by Paul Doherty
Athelstan opened his mouth to protest but Cranston shook his head. ‘There’s no debate, Brother. Everything here will have to wait.’ He grinned over at Benedicta. ‘You’ll have to look after the parish and, if you sit there long enough, looking as pretty as you do, you might even trap this demon.’ He turned back to Athelstan. ‘There’s a further order. On Saturday morning, Gaunt and the young king intend to ride in procession to meet the Commons at Westminster.’ He puffed his chest out. ‘I, as the king’s law officer, will be part of that procession, and of course, dear Athelstan, you will have to go with me.’
Athelstan stared into the fire. He felt like screaming his refusal, yet that would only upset Cranston and achieve nothing.
‘Benedicta, I’ll leave you the keys.’ He got to his feet. ‘Look after Bonaventure. Remember to feed Philomel and ask the priest at St Swithin’s if he would be so kind as to come and say a morning Mass.’
Benedicta said she would. Athelstan went over to the hearth and, grasping a poker, began to sift amongst the cinders. ‘It will go out soon,’ he said absentmindedly.
‘Don’t worry, Brother,’ Benedicta offered, ‘I will make sure that all’s well.’
Athelstan climbed the makeshift ladder into his bedroom. As he filled the saddlebags at the foot of his bed, he wondered, not about Westminster, but Simplicatas. Why should a lonely young woman, supposedly riven with anxiety about her missing husband, buy so much in the marketplace that Benedicta had to help her carry it!
CHAPTER 9
‘There’s little the corpse-dresser can do with that.’ Banyard pointed to the severed torso of Sir Francis Harnett. His remains lay sprawled on a shoddy tarpaulin in an outhouse behind the tavern: the head lolled to one side like a ball, the eyes were half open, and bruises marked the cheek where the head had rolled along the floor of the crypt.
‘For heaven’s sake, show some respect,’ Cranston murmured.
‘I merely describe things as they are, my lord Coroner, not as they should be.’
Athelstan knelt down. He crossed himself, closed his eyes and whispered the requiem: ‘“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace.”’
‘Amen,’ Cranston intoned.
‘What on earth was he doing in the Pyx chamber?’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet.
‘God knows,’ Sir Miles Coverdale replied. ‘The Commons sat late yesterday. The abbey then became deserted, though, of course, members stayed around the precincts gossiping and talking.’
‘And your guards were still on duty?’ Cranston asked.
‘Oh yes. Even at night. No one can enter or leave the cloisters without showing the special seal each of the representatives carries.’
‘And who went into the cloisters last night?’ Cranston persisted. ‘Come on, man, you know what we are after.’
Coverdale, his face pale, shook his head. ‘I can’t honestly answer that, Sir John. Representatives are constantly going in and out. As you know, the evening can be cold and many are cowled or hooded. But I can state two things. First, no one entered or left those cloisters, or the area around the chapter-house, without showing the special pass.’
‘And the vestibule?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Are those double doors still guarded?’
‘At night, not as strictly as during the day when the Commons sit, but there are guards in the gallery leading to it.’
‘And did anyone remember Sir Francis going there?’
‘One of my men, vaguely; others followed but it was dark. As I said, members are cowled and hooded, arrogant and peremptory. They show their seal, pull back cloaks to show they carry no swords, and doors are opened.’
‘You were going to tell us two things?’ Cranston asked.
‘Ah well.’ Coverdale waved at Harnett’s decapitated corpse. ‘Sir John, you have seen executions or beheadings after battle. To take a man’s head off, you need either a broadsword or a two-headed axe, yet anyone who enters the abbey precincts must show he carries no such weapon. Only dress-daggers are permitted.’
Athelstan covered the decapitated body with the edges of the dark tarpaulin. ‘Is it possible,’ he asked, ‘that someone could steal into the abbey precincts?’
