by Paul Doherty
‘And you have committed it six times?’
Again the nod.
‘What is fornication, Crim?’
Athelstan looked earnestly into the boy’s troubled eyes. Was this why the lad had been so quiet and rather withdrawn at times? Crim closed his eyes.
‘Fornication,’ he piped up, ‘is a filthy act!’
Athelstan let go of the boy’s hand and leaned back in the chair. ‘Tell me, lad, exactly what happened?’
‘Well, Father, as you know my mother sends me up to the market. I am the fastest runner and she always gives me a glass of water mixed with honey as a reward.’
Athelstan was now completely at sea. ‘What has this got to do with it, Crim?’
The lad blushed and looked down. ‘Coming back from the market, Father, I want to piss and I do it in the open.’
Athelstan laughed and seized the boy’s hand. ‘Is that all, Crim?’
The lad nodded.
‘And what makes you think that’s fornication?’
‘Well, Father, Mother always says that Cecily is guilty of fornication and other filthy acts.’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘But, Crim, you often go for a piss outside. What’s so special about this?’
The boy’s blush grew deeper.
‘Come on, lad!’
‘I do it on holy ground, Father.’
‘You mean, here in church?’
‘No, Father. I always want to go just as I pass your house so I go behind your wall and do it on the onion patch. I know it’s wrong, Father, to do it in a priest’s garden, but I can’t help it.’
Athelstan couldn’t contain himself any longer but, bowing his head, put his face in his hands and laughed till his shoulders shook.
‘Father, I am truly sorry.’
Athelstan looked up, wiped the tears from his eyes and grabbed the boy by the shoulder. ‘I absolve you from your sin.’ He pulled his face straight. ‘And this is your penance.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Next time your mother cooks onions, you eat every one. Now go and sin no more!’
Crim sped from the church as if he had just been released from the gravest of sins. Athelstan watched him go, still caught by gusts of laughter. He wa3 pleased the church was empty; if anyone had witnessed or overheard Crim, the lad would have been the laughing stock of the parish. Athelstan sat back and half-dozed for a while, thinking of possible solutions to Cranston’s mystery and wondering if he would find what he was looking for at Blackfriars. He suddenly sat up, chilled by a thought. What if the murderer at Blackfriars had already discovered what he was looking for? He readjusted the stole around his neck. He was about to get up when he heard the slither of footsteps. He sat down, suddenly tense, for the church was silent. Outside everything was quiet, as hawkers, traders and members of his parish rested during the hottest part of the day. Who was coming now? He heard someone kneel down on the prie-dieu.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’
Athelstan froze as he recognised the voice of Benedicta. He closed his eyes, clenching his hands together. This was the first time Benedicta had ever come to him. Like others in the parish, perhaps too embarrassed to confess to their priest, she always went elsewhere. He relaxed a little at her litany of petty offences: uncharitable thoughts and words, being late for mass, sleeping through one of his sermons. When he heard this, Athelstan stuck out his tongue at the curtain. Then Benedicta stopped.
‘Is that all?’ he quietly asked.
‘Father, I am a widow. For a while I thought my husband might be alive. I was glad, yet I was also sad.’
Athelstan steeled himself.
‘I shouldn’t have been sad,’ Benedicta continued. ‘And, if I wished him dead, I confess to that.’
‘Then you are forgiven.’
‘Don’t you want to know, Father, why I was sad?’
‘You must confess according to your conscience and that is all.’
‘I was sad, Father, because, you see, I love another man. Sometimes I desire him.’
‘There is no sin in loving anyone.’ Athelstan was sure Benedicta was going to continue.
‘I see, Father,’ she softly answered. ‘In which case I am truly sorry for these and all other sins.’
Athelstan set her a small penance, almost gabbled the words of absolution and sat tense as a bowstring until Benedicta rose and slipped quietly out of the church, closing the door gently behind her.
