Bloodstone

TWO

In the Abbey of St Fulcher-on-Thames Ailward Hyde, former master bowman and a member of the Wyvern Company, stood fascinated by the wall paintings in the south aisle just near the Galilee porch. Ailward was also agitated. He’d taken the oath. He was pledged to the company. He was an experienced swordsman, a warrior yet poor Hanep! Ailward had visited the bloody remains of Gilbert Hanep laid out in its coffin on a trestle in the abbey death house. The infirmarian, the keeper of the dead, had done his best, sewing on the severed head with black twine, yet the sheer horror of seeing a comrade like that! Ailward swallowed the bile at the back of his throat and caressed the hilt of both sword and dagger. Who had committed such a horror? Surely it could not be one of them, yet who could overcome a skilled master of arms such as Hanep, and take his head as clean as snipping a button? Hanep had died like some hog slaughtered out there in the bleak, cold cemetery. Now he, Ailward, had come here to collect his thoughts, pray and perhaps plot. Ailward just wished Fulk Wenlock, their consiliarius, an ever-perpetual source of good advice, was here but he and Mahant had gone into the city yesterday to roister as well as to do other business. He recalled Wenlock’s nut-brown face all creased in friendly concern when they’d strolled through the maze, that subtle conceit built by a previous abbot. They had been discussing Chalk and the lingering days of his death. Wenlock had gripped Hyde’s arm with his maimed hand and spun him around.

‘Ailward,’ he urged, ‘Chalk’s death has changed nothing. You’ll see, everything will calm down.’ He had then taken him to meet Mahant, their serjeant-at-arms. Mahant, his hawk-like face as harsh as ever, had confirmed Wenlock’s words: Chalk was dead. He could speak no more; all would be as it always was. Nevertheless, Ailward was still unsure. Wenlock had given him further words of comfort promising how everything would turn out well.

‘I just wish you were here,’ Ailward whispered.

Wenlock was always reassuring; after all, he had survived. Once a fighter, a master bowman, the most accurate of archers who could send a grey goose-feathered shaft into any target. The French had captured Wenlock and hacked off the bowman fingers on each hand. Wenlock bore his infirmity well and always comforted the others. Yet he and Mahant had still not returned and probably would not be back until later. So Ailward had come here to be distracted, as he always was, by the vivid array of wall paintings which dominated the south aisle. A collection of stories demonstrating the power of God over Satan and all his works, especially when the forces of hell confronted the black monks, the followers of St Benedict. Some of these wall paintings, or so he was given to understand, were the work of the anchorite, that mysterious person who had once been an itinerant painter as well as the Hangman of Rochester, a service he still carried out for the abbot. Ailward was always fascinated by such frescoes, especially those which celebrated events from the history of St Fulcher’s such as the former abbot who had foiled an evil spirit stealing wine from the abbey cellars. Ailward smiled as his fingers traced the story. The abbot had sealed all the taps of the barrels with holy chrism oil as a trap for the demon. The next scene showed a black-limbed, red-faced devil, fiery charcoal eyes glaring, green horns twitching, glued to one of the barrels. A further story, depicted in glowing colours, narrated how a young novice monk was tempted and threatened by a demon who flung his hellish cloak over the novice’s tonsure, burning his head and blistering his skin. The painting then showed the young novice on his knees begging St Benedict to assist him, which the great saint did in a blaze of shimmering light. Ailward closed his eyes and turned away. In truth he had also come here for help, for assistance, to pray, but who would listen to him? A former soldier whose soul was sin-burdened, sin-scorched, buried deep in all kinds of crimes against both God and man?

‘Corpse-maker, slave of hell, ravenous hell brute, coward!’

Ailward almost screamed at the voice which rang like a trumpet blast through the greying light, echoing under the ribbed-vault ceiling.

‘Slash of blood, raging demons, bloated and dangerous, battle-scarred. Terrors gather amongst us. .’

Ailward relaxed, tapping the pommel of his sword for comfort. He recognized the sepulchral voice of the anchorite in his cell built further along the south aisle. Once a small chantry chapel with altar, ambo and sanctuary, the entire closure had been bricked up except for a small door and a ledge in the front.

‘Mad as a barrel of crickets!’ Ailward whispered reassuringly as he made his way along. He reached the anker house and stared through the aperture. In the poor light he could only dimly make out the anchorite’s tangled hair, the frenetic eyes glaring back.

‘Good morrow, Brother,’ Ailward grated.

‘Good morrow to you too.’ The anchorite’s voice was surprisingly soft and clear. ‘Frightened are we, soldier, of the jabbing daggers, the swish of smooth swords? Oh yes, I’ve heard about the harrower of the dark who crawled through the gloaming and captured one of your kind. You lived for the arrow storm; you’ll die in the arrow storm.’

‘And you,’ Ailward taunted back, ‘live in fear of ghosts?’

‘We all have wolfish souls and hate-honed hearts,’ the anchorite retorted. ‘Guilty, God cursed.’ The anchorite breathed out noisily — a gust of air through the aperture. ‘And you, soldier, don’t the spirits gather around you? The ghosts of my wife and child?’

‘I’ve heard your fable,’ Ailward snapped, ‘your family’s blood is not on our hands. You rant and rave. You chatter like some earth-bound spirit but no one listens.’

‘I do,’ the anchorite whispered. ‘I listen to all the tales, especially about your comrade’s death.’

‘What do you know about Hanep’s murder?’

‘The good brothers gossip like women around the well. You should be careful, all of you! More walks this abbey than you think.’

‘Such as whom?’

‘She with that wicked face,’ the anchorite’s voice changed, ‘with slimy hair. Hanged her I did yet still she walks. Hush!’

Ailward felt a prickling fear. The anchorite, despite his ranting, was right. The soft slither of sandal echoed through the stone-hollowed darkness. The brothers were out in the fields or tending to other duties. The abbey church should be deserted now, that’s why he had come here. Ailward lifted a warning hand towards the anchorite. He moved to stand behind one of the great drum-like pillars; a sculpted fool’s face grinned down at him from the acanthus leaves carved around its top.

‘Horror from the great darkness,’ the anchorite’s voice boomed, ‘horror on all sides! A hideous oppression fills the soul with dread.’

Ailward ignored him; the mysterious intruder would also do likewise. The anchorite’s doom-laden pronouncements were common enough. Ailward peered round the pillar. A shape moved near the Lady chapel. Ailward could make out the garb of a black monk, hood pulled forward. Something clattered to the ground. The figure pushed back his cowl as he stretched out to pick up the sword, its blade blinking in the dancing light of the tapers. Ailward recognized him — Richer, the sub-prior, the Frenchman! Why was he carrying a sword and creeping about so closely cloaked and cowled? Richer had once been a monk at St Calliste which formerly housed the Passio Christi. Hadn’t Henry Osborne, another of the Wyvern Company, also remarked about Richer’s strange recent comings and goings? The sub-prior, in charge of the library and the scriptorium, had shown little love for the Wyvern Company ever since his arrival. Hadn’t he, chattering in French, once dismissed Ailward and his companions as tail-bearing Englishmen worthy of hell fire? Although to be fair, Richer had proved to be most compassionate to that old reprobate Chalk. Had he done that to squirrel out secrets? Had he been successful? Wenlock claimed he had. Curious, Ailward now decided to follow the sub-prior. The monk had disappeared. Ailward followed swiftly, his soft-soled boots making little noise.

