by Paul Doherty
Athelstan heard a commotion below but decided to ignore it. Then a series of shouts and exclamations, followed by a loud knocking on the door. He breathed a final prayer and hurried down. Watkin and Pike stood there, faces bright with excitement.
‘Father! Father! You’ve got to come! There’s been a miracle!’
‘Every day’s a miracle,’ he replied harshly.
‘No, Father, a real miracle.’
They dragged him out of the house and round to the front of the church where a small crowd had assembled. They ringed a tall, white-haired man who had the sleeve of his green gown pushed back and was showing his arm to all and sundry.
‘What is this?’ Athelstan snapped, forcing his way through.
The fellow turned. His face was broad and suntanned. Athelstan noted the laughter wrinkles round his mouth and eyes and the good quality of his garments. Beside him was a woman, auburn ringlets peeping out from under a light blue head-dress; her buttercup yellow smock over a white shift looked costly, well cut and clean. The man smiled at Athelstan.
‘Father, a miracle!’
‘Nonsense!’ snapped Athelstan.
‘Look, Father!’ The man showed Athelstan his right arm from elbow to wrist. ‘When I woke this morning my arm was infected. Five days ago I received a cut.’ He pointed to a small, pink line still faintly discernible halfway up his arm. ‘I left it untreated and so contagion set in, corrupting the skin. Physician Culpepper treated it with ointments and bound it with bandages but it got no better.’ The fellow looked round and Athelstan saw many of his parishioners staring owl-eyed and open-mouthed at the man’s dramatic story.
‘Last night I could not sleep, Father. The itching was so intense.’ He licked his full lips. ‘Yesterday we heard about the saint being discovered. Father,’ the man’s eyes pleaded with Athelstan, ‘I became desperate. I went into your church. I leaned against the coffin and prayed for help.’
‘It’s true!’ The young woman beside him spoke up. She pointed to a pile of dirty bandages just outside the church door. ‘My husband said he felt better, the pain and itching had gone.’ Her smiling eyes pleaded with Athelstan. ‘I can only tell you what happened. We took the bandages off.’ She pointed to a water-seller hurrying down the street. ‘I bought a stoup of water and cleansed the arm. There was no contagion, Father. The skin is as clear as a baby’s!’
A gasp of astonishment greeted her declaration. Athelstan gazed suspiciously at the man’s arm.
‘You said you leaned against the parish coffin and said a prayer?’
The man now unrolled the sleeve of his gown. ‘It’s as I have said, Father. I was there no more than ten minutes.’
‘I saw the bandage being taken off!’ Watkin shouted. ‘It’s true, Father! It’s a miracle!’
People crossed themselves and looked fearfully back at the church.
‘Father,’ Tab the tinker roared, ‘what shall we do?’
‘We should shut up, Tab, and keep a cool head. Come!’ Athelstan ordered. ‘Everyone, back into the church. Pike, go and get physician Culpepper. Give him my apologies but it’s important that he come here now.’
The parishioners followed Athelstan and the man with the miraculous cure back into St Erconwald’s. Athelstan ordered them to sit down on a bench and keep quiet. He went outside and leaned against the door as an excited clamour broke out behind him. He crouched and examined the pile of dirty bandages: they were soiled with dark stains and gave off a putrid odour. Athelstan was still scrutinising them when Pike returned with an aggrieved-looking Culpepper.
‘Father, what is it now?’
‘Master physician, I apologise but there’s a man in the church, one of your patients. He claims his arm had some putrefaction of the skin, that you dressed and bandaged it.’
Culpepper hitched his fur-trimmed robe closer round his bony shoulders, his usually humorous face now tense with vexation.
‘Father, is this all it’s about? I can’t remember every injury!’
‘Go in there,’ Athelstan pleaded. ‘Go in, see the man, look at his arm and then come back and tell me.’
Shaking his head and muttering curses, Culpepper obeyed. Athelstan stayed outside. The babble of voices behind him stilled for a while and then broke out again as Culpepper, a surprised, anxious look on his face, re-emerged from the church.
‘Well?’ Pike asked, his face and body tense as a whippet’s.
The physician looked sheepishly at Athelstan.
