Bloodstone

THREE

‘The day of their destruction draws near,

Doom comes on wings towards them. .’

The melodious chant of the black monks of St Fulcher rose and fell in the taper-lit darkness of their great oak-carved choir close to the high altar. Athelstan leaned against the raised stall and tried not to be distracted by the images clustering around him. The sculptures, the vivid wall paintings, the shimmering colour of stained-glass windows, the darkness brooding at the edge of flickering light, not to mention row upon row of black garbed monks, their faces hidden by cowls — all of these were a constant temptation to gaze around.

‘I have sharpened my flashing sword,’ the choir sang.

Athelstan smiled at the words of the psalmist. Coroner Cranston had decided to curb his sharpened thirst in the refectory of the guest house, though not before telling Athelstan that they would not be returning to the city that evening. Athelstan had reluctantly agreed. He wanted to return to St Erconwald’s. God knows he had enough work there but the business here was compelling. This great abbey absorbed him. In itself it was a small stone city. At its centre stood this hallowed cathedral with its transepts and arches, pillars and plinths, its great rood screen carved in the same fine oak as the latticed woodwork of the chantry chapels dedicated to this saint or that which ranged along each aisle. Athelstan would love to bring his parishioners around this church, show them the exciting wall paintings and frescoes, the great table tombs of former abbots, the elaborate pulpit surmounted by a gorgeous banner displaying the Five Wounds of Christ. Perhaps the swan-loving abbot would grant such permission? A Christmas treat with a feast of bread and ale in the abbey buttery? But not now!

Athelstan let his mind drift. He had visited the narrow chambers of all three dead men. A sad experience. He and Cranston had gone through a collection of paltry possessions: badges, scraps of letters, weapons, clothing and pieces of armour, be it a wrist brace or an ugly-looking dagger. Nothing remarkable except in William Chalk’s, those pieces of parchment bearing the crudely inscribed words, ‘Jesu Miserere — Jesus have mercy on me’, repeated time and again. Athelstan had asked Wenlock the reason for this. He simply pulled a face and said that Chalk, like any man, was fearful of approaching death. For the rest. .

Athelstan stared up at a statue of St Fulcher. Those bare, whitewashed chambers with their pathetic possessions intrigued him. Something was wrong, Athelstan reflected. Ah, that was it! He smiled. Yes, they were far too neat and tidy, as if someone had already searched the dead men’s possessions — to remove what? Any suspicion about their past, the Passio Christi or some other bloody deed they’d perpetrated during the long years of war. .?

‘Then would the waters have engulfed us.’

Before the leading cantor’s words could be answered by the choir, a voice low but carrying echoed through the church.

‘And they have engulfed me,’ the voice continued. ‘Yea, I am caught in the fowler’s net and the trap has been sprung.’ The voice faded.

‘The anchorite, God bless him,’ the monk next to Athelstan whispered. ‘He has to hang a man tomorrow.’

The cantor, now recovered from his surprise, repeated the verse and the plain chant continued. Athelstan peered down the church and quietly promised himself a visit to the anchorite sooner rather than later. At the end of compline Athelstan expected Father Abbot, seated in his elaborately carved stall, to rise garbed in all his pontificals and deliver the final blessing. Instead a strange ceremony ensued, the likes of which Athelstan had never seen before. The monks sat down in their stalls, cowled heads bowed. A side door in the nave opened. Four burly lay brothers, armed with iron-tipped staves, brought in a man dressed in a black tunic, feet bare, hands bound, his face hidden by a mask. Immediately the cantor rose and began singing the seven penitential psalms as the prisoner was forced to kneel between black cloths set over trestles. Athelstan had noticed these when he had first come under the rood screen into the choir. As the monks chanted, Prior Alexander left his stall and thrust a crucifix into the prisoner’s bound hands. Other brothers wheeled a coffin just inside the rood screen whilst the almoner brought a tray carrying a flagon of wine and a platter of bread, cheese and salted bacon. Athelstan recalled the coffin he had seen and the gallows near the watergate. The abbot must have seigneural jurisdiction. The prisoner now before them was undoubtedly condemned to hang on the morrow though not before his soul was shriven and his belly filled with food. Athelstan whispered a question to the monk in the next stall. The good brother broke off from chanting the ‘De Profundis’ — and swiftly answered, before the prior coughed dramatically in their direction, how the prisoner was a convicted river pirate who’d murdered one of their lay brothers. The felon had fled to a church further up the Thames to claim sanctuary but eventually surrendered himself to the abbot’s court. He had been tried and condemned to hang from the gallows after the Jesus Mass the following day.

