by Paul Doherty
Athelstan walked to the foot of the makeshift bier and picked up the sandals. Each was supposedly held in place by a thong which went around the ankle to be clasped in a strap on the other side. The right sandal strap was broken, pulled away from its stitching. The sandals jolted Athelstan’s memory about something but, for the moment, he could not recall it.
‘It looks an accident,’ Cranston observed. ‘The sandal could have snapped due to the fall.’
‘I would agree,’ Mistress Cheyne declared. ‘Joycelina would never wear a broken sandal. It would be too uncomfortable.’
‘True, true,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Mistress Cheyne, when you and Anna were out in the yard, most of the household were supposedly dining in the refectory?’
‘Yes, but before you ask, Brother, people would go to our taproom to fetch more food from the common table or fill their tankards at one of the butts.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘Brother, virtually everyone who was there; they all had to eat and drink.’
Athelstan blessed the corpse again, pulled back the sheet and returned to the main building. They climbed the staircase to the top gallery, Athelstan in the lead. He studied each step carefully. On some of the lower ones he detected flecks of blood, but nothing else. At the top he paused to examine the two newel posts, one at the end of a narrow balustrade running along the gallery, the other opposite, slightly jutting out from the wall. Both felt very secure, whilst the top of the staircase was clear and firm – nothing to explain why Joycelina had fallen.
‘A simple accident,’ Cranston murmured.
Athelstan stared down the staircase. It was truly dangerous. Anyone who missed their footing would sustain serious injury, yet Joycelina must have gone up and down those steps time and again. So why now? Athelstan walked into the death chamber. The bed was half stripped, the chest and coffer lids flung back. A broom and bucket rested against the wall.
‘Joycelina was cleaning here,’ Mistress Cheyne explained again. ‘We wanted to put matters right.’
Athelstan went back up the staircase. Had Joycelina been up here alone, he wondered, or had someone else been waiting for her to leave? A sudden push, maybe? And could her death be connected to that of Whitfield? Perhaps Joycelina had seen something. If so, had she tried to blackmail someone here at the Golden Oliphant and been murdered to silence her threatening mouth?
‘Brother, are you suspicious?’ Cranston came up beside him.
‘As ever, but let us return to the refectory.’
The people waiting there were now growing restless. Athelstan noticed how easy it was for someone to slip in and out of the taproom. He made sure they were all present and asked about Joycelina’s death. Each protested how they had been here for the evening meal just after the vespers bell and knew nothing about the mishap. The only exception was Anna, a wiry young woman with a high-pitched voice and ever blinking eyes. She confirmed in ringing tones everything Mistress Cheyne had said.
‘You reached the foot of the stairs?’ Cranston asked her.
‘Joycelina was just lying there,’ Anna’s voice was almost a screech, ‘body all twisted.’
‘Was her sandal broken?’
‘I didn’t notice, Sir John. It was her neck, the terrible marks on her face … I ran to the mistress; she came and …’
‘And so did I.’ Griffin spoke up. ‘It was obvious Joycelina was dead. I arranged for the poor woman’s corpse to be moved to the outhouse.’
‘Remind me,’ Cranston asked, ‘when was this?’
‘The vespers bell had sounded,’ Mistress Cheyne declared wearily, ‘the curfew was imposed. Anyway, I sent a message to the Guildhall but you were not there.’
Athelstan plucked at Cranston’s sleeve. ‘Sir John, I believe we can go no further on this, not now, not here.’
They made to leave when Athelstan felt a tug on his shoulder. He turned. Stretton, angry faced, jabbed a finger.
‘Friar, I have to be gone.’ Behind him stood Odo Gray and an equally truculent Matthias Camoys. Cranston stepped between Athelstan and Stretton, poking the mailed clerk in the chest.
‘Stay, Master Stretton, stay, Master Gray, stay, Master Camoys. Stay with us all until this matter is resolved. Until then you have a choice: remain here or lie in Newgate. Rest assured, that is not a threat but a solemn promise.’
Cranston grasped Athelstan’s arm and they left the Golden Oliphant. Outside, they stood beneath the ornate sign as the friar ensured his chancery satchel was properly buckled and the coroner, still huffing over the sudden confrontation, adjusted his warbelt.
