Paul Doherty - Candle Flame

‘And where did I get the robe?’ Thorne sneered.

‘Oh, my learned colleague Brother Marcel unwittingly supplied it. A most fastidious man, Marcel insisted on changing his robes at least once a day. He sent the used one to your wash house. I saw your washer woman and she commented on it. You and Marcel are of the same build and size.’ Athelstan rose. He walked behind Thorne, bent down and whispered in his ear. ‘You are guilty, Master Thorne. I have established a burden of proof which you cannot answer. You will be condemned to the most gruesome death, but not before Thibault has racked and twisted your body with the most terrible torture. Suspicion will fall on your wife; she too might be questioned. You will be adjudged a traitor. Consequently, even if she is innocent, Mistress Eleanor will lose everything because all your property will be forfeit to the Crown.’ Athelstan straightened up before leaning down again. ‘I invite you to make a full confession. Reveal the whereabouts of the treasure, which, in fact, I know already; confess and express your sorrow. I will ensure a priest shrives you, whilst the Hangman of Rochester, whom I have brought secretly to this tavern, will carry out sentence immediately. The Hangman is most skilled. You would not strangle but die instantly.’ Athelstan turned and walked away. ‘The choice is yours. I suggest you make haste because it’s only a matter of time before Master Thibault interferes. Sir John, tell me, what I offer is both legitimate and judicial?’

‘I am the king’s justiciar,’ Cranston replied, holding Athelstan’s gaze. ‘I have the power to hear and decide. I have authority to carry out, in the king’s own name, the sentence of death be it now or on some appointed day. I can also exercise mercy in the manner of that death. I believe we have said enough.’ Cranston snapped his fingers. ‘Have the prisoner taken down to the cellar. Keep a close watch on him.’ Cranston pointed to the hour candle glowing on its stand under a broad copper cap. ‘By the time the flame reaches midway to the next ring, you, Master Thorne, must decide or it will be decided for you.’ The prisoner was dragged to his feet. He tried to resist, until one of the soldiers punched him hard in the stomach and dragged him groaning from the room.

‘I hope he confesses,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I pray that he does. He murdered twelve people, Sir John, and all for the sake of filthy greed. The love of money is indeed the root of all evil. If he confesses …’ Athelstan took a deep breath.

‘The tavern sign can be his gallows,’ Cranston declared. ‘It stretches high and strong. We will use the same ladder he did to enter the Barbican.’

‘I’d best inform the Hangman, he is also a skilled clerk.’ Athelstan left. Cranston gestured at the two crossbowmen to follow and sat staring at the empty chairs in front of him. Thorne certainly deserved his death but he wondered what Athelstan would do with the others. The coroner dozed for a short while. Now and again he would stir and peer at the hour candle, its flame burning merrily away. Athelstan returned. He spoke to people waiting in the gallery outside and closed the door.

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan walked slowly towards the table. ‘I am going to ask you for an indulgence regarding the Pastons.’

The coroner chewed the corner of his lip. ‘In theory, Brother …’

‘In practice, Sir John, Paston is a good man. He has told the truth and he is guilty of no more than many of his kind in this city. I do not want to see him become the object of Gaunt’s vindictiveness.’ Athelstan kept his face composed. He knew nothing would persuade Cranston more than a dig at the self-proclaimed Regent.

‘His daughter, Martha, and William the clerk are deeply in love. They were of great help to us.’

Cranston waved a hand. ‘As you wish, little friar.’

Athelstan went back, opened the door and ushered Paston, his daughter and Foulkes into the chamber. Once they had taken their seats Athelstan went to stand beside Cranston.

‘Please.’ He smiled. ‘I beg you not to look so anxious. Master William, I thank you for your help as I do you, Sir Robert. Now this is what Sir John and I have decided. Sir Robert, I want you to clear the hold of The Five Wounds of all weapons. You will move your ship to another harbour. You will return to Surrey and resign your post as a member of the Commons. You will not become embroiled in politics and cease forthwith your attacks on His Grace the Regent. You will not return to this city unless it is with the special permission of Sir John here and only to do business. Master William, Mistress Martha, you too will not enter this city which is so dangerous for you.’ Athelstan lowered his voice. ‘Go home,’ he urged. ‘Marry each other, love each other. Steer clear of all danger. Keep what you believe in the secrecy of the heart.’ The relief on Sir Robert’s face was obvious. Foulkes looked at Martha, who nodded her agreement.

‘Sir Robert, I suggest you make to leave very, very swiftly.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Paston got to his feet, ‘everything is packed already, Brother. I know what is going to happen here. A special commission of oyer and terminer invariably ends in blood …’

‘True, true,’ Cranston murmured, ‘and Master Thibault will be here very soon.’

The coroner rose and clasped Sir Robert’s hand and that of his daughter and Foulkes. Athelstan did likewise. He sketched a blessing over them and noticed with relief that Martha and William crossed themselves. They had hardly left the chamber when there was a rap on the door and the Hangman of Rochester walked in holding a piece of parchment, which he handed to Athelstan.

‘God knows what happened here, Brother, but Thorne has made a full confession.’ The Hangman fought to keep the surprise out of his voice. ‘He murdered twelve people, he stole the gold …’

‘Did he say where it is?’ Cranston asked.

‘No, Sir John.’ The Hangman clawed at his long, yellowish hair. ‘He just said that Brother Athelstan would know where it is.’ The Hangman’s skeletal face creased into the smile. ‘I suppose he didn’t trust me. Thorne is a broken man, all juddering and trembling. He cries like a baby. He wishes to see his wife and be shriven by a priest.’

‘Let Mistress Eleanor see him then ask Brother Marcel to hear his confession – swiftly, mind you. Tell Marcel to issue a general absolution.’

‘And execution?’

Cranston repeated what he told Athelstan earlier.

The Hangman nodded. ‘I will arrange it.’

‘Do so quickly,’ Athelstan urged. ‘Before Thibault arrives.’ The Hangman left. Athelstan asked to be alone. Sir John clapped him on the shoulder and murmured something about supervising the arrangements. The coroner sheathed his sword, finished his wine and quietly left. Athelstan bolted the door and went to kneel beside the table. He leaned back, eyes closed, as he murmured the ‘ De Profundis ’ and the ‘ Miserere Mei .’ All was resolved, he thought, yet lives had been shattered, souls despatched to judgement and the storm was still raging. Evil was like a seed, Athelstan thought: it took root and erupted into a wild, malignant tangle. Taverner Thorne probably regretted spending the profits of war on The Candle-Flame and decided to recoup his losses in a most sinister way. He had planned and plotted well but totally underestimated the souls around him, filled with their own private passions, be it Sir Robert Paston’s dabbling in power, Physician Scrope’s desire for vengeance or the highly illicit relationship between Ronseval and Hornsey. Now he was to pay the price. For a while Athelstan made himself relax, thumbing his Ave beads as he prayed for the souls of the departed and for Thorne’s, who would soon be brought to judgement. He dozed until roused by Cranston, his beaver hat pulled down, cloak tied tightly around him.