by Paul Doherty
‘We heard.’ Hugh crouched beside the corpse, studying it carefully. He peered up at Athelstan. ‘Did you examine the corpse as I taught you?’
‘As you taught me, Magister.’ Athelstan smiled at his former mentor. ‘How in God’s name can I ever forget my months of scrupulous work with you?’ Athelstan nodded at Matthias. ‘Or with you, the most skilled of scribes and master of novices, or Brother John, gatekeeper and constant helpmate to you both? However,’ he gestured at the corpse, ‘as you can see, our comrade is beyond all physical help.’
‘Shall we remove him now?’
‘Yes, you can,’ Athelstan replied. ‘In fact, I shall help you.’
Brother John left and returned with a stretcher, a piece of canvas pulled tight across two ash poles. Athelstan hid his smile: he remembered carrying this battered, stained bier so many times during his novitiate at Blackfriars. He helped the others to lift the corpse on to it. All four then carried the stretcher along the gallery, down the stairs and into the great cobbled yard which stretched outside the guesthouse. The other three sides of the bailey were taken up by the two-storied accommodation of the community, along with spacious chambers for honoured guests such as the Procurator General. The area was heavily shaded but Athelstan still marvelled at the brilliant blue sky and the warm, balmy fragrance. A truly beautiful day was promised, one with more than a touch of late spring freshness.
‘Brother Athelstan, Brother Athelstan!’ The friar turned as a young girl, no more than nine summers, slipped her hand free from her severe-looking nurse and raced across the cobbles so swiftly her long, blonde hair broke free from its jewelled hairnet, her gown of silk-edged sarcenet billowing out all about her. Athelstan excused himself from the others, ensuring the blanket over Alberic’s corpse covered everything, and hastened to meet her. He dropped to one knee as she literally threw herself into his arms.
‘Brother, Brother,’ she gasped, ‘I have missed you! Haven’t we, Katrina?’
She turned and shouted at her nurse, still standing as forbidding as a Cistercian nun. The woman nodded and lifted a hand.
‘I see you mix with the midnight clover?’ The young girl pointed at the other three Dominicans.
‘Pardon?’ Athelstan held her out at arm’s-length.
‘The midnight clover.’ The girl leaned forward, eager for Athelstan to embrace her, which he did.
‘So you know about herbs?’ he teased.
‘Father told me. I call them that because they are always together.’
‘Yes, they are!’ Athelstan agreed. ‘It’s been the same since I was not much older than you, Isabella.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Dominican friars. Hugh Biscop is our infirmarian, one of the best in London, and his bosom comrade Matthias Damoy is a skilled clerk, and the third man is their life-long helpmate John Guisborough, otherwise known as Brother John the gatekeeper. I believe all three were born in the shadow of Warwick Castle.’ Athelstan stared at the group of Dominicans, who stood patiently waiting for him to return. He indicated that they move on but Hugh grinned, sketched a blessing in Athelstan’s direction and turned back to his comrades deep in conversation.
‘That’s what happens in our order, Isabella.’ Athelstan smiled and gently touched her ivory skin, stroking her cheek as she stared wide-eyed at him. ‘We leave our families for a life of prayer but that doesn’t stop us from making friends or indeed creating a new family: those three Dominicans are more brothers than men who share the same womb.’
‘They frighten me a little.’
‘Oh, that’s because they became wise as they have grown old.’ Athelstan glanced swiftly over. Hugh and Matthias did look severe, with their deep-set sharp eyes and hooked noses. They had the look of the falcon, with minds just as sharp. Both were skilled in physic, the diagnosis of disease and the potions to combat it. Brother John was also a skilled herbalist. The three of them had been Athelstan’s faithful mentors and, if possible, he was determined to use them to resolve Alberic’s murder.
‘Who is the dead man?’ Isabella whispered. ‘I know he is dead. I have seen men like that before. Bodies hidden under a cloth, taken up from the cellars in my father’s house long after the midnight hour. I have peered through the shutters to the street below and seen the corpses put on a death cart. Father always thinks I am asleep but I am not.’ She smiled impishly. ‘I love to get up and watch at the witching hour.’
