by Paul Doherty
‘And eat them?’ the physician protested.
‘Nonsense.’ Athelstan laughed. ‘You have a cellar plagued by rats? Put the sweetmeats and the wine down there, you’ll soon discover if they are tainted. Oh, by the way, did you examine Kilverby’s fingertips?’
‘Nothing but ink and wine,’ the physician replied wearily. ‘No trace of any noxious potion.’
Flaxwith appeared in the doorway.
‘Ah, Flaxwith.’ Athelstan waited until the physician, carrying jug, goblet and silver bowl, stomped off, grumbling under his breath about payment. ‘Flaxwith, with Sir John’s permission, I want you, whilst we are questioning our hosts in the solar, to have this door repaired. Once it is, I want it locked, barred and firmly sealed with the Lord Coroner’s signet so that no one can enter. Do you understand?’
‘Athelstan?’ Cranston queried.
‘Nothing is to leave this chamber. No one is to enter once Sir John and I have adjourned to the solar. Come on.’ Athelstan waved. ‘Sir John, the hours pass.’
A short while later Cranston, Athelstan sitting beside him, stared round this wealthy family. Edmond Pulick had now joined Alesia. He was friendly-faced with sandy hair and a snub nose above a smiling mouth. Pleasant and discreet, Athelstan considered, though with sharp eyes. The precise way Pulick acted showed he was a merchant through and through, ready to assess and weigh everything in the balance. Athelstan studied the rest. Each nursed their own soul, which was full of what? God’s grace or murder, hatred, revenge or even just the love of killing? Certainly one of them was an assassin. Athelstan then smiled and mentally murmured ‘Mea culpa’ for his rushed judgement as Cranston’s first question revealed that others may well be involved.
‘Who gave Sir Robert the dish of sweetmeats?’
‘Not us,’ Crispin replied swiftly. ‘Sir Robert, God assoil him, entertained Prior Alexander and Brother Richer from St Fulcher’s yesterday afternoon. They brought the comfits as a gift. I even ate one.’
‘Why did they visit Sir Robert?’
‘Business,’ Crispin replied. ‘The Passio Christi was to be taken to St Fulcher’s today – they came to fix the hour. There were other matters. Sir Robert also confirmed that I would be given good lodgings when he began his pilgrimage at the beginning of Lent.’
‘And who,’ Cranston interrupted, ‘would have looked after Sir Robert’s affairs when he was away?’
‘Edmond and I,’ Alesia replied, throwing a hateful glance at her stepmother. ‘Matters would be in safe hands.’ She grasped her husband’s arm. He simply smiled, eyes watchful for Cranston’s next question.
‘And the Passio Christi, what would have happened to that when Sir Robert left?’
‘We would have kept it secure.’ Alesia didn’t seem so certain now. ‘After all, Edmond is a very respected member . . .’
Kinsman Adam suddenly sniggered. Athelstan glanced sideways. Sir John’s eyes were growing heavy; he was slumping in the great chair brought up in front of the roaring fire.
‘Sir John is weary.’ Athelstan paused at the furious knocking from down the gallery. ‘Your father’s chamber is being made secure and sealed. No one, and I repeat no one, on their allegiance to the Crown, is to enter that chamber. I repeat.’ He ignored all their protests, especially from Lady Helen. ‘No one is to enter.’ He pointed at Alesia, her red-rimmed eyes now dry in her long, pale face. ‘Mistress, your father was murdered – undoubtedly poisoned.’ He waited for the gasps and cries to subside.
‘But how?’ Edmond demanded. ‘We had supper with him last night. Sir Robert was in good spirits when he left the table.’
‘Then?’ Cranston abruptly drew himself up in the chair, smacking his lips, fingers impatiently beating against the arm rest. ‘What happened then?’ he repeated.
‘He adjourned to his chamber.’ Crispin spoke up.
‘Did you go with him?’
‘No, Sir John,’ Lady Helen replied. ‘My husband,’ she emphasized the word, ‘said he wanted to reflect. I don’t know why, we don’t know why, he simply asked not to be disturbed. He had his wine and those sweetmeats, to which he was partial. He bolted and locked the door and never came out.’
‘And no one visited him?’
‘Nobody,’ Crispin declared. ‘Once Sir Robert had decided to be alone that was it.’
‘I wished him goodnight,’ Lady Helen declared. ‘I called through the door.’
‘As did I,’ Alesia added.
‘And Sir Robert replied both times?’
‘Of course, Brother. If he hadn’t, we would have been alarmed.’
‘And the Passio Christi?’
