Bloodstone

SEVEN

Next morning, after a troubled sleep, Athelstan celebrated a late Mass. As he divested he wondered if he should escape the abbey and return to St Erconwald’s for the day. Outside in the aisle the brothers were preparing their own crib, bringing in lifelike statues and arguing about whether the abbot wanted the Three Kings immediately or should they wait until the Epiphany. Athelstan was about to help when he glimpsed an inscription carved along the rim of the chantry altar. He swiftly translated the Latin. He was about to close his eyes in thankful prayer when he heard his name being called. Prior Alexander, unshaven and red-eyed, his black robe stained and blotched, pushed through the gossiping brothers to inform Athelstan that Cranston required him urgently near the watergate. Athelstan collected his cloak and writing tray and hurried down across Mortival meadow, pleasantly surprised by the change in the weather. The mist had lifted. The clouds were thinning and the weak sunlight gave the meadow a more springlike look. On the quayside Cranston, cloaked, booted and armed, stood with Wenlock and Mahant, similarly attired. The old soldiers looked heavy-eyed as if roused from an ale-sodden sleep. Moored along the quayside was a high-prowed barge with a covered awning in the stern. The prow boasted a snapping pennant of dark blue fringed with gold displaying the insignia of the Fisher of Men, a silver corpse rising from a golden sea. The barge was manned by six oarsmen dressed in black and gold livery — these were the Fisher of Men’s coven, outlaws and outcasts who’d rejected their own names and rejoiced in being called Maggot, Taffyhead, Badger, Brick-face, Gigglebrazen and Hackum. Standing on the barge was Icthus, the Fisher’s principal assistant, dressed in a simple black tunic, a strange creature who took the Greek name for fish, an apt enough title. The young man had no hair even on his brows or eyelids whilst his oval-shaped face and protuberant cod mouth made him look even more like a fish. Icthus raised a hand in greeting as Cranston broke off whispering heatedly with Wenlock and Mahant.

‘Osborne’s been found,’ Cranston declared, ‘or at least his corpse, naked as he was born, throat slit from ear to ear.’ Cranston waved at the waiting barge. ‘The Fisher of Men requires an audience. Wenlock and Mahant are coming with us whether they like it or not.’

They all clambered into the barge. Icthus in a high-pitched voice ordered the oarsmen to push away and soon they were out, the rowers bending and pulling back in unison. The river was thankfully calm though busy with fishing smacks, bum boats and market barges all taking advantage of the break in the weather. Mahant and Wenlock sat fascinated by Icthus and his companions. Cranston tersely explained how the Fisher of Men was a retainer of the mayor and city council. The Fisher’s task was to roam the Thames and drag out the corpses, the victims of suicide, murder, or accident.

‘A common enough occurrence,’ Cranston confirmed. ‘He,’ the coroner pointed at Icthus, who sat with his back to them crooning a song to the rowers, ‘has one God-given gift: he can swim like an fish whatever the mood of the river.’

‘Where was Osborne found?’ Wenlock asked.

‘Down river,’ Cranston remarked, ‘trapped amongst some reeds. Icthus believes he was thrown in somewhere between the abbey and La Reole.’

‘We have his assurance it’s Osborne?’ Wenlock shifted his gaze from Icthus to Cranston.

‘We shall see,’ the coroner replied. ‘Apparently not only was the victim’s throat slashed but someone used a hammer, or a rock, to pound his face into a soggy mess of blood, bone and tattered flesh.’

‘Sweet Lord,’ Mahant whispered, sitting squashed in the semicircular stern seat, he leaned down and gently touched the hilt of his sword for comfort.

Cranston nudged Athelstan and pointed to a flock of birds which seemed to cover the corpse dangling from a crude gallows on a sandbank.

‘That reminds me — Leda the swan. Do you really think the Upright Men hanged that poor bird?’

Athelstan recalled what he’d glimpsed in the chantry chapel that morning.

‘Leda was hanged,’ he replied evasively, ‘by someone with a deep hatred for my Lord Abbot.’

‘That must include,’ Wenlock declared, ‘virtually most of his community and everyone outside it.’

Athelstan, reluctant to continue the conversation, stared round the awning at the other barges passing close as they moved in towards the quayside. Athelstan studied them and glimpsed Crispin, Kilverby’s secretarius, sitting huddled in the centre of one skiff staring directly at the Fisher of Men’s barge. Athelstan swiftly drew back. Crispin was apparently heading for St Fulcher’s. Athelstan wondered what urgent business brought him back to the abbey? Icthus, in that eerie voice, abruptly called out commands. The barge rocked as it turned and came alongside a deserted wharf just past La Reole. They disembarked and made their way up to what was variously called, ‘The Barque of St Peter’, ‘The Chapel of the Drowned Man’ or ‘The Mortuary of the Sea’, a single storey building of grey brick with a red tiled roof. The corporation had built this so all the corpses harvested from the Thames could be laid out for inspection and collection by relatives; if not recognized, they were placed on to the great cart standing alongside the Barque and taken to some Poor Man’s Lot in one of the city cemeteries.

The mortuary fronted the quayside, on either side ranged the wattle and daub cottages of the Fisher of Men and what he termed ‘his beloved disciples’; others called them ‘the grotesques’. Athelstan stared up at the vigorously carved tympanum above the wooden porch showing the dead rising from choppy waves to be greeted by the angels of God or the demons of Hell. Beneath this ran the words: ‘And the Sea shall give up its dead’. On the right side of the door hung the great net which the Fisher of Men used to bring in the bodies, above it another inscription: ‘The deep shall be harvested’. On the left side of the door a proclamation boldly proclaimed the prices for recovering a corpse. ‘The mad and insane — 6p. Suicides — 10p. Accidents — 8p. Those fleeing from the law — 14p. Animals — 2p. Goods to the value of £5: ten shillings. Goods over the value of £5, one third of their market value’. The Fisher of Men was seated beneath the sign, his bald head and cadaverous face protected by a leather cowl edged with costly fur. A thick military cloak shrouded his body from head to feet, which were pushed into the finest cordovan riding boots. The Fisher of Men rose and greeted his visitors in fluent Norman French and, turning specifically to Athelstan, lapsed into Latin. He asked the friar if he would give him and his ‘beloved disciples’ a formal blessing before leading them in their favourite hymn, ‘Ave Maris Stella — Hail Star of the Sea’.

