by Paul Doherty
‘It’s well barricaded,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘with strong gates.’
‘The Temple had the same,’ Cranston retorted, ‘or did have. But come, Brother. I need to discuss certain matters with you.’
‘As I do with you,’ Athelstan retorted.
Much to Cranston’s surprise, ‘the little ferret of a friar’ as he privately regarded Athelstan, did not take him to any chamber or garden to discuss matters, but back to the guesthouse and the room where Alberic had been so mysteriously killed. The door to the chamber still rested brokenly against the wall. Athelstan led the coroner around it and they both sat on a window bench from where Athelstan could keep a sharp eye on the gallery outside. He grasped the coroner’s arm and felt the light chain mail beneath Sir John’s doublet, a sure sign that even here, safe in Blackfriars, Cranston was deeply alarmed by the pressing danger.
‘Sir John, my friend,’ Athelstan began, ‘you face a sea of troubles, as do I.’ The friar then told the coroner about Pernel, and that the old woman’s death seemed to be from natural causes, an unfortunate accident, but that in his heart he truly believed the poor woman had been murdered.
‘And your suspicions are usually correct, Athelstan,’ the coroner said heavily. ‘We live in a wicked world and people do evil things for evil’s sake – but why murder someone like Pernel? She was no more a threat than a butterfly!’
‘I can’t answer that, Sir John.’ Athelstan stared around the chamber. ‘What I do know is that Prior Anselm invited me back to Blackfriars to keep me out of trouble. I suspect you had a hand in that, Sir John?’ Cranston glanced up sheepishly, shuffled his feet and then stared hard at the floor, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘And my parishioners, my lord coroner? Did you have a hand in their arrest and abduction, as well?’
Cranston shook his head. ‘Brother, I swear on the lives of Lady Maude and my two sons the Poppets, whom I now miss more than ever, I have no knowledge about what happened to your parishioners. I have already told you of my fears about them. I cannot do any searches. London is sealed, the roads leading out are clogged with rebels.’ The coroner fell silent and Athelstan leaned back against the wall. Cranston produced the miraculous wineskin and cradled it as a mother would a babe. ‘Little friar, why have you brought me here? This must be where the Italian, Alberic, was murdered?’
Athelstan rose to his feet. ‘Yes, another ploy by Prior Anselm. He wants to keep me out of harm’s way. He also wants me to investigate Alberic’s murder as well as assist Fieschi in the process of the canonisation of a long-dead king who perished in the most horrid circumstances. Since that event occurred over fifty years ago, it should be an academic exercise, dry as dust. Nevertheless, Alberic lies murdered. I have been attacked twice in Blackfriars, and Pernel, a parishioner who came looking for me, has also died in the most mysterious circumstances. What I first thought was a matter of academic debate – the death of a king over five decades ago – seems to have a malicious life of its own. In this matter, the past is very much alive.’
‘And you want my help, little friar?’ Cranston slurped from the miraculous wineskin.
‘Well, you, like me, are trapped here. You have some knowledge about Edward II, and, above all,’ Athelstan grinned, ‘your razor-sharp wit is always appreciated.’
Cranston offered Athelstan the wineskin, which he refused. The coroner got to his feet and crossed to the door to ensure the gallery outside was empty before speaking. ‘We have a great deal in common, Brother.’
‘Such as?’
‘Regicide. You are studying a king who died mysteriously some fifty-four years ago, whilst we know that out there, beyond the walls of Blackfriars, the rebel leaders are plotting another king’s destruction. Wat Tyler, that mysterious will-o’-the-wisp who appeared from nowhere to lead the men from Kent, is, we are almost certain, Gaunt’s man in peace and war. We suspect Tyler will try to draw our king into some dangerous meeting out in the open where he can be surrounded and slain.’
‘And yet you have checked him,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘You insisted that Gaunt leave his own heir, Henry of Derby, who must go where our young king goes. No secret bowmen or clever assassin hired by Gaunt can strike, lest Gaunt’s heir also be caught up in the bloody maelstrom.’
