Candle Flame (33 page)

‘And where did I get the robe?’ Thorne sneered.

‘Oh, my learned colleague Brother Marcel unwittingly supplied it. A most fastidious man, Marcel insisted on changing his robes at least once a day. He sent the used one to your wash house. I saw your washer woman and she commented on it. You and Marcel are of the same build and size.’ Athelstan rose. He walked behind Thorne, bent down and whispered in his ear. ‘You are guilty, Master Thorne. I have established a burden of proof which you cannot answer. You will be condemned to the most gruesome death, but not before Thibault has racked and twisted your body with the most terrible torture. Suspicion will fall on your wife; she too might be questioned. You will be adjudged a traitor. Consequently, even if she is innocent, Mistress Eleanor will lose everything because all your property will be forfeit to the Crown.’ Athelstan straightened up before leaning down again. ‘I invite you to make a full confession. Reveal the whereabouts of the treasure, which, in fact, I know already; confess and express your sorrow. I will ensure a priest shrives you, whilst the Hangman of Rochester, whom I have brought secretly to this tavern, will carry out sentence immediately. The Hangman is most skilled. You would not strangle but die instantly.’ Athelstan turned and walked away. ‘The choice is yours. I suggest you make haste because it’s only a matter of time before Master Thibault interferes. Sir John, tell me, what I offer is both legitimate and judicial?’

‘I am the king’s justiciar,’ Cranston replied, holding Athelstan’s gaze. ‘I have the power to hear and decide. I have authority to carry out, in the king’s own name, the sentence of death be it now or on some appointed day. I can also exercise mercy in the manner of that death. I believe we have said enough.’ Cranston snapped his fingers. ‘Have the prisoner taken down to the cellar. Keep a close watch on him.’ Cranston pointed to the hour candle glowing on its stand under a broad copper cap. ‘By the time the flame reaches midway to the next ring, you, Master Thorne, must decide or it will be decided for you.’ The prisoner was dragged to his feet. He tried to resist, until one of the soldiers punched him hard in the stomach and dragged him groaning from the room.

‘I hope he confesses,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I pray that he does. He murdered twelve people, Sir John, and all for the sake of filthy greed. The love of money is indeed the root of all evil. If he confesses …’ Athelstan took a deep breath.

‘The tavern sign can be his gallows,’ Cranston declared. ‘It stretches high and strong. We will use the same ladder he did to enter the Barbican.’

‘I’d best inform the Hangman, he is also a skilled clerk.’ Athelstan left. Cranston gestured at the two crossbowmen to follow and sat staring at the empty chairs in front of him. Thorne certainly deserved his death but he wondered what Athelstan would do with the others. The coroner dozed for a short while. Now and again he would stir and peer at the hour candle, its flame burning merrily away. Athelstan returned. He spoke to people waiting in the gallery outside and closed the door.

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan walked slowly towards the table. ‘I am going to ask you for an indulgence regarding the Pastons.’

The coroner chewed the corner of his lip. ‘In theory, Brother …’

‘In practice, Sir John, Paston is a good man. He has told the truth and he is guilty of no more than many of his kind in this city. I do not want to see him become the object of Gaunt’s vindictiveness.’ Athelstan kept his face composed. He knew nothing would persuade Cranston more than a dig at the self-proclaimed Regent.

‘His daughter, Martha, and William the clerk are deeply in love. They were of great help to us.’

Cranston waved a hand. ‘As you wish, little friar.’

Athelstan went back, opened the door and ushered Paston, his daughter and Foulkes into the chamber. Once they had taken their seats Athelstan went to stand beside Cranston.

‘Please.’ He smiled. ‘I beg you not to look so anxious. Master William, I thank you for your help as I do you, Sir Robert. Now this is what Sir John and I have decided. Sir Robert, I want you to clear the hold of
The Five Wounds
of all weapons. You will move your ship to another harbour. You will return to Surrey and resign your post as a member of the Commons. You will not become embroiled in politics and cease forthwith your attacks on His Grace the Regent. You will not return to this city unless it is with the special permission of Sir John here and only to do business. Master William, Mistress Martha, you too will not enter this city which is so dangerous for you.’ Athelstan lowered his voice. ‘Go home,’ he urged. ‘Marry each other, love each other. Steer clear of all danger. Keep what you believe in the secrecy of the heart.’ The relief on Sir Robert’s face was obvious. Foulkes looked at Martha, who nodded her agreement.

