Candle Flame (8 page)

‘Let us go forth!’ he shouted. ‘Furnished with fire and sword to fight as long as the World Candle shines.’ Athelstan was about to follow suit, leaning down to grasp a staff, when trumpets shrilled and the crowd before them abruptly broke. A schiltrom of pikemen, kite shields locked in the testudo formation, long-axe spears jutting out, were advancing down the centre of Cheapside under the flowing banners of the royal standard. The mail-garbed, shield-protected footmen were fearsome enough. However, the real threat was the billowing royal banner. Anyone carrying arms in a hostile fashion when this standard was unfurled were traitors to be punished with summary but gruesome execution. The schiltrom reached Lascelles’ cavalcade and parted to gather them into its steel protection. They paused, turned and advanced back. A short while later they passed under the yawning, arched gateway of the Guildhall into the great bailey which stretched beneath the entrance portico dominated by the towering statues of Justice, Prudence and Truth. The schiltrom now broke up. Lascelles led them across the frozen cobbled yard, the air savoury with the mouth-watering smells from a nearby bakery. Friar Roger made his hasty farewells and left. Athelstan followed the rest as they were ushered up steps across floors, shiny mosaics of black, white and red lozenge-shaped tiles. Walls covered in oak panelling reflected the light from a myriad of candles glowing in alabaster jars of different colours. Beautifully embroidered tapestries proclaimed the history and glory of London city since its foundation by King Brutus. They reached a small buttery, where Lascelles told them to wait. White wines and waffle cakes were served. Only then could they relax after the hurly-burly of their journey. Athelstan waited until the servants had left and then walked over to Marcel to exchange the kiss of peace. Marcel grabbed Athelstan close before standing back.

‘Time is the Emperor of Life,’ he declared. ‘Yet you, Athelstan, have not changed.’

‘And you, Brother, look as studious as ever, but what are you doing here? I heard you were assigned to the Papal court, the Holy Father’s personal adviser?’

‘I am very busy in France, Athelstan, rooting out the weeds of heresy.’

‘So why are you here? The Inquisition has no power in England.’

‘I am here to observe, Athelstan, as a hawk does a field. You have your heretics, Wycliffe the Leicestershire parson and the Lollards, who object to the power of us priests.’

‘And mummers who perform near London Bridge!’

Marcel laughed deep and throatily. ‘I have been in London for about ten days, Athelstan. I have visited the Tower and all along the riverside. I watch and I listen.’ Marcel dropped all pretence of merriment. ‘Don’t you find such weeds in that little seedy parish of yours? Don’t you swim against a tide of heretical filth and radical aspiration?’

‘Marcel,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘I serve in a parish which is as poor as Nazareth, where a carpenter called Crispin tries to raise his family free of the tyranny of Herod.’ Marcel’s face turned harsh, mouth twisted in objection. ‘I work with poor people, Marcel, the lowest of the low. Yet, perhaps in the eyes of Christ, they are princes. Do you remember our vows Marcel, the vision of our founder? How Christ can be found amongst the poor? Marcel, you are a brilliant scholar, I recall your disputations. Don’t you remember arguing how Christ seemed happiest when he and others met for a meal with the outcasts of society?’

‘True, true,’ Marcel’s eyes softened, ‘but we have all grown older. Life turns colder. Christ’s banqueting hall has to be defended against the wild dogs which would invade it.’ The conversation was cut off by Lascelles entering, indicating that Athelstan and Cranston follow him out along the gallery into a warm, wood-panelled chancery office deep in the Guildhall. Two people sat at the long polished table. John of Gaunt, Regent and uncle of the king, slouched in a throne-like chair. Gaunt always reminded Athelstan of an artist’s depiction of Lucifer before he fell, golden-haired, steely blue eyes and perfectly formed features slightly kissed by the sun. In all things Gaunt was so elegant, be it his neatly cropped hair, moustache and beard or the high-collared gold and scarlet jerkin over the purest cambric shirt. Around Gaunt’s neck hung the SS collar of Lancaster. On his fingers dazzled rings, whilst the wall behind him proclaimed the banners of kingdoms Gaunt lay claim to: Portugal, Castile and Aragon. Thibault, sitting on Gaunt’s right, was dressed in the dark robes of a monk, though these were of the costliest wool, whilst the sapphire on his chancery ring glowed like a mini-ature candle. Thibault, with his corn-coloured hair and smooth round face, looked as cherubic as any novice sworn to God. Athelstan knew different. Thibault, despite his innocent appearance, was a highly dangerous man, totally dedicated to his dread master. Athelstan and Cranston bowed. Lascelles directed them to the stools at the far end of the table and sat with them. For a while there was silence. Athelstan watched the candlelight gleam and shift in the waxed, polished wood around him.

