Candle Flame by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online

was a wealthy wool merchant, a manor lord, a grey-haired, sharp-eyed man with ever-twitching lips as if there was something unpleasant in his mouth. He was clean-shaven and dressed most conservatively in a
houppelande
, a long gown fringed with lambswool, clasped at throat and wrist with silver studs. A former soldier and a mariner who had fought in France as well as in the constant sea battles between Dover and Calais, he was a rather sad man, Athelstan considered, a widower who apparently doted on his delicately faced, blue-eyed daughter Martha: she sat close to him dressed as soberly as a Benedictine nun in her white-starched wimple, dark-blue veil and unadorned gown of the same colour. She wore doe-skinned gloves studded with pearls, her only concession to fashion. Nevertheless, despite all her coyness, Athelstan noticed the fervent glances between the seemingly doe-like Martha and her father’s clerk William Foulkes. Athelstan hid his smile; both young people were deeply in love, although Martha’s father appeared blithely unaware of it. Foulkes acted all precise and courtly: vigilant and keen-witted, an observer rather than a talker, probably a graduate of the halls of Oxford or Cambridge. Foulkes was dressed in buckram and dark fustian, constantly fiddling with the chancery ring on his finger, apparently resentful at being detained and questioned, although he tried to hide it. Athelstan noticed that the two young lovers wore no religious insignia, be it a cross, medal or ring. Young women such as Martha often carried crystal Ave beads entwined between their fingers, more a service to fashion than prayer, but she did not. Nor had she or Foulkes crossed themselves when Athelstan first entered the refectory and, as was customary, sketched a blessing in the air. He was also intrigued that, as each of the guests described what they had done the previous evening, both young people glanced at Mooncalf, who stared warningly back, fingers twitching as if the ostler was trying to communicate some secret message to them. Athelstan wondered why all three seemed so uncomfortable.
    The same applied to Philip Scrope the physician. He sat cross-legged, his costly slashed robes gathered about his scrawny frame. An arrogant man with harsh dry features and heavy-lidded eyes, Physician Scrope apparently regarded himself as superior to those around him. He kept scratching his thinning hair, lips twisted in a sardonic grimace, tapping the table as if impatient to be gone. Ronseval, the wandering minstrel, troubadour and whatever else he claimed to be, exuded the same arrogance. Ronseval was dressed in a sky-blue jerkin, tight black hose and costly, ankle-high leather boots. His reddish hair was neatly coiffed and crimped, his smooth, swarthy face generously rubbed with perfumed oil. He slouched at the table, fingers smoothing its surface. Now and again he’d touch the hand-held harp lying nearby, a delicately carved instrument with finely taut strings. Despite Ronseval’s confident stare and poise, Athelstan detected a nervousness which expressed itself in what the friar could only judge as slightly feminine gestures of his mouth and eyes, the nervous twitching of long, well-manicured fingers and the way he kept touching his hair and glancing up at the ceiling. Brother Roger in contrast sat upright, still as a statue, his raw, high-boned face and slightly slanted eyes cold and impassive. A wiry man, the Franciscan was dressed in the clay-coloured robes of his order with stout sandals on his feet and the white cord around his waist displaying the three knots symbolizing his vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. He held Athelstan’s gaze, staring coldly back as he chewed the corner of his lip. Then he relaxed, smiled and winked quickly, as if he and the Dominican were conspirators and all this was some elaborate masque.
    ‘
Pax et Bonum
, Frater.’ The Franciscan’s voice was strong and carrying. ‘You ask what we did last night