Bloodstone

EIGHT

Athelstan sat at the late Sir Robert’s chancery desk and smiled around at the dead merchant’s assembled household. He, Crispin and the coroner had left St Fulcher’s just after dawn, risking their lives on a choppy, misty Thames. Thankfully Cranston had commandeered one of the great barges which had brought the archers so they had all huddled in their cloaks in its canopied stern. The secretarius had asked the reason for the haste. Athelstan simply assured him that the journey was essential. Mercifully, it also proved brief and without incident. They’d arrived in Cheapside and roused Kilverby’s household, Cranston brushing aside all objections. Whilst the coroner assembled everyone, Athelstan carefully examined the seals on Kilverby’s chamber; none of these had been interfered with. He broke them and had the chamber door unlocked. The chamber was dark, cold and musty-smelling. Candles were hastily brought, braziers wheeled in. Now with Cranston guarding the door, Athelstan lifted the empty casket which had once contained the Passio Christi. He also kept the palette of pens close to him. During the preparations he’d carefully scrutinized these.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Lady Helen snapped, ‘why are you here?’

Athelstan ignored her and tapped the casket.

‘Sir Robert, on the eve of his murder, knew this was empty.’

‘But. .’ Alesia interrupted.

‘Your father also mistakenly thought the bloodstone was in safe hands.’

‘Whose?’ Crispin spluttered.

‘Why yours, sir! I have brought you back here, Master Crispin, to confront you, to show you proof, to accuse you of the heinous murder of your master Sir Robert Kilverby, here in his own chamber.’

Exclamations and cries greeted his words. Crispin, hands shaking, sprang to his feet protesting. Cranston, hiding his surprise, strode forward and forced the clerk back on to his stool.

‘You’re a murderer,’ Athelstan accused, ‘and you’ll hang for it.’

‘I am not-’

‘You are what I say. All of you,’ Athelstan stared around, ‘listen carefully, especially you, Master Crispin, because your life, and indeed your death, depend on it.’ Athelstan took a deep breath, staring hard at Crispin’s fearful face. ‘I shall be succinct. I shall try not to repeat what you already know. Sir Robert had grown rich; he’d also become frightened of impending justice. In his heyday he’d held the Passio Christi as merrily as he had gleefully taken a share of all the plunder of the Wyvern Company in France. However, dreading the fast approaching day of judgement was only the beginning. In his visit to St Fulcher’s he also met Richer, a monk from St Calliste, sent to England with the specific task of reclaiming everything looted from his own abbey, especially the Passio Christi.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Richer was undoubtedly eloquent but he had something more powerful, the “Liber Passionis — the Book of the Passion of Christ”, a most detailed description of the bloodstone — drawn up by no less a person than a saintly pope. Richer swore Sir Robert to secrecy, as he probably had William Chalk, and let him read that singular manuscript. Now the “Liber” clearly describes the history, power and properties of that most holy relic. The “Liber” specifically states every insult and injury to the Passio Christi provokes divine judgement. Richer played on this. He harassed Sir Robert’s soul until the merchant asked for forgiveness. Now Kilverby’s mind was fertile soil. Lady Helen, I apologize for this, though it is well known: Sir Robert’s marriage to you was not as happy as he would have wished. Perhaps he saw that, as well as the death of his beloved first wife, as all part of divine judgement.’

‘I do not think. .’

‘My Lady,’ Athelstan smiled apologetically, ‘that is only one strand of the close, cloying web which snared your late husband’s soul. He became fearful that other misfortunes might befall him — why not? Crispin, his loyal secretary, was losing his sight and what would happen if anything dreadful befell his beloved heir and daughter — you, Alesia?’

The young woman just stared back, tears welling in her eyes.

‘Sir Robert, guided by the subtle Richer, decided to do penance.

‘Surely,’ Kinsman Adam broke in, ‘Sir Robert would not be so easily influenced.’

‘Why not?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Read the “Liber” and you’ll see the long litany of curses and their effects. As I have said, Richer could not only point to Kilverby’s life, the death of his first wife, his second marriage and Crispin’s blindness, but to the Wyverns. They told me they had no families; their wives and children now lie cold in the clay. A curse? Surely! Not to mention Chalk’s illness and Wenlock’s maimed hands. Were the rest any better? Hanep, unable to sleep, wandering the abbey at night? Brokersby feeding himself on opiates? Richer may have included the dotage of the old King, the fate of his son the Black Prince who contracted that malevolent disease in Spain and wasted away, leaving the kingdom to a mere child.’

‘Not to mention the failure of the war in France,’ Cranston added mournfully.