Athelstan, as always, was tempted to ask the Fisher about his past, his knowledge of Latin and the classics. Cranston, however, had warned Athelstan how this harvester of corpses was most reluctant to reveal any aspect of his past, be it stories about once being a leper knight or a merchant who had visited the court of the Great Cham of Tartary.

‘Well, Brother?’

‘Of course, of course.’

The Fisher of Men turned to Icthus, who produced a hunting horn and blew a long haunting blast which hastily summoned the members of that strange community to kneel on the cobbles before ‘The Barque of St Peter’. With Cranston and the others looking on, Athelstan delivered the blessing of St Francis.

‘May the Lord bless you and protect you.

May he show you his face and smile on you.

May the Lord turn his face to thee and give you peace.

May the Lord bless you.’

When Athelstan finished he sketched a cross in the air and intoned the ‘Ave Maris Stella’, the rest of his singular congregation merrily joining in, chanting the Latin hymn learnt by rote to the Blessed Virgin Mary. Once the ‘Amen’ had been sung, the Fisher of Men clapped Athelstan’s shoulder and led him and the others into the Sanctuary of Souls, a rectangular lime-washed chamber. On a dais at the far end stood an altar draped with a purple and gold cloth, above it a large crucifix nailed to the wall. The Fisher’s ‘guests’, as he described the corpses plucked from the Thames, were placed on wooden trestles, each covered with a shroud drenched in pine juice. The stench, despite the herbs, was sharp and pungent, a sombre place of haunting sadness. Athelstan blessed the room even as Icthus and two of his companions came around him swinging thuribles, anointing the air with sweet smoke. The Fisher removed the shroud covering one corpse. Athelstan immediately gagged at the sight and grasped the proffered pomander. Cranston and the two soldiers cursed until the Fisher of Men loudly tutted. The face of the corpse, already bloated liverish by the river, had been reduced to a reddish-black pulp, the nose and lips fragmented into a grotesque mask. The body was naked, the muscular torso, legs and arms streaked with old wounds. Athelstan stared closely; he could not be certain who it was.

‘Osborne,’ Wenlock murmured. ‘It’s Osborne.’ He turned to the Fisher of Men. ‘How did you know?’

The Fisher lifted the arms of the corpse, he pointed to the wrists marked by the bracers now removed and the deep calluses on the arrow fingers of the left hand.

‘We keep our eyes and ears sharp. We read and learnt the description Sir John posted at St Paul’s Cross and elsewhere. How you were seeking Henry Osborne, former master bowman, who fled without permission from the Abbey of St Fulcher. Where would such a man flee, we asked? We heard about the deaths at the abbey so when Icthus fished this corpse from the reeds, throat cut, face all disfigured, corpse stripped, we wondered. I examined the wrists, which the archer braces would usually cover, the fingers worn by years notching a bow. .’

‘Where did you find him?’ Cranston indicated for the cadaver to be covered.

Athelstan didn’t wait for the answer; he took a deep breath on the pomander and walked back to the door. He glanced over his shoulder. Wenlock and Mahant stood apart, hiding in the murky light of that grim place. Cranston was helping with the funeral cloth whilst the Fisher of Men and his acolytes gathered around all pleased, eager for their reward.

‘God forgive me,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘for my lack of thought.’ Clutching his writing satchel, he walked back to the trestle. He took out the small phials of holy oils and insisted on anointing the corpse whilst he whispered the words of absolution. He tried to ignore the brutal remains which once housed a living soul, concentrating on the rite whilst the bile bubbled at the back of his throat. Once finished he gratefully strolled outside to the fiery heat from a huge brazier where the rest were already warming themselves. Wenlock and Mahant, now vociferous, informed Cranston how they no longer wished to reside at St Fulcher’s. Cranston warned them that, until he was finished, they could either stay there or be lodged in the Tower and that applied to anyone else involved in these dire events.

‘You must also surely,’ Athelstan added tactfully, ‘see to the burial of poor Osborne? He should be interred next to his comrades at St Fulcher’s?’

The two old soldiers, hands extended over the glowing coals, just glared back at him.

‘You, Magister.’ Athelstan turned to the Fisher of Men. ‘How long do you think Osborne’s corpse was in the water?’

‘He was discovered just after first light,’ that gleaner of the dead replied, ‘in a reed bed. We think he must have been there for at least a day. More importantly, we know where he came from.’ This stilled all conversation.

‘Osborne was murdered,’ the Fisher of Men declared stoutly, ‘on Sunday evening. The weather is too cold even for an old soldier to camp out. In addition, if you know the flow and pull of the river you can deduce where his body fell in.’ He rubbed his hands together.

‘Where?’ Wenlock snapped. ‘Let’s not play games.’

‘My friend, I am not! Listen, Osborne needed shelter. The only place providing that between here and St Fulcher’s is the great riverside tavern, “The Prospect of Heaven”.’

Cranston nodded in agreement.

‘After we found the corpse I sent one of my best scurriers, Hoghedge, who has a nose for tap room gossip. Minehost at the “Prospect” clearly remembered an old soldier armed, carrying his bow not to mention a fardel and panniers, who hired a chamber very early on Sunday morning. He called himself Brokersby.’