‘So,’ Thibault whispered, ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, what say you? What has happened?’ He pulled a face. ‘I am sorry that your journey here, how can I say it, was eventful.’

‘Yes, you can say,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Very eventful.’

‘My henchman,’ Thibault smiled at Lascelles, ‘has informed us about your quick thinking and courage at The Candle-Flame. My grateful thanks.’ His smile faded. ‘Beowulf shall hang at Smithfield. I shall be there to see his body ripped open, his entrails plucked out and his severed head balanced on a pole. Then we shall discover who has been found wanting.’

‘What do you know of him?’ Athelstan asked.

‘A traitor.’ Gaunt took his hand away from his mouth – even that was a delicate, studied movement. The Regent just sat staring at Athelstan with those strange blue eyes, as if he was trying to break into the friar’s very soul.

‘Your Grace,’ Athelstan leaned forward, ‘Beowulf’s origins … Who gave him that name?’

‘He assumed it himself,’ Thibault snapped, ‘at his very first murder. He left a message, “From Beowulf to Grendel, his enemy”. I suppose this Beowulf sees himself as a mixture of the pagan and the Christian, an Anglo-Saxon hero who can quote the sombre verses of the prophet Daniel from the Old Testament.’

‘Very good, very good,’ Athelstan mused.

‘What is, Brother?’ Gaunt snapped.

‘Well, Beowulf is a man who bestrides two traditions.’

‘He is a contagion, a pestilence.’ Gaunt’s voice thrilled with hatred. ‘He and his damnable proclamation appear here and there, as far north as Colchester and as far south as Richmond.’ Gaunt’s eyes slid to Thibault. ‘So far he has evaded capture. You, Brother, you and Sir John will trap him. Once you have, I shall kill him. So, what have you learnt?’

Athelstan faithfully reported all that happened: the mysteri-ous murders, the locked entrances, the plundered exchequer chest, the disappearance of Hugh of Hornsey and the murder of Scrope. He conceded that all the killings defied logic and explanation. Now and again he would turn to Cranston for confirmation. The coroner sat, eyes half-closed, calm and confident. Athelstan quietly prayed that he would remain so. There was bad blood between Gaunt and the Lord High Coroner of London stretching back years, when Sir John had been the Black Prince’s bannerman, body and soul. Cranston had resisted all approaches from Gaunt, be it through fear or favour. Sir John openly distrusted the Regent. On one occasion, deep in his cups, Cranston had confided to Athelstan how he suspected Gaunt secretly cherished and nursed dreams of seizing the crown. Sometimes the coroner feared for the safety and welfare of the young king.

Once Athelstan had finished, Gaunt and Thibault questioned them closely. The friar remained firm in his conclusion. He had as yet no explanation or evidence even to speculate on the murders at The Candle-Flame. Cranston added that he would issue writs immediately all over the city for the arrest of Hugh of Hornsey, if he was still alive.

‘My officials, royal archers, have been brutally murdered.’ Gaunt’s words hissed like the serpent he was. ‘My treasure,’ he beat his breast, ‘my treasure has been stolen. My name besmirched. My reputation ridiculed.’ He brought his fist down on the table. ‘For that, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, someone is going to die, and only after he has experienced the full horrors of Hell. Now there is more. Master Thibault show them.’ Thibault rose and opened a chancery pouch on a side table beneath an arras depicting the execution of England’s first martyr, St. Alban. Bearing in mind Gaunt’s threat, Athelstan was amused at the gory and gruesome picture, which reflected all the hidden menace of the Regent’s threat. Sir John had now closed his eyes, softly snoring, so Athelstan kicked him gently. The coroner sighed and pulled himself up. Thibault slid two pieces of parchment on to the table. The first was water-stained, the ink had run, the letters blurred. The second, on the costliest chancery parchment, was clerkly and clearly inscribed. It provided a list of stores, military impedimenta, siege machinery and war carts being brought to the Tower; also an estimate of the garrison there, the number of troops around London, river defences, the condition of the bridge and a list of the war cogs, caravels and hulkes being gathered in the estuary and further up river, their tonnage, armaments and what crews they carried. At the top of the costly sheet of vellum were the words, ‘To the Lord High Constable’, and at the bottom, ‘I reside at The Candle-Flame, 16 February.’