‘Sir John, you have other business,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I know you must confer with those who protect our king. I also have matters to attend to. I need to reflect, to study, to pray. I will not return to St Erconwald’s; you will find me at Blackfriars …’
PART FOUR
‘Secreta Negotia: Secret Business.’
Athelstan loved the library and scriptorium at his mother house – two long chambers with a meeting hall in between – a world adorned with oaken tables, lecterns, chairs and shelves, all shimmered to a shine with beeswax. The delicious odours of leather, freshly scrubbed parchment, polish, pure candle smoke, incense and trails of sweet fragrances from the crushed herbs wafted everywhere. Chambers of delight where even the sunshine was transformed as it poured through the gorgeous stained-glass windows to illuminate the long walk between shelves piled high with manuscripts, calfskin-backed books, ledgers and leather-covered tomes, some of which, because of their rarity, were firmly chained to shelf or desk. Athelstan, walking up and down the library passageway, recalled his glorious days of study here. The Sentences of Abelard, the logic of Aquinas, the fiery spirit of Dominic’s homilies, the poetry of Saint Bonaventure and the caustic sermons of Bernardine of Siena. Now he was here for a different purpose. London might be about to dissolve into murder and mayhem, but he had been summoned to resolve a problem, and he would do so faithfully until he reached a logical conclusion.
Athelstan returned to the table he’d sat at during his novitiate: a smooth topped, intricately carved reading table with a spigot of capped candles to hand when the light began to fade. For a while he sat in his favourite chair watching the dust motes dance in the beams streaming through the painted glass. He half listened to the sounds of Blackfriars as he summoned up the ghosts of yesteryear, scampering around this library eager to search for proof of some argument he was drawing up in philosophy, scripture or theology. He recalled the sheer exuberance of such days, his dedication to his studies, the intense conversations he had with his brethren. Now all was different. Even Blackfriars had been caught up in the coming storm. Prior Anselm was distracted, while the librarian and the master of this scriptorium were deeply concerned about any threat to their beloved repository of books. Athelstan crossed himself, sighed and returned to the problems which confronted him. He was in the best place to try and resolve the enigmas and puzzles left by Reginald Camoys. He needed to do this so he could confront Matthias with his gnawing suspicions as well as ensure that these riddles were not connected in any way with the mysterious deaths at the Golden Oliphant.
Athelstan was certain Whitfield had been murdered, and the same for Joycelina. He had no evidence regarding the young woman’s deadly fall, just a suspicion that a very cunning murder had been committed. He stared up at the shelves of books and manuscripts. Where should he begin? He had questioned both librarian and the master of the scriptorium, yet both brothers had been unable to assist. Athelstan tapped his fingers on the table top. If this was a question of scripture, where would he begin? He rose and found the library’s great lexicon, but though he easily discovered an explanation for ‘IHS’, the Greek title given to Jesus Christ, he could not explain the additional ‘V’. He then turned to the many entries on ‘sol, sun’ and came to an extract from the history of Eusebius of Caesarea who wrote about the Emperor Constantine and the establishment of Christianity as the state rel
igion of the Roman Empire. The library owned a copy of this. Athelstan found it and, as he turned the pages, felt a deep glow of satisfaction. The ‘Soli Invicto’ was a paean to the sun which lay at the heart of the pagan religion of Mithras, popular with the Roman army and undoubtedly something that Reginald Camoys had discovered amongst those ruins in the crypt of St Mary Le Bow.
Athelstan reached one chapter of Eusebius’ History and clapped his hands in joy. He had found it! The well-known story of a famous vision that the Emperor Constantine had experienced before his great victory at the Milvian Bridge in the year 312. The letters ‘IHSV’ were an abbreviation for ‘In Hoc Signo Vinces – In this sign you will conquer’. He then consulted a word book, wondering if Reginald had continued to hide behind a play on words. ‘Vinces’ in Latin was ‘you will conquer’, but ‘vinceris’ could be translated ‘you will be released’. What did that refer to? He sat and reflected on the clever word games that contrived to hide a treasure. In many ways they might have little relevance to the mysterious deaths at the Golden Oliphant, though they did prompt some interesting questions.
