Bloodstone smoba-11

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Are you, yet again,’ Richer demanded, ‘accusing me of murder? Where is your proof, your evidence?’

  ‘Seeds grow, stalks thrust up,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Gathering time always comes, Richer. You definitely arrived here to right a whole series of wrongs and, to begin with, God was good. You must have even thought St Benedict himself had intervened on your behalf.’

  ‘Explain!’

  ‘You know full well. One of the Wyverns, William Chalk, fell ill; a defrocked priest, he desperately wanted to make his peace with God. You Richer, with Prior Alexander’s connivance, wormed your way into that man’s soul. I am not accusing you of breaking the seal of confession but you used the second miracle which presented itself. Kilverby was also undergoing conversion. Like the subtle cozener you are, you struck hard and fast. Kilverby realized that the free company he’d financed in France were sacrilegious thieves and he’d profited from them. Worse was to come. He learnt that the Passio Christi, the sacred bloodstone, had been blasphemously stolen and he was also part of that. He was under God’s doom.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I admit, I confess. I still do not fully understand Kilverby’s motives.’

  ‘I am sorry?’ Prior Alexander’s voice seemed hoarse and dry.

  ‘Richer, you are persuasive. Kilverby had his doubts but something other than your honeyed words influenced both him and Master Chalk.’

  Richer half-smiled, as if he was playing a chess game and was acknowledging a cunning opponent.

  ‘Anyway.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘Kilverby asked what could he do? He distanced himself from the Wyvern Company. He probably promised you the bloodstone. Of course all this did not happen at once. I suspect it took almost the first two years of your stay, Richer, before you were able to reap your hidden harvest and send it home.’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the abbot and his woman; their fearful faces showed he was close to the truth.

  ‘Which was what?’ Prior Alexander asked.

  ‘Oh, you all know. Kilverby offered reparation of a different kind; influenced by Richer, he made very generous donations to this abbey on one condition.’

  ‘Which was?’ Prior Alexander whispered.

  ‘All the goods plundered from St Calliste were to be gradually returned. You, Abbot Walter, agreed to this in order to swell the coffers of your beloved kinswoman. Prior Alexander, you cooperated out of your great love for Richer. .’

  ‘I. .’

  ‘Please, Brother, why lie? What you feel is not my business.’ Athelstan pointed at the Frenchman. ‘Richer, you were delighted. You weren’t sending messages home but the objects listed in this ‘Book of Gifts’: cruets, crucifixes, sacred items not to be entrusted to simple river folk but specially selected emissaries who, with Prior Alexander’s full connivance, you met with on your visits to the city. I’m sure most of these objects are now gone.’

  ‘We could prove. .’ Prior Alexander protested but his voice faltered.

  ‘What?’ Athelstan moved in his chair. ‘How you still have these items? Of course you could produce a crucifix, cruets, a triptych and claim they were those from St Calliste. One chalice looks like another, yes, but,’ Athelstan tapped the ledger, ‘give me the “Liber Passionis Christi”.’ His invitation was greeted with silence. ‘Well,’ Athelstan declared, ‘where is the Book of the Passion of Christ? I suspect it’s a manuscript written by Pope Damasus — yes? This too has gone back to France. Richer gave it to some trusted envoy on a foreign ship, well?’

  ‘The book has been returned.’ Prior Alexander was flustered. Trying to regain his dignity, he glanced sharply at Richer. ‘The book has been restored to its proper owner.’

  ‘With the permission of the Crown,’ Athelstan asked, ‘did you make a copy?’ Athelstan demanded, ‘Well, did you?’

  Richer simply spread his hands, Prior Alexander slipped further down his chair.

  ‘There’s no “Liber”, no copy,’ Richer muttered.

  ‘I might insist on searching this abbey, including your chamber, Richer.’

  ‘You can’t. .’

  ‘We can and we might,’ Cranston retorted.

  ‘The Passio Christi,’ Athelstan asked, ‘do any of you know where the bloodstone is?’

  ‘No,’ Richer’s voice was restrained, ‘I swear, no!’

  ‘The Passio Christi,’ Athelstan got to his feet, ‘and the book about it hold the key to all this mystery, and the question which lies at the very heart of it: why did Sir Robert change so radically? There was more to that than his own scruples or your eloquence, Richer.’

  ‘I cannot help you on that!’

