by Paul Doherty
Athelstan stared at the infirmarian, recalling earlier happier days, and wondered at the hidden depths, the twisting paths of the human soul. ‘I thought,’ Athelstan murmured softly, ‘I really did, that you were my teacher, my friend. Indeed,’ he gestured at the others, ‘all three of you, but that did not count here. Only your secrets did. You had trained me well. You may have heard of my reputation elsewhere. It was difficult enough to have Fieschi prying and probing, but when it was your favourite scholar. I am not being arrogant but truthful. You viewed me as a real threat. So what were you trying to do in the beacon tower and then again in the church when you attacked me? Was that a warning? Or did you want to injure, kill me, silence me forever as you did poor Pernel?’
Athelstan did not wait for an answer; in fact, he did not care for it. The past was dead. Friendship did not exist. Memories had shrivelled: these three men were his implacable opponents. ‘Yes, let us now deal with poor Pernel,’ he continued. ‘Her previous life is, as I described it, and like ours, full of coincidences. Time, as the great philosopher argued, also has its crossroads, a point where the past, present and future cross. Pernel had heard about the arrival of Fieschi and his party at Blackfriars. Naturally the name Fieschi evoked sharp memories from her own colourful past. She was confused but her desire to visit Blackfriars and meet this Fieschi was whetted first by my presence here and secondly Pernel’s determination to inform me about the men of my parish being mysteriously abducted.
‘She hurried across the river. She was welcomed by our gatekeeper and given a St Dominic Blessing, the usual token bestowed on any visitor or guest. Now, the Pernel who presented herself was not the lovely young novice Agnes who once fled from the nunnery of St Monica an eternity ago. Nevertheless, curiosity was stirred by Pernel’s demand to see me as well as her enquiries about Fieschi. I suspect she was kept by herself whilst Brother John hurried away to inform his friends, Brother Hugh and Matthias his shadow. They arrived. Pernel, perhaps as would any woman once deeply in love and possibly still having the same feelings, recognised our infirmarian for who he truly really is, the great love of her life, the Dominican Thomas Dunheved.’
Athelstan paused. The accused had now become restless, heavy-lidded eyes half-closed, proof perhaps that the level of evidence rising against him and his confederates was becoming conclusive. ‘All three of you met Pernel. All three of you decided on that poor, witless woman’s murder, an easy enough task. Hapless and weak, you coaxed her down to a deserted part of the quayside near the water-gate. She is so overcome, Pernel proves to be extremely pliable. Once there it was so easy to tip her into the swirling river where she would have little or no chance of survival. The water would clog her face and weigh her down.’
‘We could have been seen, I mean,’ the gatekeeper stammered, ‘if we were responsible. The old woman could have been a previous visitor, one we never met.’ Athelstan glanced at the infirmarian and glimpsed his fleeting expression of anger: the gatekeeper had been stupid, he had foolishly responded to an allegation instead of just dismissing it.
‘That old woman was a visitor to Blackfriars,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘She had received the usual token. Yet all of you maintained that you had never seen her before, which was a lie. You knew her very well. Pernel proved to be a true shock for you. You killed her. Later one of you, probably the gatekeeper, slipped across to Southwark to burn her cottage and so destroy any evidence of her past or possible links to the Dunheveds.’
Athelstan drummed his fingers on the table top. ‘Oh, by the way, as I speak, your own chambers and possessions are being thoroughly searched by senior friars—’ Athelstan broke off as all three made to rise. They only sat down when Cranston and Flaxwith drew their swords and shouted at them to stay.
‘Hush now,’ Athelstan mockingly soothed, pleased to see that he had at last ruffled the feathers of his opponents. ‘Hush now,’ he repeated. ‘Pernel has gone to God, so now we must turn to Brother Roger. Let me emphasise. Fieschi’s arrival here was the first real investigation into the death of Edward II since the parliament of 1330 over fifty years ago, when Mortimer fell from power and the young Edward III tried to discover what had happened to his father: that came to nothing. This was different. The past was unlocked and all kinds of ghosts jostled for attention. Brother Roger was expert at drawing these out. You knew he was extremely dangerous: his jovial demeanour, his rather pompous, scholarly manner masked a truly sharp mind and very keen wits.
