by Paul Doherty
‘Father!’ Athelstan whirled round. Pike, Watkin and Ranulf were standing behind him.
‘Yes?’
‘Father, we want to know, I mean about Hugh of Hornsey …’
‘Why, Pike,’ Athelstan walked forward, ‘how do you know our captain of archers?’
‘Just,’ Pike pulled a face, ‘why did he flee to here of all places? I mean, we’ve all heard about The Candle-Flame murders …’
‘Have you now?’ Friar Roger came over. He winked quickly at Athelstan. ‘Well, I’m very thirsty. After I’ve talked to your parish priest, perhaps you could buy a poor friar a tankard of The Piebald’s splendid ale; it would slake the thirst and certainly soothe my humours.’
Pike and the others beamed with pleasure, saying they would wait for him outside. Athelstan watched them go. ‘Be careful, Brother,’ he warned. ‘I do not betray any secrets, but that unholy trinity sit high in the councils of the Upright Men. They’ll be very interested to hear of Marsen’s death.’
‘As I am in St Erconwald’s.’
‘Are you?’ Athelstan exclaimed.
‘A great Bishop of London, surely?’ And the Franciscan insisted on informing Athelstan about all he’d learnt of St Erconwald. How the saintly Bishop of London had been of the royal line; he had founded religious houses at Barking and Chertsey, so holy even Erconwald’s horse litter was now regarded as a sacred relic. Friar Roger paused as Marcel shouted his farewells and left.
‘Your fellow Dominican is rather strange.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Brother Roger, welcome to my church. By all means study this parish consecrated to St Erconwald. But how on earth did you meet Hugh of Hornsey and why did you bring him here?’
‘Oh, I had words with him in the tavern before the murders occurred – the usual courtesies.’ Brother Roger’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘I am not my brother’s keeper but Hugh of Hornsey thought differently. Early this morning he presented himself before the pauper’s gate at Greyfriars, joining the others begging for bread and a bowl of pottage. He informed the almoner that he needed sanctuary and asked for me. According to our charter Greyfriars cannot provide such refuge, though Hornsey himself was already insisting that he lodge with you. He claims to be innocent of any crime, yet he is being hunted both by the law and the minions of the gang leaders in London. What could I do? I disguised him in a Franciscan robe and hurried him here. More than that, Brother, I cannot say.’ The Franciscan exchanged the kiss of peace with Athelstan and left saying he would relish his visit to The Piebald.
For a while Athelstan busied himself with the fugitive bringing him all the necessaries: a wash bowl, napkin, jug, as well as food and drink. Hugh of Hornsey remained taciturn, especially when members of the parish such as Mauger the bell clerk and Benedicta came into the sacristy with items donated by the parish: pies from Merryleg’s cook shop and a small tun of ale from The Piebald. Benedicta plucked at Athelstan’s sleeve and led him back into the sacristy.
‘Father, be careful,’ she pleaded. ‘Ranulf told me how your sanctuary man is not only being hunted by Sir John but scurriers despatched by the Upright Men. They have posted rich rewards on his head.’
‘So there you are, my lovely.’
‘Sir John!’ Athelstan exclaimed and hurried back into the sanctuary. Cranston stood just within the rood screen along with Flaxwith, who, of course, had brought his mastiff Samson with him, a dog Athelstan secretly considered to be the ugliest animal created by God.
‘Sir John!’ Hornsey warned. ‘I have been given sanctuary.’
‘And you are welcome to it. Brother Athelstan, a word.’
The coroner took the friar over to the privacy of the chantry chapel. Resting against the shrine of St Erconwald, Cranston swiftly summarized his suspicions about both the gauntlet and the chainmail wristguard found in the Barbican. He relayed what Paston had told him. He also warned Athelstan what the friar already knew: how the Upright Men were hunting Hornsey and might not give a fig about sanctuary. ‘Thibault,’ Cranston murmured, ‘will also learn what has happened. Lascelles and his bully boys will certainly pay you a visit, so I best leave some of my bailiffs here. Now I must go. Ronseval has fled and remains so …’ Cranston raised a hand and strolled off, shouting at Flaxwith and his bailiffs to mount guard outside.
Athelstan watched them leave. He agreed with Cranston’s suspicions about the gauntlet and wristguard: they weren’t dropped accidently, so why were they left? More importantly, why was Hornsey so reluctant to talk? The friar closed his eyes. He just wished he could gather every item he’d learnt about the swirling mysteries confronting him. He must impose order on them, analyse them with logic, form a conclusion and test them against all the available evidence, but, he thought as he opened his eyes, that would have to wait.
