Candle Flame (29 page)

‘I enjoy looking at ships and talking about them,’ Marcel countered. ‘I have done so since I was a boy. We all have our interests. You, I understand, are fascinated by the stars.’

‘No, Brother Marcel, your interest isn’t shipping, your interest is in spying. Let me continue. On the night of the murders at The Candle-Flame you were lodged at St Mary Overy. Earlier that day Ruat, a Hainault sailor and your emissary, or at least one of them, to Constable Clisson, came here.’ Athelstan glanced up. Marcel started plucking at his robe. Athelstan hid his quiet satisfaction; he had gambled, and would do so again, that Marcel knew nothing about the attack on Ruat, his brutal murder and Thibault’s seizure of that most incriminating document.

‘Ostensibly Ruat had been visiting the Shrine of the Virgin of the Narrow Seas; in fact, he visited St Mary Overy to collect this.’ He pushed Thibault’s documents towards the Papal Inquisitor. Marcel took one look, desperate to hide his agitation. ‘You gave Ruat a comprehensive report on shipping and the naval defences along the Thames. You also gave him a purse of silver. By chance Ruat came here to celebrate his good fortune. He drank, became merry and hurried across the river to his ship berthed at Queenhithe. Unfortunately, within a short distance of that vessel, Ruat was assaulted, robbed and killed, his corpse thrown into the river. The perpetrators were caught and hanged out of hand. Ruat’s dead body was dragged from the Thames. Your report to Clisson was found on him, waterlogged but still decipherable.’

‘It was not mine. I don’t know …’

‘It’s obvious that Ruat’s death and Thibault’s discovery remained unknown to you. You thought Ruat was safely despatched back across the Narrow Seas. Nor did you realize that, later that same day, a drinking dirge was held in Ruat’s memory here at The Candle-Flame.’

Marcel stared back, his shock obvious.

‘As for proof,’ Athelstan pressed on, ‘well, we could compare your handwriting with that of the report. I am sure there is a very strong resemblance.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘Oh, there is more than just handwriting. At the end of this document,’ Athelstan kept his tone conversational, ‘there is a sentence. Thibault deciphered and translated it as “I reside at The Candle-Flame, 16 February”,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘the same evening the murders took place here. Thibault, however, was incorrect. The manuscript was water-stained. Your use of a cipher and the usual abbreviations of a trained chancery clerk make its study more difficult. Thibault thought you wrote
resideo
– I reside; in actual fact you use the future tense,
residebo
– I shall reside – a simple, understandable mistake. Thibault also overlooked another word, because it was faded and abbreviated, the Latin word
post
– after. Once we correct this sentence it reads, “I shall reside at The Candle-Flame after 16 February.” I investigated this with Mine Host. I have closely inspected the tavern ledger. You, Marcel, are the only person who, days earlier, hired a chamber for after 16 February. You hired a very comfortable one. You wanted to make sure that you would be well housed and fed.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I can show you the ledger?’ Marcel simply waved a hand. ‘There is more. You are supposed to be a Papal Inquisitor, that’s the proclaimed reason for your arrival in this kingdom. By your own admission you have a special interest in the Lollard sect. However, when I ask Lollards about you, including one imprisoned and condemned to death in the Bocardo, they make no mention of you. I am sure, and I can check this, that Master Thibault must have told you about Sparwell. What a splendid opportunity to find out more. You could have visited him.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Indeed,’ he smiled, ‘if you had, Blanchard would have met you. He would have been prepared for the imposter which led to two prisoners escaping and the keeper himself and some of his turnkeys being brutally slaughtered.’

‘I heard about that,’ Marcel snapped. ‘Such men should be rigorously punished.’

‘That’s not your concern,’ Athelstan declared. ‘My point is that you have shown no real interest in the Lollards. That’s not just my opinion but that of the Bishop of London’s curia. Of course, you believed no one would dare challenge a Papal Inquisitor going about his business. My question is very simple. What business? According to all the evidence it is English shipping rather than English heresy. Finally,’ Athelstan glanced down as if he was studying a document, when in fact he was quietly praying that Marcel would step into the trap, ‘what you also don’t know is that Master William Foulkes once served in Brabant as a crossbowman. On the afternoon Ruat came here to celebrate in the Dark Parlour, he struck up a friendship with Foulkes, whom he regarded as a Brabantine, an ally of Hainault. Ruat informed Foulkes how you had given him the silver—’

‘Ruat couldn’t have …’ Marcel stopped his outburst and closed his eyes, a gesture of defeat. Athelstan sat watching the flame on the nearest candle burn away another ring. He allowed the silence to deepen, broken by a knock at the door. Sir Simon Burley came in. The knight placed a sheaf of documents before Athelstan and left just as quietly.