‘Brokersby?’

‘That’s what he called himself. Anyway, Minehost recognized an old soldier when he saw one. His guest kept to himself then, later that Sunday, this individual settled all accounts, took his baggage and walked down the towpath towards the river.’

‘And?’

The Fisher clicked his tongue noisily.

‘That is all I can tell you.’

‘Osborne left St Fulcher’s.’ Athelstan turned to the dead man’s companions. ‘He sheltered at that tavern under the name of Brokersby for most of the day then left. Can you tell us why?’

Both men just shook their heads.

‘He did not contact you?’

‘Of course not,’ Wenlock retorted. ‘Nor do we know why he’d go there. We thought he’d hide deep in the city.’

‘Did you find any of his possessions?’ Wenlock turned to the Fisher of Men who just waved back at the Sanctuary of Lost Souls.

‘Naked we come into the world,’ that strange individual intoned, ‘and naked we shall surely leave.’ The Fisher smiled at the coroner. ‘Sir John, if there’s nothing else?’

Cranston and the Fisher of Men walked away from the rest, disappearing into one of the cottages. A short while later Cranston emerged carrying a scrap of parchment, a receipt for the exchequer to account for the monies he had paid to the Fisher of Men. Cranston, Athelstan and the rest clambered back into the barge and, with the cries of farewell from that bizarre community ringing out over the water, the ‘Charon of Hades’ as the barge was called, took them back along the river. Cranston however insisted that they stay close to the bank and pull into the narrow quayside close to ‘The Prospect of Heaven’. He asked them to wait, swiftly disembarked and strode off up the towpath towards ‘The Prospect’; its great timbered upper storeys and black slate roof could be clearly glimpsed from the barge. Wenlock and Mahant followed and, cloaks wrapped about them, walked up and down, whispering between themselves as they tried to keep warm. Athelstan studied both of these. The two old soldiers were unusually taciturn and withdrawn. Were they fearful, anxious? He tried to catch the essence of their mood, their souls. Would they also flee? But, there again, Osborne really hadn’t. He’d simply assumed his dead comrade’s name and moved a short distance down the river. Athelstan took out his Ave beads and fingered them. ‘The Prospect’ was an ideal place to hide. A ramshackle sprawling tavern along the Thames where merchants, travellers, pilgrims and river folk ebbed and flowed like the water itself. So, why had Osborne really left St Fulcher’s? What was he doing at that tavern? Why had he left? How had he been so swiftly overcome, his throat slashed, his corpse stripped of everything, his face pounded beyond recognition before being tossed like rubbish into the river?

Athelstan turned as Icthus and his oarsmen broke off from the hymn they were softly chanting and pointed excitedly as the war cog, its prow and stern richly gilded, sails billowing, the armour and weapons of its crew twinkling in the light, rounded a bend in the river. The cog, ‘The Glory of Lancaster’, was surrounded by small boats eager to sell provisions and even the joys of some whores gaudily bedecked and crammed into a skiff by an enterprising pimp. The sight of the cog made Athelstan think of Richer. Was the Frenchman responsible for Osborne’s death? Richer with his many emissaries from foreign ships? Had Richer persuaded Osborne to flee with a promise of safe passage abroad then killed him, but why? Was it to do with the truth behind the theft of the Passio Christi or even where it was now?

‘Nothing!’ Cranston almost jumped into the barge, hastily followed by Wenlock and Mahant.

‘Nothing at all.’ Cranston squeezed into the seat. ‘It’s as the Fisher of Men said. God save us, Athelstan, I tell you this.’ He raised his voice. ‘Osborne will be the last person to flee.’

On their return to St Fulcher’s Athelstan discovered the reason behind Cranston’s statement. The coroner had been busy and his messages into the city had borne fruit. The watergate and every entrance into the abbey were now guarded by royal archers, men-at-arms and mounted hobelars. The same, Cranston declared as he strode across Mortival meadow, patrolled the fields and woods beyond the abbey walls whilst the cog they’d glimpsed had taken up position off the abbey quayside.

‘There will be no more secret meetings, leaving or goings,’ Cranston insisted as they reached the guest house. ‘Everyone, and I mean everyone, will stay where they are.’ The coroner’s edict was soon felt. Cranston relaxed it a little, allowing carts of produce, visitors, beggars and pilgrims, as well as individual monks, to come and go but the royal serjeants had their orders. Everything and everyone were thoroughly searched. The protests mounted. Wenlock and Mahant tried to leave claiming they hoped to secure lodgings in the city along Poultry. Cranston refused them permission. Abbot Walter, still shocked and surprised at the truths he’d had to face as well as the death of his beloved Leda, retreated to his own chamber with his mistress and daughter. Prior Alexander and Richer, however, were furious. They both confronted Cranston and Athelstan as they broke their fast in the buttery. The two monks were joined by Crispin, who bleated he should journey back to the city, claiming he had urgent business with Genoese bankers in Lombard Street. Cranston heard them out, cleared his throat and ordered all three to shut up and listen.

‘You,’ he pointed with his finger, ‘all of you are suspects in this matter.’

‘How dare you?’ Richer’s handsome face reddened with rage. He fidgeted with the hilt of the silver dagger in its embroidered sheath on the cord around his waist.

‘Oh, I dare,’ Cranston replied evenly, ‘that’s the problem, my friends. This abbey is like a maze of alleyways. People scurry about bent on any mischief, even monks who go armed.’

‘I am fearful,’ Richer retorted, ‘the Wyverns hate me. Men are being murdered.’

‘Which is why you are all suspects?’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Anyone associated with Sir Robert, the Passio Christi or the Wyvern Company must hold themselves ready for questioning either here or the Tower. That includes you, Master Crispin. I would like you to stay here at least for a day.’

‘Why?’ the clerk protested.