Athelstan went back into the sanctuary. Hugh of Hornsey squatted on the ground. He had eaten all the food and drained his tankard; now he was sleepy. Athelstan stared around. The church lay silent. He was fairly confident that no one would dare accost the fugitive. Sanctuary was a sacred, inviolable right; anyone who broke it faced the full rigour of the law, both secular and religious. Holy Mother Church was jealous of such a privilege and protected it with bell, book and candle as well as the most fearsome sentence of immediate excommunication in this life and eternal damnation in the next. The only person who could accost the fugitive was himself. He certainly had questions for his unexpected guest but they would have to wait. Athelstan went into the sacristy. He ensured the outside door was unlocked so Hornsey could, when he wished, use the jakes built into an ancient but crude garderobe in the corner of one of the bulwarks next to the leper squint. Athelstan stared at the bolts on the door and recalled those in Scrope’s chamber. How had that physician been murdered, and why?
Athelstan shook his head, unlocked the parish chest, took out his chancery satchel and found the blood-stained vademecum, the pilgrim’s book of Glastonbury. The source of the information it contained was the Magna Tabula, the great wooden boards hanging in Glastonbury Abbey church. Each of these was covered in parchment which listed the fabulous relics of that ancient Benedictine house. Athelstan had visited it himself and studied both the lists and the treasures themselves: Arthur’s tomb, Merlin’s cave, the Holy Grail, St Joseph of Arimathea’s staff planted miraculously so it bloomed every year. Glastonbury also owned the relics of St Patrick and St David, both of whom, the Benedictines claimed, were buried in their sacred precincts … Athelstan noticed how Scrope’s blood was at its thickest on the two pages describing Joseph of Arimathea’s visit to the site of the abbey after Christ’s resurrection.
‘Why?’ Athelstan murmured. He glanced up and stared at the bleak holy rood nailed to the far wall. ‘Why were you reading this, holding it when your assassin struck?’ Athelstan started as the door was flung open and Hugh of Hornsey limped through. He bowed at Athelstan and, clutching the points on his hose, hurried through the outside door. He came back a short while later and, under Athelstan’s direction, he washed his hands at the great wooden lavarium.
‘Sit down.’ Athelstan pulled a stool closer. ‘You are safe here,’ he reassured this most fearful man, ‘but, Master Hugh, I have to question you. However, I must also make you secure.’ He pointed to the sacristy door leading into the cemetery. ‘Once you return from the privy you can bolt and lock that from the inside. Open it only for me. At night, be careful. If you have to, relieve yourself and do so swiftly. Take great care, however, that no one approaches you in sanctuary apart from myself.’
The archer grunted his agreement.
‘Look at the outside door, Master Hugh. Study the eyelet high in the wood. Always use that if you hear anyone stirring about in the cemetery or there’s a knock on the door. Follow my instructions and you will be safe.’
‘What about the church?’ the archer replied. ‘They could creep up the nave and enter through the rood screen.’
‘No, no.’ Athelstan shook his head.
‘Those doors will be locked and bolted and, I suspect, closely watched by a number of people. Inside the church lives an anchorite, the Hangman of Rochester.’ Athelstan glanced away. The fugitive might not know it but, if he was captured, tried and sentenced, the same Hangman would despatch him either here in Southwark or on some gibbet in the city. Now,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the key? You hold the third key to Marsen’s exchequer coffer, yes?’ Hornsey undid the clasp on his filthy grey shirt, clutched the piece of cord around his neck which held a small key, snapped this and handed it to Athelstan.
‘Much good that was,’ Hornsey slurred.
‘Why?’
‘Oh, Marsen made sure the coffer was firmly locked during the day but at night when we rested secure,’ he pulled a face, ‘or so he thought, Marsen always made me unlock the third clasp. The tax collector loved the sight of gold and silver, his plunder, his glory or so he called it. He and Mauclerc would push the lid back and venerate their ill-gotten gains as any monk would a sacred relic.’ Hornsey drew a deep breath. ‘Marsen loved that display.’
‘Did he help himself?’
‘I don’t know, Brother. I don’t think so. Mauclerc was there to watch him. The scribe was Thibault’s man. Moreover, during our journey along the south bank of the Thames, Lascelles would occasionally meet us to ensure all was well.’
‘As he did at The Candle-Flame?’