‘Richer could,’ Athelstan continued, ‘argue all this was due to the bloodstone. Sir Robert had all the evidence he needed. He decided to bribe Abbot Walter to send back the plunder taken from St Calliste. He also paid for a copy of the “Liber” to be made. He was making it very clear how, before he left England on his pilgrimage of reparation, he would return the bloodstone, not to its rightful owners outside Poitiers, but at least to another Benedictine abbey.’ Athelstan paused, picked up the quill pens and examined them carefully. He wondered if Crispin already suspected what he was going to say. ‘You, Crispin,’ Athelstan glanced up, ‘hoped to join your master on his journey; a lifetime of love and loyalty merited companionship on such a pilgrimage but your sight is failing after years of poring over Kilverby’s ledgers and account books. You were already receiving treatment from Prior Alexander with all the skills and knowledge he’d learnt as the abbey infirmarian. He actually achieved very little. So, instead of going with your master or even staying here in this comfortable mansion, Sir Robert, thinking he was acting kindly, insisted on you taking up a corrody at St Fulcher’s.’

‘I accepted that.’

‘Nonsense, Crispin, you only pretended to. You’d served as a novice at St Fulcher’s. You hated that place. You also grew to hate your master for giving you such short shrift after decades of loyal and faithful service. Hatred is the soil where murder thrives as vigorous as any shrub. Into that midnight garden wormed the serpent Richer. Sir Robert must have told him all about you. Richer was pleased. He wanted the Passio Christi either to be given to him or returned directly to St Calliste. On that, however, Sir Robert was insistent: the bloodstone would not leave England.’

‘Yes, yes, you are correct,’ Alesia broke in. ‘My father told me that the bloodstone should be handed back to its rightful owner yet he was fearful of the Lord Regent’s wrath falling on me if he fled to France with the bloodstone.’

‘Quite so,’ Cranston declared from where he stood near the door. ‘The Crown’s lawyers would have spun a fine tangled trap of treason.’

‘Richer turned to you, Master Crispin,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Only God and you know what was offered: a huge bribe, freedom to settle down quietly in France, not to mention the opportunity of exacting revenge on your hard-hearted master who apparently no longer cared for you? Oh, Richer was cunning and devious. He would smear all that with righteousness. He would argue how Sir Robert should be rightfully punished for his share in what had happened. You, Crispin, would not only be the divine instrument for that but also do great good. You would return the bloodstone to its rightful home. Unbeknown to Sir Robert, you and Richer secretly plotted his murder.’

‘Murder?’ Crispin protested. ‘Me, how can I buy poisons?’

‘I never said you did. Richer gave them to you. He was sub-prior in an abbey where the abbot was lost in his own concerns, where the prior was pliable as soft clay in the potter’s hands. St Fulcher’s is a treasure house of potions and powders. Either on the eve of St Damasus when he visited here or sometime before, Richer handed over these poisons to you: hemlock, henbane, nightshade or the juice of almond seed, perhaps all four. You certainly knew their properties.’

‘I do not.’

‘Yes, you do. I have studied the muniments at St Fulcher’s. You are left-handed, Crispin, a matter I shall return to. When you were a novice, the master was frustrated by this, he would not allow you to work in the library, scriptorium or chancery so you became an assistant to the abbey apothecary.’

Crispin, all agitated, his face ashen and drawn, could only shake his head.

‘Now,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘on the eve of St Damasus, the day of his murder, Sir Robert entertained Prior Alexander and Richer. He met you all in the solar?’

Alesia nodded, all watchful.

‘He put the Passio Christi back into its casket and returned here to his chancery chamber.’

‘Yes,’ Alesia replied. ‘Crispin, you went with him.’

‘How long were your father and Crispin absent?’

‘Not for very long, we were all preparing for supper.’