‘What is this?’ Athelstan asked.

‘A report from a spy,’ Thibault replied, going back to his seat. ‘Yesterday afternoon Ruat, a sailor from the
Rose of Picardy
, a Hainault merchantman bound for Dordrecht, was returning to his ship at Queenhithe when he was attacked, robbed and killed. Ruat’s two assailants were caught red-handed by the wharf master, their plunder seized. Both were hanged immediately on the river gallows. The wharf master looked at that document, now water-soaked. He could not make sense of the cipher.’ Athelstan picked it up and studied it; the words appeared to be pure nonsense.

‘Now,’ Thibault continued, ‘all port officials have been alerted against spying. The wharf master was suspicious; he passed the document to the sheriff, who of course delivered it to me. The document is stained, badly so because the sailor in question was thrown into the water.’

‘But he was only a messenger?’ Cranston asked.

‘Ruat carried a report written in a Latin cipher where the vowels AEIOU were replaced by five random numbers. In this case A is six, E is nine and so on. I broke the cipher and transcribed it. The report must be from a very high-ranking spy as he relates directly to the High Constable of France, Oliver de Clisson. More importantly, it gives us some clue to the identity and whereabouts of the spy. The last line in the cipher in clear Latin reads as follows, if I remember it correctly: “
Apud Candelae Flammam XVI Febr, Resideo
, I reside at The Candle-Flame, sixteenth of February.”’ Athelstan looked at both the stained manuscript and the clear Latin translation and nodded in agreement.

‘The sixteenth of February was yesterday,’ Thibault continued. ‘Consequently, is someone at that tavern not only an assassin but a traitor?’ Thibault held Athelstan’s gaze. ‘Is it the same individual or two different persons? I don’t know. I cannot say except the spy must be learned and skilled. He is also very good. He was only stopped, thanks be to God, by mere accident from supplying his masters in the Secret Chancery at the Louvre with a very detailed description of our river defences from the estuary to the Tower. Look again at the translation, Brother Athelstan.’ He waited until the friar did so. ‘You see the names of ships and other information but notice that enigmatic phrase which I have transcribed.’ Athelstan did. ‘“
Et intra urbem et extra urbem populi ira crescit
” – both within the city and outside,’ Athelstan translated, ‘the anger of the people grows.’ The friar kept a still tongue in his head even though he was inclined to agree with the spy’s sentiments. Cranston just coughed rather noisily, fumbled for his miraculous wineskin then thought otherwise.

‘We believe,’ Thibault continued, ‘the French are planning a landing along the Thames, a true
chevauchée
, a great assault on our city. They hope to break our defences and count on the unrest you have witnessed to render these defences even weaker.’

‘Why admit he was residing at The Candle-Flame?’ Cranston queried.

‘Perhaps,’ Thibault replied slowly, ‘he expected a reply as well as to assure his masters that he had entered the city …’

‘Or The Candle-Flame may be part of his task,’ Athelstan declared. Gaunt, who had remained passive throughout, leaned forward, rapping his fingers on the table. Athelstan listened to the silence abruptly broken by the piping voice of a young girl in an adjoining chamber. Thibault’s smooth, well-oiled face creased into a genuine smile. Athelstan recalled how this ambitious clerk, before taking minor orders, had fathered a child, a young girl, Isabella, who was the veritable apple of his eye.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Gaunt demanded, ‘explain.’

‘Your Grace, if French galleys pierce the Thames they can go no further than London Bridge. True?’

‘Of course.’

‘And the north bank of the Thames is, and can be, heavily fortified and defended.’

Gaunt grunted his agreement.

‘Now, The Candle-Flame overlooks the river; it stands opposite the Tower and close to the approaches to London Bridge. The French might be plotting to control the southern bank whilst they direct attacks against the quaysides of the city. The Candle-Flame would be an excellent place to set up camp.’

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Gaunt jibed, ‘you should have been a soldier.’

‘Like you, Your Grace?’

Gaunt’s smile faded.

‘Brother Athelstan may be correct,’ Cranston intervened swiftly. ‘The Candle-Flame can be fortified, the Barbican easily defended, and it would also be an excellent location to survey both the river and all approaches to the bridge.’

‘Find him then!’ Gaunt snapped. ‘This business, Sir John, is the king’s matter. It cannot be set aside for anything else.’