‘Because I am determined to finish these matters,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Don’t worry, this applies to everyone else. Sir John, I am sure, has issued instructions that all members of Sir Robert’s household be confined to their mansion.’

‘Are you so close to the truth?’ Prior Alexander asked.

‘Very close — we always were,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘We are just frustrated by lies and evasions and that includes you again, Master Crispin. You knew full well that Sir Robert was spending lavishly, bribing the monks of St Fulcher to send back treasures to St Calliste, and that you and Sir Robert were once novices here. That Sir Robert was not going on pilgrimage but fleeing. I am sure all his accounts are in order.’

‘I don’t. .’

‘Please don’t lie,’ Athelstan warned. ‘Sir Robert was not coming back. He did not intend to leave the Passio Christi here but take it back to St Calliste himself, or so I suspect.’ Athelstan brought the flat of his hand down loudly on the table. ‘So yes, we may be close to the truth, though gaps remain. Consequently you will all stay here until we finish. Now, sirs, we would like to finish our meal. However, before I do, one last question, Master Crispin: what are you actually doing here?’ Athelstan jabbed a finger at him. ‘Again, no lies. You came to find out what was happening?’

Crispin nodded. ‘True,’ he sighed, ‘the mansion in Cheapside is now surrounded by archers. I had to discover what was going on.’

‘Now you have,’ Athelstan replied. ‘So, all of you, please go.’

‘Are we close to the truth?’ Cranston asked once their visitors had left.

‘Yes and no, my Lord Coroner. Yes in the sense that we have the keys but we don’t know which keys fit which locks. We are now dependant on time and three other factors: first, and I must reflect on this, a vigorous search of this abbey, including Richer’s chamber, might be of use. Secondly, matters proceed apace. Another bloodletting might take place and the killer might make a mistake.’

‘And the third?’

Athelstan took a deep breath. ‘God also demands justice. I pray he gives it a helping hand.’

Athelstan returned to his chamber whilst Cranston decided to visit the serjeants in change of the royal archers. The friar locked himself away listing time and again all he knew. He found it difficult to make any progress on the bloody affray here in the abbey except on two matters. First, when Hyde was murdered near the watergate, Richer ran back to see what had happened. Driven by his deep hatred for the Wyvern Company, the Frenchman thrust his sword deep into Hyde’s belly but. . Athelstan paced up and down. Surely Richer must have glimpsed the assassin who’d fled, certainly not through the watergate where Richer and the boatman were doing business, but across Mortival meadow, even if it was to hide in one of the copses? If the assassin had been one of the Wyvern Company, Richer would have been only too pleased to point the finger of accusation, so was it someone else? Someone he recognized? A monk from this abbey? Prior Alexander? Secondly, Athelstan could not forget the attack on him in the charnel house, the speed with which his assailant had opened the door and doused those sconce torches. As regards to Kilverby’s death and the disappearance of the Passio Christi? What if Kilverby himself had removed the Passio Christi, locked the coffer and put the keys back around his neck knowing full well the Passio Christi was safe elsewhere? Athelstan could make no sense of this so he returned to listing his questions, trying to construct a hypothesis which he could push to a logical conclusion. Frustration, however, got the better of him. Athelstan visited the church to pray and, when Cranston returned, listed his unresolved questions for the coroner.

‘And yet, little friar,’ Cranston sat on the edge of the bed, ‘we cannot keep this abbey under siege for weeks. What do you suggest?’

‘Tomorrow,’ Athelstan replied flatly, ‘bring your archers into the abbey. I want the library cleared. Prior Alexander and Richer must be detained and their chambers searched. Of course,’ he added despairingly, ‘they may well have anticipated that and be prepared. I suspect they already have, so, for the moment, let us eat and retire early.’

Athelstan rose long before dawn. He felt refreshed and resolute. He was determined on what he must do and, if he had to face the wrath of the Benedictine order, the bishop of London, not to mention the displeasure of his superiors at Blackfriars, then he would accept that. The church in London might scream in protest at the ransacking of an abbey by royal troops and the questioning of its community in the cold chambers of the Tower. Nevertheless, what more could he do? Richer had to be seized. Athelstan waited until dawn then went down to celebrate his own Mass. He was drawing this to a close, about to pronounce the ‘Ite Missa’ when the bells began to toll the tocsin, a harsh discordant clanging which shattered the sleeping silence. Athelstan hastily divested and hurried down the aisle. Others were doing the same; even the anchorite left his cell to join the few brothers who’d been busy in the church. Outside the greying murk was broken by the dancing glow of torches and bobbing lantern horns. Monks clamoured about the reason for the tocsin until Brother Simon, face and hands all muddied, screamed something about a dreadful scene down near the hog pen. Athelstan seized the lay brother. Simon was frantic, his robe, face and hands caked with blood-encrusted mud.

‘Two of them,’ Simon gasped, ‘horrible to see! The hogs have mauled them!’

‘Who?’ Athelstan pleaded.

‘Richer,’ Simon gasped, ‘Richer and one of the Wyvern Company. Prior Alexander is sobbing like a child. You must come, you must come!’

Athelstan reached the hog pen on the farm to the north of the abbey. Others were also gathering. Abbot Walter, swathed in a great woollen cloak, face all stricken, rested for support on the arm of a young novice. Prior Alexander was kneeling between two rolled deerskin shrouds soaked in blood. The prior was distraught. He knelt on the hard cobbles, keening like a distraught mother over her child. Other monks, booted and armed with iron-tipped staves, were driving the hogs back to their sties. Wenlock appeared resting on the arm of Brother Odo, the old soldier was dressed only in his night shirt, stout sandals on his feet, a cloak about his shoulders. He looked as pale as a ghost. He approached the shrouded corpses then turned away to vomit and retch violently. A brother whispered how Wenlock had been sick all night. Once he’d been taken away, Athelstan asked for the deerskin shrouds to be opened. He took one glimpse at the mangled corpses and walked away fighting to control his own stomach. Cranston also arrived and, accustomed to such horrors, he knelt and examined the remains of both cadavers.

