Athelstan paused to allow Bonaventure out before returning to his list.
Item: The food and drink found in the Barbican were free of any taint or evil potion. Nothing illicit had been detected.
Item: On the morning they had left The Candle-Flame to visit Thibault at the Guildhall, Beowulf launched his attack on Lascelles. The stableyard was thronged and busy. Who had been there? Who was missing? Afterwards they had ridden through Cheapside. The Earthworms had sprung their ambush. How did everyone react?
Item: Those two shadowy figures who had returned to the execution ground to dig and scrape, undoubtedly Martha Paston and William Foulkes. And why the strange signs between them and Mooncalf? How significant was Tuddenham’s remark about the Lollards sheltering a traitor close to their hearts?
Item: Sir Robert and what was stored in his cog. There were also the conversations and apparent friendship struck up between Paston and the Papal Inquisitor. Was Marcel hunting along the same path as he was? Did he suspect Paston might not be as orthodox in his religious beliefs as he should be?
Item: The rescue of Pike and Watkin by the Upright Men disguised as Dominicans, a most astute move. It certainly proved Cranston’s remark to be correct. Friars, be it Dominican or Franciscan, could walk anywhere with impunity …
Athelstan paused in his writing at a scratching on the door. He opened it to let Bonaventure slip into the room, heading straight for his usual resting place in front of the hearth. Athelstan hurried to the buttery and prepared both milk and the remains of the pie, which Bonaventure deigned to eat before flopping back on the hearth.
‘Thank God,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘you did not meet Samson.’ Athelstan sat closely watching the sleeping cat as he mentally reviewed all he had learnt before returning to Beowulf, reading out loud the occasional line as if to memorize it.
‘Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus – false in one thing, false in all things,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘But that will have to wait a little longer.’ He now turned to all the other manuscripts accumulated during his investigation. The memoranda drawn up in the Barbican; the warnings left by Beowulf the assassin; the vademecum from Glastonbury; the paltry poetry of Ronseval; and, finally, the lists of ships written by that enigmatic spy and carried by Ruat. Athelstan ignored the transcription, fixing his attention on the original. He stretched this out on the table, putting small weights on each corner. He opened his coffer and took out one glass of a precious pair of eye glasses, a gift from a brother at Blackfriars. Athelstan used these to scrutinize the manuscript. He found it clearer than before, the light was better and the manuscript had fully dried out. The actual letters emerged more distinct. Using the glass Athelstan studied the last few lines on both that and the transcript. He gasped in surprise. The document had been written in clerkly Latin but using the many abbreviations of the chancery: ‘filius – son’ became ‘fs’; ‘apud – at’ became ‘apd’; ‘nostra – ours’ became ‘nra’. Thibault had made two mistakes and Athelstan was astounded at the implications. ‘I wonder.’ He breathed. ‘I truly do.’ He was so excited he rose and paced the kitchen backwards and forwards, his mind racing about the possibilities and probable conclusions. ‘Very well.’ He sighed, staring at the crucifix nailed to the wall. ‘Very well, let us say there are three, not two or even one.’ Athelstan returned to his strips of parchment, writing a name at the top and listing all the evidence available. He stopped to eat and drink; only then did he realize how tiredness had caught up with him. He banked the fire, doused most of the taper lights and retired heavy-eyed to his bed loft. He tried to recite the night office from memory, only to drift off into the deepest sleep.
Bonaventure woke him just before dawn. Athelstan sleepily tended to him before building the fire and using the small bellows on the braziers. Eventually he broke from his half-sleep. He stripped, washed and shaved using water boiled over the fire. He took out new undergarments and his robe, dressed, drank a little water and left, making his way across to the church. Of course, the entire parish had assembled for the Jesus Mass, pressing into the sanctuary to catch a glimpse of the two fugitives openly regarded as heroes of the parish. Athelstan, now fully awake, just glared at the two miscreants, refusing to be drawn. He celebrated Mass and afterwards summoned the parish council into the sacristy. He told them he did not wish to be questioned or troubled and duly apportioned tasks for the day. Naturally, these included the care of Watkin and Pike. Athelstan repeated his short, sharp lecture on what the two fugitives could and could not do. Mauger, Benedicta, the solemn-faced Hangman and a nose-twitching Ranulf were left in charge. Flaxwith and his bailiffs appeared from their lodgings to announce four men-at-arms from the Guildhall would patrol the precincts to protect both church and house. Athelstan was pleased; the brutal attempt to burn him alive in the Barbican revealed the deeply sinful malice of the murderer he was hunting. Such a soul might plot fresh villainy. Athelstan returned to his house and broke his fast. A short while later Tiptoft appeared, slender as a reed and dressed completely in green with fiery red hair, with sharp blue eyes in a white, freckled face. Tiptoft slipped as silently as a thief into Athelstan’s house, quietly announcing that he was here to act as Athelstan’s courier.
‘Sir John gave me my orders,’ his voice was hardly above a whisper, ‘and what the Lord High Coroner decides is my duty to follow.’
‘Don’t worry, I will have work for you,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘But first, you can be my escort.’ The friar took his cloak from its peg on the wall. ‘We shall visit The Candle-Flame. They left the house, two men-at-arms trailing behind as the friar and his green-garbed escort disappeared into the warren of Southwark’s alleyways. Athelstan walked purposefully, head down, cowl pulled over, especially when he passed The Piebald, where all the great and the good of the ward met to discuss matters. Everyone was an expert with a story to tell and, of course, like attracts like. A wandering chanteur had also decided to exploit the occasion and set up his pitch outside the main door of tavern. He stood on a barrel, his powerful voice describing how ‘the corpse of Ymir the frost giant’ had led to the creation of heaven and earth. How Ymir’s blood provided the seasonal lakes; the soil came from the corpse’s flesh; the mountains from his massive bones; whilst the stone and gravel originated from the dead giant’s shattered molars. He concluded how the first two humans had been fashioned out of pieces of driftwood washed up on the shores of Asgard. Athelstan paused to listen to some of this. It reminded him of the poem Beowulf, whilst he was always fascinated by how these professional storytellers always appeared when news was being hotly discussed. Was it simply, the friar wondered, that once people have an appetite to listen it had to be satisfied? Athelstan plucked at the sleeve of his escort and they moved on, pushing their way through the now crowded streets. The usual shifting shoal of the denizens of the seedy slums and tumbling tenements were out, busy on their usual trade of selling what they had filched and keen for fresh mischief. Athelstan noticed how the chanteur now had rivals. Thibault’s assault on The Candle-Flame was clearly well known and the wandering gossipers were all offering dramatic accounts of ‘Southwark’s Great Battle’. Once they reached the tavern, however, Athelstan could detect little sign of the recent ambuscade. He met Thorne and his wife in the Dark Parlour, still empty as the Angelus bell had not yet summoned in the local traders and tinkers.