by Paul Doherty
Anselm, followed by Athelstan and Cranston, strode across the bright polished floor. The prior pulled back the cloth. An old man lay with his head against a bolster: the hair round his tonsure was snow-white, his face thin and high cheek-boned under eyes once bright but now covered by a milky white film.
‘Who is it?’ The voice was surprisingly strong.
‘It’s Father Prior. I have brought two friends, Sir John Cranston and young Athelstan.’
Cranston nudged his colleague playfully.
‘Young Athelstan!’ he whispered in mimicry.
‘I know you, Cranston.’ Brother Paul turned his head. ‘I often worked in Newgate, the Fleet and Marshalsea prisons, hearing the confessions of condemned felons. Do you know, they always called you a bastard?’ The old friar’s lips parted in a toothless grin. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘a just, even compassionate, bastard!’
Cranston pushed his way past the others and crouched by the bed.
‘Of course,’ he muttered, ‘I remember you. The friar who always insisted on cases being reviewed. You saved many a man from the hangman’s noose.’
The old friar cackled with laughter, his hand going out to fall on Sir John’s shoulder.
‘Still as slender as ever, Sir John.’ Father Paul moved his hand. ‘Athelstan, where are you, you young scapegrace?’
He clasped the old man’s spotted, vein-streaked hand and his eyes brimmed with tears for he remembered Father Paul: he had been old when Athelstan was a novice, but vigorous, sharp, with an incisive brain and a cutting tongue. He used to lecture the novices in philosophy, theology and the subjects of the Quadrivium.
‘Still studying the stars, Brother, are we?’
Athelstan patted the old man’s hand.
‘I always remember you quoting the psalms, Father Paul: “Who shall know the ways of the Lord? As the heavens and its lights are far above the earth so are his ways above ours.’”
‘You haven’t quoted correctly!’ the old friar snapped. ‘You were always a dreamer. Anyway, what do you want with me, a sick old man?’
‘Does the name Hildegarde mean anything to you?’
Brother Paul neighed with laughter.
‘Are you here to dig over the sins of my youth?’ he snorted, and turned his head in the direction of Athelstan’s voice. ‘My eyes are gone, Brother Athelstan, but my memory is still sharp. Hildegarde is a woman’s name. I remember you, with your dark eyes and soft heart. Do you remember what I told you above love? How dreadful it can be for a priest to meet someone he really loves?’ The old friar turned away, bony fingers scrabbling at his cheeks. ‘I once knew a woman called Hildegarde. She had the face of an angel and a heart as wicked as sin.’ He laughed. ‘But I suppose that’s not the Hildegarde you are searching for? You are looking for a German woman, an abbess, who lived – what? – a hundred and twenty, a hundred and fifty years ago.’ He paused and stared blindly at the ceiling.
‘What more can you tell us?’ the prior asked.
The old man shook his head wearily. ‘I can’t, Father Superior, but the library will. Yes, yes, look in the library.’ His hand fell away. ‘Over the passing of years,’ he whispered, ‘I know the name but can’t tell you the reason why.’
Athelstan took his hand and squeezed it gently.
‘Thank you, Father Paul.’
The old friar pulled Athelstan’s wrist.
‘May the Lord keep you. May he show his face to you and smile. May he bless you and keep you all the days of your life.’
He gently removed his hand and they quietly left the in firmary, Athelstan guiltily realising how much he owed to and yet how much he had forgotten of his life at Blackfriars. Outside in the flower garden, Cranston went to admire a rose bush in full bloom. Athelstan took his superior’s arm and whispered urgently.
‘Father, we now have a number of connections; Alcuin and Callixtus were linked by the name Hildegarde. Callixtus was killed in the library, not from a fall but by a blow with a candlestick. To be blunt, I believe Callixtus was looking for some book or tract related to this Hildegarde.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Father, I believe that the name Hildegarde lies at the root of all the murders perpetrated here.’
Father Prior took a deep breath and stared up at the blue sky. ‘I see the connections, Brother Athelstan, but what in the sweet Lord’s name does the name Hildegarde have to do with the meeting of the Inner Chapter?’ He flung up his hands in frustration. ‘You have seen our library, Brother. Shelf after shelf of books, some three to four hundred pages deep. You could spend a lifetime searching there. And how do we know the assassin hasn’t already found what Callixtus was looking for?’
