by Paul Doherty
Athelstan sifted amongst the evidence he had collected; what else was there? He picked up his quill and wrote a few words. The real problem was the Lombard treasure. Where had it gone? And those four men who’d disappeared off the face of the earth twenty years ago? Athelstan closed his eyes. He thought of the desolate stretch of bank south of the Thames, the dark, lonely night. Other images came to haunt him: John of Gaunt, with his glib tongue and sharp eyes; Sir Stephen Chandler’s pitiful prayer for mercy; Rolles the taverner, a knife in one hand, in the other a letter from the Castle of Love; the hay barn; the great cart standing in the tavern yard; Davenport sitting all alone in that garden. Athelstan felt thirsty, so he took a gulp of watered wine. If he could only make sense of the robbery. He recalled the axiom of one of his masters: Nihil ex Nihilo, ‘Nothing comes from Nothing’. He paused in his pacing, so surprised by his conclusion he threw his head back and guffawed laughter. He had his proof; the hypothesis was firm, the bill of indictment was ready!
Athelstan went across to the side door, unbolted it and peered out. The priest’s house was shrouded in darkness. Malachi must have retired, so Athelstan vowed to do the same. For a short while he knelt in front of the high altar and gave thanks for the help he had received. As he stared up at the Crucifix, the words of the old Crusader song came drifting back:
They have crucified their Lord of flesh
Upon another Cross
His wounds are new again
The tree of life is lost.
He sighed, blessed himself and, extinguishing all the tapers except one, lay down on the narrow cot bed and drifted off to sleep.
He woke before dawn with Bonaventure nuzzling his ear. ‘I know, I know,’ Athelstan murmured, and, picking the cat up, staggered across to the corpse door to let Bonaventure go hunting in the cemetery. Athelstan then stripped, washed himself at the lavarium in the sacristy and put on a new robe. He tidied the chantry chapel, preparing the high altar for morning Mass. At the first streak of light he tolled the bell three times, and by the time he had vested and knelt before the high altar, Benedicta and Cecily, the latter as fresh and pert as a sparrow, had come into the sanctuary, followed by a rather disgruntled Pike. ditcher spent most of the Mass scratching himself and yawning loudly, grumbling under his breath. He soon cheered up when Athelstan met him in the sacristy afterwards, and gave him a silver coin and a message which Pike had to learn by rote.
‘Go to the Lord Coroner’s house,’ Athelstan warned, ‘and tell him he must be at the Night in Jerusalem by the ninth hour. He is to bring Master Flaxwith and all his bailiffs. Oh yes, and some guards from the Guildhall. Mark me now, you are to go directly to the Lord Coroner’s. Only afterwards visit a tavern.’ He made sure the ditcher had memorised the message, then Pike left, as swift as a whippet, and Athelstan took the two women down towards the main door of the church.
‘I want you to help me,’ he began. ‘Cecily, you know Mistress Veritable?’
‘Whore Queen!’ Cecily spat back. ‘A bitch steeped in villainy. She tried to get me into her house.’ She shook her head, blonde curls dancing, blue eyes angry.
‘Hush now,’ Athelstan warned. ‘Today you and Benedicta must pretend to be her friends. This is what you must do. You are to go to the Friar Minoresses near Aldgate and speak to a novice called Edith Travisa. You are to tell her to meet Mother Veritable and pretend to accede to all her demands. Tell her to negotiate to make it believable.’
‘Brother, what are you doing?’ Benedicta exclaimed. ‘I know Mother Veritable by reputation, a most unsavoury woman.’
‘And so does Edith,’ Athelstan replied. ‘She knows it’s only pretence, but she must be convincing. Once you have done that, you must return to Southwark. Act as though you are the Lady Edith’s messengers. You must tell Mother Veritable how Edith Travisa, now bereft of her brother, is seriously considering entering Mother Veritable’s house. You must pretend, you must convince that hideous woman. You must also persuade her to come back with you across the river this very morning to meet Edith to negotiate certain matters. She’ll ask you who you are. For the sake of the truth you must tell her you are Edith’s friends, and that you support her decision. Garnish your tale as you would a meal; emphasise Edith’s poverty, her lack of family; but one thing you must achieve is Mother Veritable’s departure from Southwark, before the ninth hour.’
