by Paul Doherty
Table of Contents
Cover
The Brother Athelstan Mysteries from Paul Doherty
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Historical Notes
The Brother Athelstan Mysteries from Paul Doherty
THE NIGHTINGALE GALLERY
THE HOUSE OF THE RED SLAYER
MURDER MOST HOLY
THE ANGER OF GOD
BY MURDER’S BRIGHT LIGHT
THE HOUSE OF CROWS
THE ASSASSIN’S RIDDLE
THE DEVIL’S DOMAIN
THE FIELD OF BLOOD
THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS
BLOODSTONE*
*available from Severn House
BLOODSTONE
Being the Eleventh of the Sorrowful Mysteries of Brother Athelstan
Paul Doherty
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published 2012
in Great Britain and in the USA by
Crème de la Crime, an imprint of
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2012 by Paul Doherty.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Doherty, P. C.
Bloodstone.
1. Athelstan, Brother (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. Priests–Fiction. 3. John, of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, 1340-1399–Fiction. 4. Relics–Fiction. 5. Serial murder investigation–Fiction. 6. Great Britain–History–Richard II, 1377-1399–Fiction. 7. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title
823.9'2-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-198-9 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-016-4 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-520-6 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
To Joe, Edel, Patrick and Ciaran Monahan of Leytonstone for their
courage and good humour during a very tough period. Brother Athelstan
would be very proud of you!
PROLOGUE
‘Murdrum: Murder.’
Sir Robert Kilverby was about to be murdered. Of course he did not know that, ensconced so comfortably in his warm, snug chancery chamber, its costly linen panelling gleaming in the dancing light of the candle spigots. True, the fiery glow of the pine logs crackling in the mantled hearth sent the shadows swiftly fluttering. The gargoyle faces carved on either side of the hearth assumed a more sinister look whilst the grisly scenes of Archbishop Alphege’s martyrdom on the painted cloths above the panelling took on an eerie life of their own. Nevertheless, Kilverby felt safe and secure in this fortified chamber, its heavy oaken door bolted and locked. The oriel windows high in the pink plaster walls glowed with the dying light of the December day though they were too small for any footpad to break through. Kilverby hitched his fur-lined cloak closer about his bony shoulders. He stopped gnawing on the plume of the elegant quill pen and placed it down on the pewter writing palette. Distracted, he gazed around at the sprigs of evergreen pinned to some of the gaily coloured cloths by his beloved daughter Alesia. She had gone out into the frosted garden and plucked holly, ivy and mistletoe, reminders of the evergreen Christ and the imminent arrival of Christmas. Soon Advent would be over. The fasting and the chanting of the Dirige psalms finished. The great ‘O Antiphons’ would be sung to the ‘Key of David’, ‘Lion of Judah’ and ‘Ever Mighty Counsellor’. Christmas would soon be celebrated but not as it had been before – that’s what Alesia was quietly hinting at – in those glorious days when Kilverby’s first wife, Alesia’s mother Margaret, was alive.
Kilverby ignored his growling stomach. The rich Cheapside merchant picked up his rosewood Ave beads and threaded them through his bony fingers. He quickly recited a Pater and placed the beads back down. He had truly made a mistake when he’d married Helen Rauliffe. ‘Helen of hell’ as Alesia now called her stepmother; his daughter was right and he was wrong. He had been seduced by Helen’s fine figure and beautiful, hard face. So eager to recapture former joys both at bed and board, he had, like the old fool he was, rushed to exchange vows in the porch of St Mary Le Bow, only to find the trap had been sprung. The fowler had cast his net and he was caught. Hard of heart and bitter of tongue was the fair Helen. She carried her head like a priest would the monstrance. In fact, she’d turned his life into a living hell. Kilverby stirred in his great chancery chair and took a deep sip of the dark red claret. He stared sadly at the loving cup, a gift from Alesia, and breathed in deeply. How could he escape judgement? Kilverby grasped his Ave beads again. He had gone to St Fulcher’s. He had listened to the warnings from Sub-Prior Richer who had heard the confession of that old reprobate, William Chalk. Kilverby beat his breast. He had done wrong. He had financed those depredations in France. He was partly to blame for the theft of that sacred bloodstone, the Passio Christi. Kilverby wanted absolution. He had cut himself off from the Wyverns, who’d been responsible for the theft. He had bribed Abbot Walter with good gold and silver to ensure further reparation was made. Above all, Kilverby had read that book! He had reflected on the curses and wondered if the death of Margaret and his second marriage were all part of God’s judgement against him. What if the curse spread to include his beloved daughter Alesia? Kilverby swiftly crossed himself. He would continue to make reparation. He would, eventually, take the Passio Christi to St Fulcher’s and then continue his pilgrimage of reparation to Santiago, Rome and Jerusalem. Kilverby paused in his thoughts at a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘Father,’ Alesia replied, ‘I’m here with Crispin.’
