by Paul Doherty
‘Sir Robert,’ he added. ‘Even when he was in the novitiate he was known for chewing the end of his pens. He laughingly referred to this, Crispin, when you and he were once strolling up the south aisle of St Fulcher’s abbey church. You were overheard by the anchorite who shelters there. Mistress Alesia, did you not tell me the same?’
‘It’s true,’ Alesia whispered, ‘my father always chewed the ends of his pens, a mannerism he couldn’t give up despite my scolding.’
Others murmured their assent. Crispin undid the cord of his cambric shirt as if he couldn’t breathe properly.
‘But we all came in here that morning,’ Lady Helen demanded. ‘Nobody moved anything, I am sure.’
‘Are you?’ Athelstan replied. ‘Look, Crispin is Sir Robert’s clerk. He has an ink horn and quills strapped to his belt. It’s one of the first things I noticed about him.’
‘He always carries pens,’ Alesia declared, ‘he always has ever since I can remember.’
‘It was the same that morning,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘You all came in here. You were distraught and distracted. Crispin, the faithful clerk, moved to Sir Robert’s desk. Why shouldn’t he rearrange the pens? He makes the exchange in the twinkling of an eye. He leaves these quills, the ones he has used himself, and takes the poisoned ones which, I am sure, he immediately burnt.’ Athelstan paused, letting the silence deepen.
‘But surely,’ Lady Helen now spoke directly to Athelstan, ‘he must have realized the mistakes he had made?’ She paused. ‘Of course.’ She answered her own question. ‘It was too late. Crispin never expected, as you said, this chamber to be sealed with all the evidence in it.’
‘Crispin’s eyesight is also poor,’ Athelstan declared. ‘He may have failed to realize the full implications of what he’d done. Once Sir Robert’s corpse was discovered, he was committed to the heinous lie he had to live. Perhaps he delayed gnawing on the ends of the replacement quill pens until it was too late. Or did he panic, frightened that one of you would note such an act so closely associated with his master rather than himself? What he’d done was certainly settled by this chamber being sealed. However,’ Athelstan pointed to the ashen-faced clerk, ‘only he can say. But remember, for Crispin, Sir Robert’s death was only a means, a device to get his hands on the bloodstone and keep it.’
‘It must be true,’ Kinsman Adam whispered. ‘Sir Robert would only have entrusted the Passio Christi to someone in this room, someone he trusted implicitly, there’s no other explanation.’
‘Don’t accuse me!’
‘I do, Crispin,’ Athelstan declared. ‘True, I do not have full proof but I possess enough to present a bill of indictment. You’ll be arrested and lodged in Newgate. The Regent’s torturers will demand your presence at the Tower. They’ll interrogate you day in and day out. They will not let you die, though there’ll be times when you pray that they do so. Confession or not, you’ll be judged a traitor for having stolen Crown property. You will also be condemned as sacrilegious and excommunicate because the Passio Christi is a sacred relic.’ Athelstan held Crispin’s terrified gaze. ‘In the end you’ll suffer the full penalty for treason. You’ll be drawn on a hurdle from the Tower to the Elms at Smithfield. You’ll be half hanged, disembowelled and castrated. You will die the enemy of both church and realm. You’ll never be allowed to enjoy the fruits of your foul act.’
‘A full confession,’ Cranston came up and softly placed both hands on Crispin’s shoulders, ‘and the return of the bloodstone and you can expect a swift, merciful death. Your soul purged of all sin.’
Crispin swallowed hard. He tried to speak but couldn’t form the words.
‘Please,’ Alesia pleaded, ‘for any love you have for me, Crispin, confess because the odds press heavily against you.’
Crispin bowed his head and sobbed, a heart-rending sound. Athelstan steeled himself. This man had deliberately and maliciously killed another human being. He had betrayed his master who, despite all his faults, had meant him well.
Crispin lifted his head. ‘It is,’ he confessed, ‘as you say. .’
Athelstan sat in the inglenook of ‘The Port of Paradise’, an ancient tavern which, Cranston claimed, was built in the time of the present King’s great, great grandfather. A claim, Athelstan stared round, which he would not challenge. The lowering beams of the tap room were black with age, the onions and cheeses hanging in nets from these exuded a tangy smell which offset the stench of gutted fish drying outside the main door. Athelstan bit into the freshly baked manchet loaf smeared with honey and sipped at the ale which the barrel-bellied Minehost had proclaimed to be the best in London.
‘In which case I’d hate to taste the worst,’ Athelstan whispered, putting the blackjack on the floor beside him. Cranston had promised he wouldn’t be long. Athelstan stretched his hands out to the blaze. The leaping flames in the great hearth reminded him of the Passio Christi. Crispin had confessed and then, with Cranston as his guard, had gone down into the garden at the rear of the mansion where he had cunningly hidden the bloodstone amongst a pile of ancient sacking.
