by Paul Doherty
The sub-sacristan fled like a frightened rabbit.
‘The man’s an idiot,’ the Master Inquisitor snapped.
‘No, Master William, he is a child of God, frightened out of his wits. And God only knows there is something frightening, dark and sinister in this monastery.’ With that Anselm nodded at his companions and strolled out.
Prior Anselm’s prophecies proved correct. Later that same day, after Vespers had been sung and the brothers had either gone to their individual cells or were walking in the coolness of the cloistered garden, Brother Callixtus returned to the library and scriptorium.
Contrary to regulations, he re-lit the tall candles so he could continue his search. Callixtus was one of the most well read members of the Dominican Order and was proud of his prodigious memory. He was interested in the debate of the Inner Chapter and wished to make a name for himself. He made sure the scriptorium door was closed before closely studying the shelves that reached to the ceiling. They contained leatherbound volumes, the treatises and writings of the Fathers of the Church carefully sewn within. During the day Callixtus had searched amongst the lower shelves but now he was intent on completing his task: after all, it was only a matter of finding the manuscript containing the information he needed. Callixtus had boasted to Alcuin that he would, though he’d tapped his long bony nose when asked for further details. He would show these theologians that there was nothing new under the sun and how the greatest students were the lovers of books.
Callixtus lit a few more candles and stared at the shelves towering above him. He pushed the long ladder to the place he wanted and carefully climbed, a candle gripped tightly in his hand. He looked at the gold lettering on the spine of one volume, carefully etched by some former librarian: Letters, Books and Documents of the Apostolic Age. Callixtus smirked to himself and shook his head. He carefully studied the others. He heard a sound below and stared down fearfully.
‘Who’s there?’ he called softly.
Surely, he thought, none of the brothers would come in? Those who worked in the scriptorium would be tired, their eyes aching, their fingers cramped; they would be only too pleased to enjoy the evening sunshine. Callixtus continued his feverish search. He must find that tome before Athelstan arrived. Nothing remained secret for long and, after the evening meal, the gossip had run through the monastery like fire amongst dry stubble. Athelstan, that black sheep of the family, was returning to the fold!
Callixtus did not object to Athelstan. As far as a man like Callixtus could, he liked, even respected, the ascetic yet sardonic parish priest of the poor. However, he did not wish Athelstan to gain all the credit. A book caught Callixtus’s eyes. Holding the candle, he stretched out to grasp it just as the ladder was violently turned. The librarian slipped and, too terrified even to scream, plummeted like a stone to the stone floor of the scriptorium. He felt violent pain surge through his body. Callixtus gasped, trying for air, as the crash had knocked the breath out of his body: fortunately, he had fallen on to his left arm and this had protected him from more serious injury. He heard a sound and, despite the shivers of pain, turned to the dark shadowy figure bending over him.
‘Help me!’ he moaned.
‘Into eternity!’ came the hissed reply.
Callixtus opened his mouth. ‘No,’ he groaned. ‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean to!’ He made to crawl away and, as he did so, the cowled figure smashed a heavy brass candlestick on to his temple, cracking Callixtus’s head like a nut so the blood and brains seeped out.
The day after the ‘Great Miracle’, Athelstan’s troubles began in earnest. The news of the cure swept along the fetid alleyways of Southwark. The sick and the lame trooped to the church, to be welcomed by an ecstatic Watkin and Pike who turned the entrance to St Erconwald’s into a small market place.
‘They’ll soon get tired,’ Athelstan muttered to Bonaventure as he stood outside his house. He watched the long line of hopeful pilgrims queue up to go into the church, have a glimpse of the skeleton, light a candle in front of the great wooden coffin and say a prayer. Athelstan had decided to put a cheerful face on matters. The workmen in the sanctuary would be allowed to continue and he was certain Cranston would come up with some further information which would resolve the matter once and for all.
Nevertheless, by early afternoon Athelstan’s optimism had evaporated. Other cures had been reported: a child with warts claimed his gruesome ailment had disappeared. A bilious stomach was soothed, pains in the groin disappeared, a growing list of ailments cleared up after the inflicted person had prayed before the coffin. Master Bladdersniff and the other wardmen came to complain but all Athelstan could do was shout his displeasure at what was happening, say the matter was out of his hands and lock himself inside the security of his own home.