  ‘Never mind.’ Cranston rose and stood over the Frenchman. ‘You, Brother, whoever you may be, are confined to this abbey. Any attempt to flee will be construed as a treasonous act.’

  ‘I’m a Frenchman.’

  ‘And His Grace, King Richard,’ Cranston thrust his face down, ‘also claims to be King of France. Richer, you are confined to this abbey under pain of treason. Brother Athelstan?’

  The coroner and friar stepped out of the chamber. Once they’d left the courtyard Athelstan paused.

  ‘Perhaps we should begin now, Sir John.’

  ‘Begin what?’

  ‘Our search!’

  Cranston agreed. He and Athelstan adjourned to the library. Richer joined them. Athelstan told him to stand aside, yet even as they searched Athelstan realized they would find nothing amongst this precious collection of books. Richer was cunning. Should they, Athelstan wondered, demand that the sub-prior’s chamber also be searched? But, there again, the Frenchman was now alert to the danger. Moreover, although the ‘Liber Passionis Christi’ might prove very useful, its disappearance did not prove Richer, or anyone else, to be an assassin or a thief. Athelstan sighed as he placed the last book, a copy of Lucretius, back on the shelf.

  ‘Sir John, I’m ready!’ The firedrake in all his garish glory marched into the library. Cranston smiled at Athelstan and both followed this eccentric character out through the cloisters to Mortival meadow where the abbey chandler waited.

  ‘I’ve everything prepared.’

  The firedrake pointed to a barrel with a capped tallow candle on its upturned end. The firedrake struck a tinder, sheltering its flame against the boisterous cold breeze. The wick flared into life. The firedrake hastily withdrew. The tongue of flame danced even though it was protected by the concave-shaped cap. Cranston stamped his feet impatiently; almost in response the candle dissolved in a burst of angry, spitting flames. Small tongues of fire shot up to land, hissing like snakes on the frost-hardened grass. The top of the dry wooden barrel caught light, flames licked down its side already smouldering from the spits of fire. Soon the entire barrel was alight. Athelstan thought the flames would die but then a fresh burst flared up, angry shoots of fire leaping so swift and fierce the entire barrel was soon reduced to blackened wood crumbling away in fiery fragments.

  ‘You see.’ The firedrake was almost dancing with glee whilst the abbey chandler beamed at the dying fire. The monk abruptly remembered what he was doing and hurriedly pulled a more mournful face. ‘That’s how Brokersby died,’ the firedrake declared.

  ‘Do explain,’ Cranston insisted.

  Athelstan sniffed the grey-black smoke and walked closer to the dying fire. The tang of oil was strong, needle-thin rivulets of smoking blackness scored the frozen grass.

  ‘Very simple.’ The firedrake breathed in the smoke as if it was the very incense of heaven.

  ‘Then keep it so,’ Cranston retorted, ‘and brief. I’m freezing.’

  ‘Come, come,’ the chandler insisted on taking them back to his own work shop, a large chamber which reeked of oil, cordage and wax. He made them sit on stools around a brazier which sparkled just like a ruby. Athelstan, clutching the cup of posset the chandler served, ruefully wondered on the whereabouts of the bloodstone.

  ‘Very simple.’ The firedrake held up a large tallow candle. He turned this upside down tapping its base. ‘You hollow this out a
nd pour in oil, perhaps add some salt-petre powder, the type used by the King’s newfangled cannons — you’ve seen them at the Tower?’

  Cranston grunted.

  ‘Reseal the candle with a wax plug and you have nothing less than a vase of oil.’

  ‘If you light the wick,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘the flame burns down, the wax dissolves and the conflagration begins. The lower the oil sits in the hollowed-out candle, the longer it takes.’

  ‘I’ve seen it done,’ the chandler observed ruefully. ‘Sir John, as coroner, you must have encountered tallow-makers, candle-fashioners who use cheap materials within a shell of wax?’

  ‘I have,’ Cranston drank from his posset cup, ‘which explains why the guild’s regulations are so stringent against such a practice.’

  ‘That and more,’ the firedrake explained. ‘This barrel was as dry as tinder. Inside it was a small pouch of oil. The false candle was perilous enough but the oil would make it truly dangerous. You must have seen conflagrations; people forget how fast flames can move. I’ve seen fires in dried forests course swifter than a fleeing deer. Burning oil is even worse.’ He waggled a finger. ‘Very dangerous — it turned our candle into a fountain of spitting flame.’