‘The hogs feasted well,’ the coroner murmured. ‘They ate the soft fat first, face, belly and thighs.’

Athelstan forced himself to look. Both bodies were reduced to a hideous, reddish-black mess, no faces or stomachs, just hunks of meat with the ragged remains of clothing and boots. Athelstan glimpsed the bracer around the tattered wrist of one of the corpses, the remains of a boot and war belt.

‘Mahant!’ he whispered. ‘It must be — but why? How?’

Between the corpses glittered the silver knife belonging to Richer. The coroner rose to his feet, clapping his hands for silence.

‘Take the corpses to the death house,’ he ordered. ‘You,’ he pointed to Brother Odo, ‘clean what is left of them then report to me. Father Abbot,’ he turned to Lord Walter, ‘the hogs have eaten human flesh, they are deodandum — they must be given to God and slaughtered. You,’ he pointed at a royal serjeant of archers who’d also arrived, ‘bring your best bowmen, the hogs are to be destroyed, their corpses burnt. No, no,’ Cranston stilled the abbot’s protests, ‘the hogs must be slaughtered.’ The coroner gazed up at the brightening sky. ‘At Nones I, Sir John Cranston, King’s coroner in the City of London, will hold an official Inquisitio Post Mortem in the nave of the abbey church. If you are summoned, you must present yourselves.’

Athelstan nodded in agreement, whispering his own advice, which Cranston quietly promised to act on. Athelstan then plucked at Sir John’s cloak. ‘Now, my Lord Coroner,’ he urged. ‘Let us waste no time. We must search Richer’s chamber and that of Mahant — there’s nothing further to be done here.’ Athelstan acted swiftly. Nobody objected. The monks of St Fulcher were no better than a flock of sheep terrorized by some mad dog. The divine office and the dawn Masses were forgotten as the nastiness of what had occurred seeped like a filthy mist through their community. Abbot Walter seemed frozen in shock. Prior Alexander, distraught and frantic, was taken to the infirmary. Athelstan, murmuring a prayer of apology, seized the opportunity. He and Cranston found Richer’s chamber and conducted their search. Athelstan soon realized his earlier suspicions were justified. Richer had anticipated their arrival. One of the braziers in the corner was caked with the feathery remnants of burnt parchment.

‘He destroyed what he had to,’ Athelstan commented. ‘He was preparing to flee. Nothing remarkable here, just possessions you would expect of a Benedictine monk: psalter, Ave beads, triptychs and personal items. Except. .’ Athelstan, who was on his knees, drew a leather pannier from beneath the bed. He unbuckled the straps and took out the two small but thick books; one was obviously of great age but the other, bound in fresh calfskin, was recently done, its pages soft and creamy white, the ink black and red, each section beginning with a title, the first letter of which was framed in an exquisitely jewelled miniature. Athelstan put this down and picked up the old book; its cover was of hardened plates covered in leather and embossed with fading Celtic designs. The pages were stiff and greying with age though held fast by tight binding of strengthened twine. The ink was a faded black. Although the letters were beautifully formed and clear, the Latin was almost classical in its construction and composition. Athelstan turned to the first page and the ‘Prologua — the Introduction’ and swiftly translated the author’s description: ‘A true narration of the origin, history, powers and miracles of that most sacred bloodstone, the Passio Christi, as drawn up on the instruction of Pontifex Damasus in the second year of his Pontificate. .’

‘Friar?’

Athelstan stared up at Cranston.

‘God has sent his angel, Sir John, one of the dread lords of heaven. He wants justice to be done.’ Athelstan put both books back into the pannier. He and Cranston then went to the guest house. A sleepy-eyed servant showed them Mahant’s chamber, its latch off the clasp. Inside the room looked as if Mahant had left in a hurry. Chests and coffers lay opened, clothes spilling out, weapons thrown on the bed, its sheets and coverlets disturbed. Cranston and Athelstan made a thorough search but only found remnants, relics, mementoes of the past, nothing Athelstan could place as part of this mystery. Mahant’s chamber, despite its apparent disorder, seemed as if it had already been cleared of anything untoward but by whom? Wenlock was in the infirmary so was it someone else? Or Mahant himself? He voiced his suspicions to Cranston.

‘So you think someone came here before us?’ Cranston asked. ‘I suspect Mahant himself did this — he was preparing to leave,’ he grinned, ‘which is understandable.’

Later that morning the abbey became more settled. Athelstan through a now very subdued Abbot Walter, ordered divine office to be suspended until the Inquisitio was finished. Cranston set up his court before the lofty rood screen of the church. A table was brought with the abbot’s throne-like chair for Sir John. Athelstan borrowed a stool and laid out his writing tray with freshly sharpened quills, brimming ink pots, sander, pumice stone, wax and freshly scrubbed sheets of vellum. Brother Simon, who’d called those summoned at Cranston’s behest, was given the duty of sacramentarius. He would proffer the Book of the Gospels for witnesses to take their oath before they sat on the stool on the other side of the table facing the coroner. Candles were brought and lit, braziers fired to full glow and wheeled close. Athelstan intoned the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’. Cranston delivered a short barbed speech declaring how he was ‘the King’s officer in these parts with full power to hear, judge and terminate’. He then had to deal with an objection from one of the senior monks who, on behalf of the abbot, delivered the ritual protest that royal power could not be exercised on church land. Cranston politely heard him out and replied that such matters of law were not for him or his court; the abbot would have to appeal direct to the royal council.