‘From the evidence I collected in his chamber, I would say that Brother Roger opened the path I am now following. He had already decided that Brother Eadred, chaplain at Newgate and later prior at Oxford, was an important key to all this mystery. Roger left the fate of Edward II to history. He was more interested in those Dominicans who played an important part in the crisis years of 1327 to 1330. He drew up list after list of individuals. Many of them are dead, in some cases just disappeared. Brother Roger was particularly interested in the Dunheveds. You discovered that. Now,’ Athelstan rolled back the sleeves of his gown, ‘Roger became very, very busy. He loved what he was doing, but like Brother Alberic he totally underestimated your ruthlessness.
‘On the night he died he went to the kitchen for his wine and favourite dish of nuts. Paschal the almoner kindly carried them to our chronicler’s chamber. He left and Brother Roger locked and bolted himself in. According to reports, no one visited him that night.’ Athelstan smiled grimly. ‘Or so Brother John, our so-called honest gatekeeper, reported, for he claimed he was working in the cloisters at the time. Of course that was a lie. You three move as one. Young Isabella was correct when she called you the midnight clover. You are a three-faced demon who enjoy the same murderous soul. On that night our gatekeeper certainly lived up to his title. He watched and guarded whilst his master Thomas Dunheved came tripping like Judas through the cloisters.
‘Brother Roger may have had his suspicions, though I am not too sure about that. Perhaps on that particular evening the chronicler was pleased that Brother Hugh the infirmarian was passing by and decided to stop and have a chat. Hugh, or to be truthful, Thomas Dunheved, was invited into Brother Roger’s chamber. You act all charming, cordial and friendly. You pick up the bowl of nuts, take a few and eat them, and at the same time you hand a few to Brother Roger. Ordinary actions that don’t even deserve a second glance or thought. However,’ Athelstan breathed in, ‘you are a skilled herbalist, leech and apothecary. You perfected such arts during your years in northern Italy. I have consulted with a similar peritus, a colleague who also has extensive knowledge of herbs, shrubs and plants: Brother Hubert, infirmarian and apothecary in the Carmelite house at Whitefriars. He agreed with me: there is a small nut called the abrin seed which is most deadly in its effect once the shell has been broken.
‘On that particular evening I suspect you had two or three abrin seeds concealed in the palm of your hand. You sat, you charmed and you gossiped. You pick up the bowl to share its contents with Brother Roger and, as you do so, slip in one or more of those abrin seeds with the rest. Roger, garrulous as ever, chews and swallows. The sin is committed. Murder has been perpetrated as the noxious potion begins its race through the humours of his body. You rise, bid him goodnight and leave. You know that your later scrutiny of his corpse will be equally false and hypocritical. Roger locks and bolts the door behind you but you know he will never live to see it open.’
Athelstan pointed across the room. ‘Brother Hubert at Whitefriars is waiting to be called, if necessary, along with two lay brothers from the same house.’ Athelstan turned quickly as the gatekeeper moved abruptly. ‘Yes, you have it.’ Athelstan gestured at him. ‘The same two who escorted Odo Brecon here. Prior Anselm thought he had done this most discreetly, asking the widow woman Benedicta to meet Odo Brecon at the gatehouse and escort him in. You, of course, heard about this. You probably watched Brecon arrive. You then immediately hurried after the lay brothers, drew them into conversation and learned the identity of the old man they ha
d brought. Back you hasten to your masters here. They knew full well who Brecon was and again, although you are three, you act as one. It would be easy for you to seize a crossbow and bolt, position yourself, take aim and loose whilst the other two stood on guard. I agree with Sir John, all three of you are as proficient in arms as any hobelar or man-at-arms, be it sword or arbalest. You probably bought such armaments in the city or, as Sir John said, picked up weapons after the rebels had been beaten off.’