The penitential service finished. The good brothers filed out of their stalls, past the prisoner who now sat in his coffin, ringed by guards. Athelstan followed the others and, once out of the abbey church, he joined the rest in washing his hands and face in the spacious lavarium near the great cloisters. Afterwards, led by a servitor, Athelstan joined Cranston for supper in the abbot’s own dining chamber, a magnificent wood-panelled room warmed by a roaring fire. Thick turkey rugs covered the floor and skilfully painted cloths hung over the square, mullioned-glass windows. The splendid dining table had been covered in samite and a huge golden Nef or salt seller, carved in the shape of a war cog in full sail, stood at its centre. The platters, tranchers and goblets were of pure silver and gold. Napkins of the finest linen draped beautifully fluted Venetian glasses to hold water drawn from the abbey’s own spring. The wines, both red and white were, so Abbot Walter assured them, from the richest vineyards outside Bordeaux. Athelstan wasn’t hungry but the mouth-watering odours from the abbot’s kitchens pricked his appetite whilst Cranston, now bereft of cloak and beaver hat, sat enthroned like a prince rubbing his hands in relish. Other guests joined them: Prior Alexander, Richer and the ladies Athelstan had glimpsed earlier. The young, fresh-faced woman was Isabella Velours, the abbot’s niece; the older one Eleanor Remiet, the abbot’s widowed sister. Isabella was dressed for the occasion in a tight fitting gown of green samite, a gold cord around her slender waist, her fair hair hidden beneath a pure white veil of the finest gauze. Mistress Eleanor, however, was garbed like a nun though in a costly dark blue dress tied tightly just under her chin, a veil of the same colour covering her hair and a stiff white wimple framing her harsh, imperious face. Unlike Isabella she wore no rings, brooches, collars or necklaces. Both women bowed to Cranston and Athelstan, then as soon as Abbot Walter delivered the ‘Benedicite’ they sat down on the high-backed chairs, grasped their water glasses and whispered busily between themselves. Occasionally Athelstan caught Isabella throwing coy glances at Richer, who always tactfully smiled back. The door to the kitchen opened in a billow of sweet fragrances. Leda the swan, wings half extended, waddled up to the top of the table to receive some delicacies from the abbot. Prior Alexander audibly groaned and loudly muttered that perhaps the swan could be served up in another way. The cutting remark was not lost on Abbot Walter, who grimaced and seemed about to reply in kind but then the first course was promptly served: dates stuffed with egg and cheese, spiced chestnuts, cabbage and almond soup, lentils and lamb, strips of beef roasted in a thick sauce and slices of stuffed pike. Servitors refilled wine goblets and water glasses. For a while the conversation was general: the state of the roads, French piracy in the Narrow Seas, the demand from the Crown for a poll tax and the growing unrest in the city and surrounding shires. The conversation turned to the emergence of the Great Community of the Realm, that shadowy, fervent movement amongst the shire peasants and city poor, threatening revolution and preaching the brotherhood of man. The name of the Kentish hedge-priest John Ball was mentioned as being one of the Upright Men. Judgements were made on him and opinions passed. Athelstan kept his head down as if more interested in his food. The friar quietly prayed that his views would not be asked. Many of his parishioners were fervent adherents of the Great Community; Pike the ditcher for one sat very close to some of the most zealous of the Upright Men. Cranston, wolfing down his food, caught the friar’s unease and deftly turned the conversation to what Athelstan had told him about the prisoner condemned to hang the following morning.

‘A notorious river pirate,’ Abbot Walter pronounced, feeding Leda whilst smiling at his niece.

The abbot went on to describe other depredations of this well-known felon. Athelstan just picked at his food, secretly wishing he could take the entire banquet back in baskets for his parishioners. The friar lifted his head and quickly gazed round. He was certainly learning more about this abbey. He caught the mutual dislike between Abbot and Prior, which he recognized as truly rankling. Isabella, the abbot’s niece, seemed rather vapid and flirtatious. Athelstan wondered about her true relationship with the abbot yet the more he stared at her his conviction only deepened that a strong blood tie existed between the two. The elder woman, Eleanor, was at first tight-lipped but, as the wine flushed her face, she relaxed, becoming quite chatty, a highly intelligent woman, sharp-witted with a keen mind, who shrewdly commented on different matters. However, Athelstan noticed that the more she talked the more Cranston seemed fascinated by her, staring across the table as if trying to recall something. Athelstan took advantage of the servants clearing the table for the final course of sweetened tarts crowned with cream, to pluck at the coroner’s sleeve and whisper what was the matter?

‘I know her,’ Cranston murmured, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. ‘Friar, I am sure I do. A face from my past but I cannot place her.’

‘Has she recognized you?’

‘No, no. Ah well, what a strange place!’ He leaned closer. ‘Well, Friar,’ Cranston whispered. ‘When you were mumbling your prayers I despatched one of the lay brothers to His Grace the Regent at his Palace of the Savoy-’

Athelstan abruptly gestured for silence. The table conversation had now changed. Mistress Eleanor was asking about the murders amongst the Wyverns. Abbot Walter immediately assured her that he could not explain the deaths but added that they might be the work of malefactors from the river.

‘The Wyverns suspect me,’ Richer declared abruptly. ‘They think I am waging a feud over the Passio Christi.’

‘Are you?’

‘You asked me that before, Brother Athelstan. As I answered then, I am a Benedictine.’

‘You also served under the Oriflamme banner,’ Cranston declared. ‘You’ve been a mailed clerk, yes?’

Richer did not disagree.

‘So why have you come here — the truth?’

‘I have already explained.’

