by Paul Doherty
‘Have you ever confronted the Wyverns with their crime?’
‘Of course, Brother Athelstan, just once. I was mocked and ignored.’ Richer snorted with laughter. ‘Do you think these ribauds are going to confess to sacrilegious theft? I told them if they were guilty of that then they incurred excommunication, ipso facto, immediate and swift. You know, Brother Athelstan, such an excommunication can only be lifted . . .’
‘After three steps have been taken.’ Athelstan recalled the relevant decree. ‘Restitution, reparation and an absolution by a priest.’
‘Tu dixisti!’ Richer quipped. ‘You have said it, but those ribauds will never confess the truth.’
‘And Sir Robert, he often visited St Fulcher for spiritual consolation?’
‘Four or five times a year.’ The sub-prior shook his head. ‘Sometimes I’d talk to him, a strange man much taken up by the state of his soul. Of course I cannot speak about that. I am sorry to hear he died un-shriven but I can say little. He did most of his business with either Abbot Walter or Prior Alexander. If he spoke to me it was on spiritual matters and that is my concern.’
‘And the Wyvern Company – have they changed recently?’
‘If they have, I’ve hardly noticed. They keep to themselves. Prior Alexander might help.’
‘When Hanep and Hyde were murdered they were still wearing their sword belts – why should they go armed here in a peaceful abbey?’
‘Very observant, Brother Athelstan.’ Richer wagged a finger. ‘By the way, we have heard of you here, an indefatigable seeker of the truth.’
‘Praise from a Benedictine is praise indeed,’ Athelstan retorted, keeping an eye on Cranston, who looked on the verge of sleep. ‘But my question?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps they feared each other. Perhaps some relict from their past outside this abbey has intervened.’
‘You mean,’ Cranston shook his head, smacking his lips, ‘someone from outside is responsible for their murders? Surely a stranger would soon be noticed here?’
‘Not at the dead of night, Sir John, or on a dark December afternoon with the river mist curling around the abbey. Even worse if the assassin donned the black robes of a Benedictine.’ Richer rose to his feet. ‘Perhaps some ancient, unresolved blood feud, God knows. Such men must have made enough enemies in life. Come, let them tell you themselves.’
They left the petty cloisters, darkness was falling. Athelstan plucked at Cranston’s cloak. ‘We should be gone!’
‘In a while.’ The coroner seemed evasive, lost in thought and strode swiftly after the sub-prior. Most of the brothers were now in the abbey church. Silence lay like a pall across the precincts and gardens. Athelstan paused at the welling sounds of voices chanting a psalm from the divine office: ‘Vindica me Domine et judica causam meam – Vindicate me Lord and judge my cause’. Aye, Athelstan thought, do so, Lord, for this truly is a maze of lies and deceit. They passed the Galilee porch; a coffin stood there. Athelstan recalled what he’d glimpsed in the death house. He paused and abruptly asked Brother Richer to show them where both men had been murdered.
‘Must we?’ the sub-prior protested. ‘Brother, this day has proved hard enough.’
‘Please?’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Cranston. ‘The coroner is supposed to view the place of death.’
‘The King’s coroner has no jurisdiction in an abbey.’
Cranston stopped, grasped the sub-prior by the shoulder and gently turned him. ‘My friend,’ Cranston pushed his face close to Richer’s, ‘trust me on this if nothing else. I do have jurisdiction here for if the Lord Almighty John of Gaunt wants it, then that is the law!’
Richer swiftly apologized and led them across into the gloomy cemetery. He showed William Chalk’s grave with its raw mound of earth. Above it a wooden funeral cross on which were carved the former soldier’s name and date of death with the words: ‘Requiet in luce – Let him rest in light’, etched beneath a crude carving of a dragon-like creature.