‘You were going to say, Brother Marcel, how Ruat could not possibly know because you met him deep in the shadows of St Mary Overy. Yes? But who would know the truth about that except you?’ Athelstan stared down at the documents, sifting through them quickly. ‘We have ransacked your chamber and been through your chancery satchel. No, please spare us your protests. And what do we find? What looks like an innocent list of ships, including Sir Oliver Beresford’s great new war cog out of Yarmouth now berthed at Baynard Castle. So …’ Athelstan gestured at Marcel.

‘I admit,’ Marcel waved his hands, ‘that in the interest of a lasting peace between England and France, I decided to take careful note of England’s naval strength whilst here on papal business. My motive was to discourage the French from any hostile action.’ He paused at Cranston’s snorting laughter. ‘I appeal to a higher court. I plead benefit of clergy. I demand that as a subject of the king of France I be returned safely to that kingdom or to one of its officers here in England. Finally, I am a Dominican—’

‘You are a spy!’ Cranston broke in. ‘You will be detained as such until His Grace, Richard King of England, Ireland, Scotland and France,’ the coroner emphasized the last word, ‘decides what to do. Brother Athelstan?’

The friar summoned Tiptoft, who brought back Sir Simon and a military escort. Cranston gestured that the Papal Inquisitor should go with them. Once their footsteps in the gallery outside faded, Cranston and Athelstan left the table and quickly ate some of the food the friar had bought together with white wine in a sealed jug, a gift from The Piebald.

‘The mills of God, eh, little friar?’

‘Yes, Sir John. The mills of God are grinding slowly but surely. Nevertheless, deep in my heart, nothing we do in this chamber will fully restore God’s justice or his harmony. All we can do is deal with mortal sin and its malignant consequences.’ Athelstan finished his food then washed his hands and face at the
lavarium
. Cranston also prepared himself, leaving the chamber for the garderobe. Once he returned, Athelstan asked Thibault to fetch Brother Roger.

oOoOo

The Franciscan sauntered in as if attending a colloquium, a friendly debate in some refectory. He blithely took the oath and sat with an amused smile on his face as if rather surprised at the proceedings.

‘
Ic waes lytel?’
Athelstan asked.

‘When I was little,’ Brother Roger translated. ‘My friend, I did not know you were skilled in the Saxon tongue.’

‘I am not but you certainly are. You are Roger Godwinson, that’s your family name. You claim descent from the ancient royal Saxon family displaced by William the Norman.’

‘Roger Godwinson,’ the Franciscan agreed, becoming more wary.

‘A scholar of the Saxon tongue as we have just proved and you have admitted,’ Athelstan replied. ‘A man recognized in his own order, by the ancients who taught him at Greyfriars, as a scholar deeply immersed in the study of all things Saxon. A man who, by common recollection, studied the poem
Beowulf
and could quote it line by line. Indeed, time and again, ever since we met, you have unwittingly quoted verses from that poem.’

The Franciscan raised his eyebrows.

‘Three examples will suffice,’ Athelstan replied, ‘though I could quote others. First, when the Earthworms attacked us in Cheapside you made a unique reference to fighting as long as the World’s Candle shines, a phrase quoted directly from Beowulf. Secondly, after I escaped from the inferno in the Barbican, you talked about your fear of fire and how each man nursed his own special fear within him. You also joked about how I had escaped from the Dragon’s breath. Again, direct quotations from Beowulf. Finally, when we first met, you referred to “this fierce hostility, this murderous lust between men”, a phrase which can also be found in your favourite poem.’

‘So I quote lines from an ancient poem,’ the friar laughingly replied. ‘There is no crime in that.’

‘A Franciscan,’ Athelstan pressed the point, ‘who also travels the shires around London begging alms, one who was always in close vicinity when Beowulf, that secret assassin, attacked Master Thibault’s minions.’