‘Brother Richer is a peritus,’ Abbot Walter retorted, shooing off his pet swan. ‘He has done excellent work in our library and scriptorium but. .’ Abbot Walter smiled maliciously at Prior Alexander, whose jibe about his beloved Leda he’d not forgotten. ‘Perhaps, with all our many problems here, Brother Richer, it’s time you returned to St Calliste. I mean,’ Abbot Walter waved a hand, ‘sooner, rather than later?’

Richer simply shrugged. Prior Alexander, however, sat rigid, his wine-flushed face tense with anger.

‘Brother Richer,’ Athelstan intervened swiftly, ‘which manuscripts. .’ His words were cut off by a sharp knock on the door. A servitor hurried in and whispered into Abbot Walter’s ear.

‘Bring him in, bring him in,’ the abbot insisted. ‘Sir John, a messenger — Kilverby’s man, his secretarius, Crispin.’

The arrival of the sad-eyed clerk eased the tension. The two ladies immediately rose and said they must retire, as did Prior Alexander who gestured at Richer to follow suit. As they left Crispin was ushered in. He assured Prior Alexander that his eyesight had at least not worsened and he was grateful for all his advice. Once the door was closed, Crispin was offered a vacant seat, Abbot Walter insisting he drank some white wine and eat a little of the cream tart. Crispin did so, muttering between mouthfuls how he and a manservant had travelled by horseback as the river had become swollen and turbulent.

‘Never did like the Thames at night.’ He cleared his mouth.

‘Crispin, what will you do now Sir Robert is so pitifully slain?’ Abbot Walter asked.

Crispin shook his head. ‘I have sworn to perform some act of loyalty to my dead master. Perhaps I might go on pilgrimage as Sir Robert wanted to do. I could fulfil his vow at Rome, Santiago and Jerusalem. Yes,’ he smiled bleakly, ‘that’s what I should do; after all, my master has gone and Mistress Alesia has her own plans.’

‘You’ll still be most welcome here,’ Abbot Walter reassured him.

Crispin thanked him and turned to Athelstan and Cranston.

‘I came here,’ he declared, ‘because I had to. His Grace the Regent came to our house.’ Cranston groaned and put his face in his hands.

‘Sir Robert’s chamber was not unsealed, was it?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No, no, His Grace was most strict on that but his temper was very sharp. He had the rest of the mansion searched from cellar to attic but they found nothing. His Grace also sent you this.’ Crispin drew from his wallet a small scroll sealed with wax. Cranston snapped the letter open and swore under his breath, forcing Abbot Walter, more interested in his beloved Leda, to glance up sharply.

‘And there’s more, isn’t there?’ Athelstan asked Crispin. ‘You bring other news?’

‘Master Theobald the physician has scrutinized Sir Robert’s corpse most thoroughly. Some potion stained his lips and created blueish-red marks here.’ Crispin gestured at his own thin chest and sagging belly. ‘Master Theobald also declared that the wine and sweetmeats were not tainted but he detected a smell from Sir Robert’s corpse which seemed to grow stronger after death: the odour of almonds.’

‘The juice of almond seed.’ Abbot Walter had now forgotten his swan. ‘We have some of that juice here. Prior Alexander would recognize it. I am glad however that the sweetmeats, our gift to Sir Robert, were not tainted but his death is so odd, so curious. Now sirs, please excuse me.’ The abbot, dabbing his sweaty, porkish face with a napkin, rose to his feet, sketched a blessing in their direction and, followed by Leda, swept out of the chamber.

Cranston broke the ensuing silence by drinking noisily from his goblet, then held up the Regent’s letter.

‘Worse and much worse to come, little friar.’

‘Sir John?’

‘The Regent must be obeyed on this,’ Cranston declared. ‘Crispin and I will leave for the city. Yes, we’ll go now even though it is dark. The city guard will let me through. In truth, I prefer to sleep in my own bed with my plump wife beside me.’

‘And me, Sir John?’

‘You, Friar, have drawn the short straw on this. His Grace insists that you stay here until this business be finished.’

Athelstan, his cowl pulled well over his head, stood by the gate which led from the abbey gardens overlooking Mortival meadow. It was certainly a morning for a hanging: sombre, grey and mist-filled. The sounds of the abbey remained muffled and distant, be it the clanging of bells, the lowing of cattle or the strident cries of geese and cockerels. Sir John and Crispin had left immediately the night before, the coroner borrowing a mount from the abbey stables. Cranston was visibly shaken by the Regent’s apparent temper and, as he whispered to Athelstan in the stable yard where they made their farewells, there was much to reflect upon about this abbey, especially Eleanor Remiet. Athelstan had watched Cranston go. Later in the evening the friar had been given a warm chamber in the abbot’s own guest house. There he tried to marshal his thoughts but tiredness overtook him and he fell asleep to dream about his own sojourn in France. Awake long before dawn, Athelstan sang prime with the brothers and celebrated his Jesus Mass in a side-chapel. Now he was here to glimpse the anchorite, who also served as the abbey hangman.