‘Precisely,’ Athelstan replied. ‘However, back in his chamber, Sir Robert was preparing to lock the bloodstone away. You, Crispin, intervened. You have read the “Liber”. You knew about the recuperative powers of the Passio Christi, especially round the Feast of St Damasus. How someone inflicted with a disease of the eyes should hold the precious bloodstone against their head? The “Liber” lists all such practices. You, Crispin, begged Sir Robert for such an opportunity to hold the precious relic against your own eyes. You pleaded as a loyal and faithful servant for help from the bloodstone. I am sure Richer coaxed you to ask and, perhaps, Sir Robert to consent. You may well have asked for this before. I am sure you did and your master agreed. On that particular evening you would point out that the bloodstone might soon pass from your master’s hands to others who might not be so obliging. Sir Robert approved. He gave it to you in trust for the night. You would, and he agreed, ask for the matter to be kept confidential. You took the Passio Christi and Sir Robert simply locked the coffer. Why should he object? In the morning the bloodstone would be returned by his faithful servant. Crispin certainly wouldn’t tell anybody. Neither would Sir Robert — why should he? You all adjourned for supper.’ Athelstan paused. ‘However, Crispin, you had planned a subtle death for your master. He would not survive the night to ask for the bloodstone back.’ Athelstan lifted the writing tray, gesturing at the quill pens. ‘I’ve studied your master. He was right-handed. He constantly nibbled at the quill plume. You prepared the pens left in this tray that night. You coated their plumes with the poison at your disposal; they were richly drenched in some noxious potion. Sir Robert would, as he was accustomed, nibble and chew at the quill plumes. He would absorb the poisons, small tinctures at a time but the mixture would, over hours, wreak their effect.’ Athelstan picked up a quill pen lying on the writing palette. ‘This is the proof. You thought you were safe, Master Crispin. You did not care. You had removed the poisonous quill pens you’d first laid here but, in fact, you were sealing in your own guilt. You made one miscalculation: the arrival of Sir John and myself. This chamber was secured. You could not rectify any omission.’ Athelstan held up the three quill pens for all to see. ‘Are these nibbled and chewed? No. More importantly, Crispin, you are left-handed. I am right-handed, I hold the quill such and the point on the right side of the pen becomes worn, yes? These, however, have been used by a left-handed writer.’ Athelstan turned all three quill pens, tapping their worn edges.

‘Sir Robert,’ he added. ‘Even when he was in the novitiate he was known for chewing the end of his pens. He laughingly referred to this, Crispin, when you and he were once strolling up the south aisle of St Fulcher’s abbey church. You were overheard by the anchorite who shelters there. Mistress Alesia, did you not tell me the same?’

‘It’s true,’ Alesia whispered, ‘my father always chewed the ends of his pens, a mannerism he couldn’t give up despite my scolding.’

Others murmured their assent. Crispin undid the cord of his cambric shirt as if he couldn’t breathe properly.

‘But we all came in here that morning,’ Lady Helen demanded. ‘Nobody moved anything, I am sure.’

‘Are you?’ Athelstan replied. ‘Look, Crispin is Sir Robert’s clerk. He has an ink horn and quills strapped to his belt. It’s one of the first things I noticed about him.’

‘He always carries pens,’ Alesia declared, ‘he always has ever since I can remember.’

‘It was the same that morning,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘You all came in here. You were distraught and distracted. Crispin, the faithful clerk, moved to Sir Robert’s desk. Why shouldn’t he rearrange the pens? He makes the exchange in the twinkling of an eye. He leaves these quills, the ones he has used himself, and takes the poisoned ones which, I am sure, he immediately burnt.’ Athelstan paused, letting the silence deepen.

‘But surely,’ Lady Helen now spoke directly to Athelstan, ‘he must have realized the mistakes he had made?’ She paused. ‘Of course.’ She answered her own question. ‘It was too late. Crispin never expected, as you said, this chamber to be sealed with all the evidence in it.’

‘Crispin’s eyesight is also poor,’ Athelstan declared. ‘He may have failed to realize the full implications of what he’d done. Once Sir Robert’s corpse was discovered, he was committed to the heinous lie he had to live. Perhaps he delayed gnawing on the ends of the replacement quill pens until it was too late. Or did he panic, frightened that one of you would note such an act so closely associated with his master rather than himself? What he’d done was certainly settled by this chamber being sealed. However,’ Athelstan pointed to the ashen-faced clerk, ‘only he can say. But remember, for Crispin, Sir Robert’s death was only a means, a device to get his hands on the bloodstone and keep it.’

‘It must be true,’ Kinsman Adam whispered. ‘Sir Robert would only have entrusted the Passio Christi to someone in this room, someone he trusted implicitly, there’s no other explanation.’

‘Don’t accuse me!’

‘I do, Crispin,’ Athelstan declared. ‘True, I do not have full proof but I possess enough to present a bill of indictment. You’ll be arrested and lodged in Newgate. The Regent’s torturers will demand your presence at the Tower. They’ll interrogate you day in and day out. They will not let you die, though there’ll be times when you pray that they do so. Confession or not, you’ll be judged a traitor for having stolen Crown property. You will also be condemned as sacrilegious and excommunicate because the Passio Christi is a sacred relic.’ Athelstan held Crispin’s terrified gaze. ‘In the end you’ll suffer the full penalty for treason. You’ll be drawn on a hurdle from the Tower to the Elms at Smithfield. You’ll be half hanged, disembowelled and castrated. You will die the enemy of both church and realm. You’ll never be allowed to enjoy the fruits of your foul act.’