‘I saw it,’ Alesia declared. ‘Crispin, Edmond and I were here after the monks had left. He showed it to us and put it back in the coffer. Crispin and he took it back to his chamber. I saw him lock the casket and put the keys back on the chain around his neck.’ Alesia wetted her lips, slender fingers rubbing her brow. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, my father kept the bloodstone in that coffer in his chancery. I . . .’
‘Mistress,’ Athelstan soothed, ‘after supper your father retired for the night about what hour?’
‘He went to the garderobe first,’ she replied. ‘It’s a little further along the gallery. He made himself comfortable. I think it must have been . . .’
‘About compline,’ Crispin interjected, ‘the bells were ringing for compline. I remember glancing through the window and saw the beacons flaring in the church steeples. The streets below were quiet.’
‘And Sir Robert definitely stayed in his chamber?’
‘Yes, yes.’ They spoke together.
‘So,’ Athelstan cradled his leather satchel rocking gently backwards and forwards. ‘No one goes into that chamber. It is bolted and locked from the inside, and this morning?’
‘I went there,’ Crispin replied. ‘I knocked, then I hammered and shouted.’
‘I came down,’ Lady Helen leaned forward. ‘Kinsman Adam and I also tried.’ She pulled a face and one, Athelstan reflected, not so full of grieving. ‘By then the entire house was roused. The door was forced and Sir Robert,’ she tried to create a tremor in her voice and dabbed quickly at her eyes with the long hem of her cuff, ‘lay dead on the floor but, apart from that horrid sight, nothing else was disturbed.’
‘And nothing was?’ Athelstan queried sharply. ‘Nobody touched anything?’
‘Nobody,’ Alesia agreed. ‘I was so shocked I just stood in the doorway. Master Crispin scrutinized the chancery table and asked me if the casket holding the Passio Christi was secure. I did. It was undisturbed. Sir John, you discovered where my father kept his keys?’
For a while there was silence.
‘One more thing.’ Athelstan smiled round. ‘Let’s go back to something you have mentioned. Yesterday afternoon, Tuesday the eve of St Damasus, you were visited by two monks from St Fulcher’s – Prior Alexander and Sub-Prior Richer, yes?’
‘True,’ Crispin murmured, ‘we’ve explained that.’ Crispin’s eyes were blinking so furiously Athelstan recalled Physician Theobald’s earlier question and wondered if this old secretarius had a serious ailment of the eyes.
‘Who met them?’
‘My father,’ Alesia declared. ‘Crispin, Edmond and I were also present.’
‘They brought gifts?’
‘Yes, delicious sweetmeats. They asked to see the Passio Christi.’
‘So what was the purpose of their visit?’
‘I’ve explained already,’ Crispin answered. ‘They had business in Cheapside dealing with other merchants but,’ he fingered the cap of the inkhorn strapped to his belt, ‘Sir Robert also wanted to see them.’
‘What I mean is this,’ Athelstan paused, ‘I understand the Passio Christi had to be taken to St Fulcher’s to be shown to the members of the Wyvern Company. Your father would have taken it, so why see the monks yesterday when a further meeting was planned for today?’
‘I shall answer that,’ Lady Helen declared fiercely.
‘Shall you, mother dearest?’
‘Alesia!’ Helen’s face was a mask of fury. ‘My husband also confided in me, Sir John.’ Lady Helen apparently considered Athelstan beneath her notice; she hardly glanced at him. ‘My husband was a devout man. He did not ask to hold the Passio Christi, which he regarded as a precious relic. He did not like the Wyvern Company. More importantly, he resented taking the Passio Christi out to them.’
‘So he asked the monks to come here?’
‘Brother, you have it wrong!’ Lady Helen snapped. ‘My husband may have done wrong, been harsh, but he did penance for all that. At the same time he continued to do his duty here in London. You see,’ Lady Helen forced a smile, ‘the bloodstone still had to be taken to St Fulcher’s today for those old soldiers to see whatever happened yesterday.’
‘So?’
‘I was to take it!’ Alesia declared.
‘As was I.’ Crispin rubbed his hands on his gown. ‘Lady Helen is correct. My master hated taking the Passio Christi to St Fulcher’s. He did not go last year and he certainly didn’t intend to this year. The Passio Christi was to be taken by me, Mistress Alesia and Master Edmond. We planned,’ he controlled the quaver in his voice, ‘to leave at first light this morning, which is when I tried to rouse my master.’
‘So why did the good brothers visit here?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘The Passio Christi was a curiosity but why else?’ He smiled apologetically. ‘I know I have asked this before but I want to clarify matters.’
