Paul Doherty: The Assassin's riddle

Athelstan rapped out a few orders to Watkin and Benedicta.

‘I’ll take you across,’ Moleskin the boatman volunteered.

Sir John accepted the offer and within a few minutes they were all hurrying along the alleyways of Southwark down to the waterside. They clambered into Moleskin’s boat, Samson immediately going to stand in the prow, jaws half open, eyes closed, enjoying the cool evening breezes.

‘I’m sure that bloody dog has a mind of its own!’ Cranston murmured. He glared at Moleskin sitting opposite him, pulling at the oars.

‘We meant well,’ Moleskin replied. ‘We did, Sir John. We can’t let Brother Athelstan leave.’

‘Silence now!’

Athelstan stared up at the darkening sky.

‘Master Colebrooke appears to have been too hard.’

‘No, no, I’ve heard it happen before,’ Cranston replied. ‘Alcest was a clerk. Sometimes it’s the young and apparently strong who succumb, not to the physical pain, but the mental torture. Alcest will not be the first, and certainly not the last, to die of fear.’

Cranston and Athelstan sat back as Moleskin guided his wherry past grain barges, fishing smacks, skiffs, some with lantern horns already hung against the gathering gloom. At last they reached the Tower. Moleskin, eager to please, took them along the quayside and promised he would wait for them. Cranston, Athelstan and Flaxwith clambered out but Samson refused to leave.

‘Treacherous cur!’ the bailiff whispered.

‘I don’t think so,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Moleskin always carries a sausage in his pouch and, if I can smell it, so can Samson.’

They made their way along the pebbled path and across the moat. The gates were closed but a sentry, carrying a torch, opened a postern door and then led them along the narrow lanes on to Tower Green. Colebrooke was waiting, sitting on the steps of the great Norman keep.

‘You were too hard on him!’ Cranston barked.

‘Sir John, we’d hardly begun,’ Colebrooke replied, getting to his feet. ‘I had him manacled to a wall. The questioners applied a burning iron to his arm and suddenly he jerked like a doll, blood pouring through his nose. He’s hardly conscious. I’ll take you to him.’

Cranston told Flaxwith to remain outside as they followed Colebrooke down mildewed steps into the dark, sprawling maze of the Tower dungeons. They found Alcest in one of these, lying on a bundle of clean straw. Athelstan crouched down by the makeshift bed. He noticed a bruise high on Alcest’s right cheek and the blood crusting around the nose at the corner of the mouth. The clerk’s hands and feet were cold as ice. Athelstan felt for the blood pulse in the man’s neck: it was slow and weak. The friar pointed to a tallow candle on the table.

‘Light that!’ he ordered.

Colebrooke did so, as well as the sconce torch on the wall above the door. He handed the candle to Athelstan, who let the flames burn for a while then blew it out, putting the wick under Alcest’s nose. The sharp, acrid fumes made the clerk stir; his eyelids fluttered.

‘Master Alcest,’ Athelstan whispered into his ear. ‘Master Alcest, you are very ill, perhaps even dying.’

‘A priest,’ Alcest murmured. ‘Father, I have such pains in my head. God’s judgement, such terrible pains! I have had them before. Sometimes at night,’ he stammered. ‘Father, I can’t feel my feet or hands, it’s so cold and dark.’ His eyes closed. ‘Shrive me, Father. Shrive me before I die.’

Athelstan looked over his shoulder. ‘Leave us,’ he ordered.

Cranston followed Colebrooke back along the passageway; they went out on to the green where Flaxwith was staring mournfully in the direction of the river.

‘I’m sorry, Sir John,’ Colebrooke confessed. ‘But I’ve seen it happen before. Sometimes, even before battle, a blood pulse breaks in the head or neck; there’s a loss of feeling in the lower limbs.’

‘Do you have a physician?’ Cranston asked.

‘A leech but he’s a drunken sot and at the moment is lying in his chamber. He could hardly open a door, let alone examine a man!’

Cranston walked across to study one of the heavy war machines. ‘Where’s Red Hand?’ he asked. ‘When I came here a few winters ago, I met him, a mad dwarf. He lived in the dungeons.’

‘Gone the way of all flesh,’ Colebrooke replied mournfully. ‘Died of a fever last spring.’ He pointed across to the little cemetery near the Tower chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. ‘Buried there he is, at peace at last.’

Cranston and Colebrooke stood chatting about people they both knew. The coroner heard his name called as Athelstan came up the steps from the dungeons.

‘You’ve shriven him?’ the coroner asked.

‘He’ll die a better death than the life he’s lived,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I don’t think it will be long, Master Constable. There’s no further need to question him. Give him some drugged wine, let him sleep. He’ll slip away. Don’t move him. The less movement the less pain.’

Cranston went to thank the Constable.

‘One moment, Sir John,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Master Colebrooke, the scrivener?’

‘He’s still in the Byward Tower,’ the Constable replied.

Athelstan promptly hurried off. A short while later he returned. Ignoring Cranston’s questioning looks, he thanked Colebrooke and, with Flaxwith almost trotting before them, they left the Tower and made their way back to the quayside. Darkness was now falling. The clouds were building up over the Thames, gusted by a strong wind. Athelstan stopped and stared up at the sky.

‘It will be a bad night for the stars, Sir John, but, there again, we’ve got business to do.’

‘What business?’ Cranston asked. ‘Brother, what have you discovered?’

‘I can’t tell you that, Sir John. I can’t tell anyone what I heard under the seal of confession.’

‘But Alcest’s the murderer?’

‘Alcest is a murderer, as guilty as Judas.’

Athelstan made his way towards the steps. He grinned; his prophecy had been proved right. Samson sat in the boat, a piece of sausage dangling out of his mouth.

‘Thank God you’ve returned!’ Moleskin exclaimed. ‘I was afraid that when he’d finished the sausage he’d start on me!’

They all clambered in. Samson sat on his master’s lap and began to lick his face. Moleskin pushed away and, straining at the oars, guided his wherry skilfully across the Thames. The swell of the river had become more noticeable in the evening wind so everyone was pleased to reach Southwark steps. Flaxwith wanted to return to the city but Athelstan asked him to stay.

‘It’s Lesures, isn’t it?’ Cranston asked, plucking at Athelstan’s sleeve as they walked up an alleyway.

‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan replied absentmindedly. ‘Master Lesures has a great deal to answer for.’ He stopped as they passed the Piebald tavern and looked through a window. ‘Stay there a moment, Sir John, you are not to come in, I won’t be long.’

Before Cranston could protest Athelstan went through the doorway; when he returned, he was pushing something into his pouch. Cranston noticed how he held this carefully as if it was something precious.

They found the cemetery and the area around the church deserted. The air still bore the stench of burning and candle wax but the makeshift altar in the cemetery was now tumbled down and all traces of the ‘Shrine of the Miraculous Crucifix’ had disappeared.

‘I hope Benedicta’s here,’ Athelstan murmured.

‘I think she is,’ Cranston replied. ‘I can see candlelight through your window, Brother.’

They found Benedicta and Alison seated round the table. Cranston exclaimed delightedly at the huge earthenware pot of ale Benedicta must have brought from a nearby tavern. She carried in fresh tankards from the kitchen and laid out five traunchers, each with strips of dried meat, cheese and slices of apple. Samson, ears cocked, looked around him.