‘I asked Father Abbot that,’ Coverdale replied. ‘There are no secret passageways or galleries. You must remember, Brother Athelstan, the Pyx chamber lies just before the chapter-house. Harnett, and the person who killed him, had to go – and his assassin return – through at least three lines of my guards.’ He smiled thinly and shrugged. ‘What more can I say? Knights from this shire or that were constantly going in and out. Some visited the shrine of St Faith, others the abbey itself. A few came back to collect possessions. You cannot blame my soldiers,’ he continued defensively. ‘They have their orders. Ask for the seal, ensure the person is carrying no weapons, and let them on their way.’ Coverdale wiped his hand on the back of his mouth. ‘There are so many representatives, and the abbey has a number of entrances.’
‘And they must have one of these seals?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes,’ Coverdale replied, ‘or a special pass signed by one of the members. However, my men have strict orders to stop such a person and send for me.’ He shrugged. ‘But, since the beginning of this Parliament, no such letter has been offered, certainly not last night.’
‘What happens if the killer was a monk?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Impossible,’ Coverdale scoffed. ‘The brothers are allowed to use the cloisters, but the vestibule and the chapter-house itself are strictly out of bounds. Moreover, my soldiers would remember a monk trying to enter and leave.’
‘Which leaves us with one possibility.’ Athelstan, rubbing the edge of his nose, took a step nearer to the captain of the guard. ‘I don’t want to give offence, sir, but what if Sir Francis Harnett’s killer was a soldier?’
Coverdale’s face reddened.
‘I say this,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘merely because a soldier is armed with sword and axe. He would also have every right to enter the vestibule leading to the chapter-house.’
‘You mean someone like myself?’
‘I did not say that, Sir Miles. I was only making an observation.’
Cranston, sitting on an overturned bucket, caught the drift of Athelstan’s meaning, as did Banyard. The landlord stepped back, as if he wished to put himself beyond reach of Coverdale’s anger. Sir Miles, however, despite the red blotches high in his cheeks, remained calm.
‘You should continue your questions, Friar,’ he snapped. ‘Sir Francis Harnett’s companions wait for us in the tavern. They will tell you that Sir Francis left them against my orders -and their advice – shortly before Vespers.’
‘And, of course, you are going to tell us where you were?’
‘Yes, Friar, I was at the Savoy Palace with others of the regent’s commanders, preparing for the royal procession to Westminster this Saturday morning. My lord of Gaunt, not to mention a number of his knights, will swear solemn oaths that I was with them.’
‘At the hour of Vespers?’ Athelstan asked, noticing a shift in Coverdale’s eyes.
‘Well, shortly afterwards.’
Athelstan turned away. ‘Master Banyard, how long will the corpse remain here?’
‘Till this afternoon.’
‘Was there any sign of robbery?’ Cranston asked, getting to his feet, grunting and groaning.
‘None whatsoever,’ Coverdale hastily interrupted.
Athelstan went and looked down at the corpse and, as he did so, noticed a trickle of blood, slow and sluggish, curl out from beneath the dirty sheet.
Coverdale saw it too and turned hastily away. ‘The others are waiting,’ he snapped.
Coverdale was about to walk away, but stopped just beside Athelstan: he pushed his face a few inches away from the friar’s. ‘Make your inquiries, Brother,’ he whispered. ‘I am no assassin.’
Athelstan was about to reply when there was shouting from t
he tavern followed by the patter of feet. Christina, her hair all flying, burst into the outhouse: she took one look at the corpse covered in the sheet and stepped back.
‘What’s the matter, girl? What’s the matter?’
Athelstan and the rest followed her out.
‘It’s the knights,’ she cried. ‘Someone came to the tavern.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know who. One of the potboys says he was dressed all in black. He gave him a pouch sealed at the top and a letter for Sir Edmund Malmesbury. The boy took it up to the knights. Sir Edmund opened it, now they are all shouting, “It’s been found! It’s been found!”’
‘What’s been found?’ Cranston asked, pressing the girl’s arm.
‘I don’t know,’ she stammered. ‘But they are all excited, arguing with each other about a cup which was stolen.’
Cranston strode back towards the tavern. Athelstan remained to ensure the corpse was decently covered. He closed the door and crossed the tavern yard. A cock, glorious in its plumage, crowed its heart out on top of a mound of rich, black earth. ‘You have a fine voice, Brother cock,’ Athelstan murmured, idly wishing he had such a bird and a collection of hens at St Erconwald’s. Then he remembered Bonaventure and the pig-woman’s evil-looking sow and shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t sing there, Brother cock.’
