Paul Doherty - Candle Flame

‘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.’

‘I enjoy looking at ships and talking about them,’ Marcel countered. ‘I have done so since I was a boy. We all have our interests. You, I understand, are fascinated by the stars.’

‘No, Brother Marcel, your interest isn’t shipping, your interest is in spying. Let me continue. On the night of the murders at The Candle-Flame you were lodged at St Mary Overy. Earlier that day Ruat, a Hainault sailor and your emissary, or at least one of them, to Constable Clisson, came here.’ Athelstan glanced up. Marcel started plucking at his robe. Athelstan hid his quiet satisfaction; he had gambled, and would do so again, that Marcel knew nothing about the attack on Ruat, his brutal murder and Thibault’s seizure of that most incriminating document.

‘Ostensibly Ruat had been visiting the Shrine of the Virgin of the Narrow Seas; in fact, he visited St Mary Overy to collect this.’ He pushed Thibault’s documents towards the Papal Inquisitor. Marcel took one look, desperate to hide his agitation. ‘You gave Ruat a comprehensive report on shipping and the naval defences along the Thames. You also gave him a purse of silver. By chance Ruat came here to celebrate his good fortune. He drank, became merry and hurried across the river to his ship berthed at Queenhithe. Unfortunately, within a short distance of that vessel, Ruat was assaulted, robbed and killed, his corpse thrown into the river. The perpetrators were caught and hanged out of hand. Ruat’s dead body was dragged from the Thames. Your report to Clisson was found on him, waterlogged but still decipherable.’