‘Beautiful,’ Athelstan murmured to himself. He’d handled the bloodstone, big as a duck’s egg, as Cranston had described it. Turning the ruby Athelstan had marvelled at what appeared to be shooting flames of fire within; these caught the light and dazzled even more. Athelstan was wary of most relics. He’d seen the most ludicrous venerated, the worst being a pile of straw miraculously preserved from the stable at Bethlehem. For all his scepticism Athelstan had appreciated the sheer beauty of the bloodstone. Its unique glow alone would convince many that it had been formed by Christ’s precious blood and sweat. Athelstan had returned it to its coffer, nestling the ruby amongst the soft blue samite. Crispin had then repeated his confession which virtually agreed with every aspect of Athelstan’s bill of indictment. Crispin also admitted that his mind had been turned by his intense dislike of St Fulcher’s, the powerful resentment he felt against Sir Robert and how subtly Richer had played on this.
‘Once Richer died. .’ Crispin paused at the exclamations this provoked from the rest of the household.
‘Oh, yes,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Richer has gone to a higher judge in a way he did not expect.’
‘Whatever his death,’ Crispin continued muttering as if to himself, ‘he deserved it. Now he is gone what can I do?’
‘All finished.’
Athelstan glanced up. Cranston towered over him, his head and face almost hidden by the great beaver hat and the folds of his cloak.
‘Crispin is lodged in Newgate and the bloodstone lies in the great iron chest at the Guildhall.’
‘But the bloodstone,’ Athelstan added, getting to his feet, ‘has not yet finished its work. We must now confront the act which began this bloody mayhem, “the Radix Malorum — the Root of all these Evils”.’
As soon as Athelstan returned to the abbey, he sent Cranston with two archers to bring Wenlock to his chamber. The veteran had apparently recovered from his belly gripes, the colour returning to his ruddy face. He was dressed for travelling in thick woollen jerkin and leggings, riding boots on, his maimed hands hidden by gauntlets.
‘Sit down,’ Athelstan ordered, ‘you’ll be going nowhere, Master Wenlock, except to Newgate then on to be hanged at Smithfield. Don’t lie,’ Athelstan ordered, ‘but sit and listen. Take off your gauntlets, Wenlock, that’s right; let us see your maimed hands. You were caught by the French?’
Wenlock, eyes watchful, glanced over his shoulder at Cranston standing by the door.
‘You know I was,’ he retorted.
‘You were punished, maimed for being an English master bowman,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Did you and your coven see this as just punishment for stealing the Passio Christi?’
‘I did not. .’
‘You did,’ Athelstan retorted flatly. ‘Your story about finding a cart near St Calliste piled high with treasure, its escort having fled, is a lie. Many have regarded it as such, but now we have the trut
h. Wenlock, you stole that bloodstone. You pulled it out of its tabernacle, out of its shrine. You stole that and the “Liber Passionis Christi”, probably chained to a nearby lectern together with other sacred items. Your later capture and maiming by the French may have provoked some fears in you and your company. Wenlock, I have read the “Liber”: it curses any sacrilegious act against the bloodstone. The “Liber” boldly proclaims, with fitting examples from its past, how the hands of such a perpetrator would wither like dry leaves. Look at your hands, Wenlock, they have shrivelled. You lost your skill as a master bowman though I suspect you have enough grip, perfected over the years, to wield a dagger or club.’
Wenlock stared above Athelstan’s head, lips moving as if memorizing something.
‘Matters changed when you came to St Fulcher’s, even more so when Richer arrived here as sub-prior. He was ruthlessly dedicated to recovering all the property stolen from St Calliste. He was well placed to do this because he had at his disposal a looted item which you probably overlooked, the “Liber Passionis Christi”. Kilverby also came here. He was vulnerable, growing old, becoming frightened of impending judgement. Using the “Liber” as evidence, Richer converted that merchant but then seized on an even greater prey, your old companion William Chalk.’
Wenlock just snorted derisively.
‘I am sure that’s how Richer regarded Chalk,’ Athelstan countered, ‘a defrocked priest, a man growing old and fearful. Richer counsels Chalk. He shows him the curses against those who have sinned against the bloodstone. Chalk may have even come to see his own malignant disease as God’s judgement on him. In the end Chalk confesses. Of course Richer is protected by the seal of confession but I suspect Chalk began to chatter. The sub-prior certainly used Chalk to influence Kilverby; he hoped the same would happen amongst your coven with all their memories and hidden guilt. You, Wenlock, the recognized counsellor of the Wyverns, sensed the danger now emerging. Chalk and Kilverby were both victims of Richer’s subtlety — who would be next? Who knows? Richer might eventually persuade Brokersby, Hyde or Hanep to go in front of a King’s officer, Sir John Cranston or any other Justice and, on surety of being pardoned or even rewarded, confess what really happened at St Calliste so many years ago. Of course your story about finding that cart was always doubted but matters would radically change if a full confession was made. Once one of your coven did that, others would soon follow. They would swear that you, not them, stole the Passio Christi; perhaps you were helped by Mahant and only protected by the others. In the end you know how such matters proceed?’
Wenlock simply smiled to himself.
‘In the final conclusion,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you’d be cast as the thief, your maimed hands as proof of divine judgement. Once such a confession was made public, the church would declare you excommunicate and insist that the Crown use the full rigour of the law against you. His Grace the Regent would, despite any personal feelings, be forced to act or suffer similar ecclesiastical punishment.’
