with revelry planned in the nave. At first everything had gone smoothly, until Pike’s game of Hodman’s Bl
uff descended into Hot Cockles: a lewd, bawdy ritual where participants blindfolded each other then tried to slap their opponent’s buttocks. Of course, Pike had cheated. He immediately spied on Cecily the courtesan’s beautiful round bottom and, drunkenly lecherous, led the rest in hot pursuit, provoking the dire wrath of their wives, Pike’s Imelda in particular.
This morning’s parish council meeting had restored peace and harmony, and Athelstan and his little flock were moving swiftly down a list of outstanding business. They had agreed to the creation of new paintings on the south side of the church. The Hangman of Rochester, now smiling beatifically to himself, had described in great detail the story of Elijah and the Prophets of Hell. The Hangman also solemnly vowed that no one from the parish would recognize themselves in the painting. A new lid for the baptismal font had been decided. Purple candles had been ordered for Lent. The time and liturgy for the distribution of ashes on Ash Wednesday were fixed, whilst the cleansing of the mort-pall used to cover the parish funeral bier was also agreed. Judith, once a mummer, a former player in the Straw Men acting troupe, had been studying Athelstan’s precious book of plays. She had announced how the mystery play at Easter would centre around the betrayal of Christ. Judith had asked for volunteers for the difficult roles: Pilate, Herod, the two high priests, Judas, Pilate’s wife and Pilate’s daughter. Athelstan had never heard of the latter but he thought it more prudent not to comment. Judith’s announcement had distracted everyone and of course stirred the latent rivalry amongst the parishioners. Once Judith had finished, Athelstan revealed his cherished plan. On Good Friday, during the celebration of Christ’s Passion, he hoped to arrange a three-voice choir to sing the ‘Ecce Lignum Crucis’ and the ‘Christus factus est’ – ‘Behold the wood of the Cross’ and ‘Christ made himself obedient’. Athelstan was determined on this. He would personally teach them the Latin phrases, easy to memorize as well as recite. This, as planned, had deeply flattered his flock, who would be very eager to show off their newfound learning – Latin no less, in all the taverns of Southwark. The parishioners discussed this heatedly amongst themselves before falling strangely quiet. Athelstan’s heart sank. The council sat staring at him. All remained silent, even Ranulf the rat-catcher’s two ferrets, Ferox and Audax, who crouched placidly in the cage between their master’s feet, whilst Ursula the pig woman’s massive sow sprawled docilely on the floor. Athelstan recalled Pedro the Cruel at The Candle-Flame. Perhaps, Athelstan smiled to himself, the two pigs should be introduced to one another! Only Thaddeus the goat moved, trying as usual to chew his master’s ragged cloak. Athelstan glanced at the lovely face of Benedicta but she seemed totally distracted by her hood, lined with squirrel hair. Athelstan waited patiently. The council members were now turning on their benches to peer at Watkin and Pike. The friar suspected what was about to happen.
‘Father?’ Pike shot to his feet. ‘Father?’
‘Yes, Pike.’
‘Father we heard about what happened at The Candle-Flame.’
‘I am sure you have, as you would about the attack by the Earthworms in Cheapside.’ Athelstan paused, the winter light pouring through the lancet windows seemed to dim, the shadows creeping closer.
‘Father,’ Pike blurted out, ‘we are worried about you. I mean, when the time comes …’
‘When God’s time comes, Pike, when my time comes …’ Athelstan rose to his feet, fighting back tears of sheer frustration as he studied the faces of these men and women whom he truly loved and cared for. They could infuriate him beyond belief, and heaven knows they did, but they were funny, kind and generous with a deep mocking humour, a love of the ridiculous, even if they themselves were often the brunt of such comedy. He baptized their children. He schooled, whenever he could, the older ones in their horn-book. He visited them in their homes and celebrated the much-loved rhythms of both the year and the Church’s liturgy. These poor people shuffled through life; now they were all stumbling towards disaster. Athelstan felt his temper break. ‘I have preached on this before,’ he thundered, ‘and I will do so again. The Lord Jesus sees all men and women equal in the sight of God. Christ, I assure you, weeps bitter tears at the greed and power of the great ones of the soil. God does interfere through the grace he sends to change the way things are to the way things should be. The only obstacle to God’s grace is the stubborn, obdurate and evil self-centeredness of those who block God’s plan. Nevertheless, God will achieve what he wants. The community of this realm is growing stronger. The good will flower. The seed, however, lies deep, the soil is hard yet still the seed grows. Bondage to the master is being broken. The Commons sit to question the Crown and its lackies—’
‘And still we starve.’ Pike had, as he could so often do, dropped his usual foolish antics, showing that sharp leadership which had made him so favoured amongst the Upright Men.
‘Yes Pike, sometimes we starve but violence will not put food on your children’s platters. The revolt will come, I know that. I pray against the day because Sion will not come to Southwark. The new Jerusalem will not rise in Cheapside. The great ones will mass their armed men to the north, south, east and west. It will be a time of great slaughter …’
‘When even the strongholds fall.’