A bell began to toll the death-knell, booming solemnly, announcing to the world that another soul was about to meet its God. The refrain of the ‘De Profundis’ wafted on the breeze. The glow of candle sparked through the swirling mist. Out of this came the crucifer grasping a wooden cross, either side of him the acolytes carrying their capped candles, followed by a thurifer filling the air with incense. Prior Alexander followed. A cowl concealed both his head and face, hands pushed up the sleeves of his gown. He recited the death psalm which was repeated by the group of brothers huddled behind him. The anchorite, garbed in a monk’s robe, came next; the thrown back hood revealed a cadaverous, clean-shaven face framed by straggling hair the colour of straw which fell down to his shoulders. In one hand this sinister-looking individual carried a crucifix and in the other a coil of rope. Behind him lay brothers on either side bore a coffin and a set of ladders. The closely guarded prisoner came next, his mask now removed. Athelstan stared at that reddish, furrowed face, scrawny hair and the scars along his neck.

‘Fleischer the fisherman!’ he exclaimed. The prisoner paused and stared at the friar, who pushed back his cowl.

‘Brother Athelstan, you’ve come to see me dance on air.’

The entire procession stopped. Prior Alexander, intrigued, walked back. ‘You know this felon, Brother?’ the prior asked.

‘Oh, yes.’ Athelstan gazed at Fleischer. He certainly knew the fisherman. A bosom friend of Moleskin the boatman, Fleischer sometimes appeared on the shabby quaysides of Southwark to participate in the rich harvest of mischief to be found along its filthy runnels and alleyways: robbery, smuggling and counterfeiting. Fleischer was as attracted to such devilry as Bonaventure to a dish of cream.

‘I would like words with you, Brother?’

Athelstan glanced at Prior Alexander, who nodded. The anchorite pushed Fleischer across.

‘Your prisoner, Brother.’

‘Pax et bonum.’ Athelstan stared into the glassy, blue eyes of the anchorite. Was he mad, touched by the moon? No, Athelstan reckoned, the anchorite was only agitated. Athelstan also caught the glint of humour in the man’s strange, pallid face.

‘For a short time he is yours.’ The anchorite stood back. ‘And then he’ll be mine again.’

Athelstan gently led Fleischer out of hearing.

‘You want to be shriven?’

‘I’ve confessed,’ Fleischer replied. ‘Give me your blessing.’

Athelstan did so.

‘Will you sing a Mass for me, Brother, that my journey through the flames won’t be too long?’

‘Of course.’

‘Give Moleskin and the rest greetings.’ Fleischer tried to curb his tears. ‘I was born into wickedness, Brother, no mother or father, alone with all the other rats.’ He stared around. ‘I didn’t mean to kill the monk but I was desperate. Strange.’ Fleischer ignored Prior Alexander’s cough as he shuffled from foot to foot. ‘Here I am,’ Fleischer stepped closer, his ale-tinged breath hot against Athelstan’s face, ‘being hanged by the Lord Almighty Abbot — you’re here for the murders, to probe and snout for the killer?’

‘You could say that, my friend.’

‘Then take a good look at these shaven heads. I’ve seen the Frenchman Richer meet boatmen from foreign ships — what is that, treason? And as for Prior Alexander, he so likes being with his good friend the sub-prior, even if it means travelling along a freezing river in a barge. Or shall we talk about those good monks who don disguises and visit the stews and bath houses of Southwark? For me retribution is close but theirs is also approaching. When the great revolt breaks out and it will, like pus from a sore, believe me, all the Marybread and Marymeat distributed on a Sunday won’t save them. They’re all as rotten and wicked as I am.’

‘Scurrilous rumours, my friend?’

‘Perhaps, Brother.’ Fleischer looked over his shoulder. ‘As for Lord Walter! Sharing the kiss of peace with the Upright Men who gather at All Hallows won’t protect him.’ Fleischer grinned bleakly. ‘Ask any of the river people. Anyway, these mumbling mouses now want to hang me.’ He nodded back at the anchorite, standing like some sombre statue. ‘At least they say he’s good. He can do it in a splice — he’s not some cow-handed peasant. Ah well, I’m getting cold and it’s time I was gone.’ He bowed his head. Athelstan made the sign of the cross over him and stepped back as the anchorite came over.

‘I would like words with you, sir,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘when this business is finished. I shall be waiting for you in St Fulcher’s chantry chapel.’

The anchorite simply darted a look, grasped Fleischer by the arm and took him back to join the others. The procession reformed. Prior Alexander intoned the opening words of the sequence, ‘Dies Irae — Oh Day of wrath, Oh Day of Mourning, See fulfilled heaven’s warning. .’ The sombre sight disappeared into the thick veil of mist. The candle light dimmed, the words faded, nothing but silence. Athelstan sighed, blessed himself and walked back through the murk into the abbey church. All lay quiet. This hymn in stone closed around him, evoking memories of his motherhouse at Blackfriars. Athelstan compared its magnificence with the simple crudeness of St Erconwald’s and felt a pang of homesickness. He would love the likes of Huddle, Watkin and all that boisterous throng to come tumbling through the porch. Athelstan reached the chantry chapel. He went in under the latticed screen with its fretted carving and sat down on a stool staring up at the painted window, marvelling at the sheer subtlety of it all. A demon had been drawn into its intricate tracery. Red stain had first been applied to the blue glass whilst the glowing left eye of the fiend had been formed by simply drilling the actual glass. The devil’s yellow, spiky hair was depicted against a background of flaming red which reflected the very fires of hell.