He let out a loud gasp and slumped back in his chair. He knew what Benedicta had been going to say and was only too happy she had not continued. He rose and stretched, went through the rood screen and stood looking up at the crucifix on the altar. ‘Father Paul was right,’ he murmured. ‘Love is a terrible thing!’ For a few minutes he squarely faced his own conscience. He loved Benedicta! He stared at the twisted figure nailed to the wooden cross. Would Christ understand? Did he, who was supposed to love everyone, love anyone in particular? Athelstan rubbed his eyes. He remembered scripture, the women who followed Christ, the women who were with him when he died. Athelstan took off his stole. If he started following that line of thought, what conclusions would he reach? He genuflected hurriedly before the sanctuary and strode out of the church, locking the door behind him. He must concentrate on other things.
The business at Blackfriars was like a game of chess. So far his opponent, hidden in the darkness, controlled every move. Athelstan had to make sure that the initiative he had gained would not be lost.
Once back in the kitchen Athelstan sat down and hastily wrote a short letter, getting his wax and seal out of the large chest beside his bed. He studied the letter again, concluded it was appropriate, melted the wax and affixed a seal. An hour later Crim, who had now forgotten everything about onions, was running like a hare across London Bridge. He clutched Athelstan’s letter tightly in his hand, lips breathlessly repeating the instructions the friar had given him.
Late in the evening, just before sunset, Pike and Watkin returned to St Erconwald’s, the former having procured a sheet of canvas, a pinewood coffin and some rope. In a pathetic ceremony the skeleton of the former whore Aemelia was placed in its shroud and laid before the altar. Athelstan, accompanied by an inquisitive Bonaventure, went back to the church, lit the candles and, wearing a purple cope, began the funeral ceremony. Pike and Watkin stood on either side of the poor remains as Athelstan invited the angels to come out to welcome this person’s soul. He was careful not to name the woman. He passed incense over the coffin and blessed it with holy water then, followed by Watkin and Pike acting as pallbearers, took it to the shallow grave in a far comer of the cemetery. In the fading light Athelstan read the final prayers. He blessed the grave and, picking up a lump of clay, threw it down so it rattled like raindrops on the wooden lid. He then took off his cope and helped Pike and Watkin to fill the grave in.
‘Shall we leave it like that?’ Pike asked.
Athelstan wiped the muddy clay from his hands and looked sad.
‘No, no, it would not be right. Tomorrow, Pike, ask Huddle to fashion a cross. Something simple.’
‘Shall a name be carved on it?’
‘No.’ Athelstan stared up at the darkening sky, watching the evening star glow like a diamond in the heavens. ‘Tell Huddle to carve: “Sweet Jesus, remember Magdalene”.’
‘He won’t know what that means,’ Watkin objected.
‘Who cares? Christ will.’
Early the next morning Athelstan met Cranston on the comer of Bowyers Row. They entered a tavern where the landlord defied city regulations about opening and closing times. Cranston insisted on breaking fast and, though Athelstan quietly cursed, he felt it was neither the time nor place to object. The lord coroner had lost his ebullience of the previous day and Athelstan suspected he had already been at the miraculous wineskin. They breakfasted on ale and oatcakes, the coroner moodily chewing his food while staring into the middle distance.
‘Damn My Lord of Gaunt!’ he breathed.<
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Athelstan touched him gently on the hand. ‘Sir John, I do not wish to be questioned but I believe I have a solution.’
The change in Cranston’s face was marvellous. His eyes became alive with excitement, his morose look disappeared in a grin which seemed to stretch from ear to ear. He roared, snapped his fingers for more ale and nudged Athelstan furiously, trying to make him tell what he had deduced. But when the friar refused to be drawn, Cranston fell back into a sulky silence.
‘I cannot tell you yet, I must be certain. Until then I insist on keeping secret what I do know. After all, Sir John, you drink deeply.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘Sir John, you do, and if in your cups you began to boast, it might prejudice the whole solution.’
‘The young king himself holds the solution in a sealed document.’
‘Sir John, it has been known for such documents to be changed.’
‘Tits and bollocks!’ Cranston replied.
‘Such comments, Sir John, are not helpful and show little gratitude for what I have done.’
‘Gratitude! Gratitude!’ Cranston mimicked cuttingly. He lifted his tankard, drained it and flung it on the table, half-turning his back like a sulky boy.
