Candle Flame (12 page)

‘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 opened 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.

‘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.’