Athelstan joined his hands together. ‘You are killers. I do wonder, I really do, if you had anything to do with the Earthworms attacking Blackfriars? After all, wouldn’t it be appropriate for the rebels of London to do your murderous work for you?’ He leaned across the table, jabbing his finger. ‘Did you send secret messages to the Earthworms? Did you plot that during their attack, Fieschi and his party, not to mention myself and Sir John, would be barbarously cut down? I am convinced you truly hated Fieschi. He had turned your world upside down. He threatened to destroy all you had worked on for decades. He would bring everything to nothing, and for what? No one really gives a fig about Edward II. Fieschi arrived here because King Richard is a dreamer and wants to have a saint in his family history whilst the Pope in Rome is desperate for recognition.’
‘Your last statement is probably the only true one,’ the secretarius murmured, his face twisted in a smirk.
‘Fieschi and his companions didn’t die in that attack, and you were increasingly alarmed at what was happening. Pernel had suddenly appeared from the murky past; Odo Brecon came hobbling through the doors of history; and you must have wondered how many more there might be. You decided on a course of action which would be brutal and final. You would kill Fieschi and his two companions as an act of revenge as well as to bring the entire matter to an end. If Fieschi and his comrades were massacred it would take years for the Pope to arrange another embassy, select the envoys and despatch them to England to begin the entire process again. Once the brutal murder of Fieschi and his entourage became public knowledge, the Pope would find few willing to assume such a post. You were confident that you would escape. You had committed other murders and walked away unscathed. The murder of Fieschi and his two colleagues would be just as mysterious. Three Dominican friars, strong, vigorous men murdered silently, swiftly in a guesthouse chamber with no sign of resistance and, more importantly, with no evidence for who was responsible. Perhaps you would like us to think the slayings were the work of a wandering band of Earthworms who had broken into the friary to carry out one last desperate act. No one would even think of blaming three Dominicans, old and venerable, who, at least in public, could not handle an arbalest let alone release a bolt.’
Athelstan tapped the table. ‘When I saw the murder room it reminded me of what I had seen in Alberic’s chamber and my suspicions hardened. Your victims had not expected it, and why should they? Closeted away, discussing the business in hand, there was a knock on the door and three Dominicans, men who they considered to be friends and brothers, entered the room. Fieschi and his comrades paused to greet you; even as they did, each of you chose a victim. You drew close, brought the hand-held arbalest from beneath your cloak, the crossbow already primed, and released the bolt. No longer than it takes to patter an Ave. At such close range death is instantaneous. They may stagger and groan, but you just stand and watch them die. Fieschi has gone and peace can return to your world.’
‘You have no proof!’ The infirmarian scraped back his chair. ‘I appeal to our Minister General in Rome. I demand that all these false, heinous and outrageous allegations made against me and my friends be formally investigated according to the rules of canon law and the decrees of both Popes and councils. I …’
He paused at a loud rapping on the parlour door. Prior Anselm rose and answered. Athelstan heard voices slightly raised. The prior left the parlour, closing the door firmly behind him. The infirmarian sat down, glancing swiftly at his two companions. Athelstan closed his eyes, sick to his heart. Prior Anselm returned.
‘Brother Norbert,’ he announced, ‘and other senior friars have conducted the most thorough search of your chambers. They have found certain items: pouches of documents secreted away, articles of clothing, mementos, weapons which certainly have bearing on what Brother Athelstan has told us.’
‘But what does it matter?’ The gatekeeper smiled. ‘We will make an appeal. We are prepared to journey to Rome. We are Dominicans; we plead benefit of clergy.’ The gatekeeper pointed at Cranston, whose hands now rested on his sword in its sheath on the table. ‘The King’s courts have no authority over me or my companions. We are religious and must be tried by ecclesiastical commission.’
Athelstan stared at the three men. He already anticipated their defence. The gatekeeper was correct, they were clerics. There would be long appeals to Rome followed by even longer journeys there to appear before this tribunal or that. Adjournments, delays and postponements would be the order of the day. The process might take years to complete and these three men would continue to live in relative comfort, even though their hands were soaked in the blood of innocents. Athelstan arose abruptly to his feet.
‘Confess!’ he demanded.
‘Nonsense.’ The infirmarian sneered. ‘In God’s name, little Athelstan, you do not know who you are dealing with.’