‘What proof do you offer?’ Wenlock snarled. ‘I was away from here when Hanep and Hyde were killed.’
‘I will come to that in a while.’ Athelstan shifted on his stool. ‘You,’ he pointed at Wenlock, ‘were fearful. Chalk’s confession, Richer’s presence, Kilverby’s alienation from you emphasized the real danger. In a word you persuaded Mahant to go with you, why or how I don’t know. Perhaps Mahant had assisted you in your sacrilege. Perhaps you threatened him that, if you were accused, you would implicate him in your confession. You decided, and so persuaded Mahant, that it was best if all your old companions died. Of course there were other motives. You’d use your comrades’ wealth as a bribe; perhaps they owned more than we ever suspected. You talked of a common purse and claimed Osborne held it. Another lie. I suspect you do and half of such money is better than a sixth.’
‘I was not here!’ Wenlock shouted fiercely, though Athelstan glimpsed the fear in those watery blue eyes. ‘I was not here,’ he repeated, ‘when Hanep and Hyde died.’
‘Oh, but you were.’
‘I was in London.’
‘No, you and Mahant went to London. You lodged at “The Pride of Purgatory” tavern. You made great play at revelling and feasting there. You ogled the ladies and loudly mentioned how you were waiting for your old friend Geoffrey of Portsoken, now known as Vox Populi. In truth you didn’t give a fig for him. You probably knew full well that he’d been taken up by the sheriff’s men.’ Athelstan paused as the abbey bells boomed out their summons to plain chant. ‘Sir John,’ he asked, ‘how long would it take two able bodied men to walk from Cheapside to here?’
‘Less than an hour.’
‘Which is what you did,’ Athelstan accused. ‘You left that tavern probably disguised in the black robes of a Benedictine, you’d easily secure such gowns. With your shaven heads and stout sandals, you appeared what you wanted to be, two monks returning late to their abbey. Who would know? You left that tavern with its many entrances in the dead of night. You walked through the darkness. Once here you were able and fit enough to scale the abbey walls, drop into the grounds and make your own way to the guest house. Hanep was your first victim. If he came out for one of his midnight saunters all to the good, if not you’d strike some other way. Of course Hanep did and died swiftly for doing so. You then returned to London disguised. No one would really notice you coming or going at the dead of night. “The Pride of Purgatory” tavern is busy with many entrances and exits, that’s why you chose it. You can slip in and out as easily as you did. You then prepared for your next victim. You also purchased an arbalest or crossbow, I am sure of that. I don’t believe that nonsense about never using one. You might despise it but that’s not the same as never using one. Mahant was a master bowman — he was skilled enough.’
‘We would never. .’
‘Yes, you did,’ Athelstan snapped, ‘or at least Mahant bought one on your orders. He confessed how he used it against me.’
‘What do you mean?’ Wenlock’s shock was obvious. He sat gaping at Athelstan, who spread his hands.
‘In a while,’ Athelstan murmured, determined not to glance at Cranston, ‘you and Mahant returned to St Fulcher’s late in the afternoon on the Feast of St Damasus. You stealthily entered this abbey, probably disguised as Benedictines. I have learnt, even from my short stay here at the dead of winter, particularly with the mist seeping in, how members of this community pass unobserved all garbed in black, hoods or cowls pulled forward.’ Athelstan ignored Wenlock’s mocking sneer. He sensed this killer was truly frightened behind his scoffing front. ‘You waited near the guest house. You would have chosen any of your coven but Hyde appeared. Mahant, with you trailing behind as guard, followed Hyde into the abbey church. Hyde glimpsed Richer and set off in pursuit, curious at why this Frenchman was armed and where he was going. In a word, Mahant killed Hyde near the watergate then fled across Mortival meadow, its mist shrouded bushes and copses provided an ideal place to hide. Mahant was very clever, disguised in the robe of a Benedictine monk. If Hyde had been alerted and turned round, Mahant could have simply reverted to being the old comrade wondering what was going on. Hyde paid for his trust in you. Of course you did not wish to be implicated in his death so once Hanep was dead, you both left the abbey then reappeared in your own guise at the abbey gates which, you thought, would place you beyond suspicion.’
Wenlock’s sneer had disappeared. He was now openly nervous, looking around as if searching for any weakness in the allegations levied against him.
‘Sir John is behind you,’ Athelstan observed, ‘and this guest house is now ringed with men-at-arms.’
Wenlock just blinked and breathed in deeply.
‘Brokersby surprised you, didn’t he?’ Athelstan continued. ‘Admitting in my presence and that of Sir John how he was drawing up his own chronicle. God knows what he was writing. Was he also making a confession? Had William Chalk gossiped to him as well as to others?’
‘Brokersby was fey, madcap,’
Wenlock jibed.
‘Perhaps he was or perhaps he was converted,’ Athelstan replied. ‘After all, like Hanep he couldn’t sleep at night. Did his past come back to haunt him? Is that why he had to take an opiate before he could sleep?’