Bloodstone

FIVE

Athelstan spent the remainder of the Saturday before the third Sunday Advent recovering from that mysterious attack. Immediately after that he had met the rest of the Wyverns, who said they’d been looking for him to invite him to a game of bowls. Athelstan reluctantly agreed, studying them carefully. He quickly concluded that the would-be assassin could not be one of them. It would have been impossible for any of them to launch such an attack, dispose of both cloak and arbalest and hurry round to appear with the rest outside the guest house. This conviction deepened as he played bowls, using all his skill to shatter the pins carved in the shape of demons and hell-sprites. Wenlock’s hands were too maimed to hold a crossbow whilst the rest, when questioned about their archery, proudly scoffed about using ‘a woman’s weapon such as an arbalest’.

‘The Genoese tried to use them at Crecy,’ Mahant explained after a particularly skilful throw. ‘Clumsy and unreliable, they were. We have our war bows, our quivers, yard long shafts and bracers, none of us would trust such a weapon.’ He clapped his hands against the cold and stared down at Brokersby putting up the pins.

‘Why these questions, Brother? We are glad you joined us yet you seem agitated. Has something happened?’

Athelstan shook his head. He made his excuses and wandered off into Mortival meadow. The river mist was thickening muffling even the cawing of the rooks and the strident calls of the many magpies who flashed in a blur of black and white. The grass was still frozen, the ground hard as iron. Athelstan walked down to the watergate. He paused where Hyde’s corpse had been found and studied the bloody spots and flecks he had noticed earlier. He opened the watergate and followed the path he’d taken previously. The smattering of blood along the quayside had disappeared. Athelstan stopped, staring out over the river; here and there misty glows of moving light showed where barges and boats made their way through the gloom. Cries and shouts echoed eerily. Athelstan listened for other sounds. He heard a clatter and whirled round, moving away from the edge of the quayside, but the noise was only the gate creaking in the strong breeze. ‘I wonder,’ Athelstan murmured, recalling what he’d learnt. He made his way back across Mortival meadow and into the abbey precincts where he asked directions from a wizened old lay brother. Chattering like a sparrow on the branch, the monk took him round to the barbican, an ancient, slate-roofed squat tower which served as the armoury. Athelstan pushed the door open; the ground floor was deserted. He glanced around. Weapons glimmered in the glow of a tallow candle, all neatly stacked in barrels and war chests: swords, daggers, halberds, a few maces, war bows, quivers of arrows, shirts of chain-mail, conical helmets, small targes, shields and, hanging on wall-hooks, a range of arbalests and crossbows. Athelstan made his way in. The room smelt of oil, iron and fire smoke. He stood, warming his fingers over a chafing dish, listening to the silence. The air was thick with dust. Athelstan sneezed loudly and a young lay brother, eyes heavy with sleep, tumbled down the stairs leading to the upper storey. The monk stopped halfway down, peering at Athelstan.

‘Ah, er, what. .?’ He rubbed his smutty face and came down. ‘I was asleep. You’re the abbot’s guest, aren’t you? What do you. .?’

‘I have a question for you.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Weapons are distributed from here?’

‘Only with the prior’s approval.’

‘But someone could come here when you are otherwise engaged and help themselves?’

‘But who would do that in an abbey?’

‘Have any weapons been recently distributed or taken?’

‘Oh no, just the execution party who escorted the felon down to the watergate. They carried staves.’

‘Has anyone taken an arbalest?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure? Have you taken a tally?’ Athelstan patted the young man on the arm. ‘Would you please make careful search and tell me if anything is missing? I suspect there is.’ With the lay brother’s assurances ringing like a chant, Athelstan left the barbican. He continued on past different brothers now hurrying to prepare the sanctuary for the Sunday Masses. Athelstan decided to wander, observe and reflect. He found himself out in the main garden and stood watching the wavering wisps of mist. Were the souls of the departed like that? he wondered. Did Hanep and Hyde still hover here unwilling to journey into the light? Did they press his soul? Did they see him as their avenger? He walked across the grass and stood at the entrance to the great maze. The privet hedges, all prickly and leaf-shorn at the height of winter, rose like walls of sharp points at least eight feet high. The trackway into the maze was pebble-dashed, deliberately uncomfortable for all those who wished to crawl on hands and knees to the Pity in the centre. A fascinating puzzle, a place of mystery with its labyrinthine branching paths, Athelstan was tempted. He entered, stopped, then murmured a prayer. He should be more prudent. A twig snapped, sharp and abrupt. Athelstan turned and strolled quickly back. He panicked. The entrance was not where it should be. He paused, remembering how he’d turned left coming in so he must always walk to the right on his return. He did so and sighed with relief when he glimpsed a stretch of frost-gripped lawn. He pulled up his cowl, strolled out then stifled a scream as two figures abruptly emerged from the mist.

‘Good day, Brother Athelstan, we glimpsed your black and white robes.’

Athelstan bowed as Eleanor Remiet and Isabella Velours approached. Both women wore thick woollen cloaks, ermine-lined hoods and elegant gloves which stretched past the wrist.

‘Ladies,’ Athelstan pushed his hands up the sleeves of his gown, ‘I have tempted the cold enough. I need some warmth.’

They walked back into the cloisters and crossed the yard into the buttery where fresh bread was being sliced for the waiting platters from the refectory. Isabella, gossiping about this and that, thankfully fell silent as she crammed her mouth with bread smeared with honey. Athelstan chose his slice holding the cold, grey gaze of Eleanor Remiet, who’d hardly spoken a word.

‘You’ve been here since when?’ Athelstan broke the uncomfortable silence.

‘Since Advent began. We will return to my house in Havering once Epiphany has come and gone, though Abbot Walter says Christmas is not over until the Baptism of the Lord and the commencement of the Hilary Term.’

Athelstan questioned her about her life at Havering. Eleanor’s replies were quick and curt. She told him how Isabella was the daughter of the abbot’s only beloved sibling, namely herself. Isabella’s father had died so she, Eleanor, had become her official guardian. Athelstan sensed the woman’s deep dislike of him from her clipped tone, the way her eyes kept looking him up and down.

‘You’re not overfond of priests or friars, are you, Mistress?’

‘Brother Athelstan, once you’ve met one you have met them all.’

‘Except for Uncle Walter,’ Isabella broke in and trilled volubly about the gifts she expected at Christmas.

Athelstan listened and wondered how a young woman could be so spoilt and empty-headed. A pampered life, Athelstan reflected, but Eleanor Remiet is different. The woman’s face was harsh and severe, yet Athelstan could detect, beneath the layers of age and hardship how, in her youth, Eleanor must have been a most remarkable beauty.

‘You’ll stay here long, Brother?’

‘I hope not.’

‘You should go.’

‘Is that a warning?’

‘Yes, Brother.’ She divided a piece of bread with her long, delicate fingers. ‘It is a warning. This is a field of blood. We are in the world of men.’ She paused. Isabella rose and went across to help herself to ale from a barrel on a trestle near the door.

‘Isabella hardly hears what others say let alone understands,’ she remarked. ‘You be careful, Brother. The old soldiers who are being slaughtered here? Kilverby, whose fingers were in every juicy pie? They’ve all gone. The Passio Christi has disappeared.’ She popped a piece of honeyed bread into her mouth. ‘The root grows silently but eventually it erupts through the soil and harvest time always comes.’ She rose, brushing the crumbs from her cloak. ‘So yes, Brother, I think you should go before the evil flourishing here entangles you.’ She nodded brusquely and walked over to Isabella, now gossiping loudly with the lay brother who supervised the refectory.

