by Paul Doherty
‘Who was this figure?’
‘I don’t know; perhaps a monk. Anyway, Hyde took off in pursuit but someone else followed him, I’m certain of it. I glimpsed a black monk’s robe then it was gone, that’s all I can say.’
Athelstan nodded understandingly. ‘But let us go back, my friend: Kilverby, was he shriven by Richer?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what about Kilverby’s clerk, Crispin?’
The anchorite blinked and shook his head. ‘I saw Crispin, he often came here with his master. I noticed nothing untoward except one afternoon early last summer, around the Feast of the Baptist. Kilverby arrived at St Fulcher’s to pray before the rood screen. Crispin was with him. They, like many people, forgot about me as they strolled up and down the south aisle. On that particular day they were arguing.’
‘About what?’
‘Oh, Crispin coming to lodge here at the abbey. Crispin was respectful but insisted that he too should leave with his master. Kilverby strongly objected to this, saying Crispin’s eyes were failing. Crispin then said something rather strange: “I don’t want to live back here again”.’
‘I am sorry?’
‘I listened more attentively. Apparently, many decades ago, Kilverby and Crispin studied here as novices, though both later left. I heard similar gossip amongst the brothers. Anyway, Kilverby tried to lighten Crispin’s mood, teasing him about being left-handed and how the Master of the Novices had tried to force him to use his right. The merchant reminisced how Crispin used to be punished for that as Kilverby was for gnawing on the end of every pen or brush. He and Crispin laughed at the foibles of this monk or that. Abbot Walter’s early days were mentioned, some gossip or scandal about him, but their voices became muted and they moved on.’ The anchorite rose and paced up and down the cell. He paused, tapped the crucifix and glanced down at Athelstan.
‘Brother, I am lost in my own puzzle of dreams and fears. I see things. I overhear conversations but there’s little else. When we first met I had so much to say; I was being threatened. True, at first, I rejoiced in the deaths of Hanep and Hyde. Now I am beginning to wonder. So much hate, so much resentment all because of deep, hidden sins.’ He paused. ‘Brother?’
‘Yes?’
‘I would like to leave here. Would St Erconwald have an anker house?’ He kicked the coffer. ‘I have the money to pay for its construction. I could help your painter.’
Athelstan was about to refuse but softened at the man’s pleading look.
‘Friar!’ Cranston’s booming voice echoed along the south aisle.
‘I must go.’ Athelstan rose. ‘As for your request, let me see.’ The friar left the anker house and found Cranston had moved across the church to admire a scene painted from the Book of Daniel about Susannah facing her lecherous accusers.
‘Sir John, good morrow.’
‘And the same to you, little friar. I’ve heard Mass, I’ve broke my fast. What. .’ He paused as Wenlock and Mahant, their cloaks glistening with wet, came up the aisle. Athelstan noticed the daggers pushed into their war belts. Men of violence, Athelstan reflected, yet they looked cowed, Mahant especially, his hard eyes now red-rimmed, his cheeks unshaven.
‘We are leaving,’ Wenlock declared, ‘no, no, not for good.’
‘I hope not,’ Cranston retorted. ‘You’ll stay here. I sent a lay brother into the city. I’ve asked the sheriff to issue writs for the fugitive Henry Osborne.’
‘He’s not a. .’
‘Master Wenlock, he is. Osborne fled from here by night. He could be the assassin we are hunting.’
‘Never — ’
‘Everyone,’ Cranston insisted, ‘including both of you, are suspects, Osborne even more so. His description will be proclaimed in Cheapside, posted on the ‘Si Quis’ door at St Paul’s as well as its Great Cross. If Osborne does not surrender himself in ten days he will be declared utlegatum — an outlaw, a wolfshead.’
Mahant glanced sharply at Wenlock, who simply shook his head.
‘Just as well,’ Mahant muttered. ‘It’s best if he’s taken.’
‘Why?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Osborne was our treasurer,’ Wenlock explained. ‘I am sorry. We did not mention this before. When he left Osborne took most of our gold and silver with him. We are going into London to search for him ourselves.’