‘Checked but not trapped,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Richard the King does not want Henry of Derby anywhere near him. The game is changing all the time, Athelstan. Gaunt has removed himself from public view, but so has Master Thibault. We have no knowledge or sight of our Master of Secrets or his shadow Albinus. They have disappeared like smoke in the air. Have they fled, or are they just lurking in the shadows?’
‘Thibault must return,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘After all, as you know, he has left his daughter with me. He rode into St Erconwald’s parish a few days before I was summoned here. Young Isabella is the apple of his eye. He made me swear that whatever I thought of him, I would protect her until he returns …’
‘Well, he’s disappeared,’ Cranston declared. ‘He should be with the rest of the royal council in the Tower, but he is not. This could mean two things. First, Thibault doesn’t believe that fortress is as safe as others think it is. Secondly, I suspect Thibault is out of London, perhaps preparing for the revolt to fail. Now that’s an interesting thought! Have Gaunt and his Master of Secrets decided to change the game? Perhaps they have come to realise that, in the long term, the revolt will collapse, the rebels will be defeated and their desired reforms discarded.’ The coroner paused as a servant appeared in the doorway. He bowed and brought in a tray bearing a jug of white wine, two goblets and a dish of comfits coated in a hard, honey-shell with the letters ‘B’ and ‘D’ etched on them.
‘What are these?’ Cranston asked.
‘We call them the “Blessing of Dominic”.’ Athelstan laughed. ‘That’s what the “B” and “D” stand for. It’s a special comfit, baked hard, so you have to soak it for a little while. They are always given to those who visit any of our houses. A token of welcome. Taste one, Sir John, they are pleasing enough.’ Cranston did so, muttering how hard they were but then adding how delicious to the taste. Athelstan refused one. Instead he walked slowly around the chamber recalling the events surrounding Alberic’s corpse being discovered. He wondered about Luke the messenger who had clattered up to see what had happened and then left so swiftly.
‘Brother Athelstan?’ Prior Anselm stood in the doorway holding a leather sack. ‘You forgot this, the belongings of one of your parishioners, the poor beggar woman in the death house.’
Athelstan thanked him and took it.
Anselm turned to face the coroner. ‘Good morrow, Sir John. You will join our concilium, our council meeting after Compline? Roger, our chronicler, appears to be quite excited about something.’
‘Yes, I will join you,’ Cranston replied. ‘I thank you once again for your courtesy and hospitality.’
Athelstan placed the sack on the floor. ‘Father Prior, when we were waiting to gain entrance here and discover poor Alberic, that young man, came flitting up the stairs outside. He peered at what was happening then promptly disappeared. I believe his name is Luke. Is he a royal courier?’
‘Master Luke,’ Anselm replied, his tired eyes crinkling in amusement, ‘claims to be our young king’s favourite messenger. He journeys between Blackfriars and the court on this business of Edward II. Why do you ask?’
‘I would like to speak to him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to.’
The prior smiled, nodded and left. A short while later, Luke the messenger sauntered into the chamber. Cranston and Athelstan sat on the edge of the bed. Luke, who seemed unruffled at being summoned, slouched on a small three-legged stool before them. Athelstan sat there without speaking, as if listening keenly to the sounds of the friary, the ringing of bells, doors opening and closing, the faint strains of plain chant.
‘Brother?’
‘Master Luke.’ Athelstan stared at the remarkably
handsome young man. He could even be considered beautiful with his light-blue eyes in a smooth, soft face which glowed as if dusted with gold. The messenger’s blonde hair had been recently cropped, his hands and fingers were elegant and he had a rather feminine way of turning and staring out of the corner of his eye as if flirting with the person he was talking to. An innocent? Athelstan wondered. Or a man who used his exquisite good looks to his own advantage, to pry, to discover information, to spy?
‘Brother, you asked to speak to me and here I am.’ He spread his hands. ‘True, I am supposed to carry messages between Procurator Fieschi and His Grace the King, but matters have been rather hampered by the rioters, and I do have other tasks.’
‘What of Brother Alberic? Did you meet him, talk to him?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘About what?’
‘His travels in Italy.’
‘And why he was in England?’
‘Alberic told me he was Devil’s Advocate in the process of the canonisation of Edward II.’