Athelstan glanced down at the floor. He must concentrate on why he was here. He must summarize what he’d learnt then revise and draft it as he used to before debating a theological problem at Blackfriars.

Item: Sir Robert Kilverby had apparently retired to his chamber hale and hearty. The Passio Christi was safely locked away in its coffer and kept in that chamber.

Item: No one entered that room. Sir Robert certainly never left it.

Item: No poisonous taint or potion could be found in the room, neither in the wine nor the sweetmeats.

Item: The door to that chamber had to be forced. Members of the household, very hostile to each other, had discovered Kilverby’s corpse. They were certain nothing had been interfered with or taken away.

Item: Nevertheless, Kilverby had been poisoned by some slow-acting potion, perhaps the juice of almond seed. Athelstan was well acquainted with that venom — even a few grains were deadly. Traces of a poison had been found on Kilverby’s lips and elsewhere on the corpse.

Item: After Kilverby’s two monkish visitors had left, the Passio Christi was placed back into its casket and made secure. Witnesses had seen the ruby returned to its casket, which Kilverby and Crispin had then taken to the chancery chamber. Kilverby surely would have personally assured himself of the bloodstone’s security? After all, he alone carried the keys on that chain around his neck. He would have certainly raised the alarm if anything was amiss.

Item: Sir Robert Kilverby was a very rich man who’d undergone some form of conversion. He intended to go on a life-time pilgrimage to Santiago, Rome and Jerusalem. All his business affairs would be left to his daughter and her husband. Kilverby’s widow was not his heir, so why should she kill her husband? She profited little except, perhaps, a closer intimacy with her strange kinsman Adam Lestral. Finally, Crispin appeared to be his master’s most loyal servant, who was leaving his service anyway. Kilverby’s secretarius certainly did not profit from his master’s death.

Item: The Passio Christi was, by contract of indenture, to be shown to the Wyvern Company twice a year. Yesterday the Feast of St Damasus was one of those days. However, Kilverby intended the bloodstone to be taken to St Fulcher’s not by himself but his trusted secretarius and beloved daughter. Why? Athelstan squinted up at the devil’s face on the painted window. Kilverby seemingly did not want to meet the Wyvern Company. Had he learnt something highly distasteful about them? That they had sacrilegiously stolen the sacred bloodstone?

Item: Was Sir Robert planning to leave the Passio Christi at St Fulcher’s just before he left on pilgrimage? Was this an act of reparation, for what the Wyverns had done? On the one hand Sir Robert avoided their company but, on the other, he liked to visit this abbey and mingle with its community. Was all this part of Kilverby’s conversion?

‘But in the end,’ Athelstan whispered to himself, ‘Kilverby was poisoned in his own locked chamber with no evidence as to why, how or by whom. The Passio Christi has been stolen, but once more without a scrap of evidence to show how this was done.’

Athelstan rose, stretched and paced up and down the chantry chapel, half aware of the distant echoing sounds. He breathed out noisily. Then there were the murders here at St Fulcher’s. Again, the friar tried to organize his thoughts.

Item: The Wyvern Company had been comfortably lodged here for about four years. Master bowmen, veterans, they had served the late King and his son the Black Prince. Both King and heir now lay cold beneath their funeral slabs. The crown had descended to the Black Prince’s young son Richard, under the care of his uncle the Regent, John of Gaunt, a prince of deep deviousness who wanted that bloodstone.

Item: The old soldiers were lodged here because the Crown generously patronized St Fulcher’s. Moreover, because the Passio Christi was held in trust by Kilverby it was he, not the exchequer, who paid for the sustenance of the old soldiers. However, once all the Wyverns were dead, the Passio Christi reverted to the Crown; Kilverby, or his heirs, receiving a generous grant.

Item: Both the Wyvern Company and Kilverby, whatever they thought about each other, were apparently content with this business arrangement. John of Gaunt, however, was desperate for bullion. Could that arrogant, handsome yet so sinister a Regent be assisting all those with claims on the Passio Christi into the darkness?

Item: Who had killed Hanep and Hyde, two experienced swordsmen caught out in the open and cut down? Had Hyde been killed by one or two assailants? Neither of the slain men had been able to defend themselves. Did this indicate the works of a paid assassin, someone either despatched in from outside or hiding deep within the abbey?

Item: And why had they been killed? They’d apparently not alienated any of their confreres. And why should old comrades turn so viciously on each other? There was certainly no evidence of bad blood between them. . Athelstan paused in his pacing as a group of novice monks padded along the aisle and up into the choir stalls. Athelstan continued his reasoning.

Item: The Lord Abbot with his swan, his niece and the enigmatic Eleanor Remiet, was not exactly a mirror of monastic dedication. Was Isabella Velours his niece or something else? Athelstan was certain she was the former. Moreover, the abbot might be a priest consumed with lusts of the flesh. Some of his monks might frequent the pleasure pots of Southwark but, Athelstan smiled to himself, monks sinned, as did friars. Moreover, just because they were lecherous, did that mean the likes of Abbot Walter were murderers?