The news of St Erconwald’s miraculous find attracted all the human hawks and kites who lurked in Southwark: the counterfeiters, the upright men, the tinkers and pedlars of religious objects. They gathered like flies round a rubbish heap. One rogue with a patch over his eye and a pretended lame foot, hobbled into St Erconwald’s then came out throwing away his crutch, claiming he had been cured and offering to sell the crutch as a sacred object. He stood outside Athelstan’s house shouting at a gaping group of onlookers that for a shilling sterling this sacred wood which had taken him to Jerusalem and back was theirs for the asking. Inside the house Athelstan cringed. Then another, more strident, voice could be heard from the church.
‘I bring pardons from Rome! From the Vicar of Christ himself in Avignon! If you buy this parchment which was written in ink from a pot fashioned out of the very wood of the baby Jesus’s manger, then, for a price, all your sins will be forgiven and you shall receive an indulgence of a thousand days and nights off your time in Purgatory!’
Athelstan, sitting with his head in his hands, could stand no more. He unbolted the door, threw it open and stalked out. He seized the wooden crutch of the upright man and gave him a resounding thwack across the back.
‘In God’s name, go!’ he yelled. ‘Have you not heard the verse: “This is the House of God and Gate of Heaven”? Not some shabby booth in Cheapside!’
The fellow stumbled, his hand going to the stabbing knife in his belt. Athelstan, still holding the crutch, advanced on him threateningly.
‘Go on, you little piss turd!’ he shouted, quoting directly from Cranston. ‘Draw that dagger and I’ll knock your bloody head straight off your shoulders!’ The angry priest jabbed a finger at the small group of onlookers. ‘These are honest people, they earn their pennies by the sweat of their brow!’
The fellow threw one baleful look at Athelstan and quickly retreated. The priest leaned on the crutch, breathing heavily.
‘I am sorry,’ he murmured at the now frightened spectators, ‘but go home. Look after your wives, husbands and children. Keep your money. Go and love those around you and you’ll find God there, not in this painful mummery of cheap tricks!’
‘A pardon!’ the strident voice suddenly shouted. ‘A pardon for your sins! The Gate of Heaven beckons!’
Athelstan drew himself up and glared at the Pardoner who stood on the church steps, his back towards him. Without thinking Athelstan walked over and, using the end of the crutch, jabbed the man fiercely in the small of the back, sending him stumbling down the steps. The man sprawled on all fours and turned, his bitter yellow face a mask of hatred, lips curling to reveal blackened teeth and eyes narrowed in fury. The priest crouched down on top of the steps.
‘I am going to close my eyes,’ he said quietly, ‘and recite the Ave Maria. When I get to the phrase “Now and at the hour of our death”, I will open my eyes. And if you are still here, I will beat you black and blue and throw you into a midden heap!’
Athelstan had hardly reached the words ‘Sancta Maria’ when, half-opening one eye, he saw the Pardoner scampering like a rabbit away from the church. Athelstan got up and stared at Watkin and Pike just inside the door of the church.
‘If you
allow that to happen again,’ he murmured, ‘you may be my parishioners but you’ll no longer be my friends!’
He then walked slowly back to his house, locked the door and went up to lie on his bed. ‘If there’s a God in heaven,’ he murmured, ‘surely the truth will come out?’
On the following morning St Erconwald’s was a little quieter after Athelstan’s violent reaction of the previous day. The truth didn’t arrive but Cranston and Father Prior did. Athelstan had just said mass on the makeshift altar. He had checked that the workmen were making good progress, fed Philomel, and was breaking his fast on his last bowl of soup and a cup of watered wine when Cranston pounded on the door and swept in as if he was the Holy Ghost.
‘Morning, monk!’ Cranston bellowed, his miraculous wineskin clutched in one hand. Without being invited, he refilled Athelstan’s cup, took a generous swig, belched, and summoned a smiling Father Prior into the house. Athelstan rose.
‘Good morning, Father. You’ll join Sir John and I in some wine even though the hour is early?’
Prior Anselm smiled admiringly at Cranston.
‘Why not?’ he murmured. ‘Truly the psalmist claims wine gladdens the heart of man whilst, in his letters to Timothy, St Paul said: “Use a little wine for thy stomach’s sake”.’
Cranston belched and beamed at the prior.
‘Is that right?’ he asked.
‘Of course, Sir John.’