Athelstan stood reflecting on what she’d said, finished his bread and left. He decided to stay in the precincts. The day was greying and the bells would soon toll for the next hour of divine office. He went across to the library and scriptorium; he stood just within the doorway revelling in the sights and smells. For Athelstan this was heaven. Shelves, lecterns and racks all crammed with books of every size bound in calfskin or leather. Capped candles, judicially placed, glittered in the polished oaken woodwork and silver chains kept precious volumes secured to their shelf or ledge. The windows on either side were sealed with thick painted glass, now clouded by the poor light though some colours still glowed, springing to life in the reflection from the candle flame. Down the centre of the scrubbed, pave-stoned floor ranged long tables interspersed by the occasional high stool and sloping desk where monks worked at copying or illuminating manuscripts drawn from a cluster of pigeon-hole boxes attached to the walls. Covered braziers, perforated with holes, exuded warmth and a sweet fragrance from the herb pouches disintegrating between the glowing coals. Other sweet odours, ravishing in the memories they provoked, mixed and swirled: ink, paper, paints, sandalwood, vellum freshly honed, wax soft and melting. A hive of learning, the scribes busy with pens or delicate brushes. Athelstan recalled his own days as a novice in the rare world of books, of cleaning a piece of vellum until it glowed white and innocent as a newly baptized soul.

‘Brother Athelstan?’ Richer was standing before him, his delicate, handsome face all concerned.

Athelstan blinked, shook his head and apologized. Richer demanded that he join him. He took Athelstan down past the tables, pointing out the different books and manuscripts: theological tracts by Aquinas, Anselm and Albert the Great; the writings of the early Fathers, Origen, Tertullian, Boethius and Eusebius. The abbey’s collection of Books of Hours bequeathed by the rich and powerful. The works of the Ancients: Aristotle, Plato, Cicero and Lactantius. By the time they’d reached the end of the library, Athelstan had recovered his wits. The distractions of that beautiful, well-endowed scholars’ paradise faded as he followed Richer into the scriptorium. The room was richly furnished with lecterns, shelves and pigeon boxes. Two glowing triptychs adorned either wall depicting St Jerome studying the Bible in his cave at Bethlehem. The far wall was dominated by a huge crucifix with a twisted figure of the crucified Christ beneath the shuttered window. Athelstan, however, was more concerned with the great desk littered with manuscripts and books. Richer had apparently pulled across large sheets of blank vellum together with a napkin from a nearby lavarium to hide what he’d been working on. Athelstan moved towards the table. Richer stepped quickly into his path.

‘Brother Athelstan, can I help you? I am very. .’ Richer, now visibly reluctant at the friar’s curiosity, relaxed as the abbey bell sounded the next hour of divine office. He tactfully shooed Athelstan back towards the door, voluble in his apologies and promises that Athelstan must return, when he would show him particular books and manuscripts. Indeed, was there, Richer asked, any work the Dominican would like to study? He’d heard about Athelstan’s absorption with the stars and St Fulcher possessed a number of valuable treatises by Aristotle and Ptolemy, as well as Friar Bacon’s musings? Athelstan smiled his thanks and left.

‘Now there’s a monk with a great deal to hide,’ Athelstan whispered to the carved face of a satyr hiding in the sculpted foliage at the top of a pillar in the passageway outside. ‘Oh, he has much to hide. As has Mistress Eleanor. She threatened me and wants me gone from here. Why? What does she hide?’

Athelstan returned to his own comfortable chamber. He did not attend divine office but recited the hours kneeling on a prie-dieu. Afterwards he laid out clean clothes borrowed from the good brothers for the morrow, looked at the readings for the Sunday Mass then lay on the bed letting his thoughts drift. Worries about St Erconwald’s, the whereabouts of Cranston, what he’d learnt that day and that sense of brooding danger as he walked this abbey. He fell into a deep sleep and, when he woke, glanced at the hour candle and groaned. Compline must be finished. The abbey was settling for the night. He was wondering if he could get something to eat from the kitchens when the bells began to clang warningly — not the usual measured peals but strident, proclaiming the tocsin. Athelstan grabbed a cloak, thrust his feet into his sandals and hastened out. Others, too, had been aroused. Torches flickered. Lanterns swung in the chilly blackness.

‘Fire, fire!’

Athelstan left the yard, following the lay brothers hurrying along the passageways into the courtyard before the main guest house. Few had yet reached the place. Athelstan immediately realized the fire was serious. The doors of the guest house had been flung open and smoke plumed out. Wenlock, Mahant and Osborne were there coughing and spluttering. Athelstan pushed his way though knocking aside restraining hands. A lay brother, a wet cloth across his nose and mouth, emerged from the smoke.

‘Brokersby’s chamber,’ he gasped. ‘God help the poor man. I cannot get him out.’

Athelstan seized the rag and entered. Smoke choked the corridor. He saw one door open; the near one was locked. Sheets of fire roared at the grille and the stout oak was beginning to buckle. Smoke scored Athelstan’s nose and mouth. Heat and the smell of burning oil closed in. He could do nothing. He retreated to cough and gasp with the rest in the clear night air.

‘The building is made of stone.’ Richer appeared out of the darkness. ‘I understand the door to where the fire started is locked.’ He turned to the assembled line of bucket carriers. ‘Go round,’ he ordered. ‘Force the windows. Use dry sand, not water, at least not yet.’

Marshalled by the sacristan, the lay brothers hurried off. Athelstan crossed to Wenlock and his companions.

‘What happened?’

‘Brother, we do not know. We were aroused by the smoke.’ Mahant pointed to Wenlock and Osborne. ‘They have chambers on the upper floor. Mine was next to poor Brokersby’s. I fell asleep until roused by the smoke and heat.’

‘The door?’

‘Brother, I hammered on it. The fire was already raging. I saw Brokersby slumped half off the bed. I pushed but the door was locked and bolted from the inside. Brokersby must have done that. I mean, since the other murders. .’

‘So you think this was murder?’

‘Heaven knows, Brother! Poor Brokersby! Well,’ Mahant turned back towards the smoke, ‘the least we can do is help.’

Athelstan walked away. He put his hand in the pocket of his cloak and drew out his Ave beads. He recited a Pater and three Aves even though he was distracted. Brokersby was dead. Athelstan recalled that locked door, the sheer ferocity of the flames and returned to his chamber, convinced the fire was no accident. Brokersby had been murdered.

The next morning Athelstan celebrated his Jesus Mass in a side chapel, broke his fast in the refectory and went immediately to the death house. Brother Odo showed him the mangled, blackened human remains. Brokersby had been consumed by the inferno: his eyes had melted, the flesh shrivelled to mere lumps of congealed fat with scorched black skin clinging to charred bone. All vestiges of clothing and footwear had also been consumed whilst his ring and the silver chain around his neck were burnt beyond all recognition.

‘You discovered nothing else?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Nothing,’ Brother Odo replied mournfully. ‘He doesn’t smell now but when they first brought him in he reeked of oil.’

Athelstan knelt down and sniffed; the stench of oil was still very pungent.

‘Brother Athelstan?’

He turned and recognized the keeper of the Barbican, who took one look at the charred corpse and hastily withdrew, indicating with his hand that Athelstan follow. Once outside the lay brother retched and coughed.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ he gasped.

‘The weapons?’

‘There’s no crossbow or arbalest missing.’

‘What?’

‘Brother, I counted most scrupulously — the only weapon missing is a sword.’

