Candle Flame (14 page)

They clambered gingerly off the barrel. Athelstan crouched on the rain-soaked ground, head down and gasping for breath as he tried to recite a prayer of thanksgiving. He stared up. Flames now licked the window, whilst the surging plumes of grey smoke had already alerted the tavern. A toscin sounded. Voices carried. Athelstan heard footsteps; hands helped him up. Thorne was shouting at his grooms, servants and scullions to stand back and allow the fire to burn as it was too strong to fight. Athelstan, swaying on his feet, accepted a cloak from Mooncalf, found his chancery satchel and staggered back towards the tavern. In the Dark Parlour he washed himself at the
lavarium
, tending to the cuts and bruises on his hands, arms and legs. Mistress Eleanor served him a bowl of steaming hot pottage and a deep goblet of Bordeaux. Others came in and gathered round. Thorne, full of apologies which Athelstan gently acknowledged, muttered about candles or lanterns left glowing – some form of terrible accident. Athelstan kept his own counsel: that trapdoor had been deliberately locked, whilst the speed of the fire could only be explained by arson. Friar Roger came over.

‘I decided to visit the riverside,’ he remarked. ‘I smelt the smoke and saw you at the window. I admit, I hesitated. I was once a mariner. I served at sea. I hate fire. I have a secret dread of it but each man carries own his own special fear deep inside him. I wondered if I should seek help and find a ladder.’ He grinned. ‘But you were as nimble as any squirrel. You escaped the dragon’s breath. Now come, Friar, rejoice you were not fried.’ Athelstan grinned at the pun on his calling. The Franciscan lifted his cup in a toast. Brother Marcel appeared all washed and finely attired for the evening meal. He went back to his chamber and returned with a heavy cloak of the purest wool dyed a deep black.

‘Have this, Brother,’ Marcel offered. ‘I travel with a good wardrobe and a clean one. Our founder the blessed Dominic always maintained that dirt,’ he winked at Athelstan, ‘does not mean the same as holiness.’ Athelstan thanked him and the rest and slowly sipped the wine. The shock was now receding. He felt embarrassed and was highly relieved when Cranston bustled into the Dark Parlour, clapping his gloved hands and rubbing his arms against the cold.

‘I went to St Erconwald’s,’ he bellowed. ‘Those rogues you call parishioners said you might be here, as did Flaxwith.’ He paused, his eyes blinking as he caught Athelstan’s glance. ‘You had best come,’ he added quietly. ‘Gentlemen, lady. Come,’ he repeated. Athelstan needed no further bidding. He thanked everyone and followed Sir John out of the tavern, almost running beside him as the coroner strode along the lanes down to the nearby quayside. Moored alongside the wharf was a high-prowed barge lit by torches fixed in their sconces along the deck; brilliantly glowing lantern horns hung just below the standards on both prow and stern. These rippling banners displayed the heraldic device of that eerie harvester of the Thames, the Fisher of Men, an eye-catching insignia displaying a silver corpse, hands extended in greeting, rising from a golden sea.

‘I do wonder,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘why our path and that of the Fisher of Men constantly cross.’

‘Because, my dear friar, murderers in London have what they think is a great disguise, a subtle device at their fingertips, a moving deep pit to hide their nefarious handiwork: Old Father Thames. We and the Fisher of Men know different. The river always gives up its dead. In this case Ronseval.’ Athelstan didn’t reply; he felt slightly sick, distracted at how close Death had brushed him with its cold, feathery wings.

