by Paul Doherty
Athelstan pulled back the trap door and went carefully down the steps. The silence seemed oppressive, even baleful, but Athelstan put this down to what he had glimpsed from the tower. A scraping sound echoed up the stairwell; he paused. He heard it again as if the door at the bottom had opened and shut. He caught his breath and strained his hearing but he could detect nothing untoward. He continued on down; his feet slipped. He grabbed the guide rope and saw that the steps were now glimmering with oil. Athelstan hastily retreated just in time as a lighted taper followed by another was tossed to land on the step he had just left.
He needed no second urging, but swiftly retreated back up the stairwell as the steps below erupted into flame. Athelstan realised the fire was deliberate yet his assailant had failed. The flames could not go any higher whilst at the same time they blocked the mysterious attacker from drawing any closer. Moreover, there was no wood on the stone spiral staircase, nothing combustible except the hard, cord guide rope. Athelstan glimpsed the bags of sand. He grabbed one and shook the sack empty, cascading the sand over the now dying flames, smothering the fire until there was nothing but tendrils of black smoke. Carefully, he resumed his descent. The sand had deadened the flames and cooled the heat. He reached the bottom and went out through the half-open door. He could see no one. The meadow stretched empty. The only sign of what had happened was the thinning tendrils of smoke. For the rest, nothing but this rolling sea of greenery, the call of birds swooping and diving and the faded lowing of the cattle. Athelstan’s gaze swept the great meadow but there was no trace of his attacker.
‘Why?’ Athelstan shouted at a dark copse of trees as if his mysterious assailant lurked in its shadows. ‘Why me?’ he yelled. Only the cry of a bird answered him. A wave of sheer weariness swept over him. Athelstan sat down on the bottom step. He recognised the trap he had so fortunately avoided; the splashing, fiery oil could so easily have caught his sandals and robe. In other circumstances he might have panicked, slipped and so made a bad situation infinitely worse.
‘So it begins,’ Athelstan murmured. He crossed himself as he recalled the words of an ancient Celtic poem: ‘Be thou my armour, my sword for the fight, be thou my shield, be thou my might.’ He rose to his feet. The great meadow stretched so peaceful, so glorious in the full glow of an English summer’s day, yet murder had set up its tent here, unfurled all its baleful banners and sinister standards.
‘Protect me as the apple of your eye,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Hide me in the shadow of your wing. So let us begin.’
He returned to the guesthouse to find a lay brother hopping from foot to foot with a message that Father Prior wanted to meet him immediately in the parlour or chancery chamber. Athelstan hurried there to find Anselm, the Procurator General and Brothers Cassian and Isidore seated around the oval council table. A bowl of freshly crushed herbs exuded a most delightful fragrance to mingle with the delicious smells of wax, vellum and polished leather. Despite the sunlight lancing the stained-glass windows, the chamber was rather dark, so candles had also been lit. Prior Anselm welcomed him and gestured at Athelstan to take a seat. A servant brought in small pewter goblets of hippocras and thin honey wafers. Once he’d withdrawn, Anselm tapped the table and was about to begin when the door opened and Brother Roger Desaures, chief librarian and chronicler of Blackfriars, hurried in muttering his apologies. He pulled back a leather quilted chair and placed a chancery satchel on the table before him.
‘My fault, my fault, my fault,’ he gabbled, ‘but I was busy.’ He nodded at the Procurator General and his companions then beamed at Athelstan, whom he always called ‘my favourite scholar’. Athelstan grinned back. Brother Roger always reminded him of a furtive rabbit, with his small round face, pointed ears, protuberant front teeth and constantly twitching nose. Brother Roger himself confessed he suffered from the ‘rheums’ brought on, he believed, by the dust from old manuscripts. He waggled ink-stained fingers at Athelstan then became all attentive as Prior Anselm coughed to attract everyone’s attention.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Anselm began. ‘You have examined the corpse?’
‘Yes, Father, most thoroughly. I found no other mark of violence except for the death wound. Tell me,’ Athelstan gestured at the Italians, ‘do you occupy a chamber on the same gallery as Alberic?’
