‘The mills of God, eh, little friar?’
‘Yes, Sir John. The mills of God are grinding slowly but surely. Nevertheless, deep in my heart, nothing we do in this chamber will fully restore God’s justice or his harmony. All we can do is deal with mortal sin and its malignant consequences.’ Athelstan finished his food then washed his hands and face at the lavarium. Cranston also prepared himself, leaving the chamber for the garderobe. Once he returned, Athelstan asked Thibault to fetch Brother Roger.
The Franciscan sauntered in as if attending a colloquium, a friendly debate in some refectory. He blithely took the oath and sat with an amused smile on his face as if rather surprised at the proceedings.
‘Ic waes lytel?’ Athelstan asked.
‘When I was little,’ Brother Roger translated. ‘My friend, I did not know you were skilled in the Saxon tongue.’
‘I am not but you certainly are. You are Roger Godwinson, that’s your family name. You claim descent from the ancient royal Saxon family displaced by William the Norman.’
‘Roger Godwinson,’ the Franciscan agreed, becoming more wary.
‘A scholar of the Saxon tongue as we have just proved and you have admitted,’ Athelstan replied. ‘A man recognized in his own order, by the ancients who taught him at Greyfriars, as a scholar deeply immersed in the study of all things Saxon. A man who, by common recollection, studied the poem Beowulf and could quote it line by line. Indeed, time and again, ever since we met, you have unwittingly quoted verses from that poem.’
The Franciscan raised his eyebrows.
‘Three examples will suffice,’ Athelstan replied, ‘though I could quote others. First, when the Earthworms attacked us in Cheapside you made a unique reference to fighting as long as the World’s Candle shines, a phrase quoted directly from Beowulf. Secondly, after I escaped from the inferno in the Barbican, you talked about your fear of fire and how each man nursed his own special fear within him. You also joked about how I had escaped from the Dragon’s breath. Again, direct quotations from Beowulf. Finally, when we first met, you referred to “this fierce hostility, this murderous lust between men”, a phrase which can also be found in your favourite poem.’
‘So I quote lines from an ancient poem,’ the friar laughingly replied. ‘There is no crime in that.’
‘A Franciscan,’ Athelstan pressed the point, ‘who also travels the shires around London begging alms, one who was always in close vicinity when Beowulf, that secret assassin, attacked Master Thibault’s minions.’
‘You are accusing me of being Beowulf. You are, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am. Let me lay my indictment against you.’ Athelstan emphasized his points on his fingers. ‘First, you are very proud of your Saxon heritage. I have proved this and you have admitted it. Secondly, as a novice at Greyfriars you won a reputation of being steeped in your heritage as well as proving yourself to be a scholar in both the tongue and literature of the Saxon people. I understand that.’ Athelstan tapped his chest. ‘My own family also claims descent from the ancient earls, hence my own name which, as you know, is also that of a great Saxon king. I have proved this and you have admitted as much. Thirdly, even in conversation you make reference to your Saxon heritage and, in particular, that great epic Beowulf. Indeed,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘you know more about Erconwald, the great Saxon saint, than I do. You are undoubtedly a fervent student of all things Saxon, including their sermons, which often quote those ominous words from the prophet Daniel about God numbering, weighing in the balance and being found wanting. Only a scholar, albeit a very arrogant one, could quote such a phrase in its original tongue. Fourthly, you have a licence to beg for your order in and around London. You move in a circuit from place to place residing where you wish …’
‘You have proved that and I admit it.’ Friar Roger mockingly echoed Athelstan’s phrase. ‘But tell me, where is the wrong in that?’
‘Fifthly,’ Athelstan moved inexorably on, ‘every time one of Thibault’s minions is attacked you are close by on your so-called begging circuit. Indeed, I believe Marsen, despite his wickedness, was also a man of sharp wit; he was growing increasingly suspicious about you. He once made reference that he knew someone was following him but that he would take care of it in his own way. Marsen was also a killer. He would know how difficult it was to challenge you; after all, you are a priest, a Fransiscan. I believe that one day, and that day would have come sooner than you think, Marsen would have tried to murder you. Indeed,’ Athelstan pointed at the Franciscan, ‘I openly concede that what I say here is garbled. Marsen, deep in his cups, once referred to Beowulf then to slaying the Wolf of Guttio. Why should he say that? He was in fact referring to St Francis of Assisi who in his life tamed the savage Wolf of Gubbio. Marsen, or his listener, in this case a prostitute, mismatched the words. St Francis took care of the ravenous Wolf of Gubbio. Marsen would take care of his Wolf of Gubbio, which mistakenly became Guttio, a worldly friar, very much a wolf in sheep’s clothing – a skilled assassin. Marsen was parodying a story which, in its original, exemplifies all the idealism of the Franciscan Order. Furthermore,’ Athelstan tapped the manuscripts in front of him, ‘Sir John provided me with a list of places and times when Beowulf was attacked. I also asked Father Guardian at Greyfriars to send me an extract from the alms rolls, a true record of what monies you collected, where and when. Friar Roger, there is virtual concordance between the places where such attacks occurred and your whereabouts.’ Athelstan stared at the Franciscan. Brother Roger was now more attentive and not so supercilious. You are all the same, Athelstan reflected. Murderers are steeped in sin which is always rooted in a deep pride. You truly believe you are superior to everyone else. You think you have a God-given right to judge, condemn and execute as you think fit.’
‘I believe Athelstan has proved his point,’ Cranston observed, ‘but whether you admit to it or not …?’
‘Who do you think you are?’ Athelstan decided to taunt his opponent. ‘Some great Saxon hero defending the poor with your sly, furtive attacks, arrows whipping out of the darkness? The real Beowulf didn’t do that. He confronted the monsters, met them face-to-face in heroic combat.’
Friar Roger just sat, lip jutting out. He glanced swiftly at Athelstan and gently shook his head.
‘The same happened during Marsen’s journey to The Candle-Flame: he was attacked at Leveret Copse. According to your Father Guardian you were close by. You lodged at this tavern to plot fresh mischief. You planned to strike on the morning of the seventeenth of February. The previous evening you entered the stables and placed miniature caltrops under the saddles of both Marsen and Mauclerc’s horses. The next morning they would hoist themselves in the saddle, ready for another day’s wickedness. They would drive the caltrops into their horses’ backs. The animals would rear in agony and both men would be thrown, at least injured, and so rendered suitable targets for you and your crossbow. In the end your plot was overtaken by another more deadly. Nevertheless, a more important target presented itself when Lascelles unexpectedly arrived here.’
‘You cannot prove that. I was preparing to leave for the city.’
‘Seventhly,’ Athelstan pressed on like a lawyer before King’s Bench, ‘I know from my enquiries that Lascelles arrived here cloaked and cowled. No one was expecting him. Only when he reached here did he pull back his cowl, reveal himself and begin an argument about whether the tavern gates should be closed or not.’
‘Which means?’
‘Listen now,’ Athelstan urged. ‘I had met you earlier. You were all ready to leave. Consequently when Lascelles arrived you acted swiftly. You slipped out into the street and gave that beggar boy the hastily scribbled note and a coin. You then returned. Like the professional assassin you are, you know all there is about The Candle-Flame: the different galleries, empty chambers and lonely vantage points. Beneath your cloak you carry an arbalest and a quiver of bolts. You tried to kill Lascelles but failed because of me. Now, I recall vividly who was in the yard that morning when the attack took place. You certainly weren’t!’