Outside in the freezing cold, Ailward glimpsed the black gowned sub-prior go around a corner and across the monk’s bowling yard where the good brothers played nine-pins. Ailward drew his dagger. He kept this low as he pursued his quarry across the frozen gardens, through the apple yard and into Mortival meadow which stretched down to the watergate, usually a desolate spot especially at the height of winter. Ailward followed using the bushes and small copses to hide himself. Richer strolled boldly on. Now and again the monk would turn and glance back but Ailward was skilled in subterfuge and concealment. Hadn’t he and his comrades done similar work against so many French camps and strongholds? Ailward was now absorbed, his former unease and fear dissipated. Mahant was correct. The prospect of battle and conflict solved all misery. Ailward felt he was young again, heading towards the enemy. He was aware of the gathering river mist, the sharp breeze and the oppressive silence which seemed to shroud this lonely abbey. There again he had experienced the same many times in France. Ailward gripped his dagger. Richer was now near the lychgate in the curtain wall. The Frenchman abruptly paused. He put down what he was carrying and called out, a strident cry like that of a bird. A reply echoed in from the river. Richer picked up what he was carrying and hurried towards the watergate. Ailward made to follow but paused at the sound of dry wood snapping behind him. He turned round, dagger out; nothing, only the thickening mist billowing and shifting. He glanced back. Richer was now through the watergate. Ailward followed. Ignoring the stench of fox and other vermin, he pushed the gate open and stared through the crack. Richer stood further along the narrow quayside. He was crouching down beneath the soaring three branched scaffold handing a package to a man hooded and visored standing in a ship’s boat alongside the quay. The conversation was hushed and swift but Ailward caught the occasional French word. The man on the boat took the oilskin pouch Richer handed him. Ailward tensed. Was Richer a spy? What could he be handing over to some foreign ship? Something for the French or some other power? Ailward fought to control his excitement. He calmed himself, drew his sword and peered again. The monk had disappeared. Nothing was there but the boat, the figure in it now squatting down. ‘God go with you.’

Ailward turned and almost fell on the sword of the cowled figure cloaked all in black. Ailward gagged as the sword dug deep, its razor-sharp blade slicing his innards. He screamed again, a long, harrowing cry choked off by the blood welling through both nose and mouth. .

Athelstan caught his breath as he and Sir John hurried along the byways and alleyways leading off Cheapside down to the river. The day was drawing on. Bells tolled for the Angelus and noon day Mass as well as the sign for traders to break their fast in the cook shops, pastry houses, inns and taverns. Athelstan roughly shouldered by a pedlar of old boots with an assortment of footwear hanging from a stick, swiftly dodged one of St Anthony’s pigs, bell tingling around its neck, as it charged across an alleyway pursued by a group of ragged urchins armed with sticks. He crossed himself as a funeral cortège went by with bell, cross and incense. A young boy carolled the Dirige psalms while a group of beggars, clothed as penitents and fortified with bread and strong ale, staggered behind the purple-clothed coffin, funeral candles drunkenly held. Cranston and Athelstan crossed Fish Street. They passed St Nicholas Coe Abbey where the Brotherhood of the Beggars was feeding lepers on mouldy bread, rancid pork, slimy veal, flat beer and stale fish. Athelstan glanced away in disgust at the loathsome platters set out on a tawdry stall. He also felt guilty. He and Sir John had left Kilverby’s mansion. They had braved the importunity of the two beggars who haunted Cheapside — Leif and his associate Rawbum who’d once had the misfortune when drunk to sit down on a pan of burning oil. After they had coaxed their way by this precious pair, Cranston and Athelstan went into the warmth of ‘The Holy Lamb of God’, Cranston’s favourite ‘chapel’ since the merry-mouthed, rosy-cheeked landlady had taken over from the old harridan who had once resided there. Minehost had been preparing Brouet de Capon. The tap room was enriched by the fragrance of almonds, cinnamon, clove, peppers and grains of paradise. They’d eaten and drunk well. Now, faced with all this desperation, Athelstan paused. He opened his purse and went back to distribute coins into the bandaged hands of the ever-desperate lepers.

‘Dangerous,’ Cranston observed when the friar returned, ‘the contagion could catch you.’

‘Nonsense,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘there’s no real harm to be had from that. A silly fable, Sir John. You have to live with these poor unfortunates perhaps months, years before the contagion takes you.’ Athelstan was about to continue but he noticed a well-known foist approaching so he gripped his leather satchel more tightly and urged Cranston on.

A short while later they reached Queenshithe Wharf and hired a covered barge to take them down to St Fulcher’s. The river was swollen and dark; a freezing fog had rolled in to cloak the Thames in a deep greyness. Shapes of other craft emerged then swiftly faded. Lantern horns placed in their prows glowed as beacons whilst along the banks similar warning lights flared from the steeples of St Nicholas, St Benet and other churches. Cranston had refilled his miraculous wineskin at ‘The Holy Lamb of God’. He took a generous swig from this, settled himself more comfortably against the cushions in the stern and offered Athelstan a drink. The friar shook his head and stared fearfully across the river, a forbidding thoroughfare he reflected, full of mystery and sudden terrors. He recalled the Fisher of Men who, with his little band of swimmers led by Icthus, combed the river for corpses which, at a price, could be collected from his chapel, the ‘Barque of St Peter’. Even at the height of summer this river reeked of danger and Athelstan recalled some of the ghoulish tales narrated by Moleskin the boatman.

‘Dangerous weather,’ Cranston murmured. ‘These sea banks of fog float in and the French war cogs use them. A fleet of privateers prowl the Narrow Seas; they could slip into the estuary to pillage and burn, but,’ he sighed, ‘such thoughts darken the mind. Now Athelstan, Kilverby, there’s a family of choice souls?’

‘That does not concern us, Sir John.’ Athelstan steadied himself as the barge rocked violently. ‘Not yet. Let us move to the arrow point, to the conclusion then argue backwards. According to the evidence, Sir Robert Kilverby, in good health, locked and bolted himself in that chancery chamber. He never left, no one entered. No trace, as yet, of any noxious substance has been found in that room, but Sir Robert was definitely poisoned.’

‘Could that have happened before he went in?’

‘No. I suspect the potion he took grew in its malignancy. We deduced from those who knocked on the door later that evening that Sir Robert remained hale and hearty. No, that rich man was poisoned by some malevolent potion growing within him. But how and why I do not know. Even more mysteriously, someone took those three keys from the chain around his neck, opened the casket, removed the Passio Christi and put the keys back.’

‘Kilverby could have admitted someone during the evening; such a person could have brought the poison.’

‘But how, Sir John? The wine, the sweetmeats — we have no proof that these were tainted?’

‘She or he could have offered a poisoned cup or a dish of savouries, then taken them away?’

