Candle Flame by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online Page A

when the great sinner Marsen was sent to Hell. Thanks be to God, the Eternal Lord, that I lived to see this day. Now,’ he continued brusquely, ‘we have told you what we did. You have your business, I have mine.’
    ‘Which is?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Alms to collect. Brothers to meet at Greyfriars. Sermons to compose. Preaching to prepare. Shrivings and blessings to administer so that souls can be saved. Our business is not this fierce hostility, this murder lust between men.’
    ‘Did you try to save Marsen’s soul?’
    ‘No, Brother,’ Friar Roger grinned, white teeth bared like that of a mastiff, ‘isn’t it wonderful to recount how, in his magnanimity, the master of all things would allow the soul of such a man to wander in delight before judgement is imposed. I know Marsen and his ilk. They milk the poor of every last penny. They grind God’s people beneath the boot.’ The Franciscan gestured around. ‘No one here grieves for Marsen and his coven. Most of us, if not all, rejoice that such a malefactor has been sent to judgement but it does not mean we sent him there.’ Friar Roger’s words were greeted with grunts of approval. Ronseval, in a high-pitched voice, started to chant popular verses about the brotherhood of man. Paston delivered a diatribe as if he was gathered with the Commons in St Stephen’s Chapel at Westminster. Cranston, however, banged on the table imposing silence. Athelstan noticed how young Martha and Master William exchanged secret glances and furtive smiles, as if the issue was of no concern to them.
    ‘When did you all arrive here?’ Athelstan asked. Both the physician and Father Roger declared they had done so after Marsen and his coven had taken up residence in the Barbican. Sir Robert Paston said they had been at The Candle-Flame for at least a week because he had to attend the Westminster parliament. Ronseval declared he had arrived the same day as Marsen.
    ‘Have any of you,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘stayed at any other tavern when Marsen was there?’ Everyone shook their heads with cries of denial, except the minstrel, who kept weaving his fingers together. Athelstan recalled the gauntlet found in the Barbican. He had established that it did not fit any of the murder victims in the upper chamber but, glancing quickly at the fingers of the guests, Athelstan wondered if the gauntlet might belong to Ronseval, Physician Scrope or even Sir Robert Paston.
    ‘Master troubadour?’ Athelstan asked, ‘can you explain the coincidence that you arrived here the same day as Marsen?’
    ‘I was deliberately following Marsen,’ Ronseval replied slowly, not meeting Athelstan’s gaze. ‘I am composing a ballad against him which I hope to have copied by the scriveners along Paternoster Row. I can show you it if you wish.’ He picked up the chancery bag lying between his feet, opened it and drew out a scroll which he passed to Athelstan. The parchment was soft, cream-coloured, the writing clean and distinct though not at all like the proclamation left by Beowulf. Athelstan read the opening line about ‘Wolves being sent out amongst lambs, hawks roosting in a dovecote’. He smiled and handed it back.
    ‘Very good, Master Ronseval but,’ Athelstan pointed at the bag, ‘we may have to search that,’ he gestured around, ‘and all your property.’ Athelstan knew it was an empty threat; he suspected anything incriminating would be already hidden away if not destroyed.
    ‘This is not,’ Paston bellowed, half-rising to his feet, ‘acceptable.’
    ‘Treason.’ Cranston’s thunderous retort silenced everyone. ‘Treason,’ the coroner repeated. ‘Marsen, whatever he might have been, was a royal official foully murdered for collecting the king’s taxes, and those same taxes have been stolen. Now the lawyers can argue whether this is petty treason or misprision of treason, but treason it still is. We are searching for stolen royal treasure.’
    ‘And this is relevant to it.’