First, the Cross of Lothar was a great treasure, stolen from a powerful religious military order. Yet there was not a shred of evidence to show that the Teutonic Knights tried to secure its return. Why not? Secondly, Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne, God bless her, had a heart of steel, a grasping woman who would never allow profit to escape her, yet she seemed totally impervious to Lothar’s Cross and its whereabouts. Surely she of all people knew the mind of her dead lover, yet she showed no interest in the riddles he had left or the possibility that a priceless treasure, hidden in her own house, might be seized by young Matthias. Or was she just waiting for him to complete the hunt and then claim the cross as rightfully hers? Thirdly, why had Amaury Whitfield, desperately trying to escape all the snares around him, offered to help Matthias resolve the enigmas bequeathed by his uncle? Finally, what did the letters ‘IHSV’ really refer to? Why was it linked to the rising sun? Athelstan recalled all he knew about Reginald Camoys as he watched a shaft of light pour through one of the stained-glass windows and shimmer on the great spread eagle, carved out of bronze, on a lectern further down the library. He stared, then started to laugh at the solution which now emerged. Elated, he rose to his feet and paced up and down the empty library, revelling in the sweet odours and the beautiful light, the companionship of written treasures piled high on the shelves around him.
‘So,’ he whispered, ‘if what I think is true, and I am sure it is, why did Whitfield try and help Matthias Camoys; what is the connection?’ He paused, recalling what Grindcobbe had told him, then thought of Whitfield’s shabby, empty chambers: those small caskets and coffers, broken up and thrown on the rubbish heap in that derelict garden.
‘I wonder …’ he murmured. ‘Matthias Camoys was determined to find the cross and Amuary Whitfield was equally determined to escape. What would unite them? What would motivate this feckless clerk – gold, or threats?’
He decided to calm his mind by joining the brothers in the friary church for divine office. He walked across and borrowed a psalter, then took his place in a stall, leaning back against the wood and gazing at the great cross above the high altar. The cantor began the hymn of praise, ‘He is happy, who is blessed by Jacob’s God.’ The brothers in the stalls replied, ‘My soul give praise to the Lord.’ Athelstan tried to concentrate on the responses, but every time he lifted his head he glimpsed the contorted faces of the babewyns and gargoyles carved on the rim of a nearby pillar. Each carried a standard and a trumpet and reminded Athelstan of the Herald of Hell. The identity of that miscreant, the friar reflected, had nothing to do with the mysterious deaths at the Golden Oliphant or St Erconwald’s. Nevertheless, if he could discover who the Herald was, it might make it easier to persuade Sir Everard Camoys to cooperate over Athelstan’s deepening suspicions about the goldsmith’s son.
Once divine office was over Athelstan returned to the library. He took a scrap of parchment and drew a rough sketch of London Bridge.
‘Herald of Hell,’ he whispered, ‘you appeared here at the dead of night even though the bridge is sealed and closely guarded after curfew. So how did you get on to the bridge then leave?’ He stared at his rough drawing. He could not imagine anyone swimming the treacherous Thames in the dead of night, climbing the slippery starlings and supports beneath the bridge and then, marvellous to say, leaving the bridge in the same fashion. ‘So,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘perhaps you live on the bridge? However, if you wish to appear in this ward and that long after the chimes of midnight, the same problems have to be confronted.’ He paused, fingers to his lips as he recalled Sir Everard’s assertion that he had recognized the bawling voice, just as those men in that alehouse had recognized the voice of Meryen the bailiff. Athelstan tapped the parchment. There was only one logical conclusion, surely? He reviewed his evidence. ‘If there is only one possible conclusion,’ he whispered to himself, ‘then that conclusion must be the correct one.’
Chewing the corner of his lip, he reflected on the murders of Whitfield, Lebarge and Joycelina. He was convinced all three deaths were connected, and possibly the work of the same assassin. However, he could not detect a pattern in anything he had seen, heard or felt. Nevertheless, somewhere hidden in all of this there might be a mistake by the murderer which he could seize on. Athelstan returned, once more, to the laborious task of listing everything he could recall about Whitfield, Lebarge and Joycelina, though by the time the bells chimed for compline he had made little headway. At last he admitted defeat and left the library to its keeper, who was anxious to douse the lights and lock the doors. Athelstan crossed to the refectory for a bowl of hot stew and some bread. He decided he would need to rise early the next morning, so he visited the church, said a few prayers, then adjourned to the cloister cell assigned to him.