‘Yes, Brother. Just as twilight deepened and the gloom thickened, Lascelles came. There was not much love lost between him and Marsen. Anyway, what does it matter? Apparently Lascelles was assured all was well. By then I was on watch outside the Barbican. I unlocked the third clasp; Marsen probably undid the other two to impress Lascelles.’
‘So what happened on the night of the murders?’
‘Very little, Brother. We arrived back at The Candle-Flame. Marsen made himself comfortable in the Barbican as a hog does in its sty. I was instructed to set the usual watch: three guards outside including myself and three in the lower chamber of the Barbican. Marsen then relaxed, as he described it, after the rigours of the day. Marsen was a toper, a tosspot, he loved his ale and food, wine and sweetmeats: he instructed the taverner to send the best across whilst Mauclerc was despatched to find two whores to amuse himself and his master.’
‘So nothing out of the ordinary happened that night?’
‘No. We returned from levying taxes. The horses were stabled, our watch was set. Food and drink were ordered. Whores brought in. The two archers outside, Adam and Breakspear, lit a campfire …’ His voice trailed off.
‘But something did happen?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘We know you visited the troubadour Ronseval at least twice in his chamber. You and he had an argument, blood was spilt. The following day Ronseval was seen searching the Palisade and found what he was probably looking for – a dagger.’ Hugh of Hornsey sat staring at Athelstan then lowered his head. ‘So what did happen?’ the friar insisted quietly. ‘Witnesses talk of raised voices. Why was Ronseval searching for a dagger? Why was blood found on the rug in his chamber? Master Hugh, in forty days’ time you will probably surrender to the king’s justices and the same questions will be asked. What was – is – your relationship with Ronseval? Why did you flee your post?’ The archer shifted on the stool, hands clasped, fingers weaved together. ‘You are a veteran soldier,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly. ‘Why are you so nervous? Tell me!’
‘We had been collecting the tax,’ Hornsey replied, not lifting his head. ‘We returned to The Candle-Flame at twilight. Marsen was full of himself. He unlocked the exchequer coffer as if he was revelling in the Holy Grail.’ Hornsey took a deep breath. ‘Ronseval had been following us, though Marsen dismissed him as a fool, a poet who was composing a ballad. Of course, Marsen was secretly flattered. Anyway, once the festivities had begun, Ronseval met me in the shadows of the tavern. He bitterly criticized my allegiance to such a man and such a cause. I resented what he said; his words rankled with me so I went to his chamber late at night.’
‘When?’
‘Brother Athelstan, I don’t know, perhaps midnight. And why not? Everything was quiet. I wanted to explain. True, there was an argument. Ronseval drew his dagger; he was deep in his cups and cut me but only slightly.’ Hornsey pulled back the ragged sleeve of his jerkin to display a fresh cut high on his forearm.
‘So you must have had your jacket off?’ Athelstan declared. Hornsey blinked, wetting his lips.
‘I don’t know,’ he stuttered. ‘All I remember is that I seized the dagger and left. I went back on to the Palisade where my comrades were on guard.’ Hornsey was now damp with sweat, his chest heaving. He kept his head down, refusing to meet Athelstan’s gaze. ‘I found both of my comrades slain. I dropped Ronseval’s dagger. I lost it in the grass. I was frightened, Brother. You see, despite the deaths everything lay quiet. I ran to the Barbican and pounded on the door. There was no answer. I realized something was very wrong. I admit I was terrified. I had left my post and two of my archers had been slain. I might even be accused of their murder. Either way I would hang. I slipped back into the tavern and told Ronseval what had happened. He tried to reason with me. Again we argued and I fled. I thought of reaching Dover or one of the Cinque Ports.’ He shook his head. ‘It was useless. Cranston,’ he now met Athelstan’s gaze, ‘the Lord Coroner’s people were searching for me as was every rogue in London. I decided to seek sanctuary, I sought out Brother Roger and he brought me here.’
‘Did you see anything to explain the death of your comrades or what you must now know as the massacre in the Barbican?’
‘Brother, I never saw the corpses there. True, the news is all over the city.’ He rubbed his sweaty hands on his hose. ‘Of course, at the time I realized something was wrong. The Barbican lay so silent. Brother, more than that I cannot say.’
‘More than that you can!’ Athelstan countered. ‘Hugh of Hornsey, look at me!’ The archer did. ‘You are lying,’ Athelstan accused. ‘You are too glib. What are you hiding? What do you mean you saw nothing? Why should you and Ronseval argue about Marsen to the point of daggers being drawn? Why didn’t you stay and raise the alarm? You are guilty of something.’
