‘Of course you don’t, but you want to ask me what is going to happen to those other two birds of a feather, Watkin and Pike. Yes? Well, let me tell you the truth. They will hang within the week unless God or Sir John Cranston intervenes.’
‘And you, Father?’
Athelstan bit back his tart reply as Benedicta, all flustered, hurried back. To ease the tension Athelstan grasped the Asperges rod and intoned the blessing.
‘May the Lord turn his face to you and smile …’ Athelstan sprinkled the cages, ‘and may God make you what he always intended you to be, the finest ferrets ever.’ Ranulf, embarrassed by this little priest’s mood, grabbed the cages and left. Benedicta made to follow. Athelstan called her back. He grasped her hand and smiled.
‘Benedicta,’ he kissed her softly on the forehead and cheeks, ‘some angels are more welcome than others.’ He squeezed her hands. ‘Goodnight and God bless you for your kindness.’
She stepped back. ‘You will be all right, Father?’
‘Knowing that I have your love, Benedicta, of course.’ He watched her go, fighting the overwhelming urge to call her back. He closed his eyes and said a prayer before going round the church to lock and bolt the different doors. The Hangman of Rochester was fast asleep in his ankerhold, or at least pretending to be, and the friar wondered what role, if any, the enigmatic recluse had played in the dire events of that evening. Athelstan paused by the chantry chapel. In truth he was deeply worried about Pike and Watkin. Thibault’s justice would be swift and brutal. The two prisoners would appear before the justices of oyer and terminer: if found guilty, and Athelstan believed they would be, they’d hang. He knew about Thibault’s macabre sense of humour: the Hangman of Rochester might well be hired to carry out the execution, which could take place just outside St Erconwald’s for all to see. Would the Upright Men allow that? And what about these mysteries? Athelstan walked into the centre of the nave and stared down at the paving slabs, row upon row of oblong stone. He walked carefully along, putting one foot in front of the other. What happens, he wondered, if the mysteries which confronted him were all tangled but with one root, like some shrub in God’s Acre? He conceded to himself this was the direction he was tempted to follow: to dig deep, find that root and pull it up. But what if it was otherwise, like these paving stones? Three lines which ran parallel but never crossed. It would be easy to argue that Beowulf was both the spy and the murderer. But perhaps he should keep them separate? Should he accept that he was in fact hunting three people, not one? Athelstan paused at the thought. ‘I’ll do that,’ he murmured, ‘when I have the time, energy and peace. I am going to sit and think.’ Already memories and images floated through his mind, but he considered them to be like leaves on the wind – nothing substantiaclass="underline" a phrase here, a remark there.
‘I said the Candle-Flame attracted the moths of murder,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I should really go back there.’ He crossed himself, went through the rood screen and up into the sanctuary. Hugh of Hornsey was dozing in the mercy enclave. Athelstan took a stool and sat down close to him. Hornsey woke, blinking his eyes and rubbing his face.
‘Brother Athelstan, the hour is late.’ He pointed to the heavy-lidded jake pot. ‘My apologies, I have used that, the smell …?’
‘Incense covers a multitude of sins,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘but, Master Hugh, I have dire news. Ronseval lies dead – murdered. His corpse has been taken from-’ Athelstan broke off at Hornsey’s cry of disbelief. The archer, mouth half-open, rocked backwards and forwards, hands half-raised in supplication.
‘God assoil him,’ Athelstan continued gently. ‘God loves him as did you, didn’t you? You share that love which David had for Jonathon in the Old Testament, the love which surpasses that of a man for any woman?’ Athelstan’s remark calmed some of Hornsey’s obvious grief. He lowered his hands and sobbed, head down, a heart-rending sound which provoked Athelstan’s compassion. He stretched out and placed his hand on the archer’s head, quietly reciting a blessing.
‘He has gone to God, Master Hugh. I have prayed over him and I will do so again. Tomorrow morning,’ Athelstan turned to the altar, ‘I will offer the Jesus Mass for Ronseval’s long journey into the light so that when the accuser, the adversary, presents his challenge, Christ’s blood will answer it. But now, you must tell me the truth and I shall help you.’ Athelstan paused, listening to the profound silence which hung deep throughout the church. The stillness was broken only by Hornsey’s quiet sobbing, like that of a child, and the scrape of the sanctuary stool as the former archer shifted in his grief.
