Free Candle Flame by Paul Doherty Page A

beggars who saw them as free fresh meat for the pot. The legion of ragged urchins who always frequented the market joined in the mad hunt. Horses skittered. Stalls overturned. Carts and barrows crashed on to their side. Apprentices tried to defend their masters’ goods from wholesale pilfering; others tried to rescue themselves from the cutting press. The real danger to Athelstan’s party were the fearsome Earthworms. Cranston, who had now taken over the cavalcade, ordered shields up and swords out but fresh danger emerged: more horsemen were spilling out of the side streets on the far side of Cheapside. Cranston urged the cavalcade forward. The Earthworms drew closer. One hurled his spear, which bounced off a raised shield; another followed, narrowly missing Lascelles, shattering against the helmet of one of his escort. Friar Roger snatched a club from an apprentice and grinned at Athelstan.
    ‘Let us go forth!’ he shouted. ‘Furnished with fire and sword to fight as long as the World Candle shines.’ Athelstan was about to follow suit, leaning down to grasp a staff, when trumpets shrilled and the crowd before them abruptly broke. A schiltrom of pikemen, kite shields locked in the testudo formation, long-axe spears jutting out, were advancing down the centre of Cheapside under the flowing banners of the royal standard. The mail-garbed, shield-protected footmen were fearsome enough. However, the real threat was the billowing royal banner. Anyone carrying arms in a hostile fashion when this standard was unfurled were traitors to be punished with summary but gruesome execution. The schiltrom reached Lascelles’ cavalcade and parted to gather them into its steel protection. They paused, turned and advanced back. A short while later they passed under the yawning, arched gateway of the Guildhall into the great bailey which stretched beneath the entrance portico dominated by the towering statues of Justice, Prudence and Truth. The schiltrom now broke up. Lascelles led them across the frozen cobbled yard, the air savoury with the mouth-watering smells from a nearby bakery. Friar Roger made his hasty farewells and left. Athelstan followed the rest as they were ushered up steps across floors, shiny mosaics of black, white and red lozenge-shaped tiles. Walls covered in oak panelling reflected the light from a myriad of candles glowing in alabaster jars of different colours. Beautifully embroidered tapestries proclaimed the history and glory of London city since its foundation by King Brutus. They reached a small buttery, where Lascelles told them to wait. White wines and waffle cakes were served. Only then could they relax after the hurly-burly of their journey. Athelstan waited until the servants had left and then walked over to Marcel to exchange the kiss of peace. Marcel grabbed Athelstan close before standing back.
    ‘Time is the Emperor of Life,’ he declared. ‘Yet you, Athelstan, have not changed.’
    ‘And you, Brother, look as studious as ever, but what are you doing here? I heard you were assigned to the Papal court, the Holy Father’s personal adviser?’
    ‘I am very busy in France, Athelstan, rooting out the weeds of heresy.’
    ‘So why are you here? The Inquisition has no power in England.’
    ‘I am here to observe, Athelstan, as a hawk does a field. You have your heretics, Wycliffe the Leicestershire parson and the Lollards, who object to the power of us priests.’
    ‘And mummers who perform near London Bridge!’
    Marcel laughed deep and throatily. ‘I have been in London for about ten days, Athelstan. I have visited the Tower and all along the riverside. I watch and I listen.’ Marcel dropped all pretence of merriment. ‘Don’t you find such weeds in that little seedy parish of yours? Don’t you swim against a tide of heretical filth and radical aspiration?’
    ‘Marcel,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘I serve in a parish which is as poor as Nazareth, where a carpenter called Crispin tries to raise