Athelstan gently held the girl away and stared into her angelic blue eyes. She leaned closer.
‘It doesn’t frighten me, Brother.’ She crossed herself swiftly.
‘Nor should it,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Now I must go.’
He kissed her on both cheeks, rose and rejoined the rest.
‘Thibault’s daughter,’ Hugh whispered.
‘Master Thibault, Gaunt’s creature,’ Matthias echoed. ‘Athelstan, I thought you had no time for him?’
‘I don’t, but come,’ Athelstan urged. ‘Not here. Isabella, like her father, is very sharp of mind, wit and ear.’ He helped the brothers carry the bier across the cobbles and into the cavernous, sprawling corridors and passageways of Blackfriars.
The mother house was busier than usual due to the growing troubles in the city and surrounding shires. Many Dominicans had decided to withdraw from their pastoral work and take refuge behind the fortified gates and battlemented walls of Blackfriars. They crossed yards and baileys, hurrying through the petty cloisters and the great cloisters where the clerks and scribes from the library sat busy in their carrels, poring over their sloping desks, copying and illuminating different manuscripts. The scholars were taking full advantage of the brilliant sunshine, impervious to the storm gathering beyond their walls. Now and again a brother would place a hand on the bier. Athelstan and his companions would pause so a blessing could be sketched over the corpse, then they’d continue along stone-hollowed passageways smelling fragrantly of vellum, ink, paints and the pervasive odours of candle smoke and incense. It was a striking contrast to Athelstan’s tumultuous parish life in the nave of St Erconwald’s, which could become as noisy and smelly as any market place.
On they went under the watchful, stony gaze of demons, gargoyles and babewyns carved on the top of pillars, or the sightless smile of saintly statues, their stone hands raised in perpetual blessing. They skirted the great church. The words of a cantor rehearsing the Divine Office for later in the day drifted out on the morning air, a plea from the Book of Proverbs: ‘The house of the wicked will be destroyed …’
‘God’s anger certainly hangs over our city,’ Brother Matthias murmured, ‘and God knows where it will end. Athelstan, I am so glad you are sheltering here.’
‘The city will be swept by a whirlwind of fire,’ Brother Hugh declared.
‘Refugees are already gathering outside our gate,’ Brother John added. ‘What is more frightening, I have also glimpsed some of the Earthworms dressed like fiends fit for battle.’
‘And I am worried about my parishioners,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Brother John, we have received no message from them or my good friend Sir John Cranston?’
The gatekeeper shook his head. They continued on into the great garden of the monastery, an exquisitely fragrant sea of grass, herb plots, flower beds and small orchards of apple, pear and plum tree. Raised parterres, cultivated shrubs, rose bushes and neatly clipped box hedges pleased the eye whilst flower-covered arbours and trellises offered shade against the summer sun. At the far end of this, down a shadow-dappled pathway, rose the great death house of the friary, a soaring barn-like structure.
A lay brother ushered them into the Chapel of Waiting, a long, gaunt room, its lime-washed walls draped with purple and gold cloths depicting the Five Wounds of Christ and the Seven Sorrows of the Virgin. At the far end hung a crudely carved rood screen. According to tradition, this had been hewn out of the wood used for the execution platform when the Scottish rebel, William Wallace, had been barbarously torn to pieces at Smithfield. Athel
stan always thought the room was gloomy enough without such stories. The Chapel of Waiting had small chambers or enclaves leading off from the main room where ointments, oils and potions were stored. The rest of the chapel was used to hold rows of death tables, slightly sloped, so fluids from the corpses being prepared for burial could run off into the funnels dug into the hard-packed earthen floor. Athelstan was given a pomander as some protection against the foul odours of corruption and the heavy stench of pine juice used to clean the cadavers. Four of the tables were in use, covered by black canvas sheeting.
Athelstan noticed how a vein-streaked arm and hand had slipped from beneath one of the sheets as if to touch the reddish water which swirled in pools beneath the table. He sketched a blessing and turned away. Alberic’s corpse was swiftly stripped, except for the linen loin cloth, and laid out on a table beneath the great crucifix. In the poor light lancing through the roundel windows high in the wall and the flickering lanternhorns which stood on the corner of each mortuary table, the dead friar’s corpse looked truly grotesque. Bone-white flesh contrasting with the sunburnt chest, neck and face and, of course, the gruesome purple-red death wound close to the heart. Under Brother Hugh’s careful direction, as if they had journeyed back down the years, Athelstan, assisted by Matthias and John, once again scrutinised the corpse.
