by Paul Doherty
‘Brother Athelstan, can I help you? I am very . . .’ Richer, now visibly reluctant at the friar’s curiosity, relaxed as the abbey bell sounded the next hour of divine office. He tactfully shooed Athelstan back towards the door, voluble in his apologies and promises that Athelstan must return, when he would show him particular books and manuscripts. Indeed, was there, Richer asked, any work the Dominican would like to study? He’d heard about Athelstan’s absorption with the stars and St Fulcher possessed a number of valuable treatises by Aristotle and Ptolemy, as well as Friar Bacon’s musings? Athelstan smiled his thanks and left.
‘Now there’s a monk with a great deal to hide,’ Athelstan whispered to the carved face of a satyr hiding in the sculpted foliage at the top of a pillar in the passageway outside. ‘Oh, he has much to hide. As has Mistress Eleanor. She threatened me and wants me gone from here. Why? What does she hide?’
Athelstan returned to his own comfortable chamber. He did not attend divine office but recited the hours kneeling on a prie-dieu. Afterwards he laid out clean clothes borrowed from the good brothers for the morrow, looked at the readings for the Sunday Mass then lay on the bed letting his thoughts drift. Worries about St Erconwald’s, the whereabouts of Cranston, what he’d learnt that day and that sense of brooding danger as he walked this abbey. He fell into a deep sleep and, when he woke, glanced at the hour candle and groaned. Compline must be finished. The abbey was settling for the night. He was wondering if he could get something to eat from the kitchens when the bells began to clang warningly – not the usual measured peals but strident, proclaiming the tocsin. Athelstan grabbed a cloak, thrust his feet into his sandals and hastened out. Others, too, had been aroused. Torches flickered. Lanterns swung in the chilly blackness.
‘Fire, fire!’
Athelstan left the yard, following the lay brothers hurrying along the passageways into the courtyard before the main guest house. Few had yet reached the place. Athelstan immediately realized the fire was serious. The doors of the guest house had been flung open and smoke plumed out. Wenlock, Mahant and Osborne were there coughing and spluttering. Athelstan pushed his way though knocking aside restraining hands. A lay brother, a wet cloth across his nose and mouth, emerged from the smoke.
‘Brokersby’s chamber,’ he gasped. ‘God help the poor man. I cannot get him out.’
Athelstan seized the rag and entered. Smoke choked the corridor. He saw one door open; the near one was locked. Sheets of fire roared at the grille and the stout oak was beginning to buckle. Smoke scored Athelstan’s nose and mouth. Heat and the smell of burning oil closed in. He could do nothing. He retreated to cough and gasp with the rest in the clear night air.
‘The building is made of stone.’ Richer appeared out of the darkness. ‘I understand the door to where the fire started is locked.’ He turned to the assembled line of bucket carriers. ‘Go round,’ he ordered. ‘Force the windows. Use dry sand, not water, at least not yet.’
Marshalled by the sacristan, the lay brothers hurried off. Athelstan crossed to Wenlock and his companions.
‘What happened?’
‘Brother, we do not know. We were aroused by the smoke.’ Mahant pointed to Wenlock and Osborne. ‘They have chambers on the upper floor. Mine was next to poor Brokersby’s. I fell asleep until roused by the smoke and heat.’
‘The door?’
‘Brother, I hammered on it. The fire was already raging. I saw Brokersby slumped half off the bed. I pushed but the door was locked and bolted from the inside. Brokersby must have done that. I mean, since the other murders . . .’
‘So you think this was murder?’
‘Heaven knows, Brother! Poor Brokersby! Well,’ Mahant turned back towards the smoke, ‘the least we can do is help.’
Athelstan walked away. He put his hand in the pocket of his cloak and drew out his Ave beads. He recited a Pater and three Aves even though he was distracted. Brokersby was dead. Athelstan recalled that locked door, the sheer ferocity of the flames and returned to his chamber, convinced the fire was no accident. Brokersby had been murdered.