‘My eyesight is failing,’ Crispin explained. ‘I have been examined by skilled oculists. When my master left on pilgrimage I was to be given comfortable lodgings at St Fulcher’s, in the abbot’s own guest house. Prior Alexander, who used to be infirmarian and skilled in physics, would look after my eyes.’
‘And you wanted that?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Crispin confessed. ‘I would be distraught about my master’s leaving but one day he would return.’
‘And the Passio Christi?’ Athelstan asked.
‘You are persistent, Friar,’ Crispin murmured. He glanced around. ‘I must tell the truth.’ He paused. ‘Sir Robert was tired of holding the Passio Christi. He wanted to give it back.’
‘To whom?’ Cranston asked.
‘Why, the Abbey of St Fulcher,’ Alesia replied. ‘Father truly disliked those old soldiers. He’d always thought the bloodstone was taken as the legitimate plunder of war but, in the last few years, he began to wonder whether they had stolen it – an act of sacrilege. Of course he liked to go to the abbey itself. He was a generous benefactor and often visited the brothers.’
‘For what?’ Cranston asked.
‘To retreat, to pray, to fast, to cure his soul.’
‘And would the exchequer have agreed to the Passio Christi being given to the abbey?’ Cranston asked.
‘My father . . .’ Alesia’s voice faltered, she looked askance at Crispin.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake tell them the rest,’ Lady Helen almost shouted. ‘Sir Robert intended to leave the Passio Christi at St Fulcher’s and let the Crown fight its own battle. The Abbey of St Calliste outside Poitiers was Benedictine. Sir Robert couldn’t return it there but he could at least hand it over to the Benedictines in this kingdom. True?’
Athelstan glanced at the others, who murmured their agreement.
‘Very astute,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Once Holy Mother Church seizes something, it is very difficult to force her to relinquish it, especially when she can claim rights in the first place. So,’ he drew a deep breath, ‘nothing else was discussed? You’re sure the Passio Christi was still here when the good brothers left?’
‘We all saw it,’ Edmond replied. ‘Brother Athelstan, I know what you are thinking.’
‘Do you?’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Then you are a better man than I.’
‘I suspect you are wondering whether we allowed the Passio Christi to be taken by our visitors, but that would have been highly dangerous. The Crown would have blamed us, yes?’
Athelstan nodded.
‘What Edmond is saying,’ Alesia spoke up, ‘is my father would have taken the bloodstone to St Fulcher’s on the very day he left for Jerusalem. It would be his decision, his responsibility, not ours. Brother,’ Alesia waved around, ‘look at our great wealth. My father was a hard but honourable man; in his last days he turned more and more to God. Sir John,’ she appealed to the coroner. ‘Would you like to be the custodian of the Passio Christi? A sacred relic possibly pillaged from the sanctuary of an abbey?’
‘But why the change?’ Cranston asked. ‘After all the bloodstone was in his care for decades, yes?’
‘In years past my father would take it to the exchequer at Westminster where one or all of the Wyvern Company would always be present. He simply viewed that as part of his many business relationships.’
‘And recently?’
‘Four years ago the Wyverns were given lodgings at St Fulcher’s. It was agreed that the twice a year journey would take place whilst they were there.’
‘Why?’
‘The soldiers were growing old; William Chalk became frail. My father also had considerable business with the abbey. All parties agreed to that so the indenture was amended accordingly.’
‘And Sir Robert’s attitude towards the Wyverns?’
‘At first they were simply one group amongst my father’s many commercial acquaintances. However, once they were at St Fulcher’s, my father’s attitude towards them changed. I suspect that as he grew more devout, he began to question whether they really had stolen it. He grew to resent them.’
‘Why did he change?’
‘I’ve told you, there are two accounts: first that the Wyvern Company found the Passio Christi, the other that they’d stolen it. My father began to believe the latter.’
‘Did he have proof for that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘When your father visited St Fulcher’s, which monk was he friendly with?’
Alesia moved her head from side to side. ‘From what I gather . . .’ She glanced at Crispin.
‘Abbot Walter,’ the old clerk replied. ‘Prior Alexander as well as the young Frenchman, Sub-Prior Richer.’
‘Did any of them,’ Athelstan asked, ‘give your father ghostly advice?’
‘He spoke to all three – I don’t really know.’
‘So,’ Cranston declared, ‘Sir Robert Kilverby came to dislike those old soldiers; he also resented holding the Passio Christi. He didn’t like what he’d done or what he was doing. He turned to God. He was preparing to leave on pilgrimage and that raises a further possibility. Did Sir Robert himself decide to get rid of the Passio Christi?’
‘What?’ Adam Lestral’s voice was thin and reedy. ‘Sir John, are you saying that Sir Robert took the Passio Christi and cast it down the privy or threw it into the street?’