‘A full confession,’ Cranston came up and softly placed both hands on Crispin’s shoulders, ‘and the return of the bloodstone and you can expect a swift, merciful death. Your soul purged of all sin.’

Crispin swallowed hard. He tried to speak but couldn’t form the words.

‘Please,’ Alesia pleaded, ‘for any love you have for me, Crispin, confess because the odds press heavily against you.’

Crispin bowed his head and sobbed, a heart-rending sound. Athelstan steeled himself. This man had deliberately and maliciously killed another human being. He had betrayed his master who, despite all his faults, had meant him well.

Crispin lifted his head. ‘It is,’ he confessed, ‘as you say. .’

Athelstan sat in the inglenook of ‘The Port of Paradise’, an ancient tavern which, Cranston claimed, was built in the time of the present King’s great, great grandfather. A claim, Athelstan stared round, which he would not challenge. The lowering beams of the tap room were black with age, the onions and cheeses hanging in nets from these exuded a tangy smell which offset the stench of gutted fish drying outside the main door. Athelstan bit into the freshly baked manchet loaf smeared with honey and sipped at the ale which the barrel-bellied Minehost had proclaimed to be the best in London.

‘In which case I’d hate to taste the worst,’ Athelstan whispered, putting the blackjack on the floor beside him. Cranston had promised he wouldn’t be long. Athelstan stretched his hands out to the blaze. The leaping flames in the great hearth reminded him of the Passio Christi. Crispin had confessed and then, with Cranston as his guard, had gone down into the garden at the rear of the mansion where he had cunningly hidden the bloodstone amongst a pile of ancient sacking.

‘Beautiful,’ Athelstan murmured to himself. He’d handled the bloodstone, big as a duck’s egg, as Cranston had described it. Turning the ruby Athelstan had marvelled at what appeared to be shooting flames of fire within; these caught the light and dazzled even more. Athelstan was wary of most relics. He’d seen the most ludicrous venerated, the worst being a pile of straw miraculously preserved from the stable at Bethlehem. For all his scepticism Athelstan had appreciated the sheer beauty of the bloodstone. Its unique glow alone would convince many that it had been formed by Christ’s precious blood and sweat. Athelstan had returned it to its coffer, nestling the ruby amongst the soft blue samite. Crispin had then repeated his confession which virtually agreed with every aspect of Athelstan’s bill of indictment. Crispin also admitted that his mind had been turned by his intense dislike of St Fulcher’s, the powerful resentment he felt against Sir Robert and how subtly Richer had played on this.

‘Once Richer died. .’ Crispin paused at the exclamations this provoked from the rest of the household.

‘Oh, yes,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Richer has gone to a higher judge in a way he did not expect.’

‘Whatever his death,’ Crispin continued muttering as if to himself, ‘he deserved it. Now he is gone what can I do?’

‘All finished.’

Athelstan glanced up. Cranston towered over him, his head and face almost hidden by the great beaver hat and the folds of his cloak.

‘Crispin is lodged in Newgate and the bloodstone lies in the great iron chest at the Guildhall.’

‘But the bloodstone,’ Athelstan added, getting to his feet, ‘has not yet finished its work. We must now confront the act which began this bloody mayhem, “the Radix Malorum — the Root of all these Evils”.’

As soon as Athelstan returned to the abbey, he sent Cranston with two archers to bring Wenlock to his chamber. The veteran had apparently recovered from his belly gripes, the colour returning to his ruddy face. He was dressed for travelling in thick woollen jerkin and leggings, riding boots on, his maimed hands hidden by gauntlets.

‘Sit down,’ Athelstan ordered, ‘you’ll be going nowhere, Master Wenlock, except to Newgate then on to be hanged at Smithfield. Don’t lie,’ Athelstan ordered, ‘but sit and listen. Take off your gauntlets, Wenlock, that’s right; let us see your maimed hands. You were caught by the French?’

Wenlock, eyes watchful, glanced over his shoulder at Cranston standing by the door.

‘You know I was,’ he retorted.

‘You were punished, maimed for being an English master bowman,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Did you and your coven see this as just punishment for stealing the Passio Christi?’

‘I did not. .’