Athelstan steadied himself again as the barge rose and fell on the swell. The four oarsmen, capuchined against the stinging wind, quietly cursed as the surge broke the even beat of their rowing. ‘We have no evidence for that, Sir John. Surely Sir Robert would be suspicious of anyone entering with wine and food? He’d already supped whilst he had his own flagon. He’d insisted on being left alone and, as we heard, he was not to be disobeyed. Moreover, how does that explain the disappearance of the Passio Christi? In addition, Kilverby’s chamber is on a gallery close to the solar; anyone approaching, entering or leaving that chamber would easily be seen. No, Sir Robert was not disturbed. Indeed, knowing the little I do about that family, they would scrupulously watch each other; they all confirm nobody entered or left that room.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘Kilverby was mysteriously poisoned. The Passio Christi was stolen, not violently but by using those three keys which Kilverby guarded so zealously.’

‘And why?’ Cranston murmured. ‘Why has he been murdered now?’

‘That,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘is another mystery. Nor can I detect a suspect. Alesia is wealthy; her father’s death would enrich her further but why hasten it? In truth, she seems a dutiful daughter whilst Lady Helen certainly did not benefit from her husband’s death, nor is Master Crispin scarcely helped by such a dramatic, murderous change in the family’s fortunes.’

‘Did the assassin use the chaos which ensued when the corpse was found to mask their bloody handiwork?’

‘I cannot see how,’ Athelstan shook his head, ‘as I said that family watch each other. Any untoward action, I am sure, would have been observed.’

Cranston took another swig from the miraculous wineskin and began to hum an old marching tune under his breath. Athelstan looked across the river, fascinated by how the curtain of mist would suddenly part to reveal a wherry crammed with goods making its way up to one of the city wharfs or a fishing smack lying low in the water. On one occasion a royal barge broke through, lanterns glowing on its carved prow, the royal pennant of blue, scarlet and gold flapping in the breeze, the oarsmen all liveried, six on either side, bending over their oars, archers clustered in the stern with arrows notched. The mist would then close again and the silence descend. Was that a pale reflection of the spiritual life? Athelstan wondered. Did the veil between the invisible and visible thin, even part? Athelstan closed his eyes and murmured a prayer. He relaxed as the rocking of the boat lulled him into a light sleep and fitful dreaming about what he’d seen and heard that morning.

As soon as they reached the watergate at St Fulcher’s, they recognized some dreadful act had recently taken place. Lay brothers clustered around the quayside or just within the watergate. Cranston leapt from the barge, helped Athelstan out and immediately tried to impose order on the brothers, who gathered around him like frightened chickens. Eventually a young man, face bronzed by the sun, his dark hair neatly cropped to show the tonsure, made his way through the throng. He pushed his hands up the voluminous sleeves of his black gown and bowed.

‘Sir John Cranston, Brother Athelstan, pax et bonum. I am Sub-Prior Richer, librarian and keeper of the scriptorium. Welcome indeed to St Fulcher’s. We have been expecting you but the murder of poor Hanep has been overtaken by another slaying, Ailward Hyde.’ He ushered them through the watergate and pointed to the great black stains on the frozen ground then the splashes of blood on the curtain wall. ‘Murdered most recently — we’ve just removed his corpse to our death house.’

‘How?’ Athelstan asked.

‘A fatal sword thrust to the belly.’ Richer swallowed hard. ‘A killing cut which sliced his vital organs. His screams were terrible. The good brothers working in the gardens have never heard the like before. Father Abbot, indeed our whole community, is most disturbed. Lord Walter and Prior Alexander are waiting for you.’ He led them across what he called Mortival meadow. Athelstan stared around with a pang of nostalgia. The great field with its rolling frozen grass and mist hung bushes and copses evoked memories of his parents’ farm at this time of year, of him running wild with his brother and sisters. How he used to stop to watch the peddler with his emaciated horse come along the trackway at the bottom, followed by the warrener with his sack of rabbits or foresters with a deer slung on their poles.

‘Enter by the narrow door!’

Athelstan broke from his reverie.

‘Sir John?’

‘I was quoting scripture,’ Cranston whispered, plodding behind the fast-paced Richer. ‘We are, my good friend, about to enter the halls of murder yet again. Pray God we enter the narrow door and leave just as safely.’

They continued on up into the abbey precincts. Athelstan caught his breath at the sheer magnificence of the buildings, dominated by the great church with its scores of windows, most of them filled with coloured glass. Soaring buttresses and elaborately carved cornices with balustrades and sills closed in around them. Saints, angels, demons, satyrs, babewyns and gargoyles stared down at them with a variety of expressions on their holy or demonic carved faces. They crossed the sand-packed bowling alley, through gardens of neatly laid out herb and shrub plots, all contained within small red-brick walls, the path winding around them covered in packed white pebbles. Richer pointed out the dormitories, chapter house, guest house, refectory, infirmary and the rest, a bewildering array of grey stone or pebble-dashed buildings. Bells chimed and the stony corridors echoed with the slap of sandals and the murmur of voices. Snatches of plain chant trailed. The air grew rich with a variety of smells, odours and fragrances: incense, sandalwood, burning meat, fresh bread, candle wax and tallow. The tang of soap and the powerful astringent the brothers used to scrub the paving stones permeated the great cloister. They crossed baileys and stable yards, went around duck and carp ponds, hen coops and dove cotes. Athelstan tried to recall what he knew about St Fulcher’s. All he could remember was that the Benedictine abbey, like many of the houses of the black monks, had waxed rich and strong over the centuries, generously endowed by kings, princes and all the great ones of the land. He tried to make sense of his surroundings but his heart sank. The abbey was as intricate and complex as any labyrinth of runnels and alleyways in Southwark. An assassin’s paradise, Athelstan mused, with stairs and steps leading here and there, alcoves for towel and linen cupboards, passageways and narrow galleries abruptly branching off in all directions. Dark recesses and tunnels yawned, ending in broad open spaces full of light. He was increasingly aware of hedges, walls, gates and postern doors as well as steps and stairs leading down into the cellars and crypts. Oh yes, Athelstan thought, a flitting place of many shadows where a killer could hunt and slay as stealthily as any assassin in the darkest forest.

At last they were free of the main abbey buildings and entered a walled enclosure guarded by freshly painted gates. A garrulous lay brother bustled out from the small lodge saying he was the abbot’s doorman and porter. Richer just ignored him. At the far end of the enclosure rose a stately manor house of beautiful honey-coloured Cotswold stone with a black slated roof, chimney stacks and broad windows of mullion-coloured glass. Steps of sandstone swept up to an impressive door with gleaming bronze metal work. A small bell hung in its own coping, its rope, white as snow, attached to a large clasp. On either side of the main house ranged other two-storied buildings — those to the left of the gate were the abbot’s own kitchens, scullery, buttery and bakery. On the right, with its elegant paintwork and glass-filled windows, stood the Lord Abbot’s guest house for his own special visitors. The door to this opened. A young woman dressed in russet cloak over a samite dress, a white veil around her auburn hair, came out, one arm resting on an older, grey-haired, severe-faced woman garbed in a similar fashion. They both paused and drew apart to pull up their hoods. Richer led his guests along the paved path which cut between neatly cultivated garden squares. He paused in front of the women and bowed.

‘My ladies, these are Lord Walter’s guests, Sir John Cranston and Brother Athelstan.’