‘Gilbert Hyde came here.’ Athelstan crouched. ‘He did what I am doing now.’ He then turned, straining his neck, his outline clear in the faint light. The assailant was undoubtedly a professional swordsman, a master-at-arms. He took Hyde’s head in one clear cut. ‘Come.’ Athelstan rose, pulling his cloak closer about him.
Richer, grumbling under his breath, led them out of the cemetery across the abbey and into Mortival meadow. The broad field now looked bleaker in the gloaming, the mist still swirled, crows called raucously from the trees. The wind had turned sharper, more vigorous tugging at hood and cloak; the frozen, icy grass scored their ankles.
‘A field of ghosts,’ Athelstan whispered.
They reached the watergate. Athelstan crouched to study the place where Hyde had died, his blood flecking the curtain wall.
‘Why was he here?’ He peered up at Richer. ‘Why was an old soldier armed with a sword down here at the watergate? To meet someone? Did his assailant come by boat, kill him then flee? Or did someone in the abbey follow him down here and strike the killing blow? Yet there were two assailants, I’m sure of that, two not one, but how did the assailants kill and escape?’ Athelstan couldn’t make out Richer’s face; the monk’s cowl and the poor light made it difficult to discern any expression. Athelstan touched the wall, then went through the watergate on to the mist-hung quayside, a bleak place especially with the black three-branched gallows soaring above them. Glowing braziers shed some light. Athelstan crouched, peering at the ground, scratching it with his fingernail, then he walked back stopping now and again to do the same. He swiftly recited the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’ and stood up.
‘Very well, I have seen enough . . .’
The Wyvern Company, all four of them, were assembled in the beam-raftered, whitewashed refectory in the main guest house, a long room with a roundel window at the far end; lancet windows pierced one wall whilst a narrow hearth stoked with fiery logs stood in the centre of the other. The floor was covered with green supple rushes. A common trestle table ran down the centre of the refectory with benches either side. The former soldiers sat grouped at the top of the table, whispering amongst themselves as they shared a jug of ale and a platter of bread and cheese. They hardly moved when Richer entered and introduced Cranston and Athelstan. Rugged, hard men, all four looked what they were – veteran soldiers who’d served the god of war for many a year, their furrowed, clean-shaven faces burnt by sun and wind, narrow-eyed, thin-lipped, heads shorn. They ate and drank slowly, savouring every mouthful, eyes watchful. They were dressed alike in thick woollen jerkins and cambric shirts. War belts lay close to their soft, booted feet.
‘Well, my paladins of old, if you don’t want to stand as a courtesy for Holy Mother Church,’ Cranston leaned all his considerable bulk on the end of the table, ‘I suggest you do so for the King’s High Coroner, confidant of His Grace, John of Gaunt and former veteran of the illustrious King’s, not to mention his equally illustrious son Edward the Black Prince’s wars against the French.’ His voice rose. ‘By the grace of God, Sir John Cranston, Officer of the Crown.’
One of the company raised a badly-maimed hand, grunted and rose slowly to his feet; the rest followed. They all clasped Cranston’s now outstretched hand, nodded at Richer and Athelstan then sat down, their insolence barely concealed by their reluctant courtesy. Cranston took Athelstan to the other end of the table. He sat on the high stool with Athelstan and Richer either side, forcing the soldiers to turn and shuffle awkwardly towards them.
‘The day is dying,’ Cranston smiled, ‘and we are all waiting for the dark which comes sooner or later. Well, you know who I am. Who are you?’
Richer swiftly introduced the four former soldiers: Richard Mahant, Fulk Wenlock, Andrew Brokersby and Henry Osborne. Once he had their attention, Cranston briefly described what had happened in the city – the mysterious death of Kilverby and the disappearance of the Passio Christi. All four were shocked and surprised, although Athelstan suspected that since they’d alre
ady told the abbot such news would spread swiftly in an enclosed community.
‘It does not affect us really.’ Fulk Wenlock raised his right hand, the two forefingers savagely cut off at the stump. ‘The Passio Christi was surety for our comfortable quarters here, but I am sure my Lord of Gaunt will honour the Crown’s pledges.’