‘Who took that?’

‘No one can, no one should without permission of the prior, yet the ledger has no entry. I am sure; I checked it.’

Athelstan thanked him and walked back to the still-smouldering chamber. Only a senior lay brother was present. He explained how the Wyvern Company had moved all their belongings to the abbot’s guest house whilst the damage was inspected and repaired. Like Virgil did with Dante, the monk led Athelstan through the devastation. The guest house was built of solid stone. This, and the heavy oaken door sealing Brokersby’s chamber, had confined the fire, the greatest damage being to the ceiling and the supporting beams as well as the chamber above. Ignoring the good Brother’s warning about the heat, the fiery cinders and acrid smoke, Athelstan insisted on inspecting the dead man’s chamber. The fire still smouldered despite the layers of wet sand thrown in. Everything had been consumed or deeply scorched, whilst the stench of oil remained strong.

‘Where’s the source?’ Athelstan murmured.

‘Pardon?’

‘Talking to myself,’ Athelstan replied. ‘If I could have a pole?’

The lay brother left and brought one back. Athelstan was grateful that his stout sandals and thick woollen leggings protected him from the floating sparks of red-hot fragments. He began near the door sifting carefully through the debris. He swiftly concluded how the traces of oil were fainter, less congealed and thinner nearest to the door, whilst close to where the bed and lantern table must have stood the oil appeared much thicker.

‘Would Brokersby have a night candle?’

‘Yes, he did, or so I learnt from his comrades. He had a large stout tallow candle under a metal cap. He liked to keep it burning. He had trouble sleeping. He also took a potion of poppy juice.’

‘But a tallow candle would not create the fires of hell here,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Was there oil in the chamber?’

The monk abruptly turned and walked away. Athelstan thought he’d forgotten him, then he returned with a small stout colleague, his belly round as a barrel.

‘Brother Simon might be able to help you.’

‘Yes, I can.’ The newcomer smiled in a show of near-toothless gums. ‘I clean poor Brokersby’s chamber. I assure you there was no oil, just a wine skin. That was all.’

Athelstan picked his way over to the remains to the door and examined the twisted lock, bolts and clasps. He studied these closely; they had definitely been rent apart. He glanced back at the shattered, scorched shutters and the open window now drawing off the worst of the smoke.

‘We had to force the door,’ Brother Simon declared. ‘But, of course, it was too late.’

‘So,’ Athelstan walked out of the room, carefully picking his way, ‘Brokersby retired for the night and his chamber was devastated by fire.’

‘So it seems,’ both monks chorused.

‘But we can’t find a reason for it,’ Brother Simon added.

Athelstan nodded his thanks and left, crossing into the gardens as he tried to deduce what had happened. Both the door and window of Brokersby’s chamber had been sealed. The grille at the top of the door was too narrow to pour oil through so how could anyone get it so close to the bed? Had oil been stored there? But how was it ignited? Did the candle topple over? Yet that had probably been planted on a firm spigot with a cap covering it. An unlucky spark? However, that would mean the fire depended on fickle chance, yet Athelstan was certain Brokersby was murdered. The assassin had deliberately flooded the area close to the bed with burning oil. Brokersby may have been drugged with some opiate and woke too late or, mercifully, never at all. So how had it all been achieved? Brokersby, probably frightened, had sealed himself in that chamber. He had then been murdered by a raging fire cunningly planned and contrived. Brokersby had no chance to escape. He had been utterly destroyed along with everything else in that room.

‘Henry! Henry Osborne!’

Wenlock and Mahant appeared, stopped and called their comrade’s name again.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s Osborne,’ Wenlock gasped, pulling his cloak closer about him. ‘He has disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’

‘Disappeared, fled!’ Mahant snapped. ‘His chamber is empty; he’s packed his panniers and taken his weapons. He appears to have left long before first light.

‘Why should he do that?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘Why flee in the dead of night?’

‘Because he’s frightened,’ Mahant snarled. ‘Terrified. Hanep, Hyde and Brokersby — all slain.’

‘So you think Brokersby’s death was no accident?’

‘Of course not,’ Wenlock retorted. ‘Brother Athelstan, a short while ago we were all comrades enjoying the vespers of our life; now we’re being hunted in this benighted place.’

‘Why? By whom?’

‘For the love of God, we don’t know.’

‘Why do you think Brokersby was murdered?’

Mahant made to walk away.

‘If Osborne’s fled,’ Athelstan added, ‘you’ll hardly find him here, will you?’

‘No, no.’ Mahant sighed and came back. ‘We hoped he may have just panicked and be hiding close by.’

‘Father Abbot is the one who should organize such a search,’ Athelstan said. ‘You must see him — demand that this happen. Tell him that I too insist on it, but first,’ he plucked at Wenlock’s cloak, ‘my friends.’ Athelstan gestured towards the abbey buildings. ‘We need to talk but not here in the freezing cold.’

The two old soldiers agreed. Athelstan led them into the grey stone cloisters where they stood warming their hands over a brazier.

‘If Osborne has fled, where would he go? Does he have family, kin?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I suspect,’ Wenlock rubbed his hands, ‘he’s probably gone into the city to hide there, perhaps seek out comrades we didn’t know.’

‘But why should he give up such comfortable lodgings here?’

‘The cowl doesn’t make the monk, Brother Athelstan. Nothing here is what it appears to be. Never mind all the babbling to God and all the holy incense.’ Wenlock shook his head. ‘This has become a slaughter house for our company.’

‘But how would Osborne live?’

Both men shuffled their feet.

‘I think,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘each of you has his own private monies, the result of years of campaigning.’

‘You mean plunder, Brother? Yes, we all have that, some more than others.’

‘When I visited your comrade’s chambers I found very few coins,’ Athelstan offered. ‘You took their money, didn’t you? I wondered. .’

‘Hanep and Hyde had little.’ Wenlock confessed rubbing his maimed hands over the brazier. ‘Of course we took whatever coins or precious objects they owned. Better us than our greedy abbot.’

‘Would Osborne have enough money to live on?’

‘Perhaps.’ Wenlock became evasive. ‘A skilled archer may still find employment.’

‘Let’s say he’s fled,’ Athelstan paused as a monk slipped by pattering his Ave beads, ‘because he was frightened. Others might allege that he was guilty of his comrades’ murder.’

‘Osborne would never kill one of his own,’ Wenlock replied in disbelief. ‘Why should he?’

‘True, I can’t think of any reason. Indeed, I can deduce no reason whatsoever for any of your colleagues being murdered. Can you? Has an ancient blood feud been invoked by someone here in the abbey or the city?’

‘None, Brother! We cannot think of any and, if there was, why now? Unless it’s the Passio Christi?’

‘What do you mean? Kilverby held that.’

‘He’s dead but the Passio Christi was, allegedly, once owned by the black monks. Richer is a Frenchman, a monk of St Calliste, which now claims it. He is a young man, vigorous, probably trained in arms but why should he murder us? That will hardly bring back the Passio Christi?’

‘I agree,’ Athelstan replied. ‘What about revenge, punishment?’

Athelstan let his words hang in the air. Busy warming his hands, he watched a solitary robin hop across the cloister garth, pecking furiously at the frost-laced grass. Incense and candle smoke wafted mixing with that from the bake house. Athelstan glanced back; both his companions had begun to hum a song, shuffling their feet in a slow dance and softly clapping their hands. Athelstan, surprised, stood back watching these two soldiers, lost in their own ritual, shuffle and clap as peasants would in a tavern celebrating their harvest. Mahant and Wenlock, eyes closed, moved clumsily to their own rhythm; the humming grew louder then faded away with both men throwing their hands up in the air and exclaiming, ‘Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia!’ The soldiers opened their eyes and turned back to the brazier, grinning at Athelstan.

