Paul Doherty - Candle Flame

‘I have seen the likes before,’ Athelstan spoke up.

‘An evil trick,’ Cranston declared. ‘The saddle is thrown over the horse’s back, the girths and stirrups are fastened. These sharp pebbles might graze the horse and cause some petty discomfort …’

‘But when the rider mounts,’ Athelstan picked up where Sir John had left off, ‘his full weight in the saddle drives the spikes down into the horse, which will rear in agony, certainly throwing its rider.’ Athelstan rolled a spiked ball from one hand to the other. It was sharp to the touch. He recalled the mysterious attack on Lascelles the morning after the murders. ‘I wonder,’ he murmured, ‘if these belong to our good friend, Beowulf, a plot which never came to fruition? Can you imagine …’ He broke off. ‘Never mind, it certainly proves one thing.’

‘Which is?’ Thorne asked anxiously.

‘Nothing for the moment, Mine Host, but I have a question for you. On the afternoon before the murders took place, a Hainault sailor Ruat came into The Candle-Flame. He claimed to have visited a shrine much loved by his fellow countrymen, the Virgin of the Narrow Seas at St Mary Overy. Do you remember him?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Thorne replied. ‘I remember him well, replete with good humour and even better silver. He was about to join his ship at Queenhithe. He drank and drank again, then left.’

‘Did anyone accost him here?’

‘No, the company was jovial.’

‘And what was he talking about?’

Thorne pulled a face. ‘Like all sailors, he was looking forward to going home. He seemed very pleased with himself, like a gambler who has won at hazard or a merchant who has made a good profit from his trade.’

‘Or a man,’ Athelstan asked, ‘who has just been paid for carrying out a task?’

‘Certainly, Brother; as I said, he had a heavy purse. I suspect he had just acquired it because he talked about his family and what he would like to buy them, but that would have to wait until he reached home because his ship was leaving on the evening tide.’

‘Can you remember anyone leaving with him at the same time?’

‘No.’

‘Did he meet anyone here, anyone in particular?’

‘Brother, I assure you he did not. He came in here, ate and drank, grew very jovial then left.’

‘As must we.’ Athelstan caught at Sir John’s sleeve. ‘Darkness is falling and our day’s work is not yet done …’

‘What were you going to say in there?’ Cranston asked once they were free of the tavern, striding through the wet evening.

‘Very simple, Sir John. Thorne was correct,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Someone stole into those stables that evening. They placed those spikes into the woollen flock beneath the saddles – mere pebbles, very difficult to detect. I suspect it was Beowulf. Can you imagine what would have happened the following morning? Marsen and Mauclerc swinging themselves into the saddle, their horses rearing violently, throwing their riders, who could be injured, perhaps even killed, and, just to make sure, somewhere close by is Beowulf with his crossbow all primed. Our two tax collectors would be an easy target. Two of Thibault’s creatures humiliated then killed. Which means,’ Athelstan paused and stared up at the night sky, ‘if Beowulf was already planning his murders, those which took place at the Barbican were, despite that note, not his work. Beowulf was waiting for the morning. Of course Mauclerc and Marsen were killed, but Beowulf wouldn’t let an opportunity slip. Lascelles appeared and Beowulf struck.’

‘I agree, little friar. But who is this mysterious assassin?’

‘I don’t know. Our killer may have already been murdered or indeed one of those slain might have been an accomplice who had to be disposed of. But, I am making progress, Sir John. God help me, but I am. Now, let’s visit the nearby quayside where Sir Robert Paston’s cog, The Five Wounds, lies berthed in splendid isolation.’

The Southwark quayside was deserted when they reached it. The long wharf shone in the light of bonfires torched to burn the day’s rubbish as well as provide warmth for the beggars and ragamuffins who haunted that place. These stood, dark shapes in their tattered clothes, warming themselves or trying to roast scraps of meat collected earlier in the day. Athelstan’s stomach lurched at the smell, which brought back memories of poor Sparwell’s burning. The Five Wounds was also illuminated by these fires as well as by the torches fixed either side of the gangplank, guarded by three fully armed men. The ship itself was handsome; it’s raised prow and stern brilliantly painted, the two masts, fore and main, gilded brightly amidst all the cordage and reefed-white canvas sails. There was a cabin under the stern and the deep-bellied hold meant the cog was both a fighting ship and a merchantman. Cranston strode straight towards the gangplank and, when one of the guards tried to block his path, the coroner drew his sword whilst pulling down the rim of his heavy cloak to display his chain of office.

‘Jack Cranston, Lord High Coroner!’ he bawled. ‘And you must be Coghill, master of this craft?’

‘Yes, yes I am,’ the man spluttered, pulling back his hood to reveal a bearded, weathered face. ‘And I am responsible for the watch on this ship.’ He threw his own cloak back to display the war belt strapped around his waist.

‘Now I wouldn’t do that, my friend.’ Cranston’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘Not against a royal official, surely, who is visiting your craft on royal business? Now get out of my way!’ Cranston shoved the man aside and strode up the gangplank, Athelstan following behind. Once on deck, dark shapes emerged from the gloom. Athelstan caught the glimpse of sword and dagger.

‘Peace! Peace’ Peace!’ Cranston bawled, raising his own sword. ‘Brother?’ he whispered hotly. ‘What are we doing here?’

‘Inspecting its cargo.’

Cranston relayed this to the master and crew now coming up from the hold or their resting places in the shadowy gulleys beneath the taffrail. Coghill, a hard-faced, sober-sided man, realized he had no choice, though Athelstan glimpsed the young boy despatched down the gangplank, probably a messenger hurrying to inform Sir Robert Paston about what was happening. Cranston sheathed his sword and Coghill led him reluctantly down into the hold, which reeked of tar, fish and the sharp tang of saltpetre, used to fumigate it whilst it was in port. Coghill, carrying a powerful lantern, explained how The Five Wounds ’ hold, crammed with barrels, had recently returned from Bordeaux with wine and other goods. Athelstan hid his disappointment as he forced his way through the narrow gaps between the cargo. Cranston followed, checking seals on barrels, tapping the wood and, on one occasion, tipping a cask so he could hear the wine within swirl back and forth. Athelstan searched for any apparent concealment or deception. There appeared to be nothing wrong, yet why was such a close guard kept? He could understand the master wanting to protect his cargo but the crew also seemed eager to challenge and impede him. Athelstan glimpsed the padlock on the inbuilt cupboard built beneath what must be the master’s cabin on the deck above.

‘What’s in there?’ he asked.

‘Our weapons store,’ Coghill grated. ‘We are a fighting ship as well. Corsairs, pirates and French warships prowl the Narrow Seas. We carry what is necessary to protect ourselves.’

‘Open it,’ Athelstan urged. Coghill seemed reluctant, but then he shrugged and squeezed between the casks, boxes and barrels and undid the padlock. Athelstan followed and asked for the lantern. This was handed over and the friar entered the musty darkness. He raised the lantern. The dancing light revealed the spears, swords and rounded shields stacked there. He studied the red-painted oxhide covering over a shield close to the door and smiled. He had at least solved one problem.