He continued across the yard, glimpsing the river glinting in the distance and the long line of grain barges making their way up to Queenshithe or Dowgate. Athelstan put his hand into the pocket of his habit and touched the muzzle he had examined the night before. Amidst all this excitement, he had almost forgotten it; he must tell the worthy coroner to set a trap for that sinister thief of cats. He sighed and went into the tavern.
Cranston had cleared the taproom. All four knights were now seated round the table, faces flushed. They kept staring at a polished, cedarwood chalice which stood on the table before them. Every so often one of them would lean forward, eyes glittering, and stroke the chalice with the tips of their fingers. Coverdale lounged in a windowseat watching curiously. Cranston was over at the wine butts sampling, as he explained, mine host’s best Gascony. Banyard was all excited: he kept staring at the cup and shaking his head.
‘What is it?’ Athelstan asked.
‘What is it?’ Sir Humphrey Aylebore rubbed his bald head with his hand and, like a child unable to restrain himself, leaned across and grasped the dark wood chalice. ‘This is the Grail!’ he explained.
Athelstan went over and took the wooden cup out of his hands. The bowl was shallow, the stem and base felt heavy in his hand. The wood was polished not only because of its texture, but also because of its great age. Athelstan recalled the legends of Arthur and wondered if this cup truly was the Grail; the very chalice Christ had used at the Last Supper to turn the wine into his blood for the world to drink.
The chalice bore no markings or etchings, and Athelstan hid his suspicions. He was growing increasingly wary of any relics. He had seen enough wood – supposedly belonging to the True Cross – to build a fleet of warships. Indeed, if he collected every scrap of cloth which was supposed to cover the Saviour’s corpse, he was sure the roll would stretch from London to York. He glanced up. Malmesbury’s eyes were glittering. Whatever I think, Athelstan reflected, these men really believe this is the Grail.
‘Brother Athelstan, please?’ Malmesbury stretched out his hands pleadingly.
Athelstan handed the cup to him. The knight took it tenderly, as a mother would her child.
‘You say this once belonged to you?’ Cranston asked, coming forward, a brimming wine cup in his hand. He winked at Athelstan and slurped quickly at the wine.
‘It is ours,’ Goldingham snapped. He plucked the chalice from Malmesbury’s grasp, turned it over and pointed at the faint outline of a swan carved on the base. ‘It disappeared,’ he continued, ‘one night, years ago, when we were at Lilleshall Abbey.’ His eyes brimmed with tears, and his voice became choked. ‘Since then, nothing has gone right for us.’
‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan asked.
Goldingham shook his head and, holding the chalice between his hands, rocked backwards and forwards, as if this relic would preserve him from all evil.
‘And it was brought back now?’ Cranston asked.
‘Yes,’ Malmesbury replied. ‘A stranger brought it to the tavern door.’ He picked up a leather bag which had been sealed at the neck. ‘It was in this, with a scrap of parchment bearing my name.’
Athelstan took the bag and the parchment and examined them carefully.
‘How?’ Coverdale called out. ‘How could anyone in London know that a cup stolen from a Shropshire abbey years ago belonged to you?’
‘We don’t know,’ Sir Humphrey snarled over his shoulder. ‘All we know is that the cup was stolen, and now it’s back with its rightful owners.’
‘Do you think it’s connected with Sir Francis Harnett’s death?’ Athelstan asked.
Some of the excitement drained from the knights’ faces.
‘I mean,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is it possible that Sir Francis had the chalice all the time? And now he has been killed, the cup’s been returned.’
‘Explain yourself, Friar!’ Goldingham interrupted.
Athelstan smiled and sat down on the stool opposite him. ‘I can’t. It just seems a coincidence that one of your companions died last night, and this morning a long-lost cup is returned.’ Athelstan had his own suspicions, but he kept them hidden. ‘Sir Francis is dead.’ He emphasised his words. ‘Do any of you know why he went to the Pyx chamber last night? Whom was he meeting? There’s nothing down there,’ he continued, ‘so Sir Francis could only have gone there intending to meet someone. That person killed him.’