‘I do,’ Brother Cassian replied. ‘My two brothers here have rooms below.’
‘And you saw or heard nothing untoward last night?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then, Father Prior,’ Athelstan declared, ‘how, why and when brother Alberic was murdered remains a mystery. As does the identity of his assassin.’
‘What will happen to his corpse?’ Brother Roger demanded. ‘It is summer, should we not—’
‘He will be buried here,’ the Procurator General murmured. ‘We cannot take Alberic’s remains back to Italy. My brothers and I will sing the requiem …’
For a while funeral arrangements were discussed until Prior Anselm brought matters to order.
‘Athelstan,’ he began, ‘you have been summoned back to Blackfriars for your own protection. St Erconwald’s may be your parish but it is also a hotbed of agitation, conspiracy and revolt.’ He smiled thinly. ‘We cannot afford to have you exposed to such danger. No,’ he held a hand up to still Athelstan’s protests, ‘you must remain here. Brother, that is a command which I impose on you out of love but also in the expectation of strict obedience.’ He waited for Athelstan to murmur his agreement. ‘Very well.’ The prior breathed in sharply. ‘We also need your keen wits and sharp mind not only to resolve the brutal murder of Brother Alberic but other matters which have brought our brothers here in the first place.’ Prior Anselm paused to gather his thoughts.
‘Four years ago,’ he continued, ‘our noble King Richard went on pilgrimage to St Peter’s Abbey in Gloucester, where he visited the tomb of his great-grandfather Edward II, who,’ the prior gave a small smile, ‘allegedly lies buried there beneath the most exquisitely carved tomb of Purbeck marble. They claim it is the finest royal sarcophagus in all of Europe. You have seen it, Athelstan?’
‘Yes. I am from the West Country. My father often took me to the great fair in Gloucester, and of course we visited St Peter’s Abbey. I remember it well. The tomb is a magnificent monument dominated by a life-size effigy of the dead king.’
‘Slain king!’ Fieschi interrupted. ‘Edward II was murdered by his wife and her paramour Roger Mortimer.’
‘Brother Matteo is correct,’ the prior hastily intervened, ‘Edward II’s murder is a royal scandal which few, if any, like to mention even today.’
‘Killed at Berkeley or so they say,’ Brother Roger murmured, ‘imprisoned in the castle there, confined to a pestilential pit.’
‘Brother Roger, perhaps you can tell us more?’ Prior Anselm smiled. ‘I did ask you to become knowledgeable in this matter, as you are,’ he added drily, ‘in so many others.’
‘And so I have,’ the chronicler blithely replied. He half closed his eyes as he began to recite what he had learnt. ‘Edward II, or Edward of Caernarvon as he was popularly called, was the heir of Edward I, the great warrior king who battled in Scotland. Now,’ he opened the satchel on the table before him and took out a folio of pure vellum which he smoothed out before him, ‘Edward II succeeded his father in 1307. The following year he married Princess Isabella, daughter of the French King Philip IV—’
‘The one who crushed the Temple Order?’ Athelstan asked, trying to shake off a growing unease, as if sinister shadows were gathering all about him.
‘Philip IV did many things,’ Brother Roger retorted. ‘Marrying his daughter to the English heir was one of his greatest achievements. At first the marriage seemed happy enough. Isabella bore her husband four healthy children. However, Edward II’s rule was dominated by vicious in-fighting between the King and his nobles. There was trouble with a royal favourite, Peter Gaveston, whom Edward made Earl of Cornwall. Edward was certainly obsessed with him. He and
Gaveston may have been lovers—’
‘There is no evidence for that.’ Fieschi’s voice was sharp.
‘Anyway,’ Brother Roger shrugged, ‘Gaveston was executed by the earls, only to be replaced by a new favourite, Hugh Despenser. He and Edward united to destroy the great barons led by Thomas of Lancaster. A bloodbath ensued. Great lords were either executed or, like Roger Mortimer of Wigmore, imprisoned before fleeing abroad. Despenser then turned on Isabella. However, she managed to escape to her relatives in France, where she and Mortimer became secret lovers and public allies. They gathered others about them and invaded England. Edward and Despenser suffered a devastating defeat. Despenser was dragged into Hereford. He was disembowelled, his innards burnt before him, then he was hanged, castrated, beheaded and quartered. Edward II was also captured. He was eventually deposed as king and imprisoned, first at Kenilworth and then in Berkeley Castle.