The next morning Athelstan celebrated his Jesus Mass in a side chapel, broke his fast in the refectory and went immediately to the death house. Brother Odo showed him the mangled, blackened human remains. Brokersby had been consumed by the inferno: his eyes had melted, the flesh shrivelled to mere lumps of congealed fat with scorched black skin clinging to charred bone. All vestiges of clothing and footwear had also been consumed whilst his ring and the silver chain around his neck were burnt beyond all recognition.
‘You discovered nothing else?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Nothing,’ Brother Odo replied mournfully. ‘He doesn’t smell now but when they first brought him in he reeked of oil.’
Athelstan knelt down and sniffed; the stench of oil was still very pungent.
‘Brother Athelstan?’
He turned and recognized the keeper of the Barbican, who took one look at the charred corpse and hastily withdrew, indicating with his hand that Athelstan follow. Once outside the lay brother retched and coughed.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ he gasped.
‘The weapons?’
‘There’s no crossbow or arbalest missing.’
‘What?’
‘Brother, I counted most scrupulously – the only weapon missing is a sword.’
‘Who took that?’
‘No one can, no one should without permission of the prior, yet the ledger has no entry. I am sure; I checked it.’
Athelstan thanked him and walked back to the still-smouldering chamber. Only a senior lay brother was present. He explained how the Wyvern Company had moved all their belongings to the abbot’s guest house whilst the damage was inspected and repaired. Like Virgil did with Dante, the monk led Athelstan through the devastation. The guest house was built of solid stone. This, and the heavy oaken door sealing Brokersby’s chamber, had confined the fire, the greatest damage being to the ceiling and the supporting beams as well as the chamber above. Ignoring the good Brother’s warning about the heat, the fiery cinders and acrid smoke, Athelstan insisted on inspecting the dead man’s chamber. The fire still smouldered despite the layers of wet sand thrown in. Everything had been consumed or deeply scorched, whilst the stench of oil remained strong.
‘Where’s the source?’ Athelstan murmured.
‘Pardon?’
‘Talking to myself,’ Athelstan replied. ‘If I could have a pole?’
The lay brother left and brought one back. Athelstan was grateful that his stout sandals and thick woollen leggings protected him from the floating sparks of red-hot fragments. He began near the door sifting carefully through the debris. He swiftly concluded how the traces of oil were fainter, less congealed and thinner nearest to the door, whilst close to where the bed and lantern table must have stood the oil appeared much thicker.
‘Would Brokersby have a night candle?’
‘Yes, he did, or so I learnt from his comrades. He had a large stout tallow candle under a metal cap. He liked to keep it burning. He had trouble sleeping. He also took a potion of poppy juice.’
‘But a tallow candle would not create the fires of hell here,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Was there oil in the chamber?’
The monk abruptly turned and walked away. Athelstan thought he’d forgotten him, then he returned with a small stout colleague, his belly round as a barrel.
‘Brother Simon might be able to help you.’
‘Yes, I can.’ The newcomer smiled in a show of near-toothless gums. ‘I clean poor Brokersby’s chamber. I assure you there was no oil, just a wine skin. That was all.’
Athelstan picked his way over to the remains to the door and examined the twisted lock, bolts and clasps. He studied these closely; they had definitely been rent apart. He glanced back at the shattered, scorched shutters and the open window now drawing off the worst of the smoke.
‘We had to force the door,’ Brother Simon declared. ‘But, of course, it was too late.’
‘So,’ Athelstan walked out of the room, carefully picking his way, ‘Brokersby retired for the night and his chamber was devastated by fire.’
‘So it seems,’ both monks chorused.
‘But we can’t find a reason for it,’ Brother Simon added.