  ‘So,’ Athelstan drained his cup, ‘somebody entered Brokersby’s chamber. They placed a wine skin, one full of oil sprinkled with salt-petre, under his bed. The tallow candle was replaced with a false one. Brokersby either lit it or let it burn as he was accustomed to. He retired to bed, his belly full of wine, an opiate, or both. The candle eventually disintegrated in a shower of flame which would swiftly reach the pouch of oil hidden away.’ Athelstan crossed himself. ‘The bed was of dry wood, linen sheets and woollen blankets, ideal fuel. Brokersby may have woken and tried to stagger out of danger but the fire was all around him. The oil-rich flames would have turned him into a living torch. My friends,’ Athelstan rose and bowed, ‘I thank you heartily but your hypothesis leaves one tantalizing question.’ He stared down at them. ‘Why? Why kill any soul but especially why like that, the artifice, the subtle cunning, why?’

  Cranston escorted the firedrake, rewarded with good silver, back to the watergate. Athelstan took to wandering the abbey. He felt agitated. The buildings seemed to crowd in around him. The statues and carvings appeared to draw closer, making him more aware of sightless eyes, stone smiles and frozen glances. He became acutely alert to the dappled light, the black alleyways and the yawning mouths of corridors. Bells tolled. Monks slipped here and there on different duties. Athelstan sensed a change: their mood was colder, more distant. Bony white faces peered suspiciously out at him from hoods and cowls. Brothers turned and whispered to each other as he passed. Athelstan entered the church to pray before the lady altar. Afterwards he went and stood before the anker house but the anchorite was either asleep or pretended to be. Athelstan returned to his own chamber and tried to clear the fog of mystery behind the disappearance of the bloodstone and these horrid murders. Were they all connected? Athelstan wondered. Or should he look at Kilverby’s murder as separate from the rest? The Passio Christi did link Kilverby to the Wyvern Company. Another tie was Richer. Athelstan curbed his frustration. Ideally, Cranston should seize the Frenchman and hoist him off to the Tower for closer questioning. Richer however was a cleric, a monk. He would plead benefit of clergy and, within the day, every churchman in London would be stridently protesting.

  SEVEN

  ‘Placitum: a case heard before a court.’

  Next morning, after a troubled sleep, Athelstan celebrated a late Mass. As he divested he wondered if he should escape the abbey and return to St Erconwald’s for the day. Outside in the aisle the brothers were preparing their own crib, bringing in lifelike statues and arguing about whether the abbot wanted the Three Kings immediately or should they wait until the Epiphany. Athelstan was about to help when he glimpsed an inscription carved along the rim of the chantry altar. He swiftly translated the Latin. He was about to close his eyes in thankful prayer when he heard his name being called. Prior Alexander, unshaven and red-eyed, his black robe stained and blotched, pushed through the gossiping brothers to inform Athelstan that Cranston required him urgently near the watergate. Athelstan collected his cloak and writing tray and hurried down across Mortival meadow, pleasantly surprised by the change in the weather. The mist had lifted. The clouds were thinning and the weak sunlight gave the meadow a more springlike look. On the quayside Cranston, cloaked, booted and armed, stood with Wenlock and Mahant, similarly attired. The old soldiers looked heavy-eyed as if roused from an ale-sodden sleep. Moored along the quayside was a high-prowed barge with a covered awning in the stern. The prow boasted a snapping pennant of dark blue fringed with gold displaying the insignia of the Fisher of Men, a silver corpse rising from a golden sea. The barge was manned by six oarsmen dressed in black and gold livery — these were the Fisher of Men’s coven, outlaws and outcasts who’d rejected their own names and rejoiced in being called Maggot, Taffyhead, Badger, Brick-face, Gigglebrazen and Hackum. Standing on the barge was Icthus, the Fisher’s principal assistant, dressed in a simple black tunic, a strange creature who took the Greek name for fish, an apt enough title. The young man had no hair even on his brows or eyelids whilst his oval-shaped face and protuberant cod mouth made him look even more like a fish. Icthus raised a hand in greeting as Cranston broke off whispering heatedly with Wenlock and Mahant.

  ‘Osborne’s been found,’ Cranston declared, ‘or at least his corpse, naked as he was born, throat slit from ear to ear.’ Cranston waved at the waiting barge. ‘The Fisher of Men requires an audience. Wenlock and Mahant are coming with us whether they like it or not.’