‘And?’
‘He said his task would not be difficult, since that king,’ Master Luke visibly coloured, ‘died a sodomite, a failure as a man, a prince and a warrior. I replied that many saints have led ill lives until their conversion. The imprisoned king might have repented.’ The messenger paused.
‘And did he say anything else?’
‘Alberic kept repeating two phrases, I think they are from scripture. I asked one of the brothers and he said they were.’ The messenger screwed up his eyes in concentration. ‘The first was, “Put not your trust in princes” and the second, “I said in my excess all men are liars.”’
‘They are phrases from the psalms,’ Athelstan explained. ‘Why should Alberic keep quoting them?’
‘I don’t really know, Brother Athelstan. You see, Alberic said that he would act as Devil’s Advocate but he fully expected to concede that Edward II was a great friend of the Dominican Order and that he’d experienced a radical conversion before he died, so he could be a saint. Alberic explained he was only playing a role and that he had serious doubts about the whole process. He asked me, how could you truly judge the mind of a king before he died? He then added that you cannot canonise what is not there.’ The messenger took the goblet of white wine Athelstan offered and sipped delicately at the rim. ‘And before you ask, Brother Athelstan, Alberic did not explain himself, except on one occasion he murmured, “Berkeley had the truth of it.”’
‘Berkeley? The castle or its lord?’
‘Brother Athelstan, I cannot say. I know very little …’
‘And yesterday evening, did you come up here?’
The messenger blinked.
‘The truth,’ Athelstan insisted. He paused at distant shouting and glanced at the coroner, who just pulled a face and shrugged.
‘I came up here after Compline. I heard voices speaking, but they were talking in Italian.’
‘How many?’
‘I don’t know. Distant voices, but they were speaking very fast. No English. I heard a name mentioned, Rutrio.’
‘Rutrio?’
‘Yes, I am sure it was that. I could not catch anything else except the phrase “I dread”, but I couldn’t continue eavesdropping, as others were moving about.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know, but I could hear them on the gallery below, so I left. I thought nothing of it until this morning …’ His voice trailed off.
Athelstan thanked the messenger then dismissed him. They listened to his footsteps fading on the stairs.
‘Brother, what did you make of that?’
‘A very handsome young man who caught the eye of our deceased Brother Alberic, who, I suspect – like so many in our order – was drawn to such beauty. However,’ Athelstan added briskly, ‘that is not our business. Now look, Sir John …’ He got to his feet and walked to where Alberic’s corpse had been sprawled.
‘Athelstan, you dismiss our beautiful young man, but he could be the murderer. I mean, a lover’s quarrel, a dagger drawn …’
‘No, Sir John, God forgive me if I am wrong. I suspect Master Luke is many things besides a messenger, but he is not a killer, not this time. I believe Alberic was showing off to him. I do wonder what those enigmatic phrases really meant. Who was he talking to here? It must have been his Italian comrades. And what does Rutrio mean? It evokes a memory, something I have recently seen or heard, but I cannot recall it. Anyway,’ Athelstan began walking up and down, ‘Alberic, a visitor here, is brutally murdered in this sealed room with no other possible entrance but the door, yet that was locked and bolted. I can witness to that. Was Alberic beginning to doubt the validity of the entire canonisation process? Did he discover something in his searches which deeply unsettled him? Did the documents stolen from his chancery satchel hold some secret? This brings me back to the one question I keep asking myself. What is it about this long-dead king which provokes such murderous fury? I believe it is responsible for Alberic’s death and for two deadly attacks on me in the one day.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Rutrio,’ he whispered, ‘Alberic didn’t say Rutrio but Butrio.’
‘Brother?’
‘Butrio,’ Athelstan explained, ‘that’s what Master Luke overheard. Oh, Lord save us!’ Athelstan’s fingers went to his face. ‘I am certain that Pernel owned a medal from Sancto Alberto di Butrio. I wish I had brought it.’
At that moment, Anselm, accompanied by the three Italians, Roger the chronicler and Brothers Hugh and Matthias, came up the stairs, crowding into the gallery.
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you must see this.’
