Paul Doherty - Candle Flame

They made their way across the Palisade, past the stiffening corpses of the two archers and into the tangy warmth of The Candle-Flame. Cranston shouted at Flaxwith and the other bailiffs, toasting themselves in front of the roaring fire in the Dark Parlour, to go out and guard the Barbican. Eleanor, Thorne’s wife, her comely face all concerned, then served Athelstan and the rest in the small, pink-plastered parlour with its gleaming dark-wood table and cushioned stools which led off from the main taproom. The food served was piping hot and delicious: black porray, roo broth and small white freshly baked manchet loaves thickly buttered and sprinkled with garlic, together with stoups of light ale. Sir John, once he had taken out his large horn-spoon and polished it with a napkin, ‘fell on the food’ as he himself observed, ‘like a hawk on a pigeon’. For a while no one spoke as platters were cleared and tankards emptied. Athelstan ate sparingly, complimenting Thorne on both the chamber and the food served. The taverner, crouched over his own dish, simply murmured how he wished to sell The Candle-Flame, adding that the turbulent times were not proving to be the best of seasons to host a tavern. Athelstan nodded understandingly; such sentiments were common amongst the tavern masters of Southwark. He also asked if Sir John’s earlier instruction about the other guests had been served. Mistress Eleanor, standing on the threshold, agreed, saying they had left their chambers but were breaking their fast in the buttery refectory. Athelstan waited until Sir John had finished eating and tapped the table with his horn-spoon. He smiled down the table at Mooncalf, the young ostler had recovered from both his terrors and the biting cold. He now sat sleepy-eyed and red-cheeked next to his master.

‘When did Marsen and his company arrive here?’

‘Four days ago,’ Thorne declared. ‘He sent Hugh of Hornsey ahead of them.’

‘When?’

‘About a week ago. Hornsey insisted that the Barbican be given over entirely to his master.’ Thorne pulled a face. ‘There was no problem with that. They arrived just as the Vespers bell tolled. Marsen acted the arrogant pig; Mauclerc no better. He proclaimed how he had been attacked on the road but God had intervened. He showed me the bolts loosed at him and said that no such danger better threaten him here.’ Thorne sniffed. ‘The Barbican was all prepared thanks to Mooncalf.’ Thorne patted the young man’s shoulder. ‘I told him to look after Marsen and his coven and he did, with great patience and good humour.’

‘Why didn’t Marsen cross London Bridge and shelter in the Tower?’ Cranston asked.

‘I suppose they had further business here in Southwark levying their devil tax, including what I owed.’

‘You paid it?’

‘Of course, Sir John. What choice do I, you or indeed anyone have?’

‘Before last night,’ Athelstan asked, ‘did anything happen – any strangers appear, whatever their business?’

‘You mean the Upright Men or their assassin, Beowulf?’ Thorne spread his hands. ‘Brother, this is a very busy tavern, not so much from the guests who stay but any who travel through Southwark. Of course, a gaggle of strange characters gathered; I’m sure some of these were despatched by the Upright Men who would have loved to take Marsen’s ugly head.’ He grinned. ‘We even had some of your parishioners, Brother; Pike the Ditcher, Watkin the dung collector, golden-haired Cecily the courtesan and Moleskin the boatman.’

Athelstan sighed and put his face in his hands. If he questioned his parishioners they would blink like baby owls and murmur all innocence even though Athelstan knew that the likes of Watkin and Pike were high in the hierarchy of the Upright Men.

‘But nothing untoward happened?’ Athelstan took his hands away.

‘No, Brother.’ Thorne sipped from his tankard. ‘Marsen would be up with the dawn. He and his coven would break their fast and go about their evil business, returning to the tavern at twilight after the market horn had sounded. They kept to themselves. Food and drink were served. Mauclerc went out to find whores for both himself and his master. They wallowed like pigs in their filthy muck. The Barbican became their sty.’

‘And where were these whores from?’

‘Oh, the stews of Southwark, a notorious brothel, a house of ill repute well known as the Golden Oliphant. It’s under a very strict keeper; she calls herself the “Mistress of the Moppets”. The two whores, I don’t know their names …’

‘We will find out,’ Cranston broke in. ‘I know the Mistress of the Moppets very well as she is widely advertised in the city. Despite their death wounds those two whores in life were very pretty young women. The mistress only hires the best but whether we get the truth from her is another matter.’ He jabbed a finger at Athelstan. ‘When we get the time we will give the mistress a visit.’

‘Would that explain why they were not carrying money? Marsen would do business with their keeper?’

‘Possibly, Brother,’ Cranston replied. ‘I suspect a man like Marsen got what he wanted free of any charge.’

‘But they were carrying something,’ Mooncalf broke in, surprising even his master.

‘What’s that, boy?’ the taverner asked.

‘One of the whores, she was carrying a leather bag and it clinked. I met her at the wicket gate and she stumbled. She could curse like the best of them but I heard it clink, the bag she was carrying.’

Cranston stared at Athelstan, who just shook his head. ‘We found no such bag in the Barbican, Sir John.’

‘Then the killer must have taken it,’ Mooncalf insisted. ‘I definitely saw it, I definitely heard it.’

‘Apart from the whores, were there any other visitors?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes,’ Thorne replied, ‘a black-garbed fellow, hair of the same colour drawn tightly back and tied behind the head, harsh-featured with the unblinking stare of a hawk.’

‘Lascelles,’ Cranston broke in. ‘Master Thibault’s henchman. When did he come?’

‘The night before last. He met Marsen in the Barbican then left. Sir John, I know nothing of their business.’

‘And this morning?’ Athelstan glanced at Mooncalf.

‘As usual I went to wake them. I found the two archers as you did. I hurried across to the Barbican and hammered on the door.’

‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary, boy?’ Cranston asked, helping himself to the miraculous wineskin.

‘Anything at all?’ Athelstan insisted.

‘No. Pedro the cruel,’ Mooncalf grimaced, ‘the tavern boar, was sleeping outside his sty. Sometimes he does that. Anyway,’ he shook his head, ‘I became frightened and hurried back to the tavern to raise the alarm.’

Athelstan turned to Thorne.

‘I came out with the others, all shaken from our sleep. You’ve seen the Barbican, Brother, it is built for defence. Apart from the heavy door the only way through is the window. There is no ladder long enough so I put the one we have on a handcart and climbed up. The outer shutter was still hooked. I inserted a blade and lifted that; the door window was clasped shut. I cut back the horn, put my hand through and lifted the latch. The inner shutter was easier; the hooks came up but,’ he patted his stomach, ‘too much baggage. I came back down and sent Mooncalf up.’

Athelstan glanced at the ostler.

‘Brother, you saw what I did. The upper chamber was warm as the shutters had been closed all night. The brazier still glowed, as well as the chafing dishes.’ Mooncalf screwed up his eyes. ‘All of the candles had burnt out – they were extinguished.’

‘And the trapdoors?’

‘I remember the one to the roof was locked – yes, both were. The trapdoor to the lower chamber was also bolted.’ Mooncalf paused at Cranston’s loud snoring. The fat coroner, warmed and fed, was now relaxing in the comfort. Mooncalf stared at him then back at Athelstan in open-mouthed wonderment.