Item: More importantly, did Father Abbot go to All Hallows Barking? Was he secretly negotiating with the Upright Men and the Great Community of the Realm? What was really happening at the distribution of Marymeat and Marybread on a Sunday? Then there was Richer, the elegant, sophisticated Frenchman, certainly a man of mystery. Prior Alexander was much smitten with him. Athelstan pulled a face. Such a friendship, like that of David for Jonathan in the Old Testament, was common enough in monastic communities. Richer was the problem. Why was he really at St Fulcher’s? To secure the Passio Christi or was he a spy? Why did he, according to Fleischer, meet boatmen from foreign ships? What did he receive or give to these people?

‘Alleluia, alleluia, O Sapientia Altissimi — Oh Wisdom of the Most High.’ The lucid voices of the novices intoned one of the Christmas ‘O Antiphons’. Athelstan stood, heart thrilling at the sheer passionate beauty of the sound.

‘Come,’ the choir chanted, ‘and teach us the way of truth!’

‘Aye,’ Athelstan whispered, tears pricking his eyes. ‘Come Everlasting Beauty whom we all desire, and will have no peace until we find you.’

Athelstan stood transfixed as the choir moved on to the second ‘O Antiphon’. The words, the exquisite loveliness of the chanting evoked so many bittersweet memories of his past — and his present! Athelstan beat his breast. St Erconwald’s! His parishioners? The choir and the ‘O Antiphons’? The bustling business of preparing the church for Christmas?

‘We need more holly,’ Athelstan murmured absent-mindedly.

‘Pardon, Brother?’

Athelstan glanced sharply to his right. The anchorite stood in the doorway to the chantry chapel.

‘He has gone.’

‘And may God give him eternal rest,’ Athelstan whispered, crossing himself. ‘Poor Fleischer.’

‘He made a good end.’

‘Nobody makes a good end.’ Athelstan walked towards this cadaverous spectre of a man, ‘At least not when you’re hanged.’

‘He died quickly.’ The anchorite plucked at the rope belt around his waist, curling one end with his strong fingers, ‘It’s best that way. If you topple your victim from the highest rung of the ladder the neck snaps, or so I think. Other hangmen strangle their victims. You could say the office for the dead before it’s truly over. Anyway, you want words with me, Friar?’

Athelstan indicated the bench against the wall beneath the painted window. The anchorite sat down next to him. Athelstan noticed how the man’s fingernails were neat and cleanly pared, though stained with dashes of ink and paint.

‘You’re a scribe?’

‘I am a painter as well as a hangman.’ The anchorite shifted and stared at Athelstan with his strange blue eyes. ‘I’m also a listener. I sit in my anker house and the brothers slip by me. They often forget I’m there. I hear their chatter and gossip. You’re Brother Athelstan, the consummate hunter, a lurcher in Dominican robes who seeks out his quarry. So, what do you want with me?’

‘First, who are you? Why are you here?’

The anchorite glanced away. ‘I was raised,’ the anchorite began slowly, ‘at the baptismal font in Sempringham as Giles, that’s my real name. My doting parents despatched me to the cathedral school at Ely. I sat with the other scholars in the north aisle with my horn book, ink pen and quills. I studied the Latin of Jerome as well as that of Cicero. I was meant to be a cleric but my sin,’ the anchorite bared his lips in a mirthless grin, ‘to quote the psalm, was always before me. I fell in love with the wall paintings, frescoes and coloured glass of that cathedral. I would wander to marvel at all that I saw. After my apprenticeship in Norwich I became a painter. I travelled the roads to this church or that chapel. God heaped even more blessings on me. I met my wife Beatrice and she became my helper. We had a child but we still continued to wander the kingdom. I earned very good silver and gold. I was in much demand, be it depicting the Biblia Pauperum — the Bible of the Poor for parishioners to learn from, or the single solitary scene, be it a sinner being carted off to hell by a demon in a wheelbarrow or the Assumption of the Virgin. We lodged in taverns and guest houses until the Apocalypse occurred. .’

‘When the waters swept over your head?’ Athelstan intervened, recalling the anchorite’s interruption of compline the previous evening.

‘Too powerful,’ the anchorite whispered. ‘Still too powerful — such memories! Let me tell you. We were crossing the Weald of Kent; it was early autumn. I left Beatrice and the child to go and buy paint, brushes and pigment. When I returned outlaws, wolfsheads, creatures from the stinking blackness, fiends from the dungeons of hell had attacked our cart, pillaged it, ravished Beatrice then murdered both her and our child.’ He paused at Athelstan’s sharp gasp.

‘Wickedness,’ the friar murmured, clutching at the anchorite’s arm. ‘God have mercy on them, and on you. I shall remember them at Mass.’

‘At the time,’ the anchorite continued, evenly lost in his own nightmare past, ‘I was too full of hatred and vengeance to mourn. I’d done good service for the sheriff of Kent in his castle chapel. I took my family’s corpses to him for burial. I also invoked the blood feud and he agreed to help. He raised the hue and cry and issued writs summoning up both the posse comitatus and the shire levies. The outlaws, five in number, were trapped in a wood outside Rochester. They were caught red-handed and immediately sentenced to hang from the Keep of Rochester Castle. You know it?’