‘You monks and priests have your liturgies and we have ours,’ Wenlock explained. ‘At the beginning of every battle the Wyverns always performed their dance; in the evening we did the same. You understand why?’

Athelstan nodded. When he and his brother had joined the King’s army he’d seen soldiers, veterans of the free companies, perform such dances.

‘But why now?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Because we are about to do battle.’

‘Against whom? Do you really suspect Richer?’

‘Why stop with him?’ Wenlock sneered. ‘Look around you, Friar, what do you see? Monks? Many of these hail from the farms, villages and shires around London. They know us, at least by reputation. Further up the river at All Hallows near Barking, the Upright Men gather to plot bloody treason.’

‘Don’t talk in parables.’ Athelstan drew closer.

‘We’re not. You asked us who wants us dead. Your fat friend Cranston has returned to the city to sniff around. You have remained here to do the same, so I’ll help you. We’re old soldiers. We have served our purpose. Go into the city and you’ll find others less fortunate than us,’ Wenlock, white froth staining his lips, held up his maimed hands, ‘starving at the mouth of every alleyway and filthy alcove. You ask us who wants us dead? Well, perhaps His Grace the Regent so that the Passio Christi, when it is found, will fall into his greedy hands. Or again there’s Abbot Walter, who’d like to see us ejected from his precious precincts even though, if need be, he would use us against the Upright Men should they attack this abbey. As for Richer — yes? He nurses grudges and grievances against us but there’s more.’ Wenlock paused, chest heaving, gesturing at Mahant to continue.

‘Wenlock and I have talked about this. Now Brokersby is gone and Osborne has disappeared, we thought we’d tell you. We have enemies within and without, Richer, even that anchorite. You and Cranston must have heard the rumours but let him tell you his tale. We have no blood on our hands as far as the anchorite’s concerned. We were only doing our duty.’ Mahant drew a deep breath. ‘As for the rest, the Upright Men and the Great Community of the Realm hate us. You see, Friar, before we came here we garrisoned the Tower, Rochester, Hedingham, Montfichet — indeed, all the castles around London. The shires seethe with unrest. You’ve heard about the uprisings, the attacks on houses like that at Bury St Edmunds and elsewhere? Well, to cut to the quick, the Wyverns were used by the Crown, the sheriffs, the abbots and other great lords to crush such revolts. We carried out our orders, as always, efficiently.’

‘Ruthlessly?’

‘Yes, Brother, ruthlessly. The royal banner was unfurled and the trumpets brayed. Any man, woman or child found in arms against us were either cut down or hanged out of hand.’

Athelstan nodded and walked over to a stone bench. The old soldiers joined him, sitting on either side.

‘We burnt their villages and farms,’ Wenlock continued. ‘We crammed their corpses into wells and springs.’ He paused, waiting for Athelstan to reply, but the friar just sat listening.

‘Don’t judge us, Brother! When the rebels burn Blackfriars and your parish church you’ll understand. True, we became hated. Undoubtedly here in this abbey we have shaven-pates, kinsmen of those we slaughtered, we know that. We’ve received dark looks, curses and spitting, signs made against the evil one and that includes Prior Alexander. We hanged one of his beloved kinsmen, no better than a hedge priest, a ranter on the common gallows outside Ospringe.’

‘So the Upright Men may have marked you down.’

‘Yes, and our Lord Abbot may well come to regret our stay. We suspect that, like many of the great lords, he’s raising Danegeld to bribe these traitorous bastards. Friar, you ask us who wants us dead? Well, we’ve given you a list. Be it John of Gaunt, some madcap monk or an assassin despatched by the Upright Men.’

‘And Osborne has fled the danger?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘And Brokersby — did he take an opiate to sleep?’

Wenlock stood up and glanced down at Athelstan.

‘Brokersby took an opiate, some powder grains.’ He pulled a face. ‘Supplied by the infirmary.’

‘Did Brokersby ever keep oil in his chamber?’

‘No, why should he?’

‘Did he keep the night-candle lit?’

‘I think so.’ Mahant paused. ‘Brokersby, God assoil him, was frightened by the dark but more than that I cannot say.’ He waved at Wenlock. ‘We should go, perhaps into the city and search for Osborne there.’ He leaned down, his face so close Athelstan could smell the ale on his breath. ‘But we’ll not go today, brother, it’s Sunday. My Lord Abbot will be dispensing Marymeat and Marybread to the poor, or that’s how he describes it.’ Mahant adjusted his war belt.

‘Do you suspect us?’ Wenlock asked, archly holding up his maimed hands. ‘Poor me who can no longer swing a sword?’

‘I never said that.’

‘We were in the city when Hyde and Hanep were murdered,’ Mahant added quietly, ‘and fast asleep when the fire started.’

‘Did William Chalk,’ Athelstan asked, ‘when he fell ill, did the good brothers give him ghostly comfort, shrive him?’

‘Richer often visited him but, as you know, the secrets of the confessional are inviolate.’

‘And Kilverby the merchant?’

‘He used to visit us when he brought the Passio Christi. In the end he let others do that and, when he did come, he avoided us. I don’t think he liked us. We were not particularly fond of him.’

Athelstan watched as the two Wyverns sauntered off. Several brothers then hurried into the cloisters carrying baskets. Athelstan stopped and questioned one, who informed him that as it was Sunday Abbot Walter would distribute alms, free bread and meat to the poor clustered before the main gate of the abbey as well as to others at the watergate. Athelstan, recalling earlier remarks about this, decided to follow them. He went first to the main gatehouse, waiting under its yawning arch until the brothers assembled with their baskets at the ready. He followed them through the postern door and was surprised at the throng gathered there. Peasants in their dirt-gained smocks and mud caked boots, men, women and children, their lean, furrowed faces full of desperation, eager to eat. Other outcasts crowded in: wandering beggars in their motley array of rags, hats and footwear; pilgrims, swathed in tattered weather-worn cloaks on which were pinned the rusting badges of the shrines they had visited — Walsingham, Canterbury, Hereford and even abroad to the famous Magdalene shrine at Vezelay in Burgundy or St Peter’s in Rome. Beyond these the lepers, clothed in their shrouds, every inch of flesh hidden by swathes of soiled bandages, clustered in a solitary group ringing hand bells or rattling clappers to warn away the rest. Athelstan took two baskets over to them. He blessed both lepers and food, trying not to be affected by the rank stench and the glimpse of scabbed skin. He distributed the bread, meat and fruit, ensuring that everyone received a portion. He smiled at the benedictions and thanks hissed through worm-eaten lips, talking to the lepers about the dangers of the road and the lives they led.