‘Muscular and strong,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘No other marks and strangely no sign of violence apart from the death wound.’
‘And?’ Hugh asked.
‘First mystery,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘as I have said before. How could someone draw close to Alberic, a strong, capable man with considerable military experience, and plunge a dagger deep into his chest without leaving any other sign of violence, either on Alberic’s corpse or in his chamber? Nothing to signify even the lightest token of resistance?’
‘And secondly?’
‘Alberic was stabbed in a sealed chamber, locked and bolted, with no indication whatsoever of how the assassin entered or left. There are no secret entrances, no window large enough to climb through.’
Athelstan paused and smiled at these three teachers from his youth. Hugh and Matthias’ harsh faces were all intent under their wiry hair, cut neatly to form the tonsure, whilst Brother John sat head half-turned, listening carefully to what was being said.
‘And thirdly?’ Hugh demanded.
‘Oh, and fourthly and so on!’ Athelstan replied, staring down at the corpse. ‘Why kill poor Alberic? Why steal his manuscripts? Why such murderous mystery?’ He rubbed his brow. ‘I have been in Blackfriars now for six days. Prior Anselm says he needs me here. Why, do you know?’ All three shook their heads.
‘And what is the Procurator General doing here with his party?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Something about a dead king,’ Matthias murmured, pulling up the death sheet to cover the corpse. ‘We do not know any details. Father Prior will surely inform us all in good time. But there is another mystery, Athelstan.’ Matthias’ stern face relaxed. ‘What on earth are you doing with young Isabella, daughter of your enemy Thibault?’
‘He is not my enemy,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘He is a man steeped in politics and intrigue, and the leading henchman of Lord Gaunt.’
‘And Gaunt is now absent in the north?’
‘True, Brother Hugh. God knows why Gaunt chose to leave his nephew and the city at a time like this.’ It was a question that many were asking, though Athelstan and Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of the City, had their own private theories about Gaunt’s devious machinations. They had discussed it in places where no one could eavesdrop, sharing their suspicions that the self-styled regent and uncle of the boy king Richard II had left his nephew, the court, the city and the kingdom to face the storm. Once the tempest was over, he would return to seize what juicy morsels he could, and if that included the crown, then so be it.
‘And Master Thibault?’ Matthias snapped his fingers to catch Athelstan’s attention.
‘Thibault is allegedly sheltering with others of the royal council in the Tower.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘They think they are safe there.’
‘Are they?’
‘I don’t really know. I don’t think so. The Tower has many postern gates and doors, and I am sure the Upright Men have sympathisers amongst the Tower garrison.’
‘So why,’ Brother Hugh asked, ‘is Thibault’s daughter Isabella here?’
‘As you may know, the rebels have marked down Gaunt and his coven for brutal death, and that includes members of their families and households. Thibault’s only family is young Isabella. I gave Thibault my word, my sworn, solemn word, to look after his daughter; that is why she is here. Master Thibault may be steeped in all forms of wickedness but she is only an innocent child.’
‘So she has taken refuge—’
‘Sanctuary, Matthias,’ Athelstan interjected. ‘Isabella has sought sanctuary with me, you and all the good brothers here in Blackfriars, as others have. They want our protection against the cruel storm being whipped up outside.’
‘Pax et bonum.’ The infirmarian lifted a hand placatingly. ‘Athelstan, there are rumours that London Bridge is being stormed. Is your friend Sir John safe?’