‘Why there?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Osborne is not a country bumpkin,’ Wenlock replied. ‘He also likes the ladies. Perhaps we’ll find him in the stews or some other brothel.’ Wenlock shrugged. ‘Athelstan, Sir John?’
Both men bowed and left.
‘I’m not too happy,’ Cranston whispered, ‘I would like everyone to stay where they are but so far we have little proof to detain them, yes?’ Cranston’s gaze travelled back to the painting of Susannah. He walked up to it, stared hard for a while then abruptly jumped up and down like a little boy. ‘Lady Purity!’ he exclaimed. ‘Lady Purity, also known as “Mistress Quicksilver”.’
‘Sir John, are you madcap?’
Cranston pointed to the picture of Susannah then grasped Athelstan firmly by the shoulders, his blue eyes blazing with good humour.
‘Eleanor Remiet,’ he whispered, pushing his face close to Athelstan. ‘Eleanor Remiet be damned! She’s Lady Purity. Athelstan, I know London. What you told me about the anchorite? I certainly remember him as an excellent hangman. Nor can I forget that murderous harridan Agnes Rednal whilst Wolfsbane was a demon incarnate. They’ve all crossed my path. I’ve certainly crossed theirs and others. Do you recall Alice Perrers?’
‘The mistress of the late King Edward, she stayed long enough by his corpse to strip it of rings and every other precious item.’
‘Living like a nun now out in Essex.’ Cranston chuckled. ‘Oh yes, I’ve met them all, little friar, the good, the bad and the downright wicked.’
‘And this Lady Purity?’
‘Stare at the painting of Susannah, Friar, gaze at her face. I’ve been studying it since I arrived here this morning. I know that face! This fresco was executed many years ago but the painter certainly used someone as his image.’
‘Eleanor Remiet?’
‘Look and judge.’
Athelstan did. Cranston snatched a flaming cresset from its sconce and held it up to illuminate the beautiful face shrouded by a mass of golden curls, the downcast eyes, the graceful way that Innocent from the Book of Daniel kept her cloak about her naked body. Athelstan stared, fascinated by the compelling beauty of the woman’s face and the more he looked his doubts began to crumble. The artist, whoever he was, had used the woman now calling herself Eleanor Remiet as his mirror for this biblical heroine. To be sure, Remiet was now old, her face ravaged by time, but a hidden glow of beauty still remained in those haughty features and Athelstan could detect the same in the wall painting before him.
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan stepped back, ‘you are correct. Who was this Lady Purity?’
‘A great courtesan of Cheapside. I used to woo her from afar. She certainly wasn’t for the likes of young Jack Cranston, freshly inducted into the Inns of Court, oh no, but I adored her from a distance, worshipping at her altar. I did all I could to discover more about her.’
‘And?’
‘Lady Purity, as she called herself, reserved her favours for the great ones of the land. She also acquired a rather sinister reputation.’
‘As?’
‘As a cozening blackmailer who, when it suited her, could threaten a cleric with a summons to the Archdeacon’s court or an errant husband with the wrath of his wife. She earned money swiftly and smoothly in both her callings, hence her nickname, “Mistress Quicksilver”. As for her title, “Lady Purity”,’ Cranston laughed, ‘well, that was because of her pious ways, at least publicly. In her youth she was a great beauty who acted so innocently, so decorously, you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She was the toast. .’ Cranston walked away as shouts and cries from outside rose and fell. Athelstan remai
ned rooted to the spot, lost in his own wild tumble of thoughts.
‘As I said,’ Cranston continued, coming back, ‘she was the toast of Cheapside. Athelstan, you were right about her relationship with our abbot, that’s what started me thinking. Eleanor Remiet is not the abbot’s sister but his leman.’ Cranston chuckled to himself. ‘She is definitely the mother of the lovely Isabella who, of course, is the abbot’s natural daughter, certainly not his niece. They are, in the eyes of God, though not Holy Mother Church, husband, wife and child. Lady Purity or Mistress Quicksilver, whatever her name, will have her claws very deep into our Lord Abbot. She will demand the best sustenance and purveyance for both herself and her daughter. In her youth, saintly Susannah or not, Lady Purity had a hunger for gold and silver. The passing of the years and the needs of young Isabella will have only whetted her appetite as sharp as a knife.’