The young woman, plump and pretty-faced, smiled and nodded; her older companion simply glared. Athelstan guessed there was little love lost between the sub-prior and the lady whom he introduced as the Lord Abbot’s sister, the younger woman being his niece. The two women walked away as Richer took Athelstan and Cranston up into the luxurious manor house, smelling delicately of polish and the fragrance of crushed flowers. Dark, wooden panelling, balustrades, wainscoting and floor planks gleamed in the light of many candles. The abbot’s own chamber was an elegant, oblong-shaped room boasting finely carved furniture. Striking black crosses hung against two of the smooth walls, brilliantly coloured tapestries and turkey rugs covered the others whilst the intricately tiled floor described a map of the world with Jerusalem at its centre.

Abbot Walter and Prior Alexander were sitting in chairs before the great mantled hearth. They rose as Cranston entered. The coroner and Athelstan immediately genuflected to kiss the abbatial ring. Once introductions were finished, they were ushered to the waiting chairs, each with a small table beside it holding a goblet of white wine and a bowl of sugared dry fruit. They made themselves comfortable after the freezing river journey. Athelstan basked in the heat from the flaming logs whilst quickly studying the abbot. Lord Walter was a small, plump man; his black robe was of the purest wool, thick buskins on his feet and a precious pectoral cross hung around his fat throat. Soft and comfortable, Athelstan considered, Lord Walter was portly with a shining, balding pate, his gloriously rubicund, clean-shaven face glistening with perfumed oil. Nevertheless, a stubborn, determined man. Athelstan noted the pert cast to Lord Walter’s thick lips and the shifting eyes ever so quick to wrinkle in a smile as if the abbot was wearing a mask to face other masks. Prior Alexander was different, tall and gangling with a slight stoop to his bony shoulders, his closely cropped red hair emphasized a long, pale face, sharp green eyes with a beaked nose over a thin lipped mouth. Simply by watching them Athelstan sensed the tension between abbot and prior; they hardly looked at each other when they talked whilst their gestures were off hand, as if they were fully aware of some resentment between them. Richer, however, urbane, cultured and soft spoken, seemed to be well liked by both, especially Prior Alexander.

Cranston, sipping his wine, noisily cleared his throat to speak when the door abruptly opened and the largest swan Athelstan had ever seen waddled pompously into the chamber. The bird’s webbed feet slapped the polished floor, its long elegant neck arched, the oval-shaped head of downy white and black-eyed patches ending in a yellow bill which opened to cry eerily as the bird fluffed snow-white feathery wings. The swan headed straight for the abbot. Cranston made to rise. The swan turned, hissing furiously, glorious wings unfolding.

‘It’s best to sit down,’ Prior Alexander declared wearily. ‘Leda only answers to Father Abbot.’

Cranston resumed his seat and the bird continued on to receive food from the abbot’s hand before nestling on soft cushions in the corner. Cranston just glared at the bird as Abbot Walter explained how Leda had been his special pet since a hatchling.

‘A change from the monkeys, apes and peacocks,’ Prior Alexander breathed, ‘not to mention the marmosets, greyhounds and lap dogs.’

‘All God’s creatures,’ Abbot Walter commented cheerfully, ‘all gone back to God.’

‘There’s even a small place in God’s Acre for God’s own creatures.’ Prior Alexander could not keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

‘All God’s creatures,’ Cranston echoed sharply, ‘and there’s two more for God’s Acre, former soldiers who lodged here, Gilbert Hanep and Ailward Hyde brutally despatched to judgement before their time and,’ Cranston now had the monks attention, ‘I bring you the most distressing news. You expected the Passio Christi to be brought here this morning by Sir Robert Kilverby’s steward Crispin, together with his daughter and son-in-law?’

‘Yes, we wondered. .’

‘Murdered!’ Cranston retorted. ‘Sir Robert was foully poisoned in his chamber and the Passio Christi has disappeared.’

Abbot Walter almost choked on his wine. Prior Alexander sat back clutching the arms of his chair, mouth gaping in surprise. Richer stared in disbelief at both Cranston and Athelstan then glanced away, shaking his head. Once they had recovered, Cranston, ignoring their questions, pithily informed them what they had learnt at Kilverby’s house.

‘So,’ Cranston concluded. ‘Did Sir Robert share with you his intention to leave the Passio Christi here at St Fulcher’s on the very day he left on pilgrimage?’

‘That,’ Abbot Walter waved a hand, ‘may have been in his mind but,’ his fat face creased into a smile, ‘I cannot comment on what Sir Robert intended or what might have been. Sir Robert is now dead. The Passio Christi is missing, then there are the deaths here.’

‘Murders,’ Athelstan broke in. ‘Father Abbot, two of the Wyvern Company have been foully slaughtered in your abbey.’

‘My Lord of Gaunt has heard of the first death,’ Cranston added, ‘when he hears of the second, not to mention the murder of Sir Robert and the disappearance of the Passio Christi, his rage will know no bounds.’ Cranston’s words created a tense silence. His Grace the Regent was not to be crossed, even by Holy Mother Church.

‘I would not be surprised,’ Cranston added softly, ‘if His Grace did not honour you with a visit, Lord Walter, but now, reverend fathers, these murders?’

Prior Alexander replied. He assured Sir John how the Wyvern Company were happy, as they had been for the past four years. They’d claimed the Passio Christi was their find, so twice a year they were allowed to both view and hold it. For the rest, Sir Robert paid the abbey through the exchequer a most generous amount so the former soldiers enjoyed very comfortable lodgings.

‘Until now?’ Athelstan declared.

‘Yes, early this morning just after first light, Brother Otto who tends the cemetery went for his usual morning walk. Gilbert Hanep’s corpse was found near the grave of his old comrade William Chalk.’

‘Another death?’

‘By God’s good grace, in the order of nature,’ the prior replied. ‘William Chalk was sickening for some time from tumours in both his belly and groin.’

‘So Hanep rose in the middle of night to pay his respects to this dead comrade?’

‘Brother Athelstan, Hanep, like his comrades, was a veteran, a warrior, a professional soldier. He was restless, much given to wandering this abbey at night.’

‘And someone who knew that was waiting? His assassin must have followed him down to the cemetery and killed him?’

‘Took his head, Brother, a swinging cut; those who found him were sickened by the sight.’

‘And no indication or evidence for the murderer?’

‘The ground was awash with blood,’ Prior Alexander retorted, ‘but no one saw or heard anything untoward.’

‘And late this afternoon, Ailward Hyde was murdered near the watergate.’

‘A vicious wound to the belly,’ the prior replied, ‘the poor man’s screams rang across the abbey. By the time our good brothers reached him he was dead, soaked, almost floating in his own blood.’

‘Why?’ Cranston asked. ‘Why now?’

‘Sir John, we truly don’t know.’

Was there a link? Athelstan reflected, staring at the carved figure of a seraph carrying a harp on the right side of the fireplace. Was Sir Robert’s death, the disappearance of the Passio Christi and the murder of these two unfortunates all connected, or was it something else? Athelstan shivered. He recalled a lecture by Dominus Albertus in the schools so many years ago. How every evil act like seed in the ground eventually blooms to manifest its own malevolent fruit. Wickedness was like a tangled bramble, cruel and twisting, breaking through the soil, stretching out to create its own trap. Kilverby had enjoyed the reputation of being a hard-fisted money lender, notorious throughout the city and Southwark. Members of the Wyvern Company had killed, pillaged and plundered, even seizing a precious relic for their own greedy uses. Was this their judgement day, ‘their day of wrath, the day of mourning’ as described by the poet Thomas di Celano? Had the victims of all these murders been caught out by their own wickedness sown so many years ago? ‘Everything sown will be reaped’, or so ran the old Jewish proverb. Had harvest time now arrived?

