‘Pax et Bonum, Frater.’ The Franciscan’s voice was strong and carrying. ‘You ask what we did last night when the great sinner Marsen was sent to Hell. Thanks be to God, the Eternal Lord, that I lived to see this day. Now,’ he continued brusquely, ‘we have told you what we did. You have your business, I have mine.’
‘Which is?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Alms to collect. Brothers to meet at Greyfriars. Sermons to compose. Preaching to prepare. Shrivings and blessings to administer so that souls can be saved. Our business is not this fierce hostility, this murder lust between men.’
‘Did you try to save Marsen’s soul?’
‘No, Brother,’ Friar Roger grinned, white teeth bared like that of a mastiff, ‘isn’t it wonderful to recount how, in his magnanimity, the master of all things would allow the soul of such a man to wander in delight before judgement is imposed. I know Marsen and his ilk. They milk the poor of every last penny. They grind God’s people beneath the boot.’ The Franciscan gestured around. ‘No one here grieves for Marsen and his coven. Most of us, if not all, rejoice that such a malefactor has been sent to judgement but it does not mean we sent him there.’ Friar Roger’s words were greeted with grunts of approval. Ronseval, in a high-pitched voice, started to chant popular verses about the brotherhood of man. Paston delivered a diatribe as if he was gathered with the Commons in St Stephen’s Chapel at Westminster. Cranston, however, banged on the table imposing silence. Athelstan noticed how young Martha and Master William exchanged secret glances and furtive smiles, as if the issue was of no concern to them.
‘When did you all arrive here?’ Athelstan asked. Both the physician and Father Roger declared they had done so after Marsen and his coven had taken up residence in the Barbican. Sir Robert Paston said they had been at The Candle-Flame for at least a week because he had to attend the Westminster parliament. Ronseval declared he had arrived the same day as Marsen.
‘Have any of you,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘stayed at any other tavern when Marsen was there?’ Everyone shook their heads with cries of denial, except the minstrel, who kept weaving his fingers together. Athelstan recalled the gauntlet found in the Barbican. He had established that it did not fit any of the murder victims in the upper chamber but, glancing quickly at the fingers of the guests, Athelstan wondered if the gauntlet might belong to Ronseval, Physician Scrope or even Sir Robert Paston.
‘Master troubadour?’ Athelstan asked, ‘can you explain the coincidence that you arrived here the same day as Marsen?’
‘I was deliberately following Marsen,’ Ronseval replied slowly, not meeting Athelstan’s gaze. ‘I am composing a ballad against him which I hope to have copied by the scriveners along Paternoster Row. I can show you it if you wish.’ He picked up the chancery bag lying between his feet, opened it and drew out a scroll which he passed to Athelstan. The parchment was soft, cream-coloured, the writing clean and distinct though not at all like the proclamation left by Beowulf. Athelstan read the opening line about ‘Wolves being sent out amongst lambs, hawks roosting in a dovecote’. He smiled and handed it back.
‘Very good, Master Ronseval but,’ Athelstan pointed at the bag, ‘we may have to search that,’ he gestured around, ‘and all your property.’ Athelstan knew it was an empty threat; he suspected anything incriminating would be already hidden away if not destroyed.
‘This is not,’ Paston bellowed, half-rising to his feet, ‘acceptable.’
‘Treason.’ Cranston’s thunderous retort silenced everyone. ‘Treason,’ the coroner repeated. ‘Marsen, whatever he might have been, was a royal official foully murdered for collecting the king’s taxes, and those same taxes have been stolen. Now the lawyers can argue whether this is petty treason or misprision of treason, but treason it still is. We are searching for stolen royal treasure.’
‘And this is relevant to it.’ Athelstan opened his own chancery bag and passed round the gauntlet, the piece of chainmail and Beowulf’s proclamation. He found it difficult to judge their individual response to each item. Martha and young Foulkes simply passed these on, though Sir Robert appeared agitated. Athelstan could not decide whether the items were the cause of Sir Robert’s resentment at being detained here for questioning. Friar Roger, however, read the proclamation and laughed quietly to himself.
‘Marsen,’ he glanced down the table at Athelstan, ‘was truly found wanting.’ He crossed himself swiftly. ‘Though who found him so is a mystery.’
Athelstan nodded in agreement.
‘If there is nothing else,’ the Franciscan rose to his feet, ‘search my chamber if you wish – there is little to find. I have business in the city, Brother …?’
Athelstan nodded at Cranston.
‘You may all go,’ the coroner declared. ‘But you must return. No one is to leave this tavern without my written permission. By all means go about your business but this is your place of residence until these matters are resolved. If you disobey I shall have you put to the horn as a wolfshead, an outlaw.’
The guests rose and left, followed by Thorne, his wife and Mooncalf, who had been standing on the threshold. Once they had left the refectory, Athelstan collected the items he had distributed.
‘Sir John, what do you think?’ Athelstan closed the door and rested against a metal milk churn.
‘They have, all of them, a tale to tell and a truth to hide. However, one thing unites them alclass="underline" they hated Marsen.’
Athelstan, lost in own thoughts, absent-mindedly agreed. Cranston said he would supervise the removal of the corpses and everything else and bustled out. Athelstan sat down at the table, staring at the painted cloth pinned to the far wall depicting a Catherine wheel, surmounted by a cross and crowned with lighted candles, which held off the darkness in which murky-faced demons could be glimpsed.
‘Come, kindly light,’ Athelstan whispered. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and recited the ‘Lavabo’ psalm, ‘“I will wash my hands among the innocent and encompass thy altar O Lord …”’
Athelstan dozed for a while and started awake at a heart-cutting shriek which echoed through the tavern. He jumped to his feet and entered the sweet-smelling Dark Parlour, where Thorne, standing on a barrel, was busy hanging fresh herbs and flitches of bacon from the smoke-stained rafters. He just stood gaping; the shriek was repeated and the taverner swiftly clambered down. He and Athelstan hurried out into the main hallway and up the stairs into the gallery. They pushed their way through the slatterns and servants milling about. Thorne shouted at them to be quiet. He and Athelstan strode down the gallery which ran past chambers on either side to another narrow stairwell at the far end. Eleanor Thorne stood stricken outside one of the chambers. She glanced up, her face white as snow, pointing at the blood seeping out from beneath the chamber door.