‘Is he the killer?’
‘No, but I suspect Scrope might have glimpsed the assassin or nursed deep suspicions about who he really is. That is why he was murdered, to silence him.’ Athelstan rose to his feet, stretched and crossed himself. ‘Sir John, have Scrope’s corpse join the rest at the Guildhall then seal this chamber with the signet of the Lord High Coroner.’
‘Brother?’
‘Yes, Sir John?’
‘Marsen was hated. He was Thibault’s creature, a vile, ruthless tax collector, yet he moved with impunity. Surely the Upright Men must have heard about his depredations as well as his stay here? You seem to be implying that they are not responsible, but why shouldn’t they spring a trap and snatch Marsen’s nasty soul from his filthy body?’
‘Perhaps they did, Sir John.’
‘So this is the work of the Upright Men?’
‘Umm.’ Athelstan pulled his cowl up, a sign to Cranston that he wanted to retreat and meditate in some quiet corner. ‘Truly, Sir John, I don’t know. This could be the doing of the Upright Men or it might not be. Perhaps they left all this to their assassin, Beowulf, and yet …’ Athelstan shook his head, blessed the corpse once more and left the chamber. He walked to the top of the stairs and paused at the clatter of hooves, shouts and the rattle of steel from the stableyard. By the time he reached there the horsemen who had entered, all wearing the blue, scarlet and gold livery of the royal household, were milling about, swords drawn, shouting orders at Thorne and Mooncalf to close the gates and to allow no one in or out until they were gone. Lascelles was in charge, dressed as usual in black leather and his helmet off, his harsh, pointed face twisted into a scowl. Mine Host Thorne crossed the yard and angry words were exchanged between the two. Lascelles dismounted as Thorne ordered the gates to remain open. Fearful of an ugly confrontation, Athelstan hastened across, relieved to see Cranston also come striding out. Calm was restored, Lascelles nodding at Cranston’s whispered advice.
‘Very good, Master Taverner.’ Lascelles smirked at Thorne. ‘Go about your business even though your tavern is now the haven of murder, felony and treason. I need to view the corpses.’
Cranston objected, pointing out that all the dead had been sheeted in mort cloths and were being removed. Lascelles, peeling off his black leather gloves, again nodded understandingly, his glittering dark eyes never leaving Athelstan’s face. ‘It does not matter,’ Lascelles wetted his lips. ‘The money is gone, yes? Cannot be found? Yes? Well, well. My business here, Sir John, is you and Brother Athelstan. His Grace My Lord of Gaunt and Master Thibault want to know what happened here and discover what you will do to remedy it. They also want to have words with you on other matters.’ He pointed across at the tavern stables. ‘Get two horses saddled. I want to be out of here as soon as possible.’ He frowned at Cranston’s loudly whispered curse. ‘My Lord High Coroner of London, the hour is passing, my business is pressing. We must be gone – now!’ Athelstan caught Cranston’s gaze, warning him with his eyes to be careful. Cranston strolled off, shouting for Mooncalf to saddle two horses. Ronseval sauntered out and stayed in the porch to watch proceedings. Athelstan looked past the troubadour and glimpsed Paston, his daughter and Foulkes deep in conversation at a table in the Dark Parlour. Lascelles, holding the reins of his horse, beckoned Athelstan closer and asked what had happened. The friar replied in short, blunt sentences.
Lascelles, that raven of a man, listened intently, the arrogance draining from his face at the litany of bloody destruction. ‘Master Thibault,’ he whispered, ‘will not be pleased, such a vast sum stolen. Beowulf the assassin must be in the city. Who is he hunting, Brother?’
Athelstan sensed the deep anxiety of Thibault’s principal henchman. That same cloying, creeping fear which was spreading through the city like some invisible mist, thickening and curling its way around the men of power. The day of judgement was approaching. Only God’s good grace could divert the bloody confrontation between the lords and the seething masses they ruled. The seed had been sown for generations, now harvest time was due. The wine press of God’s anger was about to be turned. No one would be safe. Lascelles could swagger about in his black leather garb, silver spurs clinking on his riding boots, cloak swirling back to reveal his heavy leather war belt, but what real protection could they offer against the silent knife thrust or the swift sling shot? Athelstan left Lascelles to his thoughts as Cranston led across the saddled horses. Athelstan made sure he had all his possessions and was about to swing himself up when he heard a piping voice.