‘You don’t have to tell me but I know something happened, little friar.’ The coroner grabbed Athelstan’s arm. ‘I glimpsed smoke rising above the Palisade as I approached the tavern, whilst the smell of burning curled everywhere. So, little friar, tell me in your own good time.’ He tightened his grip. ‘I should really take you into an alehouse and have you drink some of Cranston’s holy water, but I don’t think this will wait.’ Athelstan, comforted, followed Sir John along the windswept wharf to the waiting barge, where the six oarsmen, garbed in their black-and-gold livery, greeted Cranston and the friar like old friends. Athelstan recognized them all: Maggot, Taffety-Head and the rest, the Fisher of Men’s coven, grotesques and outcasts rejected even by the poor of Southwark because of their repellent injuries. None of these, however, were as strange as the captain of the barge, Icthus, the Fisher’s leading henchman. Dressed in a night-black tunic, Icthus had a distinctive appearance, hence his name, the Greek word for fish. Icthus was completely devoid of any facial hair, be it eyelids or brows, whilst his bald head, bulging eyes, snub nose and protuberant cod-mouth in a completely oval-shaped face made him look extremely fish-like. In fact, he could swim like a porpoise whatever the mood of the river, which Icthus knew like the palm of his slightly webbed hands. The henchman bowed in welcome and waved them aboard to sit on the comfortable cushioned seats under the canopied stern. Once they were settled, Icthus in his eerie, high-pitched voice gave the order to cast off. The oarsmen pulled away in unison, chanting their favourite hymn, taught to them by Athelstan, ‘
Ave Maris Stella
’, Hail Star of the Sea. The barge rocked and swayed, sometimes pitching dangerously. Athelstan closed his eyes and murmured a prayer to St Christopher. The barge surged on, battling the water. Lanterns on other boats glowed through the murk. Icthus, sitting in the prow, pulled at the bell rope, warning others of their approach. Most barges and wherries were only too eager to pull away from the Fisher of Men’s barque, well known along the river for its grisly work, paid for by the city council to scavenge the Thames for the corpses of those who’d drowned, committed suicide or, as in this case, ‘been feloniously slain’. Cranston was correct, Athelstan mused: London truly was a city of murder, and many of its victims were hidden beneath the rushing waters of this river. Nevertheless, murder will out and corpses regularly surfaced in the sludge, shallows or reed banks of the Thames.

‘Well, little friar?’ Cranston offered him the miraculous wineskin. Athelstan shook his head. Cranston took a generous slurp, sighed noisily and made to share it with Icthus and the rowers. These all chorused back a polite refusal. Icthus added, shouting over his shoulder, how the Fisher of Men would never permit any of them to drink whilst they navigated the Thames.

‘Wise man,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Now, little friar, tell me what happened or I will bore you to death with an account of my history of this waterway.’

‘Terror indeed!’ Athelstan exclaimed. He then told the coroner exactly what had happened in the Barbican.

‘No accident!’ Cranston’s anger was as palpable as the strong breeze. ‘A murderous soul plotted that fire. He, she or they recognized your skill, little friar. Beowulf, or whoever slaughtered Marsen and the others, plotted a very devious and subtle design, certainly one which would baffle myself, my bailiffs, the sheriff and his people but not you, little friar, hopping around like some bright-eyed sparrow. This child of Cain recognized a true adversary, and what better way to silence you than trap the sparrow and kill it?’

‘Some sparrow, Sir John.’

‘Aye, and much faster than the hawk, Athelstan,’ Cranston squeezed his companion’s arm, ‘but for God’s sweet sake and mine, be careful.’

Any further conversation was frustrated by the cries of Icthus and the oarsmen. The barge shuddered as it turned swiftly on the swell and came along a quayside just past La Reole. The wharf looked deserted except for the moving shadows which leapt out of the dancing pools of light thrown by the flaring torches lashed to poles. Cranston and Athelstan disembarked. From the shadows, hooded, cowled figures clustered silently around and escorted them towards the grey-bricked, red-tiled house of the dead called a variety of names: ‘The Barque of St Peter’, ‘The Chapel of the Drowned Man’ or ‘The Mortuary of the Seas’. This building stood a little further back on the quayside, flanked by the wattle and daub cottages of the Fisher of Men and what he called ‘his beloved disciples’. On the right side of the mortuary door hung the great nets, stretched out like massive cobwebs, used by the Fisher of Men to harvest the deep. To the left of the door the usual proclamation, finely inscribed, listed the fees for the recovery of the corpse of a loved one or relative. Athelstan noticed how the price of a murder victim had risen steeply to three shillings. The Fisher of Men himself came outside to greet them. The Fisher’s bald head and skeletal face were framed by a shiny leather black cowl edged with lambswool; a heavy military coat, made of the purest wool, hid his body, hanging down to elegantly spurred, high-heeled riding boots. He clasped their hands and, as usual, asked Athelstan to deliver his most solemn blessing. Icthus sounded the horn to summon all the Fisher’s beloved disciples to gather on the cobbles. Once the eerie congregation was assembled, Athelstan intoned St Francis of Assisi’s blessing followed by the ‘
Salve Regina’
– Hail Holy Queen.