‘Go to bed,’ Kilverby retorted. ‘God be with you. I shall speak to you in the morning.’
Kilverby heard the footsteps fade and returned to his reflections. He was certain of what he had to do. In the meantime he would ask for God’s help as he always did every Friday. When the Angelus bell tolled, he’d leave his counting house near the Standard in Cheapside and crawl on hands and knees to prostrate himself before the great rood screen in St Mary’s. He had done the same at St Fulcher’s, aware of the curse pressing close. He had much to say about ‘Helen of hell’, much to judge and much to condemn but what was the use? Kilverby picked up the quill pen, nibbling at its end again, as he always did. Helen would brook no opposition. She wanted this and she wanted that and, if he refused, she’d glare at him and turn for comfort and counsel to her so-called kinsman Adam Lestral. Kinsman! Were they really lovers? Was Alesia correct in her suspicions? Kilverby stopped nibbling at the rich plumage on the quill pen and put it down for the second time. He truly must leave here! His merchant days were over, his gold and silver salted away wit
h goldsmiths in Cheapside and Poultry. Everything was ready. His will was drawn up, witnessed by no less a person than Sir John Cranston, Coroner of London – that portly, red-faced, gloriously bewhiskered old soldier would keep an eye on Alesia and her beloved husband Edmund. A good man, Kilverby mused about his son-in-law, as long as Edmund stayed away from the hawk lords at Westminster. Kilverby sipped at his claret. Times were certainly changing. Old King Edward had died in his dotage, alone, except for his mistress, Alice Perrers, who’d stayed long enough to strip the old King’s corpse of anything which glittered. The King’s son, the illustrious Black Prince, had already died of some loathsome, lingering pestilence contracted in Spain. Now a child ruled the kingdom.
‘Vae Regno cujus Rex est Puer,’ Kilverby whispered. ‘Woe to the kingdom where the ruler is a child.’
Richard was a boy king; real power lay with his cunning uncle, the Regent, John of Gaunt. Nevertheless, even Gaunt, chief amongst men, was beset daily by the Commons, whilst behind them in the shadows clustered the hawk lords, greedy for any rich pickings.
Kilverby groaned and rose to ease the pain in his belly. He stamped his feet against the onset of a sudden coldness. He must leave all this! He stood listening to the sounds of his great mansion settling for the night. Crispin, his faithful steward and secretarius, would still be busy. Kilverby sighed. He truly wished Crispin could come with him on pilgrimage to Santiago, Rome and Jerusalem but that was not possible. Nevertheless, Crispin would be well looked after. Kilverby, on his clerk’s behalf, had negotiated with Abbot Walter at St Fulcher-on-Thames. In the end Crispin would take care of everything, even tomorrow’s journey to St Fulcher with that precious bloodstone, large as a duck’s egg, the Passio Christi. Kilverby glanced at the small coffer where, for most of the time, he kept the bloodstone secure. He recalled the relic’s remarkable history and singular powers; he absent-mindedly fingered the silver chain around his neck carrying the keys to the coffer. The Passio Christi had been with him for years. Kilverby wondered guiltily about its former owner, the Abbey of St Calliste outside Poitiers in France. Sub-Prior Richer had constantly reminded him about all that; even today the Frenchman had asked to see the bloodstone when he visited with Prior Alexander. Kilverby really needed no such reminder. He had done wrong. He fully understood the curses which the bloodstone could bring down on those who abused it. He had distanced himself from the Wyvern Company: Wenlock, Mahant and the rest. One of them, William Chalk, had confessed during his final illness to be living proof of the warnings contained in the ‘Liber Passionis Christi – The Book of the Passion of Christ’. He was so glad not to be taking the bloodstone to St Fulcher’s on the morrow. Crispin, faithful as ever, had promised to do that. And why not? Crispin himself hoped to benefit from the curative properties of the sacred bloodstone, especially during this holy season. True, he would not go tomorrow, but once he began his pilgrimage Kilverby intended to leave the precious relic with the Benedictines. That would satisfy his conscience.