Athelstan nodded.

‘I was their hangman. I took each of those wicked souls put the noose around their necks and tossed them over. I watched each do the dance of death. My reputation spread. Rochester hired me as its hangman.’ He laughed a short, bitter bark. ‘I painted their churches and hanged their wolfsheads until I met Alice Rednal.’

‘Alice Rednal — I am sure my Lord Coroner. .?’

‘I know Sir John Cranston, Brother; he hired me as Rednal’s executioner at Smithfield. I was given a chamber in St Bartholomew’s Priory which lies nearby. I didn’t just hang her but others. On execution days I would journey from Newgate to Smithfield in the execution cart with those condemned to die sitting at my feet. I also continued to do some paintings; you can see them in St Sepulchre’s which stands close to Cock Lane.’

‘Alice Rednal?’ Athelstan persisted.

‘Sorry, Brother,’ the anchorite paused, ‘you know I should go back to my cell. I want to. I always like to be alone after a hanging. However,’ he sighed, ‘Alice Rednal! She was the wickedest fiend from the darkest ward of hell. She murdered children, drowned them in the Thames. Sir John caught her and arraigned her before the Justices of Oyer and Terminer where she was condemned to hang. I collected her in the execution cart. No sooner were we out of the prison than she started to mock me. She whispered how, hanging or not, she’d taken quite a liking to me, as those others who’d murdered my wife had taken such a liking to her. I then realized, somehow, she’d been a member of their coven. She named their leader, a malignant called Wolfsbane. I challenged her, claiming she was lying, but it was obvious — she knew so much about them.’

‘What was she like physically?’

‘Oh, tall with wild, greyish hair. Harsh-faced with a full figure.’ The anchorite blinked furiously. ‘She also told me something else.’ He pointed at Athelstan. ‘Is this why I am being brought to the bar for questioning?’

‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan asked.

‘According to Rednal, after I left Beatrice, she and our child were resting under a shade of trees. Beatrice realized she was being watched by Wolfsbane and his coven and as she prepared to flee, a group of mounted archers journeying to Rochester galloped by. Beatrice tried to persuade them to help but they were in too much of a hurry. They mocked her fears and left her to herself.’

‘These mounted archers?’ Athelstan felt a coldness creeping through him as if from the hard stone around him.

‘Rednal claimed they were the Wyvern Company on garrison duty at Rochester.’

‘The same who now lodge here?’

‘I presume so, Friar.’

‘So why did Rednal tell you that?’

‘She said they were on duty when I hanged Wolfsbane and his coven. She claimed I should have executed them as well.’

‘Is that why you came here, hangman, to pursue vengeance?’

‘No, no, let me finish. Rednal, sitting on her own coffin, continued to ridicule me. She pointed out how the world was truly cruel and no one really cared. I slapped her face and told her to shut up. She replied that we would certainly meet again. Anyway, I hanged her at the Elms. I kicked her off the ladder and watched her struggle and twist, then I went my way. Oh yes, thoughts of further vengeance on those archers who refused to help Beatrice curdled and boiled, but then Rednal’s ghost intervened.’

‘Pardon?’ Athelstan turned on the bench.

‘I was lodged in my chamber at St Bartholomew’s. The door had a small grille at the top which could be opened. One evening, about a week after Rednal’s hanging, I heard a knocking. I thought it was a servitor. I crossed and opened the grille. I swear I saw this: Rednal’s face all liverish, eyes glaring, stared in at me, her full foul lips moved. “I told you”, she whispered, “we would meet again”. I slammed the grille shut yet when I opened the door I saw nothing but shadows. Since then I have seen her face again and again peering at me through a dusty, latticed window or from a crowd. .’ His words trailed away.

Athelstan crossed himself.

‘Do you believe in ghosts, Brother Athelstan?’

‘Yes,’ the friar answered. ‘Some you see and some you don’t.’

‘Do you think I am madcap, fey and witless?’

‘No, my friend.’ Athelstan tapped the man’s wrist. ‘But you are a painter,’ he smiled, ‘with wild imaginings, who saw his family slaughtered. You yourself were cruelly baited about this. In the end what is real enough to you is also the truth to you.’ Athelstan paused. ‘You must anticipate my next question as you would if you faced a magister in the schools. I have asked it once, I do so again. Did you come here to seek vengeance on the Wyvern Company?’

‘No, no, Brother, here in this church I swear. I arrived here a broken man. I fled to escape from the ghost of Alice Rednal, to atone for my many sins. I arrived at St Fulcher’s to execute certain paintings in the south aisle. Abbot Walter had three prisoners waiting to be hanged. No one would do it so I performed the task.’ The anchorite got to his feet, visibly agitated. ‘One thing led to another. I told Father Abbot my story. I expressed my desire for peace and he granted me the anker house.’ He turned to face Athelstan. ‘I continue both to paint and to hang.’ He laughed drily. ‘Look at me, Brother — do I look like a swordsman? Despite my wild imaginings I’m no fool. You do not confront, challenge or cross the likes of Wenlock and Mahant — cruel men, professional killers who fear neither heaven nor hell. Oh yes, I could tell you more about the dire events here but,’ he strode as if in a panic towards the entrance to the chantry chapel then glanced over his shoulder, ‘I have much more to say,’ he whispered, ‘much more to judge, much more to condemn but not for now.’