Athelstan moved away and looked around. At first he could see little amiss until the latecomers, hooded and visored, arrived. About a dozen in all, they appeared quickly, took the baskets specially brought out for them and left. Intrigued, Athelstan decided to visit the quayside. He strolled through the now busy precincts and down across Mortival meadow. Outside the watergate another group of monks were dispensing Marymeat and Marybread. Fewer beggars congregated here, most of them destitute river people clutching their rags tightly against the bitter cold. They reeked of stale fish, dirty water and sweat. Athelstan moved amongst them. He felt both guilty and angry at his church and about the way the world was. He felt the fury well within him as it did sometimes in his own parish at the sheer injustice of it all. No wonder the Upright Men gathered to plot and the Great Community of the Realm, brimming with discontent, moved out of the shadows. Why shouldn’t they have their day of doom, fire and sword, revolt and savage attack? Athelstan turned away, blinking, shaking his head at the furious thoughts which pelted his soul. He blamed himself. Perhaps he should be more active and support the Upright Men, give his blessing to the likes of Pike and Watkin. Athelstan then glimpsed the gallows gaunt against the lowering sky, the fragments of rope attached to a hook fluttering in the breeze. Athelstan closed his eyes and recited the first verse of psalm fifty — that is why he never supported them! No matter the misery now, what the Great Community plotted would only make matters worse. The revolt would be crushed. The Lord of the Soil would dominate. They’d whistle up men like Mahant and Wenlock, professional soldiers, killers to the bone, to crush all dissent. Every gallows from here to the Wash would be heavy with corpses.

‘Brother, take care,’ Athelstan apologized to the fisherman he bumped into. The quayside was now very busy. He also noticed the new arrivals, similar to those grouped at the main abbey gateway. He was sure they were envoys from the Upright Men sent to collect purveyance by their masters; they picked up the special baskets and carried them to a waiting barge manned by four oarsmen. Such was the way of the world, Athelstan reflected. Abbot Walter was paying service to the emerging threat with special provisions for those who lurked away from the light. Athelstan approached Brother Simon, whom he’d first met after the fire in Brokersby’s chamber. The friar indicated with his head at the group he’d noticed.

‘Brother Simon, who are those men?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Both you and the poor treat them with every respect. They collect your alms, your charity as if it was their God-given right.’

‘Brother Athelstan.’ Simon peered up at him. The lay brother put a finger to his lips. ‘What do you think?’ he whispered, leaning forward. ‘The truth, as Pilate once asked, what is the truth? We must, one day, all answer that question — you, me, Father Abbot and the rest, eh?’ Simon’s face remained passive, his eyes watchful.

Athelstan recalled his conversations with the Wyverns. How the Upright Men had their adherents in the abbey — the sons, brothers and kinsmen of the earthworms, the peasants of the shires who hacked the earth for those who owned it.

‘Have you answered your own question, Brother Simon?’

‘Time will tell.’ The Benedictine smiled. ‘Time will tell. Now I’m busy.’

Athelstan walked back through the watergate and stared down at where Hyde had been murdered. The friar stood chewing his lip; there was still the vexed question of Osborne’s whereabouts. What had really happened to him? Had he fled? Was Osborne the assassin, hence his escape? Or had Osborne been terrified witless by the murder of his comrades? Yet would he leave their protection — men with whom he’d spent a generation, who’d stood with him in the battle line? Where would he go now?

‘I think you’re still here,’ Athelstan whispered at the shifting tendrils of mist. He repressed a shiver of fear as he searched for a logical answer to his own questions. He was more than convinced, conceding to a growing conviction, a deep suspicion that Osborne had not fled; he’d been murdered, perhaps here in the abbey, but why? Simply because he was a Wyvern or because he suspected something? If he had been murdered why had his corpse been done away with so secretively? Hyde and Hanep were left sprawling in their blood. Did Osborne’s murder involve more than one person? He was a soldier who, despite all his fears, could hold his own against the likes of the maimed Wenlock, even if the latter was helped by others. Athelstan fingered the knots on his cord. It would take a group of assassins to overcome someone like Osborne, and then what? His corpse would have to be disposed of. Not an easy task here in this sprawling abbey with its countless windows, passageways and galleries. Any struggle might be seen; the removal of a corpse would attract attention. A group of monks could do that or a coven of assassins despatched by the Upright Men. Someone must have noticed something yet it was now early afternoon. Despite the searches of Mahant and Wenlock, no trace of Osborne had apparently been found, no alarm raised.

Athelstan peered up at the sky. ‘Let us say, good Brother,’ he mockingly whispered to himself, ‘poor Osborne, God rest him, was killed swiftly by dagger, garrotte or poison?’ Yes, Athelstan thought, that could be achieved without little clamour but what then? Hyde and Hanep’s corpses had been left like chunks of meat. Brokersby’s had been publicly burnt to death. So why hadn’t Osborne’s corpse been found out here in the meadow or somewhere else in the abbey? True, Athelstan continued his line of thought, the precincts could be lonely, desolate at certain times but on the other hand, once the monks were out of the abbey church, scores of them wandered here and there. Traces of violence, certainly corpses, would soon be discovered. ‘Where then?’ Athelstan murmured to himself. Where do you hide a corpse in an abbey like this? Out in the woodlands? But lay brothers constantly passed to and fro. The abbey owned lurchers; Athelstan had heard them barking in their kennels. They would soon nose out a corpse. Moreover, in this harsh winter an unburied cadaver would quickly attract kites, foxes and other scavengers which would rouse the attention of someone in the abbey. Athelstan tapped the ground with his foot. The soil was rock hard; digging a pit or a makeshift grave would also prove extremely difficult. Athelstan walked slowly back across the meadow. Of course there were the wastelands around the abbey but would a man like Osborne be trapped and killed whilst leaving during the early hours of the morning? The former soldier would not give up his life easily. Even if his murder was swift, with the flash of a blade or a mouthful of poison, the difficulty of getting rid of his corpse still remained. Athelstan paused at laughter from beyond the watergate. Of course there was always the river, yet Osborne would have to be enticed out there in the hours of the night or early morning. Now, given his comrades’ brutal murders, Osborne would be highly wary. Indeed, even if Osborne was killed and his body thrown into the Thames, it would have to be weighted down. Nevertheless, the river was fickle, especially here further east of the city with its large reed beds. Sooner or later his corpse would be discovered.

Athelstan reached the sand-covered bowling ground. The skittles with their carved demonic faces had all been set up, the bowls gathered in their box. Athelstan was tempted to make a cast to see how many he could bring down. Instead he sat on a turf bench, hands up the sleeves of his gown as he considered further possibilities. What if Osborne had truly fled? What if he, for his own secret purposes, was the assassin? Then why and how had he killed Brokersby in such a fashion? The fire had been deliberately started close to the bed in a secure, locked chamber. How could anyone ignite it from outside? The grille high on the oak door was very narrow. A line of oil-soaked string or cord might be used but that left a great deal to chance. The fire, if it was started in such a fashion, would begin slowly. Anyone near that door would be noticed; if not by a passer-by then Brokersby himself. And why had the soldier not tried to escape? Was he so drunk with wine, an opiate or both? Brokersby had certainly been murdered. Athelstan entertained an equal foreboding about Osborne. But where was his corpse? Athelstan glanced across at the crude stone table on which the monks played checkers. He glimpsed the shard of bone used in one of the games. He got up and touched this with his fingers.

‘The charnel house!’ Athelstan exclaimed. He’d passed this on the other side of the abbey church, those narrow steps leading down to a massive ancient crypt. St Fulcher’s had stood for centuries; every so often its cemetery would overflow so the brothers would remove the bones of the long deceased to make room for others. Blackfriars had a similar ossuary, a place much avoided by everyone, a macabre crypt full of dry bones and sightless skulls, reeking of corruption yet an ideal place to conceal a corpse. Most people would be reluctant to explore it. Athelstan startled as a flock of jays nesting in a large oak on the fringe of the adjoining garden burst out in a flurry of shrieks and fluttering wings. Athelstan peered at the oak. Was someone hiding there, watching him? Athelstan took a deep breath. He wanted to question Richer but that could wait. In the meantime. .