‘You did,’ Athelstan retorted flatly. ‘Your story about finding a cart near St Calliste piled high with treasure, its escort having fled, is a lie. Many have regarded it as such, but now we have the truth. Wenlock, you stole that bloodstone. You pulled it out of its tabernacle, out of its shrine. You stole that and the “Liber Passionis Christi”, probably chained to a nearby lectern together with other sacred items. Your later capture and maiming by the French may have provoked some fears in you and your company. Wenlock, I have read the “Liber”: it curses any sacrilegious act against the bloodstone. The “Liber” boldly proclaims, with fitting examples from its past, how the hands of such a perpetrator would wither like dry leaves. Look at your hands, Wenlock, they have shrivelled. You lost your skill as a master bowman though I suspect you have enough grip, perfected over the years, to wield a dagger or club.’

Wenlock stared above Athelstan’s head, lips moving as if memorizing something.

‘Matters changed when you came to St Fulcher’s, even more so when Richer arrived here as sub-prior. He was ruthlessly dedicated to recovering all the property stolen from St Calliste. He was well placed to do this because he had at his disposal a looted item which you probably overlooked, the “Liber Passionis Christi”. Kilverby also came here. He was vulnerable, growing old, becoming frightened of impending judgement. Using the “Liber” as evidence, Richer converted that merchant but then seized on an even greater prey, your old companion William Chalk.’

Wenlock just snorted derisively.

‘I am sure that’s how Richer regarded Chalk,’ Athelstan countered, ‘a defrocked priest, a man growing old and fearful. Richer counsels Chalk. He shows him the curses against those who have sinned against the bloodstone. Chalk may have even come to see his own malignant disease as God’s judgement on him. In the end Chalk confesses. Of course Richer is protected by the seal of confession but I suspect Chalk began to chatter. The sub-prior certainly used Chalk to influence Kilverby; he hoped the same would happen amongst your coven with all their memories and hidden guilt. You, Wenlock, the recognized counsellor of the Wyverns, sensed the danger now emerging. Chalk and Kilverby were both victims of Richer’s subtlety — who would be next? Who knows? Richer might eventually persuade Brokersby, Hyde or Hanep to go in front of a King’s officer, Sir John Cranston or any other Justice and, on surety of being pardoned or even rewarded, confess what really happened at St Calliste so many years ago. Of course your story about finding that cart was always doubted but matters would radically change if a full confession was made. Once one of your coven did that, others would soon follow. They would swear that you, not them, stole the Passio Christi; perhaps you were helped by Mahant and only protected by the others. In the end you know how such matters proceed?’

Wenlock simply smiled to himself.

‘In the final conclusion,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you’d be cast as the thief, your maimed hands as proof of divine judgement. Once such a confession was made public, the church would declare you excommunicate and insist that the Crown use the full rigour of the law against you. His Grace the Regent would, despite any personal feelings, be forced to act or suffer similar ecclesiastical punishment.’

‘What proof do you offer?’ Wenlock snarled. ‘I was away from here when Hanep and Hyde were killed.’

‘I will come to that in a while.’ Athelstan shifted on his stool. ‘You,’ he pointed at Wenlock, ‘were fearful. Chalk’s confession, Richer’s presence, Kilverby’s alienation from you emphasized the real danger. In a word you persuaded Mahant to go with you, why or how I don’t know. Perhaps Mahant had assisted you in your sacrilege. Perhaps you threatened him that, if you were accused, you would implicate him in your confession. You decided, and so persuaded Mahant, that it was best if all your old companions died. Of course there were other motives. You’d use your comrades’ wealth as a bribe; perhaps they owned more than we ever suspected. You talked of a common purse and claimed Osborne held it. Another lie. I suspect you do and half of such money is better than a sixth.’

‘I was not here!’ Wenlock shouted fiercely, though Athelstan glimpsed the fear in those watery blue eyes. ‘I was not here,’ he repeated, ‘when Hanep and Hyde died.’

‘Oh, but you were.’

‘I was in London.’

‘No, you and Mahant went to London. You lodged at “The Pride of Purgatory” tavern. You made great play at revelling and feasting there. You ogled the ladies and loudly mentioned how you were waiting for your old friend Geoffrey of Portsoken, now known as Vox Populi. In truth you didn’t give a fig for him. You probably knew full well that he’d been taken up by the sheriff’s men.’ Athelstan paused as the abbey bells boomed out their summons to plain chant. ‘Sir John,’ he asked, ‘how long would it take two able bodied men to walk from Cheapside to here?’

‘Less than an hour.’