‘Tell me, Master Hugh, the truth for the love of God and the saving of all our souls.’ Hornsey stopped rocking backwards and forwards; he took his hands away from his face.
‘Ronseval,’ he began tentatively, ‘the troubadour did not follow Marsen because of any ballad or poem.’ Hornsey lifted his head, breathing in deeply. ‘I am, Father, what you see: a soldier, a bowman, a captain of archers. I met Ronseval years ago when we both served in the royal array. From my youth I have never felt any love or urge for a woman. I have tried but,’ he shrugged and glanced away, ‘in his youth Ronseval was beautiful. He and I became brothers in soul, heart-clasped, two comrades. We knew the danger of such a love. If we had been caught in the act, we could have been burnt or impaled on stakes. Life swept us apart. I met him again here in Southwark. There are places, taverns, alehouses.’ He half-smiled. ‘I am sure Sir John and his law officers will have a list of such establishments.’ Hornsey paused. Athelstan sensed the fugitive was thinking swiftly, like a ship preparing to trim its sails against the shifting wind. ‘Oh, by the way,’ Hornsey indicated with his head, ‘I heard the clamour, the snatches of words about men being taken up by Thibault and his coven?’
‘Lascelles is dead,’ Athelstan replied and he described in a few pithy sentences what had happened. ‘Anyway,’ Athelstan concluded, ‘this does not resolve the mysteries confronting me. You and Ronseval were lovers but these murders …?’
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’
‘No!’ Athelstan almost shouted. ‘I will not shrive you. I will not hear your confession. I know what you want. Once you have told me under the seal I cannot discuss it. This is not the time for games but for the truth. Moreover, such a confession would be invalid.’
Hornsey’s eyes shifted, glancing down the church as if he feared someone lurking in the darkness. He opened and shut his mouth.
‘The truth?’ Athelstan insisted.
‘Marsen was hated,’ Hornsey replied slowly. ‘But that is stating the obvious. We all knew he had a violent past. There must have been many who would have loved to take his head. Indeed, on the night he died, the entire tavern seemed to be as busy as a rabbit warren in spring. Sir Robert Paston was up along the galleries. He saw me, I saw him. He looked worried, anxious. A young woman visited him.’
‘His daughter?’
‘No, a whore, a well-cut and prosperous one but still a whore. She knocked on Paston’s door and went in. She must have left some time later. There were others walking about. I am talking about very late in the evening.’
‘Who?’
‘Paston’s daughter, Martha, and her lovelorn clerk, Foulkes. I saw them together with that gormless-looking ostler Mooncalf in the Dark Parlour.’
‘And Brother Roger?’
‘I never saw him. He must have been in his chamber and stayed there.’
‘And Scrope the physician?’
‘Oh, he was wandering about slightly drunk, unsteady on his feet. I saw him come from outside. He was carrying a lantern horn. He said he wanted to visit Marsen.’
‘And Master Thorne, Mine Host?’
‘Busy in the taproom and out in the stableyard.’
‘And finally the killer?’
Hornsey just stared, his lower lip jutting out. Athelstan caught a mere shift in the man’s eyes. This sharp-witted captain of archers was keeping his own counsel. Athelstan quietly considered the possibilities. Hornsey was finished as a royal retainer. He might be innocent of murder and theft but he had left his post without good reason and there was every possibility that he could be exposed, tried and punished, not only as a deserter but as a self-confessed sodomite. Hornsey himself must have accepted that. So was he planning for the future? A vast amount of money had been stolen. Had Hornsey seen the killer? Or could he prove who it was? Was Hornsey hoping that he might escape and use his knowledge to acquire a share of the plunder, a small fortune to set himself up as a prosperous peasant farmer, merchant or trader far beyond this city? Hornsey would not be the first to assume a new name, an identity, a fresh start to a different life.