‘In which case,’ Cranston pronounced, ‘St Paul is my favourite saint. I must tell Lady Maude that. The letters to Our Lady?’
‘No, Sir John,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘The letter to Timothy. Father Prior, do sit down. You, Sir John, a cup from the buttery?’
Once they were settled, Cranston beaming and Father Prior sipping gently from the pewter cup, Athelstan rubbed his face.
‘You look tired, monk,’ Cranston commented.
Athelstan waved a hand at the door. ‘You know the reason, Sir John. That bloody skeleton and, what’s even worse, the bloody stupidity of my parishioners, so gullible they would accept black is white if someone used the right honeyed phrases.’
‘Yes, I have heard,’ Father Prior interrupted.
Sir John shifted on his stool.
‘I’m doing what I can!’ the coroner bellowed. ‘I’ve got clerks looking up the records and pursuivants, searching amongst the filth of Whitechapel to discover the whereabouts of Master Fitzwolfe, but so far – nothing.’ He gulped from his wineskin. ‘And the scarlet chamber?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes.
‘Nothing, Sir John, nothing at all.’
‘The scarlet chamber?’ the prior queried.
Cranston forced a laugh. ‘Our little joke, Father Prior. A riddle this good priest and I are trying to resolve.’
‘I am here because of a riddle,’ the prior said, looking directly at Athelstan. ‘Sir John may have told you what has been happening at Blackfriars. Now there’s worse.’ He put down his cup. ‘Brother Bruno died mysteriously. Alcuin the sacristan is still missing. Roger the sub-sacristan . . . you may remember him, Brother?’
Athelstan nodded.
‘Well, he’s mumbling nonsense. The Inquisitors believe there’s heresy about. And now,’ he shifted the wine cup with his fingers, ‘Brother Callixtus the librarian was working in the scriptorium late last night – God knows why. He was searching amongst the top shelves. Well, the ladder slipped, he fell and dashed his brains out on the scriptorium floor.’
‘God rest him!’ Athelstan murmured, crossing himself quickly.
He recognised all the names Father Anselm had mentioned though the faces of these men were vague and indistinct. Some he had known from a distance when he was at Black-friars. Others, like Henry of Winchester and the Inquisitors, were visitors from other houses. Athelstan leaned against the table and thought quickly. If Father Prior had come a week ago Athelstan would have been very upset, but perhaps God worked in mysterious ways? Now a short stay away from St Erconwald’s might be for the best. He looked at the prior.
‘What do you think is happening at Blackfriars?’
Anselm stared into his cup. ‘God be my witness,’ he whispered, ‘but I think we have a son of Cain, a murderer, in our midst. I want you and Sir John to investigate. I want you to come now.’
‘What about St Erconwald’s?’ Athelstan asked.
Cranston leaned across and tapped him on the hand.
‘Don’t worry your noddle about it, Priest. What’s happening out there could be considered a breach of the peace. I’ll get a few burly Serjeants sent down with a writ from the corporation closing the church to everyone but those workmen.’
Athelstan nodded quickly. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘It would be for the best. Now, Father Prior,’ he said, ‘tell me exactly what is happening at Blackfriars.’
Athelstan closed his eyes and listened attentively to Father Anselm’s clear description of events over the last few days.
‘So,’ Athelstan concluded, ‘we have an Inner Chapter meeting at Blackfriars where Henry of Winchester is debating his theological treatise against the challenges of Brothers Peter and Niall whilst our friends from the Inquisition are present to sniff out heresy.’
‘Yes.’
‘And during that time, Brother Bruno and Brother Callixtus die, Alcuin is missing, whilst you seem very concerned about the mutterings and mumblings of a half-wit.’
The prior rubbed his eyes. ‘I am concerned because Brother Roger’s ramblings began after Alcuin’s disappearance. You see, by common report Alcuin went into the church to pray before the corpse of Brother Bruno. He locked the door behind him because he wanted to be alone. He often did that. Brother Roger knocked on the door but, receiving no answer, had to use another key to get in. Of Alcuin there was no sign.’ The prior laced his fingers together. ‘Somehow or other, Alcuin’s disappearance seems to have pushed Brother Roger’s mind deeper into darkness.’ The prior got to his feet. ‘You must come, Athelstan. Sir John will look after the church. I prefer to ask you, but if necessary I will order you as your superior.’
