‘You would be very surprised, Elizabeth, at what I hear in confession. Some of my parishioners are most forthcoming about what happens in establishments such as this. I understand,’ Athelstan continued blithely, ‘that some men like to watch, others require two or more girls together, and others like to be beaten.’ The mistress stared at him in surprise. ‘Elizabeth,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘we are all sinners. We do what we are good at, which is sinning. I always think men who knock on a brothel door are searching for God. Now, Sir Robert?’
‘He likes to be playful.’
‘You mean rough?’
‘Yes, Father. He asks the girls to act like damsels in distress, to be taken by force by a rough soldier after her castle has fallen.’
‘And her drawbridge forced?’
The maid abruptly added, glaring at Athelstan, ‘Some men like that. What do you like, Father?’
‘Women,’ the friar replied before Cranston could intervene. ‘I do love a beautiful woman; in my eyes one of God’s greatest creations. I like to watch their eyes fill with laughter and admire their hair, long and lovely. It must be very easy to fall in love and so glorious for such a being to love you back. So, I have answered your question, lady. Now,’ Athelstan’s smile faded, ‘answer mine. Sir Robert liked to wear gauntlets, chainmail wristguards – they made him feel fierce, yes?’ The maid nodded, taken aback by this passionate little friar who seemed to be searching her soul.
‘Sir Robert left such items here, didn’t he? Marsen learnt about it and forced you, mistress,’ Athelstan pointed at the older woman, ‘to hand them over, or at least certain ones. He was going to publicly ridicule Paston, perhaps blackmail him or just pass such information on with the proof to Master Thibault.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I am correct?’ Both women nodded in agreement. ‘However, Sir Robert is a goodly man; he supports you, so you sent her,’ Athelstan gestured at the maid, ‘to The Candle-Flame to warn Sir Robert?’ Both women murmured their agreement. Athelstan sat, letting the silence deepen. He glanced at Cranston, who was staring in surprise. Athelstan winked at him before turning back to the two ladies. ‘And how did Sir Roger take the news?’
‘He seemed slightly relieved,’ the maid replied. ‘I had the impression he was, yes, relieved. All he said was, “Is that all?”’
‘Is that all,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘Why should he say that?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Does Sir Robert’s cog, The Five Wounds,’ Cranston asked, ‘have anything to do with your trade, my lovelies?’
‘No,’ the mistress replied. ‘Sir Robert is a very generous and kind patron but no more than that.’
‘And Marsen hired two of your beauties?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Yes. Merrybum and Lovelorn.’
Cranston burst out laughing and swiftly apologized as Athelstan nudged him sharply.
‘They also died,’ Athelstan conceded. ‘Brutally murdered. But listen, on his visit here, did Marsen say anything significant?’
The mistress undid the exquisitely embroidered purse on the silver cincture around her slim waist and took out two silver coins.
‘Father,’ she leaned over, ‘if you could celebrate a requiem for my two girls.’
Athelstan gently pushed her hand back. ‘I blessed their corpses,’ he replied. ‘I will say the Mass.’
For the briefest of moments the mistress’s hard face relaxed. She sat, head down.
‘Beowulf!’
‘What?’ Athelstan exclaimed.
‘Beowulf, Brother,’ the mistress repeated. ‘I know about him. We have heard the stories. When he came here, Marsen grew deep in his cups. He boasted how he had survived an attack by Beowulf at Leveret Copse. He said Beowulf was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Marsen swore he would trap and kill this wolf as sure and as certain as that of Guttio.’
‘Guttio? What does that mean? Where is it?’
‘Brother, I don’t know and I don’t really care. Marsen was arrogant. He said it was just a matter of time, how he had to be prudent, careful. He would do it his way.’ She spread her hands. ‘More than that I cannot say.’
‘When you visited Sir Robert,’ Athelstan asked the maid, ‘did you notice anything suspicious?’
‘There was a darkness in that tavern,’ the maid replied, ‘more of the spirit than a lack of candlelight. A disturbance of the humours. The tavern was busy but everybody knew Marsen was there. It was like sitting in a woodland glade, peaceful and pleasant, but you knew some ferocious animal lurks deep in the darkness. You could almost feel his malign influence – you just knew he was there. People were fearful.’ She paused, lost in her own thoughts. Once again, Athelstan mentally struck his breast as he sat, fascinated. This young woman, despite her appearance and occupation, was sharp of wit and keen of mind.
‘Joycelina,’ he said quietly, ‘you did see something, didn’t you?’
‘Just a glimpse. The ostler, Mooncalf, he was in the garden with Paston’s daughter, Martha, and that clerk who follows her everywhere. All three were in deep conversation, but about what I cannot say.’
‘Apart from that, anything else?’
‘No.’ The maid shook her head. ‘Ah,’ she raised a hand, ‘except in the Dark Parlour. The customers were hosting a drinking dirge to that Hainault seaman who had been attacked and knifed earlier in the day at Queenhithe. I think his name was Ruat.’
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan turned to Cranston, ‘wasn’t that the name of the courier carrying the list Master Thibault seized?’
‘Yes, yes, I think it was.’
Athelstan rose from his chair and walked over to the latticed window. He stared down at the light rain splashing the puddles. Was the business of the spy as simple as that? he wondered. Was the Hainault sailor the spy? He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Surely, if they were hosting a drinking dirge to a foreign sailor they must have known him?’
‘I cannot say. According to the gossip he had visited St Mary Overy, where there is a special shrine for Hainault sailors, the Virgin of the Narrow Seas. He had lit a taper there and visited The Candle-Flame for a celebratory drink. Apparently his purse was heavy and he was generous in buying ale for customers. They felt sorry about what later happened to him.’
‘Of course they would,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘a story as old as the hills. Some poor seaman, his purse well lined with silver, goes into a tavern and attracts the wrong kind of attention. I suppose he was followed from Southwark to Queenhithe. An easy victim, his belly full of ale and his purse full of coins.’ Athelstan turned back to the window. He was tempted to leave the identity of the spy as that Hainaulter, but that would be wrong. The sailor had a berth on his own ship, which was ready to sail on the next tide, yet the document Thibault seized claimed the spy would be residing at The Candle-Flame on 16 February when the Hainaulter and his ship would be long gone. Athelstan ran a finger round his lips. And what did Mooncalf, Mistress Martha and William Foulkes have so much in common? He recalled meeting the two lovebirds in the refectory the morning after the murders. He was sure he had noticed something amiss.
‘Brother?’ Cranston called. The friar walked back to his seat.
‘You are sure of that?’ Athelstan asked the maid. He hid a spasm of excitement. All these mysteries were perhaps not so tangled; matters were drifting apart. Perhaps he could find a path through them.
‘Sure of what, Brother?’
‘The Hainaulter, Ruat?’
‘Of course I am. I went up into the gallery to meet Sir Robert. I’d told Master Thorne I had a message for him. When I came down the taverner asked me if I wanted refreshment.’ She glanced swiftly at her mistress. ‘We have a good relationship with Master Thorne.’
‘You mean he sends you custom?’ Cranston asked.
‘You could say that. Anyway, I joined the drinking dirge. Of course, everyone was talking about the man we were mourning for.’