‘How are the poppets?’ Athelstan asked mildly.
‘Lovely, lovely lads!’ Cranston breathed.
‘And the Lady Maude? As sweet as ever?’
Cranston threw one wicked glance across his shoulder and Athelstan knew the source of Sir John’s discomfort.
‘I see,’ the friar concluded.
Sir John made a snorting sound and turned back.
‘Athelstan, I am sorry. I feel like a bear with a sore head.’
He chose not to disagree.
‘You received my second message?’
‘Yes, and within the hour the city’s swiftest messenger was riding north with a change of horses. I have done all I can there.’
‘Then, Sir John, let us see what we can do at Blackfriars.’
To all intents and purposes, despite the dreadful deaths which occurred there, the monastery seemed back in its usual serene routine. The porter let them in and Brother Norbert greeted them warmly, handing their horses over to an ostler and leading them across to the guest house.
‘All the books are there now,’ he announced proudly. ‘Every single one, though I think the brothers know that you are searching for something.’ The young lay brother smiled at Cranston. ‘And there’s mead, ale and wine for you, Sir John. I think your search is going to be a long one.’
He was correct. In the upstairs chamber, more vast leather-bound volumes awaited them. Cranston moaned and shot like an arrow down to the buttery. Athelstan washed his hands and face and immediately went back to his search, with the occasional assistance of Sir John.
As night fell Athelstan asked Norbert for more candles and immersed himself in his studies, taking only occasional respite to snatch some food or a sip of watered wine. He fell asleep poring over the books and awoke, back and shoulders aching, to continue his search. The next morning he said mass soon after dawn, returned to the guest house and, trying to ignore Cranston’s snores, wearily picked up another volume to begin leafing through the parchment pages. Cranston woke up, claiming he had a raging thirst. Athelstan nodded absent-mindedly whilst Sir John washed, changed, went across to the refectory then returned, describing in great detail what he had eaten. Athelstan ignored him so the coroner, sulky and protesting, picked up one of the small volumes, muttering in a loud whisper.
‘Hildegarde! Hildegarde! Damn Hildegarde!’
At noon Father Prior and other members of the Inner Chapter came over to see them. They had all recovered from the shock of the discovery in the sanctuary and stood in a cold, rather distant huddle in the kitchen, refusing to sit down or accept anything to eat or drink. William de Conches and Eugenius stared scornfully at Athelstan. Henry of Winchester adopted an air of studied patience to hide his exasperation, whilst Brother Niall and Peter made their anger at the long delay in the proceedings most apparent.
‘We can’t stay here for ever, Brother Athelstan!’ Peter insisted. ‘This matter has to be concluded. A judgement reached on Henry’s thesis. Brother Niall and I must return, whilst the Master Inquisitor and his assistant have a long journey to make.’
Athelstan stared at the prior but Anselm was cold and impassive.
‘All I want, Athelstan,’ he replied, ‘is this matter resolved, so the house can go back to its normal routine.’
‘And what about those who died?’ Cranston barked. ‘Bruno, Alcuin, Callixtus, Roger? Their blood stains the earth and cries to the heavens for vengeance.’
Anselm’s eyes softened. ‘Sir John, you are right and I stand corrected. I asked you to come here. I asked Athelstan for his help but, before God, I will be honest, I am beginning to regret that decision. Perhaps this is a mystery that cannot be solved. The bible does say, “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord”.’ He shrugged wearily. ‘Perhaps we should leave it in the good hands of the Lord.’
‘Nonsense!’ rasped Cranston. ‘God works through us in this vale of tears! We are his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his feet!’ He pushed himself in front of the group of Dominicans. ‘Justice,’ he continued, ‘must not only be done, but be seen to be done. Four men have been slain. Oh, aye, Father Prior, they may have been Dominicans but they were also Englishmen, subjects of the Crown. ‘He jabbed a finger to his chest. ‘This matter will be finished when I decide it is finished!’
Eugenius clapped his hands mockingly. ‘A pretty speech, Sir John, but I am not your subject. My loyalties are to the Father General in Rome and to the Pope in Avignon. For all I care you can investigate these matters until hell freezes over, but I shall be gone!’