‘Perhaps he has, but let’s be optimistic. If he hasn’t then we have checked him. Any further searching amongst the books now would attract our attention.’
Cranston rejoined them, a young, dew-wet rose between his fingers.
‘I heard what you said, Father Prior, but let old Sir John apply the knife of logic. Callixtus was at the top of the ladder, yes?’ He breathed in stertorously. ‘He was therefore looking for a book on the top shelf. We know roughly where the ladder was positioned.’ Cranston stuck out his great stomach. ‘Ergo,’ he announced, mimicking Athelstan, ‘the conclusion’s obvious. Callixtus may well have discovered something about this famous Hildegarde in one of the books. Now we can’t spend our time in the library, that would alarm our quarry, but that splendid lay brother who supplies me with mead . . . what’s his name?’
‘Norbert.’
‘Yes, we’ll use him.’
The prior agreed and they went back into the main monastery buildings where Anselm sent a servitor with instructions for Norbert to meet them in the library. They found the scriptorium and the library fairly deserted and those few monks working there quietly left at the prior’s request. Brother Norbert, breathless from running, soon joined them. Athelstan took the young lay brother by the arm to the spot where Brother Callixtus had lain and looked up at the shelves towering above them.
‘Norbert, after our business in the chapel is finished, I wish you to begin removing all the books from the three top shelves.’ He pointed to the place. ‘Only these books. I want them moved, if necessary one at a time, to the guest house without anyone seeing you. Do you understand?’
The young lay brother nodded. Athelstan rubbed his hands.
‘Good!’ He looked at his companions. ‘I am sure Brother Norbert can keep a still tongue in his head. Now, come. The others in the chapel must be fretting with impatience.’
Athelstan was right. The rest of the Inner Chapter were sitting in the stalls of the sanctuary grumbling quietly amongst themselves whilst, behind the high altar, a sweating, red-faced lay brother was prising loose the flagstones over the burial vault. Norbert joined in whilst Father Prior made desultory conversation until a sweat-soaked lay brother called out: ‘Father Prior, all is ready!’
Athelstan, Cranston and the rest went round the high altar Roger’s coffin had been moved to the side; the red carpet was rolled up and the flagstones lifted as well as the supporting oak beams beneath so the vault now lay open. Brother Norbert and his companions now took a pair of ladders and gingerly went down into the vault. Father Prior passed a lighted candle.
Cranston looked down and shivered. He could glimpse coffins and realised that the vault was a vast mausoleum. Ropes snaked down.
‘We have found Bruno’s coffin!’ Norbert’s voice sounded hollow, ghostly, as if speaking from an abyss.
They heard a sliding noise, a slight crash and muffled oaths. Norbert and a lay brother re-emerged, throwing up the rope before they climbed back into the sanctuary.
‘Brother Bruno’s coffin now lies directly beneath us.’ Norbert gasped. ‘But we need help. It is very heavy!’
At the prior’s command everyone, Cranston and Athelstan included, began to pull at the ropes. It proved an onerous task for the pinewood coffin weighed like lead.
‘Of course,’ Father Prior gaspe
d, ‘to lower a coffin is easy.’ He smiled thinly. ‘But who’d think we would ever have to raise one?’
All of them pulled at the ropes but the task proved too much and Father Prior reluctantly conceded more help was needed. They paused for a while, letting the ropes down again, and Norbert was despatched to seek further assistance.
‘We might as well.’ Father Prior shrugged. ‘The rest of the community will get to know anyway.’
Norbert returned. Father Prior told the new helpers to keep a still tongue in their heads. This time others went down the ladder into the vault and eventually the great pinewood coffin was raised out of the vault and placed on one side of the sanctuary. Father Prior thanked everyone and dismissed the lay brothers, except for Brother Norbert. Athelstan’s arms and shoulders now ached whilst Cranston’s face was red as a plum, his face and neck soaked in sweat.
‘I could murder a cup of sack,’ he muttered. ‘Hell’s teeth, Athelstan! Brother Bruno seemed more reluctant to leave the grave than to go into it!’
‘There’s a reason for that, Sir John.’