‘We don’t know,’ Sir Thomas Elontius replied, running his hand through his bristling red hair. His popping eyes had a frightened, hunted look. ‘We all stayed here at the Gargoyle.’
‘None of you left?’ Cranston asked, coming up beside Athelstan.
‘Ask mine host,’ Elontius replied.
‘It’s true,’ Banyard declared, walking over to join them. ‘All five of the knights were here. I served them the speciality of the house: young goose, fresh and tender and served with a spicy sauce. My guests ate and drank their fill and went to their chambers. I did not even know Sir Francis had left.’
‘And you all stayed here?’ Cranston repeated.
‘Yes,’ the knights chorused.
‘But it stands to reason,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘if Sir Francis Harnett left and no one saw him going, then any or all of you could have left unnoticed.’
Banyard looked surprised by Athelstan’s remark: he sighed and scratched his cheek. ‘The tavern has got at least three or four entrances,’ he declared. ‘And at night we become busy. Brother Athelstan, this is a tavern famous for its food, fine ales and strong wine. We have people coming and going. The Gargoyle is a hostelry, not a castle prison.’
‘And on your oath,’ Athelstan turned back to the knights, ‘did any of you leave?’ He stared at each of them in turn, but they all shook their heads.
‘We were tired,’ Sir Humphrey Aylebore declared. ‘Yes, Brother, tried and frightened. We ate and drank our fill.’ He forced a smile. ‘I suppose my companions did what I did: I locked the doors and windows of my chamber and hid beneath the sheets. We have vowed not to go anywhere at Westminster without at least one other accompanying us.’
‘Do you know why Sir Francis Harnett left?’ Cranston slurped from the wine cup and smacked his lips noisily.
‘No,’ Malmesbury retorted, staring disdainfully at the coroner.
‘Oh come, Sir Edmund.’ Cranston beamed back at him. ‘Sir Francis is now well known to us as a man constantly going in and out of the city, travelling hither and thither on secret errands.’
‘Sir Francis was a fussy little man. God rest him,’ Goldingham replied. ‘Once we were a band of brothers, Sir John.’ He pointed to the cup. ‘But, when that was stolen . . .’ He shrugged
. ‘Each of us went his own way, Sir Francis in particular. Oh, he whispered to himself and scurried about, but none of us knows why he left Dame Mathilda’s, or why he should be so foolish as to go alone to the Pyx chamber.’
‘Did he ever mention a young soldier called Perline Brasenose?’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ Sir Edmund replied. ‘But Goldingham is correct: Harnett was his own man, with the carp ponds, books on beasteries and exotic animals. He never told us where he went or why. If he had, he’d be alive this morning.’
‘You said Perline Brasenose,’ Sir Thomas Elontius leaned forward. He turned and whispered in Sir Humphrey Aylebore’s ear. The knight nodded. ‘Perline’s a soldier in the Tower garrison?’ Elontius asked.
‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied.
‘I remember him.’ Elontius’s fingers flew to his lips. ‘Last Sunday we went to the Tower. As we left, I saw Sir Francis speaking to a young soldier just near the gatehouse.’
‘What about?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Elontius replied. ‘But Harnett came back here, rather excited.’
Cranston dug into his wallet and drew out the small wax candle, arrowhead and scrap of parchment.
‘These were found beside Harnett’s body, as they were with Swynford’s and Bouchon’s. Are you still going to maintain –’ he looked at the knights in turn – ‘that they mean nothing to you?’
‘Well, they mean nothing to me,’ Sir Thomas retorted, red hair bristling, blue eyes popping. ‘I don’t give a shit, Sir John.’ He jabbed a finger at the coroner. ‘All I know is that some madcap is busy slaughtering members of our party and you have done nothing to stop it.’
‘I can’t be everywhere!’ Cranston snapped back.
‘It’s a nightmare,’ Elontius bellowed, snapping his fingers at Banyard. ‘Serve us some drinks, man.’ He smiled at the landlord. ‘The only good thing about being in London is this tavern: the prices are reasonable, the food is delicious and the chambers are clean. Even Harnett, the miserly bastard, remarked on that.’