Candle Flame (18 page)

‘Master Hugh, bolt and lock that after me. The same for the door in the rood screen. Once you have done that no one can enter from the nave. Use the jakes pot and do not go out. If anyone tries to come through the sacristy they will have to knock on the outside door. Make sure that’s bolted as well. Use the eyelet to determine friend or foe. I trust you consider me, Benedicta, Crim or the Hangman amongst the former.’ He extended a hand for Hornsey to clasp. ‘Goodnight, Master Hugh.’

Athelstan wearily left the church. He heard Hornsey bolt the doors behind him and plodded back through the dark to his house. He unlocked the door; the kitchen was cold, the fire had burnt low. Athelstan felt so tired he didn’t care. He slumped down at the table and fell fast asleep. He was given a rude awakening by a pounding on his door just after dawn. He jumped to his feet, his heart a-flutter and his flesh tingling cold. The fire and brazier had burnt out; the candles were no more than stubs. Grey dawn light peeked through the shutters and tendrils of mist curled beneath the door. Athelstan stared around. Bonaventure was nowhere to be seen. ‘I don’t blame you, cat, this is not a place of rest.’ Again the pounding at the door. Athelstan hastily unlocked and unbolted it. The Hangman, together with Benedicta and Crim, stood gasping in the bleak dawn light.

‘Father, quickly! It’s the fugitive!’

Athelstan followed them out, slipping and slithering on the icy rutted trackway up the steps, through the porch and into the church. It was freezing cold. The Hangman muttered something but Athelstan already had a premonition which proved true. Hugh of Hornsey lay dead in the sacristy almost as if he was floating on a wide, shimmering pool of dark red blood. He had been killed with a crossbow bolt loosed deep into his chest, almost the same way as his lover, Ronseval. He laid tangled and twisted, eyes staring blindly, blood-encrusted lips parted.

‘I think you paid for what you saw,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘and so you were marked down for slaughter.’ Athelstan blessed the corpse and glanced over his shoulder at the Hangman. ‘You were here all night? You never left?’

‘Father, I heard you leave, then the fugitive bolting all three doors. After that, nothing.’

‘I came in to prepare for Mass,’ Benedicta spoke up. ‘The doors to the nave were all locked. That door,’ she pointed to the one which sealed the sanctuary from the sacristy, ‘that door,’ she repeated, ‘was wide open, as was the door from the sacristy to the cemetery. The fugitive was lying as you found him. He must have been killed when he opened the door to use the garderobe.’

‘No.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I told him not to do that.’ He went over to the mercy enclave and inspected the covered jakes pot. He hastily resealed it, wrinkling his nose, and returned to stand over the corpse. ‘He had no need to go out. Not only did I warn him but Hornsey was an experienced soldier; he would be wary of leaving the safety of the sanctuary. Moreover, if that did happen it would mean his killer might have had to wait for hours in the freezing cold. No,’ Athelstan paused, ‘once more the paradox. Hornsey must have truly trusted his assassin.’ Athelstan walked into the sacristy to inspect the door to the outside. ‘Look, the eyelet hatch is down. Hornsey must have lowered it, looked out, recognized his killer, but felt safe enough to unlock the door. The bolts and locks,’ Athelstan crouched down, ‘are unmarked. No sign of force. Yes, yes,’ Athelstan continued, ‘it must have been so. Somehow the killer deceived Hornsey, who actually scrutinized his would-be assassin and utterly trusted him.’

‘True,’ Benedicta followed him over, ‘the killer must have struck swiftly, not tarrying outside in the freezing night.’

‘Precisely,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘So who was it? Why did Hornsey trust him so much?’ He smiled absent-mindedly at Benedicta and walked back to the corpse. He administered the last rites then knelt on the bottom altar step, whilst the Hangman and Benedicta fetched the bailiffs, a shambling, drink-sodden group of men, bitterly complaining about the cold. They were shocked by what had happened, gazing fearfully at the corpse. All raised their hands and swore in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament that during the previous night they had seen no one approach the church nor heard anything to alarm them. Athelstan wondered how alert they had been but, as he whispered to himself, ‘
Alea iacta
– the dice is thrown.’ He instructed them to remove Hornsey’s corpse to the new parish death house. Benedicta promised that she would help Beadle Bladdersmith, Godbless and the Hangman of Rochester prepare the cadaver for burial. They discussed the cleansing of the church and the need to inform the bishop. Athelstan declared he would not celebrate his daily Mass or meet any of his parishioners. By now Benedicta and the Hangman had been joined by the bell clerk, Judith and Ranulf; they all assured Athelstan that they would look after the church, its precincts and, once he had gone, the priest’s house.