Athelstan reached the abbey church. The choir was filing out. He went round to the north-east corner and the ancient steps leading down to the charnel house. The thick oaken door at the bottom was blackened with age, its iron studs rusting. Athelstan heard a sound behind him; he glanced over his shoulder but there was nothing. He fished into the small wallet on his belt then pulled out the sconce torch from its rusted coping; the torch was dry and fully primed. Athelstan, using his tinder, fired the pitch; the blueish yellow flame fluttered then strengthened. Satisfied it was fully caught, Athelstan lifted the latch and entered the grim mausoleum. He fired the cressets just within the door and gazed round that morbid crypt with its stout, barrel-like columns, fretted arches and mildewed walls. A truly macabre sight, the charnel house was filled with yellowing bones and skulls over a yard high, the air thick with the dust of the dead.

‘A place where Mother Midnight lurks,’ Athelstan whispered.

The bones had been unceremoniously tossed behind a crude wooden palisade which had been erected to create a path between the pathetic remains of former monks. The ominous words of the liturgy of Ash Wednesday sprang to mind.

‘Remember man,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘that thou art dust and into dust thou shalt return.’ Lifting the torch Athelstan made his way through what he called this garden of the dead, past the mound of bones heaped high behind their great wooden casing. He ignored the squeak and rustle of vermin. Bones loosened in the pile clattered down, skulls rolled and bounced to crash against the fencing. Athelstan made his way towards the steps he’d glimpsed at the far end of the crypt. He felt as if he was going through a maze. Torch held out, he scrutinized the gruesome pyre looking for any disturbance, a flash of colour or glint of metal which would indicate something untoward. A disembodied shadow, black and fluttering, flittered past the dancing torchlight. Athelstan’s mouth went dry. Others followed, the bats squeaking in protest. Athelstan continued on, now regretting his decision to come down here. He could detect nothing.

Abruptly the door he’d entered opened and shut with a crash. The torches on either side of it were swiftly extinguished but not before Athelstan glimpsed a darting shadow and the glint of steel. Athelstan fled up the path crashing against the wooden palisade. Bones and skulls tumbled down. Behind him echoed the soft slither of boots. Athelstan grabbed a skull, turned and hurled it at the moving shadow. The midnight figure faltered and slipped on some of the shiny bones smashing on to the floor. Athelstan hurried on. He stretched out the torch and glimpsed the steep steps built into the far wall. He turned. The shadow was not yet up and following. Athelstan leaned over the palisade, dragging down more skulls and bones, then he hurled the torch. Blackness descended. Athelstan, however, had glimpsed the steps and the path leading to it. He reached the staircase, sweat starting, and clambered up. He tugged at the door but it held fast. His pursuer was still slipping and slithering along the narrow path, bumping into the fencing. Athelstan desperately beat on the door shouting, ‘Aux aide! Aux aide!’ The door shook. Bolts on the other side were drawn and it creaked open. Athelstan pushed the gaping monk aside, turned and slammed the door shut, shoving across the rusting bolts.

‘Brother Athelstan, what is the matter?’

The friar turned, leaning his back on the door and stared at his rescuer. ‘God be thanked.’ Athelstan gasped. He crouched down, arms across his belly, trying to curb the panic seething within him. ‘Thank you!’ he murmured.

‘My friend.’ The monk knelt beside him.

Athelstan now recognized Odo from the infirmary.

‘What were you doing in our charnel house? I came into the church to set up the funeral trestles for poor Brokersby. I heard the clattering and your shouting. What happened?’

‘I was searching for the other one.’ Athelstan gasped again, now weak with shock. ‘Henry Osborne. I thought I’d search. .’

‘Why look for the living amongst the dead?’ Odo helped Athelstan to his feet.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Brother Fidelis, who guards the postern door in the main gateway? Well,’ Odo gabbled on, ‘he is getting quite old. He does the nightly vigil and sleeps during the morning. Prior Alexander agreed to that. Anyway, Fidelis declared that Master Henry Osborne, with pack and fardle, weaponed like a man of war, left our abbey in the early hours of this morning. He did not say much. He demanded the postern be opened then he was gone, slipped through like a moon beam. So what happened in the charnel house?’

‘Nothing.’ Athelstan took a deep breath. ‘A frightening, macabre place; I panicked.’ Athelstan’s eye caught a wall painting celebrating the martyrdom of St Agnes. ‘I need to speak to the anchorite.’

‘He is not in his cell,’ Odo replied, stepping back. ‘On a Sunday he always goes for a walk. He says he likes to celebrate the day of the Lord’s resurrection in a garden.’

‘I am sure he does.’ Athelstan, now recovered from his shock, patted the dust from him. He was tempted to seek out his mysterious assailant but that would be fruitless. By now that ominously dark, threatening shape in the crypt would have fled.

‘Brother Athelstan, Brother Athelstan.’ A servitor came hurrying up the aisle, sleeves fluttering, breathlessly gesturing at the friar. ‘You must come!’ he gasped, pointing at the door. ‘The watergate!’

Athelstan hurried out. He reached Mortival meadow and stopped, speechless. The mist had thinned and there, cloak billowing out, beaver hat pushed slightly back and sipping from his miraculous wineskin, strode Cranston. The coroner was surrounded by a crowd of Athelstan’s parishioners who yelled their greetings and streamed across the frozen grass to meet him.

Once Athelstan had recovered from his surprise, staring speechlessly at a grinning Cranston, the parishioners were marshalled into some order. Prior Alexander appeared. He proved to be courtesy itself, offering the largest chantry chapel, that of St Fulcher’s, as a meeting place as well as promising that the abbey kitchens would prepare food for Athelstan’s guests in the refectory. At first, disorder and dissension reigned. Different parishioners grabbed Athelstan’s sleeve to catch his attention and divulge juicy morsels of gossip. How Watkin and Pike had got drunk; all pot-valiant they had challenged Moleskin to a fight calling him ‘a bald face coin-clipper’ until Tab the tinker and Crispin the carpenter had intervened. How the figures in the crib had been reorganized. Ursula’s sow had been attacked by Thaddeus, Godbless’ goat, and so on. Athelstan half listened to this, quietly relieved that both owners had not brought their animals with them.

The sheer magnificence of the abbey church soon reduced such chatter to ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of admiration. Huddle immediately disappeared to study the wall paintings whilst Tab lovingly caressed the polished carved oak. Ranulf the rat-catcher had brought his prize ferrets Ferox and Audax in their cage; he wandered off sniffing the air and poking into corners. Ranulf’s tarred pointed hood, his nose sharp above yellow jutting teeth, made the rat-catcher look even more like the rodents he hunted. Athelstan kept a sharp eye on Watkin, Pike, Moleskin and the rest, whose fingers positively itched at being surrounded by such wealth. He glimpsed Benedicta, who had donned her best cloak and hood of dark murrey lined with squirrel fur. Athelstan smelt her delicate perfume, a fragrance she once laughingly described as the best of Castile, a rare soap her husband had bought on his travels. Athelstan tried not to look into those dark eyes dancing with delight at seeing him again. One hand grasping his arm, Benedicta described how Cranston had appeared in the parish like God Almighty, organizing Moleskin and his St Andrew’s Guild of Bargemen to take them along the river to St Fulcher’s. They had all decided to go. Athelstan glanced around. He noticed with a twinge of bemused sadness how his little flock had also insisted on bringing the parish hand bell as well as the small coffer holding the Blood Book, the parish records and other important memoranda, not to mention the casket carrying the keys to the church, tabernacle, sacristy and parish chest. They apparently trusted no one! Benedicta quietly assured him all was well even as she studied him closely, flicking the dust from his robe and gently touching the slight cuts and bruises on his hands and face. Cranston joined him; his bonhomie faded as he too scrutinized the little friar from head to toe.