‘Sir Robert, I suggest you make to leave very, very swiftly.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Paston got to his feet, ‘everything is packed already, Brother. I know what is going to happen here. A special commission of oyer and terminer invariably ends in blood …’

‘True, true,’ Cranston murmured, ‘and Master Thibault will be here very soon.’

The coroner rose and clasped Sir Robert’s hand and that of his daughter and Foulkes. Athelstan did likewise. He sketched a blessing over them and noticed with relief that Martha and William crossed themselves. They had hardly left the chamber when there was a rap on the door and the Hangman of Rochester walked in holding a piece of parchment, which he handed to Athelstan.

‘God knows what happened here, Brother, but Thorne has made a full confession.’ The Hangman fought to keep the surprise out of his voice. ‘He murdered twelve people, he stole the gold …’

‘Did he say where it is?’ Cranston asked.

‘No, Sir John.’ The Hangman clawed at his long, yellowish hair. ‘He just said that Brother Athelstan would know where it is.’ The Hangman’s skeletal face creased into the smile. ‘I suppose he didn’t trust me. Thorne is a broken man, all juddering and trembling. He cries like a baby. He wishes to see his wife and be shriven by a priest.’

‘Let Mistress Eleanor see him then ask Brother Marcel to hear his confession – swiftly, mind you. Tell Marcel to issue a general absolution.’

‘And execution?’

Cranston repeated what he told Athelstan earlier.

The Hangman nodded. ‘I will arrange it.’

‘Do so quickly,’ Athelstan urged. ‘Before Thibault arrives.’ The Hangman left. Athelstan asked to be alone. Sir John clapped him on the shoulder and murmured something about supervising the arrangements. The coroner sheathed his sword, finished his wine and quietly left. Athelstan bolted the door and went to kneel beside the table. He leaned back, eyes closed, as he murmured the ‘
De Profundis
’ and the ‘
Miserere Mei
.’ All was resolved, he thought, yet lives had been shattered, souls despatched to judgement and the storm was still raging. Evil was like a seed, Athelstan thought: it took root and erupted into a wild, malignant tangle. Taverner Thorne probably regretted spending the profits of war on The Candle-Flame and decided to recoup his losses in a most sinister way. He had planned and plotted well but totally underestimated the souls around him, filled with their own private passions, be it Sir Robert Paston’s dabbling in power, Physician Scrope’s desire for vengeance or the highly illicit relationship between Ronseval and Hornsey. Now he was to pay the price. For a while Athelstan made himself relax, thumbing his Ave beads as he prayed for the souls of the departed and for Thorne’s, who would soon be brought to judgement. He dozed until roused by Cranston, his beaver hat pulled down, cloak tied tightly around him.

‘You’d best come, Athelstan,’ he declared quietly. ‘War barges have been glimpsed on the river. Thibault is probably on his way. We are ready. I have brought Mooncalf with me.’ The coroner shouted an order and two crossbowmen, escorting an ashen-faced, trembling Mooncalf came into the passageway.

‘What should we do with him, Brother?’ Cranston whispered. Athelstan walked forward and grasped the ostler’s white, unshaven face between his hands.

‘Master Mooncalf,’ he whispered, ‘you are about to witness the grisly end of a malefactor. Unless you are more prudent and more prayerful, one day you will make the same journey. So tell me now, who is the serjeant-at-law holding your letter denouncing the Pastons?’

‘Master Ravenscott,’ the ostler replied swiftly, eyes almost bulging with terror. ‘Master Jacob Ravenscott. He lodges at The Hoop of Heaven near the Inns of Court.’

‘I know it well,’ Cranston declared. ‘And, as an officer of the law, I will collect that letter and burn it. So, Brother, what shall we do with Mooncalf? Hang him?’

‘No, no.’ Athelstan still held the ostler’s face. He gently squeezed his hands. ‘Listen to me, Mooncalf, and listen well. We shall collect your letter and burn it. If I ever hear that you have troubled the Pastons again, I will have you hanged as high as heaven. You will watch your master suffer just sentence, after which you will pack your possessions and never be seen in London or Southwark again. If you are, my good friend, Sir John Cranston, will issue warrants for your arrest. Do you understand me? I make no idle threats but a vow as sacred as any taken in church. Do you understand?’ Athelstan took his hands away.

‘Yes, Brother!’ If Mooncalf hadn’t been held by the crossbowmen the ostler would have collapsed in nervous prostration.