‘Which would explain why the abbot stopped paying the Upright Men?’
‘Aye, and God knows what else he has misappropriated. I think it’s time-’
‘Not yet,’ Athelstan gripped Cranston’s sleeve, ‘not yet my Lord Coroner, let me first reflect; there are other matters. .’
Athelstan broke off as the hubbub outside grew. He and Cranston went through a side door into the porch. A group of brothers were gathered round a barrow being pushed up the path. Exclamations rang out, the monks, jostling each other, blocked Athelstan’s view of what was in the barrow. They parted and Athelstan groaned in sheer pity at the horror piled there, the long graceful neck now twisted, the glorious white plumage piled in dirty disarray — Leda the swan! Athelstan stopped the barrow and stared down at the once magnificent bird.
‘How did it happen?’
‘Hanged! Hanged!’ Brother Simon pushed his way through. ‘We found Leda hanged on the gallows near the watergate.’
Athelstan sketched a blessing over the dead bird.
‘Abbot Walter will be distraught,’ one of the brothers exclaimed. ‘He will mourn as if for a loved one.’
‘Aye, but does he love any of us?’ another added.
The question was greeted with silence.
‘Who? How?’ Athelstan asked.
Another monk passed Athelstan a parchment script with the phrase, ‘Answer a fool according to his folly’ scratched in red ink. Beneath this, ‘The Upright Men’.
‘The Upright Men,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Where will they flee on the day of judgement?’ He looked at the rough, chapped faces of the brothers who stared stonily back. ‘Jerusalem,’ Athelstan added sadly, ‘will not be built on earth.’
‘But Babylon and its proud princes can be brought as low as hell,’ a lay brother retorted.
‘Like this,’ Athelstan pointed at the dead swan, ‘do you know what the great philosopher Anselm said? “Cruelty to God’s creatures comes directly from the evil one”. Leda was,’ Athelstan continued softly, ‘a manifestation of the glory of God.’ He stood aside. ‘Your Lord Abbot needs to be informed.’ Athelstan returned to Cranston, still standing in the porch, and told him what had happened.
‘Abbot Walter is a fool. Athelstan, please excuse me, I’ve other business to attend to. We’ll then meet and confront Abbot Walter and his Lady Purity.’ Cranston strolled away.
Athelstan watched him go and decided to visit the library. Immediately as he entered two of the monks sitting in their carrels swiftly rose. Courteous, gracious and welcoming, Athelstan sensed they were under strict instruction to keep him occupied, whilst a third brought Richer from the scriptorium. Athelstan informed him about the swan. The Frenchman raised his eyes and murmured a prayer.
‘I am sorry,’ Richer lisped, ‘but at the present I’ve other business to deal with. I will see Father Abbot in due time. I have decided,’ Richer gestured around the library, ‘much as I love it here, to return to St Calliste, as Lord Walter said, sooner rather than later, probably in the next few days.’
‘I am sorry,’ Athelstan shook his head, ‘that will not be possible.’
‘What do you mean — I’m a priest, a Benedictine, a citizen of France. I-’
‘Brother Richer, you could be the kinsman of the Archangel Gabriel. If the Crown of England decides that you must delay your return to France until this business is cleared up then that must be so. No harbour master will allow you out of this realm without proper licence. Now, do you have information here on the bloodstone, the Passio Christi?’
Richer, all flustered, waved the friar to a carrel under a window, further light being provided by a covered candle. Athelstan sat and patiently waited until Richer brought a book, a copy of a work Athelstan recognized from his own order’s library at Blackfriars, ‘The Book of Relics’, a compendium describing the great relics of Christendom and their location. Athelstan opened this and found the entry for the bloodstone, short and succinct, telling him very little more than he already knew. Athelstan stared at the entry and leafed through the pages. A bell sounded. The monks, busy over their manuscripts, paused, rose and filed out. Athelstan glanced down the library. The door to the scriptorium remained closed. Richer had not left. Athelstan extinguished the candles, closed the book and moved into the shadows, searching the shelf from where Richer had taken ‘The Book of Relics’. Athelstan was sure there must be more information than just a few lines in a general compendium.