Both women agreed and left. Athelstan continued with his cleaning of the church, interrupted now and again as parishioners drifted in. Satisfied, he went across to the priest’s house, where Malachi had just risen and was praying from his psalter before celebrating Mass.
‘Brother Athelstan, you have been up early?’
‘I have celebrated my Mass, Malachi. Now I have business to do.’ Athelstan kept his face impassive, closing his mind to what he now knew, as well as what he planned to happen before this day finished. ‘Once you have celebrated Mass,’ he continued, ‘I must insist you go back to the Night in Jerusalem. No, no, you will be safe. You must inform Master Rolles, Sir Maurice and Sir Reginald that I, and the Lord Coroner, must have words with them in the solar just after the ninth hour. If they are not there, Sir John will issue warrants for their arrest. I’m sorry, Brother, I cannot tell you the reason why, but all four of you have to be there.’
The Benedictine, mystified, left for the church. Athelstan finished his preparations. He donned his cloak, put the casket in a leather bag, collected his writing satchel and walked down through the early morning streets. He paused outside Merrylegs’ cookshop to eat one of the cook’s specialities, a sweet pie of apple and raisins. He stopped at the Piebald for a mug of ale, then continued down to the riverside to watch the mist lift and the fishing fleets come in. People passed him, Athelstan smiled or raised his hand in blessing, yet he was still very distracted. He kept turning over in his mind what he had planned for that meeting in the solar at the Night in Jerusalem. Church bells chimed, drowning the scream of the hunting gulls. Athelstan felt the cold seep through his heavy robe, and turning round, he walked up to the tavern.
Master Rolles greeted him in the doorway. Athelstan was equally courteous in reply.
‘I have received your message, Brother.’
‘Thank you, thank you. Master Rolles, do you have spades and mattocks? I would like to borrow them for my church field.’
‘Of course, quite a few.’
‘Good.’ Athelstan answered absent-mindedly, patting him on the arm. ‘I need to see you this morning, I assure you it won’t take long.’
Athelstan warmed himself in front of the tap room fire, listening to the chatter of the spit boy, who questioned the friar closely on how much he ate, and did he have a spit? Was it true that friars were forbidden to eat? Athelstan laughed and gave the boy a penny. The lad was still chattering when Athelstan heard a clamour outside, and Sir John, with his retinue of bailiffs and serjeants-at-arms, strode into the tap room.
‘Brother, good morrow, what’s this all about?’
Athelstan took him into a far corner, whispering what he had planned and what Sir John must do. The coroner loosened his cloak, took off his beaver hat, scratched his head and whistled under his breath.
‘Little friar, you have been busy!’ He nodded at the doorway. ‘As I came in, they were gathering in the solar.’
‘So, we must join them. There must be a guard in the room and one outside.’
‘And the bailiffs?’
‘Oh, they’ll be busy. They have a garden to dig!’
Athelstan, clutching his writing satchel and leather bag, left the tap room, followed by a mystified Cranston. The others were already grouped either side of the solar table. Athelstan sat at one end with his back to the window, Sir John at the other.
‘Good morning, gentlemen.’
The knights grunted a reply as if bored by the proceedings. Rolles, however, was clearly agitated by the presence of the guards and so many bailiffs.
‘Ah, Henry.’ Athelstan pointed at Flaxwith, who w
as standing behind Cranston. ‘I must ask you to leave. I have a very important task for you. In the outhouse, across the stable yard, you will find spades, mattocks and hoes. No, keep still, Master Rolles.’ Athelstan spoke as the taverner scraped back his chair. I want you to collect them, go into the garden behind me and start digging.’
Athelstan glanced quickly at the knights, gratified at the shock in their faces. Rolles was so agitated he couldn’t keep still.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Flaxwith retorted, ‘Master Rolles’ garden is beautiful.’
‘Master Rolles, you will keep seated,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘or I will ask you to be bound. Henry, the garden behind me is not beautiful. It houses the mortal remains of five poor souls, murdered by the men who are now seated around this table.’