‘By which time,’ Cranston whispered, sitting down on his chair, ‘Gabriel will have blown his horn for the end of days.’ Cranston shouted for all to withdraw except those summoned and the proceedings began. The coroner moved swiftly, Athelstan carefully noting what was said. The two lay brothers in charge of the hog pen were summoned first. They described how they had come out at first light to find the hogs highly agitated, snorting and casting about as if, in the words of one of their keepers, they were possessed by a legion of demons. The massive sty where they were usually confined for the night was barred by a great half-door. Cranston nodded and said he’d seen this. The brothers thought some fox or other night predator had climbed over this into the sty so they unbarred and opened the half-door. The hogs, now being slaughtered, one of brothers added mournfully, were so frenzied they had to drive them off with staves. Eventually, after the entire herd had spilled out into the great pen, they noticed blood on the snouts, flanks and legs of some of the hogs so they took lanterns and went back into the sty.

‘At first,’ one of the brothers shook his head, ‘we didn’t believe it. Two corpses horribly mauled. We dragged them out but even then the hogs tried to attack. We drove them off, placed the mangled remains outside the pen and raised the alarm. We then examined the dead and realized one was a monk from the remains of his clothing: robe, cord and sandals. The other was an outsider, Sir John. Most of his clothing, except for his belt and shoes, had been shredded.’

‘And the knife?’

‘We found it in the straw glistening in the light of the lantern.’ Athelstan stooped down and picked up the elegant, silver-hilted knife still encrusted with blood.

‘And you cannot say,’ Athelstan asked, ‘whether this knife was used on one or both of the victims or was it just stained when the hogs tore their corpses apart?’

‘Brother Athelstan, both men must have been dead, or nearly so when they were cast into the sty.’

‘Why?’

‘Hogs will attack children, even a man, but they can be driven off. It’s only when they become frenzied and their victims are helpless that they will feast.’

The monks who worked in the scriptorium and library then presented themselves. They could say little about Richer or what he was working on. Athelstan recalled the great table in the scriptorium which the Frenchman deliberately covered up; now he knew the reason why. Cranston questioned the brothers regarding the previous evening. They all reported that Richer had Prior Alexander’s permission not to attend divine office. Instead he stayed working in the scriptorium long after dark. They’d glimpsed the glow of candle and lantern horn through the window but more than that they couldn’t say.

‘Richer was working on copying the “Liber”,’ Athelstan murmured once the monks had left. ‘And when he finished, he placed that and the original in a pannier, returned to hastily hide them in his chamber, then left to meet whom?’

Cranston just pulled a face. Master Crispin was called next. The secretarius was sullen, openly resentful at being kept in the abbey. Once he’d taken the oath on the Book of the Gospels he admitted he was shocked at the horrid deaths.

‘And where did you spend your sleeping hours?’

‘In my bed, Sir John. I wish to be free of this place. I never liked it. I know nothing of these deaths.’

‘Murders,’ Athelstan broke. ‘Murders, Master Crispin, heinous slayings for which someone will undoubtedly hang. You’re on oath — do you have anything else you can tell us?’

‘No.’

‘Then, sir, go back to your chamber and wait.’

Prior Alexander came next. He looked woebegone and exhausted, face unshaven, eyes red-rimmed with weeping. He mumbled the oath and slouched like a broken man on the stool.

‘He’s gone.’ The prior lifted his head. ‘Beautiful Richer.’ He heaved a deep sigh. ‘My friend, oh. .’ Prior Alexander seemed unaware of his surroundings or to whom he was talking. ‘He was a butterfly in many ways. I knew his only task here was to secure the return of everything plundered from St Calliste, including that bloodstone. God knows,’ Prior Alexander screwed his face up, ‘the curse that ruby carries, now he and one of the Wyvern are dead, murdered.’

‘By whom?’

‘God knows, Sir John. I would suspect the Wyverns but one of them died with him, perhaps they fought. .’

‘Richer hated them, yes?’

‘Of course.’

‘Enough to meet one of them at the dead of night and attempt to kill him? After all, Richer was armed with a dagger?’

‘Why there?’ Prior Alexander pleaded. ‘Why in the hog pen?’

‘Why indeed,’ Athelstan answered. ‘Prior Alexander, you loved Richer.’ Athelstan put his pen down. ‘I do not wish to know to what extent or in what way but he came here to reclaim plundered property. Richer arrived at St Fulcher’s once his uncle at St Calliste knew the Wyverns were here. He turned the minds of Master Chalk and Sir Robert to the truth about the Passio Christi?’

‘Yes.’

‘He persuaded Sir Robert to bribe your Lord Abbot for the secret return of those items.’

‘Of course. You know our Lord Walter, he and Judas would have been true blood brothers.’

‘You hate your abbot?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘You regard him as venal, pampered and corrupt.’

Prior Alexander did not answer.

‘He made it clear that Richer would soon leave, after all, there was little else for him to take back to France except the “Liber”. Is that why you killed the abbot’s pet swan Leda and hanged it on the abbey gallows? You wrote that threatening message which is nothing more than a translation of a quotation inscribed along the edge of an altar in one of your chantry chapels. You made it appear that the threat came from the Upright Men because you sympathize with them, hence your anger against Lord Walter for stopping payments to them.’

‘The swan — true I strung the bird from the gallows,’ Prior Alexander shook his head, ‘but I never killed it. Richer found it dead in the abbot’s garden. The swan died, Brother Athelstan, like all his pets do, from overeating. You saw how he constantly fed it morsels from his table, sweetmeats, sops of wine, cream, and fragments of marzipan. The arrogant fool was more concerned at appearing to be the swan’s lord and master than the man who should protect it. For God’s sake,’ the prior scoffed, ‘do you think I would kill some hapless bird out of spite? Don’t you know anything about Mother Nature? Swans are not to be fed such a surfeit of richness. I hanged the corpse as revenge but I did not kill it.’