‘God knows!’ Athelstan stared at the door. Deep in his heart he wished to go. Prior Anselm had kept him dancing from foot to foot with this excuse or that. Athelstan secretly suspected that the prior wished to keep him out of harm’s way and hoped that he might possibly help with the Procurator General’s mission to England …
‘Perhaps he committed suicide?’ Brother John broke into Athelstan’s thoughts, his weather-beaten face screwed up in concentration, light-blue eyes blinking furiously. ‘Alberic, I mean. I have heard of—’
‘I doubt it very much.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I truly do. There’s a tangled tale of murder here, so the truth of it, as always, may take some time to emerge. If Father Prior wishes, I will help. Perhaps it’s time I spoke to him bluntly.’ He bade all three companions farewell and left the Chapel of Waiting.
Athelstan wanted to be alone. He made his way through a copse of trees into the great meadow, a beautiful stretch of grassland to the east of Blackfriars. The meadow’s long grass was lush and peppered with clumps of wild flowers. The cattle which browsed there had already been herded into the milking sheds, their lowing carrying faintly on the river breeze which rippled the grass and whispered amongst the clumps of ancient trees, pools of shade against the strengthening sun. Athelstan was glad to sit out of the sunlight. He stopped and stared at the beacon tower built in the very centre of the meadow, a soaring, drum-like edifice, crenellated and fortified at the top with narrow, arrow-slit windows. Built at least one hundred and fifty years ago, the tower had once served as a refuge for the community against the depredations of river pirates, as well as a defence against the incursions of French galleys during the Season of Winter, the early years of King Henry III’s reign when the Capetian kings in Paris nursed secret dreams of reducing England to another province of the French crown. The building was reminiscent of the Peel Towers Athelstan had seen in Ireland along the Pale outside Dublin, or on the Northern March, that desolate wasteland which stretched into Scotland. The tower was designed for defence; its door, built high in the wall, could only be entered by a platform of wooden steps. Athelstan recalled the legends told him as a novice about this eerie, haunted place, of how it was still polluted by the vicious ghosts of river pirates hung on the great gibbet further down the riverbank.
The tower also reminded Athelstan of the rumours sweeping Blackfriars, about the growing threat to the city and the massing of rebel armies. Prior Anselm had intimated that Blackfriars could well be stormed. The Dominican mother house possessed riches and had offered sanctuary to individuals whom the rebels wished to seize. Athelstan wondered how Sir John Cranston was faring and murmured a prayer for the coroner’s safety as well as that of his parishioners, though God knows what mischief they were now involved in! Athelstan shaded his eyes and stared up at the top of th
e tower. Heights frightened him, but when he was a novice, he was used to climbing this tower to feed the beacon flame to guide river craft when those thick sea mists rolled in to shroud both London and the Thames in their thick, grey fug. Athelstan drew a deep breath. On a lovely summer morning like this the tower would provide a clear view of the river and the far bank, so perhaps he might learn something.
He walked on and climbed the steps. The heavy, weather-beaten door was off its latch. Inside the stairwell, cobwebbed and dirty, reeked of fox, badger and the other wild animals which sheltered there. Athelstan climbed the crumbling steps. Now and again he paused to gaze through the lancet windows. The staircase was spiral, the steps sharp edged. The higher he climbed, the more Athelstan could feel the strengthening breeze. He paused on a stairwell which also housed a narrow jake’s chute behind a battered door kept shut by bags of sand. He strained his ears, certain that he had heard a sound from below, but there was nothing, so he continued on.
At the top Athelstan pushed open the trap door. The breeze was warm and vigorous, buffeting him gently as he carefully climbed on to the tower top. Thankfully the ground underneath was covered with thick shale to provide a good secure grip. He stared around. The rest of the tower top looked derelict. Athelstan carefully picked his way across to grip the iron bar fixed on to the inside of the crenellations. He steadied himself and got his bearings, staring out across the river. This was strangely deserted except for a few barges scurrying like water beetles along the Thames. Athelstan looked to his left, and his heart skipped a beat. Thick, black columns of smoke were beginning to rise either side of London Bridge. Had the rebels finally broken into the city? If so, would they carry out their threat to lay waste with fire and sword? Were his parishioners now part of a violent mob swarming around the Tower? And Sir John? Would Cranston fight even if the odds were heavily against him? Athelstan reined in his panic. As if to reflect his mood, clouds drifted across the sun sending dark shadows racing over the meadow land below. He leaned against the fortified parapet and murmured a prayer for those in his love, then crossed himself and made to leave.