‘Bring him with us,’ Athelstan ordered. Stepping round the ostler and his guard, Athelstan followed the coroner out into the front of the tavern. A small crowd had assembled, servants and slatterns. Eleanor Thorne was being led away by one of the maids, her heart-rending sobs almost muffled by the blankets thrown around her. The Hangman of Rochester had prepared well. The tavern sign had been removed from its hooks and a thick rope with a noose at the end hung down. Against the signpost leaned a ladder; the Hangman had climbed this and sat legs dangling either side of the projecting branch. The execution area was surrounded by crossbowmen. Thorne appeared. Athelstan was relieved that a sack had been pulled over the taverner’s head. He could see the effect of the man’s laboured breathing. Thorne, hands bound behind his back, was taken to the foot of the ladder. Cranston, in a powerful voice, briefly proclaimed the name of the condemned man, his heinous crimes and how he deserved death. Thorne was immediately pushed up the ladder by the crossbowmen, who thrust him as high as the Hangman instructed, before turning him round. The Hangman leaned forward, shortened the rope and placed the noose over the condemned man’s head, tying the knot expertly just behind his right ear. The Hangman issued another instruction and the crossbowmen pushed the gasping Thorne further up the rungs. Once he was ready, the Hangman gestured at the crossbowmen to go down. He lifted his hand.

‘On my sign!’ he shouted. For a few heartbeats nothing could be heard except the gasps and moans of the condemned man. The sacking over his face was blowing out as he fought for his last breath. The Hangman’s gloved hand dropped. The ladder was twisted. Thorne, hands still tied behind his back, dropped like a stone. Athelstan closed his eyes as he heard the awful crack as the condemned man’s neck broke. He murmured the requiem, opened his eyes and stared at that grim sight. Thorne’s corpse swayed slightly. Athelstan sketched a blessing. At least Thorne had died in the twinkling of an eye. He had not choked as others did, sometimes for as long as it would take to say a rosary, whilst the taverner had escaped the full horrors inflicted by a traitor’s death.

‘Let him hang for an hour,’ Cranston proclaimed, ‘then cut him down. Let Mistress Eleanor have his corpse. Brother Athelstan?’ Cranston took the little friar by the elbow and steered him away. Sir John had witnessed many executions, but he could tell by the friar’s pale face that Athelstan was deeply agitated.

‘Come on, Brother,’ Cranston whispered. ‘We will share a goblet of Bordeaux and what is left of the food whilst we await the arrival of Master Thibault.’

Cranston was correct. They had scarcely poured the wine when Sir Simon Burley announced that the war barges had reached the nearby quayside and Master Thibault could be glimpsed crossing the Palisade. When questioned, the knight banneret assured Cranston that the Pastons had left almost immediately, whilst Mooncalf, almost a gibbering idiot after what he had witnessed, was hastily collecting his paltry possessions, determined at putting as much distance between himself and the ‘Terrible Sir John’. Burley also assured Cranston that the two friars were safely guarded in their respective chambers.

A short while later Thibault, accompanied by his new henchman Albinus, strode into the Dark Parlour. Athelstan lowered his head to hide his smile. Thibault was taking no chances. Both he and his henchman carried kite-shaped shields for protection and both wore long coats of chainmail, which fell beneath the knee. Thibault pushed both helmet and shield into Albinus’ hands, nodded at Cranston and Athelstan then sat down in the judgement chair, peeling off his leather gauntlets.

‘I’ve seen the corpse. I understand the Pastons have left and the guards are laughing at the antics of an ostler who is so terrified he’s soiled himself. A Franciscan priest lies under arrest, likewise a Dominican. In God’s name, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, what has happened here?’

Athelstan told him. He had anticipated this so he chose his words carefully. He made little reference to the Pastons except that Sir Robert now believed he should withdraw from public life in all its aspects. He would reside quietly in his manor, tending his lands and supervising his trade across the Narrow Seas. Thibault seemed slightly amused by this; he grinned over his shoulder at Albinus, a strange-looking man with snow-white hair and reddish skin, his icy-blue eyes ringed by pink.

‘My Lord of Gaunt will be very pleased,’ Thibault murmured, ‘to see the back of Sir Robert both literally and metaphorically. And the creature Mooncalf?’

‘He shouldn’t have meddled where he did,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Now he has seen the error of his ways, I suspect he will be leaving Southwark to seek employment in a tavern just south of the Scottish march.’