‘It’s true, Father. Some days ago Raymond D’Arques came to me with a terrible skin infection. I examined it carefully, put some ointment on, bandaged it and charged him a fee.’
The arm was putrefying?’
‘Definitely, Father. Some sort of fungus-like rash which coarsened the skin and caused a terrible itching.’
‘And now it’s healed?’
‘You have seen it, Father. So have I.’
‘Could such an infection be healed by the ointment you put on it?’
‘I doubt it, Father. Not in the time. Such infections, and I have seen them before, take weeks, even months to heal. The skin is now wholesome and fresh.’
Athelstan kicked the small pile of bandages. ‘And these are yours?’
The doctor picked them up without a second thought and sniffed them carefully. ‘Yes, Father, and if you don’t need them, and he certainly doesn’t, I’ll take them back to use again.’ The physician pushed his face close to Athelstan’s. ‘I can’t explain it, Father, and neither can you. Anyway, why shouldn’t God work miracles in St Erconwald’s?’ He turned on his heel and stamped off down the street.
Athelstan looked at Pike. ‘What do you know of this Raymond D’Arques?’
‘A good man, Father. He and his wife Margot live off Dog Leg Lane. He owns quite a big house near the Skinner’s Yard.’
Athelstan leaned against the wall. Dog Leg Lane was just within the boundary of his parish.
‘I never see them at church,’ he muttered.
‘Ah,’ Pike replied, ‘that’s because he and his young wife are prosperous and go to St Swithin’s. They are good, pious people, Father, and give regularly to the poor. He’s a fair tradesman, well liked and respected. You ask old Bladdersniff. He knows every man’s business.’
Athelstan sighed and went back into the church where his excited parishioners now ringed Raymond D’Arques and his wife. The man came towards him, waving the others back.
‘Father,’ he whispered, ‘I am sorry. My arm was sickly, I came here to pray. All I can do is thank God and you. Please accept this.’ He pushed a silver coin into Athelstan’s hand.
The priest stepped back. ‘No, no, I can’t.’
‘Father, you must. It’s my offering. If the church won’t have it, give it to the poor.’ D’Arques clasped Athelstan’s hand. ‘Please, Father, I won’t trouble you again. Margot,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘we have bothered this poor priest enough.’
He walked away. His wife smiled at Athelstan, touched him gently on the hand and slipped quietly through the door after her husband.
‘Well, Father!’ Watkin the dung-collector, arms folded, legs apart, confronted his priest. ‘Well, Father,’ he repeated, ‘we have our miracle. The cure proves that we have a saint here in St Erconwald’s.’
Athelstan saw the gleam of anticipated profit in the dung-collector’s eyes.
‘There’ll be pilgrimages!’ the sexton shouted. ‘St Erconwald’s will become famous. You can’t stop us,’ he added defiantly. ‘You know church law. The nave belongs to the people. This is our church!’ He pointed a stubby finger towards the transept. ‘That’s our coffin, our skeleton and our saint. Anyone who thinks different can bugger off!’
A chorus of approval greeted his words. Athelstan looked at his parishioners. He just wished Benedicta was here to calm things for he recognised the dangerous mixture of religious fervour and the prospect of fat profits stirred up in the rest. Tab the tinker would go back to his shop and hammer
out fine amulets, effigies and crosses, and be selling them within a day. Amasias the fuller would display cloths embroidered with an ‘E’ which he would claim had touched the remains of the saint. Huddle the painter would sell crude drawings on pieces of parchment. Pike would get his wife to bake bread and sweetmeats and form an unholy alliance with Watkin to levy a toll upon the pilgrims and sightseers. Athelstan felt a surge of pity but realised that now was not the time for cool logic or blunt truth.
‘Let me think about it,’ he said. He drew himself to his full height and stared round at his parishioners. ‘Little children,’ he declared, using the phrase he always called them on giving a sermon, ‘I beg you to be careful and prudent. God works miracles. This day is a miracle. Each of you, unique in yourself, is a miracle. Do not act hastily for this matter is not yet resolved. I will not oppose you, but think about what this will do to you and our parish in the end. You are good people but I think you are blinded.’
‘What about the miracle?’ Mugwort shouted. ‘What about our martyr?’
Athelstan smiled. ‘As the psalmist says, Mugwort, who knows the mind of God? We shall see, we shall see.’
