Candle Flame (17 page)

‘I said the Candle-Flame attracted the moths of murder,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I should really go back there.’ He crossed himself, went through the rood screen and up into the sanctuary. Hugh of Hornsey was dozing in the mercy enclave. Athelstan took a stool and sat down close to him. Hornsey woke, blinking his eyes and rubbing his face.

‘Brother Athelstan, the hour is late.’ He pointed to the heavy-lidded jake pot. ‘My apologies, I have used that, the smell …?’

‘Incense covers a multitude of sins,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘but, Master Hugh, I have dire news. Ronseval lies dead – murdered. His corpse has been taken from—’ Athelstan broke off at Hornsey’s cry of disbelief. The archer, mouth half-open, rocked backwards and forwards, hands half-raised in supplication.

‘God assoil him,’ Athelstan continued gently. ‘God loves him as did you, didn’t you? You share that love which David had for Jonathon in the Old Testament, the love which surpasses that of a man for any woman?’ Athelstan’s remark calmed some of Hornsey’s obvious grief. He lowered his hands and sobbed, head down, a heart-rending sound which provoked Athelstan’s compassion. He stretched out and placed his hand on the archer’s head, quietly reciting a blessing.

‘He has gone to God, Master Hugh. I have prayed over him and I will do so again. Tomorrow morning,’ Athelstan turned to the altar, ‘I will offer the Jesus Mass for Ronseval’s long journey into the light so that when the accuser, the adversary, presents his challenge, Christ’s blood will answer it. But now, you must tell me the truth and I shall help you.’ Athelstan paused, listening to the profound silence which hung deep throughout the church. The stillness was broken only by Hornsey’s quiet sobbing, like that of a child, and the scrape of the sanctuary stool as the former archer shifted in his grief.

‘Tell me, Master Hugh, the truth for the love of God and the saving of all our souls.’ Hornsey stopped rocking backwards and forwards; he took his hands away from his face.

‘Ronseval,’ he began tentatively, ‘the troubadour did not follow Marsen because of any ballad or poem.’ Hornsey lifted his head, breathing in deeply. ‘I am, Father, what you see: a soldier, a bowman, a captain of archers. I met Ronseval years ago when we both served in the royal array. From my youth I have never felt any love or urge for a woman. I have tried but,’ he shrugged and glanced away, ‘in his youth Ronseval was beautiful. He and I became brothers in soul, heart-clasped, two comrades. We knew the danger of such a love. If we had been caught in the act, we could have been burnt or impaled on stakes. Life swept us apart. I met him again here in Southwark. There are places, taverns, alehouses.’ He half-smiled. ‘I am sure Sir John and his law officers will have a list of such establishments.’ Hornsey paused. Athelstan sensed the fugitive was thinking swiftly, like a ship preparing to trim its sails against the shifting wind. ‘Oh, by the way,’ Hornsey indicated with his head, ‘I heard the clamour, the snatches of words about men being taken up by Thibault and his coven?’

‘Lascelles is dead,’ Athelstan replied and he described in a few pithy sentences what had happened. ‘Anyway,’ Athelstan concluded, ‘this does not resolve the mysteries confronting me. You and Ronseval were lovers but these murders …?’

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

‘No!’ Athelstan almost shouted. ‘I will not shrive you. I will not hear your confession. I know what you want. Once you have told me under the seal I cannot discuss it. This is not the time for games but for the truth. Moreover, such a confession would be invalid.’

Hornsey’s eyes shifted, glancing down the church as if he feared someone lurking in the darkness. He opened and shut his mouth.

‘The truth?’ Athelstan insisted.

‘Marsen was hated,’ Hornsey replied slowly. ‘But that is stating the obvious. We all knew he had a violent past. There must have been many who would have loved to take his head. Indeed, on the night he died, the entire tavern seemed to be as busy as a rabbit warren in spring. Sir Robert Paston was up along the galleries. He saw me, I saw him. He looked worried, anxious. A young woman visited him.’

‘His daughter?’

‘No, a whore, a well-cut and prosperous one but still a whore. She knocked on Paston’s door and went in. She must have left some time later. There were others walking about. I am talking about very late in the evening.’

‘Who?’

‘Paston’s daughter, Martha, and her lovelorn clerk, Foulkes. I saw them together with that gormless-looking ostler Mooncalf in the Dark Parlour.’

‘And Brother Roger?’

‘I never saw him. He must have been in his chamber and stayed there.’

‘And Scrope the physician?’

‘Oh, he was wandering about slightly drunk, unsteady on his feet. I saw him come from outside. He was carrying a lantern horn. He said he wanted to visit Marsen.’