‘Now,’ Brother Roger spread his hands, ‘what I say comes from the chronicles of the time; I cannot verify it. Anyway, according to reports, Isabella wanted her husband killed. She refused to meet the imprisoned king or allow their children to visit him. Isabella of course continued to play the role of estranged wife. According to rumour, Edward is said to have sworn that he would kill Isabella with his own teeth. Consequently, he was judged too dangerous to be freed. Some chroniclers say he was thrown into a pit along with the rotting carcasses of animals in the hope that he would catch some contagion and die. Edward was strong and robust, he survived. Meanwhile, popular sympathy for him deepened. Conspiracies were formed to free him. Sir John Maltravers, Sir Thomas Berkeley and a knight called Gurney, all keepers of the royal prisoner, pleaded with Mortimer for “un tiele remedie”.’
‘A suitable remedy?’ Athelstan interjected. ‘You mean the King’s death?’
‘Yes. According to popular rumour, this was carried out on the Feast of St Matthew, on the twenty-first of September 1327. Gurney and a group of assassins burst into the former king’s cell. They seized him, turned him on his stomach and thrust a red-hot spindle or poker up his anus into his bowels, thus killing him.’ Brother Roger sighed noisily. ‘Some say this is just a gruesome story which reflects the former king’s allegedly sodomite practices. According to other reports, Edward suffered a “fatalis casus” or fatal accident. Others argue that he was smothered or suffocated to death.’
‘Suffice to say that Edward II died in tragic circumstances,’ Fieschi declared. ‘His wife and Mortimer refused to have him buried at Westminster Abbey, the Plantagenet mausoleum. Instead they arranged a lavish funeral at Gloucester, hence that gorgeous tomb.’
‘And what happened next?’
‘Oh, three years later Mortimer and Isabella fell from power. Isabella, as Queen Mother of the young Edward III, was sent into honourable retirement. She died at Castle Rising twenty-eight years later and lies buried beneath the flagstones of Greyfriars near St Paul’s. Mortimer was not so fortunate. He was judged a traitor and a regicide. He was gagged throughout his trial, found guilty and hanged at the Forks over Tyburn stream …’
‘And how does this concern me?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘Brothers, you have come here for a purpose?’ He was tempted to give vent to the frustration curdling within him. He was certain that somehow the recent attack on him was connected with the mission of these three Italian friars.
‘Brother Athelstan, what is the matter?’ Fieschi had sensed his bad temper.
‘I asked a question!’
‘And I shall answer it,’ Prior Anselm retorted. ‘Four years ago, as I have said, our young King Richard, much taken with the story of his great-grandfather’s life and tragic death, visited Gloucester. He saw it as a pilgrimage and stayed for some time, venerating Edward II’s tomb. So immersed did he become in the account of his ancestor’s death that he ordered his own personal emblem or insignia, the White Hart, to be carved on the royal shrine. Richard never forgot the experience. He came to firmly believe that Edward II was a saint, a royal martyr who, by his death, transformed his life and reign. A true martyr king in succession to other saintly monarchs such as St Edward, St Edmund, St Oswald and others stretching back into the misty history of the English crown.’
‘And no doubt our young King Richard sees himself cast from the same mould?’ Athelstan enquired.
‘Very much so,’ Fieschi replied. ‘He has petitioned the Holy Father for the formal opening of the process for the beatification and canonisation of Edward II.’
‘But his private life,’ Athelstan interposed, ‘it was hardly—’
‘Thomas Becket,’ Fieschi said swiftly. ‘Your Thomas Becket, did he not love luxury and ostentation before his conversion? People change, Brother Athelstan, they make reparation for their faults. In my view, the martyrdom of Edward II, like charity, covers a multitude of sins.’