‘Brother Athelstan?’

‘Sir John.’ Athelstan rose to his feet. ‘I have other questions but they will wait. We should view the corpses and question the Wyvern Company. After all, the day is drawing on and my parish awaits.’

‘Your parish?’ Prior Alexander’s voice was harsh. ‘Brother Athelstan, we know of you, a Dominican sent to do penance. .’

‘Then if you know,’ Cranston declared, getting to his feet, ‘there’s little point in retelling it.’ He bowed perfunctorily in the direction of the abbot. ‘Reverend Father, if we can view the corpses?’

Richer led them out of the abbatial enclosure and into the main cloisters. The day was drawing on and the monkish scribes working in their carrels around the cloister garth were collecting their writing equipment in obedience to the bell tolling for the next hour of divine office. Athelstan drank in the sights, watching the scurrying black-robed monks, as organized as any cohort in battle array, prepare for the next task. Other brothers were coming in from the field, doffing their aprons, shaking off their hard wooden clogs and gathering around the different lavaria to wash and prepare themselves. Athelstan wanted to speak to Cranston but Richer kept close as he led them across the abbey. At last they reached a deserted, cobbled yard. Richer ushered them into the whitewashed death house where two coffins rested on trestles beneath a crude black crucifix nailed to the wall. Six purple candles on wooden stands ringed each coffin. Beneath these, fire pots containing crushed herbs exuded a pleasant smell to counter the reek of corruption and decay. A gap-toothed, balding lay brother, hands all a flutter, came out of a shadowy recess to introduce himself. Richer curtly ordered him to raise the deerskin coverlets drawn over both corpses. Once done Athelstan gazed down at both cadavers. Hanep’s head had been sown back on with black twine but the face seemed to have shrunken and shrivelled like a decaying plum. Hyde’s cadaver was still cloaked in congealing blood, the great slit across his belly crammed with scented linen rags.

‘I’ve yet to wash him,’ the keeper of the dead declared mournfully.

Athelstan leaned over and studied the gruesome wounds.

‘Friar?’

‘Sir John, look,’ Athelstan pointed, ‘here’s the gash, the death wound but look, another piercing here.’ He motioned further up the belly. ‘The assassin made a sweeping cut, turning the blade of his sword to skewer his victim’s innards, a killing cut but then withdraws the sword and plunges it again.’

‘And?’

‘The assassin must have enjoyed that, for one slash would have been enough. Hyde’s screams were immediate yet the killer stays for a second thrust.’ Athelstan stepped back; his boot caught something beneath the trestles. He stooped down and dragged out the war belts, swords and daggers in their sheaths.

‘The victims,’ Richer declared.

‘Wearing sword belts in an abbey?’

The sub-prior made a face.

‘When Hyde’s corpse was found, were his weapons sheathed?’

‘He was holding both sword and dagger,’ the keeper of the dead offered. ‘I was there when we found him slumped against the curtain wall near the watergate.’

Athelstan carried the sword belt into a pool of lantern light. He drew both weapons; their blades were clean though flecks of blood stained the hilts where Hyde must have held his weapons close. Athelstan placed the war belt back.

‘And Hanep carried weapons?’

‘Yes,’ the keeper replied, ‘but I do not know whether they were sheathed or not.’

‘And why should Ailward Hyde go down to the watergate?’

‘I don’t know, Brother,’ Richer was quick to answer, ‘but his presence there might indicate that his killer came from the river rather than the abbey.’

Athelstan had seen enough. He put down the perfumed pomander the lay brother had thrust into his hand and walked back into the darkening day. He stood listening to the different sounds of the abbey whilst Cranston took a generous sip from his wineskin.

‘You will meet the members of the Wyvern Company?’ Brother Richer’s dislike of the former soldiers was obvious; his handsome face was twisted in contempt, his English almost perfect except for the slight accent now coming through.

‘They’re all assembled in the refectory of their guest house where they will, as usual, be slurping their ale and boasting about their sins.’

‘Brother, you must resent these men? You come from the Abbey of St Calliste near Poitiers. You believe your abbey was plundered by these men?’

‘Before my day,’ Richer dug his hands up the sleeves of his robe, ‘long before my day, but yes, I resent them. They are pillagers, ravishers, sacrilegious miscreants. If they’d not been on the side of the victors they’d have been hanged out of hand. Brother, why talk here in the freezing cold?’ Richer led them away from the gloomy death house, back into the main buildings. He waved them into a small visiting chamber warmed by two braziers and lit by a huge lantern-horn; they sat around a small table, Richer pulling one of the braziers closer.

‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John,’ Richer smiled, ‘I’m French through and through. I do not believe that the English Crown has any right to that of France but,’ he held up a slender hand, ‘I’m also a Benedictine. Our houses stretch across Europe and beyond. Here at St Fulcher are English, French, Bretons, Hainaulters, Castilians and Germans. One thing binds us: we have all put away our former selves and donned the black robes and accepted the rule of our master St Benedict.’

‘But why are you here?’

‘Because I’m a scholar, Sir John, a bibliophile, a peritus — how do you say? An expert in the care and use of precious manuscripts. I have visited the great libraries of Rome, Avignon and St Chapelle. Three years ago Abbot Walter asked my superiors in France for assistance with the great library here and çela,’ he spread his hands, ‘I am here.’

‘I’ll be blunt, Richer. Did you come here with secret orders to seize the Passio Christi?’

Richer grinned. ‘I’m a Benedictine, Sir John, a librarian. True,’ he conceded, ‘I would love to take the Passio Christi back to St Calliste but, if rumour is true, that was about to happen anyway. I mean, if Sir Robert left it here before journeying on pilgrimage, it would have only been a matter of time before our precious bloodstone passed back into the rightful hands.’

‘You apparently don’t believe the story how the Wyvern Company found the Passio Christi on a cart, along with other precious items, on a deserted road near the Abbey of St Calliste?’

‘No, Brother, I certainly don’t and I suspect, neither do you. A farrago of lies! I was a novice at St Calliste. I followed my vocation there. I’ve heard the stories. The battle at Poitiers was truly a disaster for the power of France. In the days following, English free companies roamed the fields and highways pursuing their enemies and helping themselves to whatever they wanted. St Calliste should have been sacred but a group of ruffians wearing the Wyvern livery scaled the walls and wandered the abbey. The Passio Christi was kept in a tabernacle in a small chantry chapel to the right of our high altar.’ Richer’s face grew flushed, his voice more strident. ‘It should have been safe there, a sacred relic in a most holy place! The House of God, the Gate of Heaven! Yet it was stolen, along with other precious items.’

‘Have you ever confronted the Wyverns with their crime?’

‘Of course, Brother Athelstan, just once. I was mocked and ignored.’ Richer snorted with laughter. ‘Do you think these ribauds are going to confess to sacrilegious theft? I told them if they were guilty of that then they incurred excommunication, ipso facto, immediate and swift. You know, Brother Athelstan, such an excommunication can only be lifted. .’

‘After three steps have been taken.’ Athelstan recalled the relevant decree. ‘Restitution, reparation and an absolution by a priest.’