Athelstan, not waiting for Father Prior, went across to the coffin and, having borrowed Cranston’s long stabbing dagger, began to prise the lid loose. A putrid smell of decay began to seep through the sanctuary even as the rest began to grumble at what he did. Father Prior opened his mouth to object but Athelstan defiantly continued, aided and helped by Cranston, who wrapped his cloak round his neck to cover his mouth and nose against the growing stench of decomposition. The chorus of disapproval grew so Cranston, pulling the cloak down, bellowed at them angrily: ‘If you can’t stand the stench, light some bloody incense!’
The prior agreed. Thuribles, charcoal and incense were brought. The charcoal was lit and incense scattered around the red hot coals. At last the coffin lid was loose. Athelstan shoved it away, even as he turned to gag at the dreadful smell which seeped through the incense-filled sanctuary like dirt in clear water.
‘Oh, my God!’ Cranston murmured.
Athelstan, pinching his nostrils, went back and looked over the lid of the coffin.
‘I have seen some terrible sights,’ Cranston declared, ‘but in God’s name . . .’
The decomposing body of Brother Bruno lay in a thin gauze sheet but, face down on top, was the gas-filled, rapidly decaying corpse of Brother Alcuin. Despite the stench and the apparent marks of decomposition, Athelstan stretched out his hand and touched the murdered man gently on the back of his head.
‘Oh, sweet Jesus, Mary’s son, have pity on you and may God forgive you all your sins!’
Athelstan stared down at this man he had once known, prayed with, eaten and drunk with, now brutally murdered, his corpse stuffed into a coffin like some filthy rag. He gently half-pushed the body over, trying not to look at the staring eyes and blue-black face, the protuberant swollen tongue. He pulled down the collar of the dead friar’s gown and saw the thin, purplish line of a garrotte.
‘For God’s sake, Father Prior!’ Cranston called out.
Anselm, white-faced, his eyes staring in horror, just stood rooted to the spot. The others, unable to look, had gone back round the altar, except for Brother Norbert.
‘You seem a sturdy fellow,’ Cranston continued. ‘Quick, get a burial sheet and coffin. Go on, man!’
Norbert scurried off and Cranston reasserted himself. He took Athelstan by the arm.
‘Come on, Brother,’ he said gently. ‘Come away. Father Prior needs your help.’
Athelstan tore his eyes from the disfigured corpse and walked over to Anselm.
‘Father Prior,’ he whispered, and grasped Anselm’s hand which felt like ice. ‘Father, come with us.’ He gripped the man by the shoulder and gave him a vigorous shake. ‘There’s nothing we can do here.’
CHAPTER 10
Father Prior allowed himself to be led away like some frightened child. Once he reached the choir stalls, he looked strangely at his companions as the full horror of what he had seen caught up with him. Covering his mouth with his hand, the prior walked quickly down the nave to retch and vomit outside the main door of the church.
Athelstan stood watching the rest: Henry of Winchester sat with his head in his hands; Brothers Niall and Peter, their faces white, crouched whispering to each other; whilst the two Inquisitors sat like men of straw, staring vacantly across the sanctuary. Athelstan forced himself to relax, breathing in deeply, trying to calm his stomach, to curb the urge to scream and yell at the blasphemy he had just seen.
Norbert and others returned with a canvas sheet and a new coffin. Athelstan thanked God for Sir John’s authority as coroner. Brother Norbert wrapped Alcuin’s body in a leather shroud and, cutting some of the rope, sealed the corpse in by binding it tightly and lowering it into the new coffin. Brother Norbert then piled more incense on the burning charcoal until it looked as if some sort of fire raged behind the altar as clouds of fragrant perfume rose to conceal the pervasive stench of corruption.
Athelstan stood, looking down the nave towards the main door where Father Prior huddled, trying to compose himself. Cranston and Norbert left for a while. Athelstan heard them go out of the sacristy door then the coroner returned, Norbert behind him, carrying a tray bearing a large jug of wine and eight cups.
‘Get the prior,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Bring him back.’
Athelstan obeyed. Father Prior seemed a little more composed, his hands were warm and some colour had returned to his face though his eyes still watered from his violent retching.
