Candle Flame (13 page)

‘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 and 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.

Mine Host was busy in the Dark Parlour adjusting a shutter, helped by Mooncalf. The taverner was short and curt: he informed Athelstan that the guests were about their business and he was busy with his, though the friar was welcome to wander around. Athelstan thanked him and walked out across the wasteland on to the Palisade. He paused at the remains of the camp where the archers had been slain, and recalled his conversation with Hugh of Horsey. He was sure the captain of archers was lying, withholding the truth of what truly happened. Yet that truth may have nothing to do with the gruesome murders. Athelstan believed Hornsey was innocent of those killings but what was he really hiding? Allegiance to Marsen? ‘Nonsense,’ Athelstan whispered to himself. ‘Hornsey is a professional soldier, a mercenary who has seen battle against the French and done his fair share of killing. So why should he have scruples about escorting the likes of Marsen?’ Athelstan fell silent and glanced around. He could hear snatches of conversation on the breeze. He was sure of it, but in this desolate place? The Palisade stretched bleak and stark around him. Ghosts hovered here, the stricken souls of those so brutally slain. A raven, sleek and as black as the night, floated across to perch on a hummock of grass, its raucous cawing shrill and harsh. The day was dying. The breeze from the river brought the stench of rich mud, dried fish and a heavy saltiness. The raven took flight, feathery wings extended, flying up to wheel above the Barbican, which rose sinister and forbidding, a fitting monument to the horrors perpetrated within. Athelstan walked towards it; the door hung open and again he heard those snatches of conversation. Shading his eyes, Athelstan stared up and glimpsed figures against the battlemented walls at the top of the tower. He hurried into the Barbican and climbed the ladder to the upper storey. Now the corpses and baggage had been removed both chambers were neat and tidy, yet this made them seem even more macabre, a silent witness to the murders committed there. He climbed the next ladder leading to the top. He could hear Sir Robert Paston and the harsh carrying voice of Brother Marcel. The conversation died as Athelstan clambered through the trapdoor and, braving the buffeting wind, carefully walked across the shale-covered floor to stand with them against the crenellations. Athelstan greeted them all. Brother Marcel and Sir Robert had apparently come here to enjoy the view of the river, which was not yet cloaked in mist, whilst Martha and Foulkes clustered together, more interested in each other than anything else. Marcel edged closer.

‘Brother Athelstan, Sir Robert was describing the different craft. Splendid sight, is it not?’

Athelstan, who always felt a little giddy on the top of any tower, nodded in agreement. The river was still clear, bustling with a frenetic busyness; Picard whelk boats, fishing craft, fighting hulkes, cogs of war, galleys, caravels, barges, bumboats and wherries moved majestically or scudded across the choppy water like water beetles. Banners, standards and flags fluttered their gorgeous colours in the snapping breeze. Sails of every shape and colour billowed vigorously or ruffled as they were drawn in. The very air was rich with all the pungent smells of the river craft.

‘You served against the French, Sir Robert?’ Athelstan asked more to make conversation than anything else.

‘I certainly did, and little reward it brought me,’ Paston replied hotly. ‘I know these waters and the entire coastline north to the Scottish march. I have written to Gaunt – My Lord of Gaunt,’ he added hastily, ‘for the construction of better ships. You see,’ Paston pointed down at the river, ‘as I told Brother Marcel, not all of those ships are seaworthy …’ His voice trailed off as Martha came hurrying over.

‘Father!’ she grasped Sir Robert’s arm, ‘I am sure the good brother does not need your homily on the king’s ships. You have lectured us long and hard about the fleet, or lack of it, and the weakness of our river defences. It’s growing dark and cold – we should go down.’

‘I certainly must go,’ Marcel replied. ‘Sir Robert, I will accept your invitation to dine with you after the vesper’s bell. First, I must finish my office and change my robes. Look, they’ve become dirty.’ The ever-fastidious Inquisitor made his farewells and carefully walked back to the ladder, followed by Paston’s group. Athelstan stayed. He ensured the trapdoor remained open and stood staring across the river, recalling all he had seen and heard. A deep unease welled up within him. Athelstan felt so agitated he tried to compose himself by searching for the emerging evening star. He watched fascinated as the twilight deepened, the birdsong died and the world prepared itself for the deep hush of night. He knelt down, protected by the battlements, and tried to recite a psalm, but stumbled over phrases such as ‘The wicked brace their bow, who will oppose them?’ He kept thinking about Hugh of Hornsey’s passionate quarrel with Ronseval.

‘You are lying,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘You couldn’t give a fig for Marsen.’ Athelstan recalled Ronseval’s rather girlish gestures. ‘Yes, the only logical explanation is that Paston overheard a lover’s quarrel.’ Athelstan crouched for a while as the darkness deepened and the air grew colder. He heard sounds below and realized it was time he was gone. He crept towards the trapdoor and went gratefully down the ladder. The upper storey felt strangely warm and Athelstan paused. He could smell smoke. He hurried to the trapdoor leading down to the storey below but the trapdoor was bolted shut from the other side and the ring-handle was hot to the touch. Athelstan, damp with fear, stared around. Tendrils of smoke curled up between the floorboards and an eerie crackling noise grew louder. A tongue of flame appeared against the far wall, followed by another. The floorboards, thick, oaken planks, were becoming hotter. Grey smoke curled like angry wraiths. Someone had bolted the trapdoor from below and started this conflagration. Athelstan recalled the dry furnishings and bedding. The swift leaping flames would be fanned by the draught through the open door, as they would by the window on the upper storey. Athelstan hurried across, clutching his chancery satchel. He pulled back the shutters, pushed open the window door and propped himself over the ledge, peering down. There was no ladder and the drop was steep and highly dangerous. If he jumped broken limbs would be the least he might suffer. Athelstan fought against the welling panic. These first flames would soon become a roaring fire; the trapdoor was sealed, the walls of thick stone. The only escape was the window. Athelstan glimpsed the iron ring beneath one of the shutters, some relict of when the barbican was a weapon store. He threw his chancery satchel out, took off his cloak and hurried across to the bed, pulling off the linen sheets and blankets. He tied these together, coughing at the smoke now billowing around him. He used his cloak as the last strand, tied one end of the makeshift rope to the iron ring and threaded the rest through the open window. He hauled himself up, turning to clasp the long cord he had fashioned and lowered himself carefully. He brushed the wall, now hot to the touch. Gasping and praying, Athelstan carefully slipped down, resisting the temptation to hurry. He realized the makeshift rope stopped at least a yard from the ground. Athelstan was preparing to jump, only to feel strong hands grasp him. Brother Roger had dragged across a barrel and used this to catch Athelstan. The Franciscan whispered that he was safe, he was there.