Despite the petulant, strident tone Athelstan recognized the logic of the question. If this company were to be believed, and on this Athelstan certainly did, Sir Robert regarded the Passio Christi as a most sacred relic to be securely kept, not thrown away like a piece of rubbish.
‘We would all go on oath,’ Alesia said quietly. ‘The Passio Christi was here last night long after those monks had returned to their abbey. Look at my father’s chancery chamber; there is no hiding place, no window to open even if he wanted to throw something away.’
‘I agree,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘When he died Sir Robert truly believed the Passio Christi was still firmly in his care. So,’ he shook his head, ‘what really happened remains a mystery.’ Athelstan sat, allowing the silence to deepen.
Cranston gently tapped the friar’s sandalled foot with the toe of his boot. Athelstan got to his feet and both he and Sir John took their leave. The friar was now fully distracted, eager to escape and reflect on all this murderous mayhem and the mysteries which surrounded it . . .
TWO
‘Corrody: pension paid to an abbey for someone to stay there.’
&nb
sp; In the Abbey of St Fulcher-on-Thames Ailward Hyde, former master bowman and a member of the Wyvern Company, stood fascinated by the wall paintings in the south aisle just near the Galilee porch. Ailward was also agitated. He’d taken the oath. He was pledged to the company. He was an experienced swordsman, a warrior yet poor Hanep! Ailward had visited the bloody remains of Gilbert Hanep laid out in its coffin on a trestle in the abbey death house. The infirmarian, the keeper of the dead, had done his best, sewing on the severed head with black twine, yet the sheer horror of seeing a comrade like that! Ailward swallowed the bile at the back of his throat and caressed the hilt of both sword and dagger. Who had committed such a horror? Surely it could not be one of them, yet who could overcome a skilled master of arms such as Hanep, and take his head as clean as snipping a button? Hanep had died like some hog slaughtered out there in the bleak, cold cemetery. Now he, Ailward, had come here to collect his thoughts, pray and perhaps plot. Ailward just wished Fulk Wenlock, their consiliarius, an ever-perpetual source of good advice, was here but he and Mahant had gone into the city yesterday to roister as well as to do other business. He recalled Wenlock’s nut-brown face all creased in friendly concern when they’d strolled through the maze, that subtle conceit built by a previous abbot. They had been discussing Chalk and the lingering days of his death. Wenlock had gripped Hyde’s arm with his maimed hand and spun him around.
‘Ailward,’ he urged, ‘Chalk’s death has changed nothing. You’ll see, everything will calm down.’ He had then taken him to meet Mahant, their serjeant-at-arms. Mahant, his hawk-like face as harsh as ever, had confirmed Wenlock’s words: Chalk was dead. He could speak no more; all would be as it always was. Nevertheless, Ailward was still unsure. Wenlock had given him further words of comfort promising how everything would turn out well.
‘I just wish you were here,’ Ailward whispered.
Wenlock was always reassuring; after all, he had survived. Once a fighter, a master bowman, the most accurate of archers who could send a grey goose-feathered shaft into any target. The French had captured Wenlock and hacked off the bowman fingers on each hand. Wenlock bore his infirmity well and always comforted the others. Yet he and Mahant had still not returned and probably would not be back until later. So Ailward had come here to be distracted, as he always was, by the vivid array of wall paintings which dominated the south aisle. A collection of stories demonstrating the power of God over Satan and all his works, especially when the forces of hell confronted the black monks, the followers of St Benedict. Some of these wall paintings, or so he was given to understand, were the work of the anchorite, that mysterious person who had once been an itinerant painter as well as the Hangman of Rochester, a service he still carried out for the abbot. Ailward was always fascinated by such frescoes, especially those which celebrated events from the history of St Fulcher’s such as the former abbot who had foiled an evil spirit stealing wine from the abbey cellars. Ailward smiled as his fingers traced the story. The abbot had sealed all the taps of the barrels with holy chrism oil as a trap for the demon. The next scene showed a black-limbed, red-faced devil, fiery charcoal eyes glaring, green horns twitching, glued to one of the barrels. A further story, depicted in glowing colours, narrated how a young novice monk was tempted and threatened by a demon who flung his hellish cloak over the novice’s tonsure, burning his head and blistering his skin. The painting then showed the young novice on his knees begging St Benedict to assist him, which the great saint did in a blaze of shimmering light. Ailward closed his eyes and turned away. In truth he had also come here for help, for assistance, to pray, but who would listen to him? A former soldier whose soul was sin-burdened, sin-scorched, buried deep in all kinds of crimes against both God and man?