‘Which is what you did,’ Athelstan accused. ‘You left that tavern probably disguised in the black robes of a Benedictine, you’d easily secure such gowns. With your shaven heads and stout sandals, you appeared what you wanted to be, two monks returning late to their abbey. Who would know? You left that tavern with its many entrances in the dead of night. You walked through the darkness. Once here you were able and fit enough to scale the abbey walls, drop into the grounds and make your own way to the guest house. Hanep was your first victim. If he came out for one of his midnight saunters all to the good, if not you’d strike some other way. Of course Hanep did and died swiftly for doing so. You then returned to London disguised. No one would really notice you coming or going at the dead of night. “The Pride of Purgatory” tavern is busy with many entrances and exits, that’s why you chose it. You can slip in and out as easily as you did. You then prepared for your next victim. You also purchased an arbalest or crossbow, I am sure of that. I don’t believe that nonsense about never using one. You might despise it but that’s not the same as never using one. Mahant was a master bowman — he was skilled enough.’

‘We would never. .’

‘Yes, you did,’ Athelstan snapped, ‘or at least Mahant bought one on your orders. He confessed how he used it against me.’

‘What do you mean?’ Wenlock’s shock was obvious. He sat gaping at Athelstan, who spread his hands.

‘In a while,’ Athelstan murmured, determined not to glance at Cranston, ‘you and Mahant returned to St Fulcher’s late in the afternoon on the Feast of St Damasus. You stealthily entered this abbey, probably disguised as Benedictines. I have learnt, even from my short stay here at the dead of winter, particularly with the mist seeping in, how members of this community pass unobserved all garbed in black, hoods or cowls pulled forward.’ Athelstan ignored Wenlock’s mocking sneer. He sensed this killer was truly frightened behind his scoffing front. ‘You waited near the guest house. You would have chosen any of your coven but Hyde appeared. Mahant, with you trailing behind as guard, followed Hyde into the abbey church. Hyde glimpsed Richer and set off in pursuit, curious at why this Frenchman was armed and where he was going. In a word, Mahant killed Hyde near the watergate then fled across Mortival meadow, its mist shrouded bushes and copses provided an ideal place to hide. Mahant was very clever, disguised in the robe of a Benedictine monk. If Hyde had been alerted and turned round, Mahant could have simply reverted to being the old comrade wondering what was going on. Hyde paid for his trust in you. Of course you did not wish to be implicated in his death so once Hanep was dead, you both left the abbey then reappeared in your own guise at the abbey gates which, you thought, would place you beyond suspicion.’

Wenlock’s sneer had disappeared. He was now openly nervous, looking around as if searching for any weakness in the allegations levied against him.

‘Sir John is behind you,’ Athelstan observed, ‘and this guest house is now ringed with men-at-arms.’

Wenlock just blinked and breathed in deeply.

‘Brokersby surprised you, didn’t he?’ Athelstan continued. ‘Admitting in my presence and that of Sir John how he was drawing up his own chronicle. God knows what he was writing. Was he also making a confession? Had William Chalk gossiped to him as well as to others?’

‘Brokersby was fey, madcap,’ Wenlock jibed.

‘Perhaps he was or perhaps he was converted,’ Athelstan replied. ‘After all, like Hanep he couldn’t sleep at night. Did his past come back to haunt him? Is that why he had to take an opiate before he could sleep?’

Wenlock refused to answer.

‘Whose idea was it,’ Athelstan asked, ‘to tamper with the night candle, scoop out the tallow, fill the void with oil, sprinkle in a few grains of salt petre then reseal it? Was it yours, Wenlock? Did you also put the small pouch of oil beneath Brokersby’s bed when you came to wish him goodnight? Oil is easy to obtain for a man like you who’s lived all his life stealing from others. You and Mahant acted the Judas. You wished the heavy-eyed Brokersby goodnight but insisted he lock the door behind you as protection against that mysterious assassin stalking you all. Poor Brokersby! He never realized this murderer was you and your comrade-in-sin, Mahant. In fact, Brokersby sealed himself in his own coffin. The candle dissolved. The spitting fire caught the oil in his room and everything in it, including his chronicle, was consumed by the inferno exactly as you wanted.’ Athelstan paused as Cranston lifted a hand and came up behind Wenlock.

‘You’re an old soldier, a professional killer,’ Cranston remarked, ‘you have taken part in sieges where oil and salt-petre are used to undermine walls. You’re well acquainted with their effects.’

Wenlock still refused to answer.

‘Osborne’s killing is also no longer a mystery,’ Athelstan persisted. ‘He must have been genuinely fearful. You and Mahant exploited that. Osborne would have only been too pleased to flee this place for what he thought was a safe refuge, “The Prospect of Heaven”. You told him to lodge there under Brokersby’s name just in case a search was made. Late on Sunday afternoon, when Sir John and I were busy with my parishioners, you moved to the second part of your plan to remove Osborne. You probably told him to leave “The Prospect” and wait for you at some deserted spot along the river. Did you promise that you’d meet him and all three of you would flee? That you were staying in the abbey to finish certain affairs and once completed you and Mahant would join him there? Well?’

