‘Brother Athelstan, Sir Robert was describing the different craft. Splendid sight, is it not?’
Athelstan, who always felt a little giddy on the top of any tower, nodded in agreement. The river was still clear, bustling with a frenetic busyness; Picard whelk boats, fishing craft, fighting hulkes, cogs of war, galleys, caravels, barges, bumboats and wherries moved majestically or scudded across the choppy water like water beetles. Banners, standards and flags fluttered their gorgeous colours in the snapping breeze. Sails of every shape and colour billowed vigorously or ruffled as they were drawn in. The very air was rich with all the pungent smells of the river craft.
‘You served against the French, Sir Robert?’ Athelstan asked more to make conversation than anything else.
‘I certainly did, and little reward it brought me,’ Paston replied hotly. ‘I know these waters and the entire coastline north to the Scottish march. I have written to Gaunt – My Lord of Gaunt,’ he added hastily, ‘for the construction of better ships. You see,’ Paston pointed down at the river, ‘as I told Brother Marcel, not all of those ships are seaworthy …’ His voice trailed off as Martha came hurrying over.
‘Father!’ she grasped Sir Robert’s arm, ‘I am sure the good brother does not need your homily on the king’s ships. You have lectured us long and hard about the fleet, or lack of it, and the weakness of our river defences. It’s growing dark and cold – we should go down.’
‘I certainly must go,’ Marcel replied. ‘Sir Robert, I will accept your invitation to dine with you after the vesper’s bell. First, I must finish my office and change my robes. Look, they’ve become dirty.’ The ever-fastidious Inquisitor made his farewells and carefully walked back to the ladder, followed by Paston’s group. Athelstan stayed. He ensured the trapdoor remained open and stood staring across the river, recalling all he had seen and heard. A deep unease welled up within him. Athelstan felt so agitated he tried to compose himself by searching for the emerging evening star. He watched fascinated as the twilight deepened, the birdsong died and the world prepared itself for the deep hush of night. He knelt down, protected by the battlements, and tried to recite a psalm, but stumbled over phrases such as ‘The wicked brace their bow, who will oppose them?’ He kept thinking about Hugh of Hornsey’s passionate quarrel with Ronseval.
‘You are lying,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘You couldn’t give a fig for Marsen.’ Athelstan recalled Ronseval’s rather girlish gestures. ‘Yes, the only logical explanation is that Paston overheard a lover’s quarrel.’ Athelstan crouched for a while as the darkness deepened and the air grew colder. He heard sounds below and realized it was time he was gone. He crept towards the trapdoor and went gratefully down the ladder. The upper storey felt strangely warm and Athelstan paused. He could smell smoke. He hurried to the trapdoor leading down to the storey below but the trapdoor was bolted shut from the other side and the ring-handle was hot to the touch. Athelstan, damp with fear, stared around. Tendrils of smoke curled up between the floorboards and an eerie crackling noise grew louder. A tongue of flame appeared against the far wall, followed by another. The floorboards, thick, oaken planks, were becoming hotter. Grey smoke curled like angry wraiths. Someone had bolted the trapdoor from below and started this conflagration. Athelstan recalled the dry furnishings and bedding. The swift leaping flames would be fanned by the draught through the open door, as they would by the window on the upper storey. Athelstan hurried across, clutching his chancery satchel. He pulled back the shutters, pushed open the window door and propped himself over the ledge, peering down. There was no ladder and the drop was steep and highly dangerous. If he jumped broken limbs would be the least he might suffer. Athelstan fought against the welling panic. These first flames would soon become a roaring fire; the trapdoor was sealed, the walls of thick stone. The only escape was the window. Athelstan glimpsed the iron ring beneath one of the shutters, some relict of when the barbican was a weapon store. He threw his chancery satchel out, took off his cloak and hurried across to the bed, pulling off the linen sheets and blankets. He tied these together, coughing at the smoke now billowing around him. He used his cloak as the last strand, tied one end of the makeshift rope to the iron ring and threaded the rest through the open window. He hauled himself up, turning to clasp the long cord he had fashioned and lowered himself carefully. He brushed the wall, now hot to the touch. Gasping and praying, Athelstan carefully slipped down, resisting the temptation to hurry. He realized the makeshift rope stopped at least a yard from the ground. Athelstan was preparing to jump, only to feel strong hands grasp him. Brother Roger had dragged across a barrel and used this to catch Athelstan. The Franciscan whispered that he was safe, he was there.
They clambered gingerly off the barrel. Athelstan crouched on the rain-soaked ground, head down and gasping for breath as he tried to recite a prayer of thanksgiving. He stared up. Flames now licked the window, whilst the surging plumes of grey smoke had already alerted the tavern. A toscin sounded. Voices carried. Athelstan heard footsteps; hands helped him up. Thorne was shouting at his grooms, servants and scullions to stand back and allow the fire to burn as it was too strong to fight. Athelstan, swaying on his feet, accepted a cloak from Mooncalf, found his chancery satchel and staggered back towards the tavern. In the Dark Parlour he washed himself at the lavarium, tending to the cuts and bruises on his hands, arms and legs. Mistress Eleanor served him a bowl of steaming hot pottage and a deep goblet of Bordeaux. Others came in and gathered round. Thorne, full of apologies which Athelstan gently acknowledged, muttered about candles or lanterns left glowing – some form of terrible accident. Athelstan kept his own counseclass="underline" that trapdoor had been deliberately locked, whilst the speed of the fire could only be explained by arson. Friar Roger came over.