Candle Flame (27 page)

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan sharpened the quill pen, ‘we are ready. We will use Tiptoft as our court officer.’ Athelstan picked up the small hand bell and rang it. When Tiptoft appeared, Athelstan told him to bring in Sir Robert Paston, waiting with his family in the buttery. The merchant manor lord bustled in all red-faced, protesting volubly until Cranston roared at him to shut up and sit down. Athelstan rose, took the Book of the Gospels and thrust it into Paston’s hands. He made him repeat the words of the oath, warning him that a failure to plead an answer was a felony which could be dealt with in the press yard of Newgate prison; Paston would be stretched out on the cobbles, a heavy door placed on him, then increasingly powerful weights dropped on top of that. He also warned him how perjury could mean that final journey in the death cart to the gallows at Tyburn or Smithfield. Athelstan accepted he was being dramatic but he had to hide all compassion in order to establish the truth and the sooner the better.

‘Let us move swiftly to the heart of this matter,’ Athelstan declared, taking his seat. ‘Let us grasp the substance and ignore the shadows. You, Sir Robert, are a merchant, a manor lord, the widowed father of Martha, whom I suspect you love dearly; she in turn is deeply smitten with William Foulkes, a trained clerk, a skilled scribe and, I suspect, like your daughter, a fervent member of the Lollard coven, a disciple of Master John Wycliffe. Foulkes is very discreet. He has hardly spoken during my searches but keeps his own counsel and stays well out of my way. An educated man, Master William does not so much fear me but my order, who act, God forgive them, as the Inquisition of Holy Mother Church.’

‘I …’ Paston stuttered.

‘Please,’ Athelstan replied. ‘For all I know, Sir Robert, you too may be a Lollard, but I don’t want to know and I don’t really care. I am not here to debate religious belief. I am not too sure what true heresy is but I am aware of the temptations of the flesh. You, Sir Robert, are a regular visitor to The Golden Oliphant, well known for the Mistress of the Moppets and her midnight ladies. I know of your games there. Please.’ Athelstan ignored Paston’s attempt to interrupt. ‘You are also the owner of a handsome cog,
The Five Wounds
. You carry on a legitimate trade exporting wool and importing wine and other goods, all according to the law, except, of course, for those weapons purchased in Flanders, where the red-coloured oxhide roundel shields are popular. These are, of course, to escape the hawk-eye of the harbour masters, brought in piecemeal by ships of other nations. You have an agreement with their captains: you visit these and transport the weapons back on a barge to the armament store on board your own cog. You buy these weapons, bring them into London and put them at the disposal of the Upright Men. Hush now!’ Athelstan insisted. ‘As I said, these weapons are stored deep in the hold of your cog. They remain hidden until you are ready to send the wine and the other goods you have imported to different parts of Southwark and the city. I am sure your customers and clients are manifold: taverns, alehouses, hospitals, the mansions of the wealthy – all of course, in turn, provide excellent hiding places …’

‘But the tavern masters, the merchants of the city, would have no dealings with the Upright Men and the Earthworms.’

‘You do,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Sir Robert, we know more than you think. Most prosperous Londoners are taking protection against the evil day. Moreover, what I describe is not difficult to organize. I suspect it’s the servants, the retainers, the tapsters, the scullions and slatterns, the workmen and the labourers who are personally involved, whilst their masters look the other way. If such secret weapon stores were ever discovered, everyone would throw their hands in the air and declare they had no knowledge of what was happening. In addition, the Upright Men are very cunning. The more places they have to store weapons, the more they can scatter them around and the less obvious it will be. Coghill, master of
The Five Wounds
, tried to pass off the weapons I saw in the hold of your cog as the armaments to be found on any fighting merchantman. In fact, they are part of a secret hoard. The Upright Men and their Earthworms have, I wager, a myriad of such hidden caches all over this city and elsewhere. When they plan an attack such as the recent one in Cheapside, the summons goes out. I suspect they would have appeared whatever happened that day; they were fortunate in that a group of Thibault’s retainers presented themselves. I suggest the Earthworms have a routine which is orderly as any monk’s horarium: ponies housed in the countless stables across London are prepared, disguises are donned and weapons taken up, all swiftly carried out along that warren of needle-thin alleyways stretching either side of Cheapside. The Earthworms converge, attack then retreat. They have made their mark. They have demonstrated how they can come and go as they wish. Once over, their mounts are left at the stables, masks are removed and weapons returned to their hiding place.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘Of course, such locations can be discovered but it’s like trying to stop the rain by catching its drops. New hiding stores are found, and so it continues.’ Athelstan pointed a finger at Paston. ‘Of course, the Upright Men value you because you provide a service which is quite exceptional.’