‘Friar, you tell a good tale.’

‘A murderous one and no fable. You and Mahant killed Osborne. He was vulnerable, unsuspecting. You slit his throat, smashed his face with a rock or some weapon, stripped his body, stole his possessions then tossed his corpse into the river. If the Fisher of Men had not been so observant, Osborne’s corpse would have rotted away beyond recognition. He would be proclaimed as missing, even depicted as the assassin both for past crimes and any still to be perpetrated.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know full well. You and Mahant planned to use Osborne as your cats-paw, at least for a while until this bloody tumult died down.’ Athelstan paused. ‘You and Mahant made a mistake. You said Osborne was your treasurer. You claimed he may have disappeared with the common purse.’

‘And?’ Wenlock mocked.

‘At no time, apart from a general question, did you mention this during our journey to and from the Fisher of Men — or indeed whilst we were there. No concerns about the great amount of gold and silver Osborne was allegedly carrying. Of course the truth is he was carrying very little except for his weapons and a few personal possessions. You are probably the treasurer — and a great deal more.’

Wenlock simply raised his eyebrows.

‘You are a murderous soul. You are steeped in blood, you thirst for it. You never intended Mahant to live. He recognized that, which is why he left a sealed confession.’

‘He didn’t, he couldn’t. .’ Wenlock’s voice faltered.

‘How do you know that?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘You truly have no fear of God, do you? I am not sure when you planned to kill Mahant but there was one other death you and Mahant plotted: Richer the Frenchman.’ Athelstan paused, wetting his lips. ‘Thanks to William Chalk, Richer now had the full truth about the seizure of the Passio Christi. A very dangerous man, Richer the Frenchman, who had entered your world and turned it upside down. For that he had to be punished as well as silenced. Mahant would certainly agree — why not? His soul was like yours, black as midnight. Two nightmares in human flesh who kill whenever they wish.’

Wenlock’s cheek muscles twitched as he fought to control what Athelstan considered to be a truly murderous temper.

‘You hunted Richer. You waited as he left his chamber to meet Prior Alexander. You and Mahant attacked. A swift blow to the head then, under the cover of dark, you both carried his body away from the abbey precincts to the hog pen. The swine were confined to their sty. You cut Richer’s throat and tossed his corpse over the half-door. No one would know how or why he died; the mystery would only deepen because he died alongside a member of the Wyvern Company. You then decided it was also opportune to rid yourself of Mahant. You waited out there in the hog pen, close to the sty. For one brief moment, a few heart beats, Mahant turned his back on you. Maimed hands or not, both together can lift a dagger, in this case Richer’s — you plunged or drove it deep into Mahant, a killing blow followed by another. You then threw his corpse into the sty and fled.’

‘I was ill, vomiting.’

‘Wenlock, you are a liar, you went back to your chamber. You changed. You made sure you removed all traces of your murderous foray. Only then did you act the part of the old soldier, pathetic in his night shirt, suffering from belly gripes.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Do you remember telling me about that first attack on you near the maze? How you were rescued by others? Of course there was no attack, that was just part of the web you and Mahant were beginning to spin, a sham fight with your accomplice Mahant acting as the assailant. At the time you told me how you had a great interest in herbs, that’s why you were out in the garden. You’d use such knowledge to protect yourself. You drank some concoction, harmless enough, to cause a mild disturbance of the belly to make it look as if you were genuinely sick — but only after the murders of Richer and Mahant.’

Wenlock was staring down at his maimed hands.

‘Wenlock!’

He did not move.

‘Wenlock!’

He lifted his head, hatred seething in those watery eyes.

‘You despise both church and state, don’t you?’ Athelstan leaned forward, determined not to show any fear. ‘That’s why you pillaged St Calliste. You have no compunction about committing sacrilege or murder. You hunted me as well.’ Athelstan ignored the fleeting smirk. ‘Actually very clever, especially the first attack. Mahant rattled the shutter of my chamber, probably with some pebbles. I opened it and he loosed that crossbow barb. He nearly hit his mark. I suspect Mahant was skilled enough with the arbalest. Of course it’s not the war bow of which he is a master; his possible inexperience saved my life. Or was it only meant as a warning to frighten me off? I left that chamber. You and others of your coven were outside in the passageway. You asked me to join you. You acted the smiling Judas, asking me questions, delaying me so by the time I got outside Mahant had joined the rest. You tried again in a more deadly fashion in the charnel house. You were hunting me, waiting for an opportunity. I was stupid enough to provide one. You and Mahant had listened to me, watched me and decided I was dangerous. I might not be misled by your farrago of lies. I might discover the truth behind the murders. You and Mahant decided I should die. I would have done so if it hadn’t been for God’s good grace. I wondered then at the speed with which my assailant entered the crypt and doused those torches. Of course there were two, not one intruder, which explains it. I thank God I escaped.’