Athelstan whirled round at the voice behind him. Brother Marcel appeared through the door of the rood screen and walked quietly into the nave. He held out his arms to his fellow Dominican.
‘Frater,’ he whispered. ‘Pax et Bonum. I did not mean to startle you. I wanted to visit your church. I walked its precincts and saw the sacristy door open, so I came in.’ Athelstan embraced the Inquisitor, exchanging the kiss of peace on each cheek. For all his surprise Athelstan was amused by his colleague. Marcel, as he had been in the novitiate, was extremely fastidious: his face was smoothly shaven and smelt fragrantly of perfumed oil, his hands were gloved in soft deerskin, whilst his black-and-white robe was of the purest lambswool and fresh as the day.
‘You are most welcome, Brother.’ Athelstan stood back and gestured at his parishioners. ‘We were discussing matters close to our hearts.’
‘So I heard, so I heard.’ Marcel turned to the council, who immediately fell to their knees as the Inquisitor raised his hand to deliver a solemn blessing. Once finished, the council resumed their seats, whilst Marcel took the stool next to Athelstan.
‘Brother,’ he declared, ‘I heard what you said. I wonder if I could have a word with your parishioners?’
Athelstan agreed, introducing Marcel as a visitor from the Holy Father who wished to learn more about the state of affairs in England.
‘We can tell him a tale or two,’ Pike muttered but loud enough to provoke muted laughter.
‘I am interested,’ declared Marcel blithely, ‘in what you think of the state of Christ’s Church in this kingdom.’
‘You mean the one founded by the Carpenter of Nazareth?’ Crispin challenged. ‘The man who worked with wood, who blessed the poor and warned the rich and powerful?’
Athelstan just stared down at the floor.
‘But the Church,’ Marcel persisted, ‘the Holy Father, your Bishop—’
‘Don’t know them!’ Pike shouted back. ‘Athelstan’s our pope and our bishop.’
Pernel the Fleming began to croon one of her madcap songs whilst she threaded her orange-dyed hair between her fingers. Ursula’s sow promptly clambered to its feet, trotters skittering on the paving stones.
‘Will you join the revolt?’ Marcel’s stark question imposed silence. ‘I ask you as a guest in your parish about something which will profoundly change your lives.’
Athelstan, alarmed, rose to his feet. He did not want any of his parishioners to convict themselves out of their own mouths. Thibault’s spies swarmed everywhere, even here. Athelstan had not forgotten Huddle, their former painter. Huddle, because of his gambling debts, had been forced to act as Thibault’s spy and paid for his mistake with his life. Athelstan sighed with relief when the corpse door leading to the cemetery quietly o
pened and two cowled figures walked into the nave. One of these pulled back the deep capuchon to reveal the harsh features and cynical eyes of Brother Roger. The Franciscan extended his hands, whilst his companion, still hooded, quickly side-stepped Athelstan. He almost ran into the sanctuary, up the steps to the mercy enclave on the right side of the altar. As he passed this he grasped a corner, the usual gesture of someone claiming sanctuary. Only when he reached the mercy enclave did the figure turn and pull back his hood to reveal a hard-bitten face, pock-marked, the high cheekbones rawed by wind and rain, thin lips and narrow eyes. The man’s head was completely shaven, though his face was stubbled, dirty and drawn. Athelstan could see the man was clearly exhausted.
‘Sit down.’ Athelstan noticed the brace on the man’s left wrist, whilst the two forefingers of his right hand were slightly curved and calloused. ‘You are Hugh of Hornsey, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, captain of the archers at the Tower. I claim sanctuary here. I invoke all the protection of Holy Mother Church.’
‘And you shall have it as long as you observe canon law,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You cannot leave here. You cannot receive visitors and you cannot bear arms. In forty days’ time you must either surrender to the sheriff or abjure this realm.’ Hugh of Hornsey, however, had slumped down on the mercy chair, face in hands. Athelstan, hearing the growing tumult behind him, walked back into the nave. The parish council were now grouped around the Inquisitor, questioning him closely. They had taken Marcel over to show him the wall painting depicting St Peter, the patron saint of Moleskin’s boatmen. Crim was describing one of the ships as a caravel, but Marcel gently corrected him as he explained the difference between a hulke, a cog and a galley. Marcel acted all charming, ruffling the lad’s hair whilst chatting to members of the parish council.
‘Like Herod dancing amongst the innocents,’ Athelstan whispered to himself. Pike, Watkin and Ranulf the rat-catcher, however, stood apart in a place where they could peer through the door of the rood screen at the fugitive hiding in the sanctuary. Athelstan did not like the look on their faces and, calling Mauger and Benedicta over, urged them to clear the church. He then turned and walked over to where Brother Roger was admiring a wall painting in the chantry chapel of St Erconwald’s.