‘True, true,’ Cranston considered. ‘But where were you all yesterday – here?’
‘No,’ Wenlock retorted, ‘not all of us. Mahant and I left in the afternoon for the city.’
‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Our business, Friar, but if you want to know to roister, to drink and I had petty business with a goldsmith in Poultry.’
‘His name?’
‘John Oakham.’
‘Which tavern did you lodge at?’
‘The Pride of Purgatory.’
‘I know it well,’ Cranston replied. ‘Large and sprawling. Minehost is famous for his stews.’
‘And you returned?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Late in the afternoon. We immediately heard the news of poor Ailward’s death.’
‘And you?’ Athelstan turned to Osborne and Brokersby. ‘Where were you when Hanep was murdered?’
‘Asleep in our beds, Friar.’
‘And when Master Hyde was murdered down near the watergate?’
‘We were here together.’ Osborne’s voice portrayed a strong burr. ‘We were eating a slice of venison pie and a dish of vegetables.’
‘So why was Hyde wandering Mortival meadow?’
‘We don’t know,’ Brokersby retorted, ‘nor do we know why Hanep was murdered out in the cemetery. For God’s sake, Priest,’ Brokersby brought his hand down flat against the table, ‘we truly don’t know. Hanep could never sleep; he loved to wander at night.’
‘That’s true,’ Richer intervened. ‘Master Hanep’s nightly pilgrimages around this abbey were well known.’
‘Yet both men were murdered,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘executed by a skilled swordsman. Indeed, Master Ailward may have been murdered by two assailants. Why?’
‘We don’t know,’ Wenlock spoke up, ‘we truly don’t. Matters between us were most amicable. We have served together for decades. We have fought, starved, been threatened and survived.’
‘We come from the same manor in Essex,’ Brokersby explained, ‘Leighton, on the way to Wodeford. We became master bowmen and joined the Company of Edward the Black Prince. We took the Wyvern as our livery . . .’
‘Continue.’ Athelstan smiled.
Brokersby described how he and his companions, at least two score in number, fought in France under the Wyvern banner, about their allegiance to Prince Edward and their undying adoration of him. Athelstan warned Cranston with his eyes to remain silent, for these men needed little encouragement to wax lyrical about their exploits in the Poitiers campaign when they had shattered the power of France. Brokersby mentioned how he’d once been a scholar, a would-be cleric, educated in the local church of St Mary’s. Indeed, he added, he was writing his own chronicle of events. This caused surprise even amongst his companions. So, as darkness descended and the bells sounded for the next hour of divine office, the old soldiers reminisced. Athelstan listened and closely studied these grey-haired warriors with the archer braces still on their wrists. Once these were the scourge of France, men who feared no enemy. He also concluded that Mahant was their leader, Wenlock their adviser. More ale was supped. Cranston joined in with his own memories as Richer politely excused himself and withdrew. Once the Frenchman had closed the door behind him Cranston tapped the table for silence.
‘So we come to the Passio Christi,’ the coroner declared. ‘Did you steal it? Of course if you did you are excommunicated, cut off from the church. You shouldn’t even be here in these hallowed precincts.’ He sighed. ‘Naturally you’ll deny that. Anyway, tell us, how did you find the bloodstone?’
‘To be as blunt,’ Wenlock retorted, ‘after Poitiers we swept the fields like a windstorm, the very fires of hell.’
‘In other words you plundered and pillaged?’ Cranston barked. ‘I was there, you know. I took part in it. Our army was full of vagabonds, runaways, rascals and ribauds, the scum of our prisons who came from slums so horrid even the rats hanged themselves.’ Cranston’s words were greeted with silent disbelief until Wenlock beat the table with a maimed hand, bellowing with laughter.