‘I am sorry,’ Paston mumbled, scratching the side of his face. ‘I don’t understand …’

‘First, you hide weapons as well as transport them into the city along with your barrels of wine and crates of goods. More importantly, you import them. After all, where can the Upright Men purchase weapons in England without provoking the sharp interest of a royal official or one of Thibault’s legion of spies? You buy them and bring all this weaponry into the heart of London.’ Athelstan paused. He sensed Paston would not deny the charges but he wanted a full confession so he and Cranston could dig further.

‘Why should I,’ Paston tried one protest, ‘a manor lord, a shire knight and a member of the Commons—?’

‘Why indeed?’ Cranston leaned forward then looked quizzically at Athelstan.

‘Because the Upright Men are the same as you and I, Sir John. They are also privy to Sir Robert’s secret pleasures at The Golden Oliphant. More importantly, amongst their own ranks are members of the Lollard sect. The Upright Men have enough evidence to indict Sir Robert’s daughter and her beloved William for heresy. Marsen and Mauclerc were hunting for the same knowledge. They found something out about you and the Mistress of the Moppets but perhaps they sensed there was more. Do you remember Marsen baiting you about your own daughter here in the Dark Parlour? That salacious remark about Martha being sent to him? He was hinting at your secret life at The Golden Oliphant, whether your daughter knew about it or, perhaps, that she was involved in much more serious matters. Oh, yes,’ Athelstan nodded, ‘Marsen was a demon incarnate, a vicious, very dangerous man. If he could, he would have destroyed you and your family.’ The manor lord now sat face in his hands and began to sob. Cranston looked at Athelstan, who just shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

‘We are ruined anyway.’ Paston took his hands away. ‘I could be indicted for treason, even heresy. My lands and goods will be seized, my daughter and her beloved taken up for questioning.’

‘Sir Robert, I assure you I am not here for your destruction. Such fear is not necessary, so compose yourself. Have you written the account I asked for? Did you keep it confidential to yourself?’

‘Yes, every word.’ Paston dug into his wallet, took out a scroll and handed it over. ‘I dictated this to William Foulkes. I would trust him with my life.’

‘And what did Foulkes say?’

‘Like myself, on reflection he thought it very strange. I mean, Brother, it is. Once you start recalling this conversation or that.’

‘I am grateful,’ Athelstan murmured. He undid the scroll and read the neat clerkly hand. He was correct. Foulkes was an excellent clerk and the report provided chapter and verse – it more than confirmed Athelstan’s suspicions on another matter. He read and re-read it until he was satisfied, then glanced up.

‘You may stay, Sir Robert. I am now going to question your daughter and Master Foulkes. Rest assured I saw you separately; it would have been unjust to let her know about The Golden Oliphant.’ Paston took a deep breath and sank down into his chair. Athelstan picked up the bell and rang it. Tiptoft, accompanied by Sir Simon Burley, came into the Dark Parlour.

‘Sir Simon, all those summoned are being kept separate and closely guarded?’

‘Yes, Sir John.’

‘Very good. Master Tiptoft, bring Martha Paston and William Foulkes here. Sir Robert will be staying also.’

‘And you have sent a messenger to St Erconwald’s asking for that person to present himself here?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I have.’

‘When he arrives I want him kept hooded and masked alone in some chamber; no one is to see him.’

Burley nodded his agreement. A short while later Tiptoft ushered Martha and Foulkes into the Dark Parlour. Looking highly nervous, they took the chairs either side of Sir Robert. Athelstan noticed how both young people were very soberly garbed in dark-brown robes. He wondered if the Lollards adopted their own distinctive dress: dark, unassuming clothing with little or no concession to frippery or fashion.