The knights jumped to their feet, followed by Rolles. Cranston banged the table, shouting that they would be arrested if they moved three paces from their chairs. Once silence was imposed, Cranston looked over his shoulder and nodded at Flaxwith.
‘Do it!’ he ordered. ‘And dig deep. Brother Athelstan?’ He turned back.
‘Thank you, Sir John. I will repeat what I’ve said. Each of you seated at this table, all four of you, is guilty of the most hideous homicide.’ Athelstan paused. ‘One is missing. You may have made enquiries about her, Mother Veritable. She has been taken by two friends of mine across the river. She has confessed, and will do so again, to the murderous events of twenty years ago.’
Chapter 13
‘It is an unassailable theory,’ Athelstan began, ‘that murder, like charity, always begins at home. In this case, home was the Night in Jerusalem, where a group of young knights, brothers-in-arms, assembled over twenty years ago to take part in the Great Crusade of Lord Peter of Cyprus. Eager, hungry young men, raised in the House of War, who saw their fortunes threatened by the recent peace treaty with France. A group of such knights from the shire of Kent assembled here with their chaplain Brother Malachi.’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the Benedictine. ‘Only one was an outsider: Edward Mortimer, a landless knight who’d become the handfast friend of Culpepper, so close they were like peas in a pod.’
Athelstan moved his chair sideways so he could stare out of the window to where Flaxwith and the others were busy digging up Master Rolles’ garden.
‘You didn’t have much money.’ He was aware how quiet the solar had become; the ghosts were now gathering. ‘You came up to London,’ he continued, ‘and took lodgings in this tavern, recently purchased by Master Rolles with the plunder and the ransoms he had earned in France. Through Master Rolles you became acquainted with Mother Veritable, who owned a pleasure house down near the stews. Now, Culpepper fell in love with one of the ladies of the night, who rejoiced in the name of Guinevere the Golden, a beautiful woman, fair of face but fickle of heart. You all enjoyed yourselves while the crusading army gathered and the cogs of war assembled in the Thames.’
‘What does all this mean?’ Sir Maurice Clinton spoke up, his face ashen and sweat-stained.
‘God knows the true reason,’ Athelstan ignored the interruption, ‘but His Grace John of Gaunt, together with the Lombard banker Teodoro Tonnelli, decided that part of the war chest, the loan raised by the Crusader commanders, should be transported secretly, by night, to the Admiral’s flagship waiting in the Thames. His Grace wished to avoid any public show, so as not to attract the attention of the outlaw gangs or mob of river pirates which crowded along the Thames like flies on a dung heap. To make a long story brief, on the Eve of St Matthew, the Year of Our Lord 1360, the treasure barge left the Tower, crossed the Thames and went along the south bank, past the Oyster Wharf to a secret location. His Grace had decided that the treasure would be taken out the Fleet by his trusted retainer Edward Mortimer, who’d also brought Richard Culpepper into the secret design. Both knights were well rewarded by His Grace. They were to attract the treasure barge in, by lantern or torchlight, and the chest would be moved to an ordinary barge specially hired for that occasion. The treasure duly arrived. The two knights, waiting on the river bank, took charge of it, and brought their own barge in. They were to pay the boatmen off and take the treasure to the flagship.’
Cranston played with the edge of his cloak. He didn’t know what path Athelstan was following, but he understood why the little friar was talking so slowly, keeping a watchful eye on what was going on in the garden. Cranston was also vigilant. The two knights sat like carved statues as their mask of respectability was slowly peeled away. Cranston was more wary of Rolles, who seemed to have recovered his wits. One hand had already slipped beneath the table. Cranston remembered how this dagger man had a knife in a sheath on his belt, as well as another in the top of his boot. His fingers slipped to the hilt of his own knife. He would watch Master Rolles.
‘Imagine the scene,’ Athelstan continued, ‘a fairly cloudless sky, the moon riding high, the Thames quiet and sluggish, the silence broken by the cries of the night, creatures hunting their prey. Culpepper and Mortimer talking to the bargemen, eager to be away, unaware that more deadly hunters were loose along the river that night.’