‘No, I do not and neither do you. So,’ Athelstan jabbed a finger in the face of the man whom he’d once regarded as a close friend and master, ‘you can prattle on,’ Athelstan accused, ‘you can jabber, you can twist and turn, but I tell you this, Prior Anselm and I will petition our Minister General on a matter of great urgency.’
‘Which is what?’
‘Something you have overlooked,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘I will demand that a certain grave in our house at Oxford, the one beneath the flagstones of the church there, the small crypt which now houses the mortal remains of King Edward II of England as well as those of his lover Peter Gaveston, be opened. I will argue that these remains should not lie buried in hallowed ground. In my view, the lives of both men leave much to judge and even more to condemn. So why should a Dominican church house them? I shall argue, and Prior Anselm here will support me, that the diabolic coven which supported both men have caused the death of at least four Dominicans including the papal envoy, not to mention a host of innocents. I shall insist that the remains from that tomb be removed from consecrated ground and hung in chains from a tree in a common cemetery …’
Athelstan paused. He had hit his mark, an arrow to the heart of the target. ‘Thomas Dunheved,’ he hissed. ‘What say you?’ Athelstan hid his excitement. For the first time ever his opponent had dropped the mask; he now stared in horror at Athelstan.
‘You wouldn’t,’ he stammered.
‘By God’s grace we would,’ Prior Anselm retorted. ‘I would use every single drop of influence I have in both church and court to purge that grave. After all,’ Anselm’s face creased into a sour smile, ‘what does it contain? Gaveston and the other remains?’
‘The King would object.’
‘No, Brother Thomas,’ Cranston swiftly intervened, ‘that is where you are truly wrong. The King and his councillors will review what has been discovered. Trust me, discretion is the better part of valour. The royal council will eventually decide that the canonisation of Edward II is not the best path to follow.’ Cranston drummed his fingers on the table. ‘They will soon put an end to all this nonsense. They will confirm the published and proclaimed story, that Edward II lies buried in splendour at St Peter’s Abbey, Gloucester and no other place.’
Athelstan sat down on his chair and hid his surprise as the three accused seemed to forget where they were. They conversed swiftly in Italian, a patois Athelstan could not follow and, from the looks on other people’s faces, neither could anyone else in that chamber. Prior Anselm was going to intervene but Athelstan lifted his hand as a sign to let them continue. Thomas Dunheved spoke swiftly, jabbing the air with his fingers. Once he glanced towards Athelstan
and the friar flinched at the sheer hatred in Thomas Dunheved’s eyes, a malice which could also be seen in the expression of his two companions. Athelstan realised these men were his mortal enemies. He must never be alone with them or, if they requested, meet them without a sure defence and shield. At last the strange conversation ended. Thomas Dunheved placed his hands flat on the table, drawing one deep breath after another. He glanced up, forcing a smile to hide his fury. ‘And if we accede to what you want? If my colleagues and I write a true account, the tomb at Oxford will not be disturbed?’
‘The tomb at Oxford will not be disturbed,’ Athelstan confirmed, ‘but you must face the consequences of your actions.’
Dunheved turned and spoke swiftly in Italian to his two companions, who nodded in agreement.
‘Knowing you, Athelstan,’ Thomas Dunheved’s sharp black eyes were unblinking in their gaze, ‘we are to be taken to a chancery office. You want our confession in writing?’
‘I do. One account will suffice, provided all three confirm it. Brother Paschal and two other friars will be witnesses. I do have questions.’
‘Of course you have, little friar.’ Thomas Dunheved was now relaxed. He reminded Athelstan of a gambler who’d played a game, put all on one throw and lost; the way he now looked and how he acted was all that mattered. ‘I won’t beg,’ he sneered. ‘Nor will Stephen or Giles.’
‘I know that,’ Athelstan agreed.
‘But you have questions?’
‘My first question is why?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You are Dominicans, friars, preachers, priests. Why all this murderous mayhem?’
‘You ask me that, little Athelstan, and I taught you. Don’t you have a force within you, a dream to follow?’
‘But you killed, you murdered.’