‘You are accusing me of being Beowulf. You are, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am. Let me lay my indictment against you.’ Athelstan emphasized his points on his fingers. ‘First, you are very proud of your Saxon heritage. I have proved this and you have admitted it. Secondly, as a novice at Greyfriars you won a reputation of being steeped in your heritage as well as proving yourself to be a scholar in both the tongue and literature of the Saxon people. I understand that.’ Athelstan tapped his chest. ‘My own family also claims descent from the ancient earls, hence my own name which, as you know, is also that of a great Saxon king. I have proved this and you have admitted as much. Thirdly, even in conversation you make reference to your Saxon heritage and, in particular, that great epic
Beowulf
. Indeed,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘you know more about Erconwald, the great Saxon saint, than I do. You are undoubtedly a fervent student of all things Saxon, including their sermons, which often quote those ominous words from the prophet Daniel about God numbering, weighing in the balance and being found wanting. Only a scholar, albeit a very arrogant one, could quote such a phrase in its original tongue. Fourthly, you have a licence to beg for your order in and around London. You move in a circuit from place to place residing where you wish …’

‘You have proved that and I admit it.’ Friar Roger mockingly echoed Athelstan’s phrase. ‘But tell me, where is the wrong in that?’

‘Fifthly,’ Athelstan moved inexorably on, ‘every time one of Thibault’s minions is attacked you are close by on your so-called begging circuit. Indeed, I believe Marsen, despite his wickedness, was also a man of sharp wit; he was growing increasingly suspicious about you. He once made reference that he knew someone was following him but that he would take care of it in his own way. Marsen was also a killer. He would know how difficult it was to challenge you; after all, you are a priest, a Fransiscan. I believe that one day, and that day would have come sooner than you think, Marsen would have tried to murder you. Indeed,’ Athelstan pointed at the Franciscan, ‘I openly concede that what I say here is garbled. Marsen, deep in his cups, once referred to Beowulf then to slaying the Wolf of Guttio. Why should he say that? He was in fact referring to St Francis of Assisi who in his life tamed the savage Wolf of Gubbio. Marsen, or his listener, in this case a prostitute, mismatched the words. St Francis took care of the ravenous Wolf of Gubbio. Marsen would take care of his Wolf of Gubbio, which mistakenly became Guttio, a worldly friar, very much a wolf in sheep’s clothing – a skilled assassin. Marsen was parodying a story which, in its original, exemplifies all the idealism of the Franciscan Order. Furthermore,’ Athelstan tapped the manuscripts in front of him, ‘Sir John provided me with a list of places and times when Beowulf was attacked. I also asked Father Guardian at Greyfriars to send me an extract from the alms rolls, a true record of what monies you collected, where and when. Friar Roger, there is virtual concordance between the places where such attacks occurred and your whereabouts.’ Athelstan stared at the Franciscan. Brother Roger was now more attentive and not so supercilious.
You are all the same
, Athelstan reflected. Murderers are steeped in sin which is always rooted in a deep pride. You truly believe you are superior to everyone else. You think you have a God-given right to judge, condemn and execute as you think fit.’

‘I believe Athelstan has proved his point,’ Cranston observed, ‘but whether you admit to it or not …?’

‘Who do you think you are?’ Athelstan decided to taunt his opponent. ‘Some great Saxon hero defending the poor with your sly, furtive attacks, arrows whipping out of the darkness? The real Beowulf didn’t do that. He confronted the monsters, met them face-to-face in heroic combat.’

Friar Roger just sat, lip jutting out. He glanced swiftly at Athelstan and gently shook his head.

‘The same happened during Marsen’s journey to The Candle-Flame: he was attacked at Leveret Copse. According to your Father Guardian you were close by. You lodged at this tavern to plot fresh mischief. You planned to strike on the morning of the seventeenth of February. The previous evening you entered the stables and placed miniature caltrops under the saddles of both Marsen and Mauclerc’s horses. The next morning they would hoist themselves in the saddle, ready for another day’s wickedness. They would drive the caltrops into their horses’ backs. The animals would rear in agony and both men would be thrown, at least injured, and so rendered suitable targets for you and your crossbow. In the end your plot was overtaken by another more deadly. Nevertheless, a more important target presented itself when Lascelles unexpectedly arrived here.’

‘You cannot prove that. I was preparing to leave for the city.’

‘Seventhly,’ Athelstan pressed on like a lawyer before King’s Bench, ‘I know from my enquiries that Lascelles arrived here cloaked and cowled. No one was expecting him. Only when he reached here did he pull back his cowl, reveal himself and begin an argument about whether the tavern gates should be closed or not.’