  They all clambered into the barge. Icthus in a high-pitched voice ordered the oarsmen to push away and soon they were out, the rowers bending and pulling back in unison. The river was thankfully calm though busy with fishing smacks, bum boats and market barges all taking advantage of the break in the weather. Mahant and Wenlock sat fascinated by Icthus and his companions. Cranston tersely explained how the Fisher of Men was a retainer of the mayor and city council. The Fisher’s task was to roam the Thames and drag out the corpses, the victims of suicide, murder, or accident.

  ‘A common enough occurrence,’ Cranston confirmed. ‘He,’ the coroner pointed at Icthus, who sat with his back to them crooning a song to the rowers, ‘has one God-given gift: he can swim like an fish whatever the mood of the river.’

  ‘Where was Osborne found?’ Wenlock asked.

  ‘Down river,’ Cranston remarked, ‘trapped amongst some reeds. Icthus believes he was thrown in somewhere between the abbey and La Reole.’

  ‘We have his assurance it’s Osborne?’ Wenlock shifted his gaze from Icthus to Cranston.

  ‘We shall see,’ the coroner replied. ‘Apparently not only was the victim’s throat slashed but someone used a hammer, or a rock, to pound his face into a soggy mess of blood, bone and tattered flesh.’

  ‘Sweet Lord,’ Mahant whispered, sitting squashed in the semicircular stern seat, he leaned down and gently touched the hilt of his sword for comfort.

  Cranston nudged Athelstan and pointed to a flock of birds which seemed to cover the corpse dangling from a crude gallows on a sandbank.

  ‘That reminds me — Leda the swan. Do you really think the Upright Men hanged that poor bird?’

  Athelstan recalled what he’d glimpsed in the chantry chapel that morning.

  ‘Leda was hanged,’ he replied evasively, ‘by someone with a deep hatred for my Lord Abbot.’

  ‘That must include,’ Wenlock declared, ‘virtually most of his community and everyone outside it.’

  Athelstan, reluctant to continue the conversation, stared round the awning at the other barges passing close as they moved in towards the quayside. Athelstan studied them and glimpsed Crispin, Kilverby’s secretarius, sitting huddled in the centre of one skiff staring directly at the Fisher of Men’s barge. Athelstan swiftly drew back. Crispin was apparently heading for St Fulcher’s
. Athelstan wondered what urgent business brought him back to the abbey? Icthus, in that eerie voice, abruptly called out commands. The barge rocked as it turned and came alongside a deserted wharf just past La Reole. They disembarked and made their way up to what was variously called, ‘The Barque of St Peter’, ‘The Chapel of the Drowned Man’ or ‘The Mortuary of the Sea’, a single storey building of grey brick with a red tiled roof. The corporation had built this so all the corpses harvested from the Thames could be laid out for inspection and collection by relatives; if not recognized, they were placed on to the great cart standing alongside the Barque and taken to some Poor Man’s Lot in one of the city cemeteries.

  The mortuary fronted the quayside, on either side ranged the wattle and daub cottages of the Fisher of Men and what he termed ‘his beloved disciples’; others called them ‘the grotesques’. Athelstan stared up at the vigorously carved tympanum above the wooden porch showing the dead rising from choppy waves to be greeted by the angels of God or the demons of Hell. Beneath this ran the words: ‘And the Sea shall give up its dead’. On the right side of the door hung the great net which the Fisher of Men used to bring in the bodies, above it another inscription: ‘The deep shall be harvested’. On the left side of the door a proclamation boldly proclaimed the prices for recovering a corpse. ‘The mad and insane — 6p. Suicides — 10p. Accidents — 8p. Those fleeing from the law — 14p. Animals — 2p. Goods to the value of £5: ten shillings. Goods over the value of £5, one third of their market value’. The Fisher of Men was seated beneath the sign, his bald head and cadaverous face protected by a leather cowl edged with costly fur. A thick military cloak shrouded his body from head to feet, which were pushed into the finest cordovan riding boots. The Fisher of Men rose and greeted his visitors in fluent Norman French and, turning specifically to Athelstan, lapsed into Latin. He asked the friar if he would give him and his ‘beloved disciples’ a formal blessing before leading them in their favourite hymn, ‘Ave Maris Stella — Hail Star of the Sea’.