Athelstan watched them leave. He agreed with Cranston’s suspicions about the gauntlet and wristguard: they weren’t dropped accidently, so why were they left? More importantly, why was Hornsey so reluctant to talk? The friar closed his eyes. He just wished he could gather every item he’d learnt about the swirling mysteries confronting him. He must impose order on them, analyse them with logic, form a conclusion and test them against all the available evidence, but, he thought as he opened his eyes, that would have to wait.
Athelstan went back into the sanctuary. Hugh of Hornsey squatted on the ground. He had eaten all the food and drained his tankard; now he was sleepy. Athelstan stared around. The church lay silent. He was fairly confident that no one would dare accost the fugitive. Sanctuary was a sacred, inviolable right; anyone who broke it faced the full rigour of the law, both secular and religious. Holy Mother Church was jealous of such a privilege and protected it with bell, book and candle as well as the most fearsome sentence of immediate excommunication in this life and eternal damnation in the next. The only person who could accost the fugitive was himself. He certainly had questions for his unexpected guest but they would have to wait. Athelstan went into the sacristy. He ensured the outside door was unlocked so Hornsey could, when he wished, use the jakes built into an ancient but crude garderobe in the corner of one of the bulwarks next to the leper squint. Athelstan stared at the bolts on the door and recalled those in Scrope’s chamber. How had that physician been murdered, and why?
Athelstan shook his head, unlocked the parish chest, took out his chancery satchel and found the blood-stained vademecum, the pilgrim’s book of Glastonbury. The source of the information it contained was the Magna Tabula, the great wooden boards hanging in Glastonbury Abbey church. Each of these was covered in parchment which listed the fabulous relics of that ancient Benedictine house. Athelstan had visited it himself and studied both the lists and the treasures themselves: Arthur’s tomb, Merlin’s cave, the Holy Grail, St Joseph of Arimathea’s staff planted miraculously so it bloomed every year. Glastonbury also owned the relics of St Patrick and St David, both of whom, the Benedictines claimed, were buried in their sacred precincts … Athelstan noticed how Scrope’s blood was at its thickest on the two pages describing Joseph of Arimathea’s visit to the site of the abbey after Christ’s resurrection.
‘Why?’ Athelstan murmured. He glanced up and stared at the bleak holy rood nailed to the far wall. ‘Why were you reading this, holding it when your assassin struck?’ Athelstan started as the door was flung open and Hugh of Hornsey limped through. He bowed at Athelstan and, clutching the points on his hose, hurried through the outside door. He came back a short while later and, under Athelstan’s direction, he washed his hands at the great wooden lavarium.
‘Sit down.’ Athelstan pulled a stool closer. ‘You are safe here,’ he reassured this most fearful man, ‘but, Master Hugh, I have to question you. However, I must also make you secure.’ He pointed to the sacristy door leading into the cemetery. ‘Once you return from the privy you can bolt and lock that from the inside. Open it only for me. At night, be careful. If you have to, relieve yourself and do so swiftly. Take great care, however, that no one approaches you in sanctuary apart from myself.’
The archer grunted his agreement.
‘Look at the outside door, Master Hugh. Study the eyelet high in the wood. Always use that if you hear anyone stirring about in the cemetery or there’s a knock on the door. Follow my instructions and you will be safe.’
‘What about the church?’ the archer replied. ‘They could creep up the nave and enter through the rood screen.’
‘No, no.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Those doors will be locked and bolted and, I suspect, closely watched by a number of people. Inside the church lives an anchorite, the Hangman of Rochester.’ Athelstan glanced away. The fugitive might not know it but, if he was captured, tried and sentenced, the same Hangman would despatch him either here in Southwark or on some gibbet in the city. Now,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the key? You hold the third key to Marsen’s exchequer coffer, yes?’ Hornsey undid the clasp on his filthy grey shirt, clutched the piece of cord around his neck which held a small key, snapped this and handed it to Athelstan.
‘Much good that was,’ Hornsey slurred.
‘Why?’
‘Oh, Marsen made sure the coffer was firmly locked during the day but at night when we rested secure,’ he pulled a face, ‘or so he thought, Marsen always made me unlock the third clasp. The tax collector loved the sight of gold and silver, his plunder, his glory or so he called it. He and Mauclerc would push the lid back and venerate their ill-gotten gains as any monk would a sacred relic.’ Hornsey drew a deep breath. ‘Marsen loved that display.’
‘Did he help himself?’
‘I don’t know, Brother. I don’t think so. Mauclerc was there to watch him. The scribe was Thibault’s man. Moreover, during our journey along the south bank of the Thames, Lascelles would occasionally meet us to ensure all was well.’
‘As he did at The Candle-Flame?’
‘Yes, Brother. Just as twilight deepened and the gloom thickened, Lascelles came. There was not much love lost between him and Marsen. Anyway, what does it matter? Apparently Lascelles was assured all was well. By then I was on watch outside the Barbican. I unlocked the third clasp; Marsen probably undid the other two to impress Lascelles.’
‘So what happened on the night of the murders?’
‘Very little, Brother. We arrived back at The Candle-Flame. Marsen made himself comfortable in the Barbican as a hog does in its sty. I was instructed to set the usual watch: three guards outside including myself and three in the lower chamber of the Barbican. Marsen then relaxed, as he described it, after the rigours of the day. Marsen was a toper, a tosspot, he loved his ale and food, wine and sweetmeats: he instructed the taverner to send the best across whilst Mauclerc was despatched to find two whores to amuse himself and his master.’
‘So nothing out of the ordinary happened that night?’
‘No. We returned from levying taxes. The horses were stabled, our watch was set. Food and drink were ordered. Whores brought in. The two archers outside, Adam and Breakspear, lit a campfire …’ His voice trailed off.
‘But something did happen?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘We know you visited the troubadour Ronseval at least twice in his chamber. You and he had an argument, blood was spilt. The following day Ronseval was seen searching the Palisade and found what he was probably looking for – a dagger.’ Hugh of Hornsey sat staring at Athelstan then lowered his head. ‘So what did happen?’ the friar insisted quietly. ‘Witnesses talk of raised voices. Why was Ronseval searching for a dagger? Why was blood found on the rug in his chamber? Master Hugh, in forty days’ time you will probably surrender to the king’s justices and the same questions will be asked. What was – is – your relationship with Ronseval? Why did you flee your post?’ The archer shifted on the stool, hands clasped, fingers weaved together. ‘You are a veteran soldier,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly. ‘Why are you so nervous? Tell me!’
‘We had been collecting the tax,’ Hornsey replied, not lifting his head. ‘We returned to The Candle-Flame at twilight. Marsen was full of himself. He unlocked the exchequer coffer as if he was revelling in the Holy Grail.’ Hornsey took a deep breath. ‘Ronseval had been following us, though Marsen dismissed him as a fool, a poet who was composing a ballad. Of course, Marsen was secretly flattered. Anyway, once the festivities had begun, Ronseval met me in the shadows of the tavern. He bitterly criticized my allegiance to such a man and such a cause. I resented what he said; his words rankled with me so I went to his chamber late at night.’