Athelstan left and hurried across to the house, having despatched Crim to rouse Sir John. Once inside Athelstan locked the door. For a while he just sat feeding the meagre fire, allowing the tears of sheer frustration and despondency to well up, even as he murmured lines from the psalms asking for divine help. When Bonaventure scratched at the door to be let in, Athelstan crossed himself and smiled at the crucifix nailed to the wall. ‘So that’s your response,’ he murmured. ‘You have sent Bonaventure to help.’ He allowed the cat in and for a while fussed over him, feeding him morsels from the buttery. At last, feeling more composed, Athelstan stripped, washed and shaved, donning new linen underwear and taking fresh robes from the clothes chest. He rubbed oil into his hands and face, took a deep breath and wondered what he would do. ‘Distraction,’ he whispered to a sleeping Bonaventure lounging across the hearth, ‘is good for the soul.’

Athelstan began to walk up and down the kitchen, reciting, as he would a litany, the questions and problems which prevented him from unlocking the mysteries challenging him. Athelstan had been taught the technique by Brother Siward, Master of Logic at Blackfriars. ‘Siward!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘A Saxon name. He was always so very proud of his Saxon ancestors. He loved to quote their poem about the Battle at Maldon and of course his precious Beowulf. He always had a soft spot for me, Bonaventure, because I bore the name of the great Saxon king. I wonder if Siward would loan me his manuscripts. Anyway …’ Athelstan continued walking up and down, watched curiously by a bemused Bonaventure, who was fascinated by this little priest who shared his home and food with him. ‘Now,’ Athelstan sketched a blessing in Bonaventure’s direction, ‘we have Marsen and his company arrive at The Candle-Flame. They chose it because of the Barbican, a safe and secure refuge, or so they thought. A prosperous tavern, its master is probably in Thibault’s pay. Marsen was a great sinner against the Lord like Ahab in the Old Testament, given to double-dealing in everything he did. He collected taxes as well as every scrap of information, either for own nefarious use or that of his master. Marsen loved his task, Bonaventure; he seemed to relish making enemies. He insulted Paston but there is little evidence of any relationship between him and the other chamber guests. The only exception is Physician Scrope, Marsen’s secret enemy, who was preparing an indictment against him for previous crimes.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Marsen sets up the outside watch under Hornsey. They camp on the Palisade, where they are given food and drink by Thorne. In the Barbican’s lower chamber is the internal watch, three archers who lock and bolt the door behind them. Marsen believes he can relax, he has food and drink and the company of two whores. One of them arrives with a bag which clinked. Was it money, Bonaventure, or was it that chainmail wristguard? If it was, why was it brought to the Barbican by a whore and, more importantly, why was it left?’ Athelstan stared down at the cat. ‘I must apologize to my congregation, even though it is only you, Bonaventure. You also have your needs.’

Athelstan went into the buttery, poured himself a stoup of ale and filled Bonaventure’s bowl with some of the milk Benedicta had brought. The friar watched the cat hungrily lap his morning drink. ‘Good,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Then there is the exchequer chest. Had it been opened, and why? Marsen and Mauclerc would be careful, especially with two whores in the chamber. Yet, even if it was partially locked, why would the other two keys still be left on cords hanging round their owners’ neck? Apparently the killer-thief did not need them.’ Athelstan sipped at his ale. ‘No potion or poison could be traced in the food or drink. So, Bonaventure, we move to the heart of this mystery. Two archers were slain by the campfire. Three more in the lower chamber, four souls in the one above, yet both window and door were locked and bolted, whilst the trapdoor to Marsen’s chamber was clasped shut from the upper side. How could a killer inflict such damage, provoke no real resistance and open a locked exchequer chest, even if the third clasp had been released, then remove the treasure and leave, passing as it were through sheer stone?’