Wenlock gave a final look around the chamber as if he was still searching for any gap or weakness.

‘Master Crispin stole the Passio Christi,’ Athelstan added softly. ‘He poisoned his master. He’s confessed. He’ll be spared the torture, the full rigours of a traitor’s death.’

Wenlock sighed deeply.

‘We will visit “The Pride of Purgatory” tavern,’ Athelstan added. ‘We’ll seize your possessions, all the money you and Mahant have stored there. You’ve tortured enough men in your life to know what to expect.’

‘Did Mahant really leave a sealed confession?’ Wenlock murmured. ‘Where? To whom?’

‘We’ll produce that when you are arraigned.’

‘You have further proof, witnesses?’

‘We’ll produce those,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘when you are arraigned before the King’s justices.’

‘A swift death,’ Cranston urged.

Wenlock began to hum a tune, shuffling his feet in a strange macabre dance. He stopped, smiled to himself then lifted his hands in a token of surrender.

‘I knew I was cursed,’ he remarked, ‘when the French cut off my fingers. I knew it was only a matter of time. Are you promising me a swift death?’

‘Swift,’ Cranston repeated.

‘The anchorite must do it.’ Wenlock glanced over his shoulder at the coroner. ‘I’ve hanged enough to know what will happen. I don’t want to dance for an hour, twitch and jerk, soil myself while I’m choking. The Hangman of Rochester will ensure it takes no more time than a Gloria.’ Wenlock forced a laugh. ‘You’re right, Cranston, I’ve seen men tortured.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘I won’t reply, Friar, to what you’ve laid against me. You’ve said enough, there’s little to add. I plead guilty. I have no more to say. .’

Athelstan stood in the narrow nave of St Bartholomew’s Priory in Smithfield. The church was deserted except for the Guild of the Hanged who clustered before the Great Pity just inside the main door. They knelt, pattering their Aves for the two men being hanged at the Elms only a short distance beyond the great lychgate of the priory. Athelstan half listened to the swelling murmur of the crowd thronging around the soaring scaffold which brooded over Smithfield. The Regent had insisted that both Cranston and Athelstan witness the execution of the two criminals they’d trapped and caught. The coroner was now on the scaffold together with the Hangman of Rochester garbed in black, his head and face hidden by a blood-red visor. Athelstan moved over to pray before the gilt-edged tomb of Rahere, King Henry’s jester who’d founded both the priory and the nearby hospital in fulfilment of a vow he’d made to St Bartholomew in Outremer.

‘God’s jester,’ Athelstan prayed, eyes tightly shut. ‘Have great pity on Crispin and Wenlock. Show even more loving mercy on their poor victims. Eternal rest. .’ Athelstan broke off at the great roar which echoed through the church. ‘Eternal rest,’ he continued, ‘give them all.’ He pleaded, ‘And let perpetual light shine upon them.’ He remained kneeling, locked in fervent, desperate prayer.

‘It’s over, they’ve gone!’

Athelstan opened his eyes. Cranston and the anchorite stood in the doorway of the church.

‘Swift?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Like that!’ Cranston snapped his fingers.

‘For such small mercies,’ Athelstan whispered, getting to his feet, ‘deo gratias.’ He walked down the nave. ‘Although not over Sir John.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It never is,’ the anchorite declared, hood and visor now pulled back.

‘It never is, is it, Father?’

Athelstan smiled at both of them. ‘Abbot Walter needs to do a great deal of explaining, so does Prior Alexander. His Grace the Regent must decide on what to do with the Passio Christi. .’ Athelstan spread his hands.

‘Father,’ the anchorite stepped forward, ‘could I move my cell to St Erconwald’s? I cannot stay in that abbey.’

‘You could hang half of his parish,’ Cranston joked.

‘Not now, and you,’ Athelstan pointed at the anchorite, ‘you have a name, Giles of Sempringham, yes? I shall call you that. So,’ Athelstan rubbed his hands, ‘let us go back to “The Holy Lamb of God”. Let us sit before a roaring fire. Let us revel in all God’s comforts and rejoice in the approach of the feast of the birth of God’s Golden Boy.’

‘Oh sweet words, lovely friar,’ Cranston breathed.

All three left the priory. Athelstan turned his face away so as not to glimpse those two corpses hanging black against the bright December sky.