Paul Doherty - Candle Flame

‘There is no law against that!’ Thorne retorted. ‘True, I have heard the verses before. I find them compelling, like many lines from the scriptures. I, too, am a scholar, Brother Athelstan, learned in my horn-book. I have read the scriptures, I understand Latin. Certain verses, as I have said, appeal to me.’

‘Oh, I am sure they do.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Such as “By their fruits ye shall know them”. But to return to my indictment. On the night of the murders, you pretended to be concerned about a possible intruder in the stables.’

‘But there was one!’ Thorne beat against the table, hastily withdrawing his hand as Cranston’s fingers fell to the sword lying close to him.

‘Oh, I know there was an intruder. However, on that particular evening, you used that as an excuse, a pretence to explain your absence from your own bed. Master Thorne, I shall be swift. You had planned well and your motive was the oldest of sins – pure greed. You must have seen the heavy exchequer coffer during your visits to Marsen. You observed how he loved to throw back the lid to glory at the gold and silver heaped within. There was no need for any keys. Marsen thought he was safe. He had a guard of six veteran archers and he was locked and secured in the formidable Barbican. You did see the gold and silver, didn’t you?’ Thorne grudgingly nodded his head. ‘Such a sight would only whet your appetite and hone your greed. Under the cover of darkness you took a stout cask of your famous ale from the cellar. You pulled back the bung and poured in a very powerful sleeping potion. You walked across the Palisade and stopped before the campfire. Two of the archers were there but, of course, Hugh of Hornsey was missing. You would know that, wouldn’t you? Because you keep everything under close watch, yes, Master Thorne?’ The taverner, now more wary than angry, simply stared back. ‘Hornsey and Ronseval were lovers. You knew that because they had lodged in your tavern before. I have inspected your chamber ledger; your wife is very methodical. The last time they were here was during the festivities at Christmas. Of course, they stayed in separate chambers, but that was only a pretence. They had to protect themselves against being discovered, public humiliation and execution. I shall return to both these victims of your murderous heart. On the evening in question, however, you offer cheer to those two archers. They are cold, tired and of course they would love to sample your tastiest ale, which I am sure is markedly better than what the niggardly Marsen bought for them. Moreover,’ Athelstan gestured to his right, ‘I made discreet enquiries with your cook. I understand that on the night of the murders you helped him prepare the dishes for Marsen and his comitatus. He recalled you making the capon highly spiced and very strong, which of course only deepened their thirst. You fill their blackjacks and wait. They drink and soon lapse into sleep. I suspect the potion was very strong and would soon have an effect. You then take the tankards and empty what is left of the tainted ale on to the ground. You use the common ale the archers have brought out with them to clean those tankards as well as remove any trace of the sleeping draught.

‘Juice of the poppy?’ Cranston asked.

‘Perhaps,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You have some here, Master Thorne?’ Again the only reply was that hard, unblinking glare. You tried to murder me, Athelstan thought. You are quite prepared to watch me burn a horrible death simply to conceal your own dire, wicked acts. I was to be silenced so you could hide your host of mortal sins.

‘Brother?’ Cranston asked.

‘ Quieta non movere, quieta non movere ,’ Athelstan declared, ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ I recall seeing a bear fast asleep on a corner in Southwark. Its owner claimed the animal had been given a sleeping draught. On other occasions my cat Bonaventure, who drank my ale, lay fast asleep on the hearth and, at the other extreme, Sparwell lurched in that execution barrel bereft of all consciousness. Such images made me recall this tavern’s great pig, the boar Pedro the Cruel, falling fast asleep outside its sty on a freezing winter night. Pedro, I suspect, is a benevolent animal but still a very greedy one, with a snout for any titbit left lying about, including all the drugged ale you poured out of the tankards used by those archers. On reflection, I concluded, that could be the only explanation for a pig who loves its comfort not to return to sleep in its sty on such a night.’ Athelstan sipped from his own goblet. ‘Of course, unlike poison, a sleeping potion leaves no visible effect. Even the rats in the Guildhall dungeon would just creep back into their holes to sleep. So let us return to the Palisade, shrouded in an icy darkness. You leave the archers sleeping and move to the Barbican.’

‘What if Hornsey had returned?’ Thorne, his lower lip trembling, gestured with his hand.

‘Quite understandable: he would have found two guards asleep. He would probably welcome that and go back to his lover, Ronseval. Oh no, that didn’t pose any danger. The only real threat to you, Master Thorne, was someone actually finding you in the Barbican when the murders were taking place, though that would be nigh impossible because you were going to seal yourself in. Even afterwards, if someone had stopped you on the Palisade, it wouldn’t be proof enough. After all, you are the tavern master here.’ Athelstan breathed in deeply. ‘Oh no, what you plotted and planned was very devious. You arrive at the Barbican and the guards in the lower chamber welcome you; after all, you are the genial Mine Host making sure everyone is comfortable. You brought that tun of your special ale. You insist on sharing it out before climbing up into the storey above. Again, Marsen and Mauclerc cordially greet you. They like that, someone dancing attendance on them, eager to please. You are their host, a man who has to report to Master Thibault. You carry a gift and they are certainly deep in their cups. Of course, the exchequer chest lies open as you suspected it would be. Marsen had insisted that Hornsey unclasp the third lock – he and Mauclerc have unfastened the other two. I suspect even if it had been locked, once you had dealt with your victims you would have just forced the locks, but Marsen’s glorying in his greed made your task all the easier. You measure out the ale containing that powerful sleeping draught. You are serving a refreshing drink to men and women who have eaten your highly spiced capon, which would only sharpen their thirst. You tried to claim Marsen wouldn’t want cheap ale – he didn’t, but a tankard of your best is another matter. Toasts are exchanged and, within a very short while, your victims are deep in a drugged sleep. You then move swiftly. You leave the Barbican and bring in the hooked ladder as well as a small crossbow and quiver of bolts you’ve hidden close by. You also move a barrow or cart from that tangle of conveyances beneath the tarpaulin to stand just beneath the window. Once inside, you lock and bolt the main door and carry the ladder to the upper chamber and continue your plan. In both chambers you make it look as if the most violent conflict had occurred. Indeed, you will make people wonder if there was one attacker involved or more. You confuse matters even more by drawing the weapons of your sleeping victims and placing them nearby. You ensure that the blades rasp together in case they are closely scrutinized.’ Athelstan gathered himself as he approached the black heart of this matter. ‘God forgive you,’ he whispered. ‘You then carry out dreadful murder in different ways, inflicting on each victim a mortal wound. Tax collectors, archers and whores, every single soul in that Barbican you slaughter without mercy.’ Athelstan sat staring at the accused. ‘Now you must cover your sin, you make sure the tankards in both chambers are clean. You pour the tainted drink into the great water bucket on the lavarium . You swill out those tankards and use the ordinary ale to refill them. Of course, once I’d left, you made sure that the bucket of dirty water was taken and poured into the river. You’ve achieved what you wanted – all traces of any sleeping potion are removed. The taunting verses about being numbered and weighed in the balance, purportedly the words of Beowulf, are pinned to the inside of the window shutter.’