‘Mistress Martha, Master William. Let me be brief and blunt. I know where Sir Robert was on the night of the murder. He was in the gallery above, restless about his own concerns, although I would hazard that he was also worried about you. On that same night both of you were preparing to leave with Mooncalf because both of you and the ostler are members of the Lollard sect. You were planning to go to one of your conventicles, though I suspect something much more serious happened. Didn’t it? No, no,’ Athelstan raised a hand, ‘please don’t protest. I remember the first time we met in the small refectory. I gave a blessing which as Lollards you could not acknowledge. Martha, you wear no religious insignia, nor do you, Master William. Lollards are as hot against such practices as they are against priests. You seem to tolerate my presence rather than welcome it. I also noticed the rather strange signage between yourself and Mooncalf. I am sure the Lollards, like every sect, have their own tokens so members can identify themselves to each other. I also watched you as poor Sparwell died. Why were you there? I don’t think you are the sort of people to watch a man burn to death. You were present as witnesses, to offer some comfort and consolation, to demonstrate that he was not alone. You watched that horrible scene with profound sadness. I assure you, I too gave Sparwell what comfort I could. Sir John here did better: a goblet of drugged wine put Sparwell into a sleep close to death.’ Foulkes held Athelstan’s stare but Martha bowed her head, now and again quickly dabbing at her eyes. ‘You later returned to collect what little remained of your comrade – shards of bones, shrivelled, blackened flesh. You wanted to provide a holy and decent burial performed secretly either in a London churchyard or some village cemetery when you returned home. I am sure, though it will not be necessary, that a search of your chambers would reveal a funeral urn as well as documents, handbills and prayer books – enough evidence to prove your Lollardy.’ Athelstan tried to hide his compassion, though his heart went out to these two poor innocents stumbling towards a death as gruesome and horrific as Sparwell’s.

‘I will not lie,’ Foulkes declared.

‘I deliberately did not make you swear,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Moreover, I am not too sure whether a Lollard would take such an oath or recognize its validity. I also wish to be kind. And believe me,’ Athelstan rose and walked round the table and, standing behind Foulkes, stretched out his own hand to touch the Book of the Gospel. ‘I swear by the living God,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I mean you no harm.’ He withdrew his hand. ‘I cannot say the same for your ostler friend, Master Mooncalf.’

‘What do you mean?’ Martha asked, all flustered.

‘You know about him, don’t you?’ Foulkes asked, turning in his chair to face Athelstan, who’d now returned to his own seat. ‘You know?’ he repeated.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘What?’ Cranston barked.

‘Sparwell was not denounced by an enemy,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I doubt if that poor tailor had any. He was betrayed by a traitor at the heart of the Lollard conventicle here in London. I believe that Judas to be Mooncalf. He went to the shriving pew at St Mary-le-Bow and gave Sparwell’s name, trade and house to a priest. This priest did not hear it in confession so he had no choice but to pass such information on to the Bishop of London’s curia. Mooncalf tried to remain anonymous, though the priest clearly recalls a coarse voice and the stench of the stableyard. Mooncalf would fit such a description. Now, on the evening the murders took place, he didn’t take you to a meeting of the conventicle but to some lonely place outside this tavern. I am correct?’

‘Yes,’ Foulkes replied, ignoring Martha’s cry of protest. ‘I am committed to the truth. Mooncalf houses a wicked spirit. He informed us that he had denounced Sparwell and, unless we paid him good silver, he would betray us and others.’

‘Did he make a similar threat to Sparwell?’ Cranston asked.

‘No, he did not.’ Athelstan answered the coroner’s question. ‘Master Foulkes is correct. Mooncalf is possessed by a nasty spirit. Sparwell was the innocent lamb of sacrifice. He was both a warning and proof of what Mooncalf could do, that his threats, his blackmail, were potent and real. Yes, Master Foulkes?’

The clerk nodded his head.

‘Many a man,’ Cranston asked quietly, ‘would have killed Mooncalf on the spot. He was a villain who not only threatened you but your beloved as well.’

‘The Lollards are not like that, are they?’ Athelstan offered. ‘They are quietists. They reject violence of any sort.’

‘Yes, we are,’ Foulkes agreed. ‘I once served as a crossbowman. I saw service in Brabant, where my mother comes from. I have killed and seen killing. I confess,’ he hurried on, ‘when Mooncalf made his threat my hand fell to …’ Foulkes smiled thinly, ‘where my dagger should have been.’

‘But Mooncalf had prepared for that, hadn’t he?’ Athelstan asked.