‘Not now,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘let us not alarm our little flock.’

They called back Tab, Huddle and the rest, shepherding them into the chantry chapel with the help of two burly brothers whom Prior Alexander had sent to assist as well as to guide Athelstan’s visitors around the wonders of the abbey. Athelstan took his seat in the priest’s chair and, with Cranston standing guard at the doorway, the friar delivered a short speech of welcome, then asked how matters stood? Within a few heartbeats he sincerely wished he hadn’t. Imelda, Pike’s wife, loudly demanded that only members of the parish attend the midnight Mass at Christmas. Cecily the courtesan, who usually brought her own group of Magdalenas to the Mass, was the object of Imelda’s spite. Cecily, however, ogling one of the brothers, simply stuck her tongue out and returned to stare dewy-eyed at the bemused monk. Athelstan put the matter to a vote and Imelda’s demand was promptly rejected. The friar swiftly moved on to other matters such as washing the baptismal font, the supply of altar wine and bedecking the church with more holly and ivy. Other items of business were raised. Some were voted on; others would have to wait. Mauger the bell clerk, squatting with his chancery tray across his lap, swiftly recorded the items of business; these would be later copied up into the parish ledger. Ursula the pig woman, who had spent her time in a constant mutter, now began to protest at not being able to bring her sow. Pernel the Fleming, threading her red and green hair, loudly hummed a favourite hymn. Meanwhile, Ranulf’s ferrets had caught the slither and squeal of vermin and were jumping like fury in their cage. Athelstan decided it was time to finish. He rose, exhorted his little flock to be good and handed them over to the waiting brothers for the promised tour of the abbey.

Once they’d all left singing the praises of Prior Alexander and rubbing their bellies in anticipation of a good meal, Athelstan and Cranston adjourned to the friar’s chamber in the abbot’s guest house. A servitor brought them bread, cheese, a small pot of delicious preserve and tankards of the abbey’s own ale. Athelstan did not wish to eat but washed himself at the lavarium. Once Cranston had broken his fast, the friar tersely informed him about everything that had happened since the coroner had left. Cranston, eyes half closed, heard him out and after Athelstan had finished, reported all he had learnt in the city.

‘We need to scrutinize all this logically but first,’ Cranston rose to his feet, ‘three matters. First, I am staying with you. Secondly, you and I remain close — no more wandering in deserted places.’ He glared down at the friar.

‘And thirdly, Sir John?’

‘We are going to demand an immediate audience with our Lord Abbot. I want the prior and sub-prior in attendance. I want that meeting now with no dalliance or delay.’

Cranston was true to his word and, within the hour, he and Athelstan swept into the abbot’s chamber. The coroner immediately ensconced himself on a chair before Lord Walter’s desk and smiled falsely at this prince of the church flanked by his two most senior monks.

‘My Lord Walter, I want the truth.’

‘I always tell it.’

‘Good, I expect that from a priest. The Upright Men, the Great Community of the Realm who, we all know, meet at All Hallows, Barking. Do you pay them protection money?’

‘I. .’

‘You pay them protection money — yes or no?’ Cranston thundered.

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘Five pounds in gold every month.’

Cranston whistled under his breath.

‘Don’t threaten me with treason, Sir John. I am protected by Holy Mother Church; other great lords also pay the piper.’

‘In return for what?’

‘As you say, protection. You’ve heard of the attacks elsewhere. My duty to God and my brothers is to protect this abbey until His Grace the Regent resolves this problem once and for all.’

‘And you two know of this?’

Prior Alexander and Richer nodded in agreement.

‘As you are about the purveyance given every Sunday to the Upright Men. They take the lord’s share of the Marybread and Marymeat, yes?’

Prior Alexander nodded his agreement. Cranston turned back to the abbot. ‘So why have the money payments stopped?’

Prior Alexander’s mouth opened and shut in surprise. Abbot Walter squirmed in his chair.

‘Father Abbot,’ Prior Alexander demanded. ‘I have seen the accounts. The money was given to you to pass on.’

The abbot sighed noisily.

‘Well,’ Cranston asked, ‘how do you pay?’

‘On Sundays, don’t you?’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Or you used to, at the distribution of purveyance before the main gate as well as on the quayside.’

‘Why have you suspended payments?’ Prior Alexander’s anger boiled over. ‘Where is that money? Your beloved niece?’

‘What I do,’ Abbot Walter pulled himself up, ‘is my business.’

‘When this abbey is burning about our ears it will be ours,’ Prior Alexander snapped.

‘How dare you!’ The abbot turned in his chair. ‘How dare you,’ he repeated, ‘accuse me.’ He darted a look at Sub-Prior Richer. ‘Put your own house in order first.’

Leda the swan, nestling in her comfortable bed rose, neck out, wings ruffling. A beautiful sight, Athelstan thought, except for that malevolent hissing. Prior Alexander sat tense, his face full of fury. Abbot Walter turned away, murmuring softly to the swan.

‘And you, Brother Richer.’ Athelstan asked, ‘We have reports of you meeting boatmen from foreign ships?’

‘So?’ The Frenchman shrugged. ‘I send letters and presents to my family, my brethren, my kinsmen in France.’

‘Including those at St Calliste?’

‘Including those.’

‘And Father Abbot approves of this?’

‘Of course I do,’ Lord Abbot interjected, eager to keep Richer’s support. ‘We communicate rarely with our brothers in France. Brother Richer, however, has close ties to his home community. He has every right to do what he has.’

‘Why are you here?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘Why, Richer, have you come to this cold, lonely place?’

‘I’ve told you. I am a skilled clerk, a copyist, a calligrapher. St Fulcher’s library is famous. .’

‘I need to question you on that,’ Athelstan interjected, ‘but not now. These boatmen from foreign ships? How do you arrange the exact time and place to meet?’

‘I often go into the city.’ The usually urbane Richer was now flustered.

‘As you did on the eve of St Damasus during your visit to Sir Robert? You and Prior Alexander visited the Queenshithe or elsewhere. You made the arrangements then?’

‘Yes, yes, Prior Alexander is very understanding.’

‘I am sure he is. Your visit with Kilverby. .?’

‘We’ve explained that.’ Prior Alexander spoke up. ‘It was a courtesy visit. Sir Robert was not coming to St Fulcher’s. There was the business of Crispin being given lodgings here and other minor items.’

‘Such as?’

‘Sir Robert was a most generous benefactor,’ Lord Walter intervened. ‘His donations for Masses to be sung helped us build the new hog pen on our farm as well as re-gild some of our sacred vessels. We wanted to assure him that such gifts were both appreciated and well spent.’ The reply was rather rushed and from Prior Alexander’s face Athelstan concluded that a great deal of such gold and silver revenue stuck to the abbot’s greedy fingers. Little wonder Lord Walter’s beloved niece and sister lived so high on the hog! Athelstan recalled Isabella’s chatter at their recent meeting; he was sure she’d let slip that she had come of age. Was Abbot Walter preparing a generous dowry for his beloved kinswoman?

‘Tell me.’ Athelstan glanced around. ‘Let us establish the times and seasons of all that has happened here.’

‘In what way?’

‘The Wyvern Company arrived here when?’

‘Four years last summer.’

‘And you, Richer?’

‘I have been here just under three years.’