Athelstan nodded his thanks and left, crossing into the gardens as he tried to deduce what had happened. Both the door and window of Brokersby’s chamber had been sealed. The grille at the top of the door was too narrow to pour oil through so how could anyone get it so close to the bed? Had oil been stored there? But how was it ignited? Did the candle topple over? Yet that had probably been planted on a firm spigot with a cap covering it. An unlucky spark? However, that would mean the fire depended on fickle chance, yet Athelstan was certain Brokersby was murdered. The assassin had deliberately flooded the area close to the bed with burning oil. Brokersby may have been drugged with some opiate and woke too late or, mercifully, never at all. So how had it all been achieved? Brokersby, probably frightened, had sealed himself in that chamber. He had then been murdered by a raging fire cunningly planned and contrived. Brokersby had no chance to escape. He had been utterly destroyed along with everything else in that room.
‘Henry! Henry Osborne!’
Wenlock and Mahant appeared, stopped and called their comrade’s name again.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s Osborne,’ Wenlock gasped, pulling his cloak closer about him. ‘He has disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’
‘Disappeared, fled!’ Mahant snapped. ‘His chamber is empty; he’s packed his panniers and taken his weapons. He appears to have left long before first light.
‘Why should he do that?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘Why flee in the dead of night?’
‘Because he’s frightened,’ Mahant snarled. ‘Terrified. Hanep, Hyde and Brokersby – all slain.’
‘So you think Brokersby’s death was no accident?’
‘Of course not,’ Wenlock retorted. ‘Brother Athelstan, a short while ago we were all comrades enjoying the vespers of our life; now we’re being hunted in this benighted place.’
‘Why? By whom?’
‘For the love of God, we don’t know.’
‘Why do you think Brokersby was murdered?’
Mahant made to walk away.
‘If Osborne’s fled,’ Athelstan added, ‘you’ll hardly find him here, will you?’
‘No, no.’ Mahant sighed and came back. ‘We hoped he may have just panicked and be hiding close by.’
‘Father Abbot is the one who should organize such a search,’ Athelstan said. ‘You must see him – demand that this happen. Tell him that I too insist on it, but first,’ he plucked at Wenlock’s cloak, ‘my friends.’ Athelstan gestured towards the abbey buildings. ‘We need to talk but not here in the freezing cold.’
The two old soldiers agreed. Athelstan led them into the grey stone cloisters where they stood warming their hands over a brazier.
‘If Osborne has fled, where would he go? Does he have family, kin?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I suspect,’ Wenlock rubbed his hands, ‘he’s probably gone into the city to hide there, perhaps seek out comrades we didn’t know.’
‘But why should he give up such comfortable lodgings here?’
‘The cowl doesn’t make the monk, Brother Athelstan. Nothing here is what it appears to be. Never mind all the babbling to God and all the holy incense.’ Wenlock shook his head. ‘This has become a slaughter house for our company.’
‘But how would Osborne live?’
Both men shuffled their feet.
‘I think,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘each of you has his own private monies, the result of years of campaigning.’
‘You mean plunder, Brother? Yes, we all have that, some more than others.’
‘When I visited your comrade’s chambers I found very few coins,’ Athelstan offered. ‘You took their money, didn’t you? I wondered . . .’
‘Hanep and Hyde had little.’ Wenlock confessed rubbing his maimed hands over the brazier. ‘Of course we took whatever coins or precious objects they owned. Better us than our greedy abbot.’
‘Would Osborne have enough money to live on?’
‘Perhaps.’ Wenlock became evasive. ‘A skilled archer may still find employment.’
‘Let’s say he’s fled,’ Athelstan paused as a monk slipped by pattering his Ave beads, ‘because he was frightened. Others might allege that he was guilty of his comrades’ murder.’
‘Osborne would never kill one of his own,’ Wenlock replied in disbelief. ‘Why should he?’
‘True, I can’t think of any reason. Indeed, I can deduce no reason whatsoever for any of your colleagues being murdered. Can you? Has an ancient blood feud been invoked by someone here in the abbey or the city?’
‘None, Brother! We cannot think of any and, if there was, why now? Unless it’s the Passio Christi?’
