Friar Roger simply stared back.
‘Thorne was talking to Mooncalf. The Pastons and William Foulkes were closeted together in the Dark Parlour both before and after the attack. Ronseval was also in the yard. The only person missing was you.’ Athelstan moved the parchment before him. ‘You came down later and, as an act of impudence, asked to join Lascelles’ escort into the city. Later, when you visited St Erconwald’s, I mistakenly made reference to Pike and Watkin being involved with the Upright Men. I saw you cultivate them when you visited St Erconwald’s. I have questioned them. They distinctly recall you asking both where they lived; in fact, they invited you to their houses. This is my ninth charge against you. You used that knowledge to provoke that conflict here at The Candle-Flame. You knew where Pike and Watkin lived. You are a friar, popular with the people and certainly on good terms with those leading lights amongst the Upright Men, Watkin and Pike. Once twilight had fallen, you slipped along to their houses dressed in a simple robe and hood and delivered those messages about Marsen’s treasure still lying here at The Candle-Flame. All you had to do was wait for them to leave for their muster. You knew they would. The Upright Men would be delighted to steal such wealth from Master Thibault. Only then do you send that letter to the Guildhall and bring about the confrontation. The Upright Men disappear but Thibault and Lascelles remain. Of course, everyone in the tavern is alarmed. Once again, you choose your vantage point, strike and kill at least one of your intended victims.’ Athelstan fell silent, tapping the table with his fingers. ‘Brother Roger, let me weave all this together. Your Saxon heritage, your absorption with the epic Beowulf, your constant quotations from it, your presence close in time and place to all the assaults, successful or not, against Thibault’s minions and Marsen’s veiled allegations against you. Then your presence in The Candle-Flame when those saddles were primed so the horses would rear and throw their riders. Your where-abouts when Lascelles was attacked in the stableyard and, again, after the Earthworms occupied The Candle-Flame. Your knowledge of Pike and Watkin being placed amongst the Upright Men as well as where they lived. Finally, and I admit only I know this but cannot reveal all as I have not yet finished, the elimination of other possible suspects leaving only you. Of course,’ Athelstan gestured towards the door, ‘a search is now being carried out in your chamber and all your possessions.’
‘Sit down!’ Cranston bellowed as the Franciscan sprang to his feet. ‘Sit down,’ the coroner repeated, ‘or I will have you chained. What does it matter, Brother Roger, the case weighs heavily against you. If all this was submitted to a jury they would, I assure you, return a true bill of indictment for murder, treason and a litany of other felonies.’
‘I am a Franciscan!’ Friar Roger shouted back. ‘My order works with and for the poor. I am a true son of the soil. I wander the shires of this kingdom and see the lords of the soil bully, harass and exploit the humble. So yes, I am like Beowulf: I fight monsters, I slay them.’
‘No one gave you that right,’ Athelstan countered.
‘I will not confess to you what I did or why,’ Brother Roger sneered. ‘I plead benefit of clergy. More importantly, I quote the constitutions of my order accepted by Holy Mother Church and the Crown of England that I can only be questioned, tried and, if found guilty, convicted by my own Minister General in full chapter at our mother house in Assisi. I appeal to that process. I will not, shall not say any more.’
‘Nor shall you,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You, Brother Roger, are a killer, an assassin. You are not the son of the Poor Man of Assisi, the great St Francis, but the offspring of Cain. You are as arrogant as the Lord Satan, full of false pride at your heritage. You decided not to pray or administer to the poor but act as their so-called, self-proclaimed champion in slaughtering those you, and only you, consider worthy of death. You have made yourself your own idol, turned yourself into a graven image of God himself.’ Athelstan rang the hand bell. ‘Think, Brother, think long and hard. Do not be so proud or confident. Remember the words of the psalm: “Put not your trust in Egypt, nor your confidence in the war chariots of Pharaoh or the swift horses of Syria. God’s power is the truth.” Athelstan slammed the bell down, rose and walked away as Cranston supervised the Franciscan’s arrest, instructing Burley that Brother Roger be chained and kept under close watch. The door had hardly closed when a ferocious knocking brought Athelstan back. Tiptoft stood there with William Foulkes.
‘He has something for you,’ the messenger declared. Foulkes handed over the small scrolls detailing Athelstan’s questions and Mooncalf’s answers. Athelstan swiftly read the latter and smiled. He had what he needed.
‘Ask Mine Host,’ he declared, ‘to bring us some wine.’ A short while later Thorne, aproned and carrying a tray, came into the chamber. He put the tray down on the side table. Athelstan walked to the door and opened it. He had warned Tiptoft before and felt reassured at the crossbowmen, all wearing the royal livery, quietly taking up their position outside. Athelstan sketched a blessing in their direction and walked back to Thorne, who was tutting under his breath at the food and wine Athelstan had brought from The Piebald. Cranston stood looking rather perplexed, though the coroner sensed danger and his right hand now rested on the silver-hilted dagger in its sheath beneath his cloak. Athelstan clapped the taverner on his shoulder.
‘Take off your apron, Master Simon,’ he urged, ‘and there is no need for this either.’ He plucked the dagger from the taverner’s belt, threw it on the floor and kicked it away.
Thorne raised his big, muscular hands. ‘Brother Athelstan, what is this?’ he protested. ‘Why do you bring wine and food to my tavern?’
‘I don’t want to be poisoned,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘I don’t want to be sent into that sleep close to death. Sit down, Master Thorne. Take the oath, for your very life is to be challenged. You are a true brother of the man we have just questioned. Like him you have murdered and snatched the souls of others out of this life and hurled them unprepared into the eternal dark.’
Thorne staggered back, his hand clawing for where his dagger should have been, but Cranston had slid behind him and the coroner’s razor-edged sword brushed the side of his neck.
‘Sit down, Thorne!’ Athelstan almost pushed the taverner into the chair in front of the table. ‘Simon Thorne.’ Athelstan took his seat as Cranston, hiding his own surprise, went to sit opposite the accused.
‘Simon Thorne,’ the friar repeated, ‘I formally accuse you of murder on many counts.’
‘This is not true!’ Thorne made to rise.
‘I wouldn’t leave that chair.’ Cranston leaned across the table, his podgy finger jabbing. ‘You must not leave that chair. You will remain silent or I shall order the guards to bind and gag you.’ Cranston tapped the hilt of his sword, its blade pointing towards Thorne. The taverner slumped back. Athelstan studied the accused’s hard, muscular face, the pock-marked skin drawn tight, the slightly bulbous eyes bright with cunning and fear. The taverner was sweating, his breath heavy. Now and again his thick fingers would scratch at his black, wiry hair. Athelstan recalled their first meeting. He quietly marvelled at how so many individuals could hide their true soul, the karpos, as he called it, the dominant spirit which could shift, hide and lurk for a lifetime yet rarely manifest its true self. Athelstan had plotted this carefully. Once he had eliminated others, logic and evidence pointed to this guilty taverner. Athelstan had been anxious lest Thorne discover that he was suspected. Flight from the law was common enough. Men disappear never to be seen again. Thorne might lose his tavern, but he would take with him the stolen treasure from where Athelstan suspected he had hidden it and flee to any part of the kingdom or beyond.