‘Tu dixisti!’ Richer quipped. ‘You have said it, but those ribauds will never confess the truth.’

‘And Sir Robert, he often visited St Fulcher for spiritual consolation?’

‘Four or five times a year.’ The sub-prior shook his head. ‘Sometimes I’d talk to him, a strange man much taken up by the state of his soul. Of course I cannot speak about that. I am sorry to hear he died un-shriven but I can say little. He did most of his business with either Abbot Walter or Prior Alexander. If he spoke to me it was on spiritual matters and that is my concern.’

‘And the Wyvern Company — have they changed recently?’

‘If they have, I’ve hardly noticed. They keep to themselves. Prior Alexander might help.’

‘When Hanep and Hyde were murdered they were still wearing their sword belts — why should they go armed here in a peaceful abbey?’

‘Very observant, Brother Athelstan.’ Richer wagged a finger. ‘By the way, we have heard of you here, an indefatigable seeker of the truth.’

‘Praise from a Benedictine is praise indeed,’ Athelstan retorted, keeping an eye on Cranston, who looked on the verge of sleep. ‘But my question?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps they feared each other. Perhaps some relict from their past outside this abbey has intervened.’

‘You mean,’ Cranston shook his head, smacking his lips, ‘someone from outside is responsible for their murders? Surely a stranger would soon be noticed here?’

‘Not at the dead of night, Sir John, or on a dark December afternoon with the river mist curling around the abbey. Even worse if the assassin donned the black robes of a Benedictine.’ Richer rose to his feet. ‘Perhaps some ancient, unresolved blood feud, God knows. Such men must have made enough enemies in life. Come, let them tell you themselves.’

They left the petty cloisters, darkness was falling. Athelstan plucked at Cranston’s cloak. ‘We should be gone!’

‘In a while.’ The coroner seemed evasive, lost in thought and strode swiftly after the sub-prior. Most of the brothers were now in the abbey church. Silence lay like a pall across the precincts and gardens. Athelstan paused at the welling sounds of voices chanting a psalm from the divine office: ‘Vindica me Domine et judica causam meam — Vindicate me Lord and judge my cause’. Aye, Athelstan thought, do so, Lord, for this truly is a maze of lies and deceit. They passed the Galilee porch; a coffin stood there. Athelstan recalled what he’d glimpsed in the death house. He paused and abruptly asked Brother Richer to show them where both men had been murdered.

‘Must we?’ the sub-prior protested. ‘Brother, this day has proved hard enough.’

‘Please?’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Cranston. ‘The coroner is supposed to view the place of death.’

‘The King’s coroner has no jurisdiction in an abbey.’

Cranston stopped, grasped the sub-prior by the shoulder and gently turned him. ‘My friend,’ Cranston pushed his face close to Richer’s, ‘trust me on this if nothing else. I do have jurisdiction here for if the Lord Almighty John of Gaunt wants it, then that is the law!’

Richer swiftly apologized and led them across into the gloomy cemetery. He showed William Chalk’s grave with its raw mound of earth. Above it a wooden funeral cross on which were carved the former soldier’s name and date of death with the words: ‘Requiet in luce — Let him rest in light’, etched beneath a crude carving of a dragon-like creature.

‘Gilbert Hyde came here.’ Athelstan crouched. ‘He did what I am doing now.’ He then turned, straining his neck, his outline clear in the faint light. The assailant was undoubtedly a professional swordsman, a master-at-arms. He took Hyde’s head in one clear cut. ‘Come.’ Athelstan rose, pulling his cloak closer about him.

Richer, grumbling under his breath, led them out of the cemetery across the abbey and into Mortival meadow. The broad field now looked bleaker in the gloaming, the mist still swirled, crows called raucously from the trees. The wind had turned sharper, more vigorous tugging at hood and cloak; the frozen, icy grass scored their ankles.

‘A field of ghosts,’ Athelstan whispered.

They reached the watergate. Athelstan crouched to study the place where Hyde had died, his blood flecking the curtain wall.

‘Why was he here?’ He peered up at Richer. ‘Why was an old soldier armed with a sword down here at the watergate? To meet someone? Did his assailant come by boat, kill him then flee? Or did someone in the abbey follow him down here and strike the killing blow? Yet there were two assailants, I’m sure of that, two not one, but how did the assailants kill and escape?’ Athelstan couldn’t make out Richer’s face; the monk’s cowl and the poor light made it difficult to discern any expression. Athelstan touched the wall, then went through the watergate on to the mist-hung quayside, a bleak place especially with the black three-branched gallows soaring above them. Glowing braziers shed some light. Athelstan crouched, peering at the ground, scratching it with his fingernail, then he walked back stopping now and again to do the same. He swiftly recited the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’ and stood up.

‘Very well, I have seen enough. .’

The Wyvern Company, all four of them, were assembled in the beam-raftered, whitewashed refectory in the main guest house, a long room with a roundel window at the far end; lancet windows pierced one wall whilst a narrow hearth stoked with fiery logs stood in the centre of the other. The floor was covered with green supple rushes. A common trestle table ran down the centre of the refectory with benches either side. The former soldiers sat grouped at the top of the table, whispering amongst themselves as they shared a jug of ale and a platter of bread and cheese. They hardly moved when Richer entered and introduced Cranston and Athelstan. Rugged, hard men, all four looked what they were — veteran soldiers who’d served the god of war for many a year, their furrowed, clean-shaven faces burnt by sun and wind, narrow-eyed, thin-lipped, heads shorn. They ate and drank slowly, savouring every mouthful, eyes watchful. They were dressed alike in thick woollen jerkins and cambric shirts. War belts lay close to their soft, booted feet.

‘Well, my paladins of old, if you don’t want to stand as a courtesy for Holy Mother Church,’ Cranston leaned all his considerable bulk on the end of the table, ‘I suggest you do so for the King’s High Coroner, confidant of His Grace, John of Gaunt and former veteran of the illustrious King’s, not to mention his equally illustrious son Edward the Black Prince’s wars against the French.’ His voice rose. ‘By the grace of God, Sir John Cranston, Officer of the Crown.’

One of the company raised a badly-maimed hand, grunted and rose slowly to his feet; the rest followed. They all clasped Cranston’s now outstretched hand, nodded at Richer and Athelstan then sat down, their insolence barely concealed by their reluctant courtesy. Cranston took Athelstan to the other end of the table. He sat on the high stool with Athelstan and Richer either side, forcing the soldiers to turn and shuffle awkwardly towards them.

‘The day is dying,’ Cranston smiled, ‘and we are all waiting for the dark which comes sooner or later. Well, you know who I am. Who are you?’

Richer swiftly introduced the four former soldiers: Richard Mahant, Fulk Wenlock, Andrew Brokersby and Henry Osborne. Once he had their attention, Cranston briefly described what had happened in the city — the mysterious death of Kilverby and the disappearance of the Passio Christi. All four were shocked and surprised, although Athelstan suspected that since they’d already told the abbot such news would spread swiftly in an enclosed community.

‘It does not affect us really.’ Fulk Wenlock raised his right hand, the two forefingers savagely cut off at the stump. ‘The Passio Christi was surety for our comfortable quarters here, but I am sure my Lord of Gaunt will honour the Crown’s pledges.’