‘What do you mean? Kilverby held that.’
‘He’s dead but the Passio Christi was, allegedly, once owned by the black monks. Richer is a Frenchman, a monk of St Calliste, which now claims it. He is a young man, vigorous, probably trained in arms but why should he murder us? That will hardly bring back the Passio Christi?’
‘I agree,’ Athelstan replied. ‘What about revenge, punishment?’
Athelstan let his words hang in the air. Busy warming his hands, he watched a solitary robin hop across the cloister garth, pecking furiously at the frost-laced grass. Incense and candle smoke wafted mixing with that from the bake house. Athelstan glanced back; both his companions had begun to hum a song, shuffling their feet in a slow dance and softly clapping their hands. Athelstan, surprised, stood back watching these two soldiers, lost in their own ritual, shuffle and clap as peasants would in a tavern celebrating their harvest. Mahant and Wenlock, eyes closed, moved clumsily to their own rhythm; the humming grew louder then faded away with both men throwing their hands up in the air and exclaiming, ‘Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia!’ The soldiers opened their eyes and turned back to the brazier, grinning at Athelstan.
‘You monks and priests have your liturgies and we have ours,’ Wenlock explained. ‘At the beginning of every battle the Wyverns always performed their dance; in the evening we did the same. You understand why?’
Athelstan nodded. When he and his brother had joined the King’s army he’d seen soldiers, veterans of the free companies, perform such dances.
‘But why now?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Because we are about to do battle.’
‘Against whom? Do you really suspect Richer?’
‘Why stop with him?’ Wenlock sneered. ‘Look around you, Friar, what do you see? Monks? Many of these hail from the farms, villages and shires around London. They know us, at least by reputation. Further up the river at All Hallows near Barking, the Upright Men gather to plot bloody treason.’
‘Don’t talk in parables.’ Athelstan drew closer.
‘We’re not. You asked us who wants us dead. Your fat friend Cranston has returned to the city to sniff around. You have remained here to do the same, so I’ll help you. We’re old soldiers. We have served our purpose. Go into the city and you’ll find others less fortunate than us,’ Wenlock, white froth staining his lips, held up his maimed hands, ‘starving at the mouth of every alleyway and filthy alcove. You ask us who wants us dead? Well, perhaps His Grace the Regent so that the Passio Christi, when it is found, will fall into his greedy hands. Or again there’s Abbot Walter, who’d like to see us ejected from his precious precincts even though, if need be, he would use us against the Upright Men should they attack this abbey. As for Richer – yes? He nurses grudges and grievances against us but there’s more.’ Wenlock paused, chest heaving, gesturing at Mahant to continue.
‘Wenlock and I have talked about this. Now Brokersby is gone and Osborne has disappeared, we thought we’d tell you. We have enemies within and without, Richer, even that anc
horite. You and Cranston must have heard the rumours but let him tell you his tale. We have no blood on our hands as far as the anchorite’s concerned. We were only doing our duty.’ Mahant drew a deep breath. ‘As for the rest, the Upright Men and the Great Community of the Realm hate us. You see, Friar, before we came here we garrisoned the Tower, Rochester, Hedingham, Montfichet – indeed, all the castles around London. The shires seethe with unrest. You’ve heard about the uprisings, the attacks on houses like that at Bury St Edmunds and elsewhere? Well, to cut to the quick, the Wyverns were used by the Crown, the sheriffs, the abbots and other great lords to crush such revolts. We carried out our orders, as always, efficiently.’
‘Ruthlessly?’
‘Yes, Brother, ruthlessly. The royal banner was unfurled and the trumpets brayed. Any man, woman or child found in arms against us were either cut down or hanged out of hand.’
Athelstan nodded and walked over to a stone bench. The old soldiers joined him, sitting on either side.
‘We burnt their villages and farms,’ Wenlock continued. ‘We crammed their corpses into wells and springs.’ He paused, waiting for Athelstan to reply, but the friar just sat listening.