Candle Flame (28 page)

‘Yes,’ Foulkes admitted. ‘He certainly had. He informed us how he had invested good silver in drawing up a bill of indictment which he had lodged with a notable serjeant of law at the Inns Court. He assured us that if anything happened to him, Mooncalf, the lawyer would immediately send the bill of indictment to the Bishop of London’s curia. He told us that we each had to make a payment and he would never raise the matter again. He gave us until the end of this month. If we had not paid by St David’s Day, he would denounce us as he had Sparwell.’ Foulkes shrugged and stared at Sir Robert, who had sat through the questioning, hands on the table, staring down at the Book of the Gospels.

‘Mooncalf,’ Foulkes added slowly, ‘said we would have to make a third payment for Sir Robert, not for any heresy but for lechery.’

‘I confess,’ Sir Robert raised a hand, ‘that neither my daughter nor Master William told me any of this directly, though I suspected.’

‘Did Marsen know?’ Cranston asked.

‘I cannot say and I don’t really care,’ Sir Robert whispered. He lifted his head. ‘My daughter thinks I may be responsible for his murder and that of the others.’ He turned to face his daughter. ‘You said as much with your eyes …’ His voice trailed off and he sat as if deaf to his daughter’s heated denials.

‘You are Lollards,’ Athelstan declared. ‘You face harassment and persecution. Now tell me something. Whom do you fear, I mean, apart from the likes of Mooncalf?’

‘The Bishop of London.’

‘What about the Papal Inquisitor? Have you or your conventicle had any dealings with him?’

‘No we have not. We raised this matter with Mooncalf. He simply replied that the Inquisitor meant nothing to him.’ Foulkes spread his hands. ‘What will happen to us?’

‘Wait and see,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘for we have not finished.’ He summoned Tiptoft and asked him to bring Mooncalf from where he had been detained in one of the loft chambers. A short while later the sweaty-faced ostler was pushed into the room. Mooncalf was all a-tremble as Athelstan indicated he sit on the stool at the other end of the table facing him. The friar then rose, picked up the Book of the Gospels and walked round, placing it before the terrified ostler. Athelstan demanded that Mooncalf put his hand on the book and repeat the oath he administered. The ostler did so in a harsh, stuttering voice. Once he had finished, Athelstan put the book back and returned to place his hand on Mooncalf’s shoulder. The ostler was trembling so much he couldn’t sit still.

‘Sir John.’ The friar winked at Cranston. ‘What is the punishment for a blackmailer convicted on at least three or four counts?’

‘Strangling.’ Cranston’s blunt reply rang through the chamber. ‘Strangling on a special gibbet. However, according to ancient custom, blackmail ranks with heresy so it can mean hanging over a slow-burning fire.’ Mooncalf moaned a long, drawn-out sound which came from the heart.

‘You are a blackmailer,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly. ‘Three of your planned victims sit close by. Death, however, draws near. It stretches out its cold, skeletal fingers to seize you by the nape of your neck.’ Athelstan moved his own hand accordingly. ‘You are going to die, Mooncalf, just as horribly as Sparwell, whose innocent soul you sent for judgement.’ Athelstan walked back to his own place. He warned Cranston with his eyes to let the silence deepen. They needed Mooncalf. If he cooperated, Cranston would inflict just punishment. ‘You want to escape the rigours of the law?’ Athelstan eventually asked. Mooncalf, half-choking, grunted his assent. ‘Master Foulkes, you too want to assist me?’

‘Of course,’ the clerk replied.

‘Good.’ Athelstan rose and took a piece of parchment from his chancery satchel. ‘You and Mooncalf will be taken to a private chamber. You will ask him the questions listed here. You will carefully write his responses. Mooncalf, I want the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. No additions or subtractions, just honest and accurate replies to very simple questions. Do you understand?’ Mooncalf nodded, rubbing his hands together and peering nervously over his shoulder. Athelstan summoned Tiptoft and Sir Simon, giving them strict instructions how the Pastons should be kept under close guard. Foulkes and Mooncalf were to be given a separate chamber and the clerk furnished with all the writing necessaries he would require.

Once the door closed behind them all, Cranston rose, stretched and walked across to the side table. He filled a goblet with the sweet white wine and, at Athelstan’s request, half a cup for the friar.

‘Very good.’ Cranston smacked his lips. ‘I must remember that. The Piebald holds wine as good as its ale.’ The coroner drank again. ‘So the Pastons have nothing to do with Marsen’s murder?’ he asked.

