‘In which case …’ Cranston lurched to his feet.
‘Sir John?’ Athelstan also rose. He went across to his chancery satchel and took out a roll of pure cream vellum, delicately sealed with red wax and tied with a scarlet ribbon. Athelstan handed this to Cranston.
‘When you meet His Grace the king and go down on one knee, beg him to accept this humble petition from his loyal and true subject, Brother Athelstan, Dominican priest of St Erconwald’s.’
The coroner weighed this in his hand. ‘Little friar?’
‘Please, Sir John.’
oOoOo
PART FIVE
‘Mainpernor’: surety for someone under arrest.
‘Know ye now, Richard, by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland and France, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Aquitaine has appointed his faithful subject, Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London to be his own justiciar in all the wards of the king’s borough of Southwark and those shires south of the Thames. He has, at our own pleasure and with full royal licence, power to hear, determine and to decide on all cases brought before him by Athelstan, Dominican priest of St Erconwald’s in the above mentioned borough.’ The royal herald, standing on a stool outside the entrance of The Candle-Flame, cleared his throat. He lowered the proclamation and stared at the two squires garbed in the gorgeous blue, scarlet and gold tabard of the royal household. Each of these stood either side of the herald holding a royal standard and were fighting to keep these steady against the buffeting breeze. Once satisfied they were, the herald continued.
‘The said Sir John Cranston has the power of axe, tumbril, pillory and gallows both immediate and without appeal. Know ye too …’ The herald’s powerful voice continued to roll out the list of dire penalties imposed against anyone who tried to impede or obstruct. Such powers were being emphasized by the tavern being ringed by troops of the royal household, men-at-arms and archers under the personal command of King Richard’s tutor, Sir Simon Burley, Knight Banneret of the royal chamber. Athelstan nudged Cranston and they entered the sweet-smelling Dark Parlour. All the furniture had been swept to one side except for a trestle table with a candelabra strategically placed to create pools of light around the insignia of the court: a bronze crucifix on its stand; a leather-bound Book of the Gospels close to where those summoned would sit; Cranston’s commission bearing the seals of the royal chancery and his sword on one side of the manuscript; a small but cruel-edged flail on the other. At the end of the table Athelstan had laid out his writing materials: parchment, quill pens, ink horn, knife, pumice stone and sander. He had also arranged for a small crossbow to be primed and placed near at hand. Before the trestle table, now termed the ‘Royal Bench’, were three high-backed chairs for those who had been summoned to answer. The windows of the Dark Parlour were shuttered. Once in session the doors would be closed and guarded. No one would be admitted without Cranston’s permission. Master Thorne had objected but Athelstan had assured him that any monies lost would be reimbursed by the royal exchequer. The taverner was given a brief, succinct lecture by Cranston on the rights of the Crown, how no one was to interfere with the administration of royal justice, how the tavern was to be sealed and secured by soldiers, whilst the herald and his entourage would signify the king’s own presence.
Athelstan took his place on the chancery stool whilst Cranston sat on the cushioned judgement chair. The coroner looked every inch the royal justiciar with his black felt cap and ermined scarlet robe. Cranston had ensured the side table would be used to hold the refreshment he might need but not now. Athelstan was impatient to begin. After their supper meeting Athelstan had spent an agonizing day waiting for the king’s response and, when it came, it was fulsome and direct. The king had also enclosed a personal letter to Athelstan as well as a sealed chancery roll. Athelstan had put these into his writing satchel. For the moment he had obtained what he wanted. The justiciar court would sit the following morning.
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan sharpened the quill pen, ‘we are ready. We will use Tiptoft as our court officer.’ Athelstan picked up the small hand bell and rang it. When Tiptoft appeared, Athelstan told him to bring in Sir Robert Paston, waiting with his family in the buttery. The merchant manor lord bustled in all red-faced, protesting volubly until Cranston roared at him to shut up and sit down. Athelstan rose, took the Book of the Gospels and thrust it into Paston’s hands. He made him repeat the words of the oath, warning him that a failure to plead an answer was a felony which could be dealt with in the press yard of Newgate prison; Paston would be stretched out on the cobbles, a heavy door placed on him, then increasingly powerful weights dropped on top of that. He also warned him how perjury could mean that final journey in the death cart to the gallows at Tyburn or Smithfield. Athelstan accepted he was being dramatic but he had to hide all compassion in order to establish the truth and the sooner the better.
