Paul Doherty - Candle Flame

‘ Sancta spina ,’ he breathed, ‘and, talking of holy things …’ Athelstan left and visited the church to have words with Pike and Watkin. They seemed as happy as Bonaventure before a fire. Benedicta and the rest had brought hot food as well as a small tun of ale. Looking around the church, Athelstan was amused at how pious his parishioners and others had become. Usually at this hour, the nave would lie empty. Now people wandered about inspecting statues, shrines and the chantry chapel. Visitors clustered around the ankerhold, whilst another group, escorted by the Hangman, seemed fascinated by the different wall paintings. Athelstan smiled to himself. Watkin and Pike were being closely watched by both friend and foe. Leaving the church, he asked Benedicta to take Tiptoft and the men-at-arms to The Piebald to break their fast, then begged her to buy supplies for his own house. He asked her to spread the word that he was not to be disturbed; ordinary parish business would have to wait. After that Athelstan retreated into himself, locking himself away, chatting now and again with Benedicta and Tipftoft, whom he despatched into the city with sealed letters for Sir John and other individuals. For the rest, Athelstan sat at his kitchen table testing the hypotheses he had constructed: four strands, each of them quite separate and distinct but all intertwined around two different clasps, the season and the place. Eventually he received replies, all despatched in confidence, from the city. Athelstan’s conviction that he was following the right path strengthened. He sent a letter to Sir Robert Paston, closeted against his will at The Candle-Flame. He instructed Tiptoft to deliver the letter, wait for a reply and spend the time making certain discreet enquiries amongst the servants. Athelstan, brooding on what might happen, became concerned that those whom he wanted kept at The Candle-Flame might slip away, so he petitioned Cranston to have a ring of steel placed around the tavern and two war barges stand off the quayside close to it.

Naturally this quickening of events attracted the attention of Thibault, whose spies kept a rigorous watch over St Erconwald’s. The Master of Secrets sent Albinus, a sinister-looking mailed clerk and Lascelles’ apparent successor, to make enquiries, which Athelstan deftly deflected. The two friars, Roger and Marcel, also objected, pleading benefit of clergy, the rights of Holy Mother Church and the pressure of important business. Athelstan replied that what he needed them for was the unmasking of murder and the restoration of justice; this was their God-given duty as much as his. Painstakingly, Athelstan continued to build his case. He spent three days on it before despatching Tiptoft late in the afternoon to ask Sir John Cranston to join him in sharing one of Merryleg’s finest creations. Cranston arrived to find Athelstan’s kitchen scrubbed clean, the platters, knives, horn-spoons, jugs and mazers glimmering in the light. Athelstan served freshly minced beef pie, a fine Bordeaux, pots of vegetables and sugared almonds to add, as he teased Sir John, a little sweetness. He reported how the two sanctuary men now lived in the lap of luxury, being better served than My Lord of Gaunt in his palace at the Savoy. Only when the friar fell silent did Cranston lean across and squeeze his arm.

‘What have you discovered?’ the coroner asked.

‘I cannot tell you, Sir John, not yet. It’s not because I don’t trust you. I need you to listen and I need you to judge. You will sit and hear the case I prosecute. Now, I have little knowledge of the law,’ Athelstan paused. ‘Sir John, what powers do you have, I mean, as a judge?’ Cranston sipped at his wine.

‘Well, I am Lord High Coroner, a justice of the peace-’

‘You have the power of oyer et terminer , to hear and decide?’ Cranston screwed his eyes up.

‘I can, in times of great danger to the Crown, the realm and the community, assume certain powers and listen to pleas of the Crown.’

‘I would like you to do that.’

‘It will mean going to Thibault … Oh, no.’ Cranston paused at the look on Athelstan’s face. ‘You mean Gaunt?’ Again the look.

‘Oh, sweet God in heaven,’ Cranston whispered, ‘the young king himself?’

‘Go to him tonight, Sir John, where he shelters at the Savoy. Beg him for my sake to commission you as the king’s own justiciar in the wards of Southwark with special power to sit, listen, judge and condemn at a special session to be held in The Candle-Flame tavern.’

‘When?’

‘At the very latest the day after tomorrow.’

‘But why, Athelstan?’

‘Sir John, I swear, you will sit and have to judge heinous offences: treason, murder, theft, blackmail and horrid conspiracy. If these cases were referred to King’s Bench or an ordinary assize, certain people would flee and escape true justice. Others, because of cruel threats against them, risk being adjudged guilty as those who practice such cruelty. Thibault would interfere. He is secretive but also a bully boy. I want justice, Sir John, not revenge.’

‘In which case …’ Cranston lurched to his feet.

‘Sir John?’ Athelstan also rose. He went across to his chancery satchel and took out a roll of pure cream vellum, delicately sealed with red wax and tied with a scarlet ribbon. Athelstan handed this to Cranston.

‘When you meet His Grace the king and go down on one knee, beg him to accept this humble petition from his loyal and true subject, Brother Athelstan, Dominican priest of St Erconwald’s.’

The coroner weighed this in his hand. ‘Little friar?’

‘Please, Sir John.’

oOoOo

‘Mainpernor’: surety for someone under arrest.

‘Know ye now, Richard, by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland and France, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Aquitaine has appointed his faithful subject, Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London to be his own justiciar in all the wards of the king’s borough of Southwark and those shires south of the Thames. He has, at our own pleasure and with full royal licence, power to hear, determine and to decide on all cases brought before him by Athelstan, Dominican priest of St Erconwald’s in the above mentioned borough.’ The royal herald, standing on a stool outside the entrance of The Candle-Flame, cleared his throat. He lowered the proclamation and stared at the two squires garbed in the gorgeous blue, scarlet and gold tabard of the royal household. Each of these stood either side of the herald holding a royal standard and were fighting to keep these steady against the buffeting breeze. Once satisfied they were, the herald continued.

‘The said Sir John Cranston has the power of axe, tumbril, pillory and gallows both immediate and without appeal. Know ye too …’ The herald’s powerful voice continued to roll out the list of dire penalties imposed against anyone who tried to impede or obstruct. Such powers were being emphasized by the tavern being ringed by troops of the royal household, men-at-arms and archers under the personal command of King Richard’s tutor, Sir Simon Burley, Knight Banneret of the royal chamber. Athelstan nudged Cranston and they entered the sweet-smelling Dark Parlour. All the furniture had been swept to one side except for a trestle table with a candelabra strategically placed to create pools of light around the insignia of the court: a bronze crucifix on its stand; a leather-bound Book of the Gospels close to where those summoned would sit; Cranston’s commission bearing the seals of the royal chancery and his sword on one side of the manuscript; a small but cruel-edged flail on the other. At the end of the table Athelstan had laid out his writing materials: parchment, quill pens, ink horn, knife, pumice stone and sander. He had also arranged for a small crossbow to be primed and placed near at hand. Before the trestle table, now termed the ‘Royal Bench’, were three high-backed chairs for those who had been summoned to answer. The windows of the Dark Parlour were shuttered. Once in session the doors would be closed and guarded. No one would be admitted without Cranston’s permission. Master Thorne had objected but Athelstan had assured him that any monies lost would be reimbursed by the royal exchequer. The taverner was given a brief, succinct lecture by Cranston on the rights of the Crown, how no one was to interfere with the administration of royal justice, how the tavern was to be sealed and secured by soldiers, whilst the herald and his entourage would signify the king’s own presence.