‘And Master Thorne, Mine Host?’

‘Busy in the taproom and out in the stableyard.’

‘And finally the killer?’

Hornsey just stared, his lower lip jutting out. Athelstan caught a mere shift in the man’s eyes. This sharp-witted captain of archers was keeping his own counsel. Athelstan quietly considered the possibilities. Hornsey was finished as a royal retainer. He might be innocent of murder and theft but he had left his post without good reason and there was every possibility that he could be exposed, tried and punished, not only as a deserter but as a self-confessed sodomite. Hornsey himself must have accepted that. So was he planning for the future? A vast amount of money had been stolen. Had Hornsey seen the killer? Or could he prove who it was? Was Hornsey hoping that he might escape and use his knowledge to acquire a share of the plunder, a small fortune to set himself up as a prosperous peasant farmer, merchant or trader far beyond this city? Hornsey would not be the first to assume a new name, an identity, a fresh start to a different life.

‘Brother, do you have more questions?’

‘Oh, of course I do but I am not too sure if they will be answered truthfully. I suspect, Master Hornsey, that you know more than you have told me.’

‘Brother,’ Hornsey held a hand up, ‘I have told you the truth.’

‘But not the full truth.’ Athelstan tried to curb his welling temper. ‘Tell me now: why did Marsen choose The Candle-Flame? I have asked the others the same question but I would like to hear it from you.’

‘I suspect it was chosen for him. Master Thorne is probably in the pay of Thibault. The tavern has many entrances by land and by river. The Barbican is a strong, fortified tower, ideal for Marsen, or so he thought, to protect himself and his treasure.’

Athelstan nodded in agreement. Hornsey’s assertion was logical. Most of London’s taverners worked for Thibault, be it out of fear or favour or both. Athelstan decided to take another direction.

‘Marsen,’ he declared, ‘collected taxes. He was good at it, yes?’

‘Yes. He took to it like a rat gnawing cheese.’

‘But he collected information as well, didn’t he?’

‘Of course. Marsen sifted all the gossip and—’

‘No,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘Marsen was just not a snapper-up of mere trifles, he was hunting, wasn’t he? In fact,’ Athelstan jabbed a finger, ‘he was hunting people like yourself because that was Marsen’s nature, so he could control, bully and blackmail. That was the cause of your quarrel with Ronseval, wasn’t it?’

‘True.’ Hornsey rubbed his face. ‘Ronseval and I used to meet. On that day late in the evening he invited me to his chamber. He wanted me to relax with him. I told him that was far too dangerous. We argued and we sulked, sometimes we whispered and on one occasion we just sat silently. Ronseval didn’t realize how evil Marsen truly was.’

‘Do you think Marsen suspected your secret?’

‘It’s possible. I was adamant in protecting it. Yes, there was a quarrel. I drew my knife and a little blood was spilt, but only a cut. I eventually left and returned to my post.’

‘And?’ Athelstan intervened.

‘The two archers were dead. I was still carrying Ronseval’s dagger. I was so shocked I dropped it. I was fearful—’

‘No, stop.’ Athelstan held a hand up. ‘You left Ronseval’s chamber, yes? The tavern lay quiet, yes? So when you entered the Palisade what did you actually see?’

‘The campfire had burnt down. My two comrades lay sprawled, crossbow quarrels deep in their chest. Apart from that there was a deathly silence. I could not see nor hear anything untoward.’

‘How along had you been away – the truth?’

‘By the time candle in Ronseval’s chamber about three hours.’

‘Paston said you appeared around midnight.’

‘No, that was pretence. I had in fact been there for some time. I didn’t want anyone to realize that. So I went outside the chamber and knocked on the door, pretending to have just arrived.’

‘Your comrades, I mean, if they had survived?’

‘Brother, I was their captain. I told them I was going to patrol the tavern and the surrounding streets – that was part of the quarrel. I wanted Ronseval to leave his chamber,’ he flailed a hand, ‘to walk with me, to go elsewhere. He refused to acknowledge how dangerous Marsen truly was.’ Hornsey picked up the tankard beside him and drained it. ‘As I said, I found both men dead. I immediately ran to the Barbican and knocked. No one answered. I could hear no sound. It was obvious a hideous mischief had been perpetrated. By then I was so terrified I staggered away to be sick. Once I’d recovered, I returned to Ronseval. I told him what I had seen. He asked for his dagger. I told him I had dropped it. We quarrelled. He wanted me to stay but I begged him to flee with me.’ He shook his head. ‘On reflection it was stupid, but I was terrified more than on any battle day. I had deserted my post and my comrades lay slain – the man I was supposed to protect probably so as well.’

