‘A friar!’ he shouted. ‘Father, help me, some consolation.’ Athelstan stared pityingly at the bruised, dirty face of the prisoner, his hair and his beard thick with greasy dirt and dried blood, eyes frenetic with the fear of death. ‘Please,’ the prisoner whispered hoarsely. ‘For the love of God, to burn is hideous, but to die uncomforted is even worse.’
‘You have been judged a heretic.’ Athelstan hated his own reply even as the words slipped from his lips. ‘What need do you have for the rites of Holy Mother Church?’
‘I am not asking for them.’ Sparwell jerked back in the barrow as Blanchard struck him full in the face.
‘Do that again …’ Cranston warned, lifting his sword. ‘Come, Brother.’
‘I shall return,’ Athelstan called. ‘I promise you.’ Blanchard led them deeper into the darkness, the foul vapours thickening, the squeak and scamper of rodents constant. Athelstan stopped and smiled as he heard a hymn, the one practised in his parish, being chanted by two deep carrying voices, ‘Christus factus obediens usque ad mortem, mortem autem crucis – Christ was obedient unto death, even death on the cross.’ Watkin and Pike!
‘They have been singing since their arrival,’ Blanchard grumbled.
‘And I want them singing on their release,’ Athelstan retorted. The keeper stopped at a great wedge of a door. He unlocked this and beckoned Cranston and Athelstan inside; the cell was a filthy box, the mush of straw on the floor ankle-deep. Cranston demanded candles be brought. Athelstan approached the two men, weighted in clattering gyves, sitting on a rotting sack mattress which served as a bed.
‘Father?’ One of the figures half-rose in a jangle of chains.
‘Pike, Watkin. It’s good to see you, though not here. I am glad you are in fine voice.’
‘Father, we expected you.’ Athelstan took the stool Blanchard fetched, indicating that the two prisoners remain seated on the bed. The keeper also brought in candles and a cresset torch which provided meagre light. The two prisoners were garbed only in their tunics and, as the flames strengthened, Athelstan saw the bruises on the two men’s faces and along their arms. Their legs and feet were caked with prison dirt.
‘Give Master Blanchard some coins.’ Athelstan spoke over his shoulder to Cranston. ‘Once we go, these prisoners must have rushlights, good food and strong ale: their possessions must be returned, bruises and cuts tended to, their persons kept safe. If not, I will go to Westminster and go down on my knees before the king. His Grace Richard of Bordeaux once swore that he would grant any request of mine. In the meantime,’ Athelstan continued evenly, ‘you and I will be alone with these men. Master Blanchard will step outside and be busy on what I ask or, as God lives, by vespers he will be in a worse state than these.’ Athelstan’s soft but menacing tone even alarmed Sir John. He bundled Blanchard out of the cell, spitting out promises that this little friar was as good as his word. The coroner came back, slamming the door shut and standing behind Athelstan.
‘Very well,’ the friar began, ‘Pike, Watkin, let us begin. First, your families are well but fearful. Secondly, Sir John and I will do what we can, though at the moment that will not be much.’ Athelstan paused as a fearful cry rang through the prison.
‘Sparwell,’ Watkin grunted. ‘The poor bastard is for the fire.’
‘And poor Watkin,’ Athelstan countered, ‘is being prepared for the noose. Now look, we do not want to know the secrets of the Upright Men, but I do require certain information and I do not want to perform a May Day dance to learn it. Do you understand?’ Both men gave their agreement. ‘The night you visited The Candle-Flame with the likes of Cecily, you were hunting Marsen, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. We wanted to spy out both him and his escort.’
‘The Upright Men were plotting to kill him?’
‘Our leaders,’ Pike replied, ‘Grindcobb and Tyler had been assured by Beowulf that he would execute Marsen.’
‘How were they informed?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘But Marsen escaped at Leveret Copse?’
‘Yes.’
‘And, because of that, the Upright Men were planning their own assault when the murders took place?’
‘That is true, Father.’ Pike wiped the sweaty dirt from his face. ‘The Upright Men were as puzzled as anyone else. There is a feeling that the massacre in the Barbican was not the work of Beowulf even though, well,’ Pike coughed, ‘as we know from our friends at the Guildhall, the usual message was left.’
‘This Beowulf,’ Cranston demanded, ‘he works independently of the Upright Men yet he supports their cause. He marks down for death Thibault’s minions, particularly his tax collectors. That is a fact. I just wonder how the Upright Men first became acquainted with him.’
‘Sir John,’ Watkin scoffed, ‘as scripture says, “Those who are not against us are with us.” We heard about Beowulf’s bloody handiwork in the shires around London. We rejoiced at the news. His reputation grew – it was only a matter of time. Our leaders are well known even though they are in hiding. Eventually Beowulf and the council exchanged good wishes.’
‘Surely,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘there must be speculation about his identity?’
‘Father,’ Pike retorted, ‘we will not betray the cause. We will say nothing to weaken the work of the Great Community but surely it is obvious. Beowulf is schooled. He must have experience in war as well as the means to move from one place to another. He is not like us, tied like a dog to its post.’
‘And the night you were captured, the attack on The Candle-Flame, you were searching for Marsen’s treasure?’
Watkin and Pike glanced at each other. Athelstan’s heart skipped a beat – he was always fascinated by how intelligent his little flock could be when they wanted, these two worthies in particular.
‘Watkin, Pike,’ Athelstan held his hand up as if swearing an oath, ‘I vow solemnly as your priest that I will regard what you say here, and so will Sir John, as if told under the seal of confession. Now, we know Master Thorne at The Candle-Flame is in Thibault’s pay.’
‘And in ours,’ Watkin smirked. ‘Oh, Father, don’t look so surprised. All the worthies of London, both high and low, are taking surety against the evil day.’
‘You hide weapons there, food, stores?’
Watkin snorted with laughter.
‘He makes a contribution towards the cause, doesn’t he?’ Cranston asked. ‘Like scores of others the length and breadth of this city?’
‘Which is why,’ Athelstan added, ‘no harm was done to Thorne or his people – I understand that. But Sir Robert Paston?’
‘We would have eventually,’ Watkin blurted out, but Athelstan caught a shift in Pike’s eyes.
‘So you have no business with Sir Robert?’
‘Why should we? He criticizes Gaunt so we leave him be.’
‘And his daughter?’
‘A mere child.’
‘And Master William Foulkes?’ Athelstan glimpsed Pike’s hand brushing that of Watkin’s, a sign to be wary. ‘Ah, well. Let’s go back to my previous questions. Who told you that Marsen’s treasure was there?’