Cranston smiled sweetly at him and Athelstan closed his eyes.
‘Listen, you little fart!’ The coroner took a step nearer and stared down into Eugenius’s puce-coloured face. ‘I don’t care who you are or where you come from. You’re in England, you’re in my city. You can trot down to Dover and you’ll find you have no licence to board a ship: in this country that is an indictable offence!’
‘You threaten us, Sir John!’ William de Conches snapped, pulling Eugenius back a step.
‘Threaten?’ Cranston looked at him in mock wonderment, eyebrows raised. ‘Did I threaten? I didn’t threaten, Master Torturer.’
‘I am an Inquisitor!’
‘You’re a nasty pain in the arse!’ Cranston continued. ‘You break men’s bodies so you can get at their souls. You’re both little shits!’ His hand went to the hilt of his dagger and both Inquisitors, despite the fury in their faces, decided silence was the better part of valour.
Cranston glanced at Anselm then at Brother Niall and Peter. Athelstan just bowed his head. He knew the coroner’s temper was both hot and unpredictable. Once Sir John had the bit between his teeth, he would tell anyone (except the Lady Maude) what they could do with their opinions. Prior Anselm stepped forward.
‘Sir John,’ he threw a meek glance at the coroner, ‘in a way you are right.’ He turned and looked at his colleagues. ‘Four of our brothers lie dead. My Lord Coroner, Brother Athelstan, let us compromise. If this matter is not finished, if the mystery is not resolved by Sunday evening, we are free to do what we wish.’
Athelstan spoke up quickly before Cranston could make a bad situation worse. ‘Father Prior, we agree. Don’t we, Sir John?’
‘Bollocks!’
Athelstan smiled falsely at his brothers.
‘My Lord Coroner is always open to persuasion.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Father Prior, I thank you for coming.’ He opened the door. ‘It’s best if we leave matters as we have decided.’
Once they were gone Athelstan collapsed in a heap on a stool.
‘For the love of God, Sir John, must you speak so bluntly?’
‘Monk, it’s for the love of God that I do.’
‘Sir John, you were too harsh.’
‘Bugger off, priest!’
Cranston grabbed his miraculous wineskin and stomped back to the stairs.
‘Sir John!’
‘What is it, frightened friar?’
‘I thank you for telling the truth. You are a good man, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘God forgive me, but I’ll never forget the look on the faces of those two Inquisitors. When Father Prior regains his composure, I think he will be grateful too.’
Cranston glared back at him. ‘All I can say to you, monk, is this law officer’s most favourite legal maxim.’
Athelstan cringed. ‘Which is, Sir John?’
‘Sod off!’
‘Oh, Sir John.’
‘Oh, Sir John, my arse!’ Cranston roared. ‘One of those bastards tried to murder you, or had you forgotten that?’ And he continued up the stairs.
A few minutes later Athelstan joined him but Cranston had his nose stuck in one of the books, noisily turning the pages over, aided and abetted by generous swigs from the miraculous wineskin. Athelstan continued leafing through his own volume.
‘Hell’s tits!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Brother, look at this!’
Athelstan hurried over. The coroner’s stubby finger pointed to where seven or eight pages had been hacked from the book.
‘That’s recent!’ the coroner announced. ‘And it was done in a hurry.’
Athelstan studied the torn shreds. He noticed that the edge of the page still held in the binding was rather dull and faded but, where the cut had been made, the parchment was pure and white. Athelstan picked up the book, ignoring Cranston’s protests and questions. He took it over to his own bed and sat cradling it in his lap. The volume which had held the torn pages was an old one, containing the minor works of certain writers. He finished leafing through it, closed it, and stared at the bemused expression on Cranston’s face.
‘Whatever we were looking for,’ Athelstan muttered, ‘our assassin has already found.’
‘When?’ Cranston snapped. ‘The library has been watched over the last few days!’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps when he killed Callixtus. He may have watched the old librarian stretch out for a certain book before pushing him. Anyway,’ Athelstan continued wearily, ‘I suspect the pages from this book are at the bottom of some sewer or burnt to a feathery ash.’