Once vespers were over, the Fisher of Men led Cranston and Athelstan into the Sanctuary of Souls, a long rectangular chamber scrubbed with lime mixed with vinegar. On a dais at the far end stood an altar draped with a purple cloth; above it a huge crucifix. The Fisher’s guests, as he called the corpses, lay on trestle tables, covered by funeral cloths drenched in bitter pine juice. Despite this the stench of death and decay hung heavy. The Fisher gave them each a pomander soaked in rose water, whilst two of his grotesques, swinging thuribles, perfumed the air with sweet incense smoke. The Fisher took them over to one of the tables and pulled back the cloth to reveal the liverish face and bloated corpse of the minstrel Ronseval.

‘We heard about what happened at The Candle-Flame.’ The Fisher’s voice was pleasant, his Norman French as cultivated as any clerk in chancery. ‘I wondered if the waters there might bear fruit. Sir John, I know you have issued warrants for certain individuals who’ve apparently fled. My spies at the Standard in Cheapside and around the Cross at St Paul’s keep me informed. Anyway, late this morning, Icthus and my beloveds discovered this corpse floating in the reeds of Southwark side, not far from The Candle-Flame.’ Athelstan handed the pomander to Sir John, took out the phial of holy oil and anointed the corpse, bestowing absolution for any sins of a soul which may not yet have travelled to judgement. He did so swiftly, trying to ignore all the gruesome effects of violent, harrowing death: the staring eyes; the blood-encrusted, purple-hued face; the body almost swollen to bursting with stinking river water; and the cause of Ronseval’s death, the hard-quilled crossbow bolt driven so deeply into his chest. Athelstan suspected it had shattered the man’s heart. The friar stood back and scrutinized the corpse.

‘Killed instantly,’ he declared. ‘And that is stating the obvious. The corpse is river-swilled. How long would you say it was in the water?’

‘At least a night. We have washed away some of the dirt but, apart from that, made little preparation.’

‘Notice the dagger,’ Athelstan declared, ‘still in its sheath, the cap buttoned, the money purse still on the belt. See how deep the arrow bolt is embedded. Ronseval was killed at very close quarters. He left yesterday evening going out in the dark. He was not the victim of a robbery. Ronseval met someone he trusted down on the river bank, a lonely, secluded place. He allowed his killer to draw very close. He suspected nothing. He didn’t even unclasp the strap on his dagger sheath.’ Athelstan peered closer. ‘The same barb was used against those two archers.’

‘We also found this.’ The Fisher crouched, drew a water-soaked chancery satchel from under the table and placed it on a nearby stool. Athelstan recognized it as Ronseval’s. He took it and shook out the contents: clothing, baubles, a knife, Ave beads, a purse and scrolls of parchment, most of these damaged by water. Whilst Cranston and Fisher discussed the situation in the city, Athelstan attempted to decipher some of the writings but decided he would have to wait until the parchment was dry. Nevertheless, his eye was caught by one scrap of parchment in which Ronseval had attempted the newly structured sonnet coming out of Italy. This piece of parchment had escaped relatively unscathed. Athelstan read it carefully: the poetry, both rhythm and rhyme, were uneven but the content was thought provoking, a love poem from one man to another.

‘Sir John?’ he called out. ‘The Fisher of Men has a claim on all such property, but I need this.’ He held up the scroll of parchment. The Fisher of Men shrugged his acceptance even as Cranston beckoned the friar over.

‘Brother, our friend here has some rather interesting information about our honourable Member of the Commons, Sir Robert Paston.’

‘Not here,’ the Fisher declared. ‘Brother Athelstan, are you finished?’

The friar said he was. Arrangements were agreed about the burial of Ronseval’s corpse and the disposal of his effects, and the Fisher of Men led them into his solar, a comfortable chamber off the Sanctuary of Souls with a mantled hearth and quilted chairs. Hot spiced posset was served, the Fisher toasting Cranston and Athelstan with his goblet.

‘If you use the river as we do,’ he said, smacking bloodless lips, ‘as a way of life, you observe many things.’

‘Be brief, my friend,’ Cranston intervened. ‘Darkness is falling. Night approaches and we must be gone.’

‘Sir Robert Paston is a wool merchant,’ the Fisher declared. ‘He owns
The Five Wounds
, a handsome, deep-bellied cog which takes his wool to Flanders.’

‘And?’ Cranston insisted.

‘
The Five Wounds
empties its cargo then sails down the west coast of France to Bordeaux.’

‘To collect wine and import it,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘a prosperous and very lawful trade.’

‘Sir Robert,’ the Fisher countered, ‘seems very inquisitive about other cogs. We often see him in a special barge hired at a La Reole. He stops at certain ships.’

‘Which ships?’

‘Brother, you name any standard and I’m sure Sir Robert knows it. He often goes aboard to confer with their masters.’