‘You seem convinced already?’
‘I certainly am,’ Fieschi replied.
‘Brother Matteo,’ Anselm intervened tactfully, ‘is promoter of the cause. He may well insist that the tomb at Gloucester be opened so the royal corpse can be inspected. As you know, there are occasions when a martyr’s body does not decompose.’
‘In this I support the Procurator General,’ Brother Cassian declared.
‘Whilst I and poor Alberic,’ Isidore crossed himself, ‘were supposed to act the role of advocati diaboli.’
‘The Devil’s Advocates,’ Athelstan translated. ‘You would search for evidence which would nullify any attempt to sanctify the dead king.’ He pulled a face. ‘In the circumstances, that might not be difficult.’
‘The Holy Father thinks otherwise.’
‘Well, he would …’
Athelstan paused abruptly. He did not wish to condemn himself out of his own mouth. He rose to his feet, walked to the narrow window and knelt on the quilted bench beneath, staring out through the mullioned glass. In the courtyard below, brothers were busy around the washtub where the sacred cloths were being cleansed. They sang as they worked, powerful male voices intoning the words of the Magnificat, ‘My soul doth magnify the Lord …’
‘Athelstan …’ Prior Anselm had come close up beside him. ‘I did fear for you being left alone in Southwark but I also brought you back to help with this matter. I need you to stay because of it. No Dominican I have ever met can rival you as an inquisitor.’ He grasped Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘You are also a benevolent and just one. Our king,’ the prior continued in a sibilant whisper, ‘has appealed to the Pope.’
Athelstan turned to face the prior, working out the implications for himself. ‘And our Holy Father in Rome, Urban VI, has a rival, an anti-pope styling himself Clement VII residing in Avignon. Urban does not wish to alienate the English crown, to drive this kingdom into Clement’s camp, so he has agreed to our king’s request.’
‘And the Dominicans, Athelstan, are a natural choice. First, the Holy Inquisition in Rome is under the authority of our Minister General.’
‘And secondly?’
‘Come back to the table, Athelstan, and I will continue.’
‘As I was about to explain,’ the prior continued as they retook their seats, ‘Edward II of blessed memory was a generous patron of our order: his confessors, advisors and soul counsellors were always Dominicans.’
‘But why have you come to Blackfriars, Brother Matteo?’ Athelstan still felt discommoded. ‘What can we offer you?’
‘You know full well,’ Fieschi lisped quietly. ‘Blackfriars is the mother house of our English province. The Holy Father and our Minister General wish it, as do I, Procurator General of our order. Finally, Prior Anselm who, in all truth, is your divinely appointed superior with authority over you—’
‘Saving my conscience,’ Athelstan interrupted abruptly. ‘And the teaching of Christ.’
‘Very good, Brother.’ Fieschi shrugged.
‘Brother Athelstan will help,’ Prior Anselm swiftly intervened. ‘Brother Roger will also assist. Our library and archives possess a great deal abou
t Edward II, especially his last days. I also asked – thanks be to God in good time before these present troubles – for the records of the Exchequer, Chancery, King’s Bench and the Justices of Oyer and Terminer to be thoroughly searched and copies of all relevant documents to be made available. The King himself ordered this, and Master Thibault, your—’
‘Adversary?’ Athelstan interjected. ‘Master Thibault and I have crossed swords, Sir John Cranston likewise, on a number of occasions.’
‘Master Thibault has generously supplied us with documentation,’ Fieschi explained, ‘King Richard petitioned the Holy Father a year ago. Preparations were completed before the rebellious commons made their presence felt.’
‘And the manuscripts stolen from Alberic’s chamber?’ Athelstan demanded.
‘Certain information from our Minister General and the archives of our Curia in Rome.’
‘What, exactly?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Important enough however for Alberic to be murdered and the documents stolen?’
‘Brother Alberic was advocatus diaboli, so he would collect evidence against the dead king’s reputation. Alberic was a man of integrity. What he collected he would not share with me; I did the same with him. There would be a time and place for Alberic to plead his case but I do not know what he actually held, so I cannot comment.’