Athelstan stopped to listen to the sounds echoing from outside, shouts and cries as Hornsey’s corpse was removed. ‘Yet another mystery, Bonaventure. Hornsey’s murderer could have only entered our church by the door to the sacristy. Hornsey first peered through the eyelet and then, all trusting, opened the door and was immediately killed. The same, Bonaventure,’ Athelstan started his pacing again, ‘yes, just like Physician Scrope, only his death is even more mysterious. He was killed in a locked, bolted chamber. Wait now.’ Athelstan’s fingers flew to his lips as he recalled Lascelles being struck the previous evening. He must, he promised himself, truly reflect on what he’d seen last night, but, for the moment, he was too tired; it would have to wait. ‘Why, oh why, Bonaventure, was Scrope killed in such a way? What did he see when he went out? Why was he clutching that pilgrim book on Glastonbury?’ Athelstan, sipping his ale, crouched by the hearth, using a poker to shatter the crumbling, flame-flickering ash. ‘As for the spy, well, Master Thibault will have to wait. And Beowulf – a silent, skilled killer, like you, Bonaventure? He has undoubtedly struck twice: at Lascelles that morning in the stableyard and more successfully last night. This time, he killed Lascelles and nearly did the same to Thibault. I wonder.’ Athelstan put the poker down; a thought had occurred to him. Was Beowulf sheltering at The Candle-Flame or was he simply using the tavern as a shield? Athelstan got to his feet. ‘And there are other strands to this mystery, Bonaventure. I must have a word with Mooncalf, Martha and Master Foulkes. Where were they going on the night those murders occurred? And why did a young whore visit Paston? Questions, questions, Bonaventure! Those two lovers Ronseval and Hornsey executed in the same way, the killer very close. Both men undoubtedly trusted that son of Cain. And why did Ronseval leave the tavern …?’ Athelstan paused in his self-lecture at a pounding at the door. He hurriedly unlocked it, drew the bolts and stood back as Cranston swept in, his cloak billowing out as if he was the herald of God Almighty.

‘I heard what happened, Athelstan. Hornsey’s slain, the fool!’ Cranston paused as Bonaventure, who seemed to adore the coroner, padded across to brush himself against Sir John’s boots, his one eye staring up in mute admiration. ‘God’s teeth, I can’t stand cats!’

‘He certainly likes you.’ Athelstan shooed Bonaventure away and made Sir John sit and listen to what he had learnt from Hornsey. Once he had finished, Cranston, threading his beaver hat through his hands, stared bleakly at Athelstan.

‘Do you think we will ever solve this, Brother?’

‘Sir John, I do not know.’

‘Thibault is furious. He regarded Lascelles as kith and kin. He visited me at the Guildhall and told me that was Beowulf’s work last night. Master Thorne found Beowulf’s usual message pinned to a newel post on the tavern staircase. He sent it immediately to the Guildhall. Brother Athelstan, I do fear for Pike and Watkin. Thibault may well make an example of them. I have used all the influence I can to delay their arraignment before the justices. Now, Brother,’ Cranston got to his feet, ‘let’s go deeper into this maze. We must visit The Golden Oliphant and the Mistress of the Moppets. Let us see what that madam has to say for herself. Brother, what is it?’

‘Just a thought, Sir John, but isn’t it rather strange? The Upright Men invade The Candle-Flame. I could understand why they would not lift a hand against Brother Marcel or Roger, as they are priests. Violence against clerics incurs spiritual penalties and, whatever the Upright Men may boast, old habits die hard. What is remarkable is that no violence was offered to Sir Robert Paston, a manor lord, a natural enemy of the Upright Men, or even to Thorne or his own household.’

‘Whom they probably regard as in Thibault’s pay.’

‘The Upright Men,’ Athelstan declared, ‘would be angry. They apparently searched and found no treasure, yet they didn’t turn on their hostages.’

‘Which they certainly can do,’ Cranston added quickly. ‘One of my spies informed me how the Upright Men executed Grapeseed, who mocked them. They used his severed head as a public display of their power. Yes, it’s an interesting thought.’ Cranston chewed the corner of his lip. ‘But we must not be too hasty. Remember, the Upright Men were disturbed in their search by the arrival of Thibault and his soldiers. God knows what they would have done if that hadn’t happened. But come, Brother, let me broaden your experience of this world.’

They left the precincts of St Erconwald’s. Athelstan, head down, hood pulled over, did not wish to converse with parishioners all agog with the news of Pike and Watkin being taken up and Hornsey slain in sanctuary. The exception was Benedicta, whom he called over. He opened his wallet and took out a seal of the Dominican order with a cross on one side and a crowned lily on the other.

‘Take this to Brother Siward at Blackfriars, would you, please? I appreciate the weather is harsh but this is important …’

‘I was planning to visit Cheapside,’ she replied, ‘and remember, Brother, I have been to Blackfriars before on your behalf. I’ve met Brother Siward.’