‘All things are still possible, Sir John. Until we have a full confession nothing is certain. I have certainly made mistakes.’

‘Such as?’

‘Foulkes is a learned scribe, a clerk from the schools …’

‘And a former crossbowman? A possible suspect, like Beowulf?’

‘Precisely, Sir John. Foulkes may now be a Lollard but,’ Athelstan laughed sharply, ‘in my brief and sheltered life I have met priests, monks and friars who have killed, killed and killed again. The old proverb is true: “The cowl does not make the monk nor the tonsure the saint”, which brings us to our next guest, Brother Marcel.’

The Inquisitor was full of himself as he strode into the Dark Parlour. Even from where he sat Athelstan could smell the perfumed oil rubbed into Marcel’s smooth, shaven face. His robes were spotless, the strapped sandals a gleaming oaken brown. Athelstan offered him the Book of Gospels but he pushed it away, quoting certain clauses from canon law. Both the coroner and friar had met similar clerical recalcitrance before.

‘Shall we, Sir John?’ Athelstan turned to Cranston.

‘Whatever you wish, Brother Athelstan.’

‘What?’ Marcel pushed his hands up the sleeves of his gown.

‘Brother Marcel, I am going to have you arrested on a charge of high treason. You will be taken to Newgate Prison or the Tower, perhaps the latter. It contains a chamber called “Little Ease” dug beneath the level of the river so it sometimes floods. Rats swarm there. You will be held in such a place – what’s the Norman French for it? Ah, yes:
Sous peine dure et forte
– punishment strong and hard. Of course, our order will argue for your release but the Dominican Minster General, not to mention Father Provincial and Prior Anslem at Blackfriars will find themselves in a veritable quandary.’

‘What do you mean?’ Marcel had now lost a great deal of his arrogance.

‘Well, our order will argue all sorts of things. They will appeal to the Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Sudbury, not to mention the Holy Father and sundry others amongst the great and noble. However, the allegations being levelled are those involving crimes against the English Crown, and they are not brought by some troublemaker but no lesser person than Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London, the king’s own justiciar south of the Thames, and also a fellow Dominican, Brother Athelstan of Southwark. Oh, I am sure that eventually some satisfactory conclusion will be reached. Nevertheless, that could take months, even years, whilst you are left to float in the filth and foul stink of “Little Ease”.’ Athelstan paused. ‘For the love of God, man, take the oath and let’s have done with this business. You were given a task and failed. Logic dictates you have to answer. Years ago we clashed in the schools, we engaged in fierce debate – we shall do so again.’

‘Take the oath,’ Cranston snapped, ‘or I will send for the guard.’ Marcel had recovered his composure, drawing deep breaths, a faint smile as if he conceded he had panicked and made a mistake but that could soon be rectified. He placed his hand on the Book of the Gospels and repeated the words as Athelstan dictated the oath. Afterwards the Inquisitor sniffed and pushed back the chair so he could stretch his legs.

‘I will dispense with the usual courtesies, Brother. You came to this kingdom as a Papal Inquisitor. Oh, I am sure,’ Athelstan waved a hand, ‘that the Holy Father has furnished you with all the necessary documentation. Indeed, my discoveries will come as a great surprise to him. I would even say a nasty shock. Brother Marcel, you are not just a Papal Inquisitor or a Dominican friar but the most secret emissary of Oliver de Clisson, High Constable of France. You were given privy instructions from him to discover and report on the strength and extent of this kingdom’s naval power, particularly along the Thames and in the city of London.’ Athelstan paused as Marcel sprang to his feet.

‘How dare you!’ the Inquisitor thundered. Athelstan clapped his hands as if applauding a mummer’s play.

‘Very good, Brother. There is nothing more engaging than outraged innocence when it’s false.’ Athelstan’s smile faded. ‘This is not some debating hall but a court of law. You must not forget the “Little Ease”, where no one except the rats will be entertained by your false outbursts of hurt innocence. So sit down and let me continue.’

‘Sit down!’ Cranston roared. ‘I am growing tired of this, Brother Marcel. Time is passing and we are very busy. If you are innocent, prove it, then dine with me, but you are not leaving this chamber until we have the truth. Or, if you wish, you can leave for the Tower.’ The Inquisitor slumped back in his chair.