‘These two archers … before you left them, how were they?’

‘Oh, they were good men, tired and weary after a day’s work, resentful at being given such an onerous watch. But they had fire and food. They said they had eaten well. Thorne’s meal was hot and spicy. They tried to entice me with what they had left but I couldn’t eat. I said I wasn’t hungry. In fact, I was too nervous.’

‘So they had eaten and drank before you left?’

‘Oh, yes, and with no ill effects.’

‘And Marsen had instructed you to unlock the third clasp of the exchequer chest?’

Hornsey nodded in agreement.

‘So,’ Athelstan mused, ‘what happened? Did Marsen and Mauclerc unlock the other two?’

‘Brother, I cannot say.’

‘And the two whores?’

‘Mere shadows. I saw them slip into the Barbican.’

‘Had Marsen visited The Golden Oliphant, the brothel run by the Mistress of the Moppets?’

‘Of course. Marsen swept in there like Gaunt himself demanding this and that. He would know a few of her secrets as well.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Athelstan stirred on the stool, fighting a deep exhaustion which wearied him. ‘Marsen collected information, knowledge. Was he searching for anything specific?’

‘Certainly,’ Hornsey replied, ‘I heard about what happened in Cheapside, the attack by the Earthworms. Haven’t you or Cranston ever wondered how the Earthworms can suddenly appear on horses in deep disguise all weaponed for war?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, horses can be stabled all over the city but those shields and spears, the masks – where can they be stored? How can a throng of armed men abruptly emerge in the heart of the city? How could they bring in such weaponry without being noticed? Marsen was searching for where those arms were bought, where they could be stored and how they could be transported hither and thither with impunity.’

Athelstan sat silent. Again what Hornsey said was logical. Horses could be stabled at alehouses or taverns, but there were at least forty Earthworms involved with that affray in Cheapside – all those spears, swords and clubs?

‘You see, Brother, the Upright Men have learnt their lesson. A year ago they stored such weapons in taverns, brothels, alehouses, even cemeteries and crypts. They could dig pits but these could be found. Thibault’s searchers were hot in pursuit so now the Upright Men have moved on. Marsen had more than a passing interest in discovering just where these weapons were bought, where they were kept and how they were moved about. Before you ask, Marsen discovered nothing. He was furious. I suspect that’s why Lascelles visited him just for a short while on the evening before the murders. Thibault wanted the taxes but information can be just as precious.’

‘Anything else?’ Athelstan demanded.

‘You told me about Lascelles being killed. Brother, I give this to you in gratitude for what you have done for me. You do realize Thibault was tricked and trapped tonight?’

‘By the Upright Men?’

‘No, by Beowulf the assassin. Somehow or other,’ Hornsey smiled grimly, ‘that murderous will-o’-the-wisp brought Thibault and the Upright Men together. He pedalled information to the Upright Men, enticed them into The Candle-Flame, then gave similar information to Master Thibault. He knew there would be a confrontation. What better time to hide and wait for the opportunity to destroy Thibault and his henchman?’

Athelstan sat still, surprised. He had suspicions about what had truly caused the confrontation at The Candle-Flame. Hornsey’s explanation was logical. Marsen’s treasure, heavy to carry, could well be buried or hidden somewhere in The Candle-Flame or the land around it. The Upright Men would be keen to seize it – they had proclaimed as much. On the other hand, Thibault would grasp any opportunity to inflict bloody damage on his enemy. Hornsey was right. Thibault and Lascelles had rushed into Beowulf’s ambush. Lascelles had been killed and it was only by sheer chance that Thibault had narrowly escaped a similar fate. Athelstan rose to stand beneath the pyx. Mentally he beat his breast and confessed his arrogance. Hugh of Hornsey was not just a simple soldier. He was more cunning and subtle than Athelstan had judged. He was an archer who had risen through the ranks, stood in the line of battle and survived on his wits, whilst hiding his own dangerous secrets. Was he also cunning enough to plot that massacre at the Barbican? The former captain of archers was steadily climbing what Athelstan called ‘the Devil’s staircase’. True, he had fled The Candle-Flame and taken sanctuary. However, at the same time he was taking one step away from the disaster which had nearly engulfed him. He was climbing away from both the truth and his own mistakes. Hornsey had seen something but he was determined to keep this to himself, to use further up the Devil’s staircase. Athelstan closed his eyes and prayed. It would be futile to continue the questioning, to pursue this any further. He crossed himself, opened his eyes and pointed to the door to the sacristy.