‘I was elsewhere the night he was killed!’ Thorne yelled.
‘Who informed you he was killed at night?’ Athelstan countered. ‘Where were you that night? You did leave the tavern. I want the times, the places and witnesses.’
Thorne kept his head down. Athelstan rose to his feet. ‘Sir John, excuse me. I need to fetch something.’ The friar pointed at the two crossbowmen. ‘Whilst I am gone you are to allow no one into this room except me.’ Cranston grunted; the two guards nodded in agreement. ‘Only me,’ the friar repeated and left. Cranston, mystified, glared at the door then shifted his gaze to Thorne. The coroner was convinced, as would any jury before King’s Bench, that Thorne was guilty of the most malicious murder. He was also a traitor because those he had slain were Crown officials, whilst the treasure had been stolen from the king. If that was the case, Thorne would be condemned to a most terrifying death here at the scene of his crimes. An execution platform would be set up in the Palisade. The Southwark Carnifex, together with his assistants, would carry out all the horrors of the legal punishment for treason. Thorne would be dragged on a hurdle from the Bocardo. He would be stripped, his body carefully painted to indicate where the executioner would plunge his knife. He would be half-hanged before being slit from throat to crotch, his belly opened, his entrails plucked out and burnt before his still-seeing eyes … Cranston’s reverie was broken by an insistent rapping at the door. He gestured at one of the crossbow men to answer it. The soldier pulled down the eyelet, grunted and swung the door open. Cranston glanced up. He immediately wondered why Athelstan had drawn his cowl over his head, then stared in disbelief as the cowl was pushed back to reveal the smiling face of one of the guards outside.
‘What on earth …’ Cranston roared. The crossbowmen were now laughing.
‘Peace, Sir John,’ Athelstan declared as he swept back into the room. Thorne, who had watched all this, just slumped in defeat. Athelstan thanked the guard and once the door closed behind him, retook his seat.
‘I have just demonstrated how Hornsey, a veteran soldier, a cunning man, was killed. He took sanctuary in St Erconwald’s. He thought he would be safe there. Perhaps his close proximity to me was a silent threat to you, Thorne. He sat in the mercy enclave. I retired to my house and the night wore on. Hornsey had no reason to leave and believed he was safe. He hears a knock on the door, leading from the sacristy to God’s Acre. He goes to answer, pulls back the eyelet and sees a Dominican standing there, head down, cowl pulled over, which is understandable as the night was very cold. Hornsey makes a most hideous mistake. He thinks it’s me. He draws the bolt, opens the door and you release the crossbow bolt, which sends him staggering back to collapse in the sacristy. You then flee. I’ve said this before and I will say it again: friars can walk the streets of Southwark in safety,’ Athelstan smiled grimly, ‘and in the dark I suppose we are like cats – one looks very much like another. Nobody would accost you.’
‘And where did I get the robe?’ Thorne sneered.
‘Oh, my learned colleague Brother Marcel unwittingly supplied it. A most fastidious man, Marcel insisted on changing his robes at least once a day. He sent the used one to your wash house. I saw your washer woman and she commented on it. You and Marcel are of the same build and size.’ Athelstan rose. He walked behind Thorne, bent down and whispered in his ear. ‘You are guilty, Master Thorne. I have established a burden of proof which you cannot answer. You will be condemned to the most gruesome death, but not before Thibault has racked and twisted your body with the most terrible torture. Suspicion will fall on your wife; she too might be questioned. You will be adjudged a traitor. Consequently, even if she is innocent, Mistress Eleanor will lose everything because all your property will be forfeit to the Crown.’ Athelstan straightened up before leaning down again. ‘I invite you to make a full confession. Reveal the whereabouts of the treasure, which, in fact, I know already; confess and express your sorrow. I will ensure a priest shrives you, whilst the Hangman of Rochester, whom I have brought secretly to this tavern, will carry out sentence immediately. The Hangman is most skilled. You would not strangle but die instantly.’ Athelstan turned and walked away. ‘The choice is yours. I suggest you make haste because it’s only a matter of time before Master Thibault interferes. Sir John, tell me, what I offer is both legitimate and judicial?’
‘I am the king’s justiciar,’ Cranston replied, holding Athelstan’s gaze. ‘I have the power to hear and decide. I have authority to carry out, in the king’s own name, the sentence of death be it now or on some appointed day. I can also exercise mercy in the manner of that death. I believe we have said enough.’ Cranston snapped his fingers. ‘Have the prisoner taken down to the cellar. Keep a close watch on him.’ Cranston pointed to the hour candle glowing on its stand under a broad copper cap. ‘By the time the flame reaches midway to the next ring, you, Master Thorne, must decide or it will be decided for you.’ The prisoner was dragged to his feet. He tried to resist, until one of the soldiers punched him hard in the stomach and dragged him groaning from the room.
‘I hope he confesses,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I pray that he does. He murdered twelve people, Sir John, and all for the sake of filthy greed. The love of money is indeed the root of all evil. If he confesses …’ Athelstan took a deep breath.
‘The tavern sign can be his gallows,’ Cranston declared. ‘It stretches high and strong. We will use the same ladder he did to enter the Barbican.’
‘I’d best inform the Hangman, he is also a skilled clerk.’ Athelstan left. Cranston gestured at the two crossbowmen to follow and sat staring at the empty chairs in front of him. Thorne certainly deserved his death but he wondered what Athelstan would do with the others. The coroner dozed for a short while. Now and again he would stir and peer at the hour candle, its flame burning merrily away. Athelstan returned. He spoke to people waiting in the gallery outside and closed the door.
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan walked slowly towards the table. ‘I am going to ask you for an indulgence regarding the Pastons.’
The coroner chewed the corner of his lip. ‘In theory, Brother …’
‘In practice, Sir John, Paston is a good man. He has told the truth and he is guilty of no more than many of his kind in this city. I do not want to see him become the object of Gaunt’s vindictiveness.’ Athelstan kept his face composed. He knew nothing would persuade Cranston more than a dig at the self-proclaimed Regent.
‘His daughter, Martha, and William the clerk are deeply in love. They were of great help to us.’
Cranston waved a hand. ‘As you wish, little friar.’
Athelstan went back, opened the door and ushered Paston, his daughter and Foulkes into the chamber. Once they had taken their seats Athelstan went to stand beside Cranston.
‘Please.’ He smiled. ‘I beg you not to look so anxious. Master William, I thank you for your help as I do you, Sir Robert. Now this is what Sir John and I have decided. Sir Robert, I want you to clear the hold of The Five Wounds of all weapons. You will move your ship to another harbour. You will return to Surrey and resign your post as a member of the Commons. You will not become embroiled in politics and cease forthwith your attacks on His Grace the Regent. You will not return to this city unless it is with the special permission of Sir John here and only to do business. Master William, Mistress Martha, you too will not enter this city which is so dangerous for you.’ Athelstan lowered his voice. ‘Go home,’ he urged. ‘Marry each other, love each other. Steer clear of all danger. Keep what you believe in the secrecy of the heart.’ The relief on Sir Robert’s face was obvious. Foulkes looked at Martha, who nodded her agreement.