He turned on his heel and left them and, despite the hour, went back to his house and drank a cup of wine with a speed the Lord Coroner would have admired.
CHAPTER 4
On the Monday of the Great Miracle at St Erconwald’s, Afheltan’s superior, Father Anselm, sat in his study with members of the Inner Chapter and wondered if there was an assassin loose at Blackfriars. Brother Bruno’s fall down the steps of the crypt and, more strangely, Brother Alcuin’s disappearance, raised such a possibility – as if there were not matters enough to tax the brain and fatigue the body.
He looked around the long, wooden table at his companions assembled there: hatchet-faced, sharp-eyed William de Conches, Master Inquisitor; the smooth-faced, boyish but brilliant theologian, Brother Henry of Winchester; Brother Callixtus, the librarian, his long fingers stained with ink, eyes weak from peering at manuscripts and books. The thin and angular librarian was apparently distressed for he kept fidgeting on the bench and tapping his long fingers on the table top as if he really wished to be elsewhere. Next to him sat Brother Eugenius, completely bald with a cherublike face; his short, stubby features, smiling eyes and smiling mouth belied his fearsome reputation as the Master Inquisitor’s assistant, a fanatic constantly sniffing out heresy and schism. Finally, Brother Henry’s two opponents, the Defenders of the Cause, who would challenge his theological treatise and try to disprove its logic or else argue that it was against the orthodox teachings of the Church. Nevertheless, these Defenders of the Cause were likeable men! Peter of Chingforde, sturdy and stout, his dark bearded face always smiling. He had a down-to-earth manner and a rather blunt sense of humour which he kept concealed with his subtle and skilful questioning. Next to him, red-haired and white-faced, the Irish Dominican, Niall of Harryngton.
The Irishman now looked askance at the prior and hummed some hymn under his breath, beating a small tattoo on the table top. The prior smiled weakly back. He knew Brother Niall, ever impatient, wished to get back to the matter in hand, yet there were other more pressing affairs – not just the death of Bruno and the disappearance of Alcuin but the general business of the monastery and, above all, the importunate pleadings of the sub-sacristan, Brother Roger. The prior sighed. He really must make time for the poor man but Roger, a lay brother who years previously had fallen into the hands of the Inquisition whilst serving at a community outside Paris, was broken in spirit, weak in mind, and fearful of William de Conches and his insidious assistant Eugenius.
Anselm looked narrowly at those two: they sat, heads together, murmuring about something, and he wondered if he should report them to the Chapter General in Rome. True, the psalmist sang ‘Zeal for thy house has eaten me up’. Yet, with this precious pair, their enthusiasm and zeal for eating up heresy might swallow everyone. He stared back at the top of the table. Brother Henry sat there, hands apart, waiting for the debate to continue.
‘Father Prior,’ Brother Niall spoke up, ‘we have paused to sing Nones and eat and drink, so shouldn’t we continue?’
His question drew a chorus of approval from his companions. The prior nodded and waved at Brother Henry. The young Dominican smiled, smoothing the top of the table with his finger tips.
‘Father Prior,’ Brother Henry’s voice was low but quite distinct, ‘my general thesis is this: too much emphasis has been laid on the fact that Christ became man to save us from our sins.’ He held up one hand. ‘But if the venerable Aquinas is correct in his study of the Divine Nature, God is the “Summum Bonum”, the Supreme Good. How, therefore, can the Supreme Good, the Divine Beauty, be motivated by sin? Moreover,’ Brother Henry turned and looked fully at William de Conches, ‘if God is omnipotent, why couldn’t he save us from our sins by a simple decree?’
The prior tapped the top of the table. ‘Brother Peter, Brother Niall, how will you answer that?’
Brother Peter chuckled and grinned at him.
‘We do not try to answer it for Brother Henry speaks the truth. God is the Supreme Good, the Divine Beauty, he is omnipotent. We do not challenge such a thesis.’
The two inquisitors leaned forward like hawks waiting for Brother Henry to continue. The prior suddenly felt tired.
‘We cannot go on,’ he announced to his startled companions.
‘What do you mean?’ William de Conches grated. ‘Father Prior, we are assembled here to debate and dispute certain matters. The purity of the Church’s teaching is the issue at hand.’
