‘Mauclerc was a skilled chancery scribe, Sir John?’
‘One of the Master of Secrets’ favourites, a veritable ferret of a man. He was Thibault’s spy, a henchman appointed to watch Marsen. Why, little monk?’
‘Friar, Sir John. I am a friar.’
Cranston grinned and took another sip from the miraculous wineskin. ‘Why, my little friar?’
‘I am sure these panniers and saddlebags have been riffled. Someone has gone through them. Certain items were taken, just by the way the scrolls are piled together.’ Athelstan paused. ‘One other thing: have you noticed, Sir John, that none of the victims have coins on them? They were killed and their bodies robbed. Even the whores! From the little I know don’t such ladies of the night ask for coin before custom?’
‘They certainly do, little friar, and look at this.’ The coroner, crouching down, had moved a stool. He now held up a gauntlet and a piece of shiny, oiled chainmail. The gauntlet was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship: the velvet coat over the stiffened Cordova leather was finely stitched in gold, with small pearls along the finger furrows. Athelstan took both items over to the squat, evil-smelling tallow candle and examined them carefully. The chainmail was finely wrought. Athelstan suspected it was the best, probably Milanese; the links were fine and shiny with clasps on each corner. The gauntlet was also costly. Athelstan noticed the fingertips were smudged with dry blood. He glanced swiftly at the hands of the four murder victims: the two whores would not wear such items, whilst the gauntlet would certainly not fit the stout-fingered hands of Marsen or Mauclerc.
‘The chainmail,’ Cranston called out, ‘probably served as a wristguard.’
Athelstan summoned Thorne, but the taverner could not recall Marsen or any of his group carrying such items.
‘Both are the property of a knight,’ Thorne declared, scratching his reddish face with stubby fingers. ‘Surely such chainmail, a gauntlet … they might even belong to Beowulf?’
Athelstan turned back to Cranston. ‘Sir John, does Beowulf always leave those verses with his victims?’
‘Yes, Brother, he certainly does, and he is putting the fear of God into all of Gaunt’s servants. Master Thibault’s minions now go everywhere with a well-armed comitatus, be it in the cobbled square of some market town or the darkest greenwood. But how could it happen here?’
Athelstan held up a hand. ‘Not now, Sir John, and not here. We are harvesting the grain of bloody murder. Once the harvest is in we shall grind it and,’ he smiled, ‘never forget, the Mills of God may grind exceedingly slow but they do grind exceedingly small. So.’ Athelstan turned back to the window. There were shutters on both the inside and outside held together by large, sharp hooks which rested in clasps. Athelstan fully closed the shutters, scrutinized the gap and could see how a dagger could be inserted to lift the hooks. The window in between had a wooden frame with a horn covering that worked like a door with hinges and a latch on the inside. Thorne agreed that he had to rip the horn to lift the handle. Athelstan, mystified, could only stare, baffled at how the murderer came in and left. Both Thorne and Mooncalf were resolute in their assertion that the shutters were clasped shut and the window undisturbed. Athelstan walked around, sifting through the tumbled furniture, the blankets and sheets of the two cot beds. He was aware of Cranston lifting the rope matting. The taverner and Mooncalf were now collecting the last of the tankards, goblets and platters in a large iron-rimmed tub. Athelstan climbed the steep ladder, pushing open the trapdoor and carefully pulled himself up on to the top of the tower. A piercing cold wind buffeted him as he staggered across the thick shale to grasp a rusting iron bar which connected the ancient, moss-eaten crenellations. Athelstan took a deep breath as he stared around. To the north glinted the river – he could see the war cogs riding at anchor and a myriad of small boats, barges and wherries. The sky was now brightening but the day promised to remain freezing cold. The friar stared up at the wisps of cloud, then down at the huddle of buildings below. He turned. Somewhere to the south nestled his own church; his parishioners would be stirring. Benedicta, the beautiful dark-eyed woman would be in the church along with Crim the altar boy and Mauger the bell clerk. Athelstan realized he would have to celebrate his Mass late. He was also determined to meet his parish council so they could discuss the events of the recent ‘Love Day’ which had gone disastrously wrong. He heard Cranston call his name and made his way gingerly down. Cranston, Mooncalf and Thorne were examining two crossbow bolts taken from a small pouch. The coroner held them up. The steel barbs were blunted, their flight feathers split.
‘Apparently a trophy,’ Cranston remarked. ‘Mine Host claims that on his journey here Marsen was attacked as he crossed the small footbridge near Leveret Copse, a little to the south. Both bolts missed. Marsen crowed in triumph like a cock on its dunghill.’
‘They are the same.’ Athelstan studied both carefully. ‘Identical, I think, to those used to kill the archers outside. Ah, well, let’s continue.’ Athelstan went out into the bitter cold morning, Cranston and the others trailing behind. The air reeked of the nearby piggeries and trails of smoke from the dying campfire. Athelstan walked to the ladder, still positioned on the handcart. He made sure it was secure and carefully climbed up to the window. He noticed how the ladder hooks fixed securely under the sill. He pulled the shutters open, ignoring Cranston’s call to be careful and studied the woodwork, split horn and the handle to the window. Satisfied, he climbed back down.
‘Sir John, I have seen enough.’ He pointed to the door. ‘My Lord Coroner, Flaxwith, your master bailiff, must arrange for all the corpses to be removed to the death house at the Guildhall. They should be blessed by the chaplain and examined by the best physician that can be hired. The washing tub containing the tankards and the scraps and dregs must be taken down to one of those rat-infested dungeons beneath the Guildhall and spread out. The door is to be locked and guarded by the same Flaxwith, who must inform me about what happens next. Also, make sure the Barbican is sealed and guarded until all that is done. Sir John, you must, as soon as possible, issue an arrest warrant for Hugh of Hornsey, formerly Captain of the Tower archers. He is missing, fled. We have no sight of hide or hair of him. Now, Sir John, we truly should break our fast.’
They made their way across the Palisade, past the stiffening corpses of the two archers and into the tangy warmth of The Candle-Flame. Cranston shouted at Flaxwith and the other bailiffs, toasting themselves in front of the roaring fire in the Dark Parlour, to go out and guard the Barbican. Eleanor, Thorne’s wife, her comely face all concerned, then served Athelstan and the rest in the small, pink-plastered parlour with its gleaming dark-wood table and cushioned stools which led off from the main taproom. The food served was piping hot and delicious: black porray, roo broth and small white freshly baked manchet loaves thickly buttered and sprinkled with garlic, together with stoups of light ale. Sir John, once he had taken out his large horn-spoon and polished it with a napkin, ‘fell on the food’ as he himself observed, ‘like a hawk on a pigeon’. For a while no one spoke as platters were cleared and tankards emptied. Athelstan ate sparingly, complimenting Thorne on both the chamber and the food served. The taverner, crouched over his own dish, simply murmured how he wished to sell The Candle-Flame, adding that the turbulent times were not proving to be the best of seasons to host a tavern. Athelstan nodded understandingly; such sentiments were common amongst the tavern masters of Southwark. He also asked if Sir John’s earlier instruction about the other guests had been served. Mistress Eleanor, standing on the threshold, agreed, saying they had left their chambers but were breaking their fast in the buttery refectory. Athelstan waited until Sir John had finished eating and tapped the table with his horn-spoon. He smiled down the table at Mooncalf, the young ostler had recovered from both his terrors and the biting cold. He now sat sleepy-eyed and red-cheeked next to his master.