The merchant rose and moved across the chamber. He stared down at the wooden polished coffer with its three locks singularly crafted to hold the sacred ruby. He also glimpsed the silver chased dish of sweetmeats the Benedictines had brought him as a gift. Kilverby pulled back the linen cloth. He picked one up and bit half of it, relishing the rich cream and marzipan. He put the other half down and returned to his desk, his mind teeming like a box of ants. He grasped the quill pen and gnawed at its end again before weighing this in his right hand. He peered at the ink stains on his fingers, rose, crossed to the lavarium and dipped his hands in the still-warm rose water. Kilverby groaned again at the pain in his belly. The icy constriction in his legs intensified. Something was wrong! Kilverby glanced swiftly at the locked and bolted door and staggered back to his stout chancery chair, clutching his stomach as he lowered himself into it. The pain was now intense. He forgot about everything, even his beloved Alesia. He was ill, tormented by the assault in his belly, that creeping coldness seeping through his legs. Kilverby’s head snapped back, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes popping as his death engulfed him.
On that same night, the eve of the Feast of St Damasus Pope, the year of our Lord 1380, Gilbert Hanep, former master bowman in the Wyvern Company, also rose to meet his own violent death. As usual Hanep had found sleep impossible in his narrow chamber in the main guest house at the Abbey of St Fulcher-on-Thames. Hanep had fallen asleep for a while but his soul had been tormented by demons. He had woken from a dream that the cold air around him was black with devils waiting to drag him to hell. For a while Hanep sat on the edge of his cot bed and stared at the fiery red glow of the charcoal in the small braziers now turning into a sea of white, feathery ash. Hanep quietly cursed mumbling monks like Sub-Prior Richer and his influence over the likes of poor old William Chalk. Hanep shivered. He swiftly donned his war cloak emblazoned with a striking red Wyvern. The heraldic device brought memories rushing back like water gushing from a spilt cask. The past returned. Memories of the hard-fought battles in France, the bitter fights. The white fog of chalk and lime surging up in clouds from crudely whitewashed shields. The strident screech of sword, club, dagger and mace. Arrows like angry black hornets streaking the blue sky in their thousands. The grating of steel against bone. The constant spray of hot, fresh blood. The shriek of armour against armour, the hideous yells, horrid cries and blasphemous curses of men locked in deadly combat. Banners all gaudily decorated moving through the fog of battle . . .
Such memories would never go away, whilst lodging in this abbey did not help the soul. Sub-Prior Richer said the Wyvern Company and all who supported them would go to eternal damnation. They’d be herded into a rough, murky prison full of stench, filth, dark shadows and verminous demons. They’d be punished along with all the other tribes of sinners through an eternity of torture. They’d be imprisoned in dungeons of fire, eating the harsh crust of hell and drinking the cup of everlasting bitterness. Hanep took a deep breath. But what did that frosty-faced, self-styled man of God know? Hanep rose to his feet and filled a pewter goblet from the flagon. He moved over to one of the braziers, plucked out the narrow white-hot poker and pushed its tip into the wine until, in the light of the lantern horn, he saw it bubble. Hanep put the poker back and, grasping the goblet in his two hands, drank greedily. Once satisfied, he thrust his feet into the rough thick-soled sandals, walked across, pulled back the shutters and stared out through the lancet window at the gathering gloom. Memories were like a ravenous host just waiting to gain entry. Hanep, a veteran of many bloody combats, was used to them. He would wake suddenly in this grey-stoned, hollow-sounding abbey and the days of blood flooded back though, after a while, they would turn sweet as other memories surfaced: the days of glory when he and his companions had swaggered along the roads of France taking what they wanted, be it a flagon of wine or some plump French wench to be enjoyed despite her squeals and warbling. Oh yes, sun-drenched days, or so it seemed, when flowers covered the world, the sky was always blue and the trees remained a cluster of thick green. They were heroes then, Hanep reflected bitterly. They had shattered the power of France, the gorgeous, thundering cavalcade of the Valois. Now it was different. The King at Westminster was a child. The armies of England had retreated, forced back into the enclave of Calais. The realm was fearful of the black-prowed French galleys who threatened the passage to Dover and roamed the Narrow Seas, their crews making sudden landings along the south coast to pillage and burn. So much had changed! Here he was, he and the rest, given a corrody at this lonely, haunted abbey, living out their lives as Mahant had said, ‘like stabled cattle, waiting for the slaughter’.