‘Let us move swiftly to the heart of this matter,’ Athelstan declared, taking his seat. ‘Let us grasp the substance and ignore the shadows. You, Sir Robert, are a merchant, a manor lord, the widowed father of Martha, whom I suspect you love dearly; she in turn is deeply smitten with William Foulkes, a trained clerk, a skilled scribe and, I suspect, like your daughter, a fervent member of the Lollard coven, a disciple of Master John Wycliffe. Foulkes is very discreet. He has hardly spoken during my searches but keeps his own counsel and stays well out of my way. An educated man, Master William does not so much fear me but my order, who act, God forgive them, as the Inquisition of Holy Mother Church.’
‘I …’ Paston stuttered.
‘Please,’ Athelstan replied. ‘For all I know, Sir Robert, you too may be a Lollard, but I don’t want to know and I don’t really care. I am not here to debate religious belief. I am not too sure what true heresy is but I am aware of the temptations of the flesh. You, Sir Robert, are a regular visitor to The Golden Oliphant, well known for the Mistress of the Moppets and her midnight ladies. I know of your games there. Please.’ Athelstan ignored Paston’s attempt to interrupt. ‘You are also the owner of a handsome cog, The Five Wounds. You carry on a legitimate trade exporting wool and importing wine and other goods, all according to the law, except, of course, for those weapons purchased in Flanders, where the red-coloured oxhide roundel shields are popular. These are, of course, to escape the hawk-eye of the harbour masters, brought in piecemeal by ships of other nations. You have an agreement with their captains: you visit these and transport the weapons back on a barge to the armament store on board your own cog. You buy these weapons, bring them into London and put them at the disposal of the Upright Men. Hush now!’ Athelstan insisted. ‘As I said, these weapons are stored deep in the hold of your cog. They remain hidden until you are ready to send the wine and the other goods you have imported to different parts of Southwark and the city. I am sure your customers and clients are manifold: taverns, alehouses, hospitals, the mansions of the wealthy – all of course, in turn, provide excellent hiding places …’
‘But the tavern masters, the merchants of the city, would have no dealings with the Upright Men and the Earthworms.’
‘You do,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Sir Robert, we know more than you think. Most prosperous Londoners are taking protection against the evil day. Moreover, what I describe is not difficult to organize. I suspect it’s the servants, the retainers, the tapsters, the scullions and slatterns, the workmen and the labourers who are personally involved, whilst their masters look the other way. If such secret weapon stores were ever discovered, everyone would throw their hands in the air and declare they had no knowledge of what was happening. In addition, the Upright Men are very cunning. The more places they have to store weapons, the more they can scatter them around and the less obvious it will be. Coghill, master of The Five Wounds, tried to pass off the weapons I saw in the hold of your cog as the armaments to be found on any fighting merchantman. In fact, they are part of a secret hoard. The Upright Men and their Earthworms have, I wager, a myriad of such hidden caches all over this city and elsewhere. When they plan an attack such as the recent one in Cheapside, the summons goes out. I suspect they would have appeared whatever happened that day; they were fortunate in that a group of Thibault’s retainers presented themselves. I suggest the Earthworms have a routine which is orderly as any monk’s horarium: ponies housed in the countless stables across London are prepared, disguises are donned and weapons taken up, all swiftly carried out along that warren of needle-thin alleyways stretching either side of Cheapside. The Earthworms converge, attack then retreat. They have made their mark. They have demonstrated how they can come and go as they wish. Once over, their mounts are left at the stables, masks are removed and weapons returned to their hiding place.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘Of course, such locations can be discovered but it’s like trying to stop the rain by catching its drops. New hiding stores are found, and so it continues.’ Athelstan pointed a finger at Paston. ‘Of course, the Upright Men value you because you provide a service which is quite exceptional.’