‘Oh, Athelstan,’ he whispered as they walked slowly back up into the sanctuary. ‘May God forgive me! So immersed have I become in the running of a great monastery, I have forgotten the full horror of man’s evil and the terrible consequences of sin. Who could do that? Murder a poor priest like Alcuin here in the eyes of God? In Christ’s very sanctuary? Then desecrate his body and that of poor Bruno? Who? Who could be so evil?’
Athelstan gently guided him into one of the choir stalls even as Cranston slopped wine into the cups and thrust a goblet towards each of them. He served Norbert and himself last.
‘You’re a good man,’ Cranston boomed, clapping the lay brother on the shoulder. ‘I have often thought that Athelstan needed a little help at St Erconwald’s, as do I in the affairs of the city. You’re just the fellow I’d choose.’ He beamed round. ‘Come on, everyone. You, too, Athelstan, sit down. Drink a little wine, as St Paul says, “for our stomach’s sake”.’ He drained his cup in one gulp then refilled it, winking and bubbling, to the brim.
‘We should not drink wine here in God’s house.’ William de Conches spoke up, now recovering from the shock he had experienced.
‘Jesus won’t mind!’ snapped Cranston. ‘So, Brother Athelstan, your supposition proved correct.’
‘Wait!’ Father Prior interrupted. ‘Brother Norbert, go and tell sub-prior John that I want this church sealed. No one is to come in. No masses will be celebrated here nor Divine Office sung until we have given decent burial to our two brethren. Go on! Finish your wine and be off with you!’
The lay brother obeyed. Anselm leaned back in his stall.
‘Go on, Athelstan,’ he murmured.
Cranston went across and whispered in Athelstan’s ear. His companion smiled, nodded, and went to stand in front of the stalls like a preacher about to deliver a sermon.
‘Brother Alcuin,’ he began, ‘died because he knew something vital about the Inner Chapter.’
‘Such as what?’ pleaded Brother Henry, his large dark eyes pools of anxiety. The young theologian leaned forward. ‘What did Alcuin know to cause his dreadful death, these horrible events? What is so dangerous about what I have written?’ He glared at the Inquisitors.
‘Your writings contain heresy,’ William de Conches answered over his shoulder.
‘No.’ Athelstan held up his hand. ‘Let us leave that. Brother Henry, I cannot answer your questions. All I can surmise is that Brother Bruno died in Alcuin’s place. The sacristan realised that
, became frightened and anxious, so came in here to pray.’
‘He often did that,’ Father Prior murmured. ‘He said it was one of the advantages of being sacristan, to pray and work without interruption.’
‘Exactly,’ Athelstan muttered. ‘On the day he died, Alcuin came into the church and, as usual, locked the doors. He went behind the altar and knelt at the prie-dieu to pray for guidance as well as the repose of poor Bruno’s soul. Now, what Alcuin did not know was that there was another person in the church.’
‘Where?’ Brother Henry asked.
‘A good question!’ Eugenius shouted. ‘Did Alcuin just let his murderer attack him without making any resistance?’
‘No, I thought of that. That’s why I said he was kneeling at the prie-dieu. The only place an assassin could hide was in the apse, standing in one of the niches in the wall at the back of the sanctuary. There are statues there but how often would someone like Alcuin study them? They are life-size, they are part of the church. On that day, however, the assassin, dressed in a dark cloak, also stood there, silent, immobile, like one of the statues.’ Athelstan paused as they all craned their necks to peer over the altar at the alcoves he referred to.
‘They are certainly deep enough,’ Brother Niall remarked ‘Yes, you are right, Athelstan. If a man dressed in a dark robe stood there in this poor light, he could remain concealed for awhile.’
‘The murderer slipped out,’ Athelstan continued, ‘and murdered Alcuin. How long would that take, Sir John?’
The coroner made a face. ‘No more than a few seconds. The most terrifying aspect of the dagger is the shock it induces as well as the speed with which it kills.’
Athelstan watched the faces of his companions for any reaction to Cranston’s lie but failed to glimpse anything untoward.
‘The rest was simple,’ he continued. ‘The assassin had to dispose of Alcuin’s body. This morning, when I was praying before poor Roger’s coffin, I noticed how deep it was. The same idea must have occurred to the assassin. Perhaps he just planned to drop the body into the burial vault, but it was easy instead to undo the clasps of Brother Bruno’s casket. There would be room to force Alcuin’s corpse in and re-seal it.’