Paul Doherty - Candle Flame

‘No, no, listen,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Beowulf did not betray you. He just used you. He wanted to lure Thibault and Lascelles out of the fastness of the Guildhall. He created the opportunity for both to emerge as clear targets for his crossbow. This time he was successful: Lascelles was killed.’

‘May the Devil welcome him into Hell,’ Pike retorted.

‘For that both of you might hang,’ Cranston rasped.

‘Enough of that!’ Athelstan did not want Sir John to be so harsh. He needed such information as he slowly edged his way through this maze of murder. He was determined to discover something so that he could barter with the Crown for the lives of these two parishioners.

‘I am your priest.’ Athelstan pulled the stool closer. ‘I walk those needle-thin runnels and no one accosts me. True?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Footpads, felons and foists swarm there as plentiful as the rats. They keep a sharp eye on any likely prey as Ranulf’s ferrets do vermin. And, of course, there is the Upright Men, who have their legion of watchmen, isn’t that what you call them?’ Pike grunted his agreement. ‘And yet you say this Beowulf was an educated, prosperous man, certainly a stranger to St Erconwald’s? So how could he slip along Hogpen Alley to you, Pike, or Muffin Lane to you, Watkin, without being noticed, because that is what he did.’

‘The messages were delivered after dark,’ Watkin grumbled. ‘We took them down to The Piebald.’

‘Oh, I am sure you did,’ Athelstan snapped.

‘But the problem still remains.’ Despite the deep shadows which cloaked the prisoners as well as their own guarded concern, Athelstan sensed both men were as baffled as he was.

‘How were you captured?’ Cranston asked.

‘We stopped at an alehouse,’ Pike replied, ‘and became separated from the rest. Father, we are sorry. Sorry for you, sorry for our families …’

‘The parish will do what it can. I, we, will do what we can.’

‘I have moved a writ in the courts,’ Cranston leaned down to study both prisoners, ‘you will not be arraigned before the justices immediately. I just hope,’ he added menacingly, ‘your comrades amongst the Upright Men do not attempt a rescue. Believe me, this time you might not escape unscathed.’

Athelstan gave a few final words of comfort, blessed both prisoners and stepped outside. Cranston emphasized with the turnkeys that the prisoners were to be well treated. They left the cell, Pike and Watkin’s good wishes ringing clear, followed by more song, which faded as Cranston and Athelstan walked back up that long, gloomy tunnel. They reached the open chamber where Sparwell was being prepared for his gruesome death. The sheriff’s men, garbed in the city livery of blue and murrey, had stripped the prisoner and were now pulling a piece of coarse sacking over him to use as a tunic. On the ground lay a long hurdle with leather straps on each of the four jutting poles. Sparwell, crying and protesting, was forced to lie down face up. When the hurdle was dragged across the frozen, rutted streets his back would only be protected by the leather sheet covering the main body of the hurdle. The prisoner struggled and kicked until a reign of blows forced him to comply. He was stretched out, wrists and ankles being tightly clasped in the leather straps. Sparwell begged for a drink and one of the sheriff’s men unloosened the points of his hose, preparing to urinate on the condemned man’s face. Athelstan, horrified, sprang forward. He knocked the man away. The would-be tormentor stumbled and fell and, ugly face snarling, he drew both sword and dagger and lurched forward, only to be sent spinning by Cranston’s punch to the face. Uproar ensued. Athelstan staggered to kneel over the prisoner. Swords and daggers were drawn in a clatter of steel. Cranston, cloak thrown back, unsheathed both his weapons; he stood at a half-crouch, turning to the left and right. The sheriff’s men edged closer.

‘Think, my lovelies!’ the coroner bellowed. ‘I am Jack Cranston, Lord High Coroner. You have assaulted a priest, a cleric and now me. This man,’ Cranston pointed his sword at Sparwell, ‘has been sentenced to die according to due process. He is not to be used as a pisspot. So be good lads and reflect on what I have said. Lower your swords and, when we reach The Candle-Flame, it will be a blackjack of ale for each and every one of you, courtesy of Jack Cranston.’ The coroner’s words sounded like a bell around that yawning chamber where the flames leapt, shadows danced and Sparwell’s groans mixed with the laboured breathing of the sheriff’s comitatus. Athelstan struggled to his feet.

‘In God’s name,’ he shouted, ‘we are men, not animals!’ One of the sheriff’s men sheathed his weapon and the rest followed. Cranston did the same before moving amongst the escort, clapping shoulders in infectious bonhomie. Harmony was restored, although the macabre ritual of execution continued. Athelstan, crouching by the hurdle, mopped Sparwell’s face with a rag and fed him sips of water. The executioners arrived. The principal Carnifex and four apprentices, their faces covered with grotesque demon masks painted red and black with twisting yellow horns. All of them were garbed in black sleeveless jerkins and thick leather hoses, their boots soled in layers as protection against the flames and hot ash. They brought with them all the dreadful necessaries for Sparwell’s burning: a barrel with its top and bottom removed, to be looped over the great pole and Sparwell placed in it. Bundles of kindling, faggots and brushwood were being fastened to long sledges which would be pulled by the Carnifex and his assistants. Athelstan tried to distract the prisoner by offering to shrive him and administer the last rites.

‘Father,’ Sparwell gasped, ‘I am condemned because I refused in the bishop’s court to accept the power of the Pope, his priests and their sacraments. I believe solely in the scripture – that is God’s word. Everything else is of human fashioning.’ He licked cracked lips. ‘What I ask of you, Father, is that you accompany me, pray with me and for me, nothing more. No priest, no cleric will do it, that’s why I am begging you.’

‘I will go with you, but wait.’ Athelstan rose, walked over to Cranston and informed him of his decision. The coroner, who had been in deep conversation with the Carnifex, gripped Athelstan’s shoulder and led him away.

‘My apologies for any harsh treatment of those two madcaps Pike and Watkin, but what you propose is even more foolish. Heresy is like a plague. The Church believes such infection spreads swiftly. Suspicion will fall on you, a preacher, a priest who works amongst the poor. They will drag you in for questioning and, in their eyes, that’s guilt enough. They will trap you-’

‘Sir John, I assure you, they may well question me but they will not trap me. No priest will help Sparwell because he fears he will lose all hope of preferment and be doomed to some paltry benefice. Now tell me, Sir John,’ Athelstan grinned, ‘where could they send me? They regard St Erconwald’s as punishment enough.’

‘Very well, Brother, but I will stay with you. The Carnifex has already despatched more of his assistants to the Palisade, Southwark’s old execution ground. I wager Thorne will make a good profit from the crowds. We will make our way through the streets and take the riverside path on to the Palisade. Brother, this will be heinous. The Carnifex has informed me how the bishop’s court has ruled mors sine misericordia – death without mercy.’

‘Death without mercy. For God’s sake, Sir John, that is obvious enough.’ Cranston drew Athelstan closer.

‘Oh no, Brother, worse than that. Sparwell will have green wood stacked close around him so the flames will be slow burning. The Carnifex has been instructed not to offer the mercy of a swift strangulation or, even better, a pouch of gunpowder around his neck. Sparwell will die slowly. Remember that.’ Athelstan gazed pitifully at Sparwell, now lying moaning on the hurdle. He squeezed Cranston’s hand and walked back to kneel by the prisoner.