The archer arose abruptly to his feet. ‘I am in sanctuary,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I am protected by God’s own angel. I need to be.’ He walked to the door into the sanctuary then turned. ‘Brother, whatever you believe, whatever you think, I killed no one that night. I had no hand in that bloody business, though I am pleased Marsen has been despatched to Hell.’ He shrugged. ‘I am tired. I must sleep.’
Athelstan watched him go and heard him lock and bolt the door on the other side. Athelstan sat for a while and decided he must return to The Candle-Flame. He needed to search the Barbican again. Something might prick his mind or jog his memory. He knocked on the door; the eyelet was opened and Hornsey let him into the sanctuary. Athelstan quietly thanked him and watched him lock and bolt the door again. Athelstan walked down the steps and stopped for a while by the rood screen door, reciting a few Aves under his breath. He crossed himself, turned and stared down the nave. The day was beginning to fade, the light weakening. He glanced over his shoulder. Hugh of Hornsey slouched in the mercy enclave beneath the crimson-red sanctuary lamp, which kept constant vigil besides the pyx in its silken tassled coping. Athelstan walked into the nave. The murk was deepening. A river mist was sifting beneath the door and the shuttered windows. Athelstan listened to the silence. For a brief spurt he felt guilty at not going out to visit the sick, the aged and the housebound. ‘God forgive me,’ Athelstan prayed, ‘but you will have to wait.’ He knew what he had to do. He truly believed this was God’s work. In the Bible, after Adam and Eve fell, the first sin perpetrated was Cain slaying his brother Abel. God had hunted Cain down and branded him as a murderer, the wicked slayer of an innocent. Now Athelstan had to do the same; not for Gaunt or Thibault but because it was the right thing to do.
Athelstan lit a taper before the Lady altar, prayed for guidance a
nd prepared to leave. He went out through the main door; his parishioners had long gone but he glimpsed different individuals seemingly going about their business: a hawker with his tray of goods, a fruiterer with his barrow, three wandering beggars roped together their clacking dishes out before them, and close by two tinkers stood offering ribbons and baubles. Athelstan glanced away; he was certain some of these were envoys or spies from the Upright Men. Flaxwith and his bailiffs also stood about, though Athelstan wondered how many of them were sober. He hooked the straps of his chancery satchel over his shoulder, pulled his cloak about him and strode into the tangle of alleyways which surrounded his church. He walked purposefully, stepping around midden heaps, piles of rubbish and deep puddles of frozen filth. He kept his head down as he passed through what he secretly called ‘the underworld of his parish’: strumpets stood brazenly in doorways, their fiery red wigs beacons of lust; cunning men nestled in crooks and crannies, ever vigilant for the opportunity to exploit; rifflers and roisterers, young men armed with cudgels and blades, grouped at the mouth of alleyways. Athelstan was safe from these. Pike and Watkin had spread the message that an attack on Athelstan was an attack on them and the Upright Men. Now and again the friar would glimpse one of his parishioners, those he defined as ‘Gospel Greeters’ – he would raise a hand and pass swiftly on.
The dismal world of Southwark engulfed him: the drunks pilloried in the stocks, hands and feet tightly clasped; the young whore, skirt thrown back, being lashed by a beadle; two drunken women roped together and paid to fist fight. Nearby, a relic-seller fresh from Canterbury touted relics from Becket’s shrine. People shrieked from open windows. Dogs fought and chased the cats that burrowed for vermin in the muck heaps. Half-naked children danced around a pole or chased an inflated pig’s bladder. A legion of food sellers shouted for trade, their trays displaying items filched from stalls and the public ovens. Above him, the crumbling tenements leaned over to block the sky and turn the alley below into a perpetually dark tunnel where all forms of nightlife scuffled. Athelstan passed doorways locked shut to hide the wickedness within; windows boarded up so those who passed could not witness what was happening inside. The friar dodged carts, barrows and sleds. He paused to bless a corpse covered with a filthy mort cloth being taken down to the corpse cottage at St Mary Overy. Eerie sounds assailed his ears. The excited cries of a woman were drowned by the curses of a man, whilst a chorister stood on a barrow and sang the opening lines of a psalm: ‘I lift my eyes to the hills from where my salvation comes.’ Prisoners were being led down to the Bocardo, Southwark’s filthy compter, clink or prison. Acrobats and jugglers tried to entice the crowd. Faces, hooded and cowled, pinched white or turned red raw from the wind and rain, peered out at him. Athelstan was pleased to leave the thoroughfare with all its macabre sights and sounds and hasten along Pepper Alley into the warmth of The Candle-Flame.