‘You were also sent,’ Athelstan continued, ‘to discover as much as possible about the growing unrest in and around London. In addition you were told to seek out some military post which could be an advantage to any invading fleet. As we all know, Brother Marcel, England has lost its war in France. Our king is only a child; his self-proclaimed Regent is despised by both lords and commons. The peasants and the poor seethe with discontent. Tax collectors and others move across the shires like some pack of rapacious beasts. Our exchequer is empty. No wonder the French perceive a marvellous opportunity to bring war, fire and sword to this kingdom. To let us, God forgive us, experience the same destruction our armies wreaked in France, to teach us a lesson we shall never forget.’ Athelstan sipped from his goblet. Marcel was now quiet and attentive. ‘Good.’ Athelstan breathed in. ‘You, Marcel, are of Gascon parentage but, like many of your countrymen, you have come to resent any alliance with England. You see yourself as French through and through and you wish to prove that. You are a master of the University of Paris. I’m sure Monseigneur Clisson secretly approached you and your present mandate would only be a matter of manipulation. The papal curia has a good number of French cardinals. You have a praiseworthy reputation as a theologian and debater. You are of keen mind and sharp of wit, personable, charming and, of course, utterly ruthless in your quest. You were confirmed as Papal Inquisitor to England but, in truth, you are a French spy.’

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Marcel wetted his lips, ‘what you say, well,’ he shrugged elegantly, ‘most of what you say could be the truth. But where is the evidence for your last claim?’

‘First,’ Athelstan countered, ‘you arrive in England. I have made careful enquiries at Blackfriars. You spent little time at our mother house, whilst you made it very clear to me from the outset that you would not lodge in the Dominican parish of St Erconwald’s. Consequently, instead of staying in one place, you move along the south bank of the Thames, a marvellous opportunity to scrutinize and assess the strength of English shipping. You take very careful note of various craft, the different fortifications and defences, anything which may be of use to Monseigneur Clisson in Paris. You lodge at St Mary Overy, a fact I shall return to, before moving here to The Candle-Flame. This tavern is an ideal watching place; its desolate Palisade and the towering Barbican would be of great use should a French fleet breach our river defences and sail as far as they can up the Thames, which is of course to London Bridge, a mere walk away. The Candle-Flame would be ideal for an invasion force to pitch camp. The French could launch attacks across the river against the city, assault the Tower, seize the bridge …’

‘Proof! Evidence!’ Marcel shouted, yet beneath the pretended outrage Athelstan sensed a deeply agitated soul, wary and watchful.

‘You move to The Candle-Flame because of its location, but also because Sir Robert Paston resides here during his attendance at the Commons,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Paston is an excellent quarry. Bitter, disillusioned and a publicly vowed opponent of John of Gaunt, Paston is also an authority on English shipping. You have marked Paston down whilst, at the same time, you are moving through Southwark, a hotbed of unrest and intrigue. Sir John here believes that we friars are the only people who can move through the slums, which lie only an arrow flight from where we now sit. You take advantage of that. You visited my parish and learnt all you could about the Upright Men, the Great Community of the Realm, the coming revolt, but, above all, you strike up conversations with the Pastons, Sir Robert in particular. You feed his vanity, not that he needs much prompting. Sir Robert holds forth, yielding all kinds of information about English shipping.’ Athelstan took another sip of wine. ‘Do you remember the afternoon I escaped from the fire in the Barbican? I first climbed to the top of that tower. You were there, provided with a spectacular view of the ships, ports, quaysides and defences on both the north and south bank of the river. Even better, Sir Robert was holding forth, an excellent guide, a true source of sound information. In truth, you had a man who could have been Admiral of the Eastern Fleet providing you, a French spy, with your heart’s desire. To everyone else, you just appeared to be a friar, a visitor to these shores asking innocent questions, perhaps developing an interest in shipping. To all appearances you are a Papal Inquisitor, not an expert on cogs of war or river defences. I remember when I escaped from the fire, you were preparing to meet Sir Robert yet again over supper. I suggest by the time that supper was finished you knew as much about English shipping as Master Thibault or any member of the king’s council.’ Athelstan held up a scroll. ‘I asked Sir Robert to draw a report on what you and he discussed; only then, in the cold light of listing items, did Sir Robert become suspicious. He has confessed that quite deftly and cunningly you always brought the conversation back to caravels, hulkes, cogs of war and the state of English defences, be it the ships at the Tower quayside or those patrolling the estuary. I recall you at St Erconwald’s. You were examining a war painting; you lectured Crim, our altar boy, on the difference between a cog and a caravel.’