‘Master Lascelles, Master Lascelles?’ A ragged boy, face all dirty, his tunic no more than a discarded flour sack with holes cut for head and arms and tied around the waist with a dirty rope, caught Athelstan’s attention. He came running into the yard yelling Lascelles’ name, which he stumbled over as he held up the scrap of parchment in his grubby hand. Athelstan felt a cold, prickling premonition. The stableyard was busy. Local traders, tinkers and craftsmen were drifting in to break their fast. Slatterns and scullions hurried across. Doors slammed. Windows were unshuttered. Slops were being emptied, horses led in and out. The smith had begun his clanging. Thorne stood in the doorway shouting orders at a washer woman. Athelstan, however, watched that beggar boy. Lascelles was approaching him. The urchin handed over the scrap of parchment and fled like the wind through the main gate. Lascelles uncurled the parchment; he glanced up as Athelstan hurried towards him.
‘Brother, what is this?’ Athelstan lunged forward, knocking Lascelles away from his horse, which reared, hooves flailing as a crossbow bolt whipped the air between it and its rider. Athelstan crouched even as Lascelles tried to calm his horse, turning it to use a shield. Cries of ‘Harrow!’ were raised. The stableyard erupted in uproar as another bolt whistled through the air, smacking into the wall of an outhouse. Women screamed and grabbed their frightened children. Dogs snarled, racing about, agitating the horses further. Lascelles’ escort hurriedly grabbed kite-shaped shields from their saddle horns to form a protective ring around their master and Athelstan. For a while both men just sheltered. Athelstan closed his eyes and murmured the Jesus prayer whilst Lascelles cursed a litany of filth. Athelstan thanked God he could not understand it. At last, order was imposed. Cranston shouted how the mysterious bowman must have disappeared. The shield wall broke up. Lascelles grasped Athelstan’s hand, squeezing it, thanking him with his eyes before screaming a spate of abuse at his escort.
‘He’s gone!’ Cranston declared.
‘Where, Sir John, where was he?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Brother, God only knows! A window or somewhere here in the tavern yard, or did Beowulf – and I think it was our mutual friend – simply slip in from the street? The tavern is thronged with every rogue under the sun, the usual beauties, the school of Tyburn scholars and Newgate nuns.’ Athelstan walked over and picked up the deadly message. This time the parchment was faded and grease-marked, the scrawling hand uncouth, but the message was the same in all its stark menace.
‘Our assassin changes his hand,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘Sir John, we should be gone.’ People were now emerging from the tavern, all busy and inquisitive. Cranston had a word with Lascelles and the order was given to mount. They were joined by a smiling Father Roger, who asked if he could join their comitatus. Lascelles shrugged and the friar pushed his sorry-looking mount alongside Athelstan. They left the tavern yard and made their way towards the battlemented gatehouse and walls of London Bridge. Athelstan immediately experienced the inner panic that washed over him whenever he entered the turbulent, frenetic streets of Southwark. He became acutely aware of what he glimpsed, as if he was studying scenes from a stained-glass window or the intricate details of one of the Hangman of Rochester’s wall paintings at St Erconwald’s. Friar Roger was chattering like a sparrow on a twig, but Athelstan was distracted by the swirling images which surged out towards him on that brisk, cold February morning. Church bells clanged, marking the end of morning Mass and the beginning of the eleventh hour. Market horns brayed. Whores screamed and cursed as they were led down to the thews to the sound of blaring bagpipes. Traders, tinkers, fripperers and geegaw-sellers set up stalls and booths, ringing the air with their shouted offers of mousetraps, ratkillers, bird cages, bottles, ribbons, collops of meat and fresh fruit. Itinerant cooks, dressed in rotten, stinking weeds, pushed their battered barrows with portable stoves; around the cooks’ unwashed necks hung strips of ancient but heavily salted meat ready for grilling. An enterprising water-seller with a tub on his back trailed behind these offering ‘the freshest water from St Mary’s spring’ to slake, salted throats. The crowd pushed backwards and forwards, thronging down the narrow lanes where the grotesquely carved gables of shops and houses jutted out above dark and dingy chambers. Slops were being emptied into the already fetid, crammed sewers. Space was narrow; people had to step aside for Lascelles’ cavalcade. Curses and threats were hurled and, on a few occasions, slops from upper chambers narrowly missed them as night jars were emptied. Southwark, however, was different from the city, where resentments rankled deeper. In Southwark the dog-leeches, sow-gelders, rumagates, runaways, jingle-brains, tooth-drawers, broom men and a multitude of lowlife were hotly against any titled authority. All these denizens from their ‘ruffians’ hall’, as Cranston described them, wandered the streets looking for mischief or anything which might brighten their lives.