The fate of old William Chalk certainly proved that: his death had been long, lingering and painful. If it had happened in France, Chalk, the defrocked priest beyond all hope of physic, would have received a mercy cut from a razor-edged misericord dagger to put him beyond all pain. Instead they had to visit him in the infirmary day after day, week after week, month in month out. Th
ey had to listen to his lamentations about the past, the sins they’d committed and the reparation they should all make. Now, thank God, old William Chalk was gone, buried in the Strangers’ Plot in the great sprawling abbey cemetery. Perhaps he should visit William’s grave, go out and brave the cold and say a prayer, if that merited anything. He could not stay here. Hanep had to, as he often did, walk this abbey in the early hours when the monks were snoring in their dormitories before the first bell of the day roused them to sing matins. He’d be warm enough in his thick serge leggings and stockings. He moved to the door and smiled. He’d forgotten the oath, the great pledge following the mysterious attack on Wenlock. He must remember that’s why his war belt now hung ready on a peg. He took this down carefully moving both sword and dagger in their intricately brocaded scabbards. Hanep circled his waist, pulling the belt tight and securing the buckle. He felt more comfortable, younger and stronger. Mahant was correct. The warrior path of cold steel and the sheer joy of battle, conflict and resolution, was everything.
Hanep picked up the shuttered lantern, opened the door and stepped out. The night was freezing cold in its blackness. Already a frost dusted the sills and carved faces of both saints and gargoyles. A deathly silence hung like some invisible pall pressing down, smothering all sound. Hanep walked along the narrow path which took him into the main cloister: a maze of stone, soaring pillars, sills and doorways fretted in the dog-tooth fashion. Cresset torches flared, their flames leaping in the stiff, freezing breeze. Holy men and demons glared ghostly down at him. The paving stones he walked were scrubbed and dusted with dry herbs which crackled beneath his sandals. Shadows darted. A spirit-thronged place, Hanep reflected. One hand on the hilt of his sword, Hanep went round the cloister garth, out under an archway following the path which skirted the great abbey church. Hanep paused before its yawning, cavernous porch. He stared up at the tympanum above the door, garishly lit by flaring torches. The darting flames brought to life the cluster of carvings depicting the damned and the saved, angels and hellish creatures all transfixed by the dominating figure of Christ in judgement. Hanep felt his conscience prick. How many years had passed since he had been shriven? Sat in the pew taking absolution from a priest? Chalk had urged him to reflect on that yet it was impossible to remember. Hanep again stared up at the Last of Days sculptured so graphically. He remembered the only words of scripture he’d ever learnt so many, many years ago in the dusty aisle of St Mary’s Church at Leighton in Essex. He’d always, like some talisman, quoted the verses before battle: ‘The Lord is my help,’ Hanep whispered, ‘whom should I fear? The Lord is the fortress of my life, before whom should I cower?’ But now in this midnight darkness did he, did the others, believe in all that? Were not their souls weighed down by thick, rich, oozing layers of sin? The women he had taken, the deaths he had inflicted, the plunder seized, the drinking and cramming of his belly with the food and wine of others? The Wyvern Company had acquired a fearsome reputation as a deadly, hostile horde from the havens of hell. They had waged war with fire and sword, having no respect for anything under the sun.