‘No, Brother William!’ the prior snapped. ‘The issue at hand is a matter of life and death. Brother Bruno was killed in mysterious circumstances. Sometimes, I fear he may have been murdered!’
His pronouncement drew gasps of surprise from everyone.
‘And you think Alcuin may have been the perpetrator and sought refuge in flight?’ Eugenius asked silkily.
‘No, Alcuin is no murderer but I am frightened for him. You accuse him of murder and flight, Eugenius. How do we know he is alive at all?’
‘This is ridiculous!’ Eugenius snapped. ‘Why should anyone kill Bruno, and what makes you think Alcuin is dead?’
‘I don’t know, but since this Inner Chapter assembled, I sense an atmosphere of intrigue and malevolence not suited to these hallowed walls.’
‘So what do you propose?’ Brother Henry asked.
‘I have asked for the services of Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City.’
‘He is a lay man, an officer of the crown! He has no authority in this monastery!’ William de Conches exclaimed.
‘He has the King’s authority!’ Callixtus spoke up sharply and turned weak eyes towards the prior. ‘I suspect, Father, he will not be alone.’
Now the prior beamed with pleasure. ‘Callixtus, you have read my thoughts. Sir John will not be alone. I am going to ask his secretarius, his clerk, Brother Athelstan, a member of this Order and parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, to assist him.’
Callixtus leaned back and cackled dryly as William de Conches banged on the table.
‘Athelstan is disgraced!’ he shouted. ‘He broke his vows and fled the novitiate!’
‘God is compassionate,’ Brother Henry intervened. ‘So why shouldn’t we be? Brother Athelstan’s art in questioning is as skilful and ingenious as yours. I agree with Father Prior. We assembled here to debate certain theses but I sense something else here, a malevolence and hostility which has nothing to do with theology or philosophy.’
‘Do you really?’ Callixtus asked so sardonically the prior flinched at the old librarian’s patent dislike of the young theologian.
‘Yes, I do!’ Henry retorted.
‘Then,’ the prior intervened, ‘these matters are adjourned until the arrival of Athelstan and Sir John Cranston.’ He rose. ‘Until then, brothers.’ He nodded, sketched a blessing in the air, and the meeting ended.
The rest
of the Chapter trooped out but William de Conches and Eugenius stayed behind. They waited until the door closed before rounding on the prior.
‘What are you doing?’ William snarled. ‘We have not travelled from Rome to waste time on the mundane tasks of a monastery.’
‘I am Father Prior,’ Anselm interrupted, ‘the official guardian of this monastery. You are my guests – you will obey my orders or leave. If you do so, I shall report you to my Father General in Rome!’
‘This Athelstan,’ Eugenius asked, ‘he works amongst the poor?’ He folded his hands. ‘Are the stories true, Father Prior, that he has become infected by certain radical theories which allege all men are equal?’ He warmed to this theme. ‘I refer particularly to those agitators who work to overthrow Church and State in pursuit of some earthly paradise.’
Anselm glared at this dissimulating priest, so used to trapping others in heresy. He bit his lip then leaned forward. ‘Brother Eugenius,’ he answered sweetly, ‘you yourself talk heresy. You actually defy scripture, for did not Christ our Lord tell his disciples that we were not to be like the pagans who love to lord it over each other and see others bend the knee before them?’
The assistant inquisitor’s eyes hardened and the debate might have become more heated had it not been interrupted by a knock on the door.
‘Come in!’ Anselm ordered.
Roger the sub-sacristan entered, his haggard face fearful, his close-set eyes watchful. He shuffled in with stooped shoulders, took one look at the Master Inquisitor and would have scuttled away if Anselm had not gripped his wrist tightly.
‘Brother Roger, what is it?’
The sub-sacristan scratched his wispy hair and glanced sideways. ‘Father Prior,’ he mumbled. He rubbed the side of his head. ‘I had something to tell you. Something about thirteen and there shouldn’t have been thirteen.’ His anxious eyes held Anselm’s. ‘But I can’t remember now, Father Prior. It’s important but I can’t remember!’
Anselm released the poor man’s wrist. ‘Think awhile,’ he said, ‘and then come back.’