Athelstan reached the Golden Oliphant at least an hour before dawn and was admitted by a tousle-haired Foxley, who complained of the early hour. Athelstan simply smiled his thanks and said he wished to walk the tavern. Foxley, sighing with annoyance, said he would kennel the mastiffs in the garden and open doors for the friar so he could go where he wished. Athelstan accepted this as well as some bread, cheese and dried meat to break his fast. For a while he sat in the refectory facing the window, watching the darkness dissipate. He had celebrated an early mass at Blackfriars and despatched a courier with urgent messages for Sir John, though of course his enquiries also depended on what he discovered here. Time was passing! He went out of the main door and stared up at the sign. The insignia of the huge Golden Oliphant was reproduced on both sides, the curved drinking cup capped with a lid on which a silver-green cross stood. The sign itself was a perfect square, the casing on each side about four to five inches wide, though it was difficult to be accurate as the sign hung high from the projecting arm of a soaring post. Despite the poor light and height, Athelstan noticed that both the white background and the Oliphant were clear of dirt and dust, probably due to the costly sealing paint used. As he had suspected, he realized that for a brief moment the sign would hang directly in the path of the rising sun which, according to the fiery-red glow in the eastern sky, was imminent.
He returned to the brothel along the passageways, through the Golden Hall and the spread of chambers beyond: the refectory, buttery, kitchens, scullery, pantry and bakery. The household were now stirring. Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne and the moppets, together with slatterns, scullions and tapboys, all milled about preparing for a new day. Mistress Cheyne, supervising the firing of the ovens, smiled with her lips and half raised a hand. Others just scuttled away from this sharp-eyed friar who seemed to be hunting someone or something in their house. Athelstan reached the back door. Master Griffin was in the garden with a basket of herbs. He assured Athelstan that the dogs were kennelled and pointed to the wooden palisade jutting out from the rear of the building.
‘They will be fed and then sleep there for the rest of the day,’ Griffin muttered.
‘Don’t you worry, Father, I wouldn’t be out here with those savage beasts on the loose.’ Athelstan thanked him and walked across the garden to where the workmen had been setting up the trellis fencing. He was now moving to the front of the Golden Oliphant and he could see the sign clearly. He walked a little further and smiled at sight of the flower-covered arbour with its turfed seat. He sat down.
‘Of course,’ he breathed, ‘Reginald Camoys used this arbour and I shall do the same.’
Athelstan watched the sun strengthen and rise. The Golden Oliphant sign was directly in its path and, for a short while, blocked the fiery circle. Athelstan smiled even as he marvelled at the golden glow which appeared through the cross-piece of the crucifix which decorated the lid of the Oliphant, piercing it clearly as it would translucent glass. Athelstan revelled in the sheer beauty of the sight, then the moment passed. Distracted by what he had seen and learnt, the friar rose to his feet, but then froze at a low, throaty growl. He turned slightly. The two hunting mastiffs stood staring at him, great beasts with their tawny, short-haired bodies, powerful legs, massive heads and ferocious jaws. They stood poised, then one of them edged forward, belly going slightly down, and the other followed suit. Athelstan retreated back into the arbour. Childhood terrors returned. Memories of a similar confrontation years ago on a neighbour’s farm. The hounds were certainly edging forward. Athelstan kept still, trying hard not to stare at them, recalling his father’s advice on how to deal with such animals.
‘Gaudete! Laetare!’ Athelstan glanced up. Foxley appeared along the path to the arbour.
‘Gaudete! Laetare!’ He repeated the dog’s names. ‘Come! Come!’
Athelstan breathed a sigh of relief. Both mastiffs relaxed, turning away, tails wagging, heads down as they trotted to meet Foxley. He shared some biscuit with them, then, whistling softly, led them away. Athelstan waited until Foxley returned, sauntering down the path, crossbow in one hand, a quiver of bolts hanging on the warbelt around his waist. Athelstan scrutinized the Master of Horse closely: the scuffed, black leather jerkin, leggings and boots, the dark brown shirt, open at the neck, the wrist guard on his left arm, the quizzical look on that sardonic face. Athelstan recalled Benedicta’s remark about putting on a mask to meet other masks. Foxley’s mask had slipped. You are a fighter, Athelstan reflected, a man of war, and, if Sir John is correct, an Upright Man.