‘And the first fatality amongst the Wyvern Company was William Chalk?’

‘That was not murder,’ Prior Alexander answered flatly. ‘I examined him and so did local physicians. Master Chalk had growths in his belly and groin — I’ve told you this.’

‘When did he fall ill?’

‘About eighteen months ago.’

‘And who gave him ghostly comfort?’

‘I tended to him first,’ Prior Alexander retorted. ‘Brother Richer later on.’

‘Did you shrive him?’

‘Of course,’ Richer snapped. ‘I also gave him the last rites but,’ the Frenchman glared at Athelstan, ‘Chalk turned to God. You’ve been through his chamber. You must have seen his prayers scrawled on scraps of parchments pleading for mercy. You’re a priest. You know, under pain of excommunication, Brother Athelstan, no priest can break the seal of confession.’

‘He must have talked outside the seal.’

‘Everything is covered by the seal.’

‘You hate the Wyvern Company?’

‘You know I do. They are thieves, blasphemers, killers and the perpetrators of sacrilege.’

‘So Chalk did not abuse you of that.’

‘What passed between us, Brother, is protected by the seal.’

‘Where do you think the Passio Christi truly belongs?’

‘St Calliste.’

‘Is your uncle still abbot there?’

Richer smiled. ‘Yes, he enjoys robust health, thank God.’

‘And Kilverby,’ Athelstan continued, ‘he brought the Passio Christi here at the appointed time for the Wyvern Company to view?’

‘He used to,’ Prior Alexander declared. ‘We’ve told you that.’

‘And his relationship with the Wyverns was cordial? After all, he did finance them during the war with France.’

‘From what we know,’ Lord Walter intervened, ‘Kilverby was always distant and aloof but he was amicable enough towards the Wyverns.’

‘And this changed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Sir Robert began to reflect most carefully about them. He changed his opinion of those he once patronized.’

‘Encouraged by you, Brother Richer?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know precisely. Did you advise Sir Robert?’

‘Of course I did. He was a man much burdened with sin,’ the Frenchman replied. ‘I shrived him. I gave him ghostly advice.’

‘Did he tell you his true opinion of the Wyvern Company?’

‘He grew to dislike them intensely. He claimed he’d always believed their story about the Passio Christi but he came to the conclusion that they hadn’t found it but stolen it.’

‘A conclusion you helped him reach?’

‘I didn’t disagree with him.’

‘Then Kilverby,’ Cranston asked, ‘stopped bringing the Passio Christi here?’

‘Yes,’ Lord Walter replied, ‘last year it was brought by Crispin and Mistress Alesia.’

Athelstan tapped a sandalled foot against the floor.

‘You don’t believe us?’ Richer asked. ‘You think we lie?’

‘No,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You’re not lying but you’re not telling the full truth either. Kilverby was a leading London merchant, hard of heart, keen of wit and cunning as a snake. He financed and profited from the Wyverns. He must have suspected their story about the bloodstone years ago so why the change now?’

‘God’s grace,’ Richer declared, ‘my counsel.’

‘No,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘something else.’

‘Such as?’ Richer had recovered his arrogance. ‘Why not ask Master Crispin?’

‘Did you give Crispin ghostly comfort too, Brother Richer?’

‘Master Crispin and Sir Robert were regular visitors here,’ Richer replied. ‘I counselled Sir Robert but only exchanged pleasantries with Crispin.’

‘Can any of you three,’ Cranston gestured around, ‘cast any light on Sir Robert’s murder or the disappearance of the Passio Christi?’ The coroner’s question was greeted with muttered denials. ‘And the murders here in your abbey?’

‘Sir John,’ Lord Walter retorted, ‘you know as much as we do.’

‘And the fire in Brokersby’s chamber?’

‘Most unfortunate.’ The abbot sighed.

‘Would he,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘have any reasons to keep oil in his chamber?’

‘Not that I am aware of.’

‘And the bedside candle?’

‘Visit our chandler, Brother Athelstan,’ Prior Alexander replied. ‘Such candles are dispensed to all chambers in the guest house — tall, thick, fashioned out of tallow but still the best. They are fixed on a stand with a cap. I don’t think such a fire could be caused even if this candle was knocked over. I mean,’ the prior flailed a hand, ‘such a conflagration.’

Athelstan glanced at Cranston and raised his eyes heavenwards.

‘We have to go.’ The coroner abruptly rose to his feet, bowed and, followed by Athelstan, walked to the door. Cranston abruptly turned.

‘Lord Abbot, your sister Eleanor Remiet — her maiden name?’

‘Why, the same as mine, Chobham. She married a Gascon, Velours, then remarried Master Remiet, who also died. My niece is the only child of her first marriage. Is that all?’

‘No.’ Athelstan pointed at Richer. ‘Brother, if I could have a word with you in private.’

The Frenchman looked as if he was going to object.

‘Just we two.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Sir John will not be present.’

Richer shrugged and followed them out down to the courtyard. Athelstan waited until Cranston was out of hearing and turned.

‘Brother Richer, are you an assassin?’

‘How dare you!’

‘The day Hyde was stabbed to death close to the watergate — you went down there that afternoon. You were seen carrying a sword.’

Richer’s lower lip trembled.

‘You took a sword out of the Barbican when the lazy brother-in-charge was elsewhere. You took it because of the killings here, whilst the quayside on a lonely mist-filled afternoon could be a dangerous place. You were going to meet a boatman from a foreign ship to give him whatever you really do send from this abbey. I suspect Hyde followed and spied on you close to the watergate.’

‘Are you accusing me of murdering him?’

‘No, but Hyde had also been followed. The mysterious assassin pierced Hyde’s belly and he gave the most hideous scream. You must have heard that. You told your boatman to wait and hurried back to find Hyde dying of his belly wound.’ Athelstan paused. ‘You really hate those archers, don’t you? Did Hyde, an old soldier, ask for the mercy cut or did you see him as the hated enemy? Did you stab him with that sword then carry it back to your friend the boatman?’

Richer refused to answer.

‘And then what? Did the boatman take you up or down river so you could make your own way back to the abbey?’ Athelstan drew closer. ‘You’re a very dangerous man, Brother Richer.’

‘Am I? A Benedictine?’

‘You came here undoubtedly with a letter of recommendation from the Abbot of St Calliste, but he’s your uncle. Are you really a monk, Richer, or a knight, a mailed knight in the guise of Benedictine, a man with one mission to secure the return of the Passio Christi?’ Athelstan paused. ‘I wonder, Richer. .’

‘What?’

‘Chalk? Did he fall ill from some malignant ill-humour or did you cause it with some poisonous potion? Did you prepare him for death then parade the horrors of judgement before him?’

Richer stepped back. ‘Friar, I do not know what you are talking about. Whatever I am, whatever you are, I know the law. Where is your proof, your evidence?’ Without waiting for a reply Richer turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him.

Athelstan walked across to Cranston.

‘An upset monk? What did you say?’

‘Not for the moment, Sir John.’ Athelstan stamped his feet against the cold. ‘It’s time I rejoined my flock and shepherded them back to the watergate. Many thanks, Sir John.’

‘For what?’

‘You know what.’ Athelstan grasped the coroner’s hand and squeezed it. ‘They wanted to see me. I wanted to see them but it was not just that, was it? You told me what happened outside Kilverby’s mansion. The Upright Men questioned you about me being held here against my will. The Upright Men have many adherents in my parish; they’ll report back that I am safe and well. I just hope they remain so. Anyway, it’s time they were gone. We will talk later tonight.’