Paul Doherty - Candle Flame

‘You’d best come, Athelstan,’ he declared quietly. ‘War barges have been glimpsed on the river. Thibault is probably on his way. We are ready. I have brought Mooncalf with me.’ The coroner shouted an order and two crossbowmen, escorting an ashen-faced, trembling Mooncalf came into the passageway.

‘What should we do with him, Brother?’ Cranston whispered. Athelstan walked forward and grasped the ostler’s white, unshaven face between his hands.

‘Master Mooncalf,’ he whispered, ‘you are about to witness the grisly end of a malefactor. Unless you are more prudent and more prayerful, one day you will make the same journey. So tell me now, who is the serjeant-at-law holding your letter denouncing the Pastons?’

‘Master Ravenscott,’ the ostler replied swiftly, eyes almost bulging with terror. ‘Master Jacob Ravenscott. He lodges at The Hoop of Heaven near the Inns of Court.’

‘I know it well,’ Cranston declared. ‘And, as an officer of the law, I will collect that letter and burn it. So, Brother, what shall we do with Mooncalf? Hang him?’

‘No, no.’ Athelstan still held the ostler’s face. He gently squeezed his hands. ‘Listen to me, Mooncalf, and listen well. We shall collect your letter and burn it. If I ever hear that you have troubled the Pastons again, I will have you hanged as high as heaven. You will watch your master suffer just sentence, after which you will pack your possessions and never be seen in London or Southwark again. If you are, my good friend, Sir John Cranston, will issue warrants for your arrest. Do you understand me? I make no idle threats but a vow as sacred as any taken in church. Do you understand?’ Athelstan took his hands away.

‘Yes, Brother!’ If Mooncalf hadn’t been held by the crossbowmen the ostler would have collapsed in nervous prostration.

‘Bring him with us,’ Athelstan ordered. Stepping round the ostler and his guard, Athelstan followed the coroner out into the front of the tavern. A small crowd had assembled, servants and slatterns. Eleanor Thorne was being led away by one of the maids, her heart-rending sobs almost muffled by the blankets thrown around her. The Hangman of Rochester had prepared well. The tavern sign had been removed from its hooks and a thick rope with a noose at the end hung down. Against the signpost leaned a ladder; the Hangman had climbed this and sat legs dangling either side of the projecting branch. The execution area was surrounded by crossbowmen. Thorne appeared. Athelstan was relieved that a sack had been pulled over the taverner’s head. He could see the effect of the man’s laboured breathing. Thorne, hands bound behind his back, was taken to the foot of the ladder. Cranston, in a powerful voice, briefly proclaimed the name of the condemned man, his heinous crimes and how he deserved death. Thorne was immediately pushed up the ladder by the crossbowmen, who thrust him as high as the Hangman instructed, before turning him round. The Hangman leaned forward, shortened the rope and placed the noose over the condemned man’s head, tying the knot expertly just behind his right ear. The Hangman issued another instruction and the crossbowmen pushed the gasping Thorne further up the rungs. Once he was ready, the Hangman gestured at the crossbowmen to go down. He lifted his hand.

‘On my sign!’ he shouted. For a few heartbeats nothing could be heard except the gasps and moans of the condemned man. The sacking over his face was blowing out as he fought for his last breath. The Hangman’s gloved hand dropped. The ladder was twisted. Thorne, hands still tied behind his back, dropped like a stone. Athelstan closed his eyes as he heard the awful crack as the condemned man’s neck broke. He murmured the requiem, opened his eyes and stared at that grim sight. Thorne’s corpse swayed slightly. Athelstan sketched a blessing. At least Thorne had died in the twinkling of an eye. He had not choked as others did, sometimes for as long as it would take to say a rosary, whilst the taverner had escaped the full horrors inflicted by a traitor’s death.

‘Let him hang for an hour,’ Cranston proclaimed, ‘then cut him down. Let Mistress Eleanor have his corpse. Brother Athelstan?’ Cranston took the little friar by the elbow and steered him away. Sir John had witnessed many executions, but he could tell by the friar’s pale face that Athelstan was deeply agitated.

‘Come on, Brother,’ Cranston whispered. ‘We will share a goblet of Bordeaux and what is left of the food whilst we await the arrival of Master Thibault.’

Cranston was correct. They had scarcely poured the wine when Sir Simon Burley announced that the war barges had reached the nearby quayside and Master Thibault could be glimpsed crossing the Palisade. When questioned, the knight banneret assured Cranston that the Pastons had left almost immediately, whilst Mooncalf, almost a gibbering idiot after what he had witnessed, was hastily collecting his paltry possessions, determined at putting as much distance between himself and the ‘Terrible Sir John’. Burley also assured Cranston that the two friars were safely guarded in their respective chambers.

A short while later Thibault, accompanied by his new henchman Albinus, strode into the Dark Parlour. Athelstan lowered his head to hide his smile. Thibault was taking no chances. Both he and his henchman carried kite-shaped shields for protection and both wore long coats of chainmail, which fell beneath the knee. Thibault pushed both helmet and shield into Albinus’ hands, nodded at Cranston and Athelstan then sat down in the judgement chair, peeling off his leather gauntlets.

‘I’ve seen the corpse. I understand the Pastons have left and the guards are laughing at the antics of an ostler who is so terrified he’s soiled himself. A Franciscan priest lies under arrest, likewise a Dominican. In God’s name, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, what has happened here?’

Athelstan told him. He had anticipated this so he chose his words carefully. He made little reference to the Pastons except that Sir Robert now believed he should withdraw from public life in all its aspects. He would reside quietly in his manor, tending his lands and supervising his trade across the Narrow Seas. Thibault seemed slightly amused by this; he grinned over his shoulder at Albinus, a strange-looking man with snow-white hair and reddish skin, his icy-blue eyes ringed by pink.

‘My Lord of Gaunt will be very pleased,’ Thibault murmured, ‘to see the back of Sir Robert both literally and metaphorically. And the creature Mooncalf?’

‘He shouldn’t have meddled where he did,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Now he has seen the error of his ways, I suspect he will be leaving Southwark to seek employment in a tavern just south of the Scottish march.’

Thibault nodded and glanced down. Athelstan had noticed he had done the same when he described the treachery of Marcel and the murderous nature of Brother Roger. Athelstan recognized that gesture. Thibault, despite his innocent-looking face, was quietly seething with fury. The Master of Secrets breathed in deeply through his nose and brought his head back. Athelstan flinched at the fury raging in those eyes.

‘Brother Marcel will be sent back to France.’ Thibault played with his gauntlet. ‘His Grace the king will despatch a letter to the Holy Father and copy it to the Minister General of your order, Athelstan. He will demand that Brother Marcel be rigorously punished on bread and water for two years in some stinking monastery out in the wilds where he can learn true poverty, humility and obedience. I don’t think our Holy Father will need much persuading when he discovers that his own Inquisitor was being used as a French spy in this kingdom. The papacy needs English gold and support. As for Friar Roger,’ Thibault stared past Athelstan as if he was watching something else, ‘I will personally ensure that he is escorted back to Assisi. One of my sea captains, Eudo Tallifer, a kinsman of my henchman Albinus, will supervise his passage.’