‘But, but,’ Sir Reginald Branson intervened, ‘no one knew of this.’
‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan scoffed. ‘No one, apart from those two knights, was supposed to know; they didn’t even tell the boatmen why they needed their barge. Culpepper, however, had made a dreadful mistake. He truly loved Guinevere the Golden. He had shown her the money he had earned, and whispered about how there would be more. Guinevere was the last person he should have told, and he did tell her everything: the treasure, the secret place along the Thames, the arrangements, even the hour. Guinevere was fickle of heart. Culpepper may have loved her, but her attentions were already wandering. Unbeknown to Culpepper, she was also bestowing her favours on one of the other knights. I don’t know who. Perhaps you, Sir Maurice? Sir Thomas Davenport, or Sir Laurence Broomhill? She told one and he told the rest. Were you poor, penniless knights already resentful of the fortune and favour shown to Culpepper and this relative newcomer Mortimer? So, you hatched a plot to steal the treasure, and you enlisted the help of Master Rolles and Mother Veritable.’
‘I didn’t . . .’ Master Rolles raised a hand. ‘Sir John,’ he gasped, ‘this is nonsense.’
‘Hush now,’ Athelstan soothed. ‘On the night in question you pretended you were all revelling and carousing in a chamber here at the Night in Jerusalem. No one would mark the hours, not even the Misericord, who was serving as a pot boy, or the other heavy-eyed servants and maids, only too eager to slip exhausted into their narrow beds. Now, Master Rolles, you owned a great high-sided cart, the perfect place to hide a group of men under a leather awning. You had the cart hitched, its wheels covered in straw and sacking to hide the sound, and slipped away, leaving probably only two of the knights to continue the sound of revelling and carousing so as to distract the attention of others. You knew, thanks to Guinevere, where Culpepper and Mortimer would be waiting for the treasure. You came upon them suddenly and silently. All of you are trained bowmen, skilled archers. You arrived at the moment Culpepper and Mortimer took possession of the barge.’
Athelstan paused.
‘The attack would be swift, the shafts hissing through air.’ The friar glanced quickly at Malachi, now so pale his eyes seemed like dark pools, his lips thin, bloodless lines. ‘Four corpses,’ Athelstan continued, ‘transfixed by arrows. You quickly carried them to the waiting cart, together with the treasure chest. The location was secret. The river water would soon wash away any signs of violence. You pushed the barge out into mid-stream, having cleared it of any possessions.’
‘And Guinevere the Golden?’ Cranston asked, his gaze still intent on Master Rolles.
‘Ah, Guinevere the Golden,’ Athelstan sighed. ‘She whom fortune didn’t favour. Poor Culpepper died thinking she loved him and him only. The men she betrayed him to encouraged her to maintain this illusion. I suppose she was told to wait for Culpepper somewhere lonely and
dark; what better place than their usual love tryst, the cemetery at St Erconwald’s, near to the river but far enough away from the Night in Jerusalem. She was to wait there until it was all over. Of course, if you betray one person, it’s only a matter of time before you betray someone else. Guinevere had to be silenced. I have no proof that it was at St Erconwald’s, but I do know that Mother Veritable took care of her. The cart containing the four other corpses would stop to pick up her body as well. In the dead of night that cart, its wheels muffled, slipped back into the Night in Jerusalem.’
‘Master Rolles on his cart,’ Cranston intervened, ‘was a common enough sight at all hours of the day and night. Slatterns and servants, the Misericord included, slept in the tap room, under the tables. There’d be enough of you to keep watch in the dead of night . . .’
‘There was also another way in.’ Athelstan spoke quickly, fearful lest Cranston be carried away by his excitement at what was being revealed. ‘The small postern gate to the garden.’ The friar stared down the table. ‘Master Rolles, I must study your accounts. I believe you were having the garden laid out then, weren’t you? The ground all dug up? A beautiful place now, but an ideal one at the time for hiding five corpses and all their possessions. They were brought through the postern gate that night.’ Athelstan gestured at window. ‘No wonder you had mantraps to protect such a place.’