‘True, true,’ Cranston considered. ‘But where were you all yesterday — here?’

‘No,’ Wenlock retorted, ‘not all of us. Mahant and I left in the afternoon for the city.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Our business, Friar, but if you want to know to roister, to drink and I had petty business with a goldsmith in Poultry.’

‘His name?’

‘John Oakham.’

‘Which tavern did you lodge at?’

‘The Pride of Purgatory.’

‘I know it well,’ Cranston replied. ‘Large and sprawling. Minehost is famous for his stews.’

‘And you returned?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Late in the afternoon. We immediately heard the news of poor Ailward’s death.’

‘And you?’ Athelstan turned to Osborne and Brokersby. ‘Where were you when Hanep was murdered?’

‘Asleep in our beds, Friar.’

‘And when Master Hyde was murdered down near the watergate?’

‘We were here together.’ Osborne’s voice portrayed a strong burr. ‘We were eating a slice of venison pie and a dish of vegetables.’

‘So why was Hyde wandering Mortival meadow?’

‘We don’t know,’ Brokersby retorted, ‘nor do we know why Hanep was murdered out in the cemetery. For God’s sake, Priest,’ Brokersby brought his hand down flat against the table, ‘we truly don’t know. Hanep could never sleep; he loved to wander at night.’

‘That’s true,’ Richer intervened. ‘Master Hanep’s nightly pilgrimages around this abbey were well known.’

‘Yet both men were murdered,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘executed by a skilled swordsman. Indeed, Master Ailward may have been murdered by two assailants. Why?’

‘We don’t know,’ Wenlock spoke up, ‘we truly don’t. Matters between us were most amicable. We have served together for decades. We have fought, starved, been threatened and survived.’

‘We come from the same manor in Essex,’ Brokersby explained, ‘Leighton, on the way to Wodeford. We became master bowmen and joined the Company of Edward the Black Prince. We took the Wyvern as our livery. .’

‘Continue.’ Athelstan smiled.

Brokersby described how he and his companions, at least two score in number, fought in France under the Wyvern banner, about their allegiance to Prince Edward and their undying adoration of him. Athelstan warned Cranston with his eyes to remain silent, for these men needed little encouragement to wax lyrical about their exploits in the Poitiers campaign when they had shattered the power of France. Brokersby mentioned how he’d once been a scholar, a would-be cleric, educated in the local church of St Mary’s. Indeed, he added, he was writing his own chronicle of events. This caused surprise even amongst his companions. So, as darkness descended and the bells sounded for the next hour of divine office, the old soldiers reminisced. Athelstan listened and closely studied these grey-haired warriors with the archer braces still on their wrists. Once these were the scourge of France, men who feared no enemy. He also concluded that Mahant was their leader, Wenlock their adviser. More ale was supped. Cranston joined in with his own memories as Richer politely excused himself and withdrew. Once the Frenchman had closed the door behind him Cranston tapped the table for silence.

‘So we come to the Passio Christi,’ the coroner declared. ‘Did you steal it? Of course if you did you are excommunicated, cut off from the church. You shouldn’t even be here in these hallowed precincts.’ He sighed. ‘Naturally you’ll deny that. Anyway, tell us, how did you find the bloodstone?’

‘To be as blunt,’ Wenlock retorted, ‘after Poitiers we swept the fields like a windstorm, the very fires of hell.’

‘In other words you plundered and pillaged?’ Cranston barked. ‘I was there, you know. I took part in it. Our army was full of vagabonds, runaways, rascals and ribauds, the scum of our prisons who came from slums so horrid even the rats hanged themselves.’ Cranston’s words were greeted with silent disbelief until Wenlock beat the table with a maimed hand, bellowing with laughter.

‘True, Sir John.’ He glanced around his companions. ‘Come on, that is the truth! We had cozeners, tumblers, ape-carriers.’ His words won nods of approval. ‘However, we were master bowmen,’ all the good humour drained from Wenlock’s face, ‘and the Passio Christi was found in a casket on a cart along a leafy country lane.’

‘By you?’

‘By us, Friar.’

‘And what else was in that cart?’

‘Some cloths.’ Wenlock paused. ‘Cups, mazers, a few manuscripts.’

‘And you surrendered all of this to Edward, the King’s son?’

‘We did.’

‘And?’ Athelstan persisted.

‘An indenture was drawn up. You can study it at the Exchequer of Receipt. .’

‘I have,’ Cranston interrupted.

‘We were given an allowance every month. The jewel was to be held by Kilverby, the Prince’s treasurer. You know the rest so why should we tell you?’

‘How long have you been here?’ Athelstan asked, fighting off the weariness of the day.

‘About four years. We came from France then did guard duty at the Tower, Sheen, Rochester and King’s Langley. Five years ago we petitioned the Crown. We were promised corrodies here.’

‘And why St Fulcher’s?’

‘Ask Father Abbot, Sir John. The old King and his son, before they left London for Dover and their chevauchées through France, stopped here to light tapers. They arranged for Masses to be sung to Christ, Our Lady of Walsingham, and all the saints that God would favour the Leopards of England. The old King even founded a chantry chapel here dedicated to St George.’ Wenlock pulled a face. ‘St Fulcher received other gifts and endowments from the royal family.’ Wenlock gazed over his shoulder at the capped hour candle on its stand in the far corner of the refectory. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, the day goes and so must we.’

‘Richer,’ Athelstan moved his writing tray, ‘do you find him hostile? After all, he is from the Abbey of St Calliste which once held the Passio Christi?’

‘They claim they once held it,’ Wenlock replied. ‘We have no real proof that the bloodstone we found belonged to that abbey. I mean, if it was,’ he smiled, ‘why was it outside the abbey on a cart?’

Athelstan gazed at these former soldiers. He recalled how he and his brother consorted with such men, practical and pragmatic without any real interest in religion or indeed anything else outside their own narrow world. Wenlock’s blunt language was typical.

‘Was the cart abandoned?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What happened to its escort?’

‘By all the saints,’ Brokersby exclaimed, ‘that was years ago! What does it matter now?’

‘Because, my friend,’ Cranston shouted back, ‘if it was proven, even now, that the Passio Christi was stolen from the Abbey of St Calliste that renders you excommunicate, whatever the number of years. You would still be proclaimed public sinners and stripped of everything. You might even hang. So tell us,’ Cranston added quietly.

‘We found it in a cart,’ Wenlock answered coolly.

‘No escort?’

‘Nothing, just plunder of war waiting to be taken.’

Athelstan sighed noisily. ‘That is your story.’

‘We are our own witnesses,’ Mahant declared. ‘Who else is there?’

‘Tell us,’ Cranston asked, ‘why should two of your company be so barbarously slain?’

‘We don’t know,’ Osborne declared.

‘We are old soldiers serving our time,’ Mahant added.

‘So why go armed in this abbey?’

‘Because Sir John, this abbey is not what it appears to be.’ Osborne threw off Brokersby’s warning hand.