So hidden in the darkness, Prior Alexander did not see Athelstan as he flung open the library door and hurried down, knocking at the scriptorium and entering even before Richer could reply. Athelstan edged out of the corner and softly approached as near as he could. The prior had not bothered to close the door behind him. He heard Richer ask if Prior Alexander had seen ‘that friar — more of a ferret than a priest?’ Athelstan smiled at that. Prior Alexander ignored the question and began a tirade, highly irate at the prospect of Richer leaving so soon. The prior lost all control, shouting at Richer, asking if he cared, and demanding he tell him the reason why? Athelstan felt guilty yet he stayed, listening to what was really a passionate lovers’ quarrel. Richer tried to defend himself, explaining how he had to go, but the prior was besides himself with jealous rage. The argument grew more heated. Athelstan braced himself as he heard a stool crash over, Richer yelled that the prior let go of his arm. Athelstan was about to intervene when the library door rattled. The friar hastily stepped back into the shadows. A servitor entered, clumsily slipping and slithering on the polished floor, loudly shouting how the Lord Abbot demanded the immediate presence of both his prior and sub-prior in his chamber.
The altercation in the scriptorium swifty subsided. Both monks left, followed by the agitated servitor loudly lamenting how the Lord Abbot was stricken at what had happened to poor Leda. Athelstan waited until they’d gone and stepped out of his hiding place. He was about to continue his searches when he heard Cranston shouting his name. Athelstan sighed and walked to the door. The coroner stood at the far end of the portico gallery which ran down to the library, patting the shoulder of the stranger standing next to him as he gestured at Athelstan to join them.
Once he did, Cranston introduced his eccentric-looking visitor, Bartholomew Shoreditch, commonly known as the firedrake ‘for his skill, knowledge and expertise with all forms of fire’. The firedrake was a short, dumpy man clothed entirely in dark red including his cloak, cowl and soft Spanish boots. He preened himself like a peacock as Cranston went on to explain how the firedrake was one of his confidants, much respected by the London guilds, especially the chandlers, wool and coal merchants not to mention the great lords of the Guildhall. The firedrake was all neat and precise in his actions with closely shorn greying hair, his snub-nosed face clean-shaved and oiled. The firedrake definitely loved all things glittering. Rings shimmered on his fat fingers. Around his neck hung a collection of gold and silver chains adorned with medals depicting martyrs such as St Lawrence the Deacon who’d been grilled to death over a slow fire.
‘He used to start fires himself, did little Bartholomew,’ Cranston explained, ‘until his
uncle Jack caught him, pilloried him, put him in the Fleet prison and gave him a lecture he’ll never forget all the God-given days of his life. Isn’t that right, my lovely?’
‘Truly, Sir John.’ The firedrake extended a hand gloved in a gauntlet of blood-red velvet studded with imitation diamonds.
Athelstan grasped this.
‘I’ve now seen the error of my ways, Brother. Good to meet you, Sir John often talks about you.’
‘What exactly do you do?’ Athelstan asked when the firedrake released his hand.
‘I am a journeyman, Brother. I advise my many customers and clients about candles, fires and chimney stacks as well as the storing and charging of faggots, the properties of oil, the difference between waxes, coal and charcoal, not to forget the careful preservation of cannon powder.’
Little wonder, Athelstan thought, the fellow looked so prosperous, especially at this time of year.
‘Brokersby’s death?’ Cranston declared. ‘The firedrake wants to discover what happened.’
Athelstan took their guest out into the precincts. The abbey was still disturbed by the cruel death of Leda. No one interfered when Athelstan escorted the firedrake to the guest house to inspect the charred, derelict chamber. The firedrake moved swiftly. He scrutinized the floor, walls and ceilings, concentrating on where the bed, table and candle had stood. He opened his pannier, donned a leather apron, took off his gauntlets, crouched and sifted amongst the ash, dust and fragments, letting them run through his fingers whilst questioning Athelstan on what had actually happened and what he had learnt. The firedrake picked up a piece of charred leather rim and the blackened remains of what looked like a stopper to a wineskin. He held these up.