‘I’ll come,’ Athelstan replied. He rose and stretched. ‘A holiday from St Erconwald’s will be a rest indeed. Father Prior, you go back to Blackfriars. Sir John and I will join you in a while. I wish you to assemble the members of the Inner Chapter. I need to question them together.’
Father Prior nodded, hitched the girdle round his robe and left by the open door. Athelstan watched him walk down to where his horse stood tethered near the church steps.
‘Oh, Sir John?’ He himself turned. ‘The letter about Benedicta’s husband. It’s gone?’
‘Like an arrow from a bow.’
‘Good!’
Athelstan went out into the yard and saw a group of children playing on the steps.
‘Crim! Crim! As fast as you can, go to Mistress Benedicta’s house and tell her to come here, please!’
He walked back into the kitchen where Cranston was pouring more wine. ‘Be careful, Sir John,’ he warned. ‘You’ll need your wits about you this afternoon.’
‘I need a bloody drink!’ Cranston snapped crossly. ‘Especially if I am going to spend the day with a group of mouldy monks!’
‘Fearsome friars more like!’ Athelstan joked.
Cranston burped.
‘Lady Maude and the children are well?’
‘Aye, but I’ll be staying at Blackfriars,’ the coroner answered. ‘I think the Lady Maude has got wind of my stupid wager. You know what she’s like, Athelstan.’ Cranston blew out his cheeks. ‘The Lady Maude doesn’t nag but I can’t stand those long mournful glances. Brother,’ his eyes pleaded with Athelstan, ‘that problem must be resolved.’
Athelstan turned his back so Cranston couldn’t see the desperation on his face.
‘Skeletons, mysterious murders, and an assassin loose in a monastery!’ Athelstan closed his eyes. ‘Oh, sweet God, help us!’
He busied himself about the kitchen until he heard a knock on the door.
‘C
ome in!’ he shouted.
Benedicta entered, her beautiful face now drawn and anxious. She nodded at Cranston.
‘What’s wrong, Brother? Why have I been sent for?’
Athelstan ushered her to a stool and sat down next to her.
‘Benedicta, the letter’s gone but we will have to wait for a reply. I have to leave the parish for a while and go to Blackfriars.’ He touched her gently on the wrist. Cranston, embarrassed, coughed and looked away. ‘Listen, Benedicta,’ Athelstan continued, ‘as soon as I have gone, summon the parish council to a meeting this evening.’ He took his ring of keys from his belt. ‘You can meet here. Try and talk some sense into them. Look after the church. Keep an eye on the workmen, they should finish in a few days. Feed Bonaventure. For God’s sake, keep an eye on Cecily.’ He grinned. ‘She’s the only one more important to Watkin and Pike than that skeleton!’
Benedicta took the keys. ‘Take care, Father,’ she murmured. ‘We’ll miss you.’ She left as quietly as she had come.
‘A good woman that,’ Cranston said in a mocking voice. ‘A truly wholesome woman.’ He staggered to his feet, his great bulk swaying as he concentrated all his fuddled wits on putting the stopper back into the wineskin. ‘A good sleep,’ he murmured, ‘and I’ll be right as rain.’
Athelstan hastily tidied away the cups. He changed his robes, washed, and took down the battered saddle with its leather panniers for his writing tray, parchment, quills and ink horn. He then saddled a protesting Philomel, whose ideal day of sleeping between meals was so abruptly ended. Within the hour, Cranston, snoring, burping and farting in his saddle, led his ‘beloved clerk’, as he called Athelstan, down to London Bridge.
CHAPTER 5
They had to fight their way across as the carts, their produce emptied at the markets, made their way out of the city before curfew sounded. On Bridge Street the fish market stank like a rancid herring. Athelstan glimpsed some of the stale fish the vendors were still trying to clear and quietly vowed to be wary of any fish pie served in the cookshops or taverns. On such a fine day all of London was out of doors. The rich in satin and murrey clothes rubbed shoulders with urchins, their thin bodies barely covered by dirty tattered rags. A group of prostitutes, with heads freshly shaven, were led by a bagpiper to stand in the round house called the Tun at Cheapside. They turned left into Ropery where the stalls were covered with every type of cord, rope, string and twine – some dyed in brilliant colours, others rusty coils to be bought by masons and builders. The apprentices ran out seeking trade, even brushing off the bridles of horses, but one look at the red-faced Cranston and the dark-cowled priest and they turned away.