‘See what?’
‘London’s aflame! Brother John has summoned us to the main gateway. Come, come, Compline will be delayed.’
Cranston and Athelstan followed Anselm and his group down the stairs, hurrying along narrow stone passageways. The news from the city had swept through the Dominican house, with people hurrying to secure vantage points. The prior led them up on to the stone platform above the cavernous double-gated entrance. Athelstan immediately saw the great fiery glow to the north and an even fiercer one further west along the river, a blazing inferno against the fading blue sky.
‘My Lord of Gaunt’s palace of Savoy!’ Cranston declared. ‘It must be.’ Even as he spoke there was a further explosion from the inferno at the Savoy, and a great ball of fire shot up into the night sky, followed by jagged flames. ‘Good Lord,’ Cranston breathed, ‘of course the palace cellars house cannon powder.’ He paused at another fiery explosion then pointed to a glow to the north of the city. ‘The Priory of Clerkenwell!’ Cranston declared. ‘Its prior, John Hailes, is also Royal Treasurer and, God save him, Hailes is high on the attainder list of the Upright Men. I hope to God he is safe in the Tower. The Earthworms will surely be hunting him. I have sent Tiptoft out, he will bring back further news.’
‘Will he be safe?’ Athelstan asked, peering through the crenellations.
‘Tiptoft is as cunning as a fox and can slink like any cat. He will join us soon enough.’
‘But will they?’ Athelstan pointed to the crowd gathering before the main gate. Some of the people had come here for sanctuary and were deep in discussion with Gatekeeper John, who had gone down to meet them. Athelstan was more concerned about the number of cloaked, cowled figures standing around in small groups, making no attempt to approach the gatehouse, but watching it closely.
‘I see them,’ Cranston whispered, drawing close. ‘Earthworms or their scouts. They would like to get their hands on some of the people who’ve fled here, especially Thibault’s daughter Isabella, to seize her as hostage.’ Cranston plucked at Athelstan’s sleeve, pulling him away to the far corner of the parapet walk. ‘Brother, Gaunt is in the north watching and waiting like the viper he is. The rebels are seizing London. Sooner or later they will demand to see the King. Wat Tyler will insist on that.’
‘And then?’
Cranston gripped Athelstan’s arm tightly. ‘Whatever happens, Br
other, I need to be there. I have made my decision. I cannot control what is happening here or in the Tower or the city, so I must be involved in that meeting.’
‘Why?’
‘To kill Tyler. Whatever happens, I am committed to that. I will kill Tyler or die trying, that is my God sworn duty. I will not relent on what I intend.’
Athelstan clutched Cranston’s gauntleted hand and squeezed. ‘Then, my fat friend, good Sir John, I will go with you but, until then—’
‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John,’ the prior called out, ‘we are to adjourn to Compline.’
Cranston gently pushed his companion away.
‘Sing for me, Brother. I have an equally important tryst with a certain cook and a venison pie.’
Athelstan attended Compline standing in the darkening stalls, the shadows held back by the darting, dagger-like flames of the candles burning before the different statues and shrines. Smoking thuribles incensed the air as the massed voices of the community recited the verses of the psalms; a rhythmic chant which lulled the soul and quietened the mind. A hallowed occasion where the church itself became a living, breathing thing dedicated to praising and thanking God and, as the darkness thickened, pleading for protection against the night-dwellers, the demons of the air, Satan and his ghastly retinue who prowled that border between the visible and the invisible. Athelstan, despite intoning the lines and shrouding himself with the protection of the church, sensed a very present brooding evil. Blackfriars was supposed to be a House of God and the Gate of Heaven, yet a bloody-minded assassin lurked within its walls, whilst beyond them, fresh dangers threatened and more murderous mysteries swirled. Athelstan’s parishioners had been abducted and his world turned upside down by fire and sword. Athelstan was fully distracted now, and he wondered about Cranston’s oath to kill Tyler. Would Richard be enticed out to a meeting? So far the King and his council had failed disastrously to curb the growing violence. They sheltered, or rather cowered, in the Tower. Surely it was only a matter of time before the rebel armies laid siege to that fortress?