‘You think these good brothers are united in prayer? Well, look at the facts. The abbot hates the prior who responds with as much loathing. The prior loves the Frenchman Richer with a love not known even towards women. Our Lord Abbot is more concerned about that nasty swan than he is about the rule of St Benedict. He keeps his beloved niece, if that is what she really is, in the guest house guarded by that old harridan. Meanwhile Richer slips in and out of this abbey like a rat from its hole. We’ve seen him wander down to the watergate. Was he there when poor Ailward was murdered?’ Osborne breathed in heavily, wiping the white flecks of foam from his lips on the back of his hand. ‘Then there’s that anchorite, mad as a March hare, in the abbey church, screaming that he is haunted. He has grudges against us, as do Prior Alexander and others who, I am sure, have great sympathy for the Great Community of the Realm and their leaders the Upright Men. Now two of our comrades are foully murdered, certainly not by us. Why not make your enquiries amongst the brothers: Abbot Walter, Prior Alexander, Richer the Frenchman? After all, we’ve seen military service, but they’ve also done their fair share of spilling blood. They can wield swords.’ Osborne’s voice trailed off in a fit of coughing and throat clearing.

‘Do you see Richer as your enemy?’

‘No, Brother, but he may view us as his.’

‘So why are you armed?’

‘Because,’ Wenlock intervened, ‘three weeks ago, just before the beginning of Advent, I was attacked out in the abbey grounds. I have a passion for herbs and shrubs — I always have. I visited the gardens and afterwards I went for a walk. Nearby runs a maze, its high hedgerows, all prickly, laid out in a subtle plan. A former abbot had built it so those who could not take the cross to Outremer to fight the infidel could crawl through its maze of narrow paths to the centre where there is a Great Pity surmounted by a cross. I entered but dusk was creeping in. I was about to leave when a figure charged out of the gloom, hooded and masked, sword and dagger whirling. I was petrified; all I carried was a pilgrim staff.’ Wenlock grimaced. ‘The forefingers of both my hands are maimed, the French, God curse them. I cannot pull a bow but still, albeit clumsily, wield a weapon.’

‘You fought your assailant off?’

‘I was out looking for Wenlock,’ Mahant spoke up. ‘I heard the shouting, the slash and clatter. I answered Wenlock’s cries of ‘Aux aide! Aux aide!’ By the time I arrived his assailant had fled; from that time on we decided to go armed.’

‘And you reported all this to Father Abbot?’

‘I might as well have talked to his stupid swan!’

‘And you have no idea of your attacker?’

‘No, he was dressed all in black, cowled and masked.’

‘Or why you were attacked, at that time, in that place?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Have any of you,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘relatives outside this abbey?’

‘Not that we know of, we are old soldiers. Some of us were married but now our wives are dead.’ Mahant’s voice turned wistful. ‘Whatever children we had lie cold beside them.’

‘As do two of your comrades?’

‘Brother, Sir John?’ Wenlock’s voice turned pleading. ‘We are finished, surely?’

‘I would like to inspect the chambers of the dead men.’ Cranston rose swiftly to his feet. ‘And that includes William Chalk’s.’ Cranston gestured towards the door. ‘Now, sirs. With you or without you. .?’

The anchorite, whom the old soldiers described as mad as a March hare, stared calmly through the aperture of his anker house on the south aisle of the abbey church. The monks had finished their hour of divine office. They’d left in a soft slither of sandal and the bobbing light of lantern horns. A cold breeze now seeped through an opened door to whip the remaining glow of candles and tapers. Gusts of sweet beeswax and incense still trailed. Here and there the silence was disturbed by the scurrying of mice and rats sheltering in this forest of stone against the savage cold outside. The anchorite wondered what he might see tonight. He’d heard of Hyde pricked to death near the watergate. The anchorite had tried to warn him. He’d seen Hyde leaving in pursuit of some monk — was it the Frenchman Richer? Then another shadow followed him — a monk, surely? The anchorite was certain of that. He’d seen the flitting blackness through the dark. He glimpsed the glint of steel, but that was life, was it not? Violent and turbulent, full of tension and strife, that’s why he sheltered in these sacred precincts with his precious manuscripts, his box of treasure and pallet of paints. He was an anchorite but an exceptional one. He performed one service for the Lord Abbot which few painters did. The abbot was a Grand Seigneur with all the powers of a lord, of Oyer and Terminer, of being Justice of Assize. He had the power of axe, tumbril and gallows and the anchorite served as the abbot’s hangman. In return Lord Walter had been good, allowing the anchorite, when the church was deserted, to leave his cell and paint visions of the life hereafter on the walls and pillars around his cell. Yet she, Alice Rednal, the sinister haunter of his life, had followed him here. The anchorite was sure of that. He’d seen Alice Rednal’s hard face pressed up against the aperture, features all ghoulish, hair as tangled as a briar bush, but that couldn’t be, surely? He’d hanged Rednal at the Elms in Smithfield. He had tolerated her taunting as they rattled along in the execution cart but he’d then watched her die. The anchorite moved back to his small carrel and chancery stool. He sat, picked up his quill pen, opened his journal and began to describe the nightmare which always plagued his sleep. Was this, he wondered, the cause of the recent horrid apparitions?

‘Suddenly, without warning,’ he whispered as he wrote, ‘I saw the witch, yes I did,’ the anchorite glanced towards his cot bed, ‘climbing on to me. It greatly shocked me. I was so terrified I could not speak. In one hand the harridan carried a wooden coffin and in the other a sharpened scythe. She put a foot upon my chest to restrain me.’ The anchorite pushed his journal aside and crept back towards the aperture. He peered through at the painting on the far pillar, the evocation of his own nightmare which haunted him day and night, awake or asleep. He had executed that. At the time he’d been proud of it, and so had the good brothers who’d called it a vivid ‘Memento Mori’. Now the anchorite was not so sure as he gazed out in the juddering light of a torch fixed in an iron sconce above the painting. He had depicted Death as that night-hag, her face gnawed away to gleaming white bone. He’d intended to paint black hollow eye sockets but instead he had given her red glaring eyes, her teeth jutting up loose in a large jaw, arms stretched out like scaly bat wings. The anchorite turned away then froze at the rustling of a robe and the slither of soft buskins. He hurried back to the anker slit. He was sure she was there — Alice Rednal had returned to haunt him. The anchorite wanted to scream but he could not, he dare not.

‘Go back to hell!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Go back I sent you there! Go back! In the name of the Lord and all that is holy I adjure you to return and stay there.’ He grasped the stoup of holy water which stood just within the doorway and feverishly threw a few drops about, but the cold pricking of his spine and the nape of his neck only deepened. She had come. The anchorite closed his eyes trying to summon up images of the Virgin and Child but he could not. All he could picture was a chamber full of flames and filth where venomous demons danced.

‘Hangman of Rochester, I promised you would see me again. Alice is here.’ The woman’s voice sounded like the hissing of a curling viper.

‘What do you want?’ the anchorite pleaded. ‘In God’s name, what do you want?’

‘Your soul!’

‘That is the Lord’s.’

‘Then your blood money.’

The anchorite glanced at the small silver-hooped casket crammed with precious coins.

‘Never!’ He turned, looked and recoiled at the face leering through the aperture, chalky white with glaring eyes.

‘Remember me?’ the voice hissed. ‘At the hanging tomorrow I will see you there, perhaps?’

The anchorite grabbed the pole he kept near his bed and turned to thrust it through the gap, but the phantasm had disappeared. The anchorite closed his eyes and fell to his knees, sobbing in prayer. .