Athelstan sensed the prior was telling the truth.

‘Do you know what passed between Richer and Sir Robert?’ he asked. ‘What really turned the minds of a ruthless city merchant, not to mention a professional killer like Chalk, to repentance and reparation?’

‘I know nothing about Richer’s conversations with Master Chalk or Master Crispin.’

‘He talked with the latter?’

‘Of course, when Sir Robert sent him here.’

‘Did you treat Crispin for his eye sight?’

‘Yes, I used to be the infirmarian here. I’m skilled in dealing with infections of the eyes but there was little I could do. Years of straining over memoranda books had taken their toll.’

‘Do you think Richer killed the Wyverns?’ Cranston asked.

‘I heard you found Osborne’s corpse, or at least the Fisher of Men did,’ Prior Alexander murmured. ‘It’s possible,’ he confessed bleakly. ‘Richer did hate them. He was young, vigorous and, by his own admission, skilled in arms. He performed military service before he entered the novitiate.’ Prior Alexander became more composed.

‘And you know nothing about the murders amongst the Wyverns?’

‘Nothing. My only concern was that Richer stayed. Sir Robert paid the monies. The abbot released the items plundered from St Calliste. I allowed Richer to go into the city to arrange those meetings with envoys from foreign ships. Does it really matter if precious objects were returned to their rightful owner? Abbot Walter was happy and Richer was content, whilst I was only too pleased to help.’

‘The “Liber Passionis Christi”, which we now have — you should have told us the truth.’

Prior Alexander just glanced away.

‘Well?’

‘Abbot Walter, and on this I agreed with him, declared that we must have a copy so that if a royal inquisition ever took place on the goods from St Calliste, we could produce like for like, at least show we had a copy of that valuable manuscript. Richer seemed very pleased with that. He personally supervised the copying both in the scriptorium and his own chamber.’

‘Tell me.’ Athelstan paused. This mystery was gathering like a boil about to bust its venom. ‘In your own mind Prior Alexander, and this is very important, did Sir Robert secretly plan to bring the Passio Christi not to St Fulcher’s but across to France and personally return the bloodstone to St Calliste?’

‘No.’ Prior Alexander shook his head vigorously. ‘I truly do not know what passed between Richer and Sir Robert except Kilverby, that cunning merchant, had a change of heart. He certainly told me, on the very afternoon before he died, when Richer and I visited him, how he would leave the bloodstone at St Fulcher’s and that would settle his conscience. He’d give it back to the Benedictine order. However, which monastery or abbey housed it was not his concern.’

‘Richer would have left now that the “Liber” was copied?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you resented that. I know you argued hotly about it.’

‘Of course we did! Why, Brother Athelstan, are you saying I killed my beloved friend?’

‘Lovers argue; they can even kill.’

‘We were not lovers in that sense,’ Prior Alexander whispered, eyes all fierce.

Athelstan held his gaze. ‘So how did you, Prior Alexander, spend yesterday evening and the early hours of this morning?’

‘I attended divine office. Well, I had to; for the rest I stayed in my chamber.’

‘Waiting for Richer?’

‘Yes, Brother Athelstan, waiting for Richer. He told me he intended to work late. I waited and waited,’ Prior Alexander’s voice broke, ‘but he never came.’

Athelstan looked at Sir John, who’d sat with his eyes half closed throughout this interrogation.

‘We need keep Prior Alexander no longer,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘He can leave and bring Wenlock before us.’

Wenlock was helped to his seat by one of the lay brothers; the old soldier looked pale, simply dressed in his nightgown, a cloak around his shoulders. He clutched a bowl explaining that he still felt nauseous and had been vomiting since yesterday evening.

‘It may have even caused Mahant’s death,’ he murmured immediately after taking the oath.

‘What?’ Cranston sat up in his chair.

Athelstan stopped writing.

‘Yesterday evening,’ Wenlock wearily explained, ‘Mahant came to my chamber. There was a platter of sweetmeats, just three or four left. I offered some to Mahant but he refused. I was hungry and ate them all. We were discussing Osborne’s death. I began to feel sick. I vomited into the jakes pot. Mahant believed, and so did I, I still do, that the sweetmeats were poisoned or tainted. Mahant began drinking. He grew hot against Richer. He blamed the Frenchman for all the ills which had befallen us. He cursed him.’ Wenlock paused, fighting back the urge to retch. ‘He vowed to confront Richer, make him pay for what had happened. I thought it was the wine talking. By then I did not really care, I was vomiting so much. Mahant asked if I wished to go to the infirmary, I said no and he left. I stripped off my clothes, put on my nightshirt and lay on the bed.’ Wenlock paused. ‘God assoil him, that’s the last time I saw Mahant alive. I woke in the early hours, my belly raging like a bubbling pot. I was freezing to death. I left my bed, put on a cloak, went down to the infirmary and hammered on the door to speak to the infirmarian. He made me drink water with some herbs infused. I fell asleep there, not waking until the tocsin sounded.’

‘You feel better?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Certainly, the retching has stopped.’

‘And you never saw Mahant after you fell sick?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have any explanation why his corpse and that of Richer should be found in the hog sty?’

‘Brother Athelstan, I wish I did.’ Wenlock clutched his stomach. ‘Perhaps he and the Frenchman confronted each other.’

‘In that place, in the dead of night?’

‘Brother, I wish I knew.’

‘Were you and Mahant planning to leave St Fulcher?’

‘Of course. We had already moved some of our possessions to “The Pride of Purgatory” tavern. We were also preparing to petition His Grace for safer lodgings. We invoked the memory of his blessed brother the Black Prince. Can you blame us?’ Wenlock insisted. ‘We’d become no better than hogs for the slaughter here.’ He smiled at his own grim joke. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, if you’ve finished. .?’