For the rest of that Advent week Athelstan kept to himself. Cranston did not return but sent a message with Flaxwith that all was well. The coroner had even visited St Erconwald’s and announced how ‘that coven of sinners’ were walking the path of righteousness. Benedicta also despatched Crim the altar boy with similar reassurances. Athelstan truly missed his parish. He thought of appealing to Blackfriars but he knew John of Gaunt, the silver-tongued Regent, would have already convinced Athelstan’s superiors that the friar’s presence at St Fulcher’s was vital for the Crown’s interests. Accordingly Athelstan distracted himself, becoming immersed in the daily horarium of the abbey. He stayed well away from those he intended to investigate later: the Wyvern Company, Richer, the abbot and his niece, that anchorite and his grim paintings in the south aisle. Athelstan closely studied these even as he was aware of that eerie soul staring at him through the aperture of the anker house. He also stayed away from the watergate and the nearby gallows where poor Fleischer’s corpse was to hang for three turns of the tide. Athelstan did attend the felon’s hurried burial in the Field of Blood, that deserted derelict stretch of the cemetery reserved for the corpses of malefactors and vagabonds.

Athelstan merged like a shadow into the rule of the black monks. He woke with them when the sub-prior rang the cock-crow bell in the dormitory and joined the sleepy, lantern-lit procession into the choir. Once there he’d watch the sacristan lay out the purple and gold vestments of the Advent season, trim the great lantern horn above the lectern and go round the brothers in a glow of candle light to ensure none of them had fallen asleep during matins. Sometimes he joined the brothers in their stroll around the cloisters. He learnt a little of their sign language when talking was forbidden, though he was never invited to their chapter where duties were assigned, notices proclaimed and corrections carried out. The food in the refectory was good: fish, vegetables, fruit, cheese, spices, figs and ale with pork pies, capon pastry, apple tarts and all kinds of blancmange being served. On occasions he played nine pins and provoked laughter due to his clumsiness, though he soon retrieved his reputation at the chess board.

At other times Athelstan wandered that forest of stone, constantly aware of arches, columns and pillars all intricately decorated. Statues of saints, sinners, gargoyles and babewyns peered down at him from finely sculptured bushes, trees and foliage where mystical animals such as the salamander and unicorn sheltered. Athelstan became accepted as a fellow brother, though one to be wary of as the purpose of his visit became more widely known. Increasingly however, especially as daylight faded, Athelstan locked himself in his own chamber and tried to make sense of the jumbled bloody events which had occurred since St Damasus’ eve. He searched for the root, for the prime cause, to unpick all this tangle, a seminal event which would explain and clarify. Athelstan grew certain of one truth. Kilverby’s murder and those of the Wyverns were connected probably through the bloodstone, the Passio Christi. Yet, what was the prime cause of all this slaughter? The radix malorum omnium — the root of all evil? Kilverby’s pilgrimage to Outremer? But why should that open the bloody gate to the meadows of murder? The only person who might be affected would be John of Gaunt should the Passio Christi be handed over to St Fulcher’s but Gaunt, at least according to the evidence, had no knowledge of what Kilverby intended.

Athelstan’s puzzlement deepened. On the Saturday before the third Sunday of Advent he locked himself in his own chamber and pretended to be Kilverby. The merchant had sat at his desk poring over manuscripts, just thinking. He’d never left, not even to relieve himself. Athelstan had examined the covered jakespot in the far corner of the chamber. Kilverby had already supped and suffered no ill effects from that. The wine he’d carried in proved to be untainted as had the sweetmeats brought from the abbey. The Passio Christi was securely locked in its casket with the keys around Kilverby’s neck. No one had entered that chamber, yet by morning Kilverby was murdered and the Passio Christi gone. How? Why? Athelstan heard a noise, a tapping on the shutters. He rose and walked across to the lantern window. He pulled back the shutters and looked out over the frozen flower garden, its shrubs and rich soil gripped in a harsh frost. Warming his fingers over a nearby chafing dish, Athelstan glanced around and dismissed the tapping as a mere flurry of ice in the snapping breeze. He was about to turn away when a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye made him start. A cowled figure moved from his left into full view — one of the brothers? The figure knelt as if studying the frozen ground. Athelstan caught the glint of metal as this sinister apparition brought up the arbalest. The friar sprang back, stumbling to the floor as the barbed quarrel whirred angrily above him, smashing against the plaster on the far wall. Athelstan murmured a prayer, sprang to his feet, unlocked the door and hurried out. He almost crashed into Wenlock coming into the guest house.

‘Brother,’ Wenlock gripped the friar’s arm with his maimed hand, ‘are you well? What is the matter? You look as if you are going to shout harrow and raise the hue and cry.’

Athelstan caught his breath as a cold sweat broke out.

‘Nothing.’ He breathed in deeply. ‘Nothing for the moment.’