Cranston let him go. The infirmarian was summoned but he could add little. He confirmed Wenlock’s story. As regards to the two most recent murders, he explained how both corpses were so badly mauled it was impossible to determine what had happened. The royal serjeant, captain of the archers, came last. He reported how the hogs had been slaughtered and, following Cranston’s order, both the sty and the pen had been scoured for any items but they’d found nothing. He left, followed by Brother Simon. The abbey church fell silent.

‘So?’ Cranston asked.

Athelstan rose, collecting together his quill pens and scrolls of soft vellum.

‘One last person.’

Cranston followed Athelstan down to the anker house. They heard movement within, a shape moved. The anchorite looked out, shifting to get a better view of Cranston.

‘I know what has happened. Now you have come down to question me. Sir John, I believe we have met. I shall never forget-’

‘Agnes Rednal.’ Cranston came up close to the anker slit. ‘You and I have hanged London’s worst.’

‘And the kingdom is the better for it.’

‘Agnes Rednal,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘She will never visit you again.’ He peered through the slit. ‘I assure you. I have laid that demon. She will only walk in your nightmares, though a prayer before sleep should take care of that. Look, why not come out and greet Sir John?’

‘Brother Athelstan, I have left my cell enough over the last few days. I have nothing to say about these dreadful slayings. The church is locked an hour after compline, I cannot leave. I saw nothing. I heard nothing. .’

Athelstan touched Cranston on the arm. They strolled back up the aisle.

‘I wonder,’ Athelstan whispered.

‘About the anchorite?’

‘Yes. Those grievances he nursed against the Wyverns, though nothing against Richer or so I believe. I just wonder why he would not allow us into his cell or come out of it. Does he have something to hide? As for leaving this church, he could always creep out through the charnel house.’

Cranston and Athelstan cleared the judgement table and walked out into the Galilee porch. The friar stared up at a carved stone boss displaying a demon with a grinning monkey’s face.

‘Enough is enough, Sir John,’ he declared, ‘all this questioning must end. I’ll retire to my chamber and study the “Liber”. I must discover why Richer wouldn’t show it to me. You, my learned friend, are always welcome provided you let me share some of your refreshments.’

Back in his chamber Athelstan placed the original ‘Liber’ on the table and carefully scrutinized the different chapters. He soon realized the bloodstone was a very precious relic. The ruby’s history stretched from its formation to its collection by Joseph Arimathea and its long journey round the ancient Roman empire until it passed into the hands of the early popes. The history was disappointing. However, when Athelstan began to read about the alleged power of the bloodstone, the punishments inflicted on those not worthy to handle it as well as its miraculous curative powers for those who regarded it as a sacred relic, Athelstan’s heart skipped a beat. The ‘Liber’ proclaimed powerful warnings against any sacrilegious handling; little wonder Kilverby changed. Indeed the ‘Liber’ explained why Richer was so zealous in pursuing the bloodstone’s return, his hatred for the Wyverns and his influence over William Chalk. The defrocked priest must have come to view his own painful, lingering disease as a just punishment from God for what had happened in France. The list of miracles also made Athelstan think and reflect deeply. Eventually the friar prepared his pen and ink pots, smoothing out a piece of vellum after staring distractedly at a finely drawn triptych celebrating the life of St Benedict’s sister, the holy Scholastica.

Once he had collected his thoughts, Athelstan began to construct a logical argument. Kilverby’s murder was relatively easy. Athelstan’s hypothesis was that when the merchant died he must have known the bloodstone was safe. It was logical. Kilverby held the bloodstone. He sat in his chamber for sometime before he died yet he did not raise the alarm or express any anxiety about it being missing. Athelstan developed this argument then returned to fill in the gaps. On one occasion the friar left going through the now silent abbey to check the records in the muniment room behind the chapter house. No one objected. Divine office remained suspended until matins the following morning whilst the good brothers had been truly overawed by Cranston’s display of power. Athelstan’s queries and questions were soon answered and he returned to his studies. He finished what he called his Kilverby thesis; a few minor gaps remained but Athelstan believed he had enough to hoodwink then trap the killer.

The friar pulled across a fresh piece of parchment and began what he entitled ‘The Abbey Thesis’. He listed the murders beginning with those of Hanep and Hyde. He could now explain these, then he turned to Brokersby’s. He scrutinized earlier notes and found the entries he was searching for. Osborne’s death was relatively easy to explain whilst the logic behind that also accounted for the murders of Mahant and Richer. Nevertheless, though he had the bricks to build, the mortar and cement were a little more difficult to find. There were gaps which had to be filled: the chasing, flitting shadow which had pursued Hyde; the mysterious crossbow man: the ugly incident in the charnel house: a proper, logical account of Richer and Mahant’s death and how they were overcome and killed by the same assailant. Athelstan kept working on his hypothesis. Cranston knocked on the door and brought in a platter of food and some ale. Athelstan ate and drank, absent-mindedly fending off Cranston’s questions until the coroner, muttering he might as well be singing to the moonbeams, left for his own chamber. At last Athelstan made his decision. He crossed himself, rose and went out and knocked on Cranston’s chamber. The coroner was already preparing for the night.

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan made the coroner sit on the edge of the bed, ‘I know you to be honest — your face and your mood are easy to read, so don’t question me.’

Cranston sighed noisily.

‘Tomorrow morning at first light you and I, together with Master Crispin, are off to Kilverby’s mansion to confront an assassin. Whilst we are gone you must have archers, two to each person, guarding the abbot, his mistress, Prior Alexander, Wenlock and the anchorite. These archers must not leave their charges not even for a second. In fact, you should put your clothes back on and do that now. Master Crispin must also be protected until we leave tomorrow. .’