‘True, Sir John.’ He glanced around his companions. ‘Come on, that is the truth! We had cozeners, tumblers, ape-carriers.’ His words won nods of approval. ‘However, we were master bowmen,’ all the good humour drained from Wenlock’s face, ‘and the Passio Christi was found in a casket on a cart along a leafy country lane.’
‘By you?’
‘By us, Friar.’
‘And what else was in that cart?’
‘Some cloths.’ Wenlock paused. ‘Cups, mazers, a few manuscripts.’
‘And you surrendered all of this to Edward, the King’s son?’
‘We did.’
‘And?’ Athelstan persisted.
‘An indenture was drawn up. You can study it at the Exchequer of Receipt . . .’
‘I have,’ Cranston interrupted.
‘We were given an allowance every month. The jewel was to be held by Kilverby, the Prince’s treasurer. You know the rest so why should we tell you?’
‘How long have you been here?’ Athelstan asked, fighting off the weariness of the day.
‘About four years. We came from France then did guard duty at the Tower, Sheen, Rochester and King’s Langley. Five years ago we petitioned the Crown. We were promised corrodies here.’
‘And why St Fulcher’s?’
‘Ask Father Abbot, Sir John. The old King and his son, before they left London for Dover and their chevauchées through France, stopped here to light tapers. They arranged for Masses to be sung to Christ, Our Lady of Walsingham, and all the saints that God would favour the Leopards of England. The old King even founded a chantry chapel here dedicated to St George.’ Wenlock pulled a face. ‘St Fulcher received other gifts and endowments from the royal family.’ Wenlock gazed over his shoulder at the capped hour candle on its stand in the far corner of the refectory. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, the day goes and so must we.’
‘Richer,’ Athelstan moved his writing tray, ‘do you find him hostile? After all, he is from the Abbey of St Calliste which once held the Passio Christi?’
‘They claim they once held it,’ Wenlock replied. ‘We have no real proof that the bloodstone we found belonged to that abbey. I mean, if it was,’ he smiled, ‘why was it outside the abbey on a cart?’
Athelstan gazed at these former soldiers. He recalled how he and his brother consorted with such men, practical and pragmatic without any real interest in religion or indeed anything else outside their own narrow world. Wenlock’s blunt language was typical.
‘Was the cart abandoned?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What happened to its escort?’
‘By all the saints,’ Brokersby exclaimed, ‘that was years ago! What does it matter now?’
‘Because, my friend,’ Cranston shouted back, ‘if it was proven, even now, that the Passio Christi was stolen from the Abbey of St Calliste that renders you excommunicate, whatever the number of years. You would still be proclaimed public sinners and stripped of everything. You might even hang. So tell us,’ Cranston added quietly.
‘We found it in a cart,’ Wenlock answered coolly.
‘No escort?’
‘Nothing, just plunder of war waiting to be taken.’
Athelstan sighed noisily. ‘That is your story.’
‘We are our own witnesses,’ Mahant declared. ‘Who else is there?’
‘Tell us,’ Cranston asked, ‘why should two of your company be so barbarously slain?’
‘We don’t know,’ Osborne declared.
‘We are old soldiers serving our time,’ Mahant added.
‘So why go armed in this abbey?’
‘Be
cause Sir John, this abbey is not what it appears to be.’ Osborne threw off Brokersby’s warning hand.
‘You think these good brothers are united in prayer? Well, look at the facts. The abbot hates the prior who responds with as much loathing. The prior loves the Frenchman Richer with a love not known even towards women. Our Lord Abbot is more concerned about that nasty swan than he is about the rule of St Benedict. He keeps his beloved niece, if that is what she really is, in the guest house guarded by that old harridan. Meanwhile Richer slips in and out of this abbey like a rat from its hole. We’ve seen him wander down to the watergate. Was he there when poor Ailward was murdered?’ Osborne breathed in heavily, wiping the white flecks of foam from his lips on the back of his hand. ‘Then there’s that anchorite, mad as a March hare, in the abbey church, screaming that he is haunted. He has grudges against us, as do Prior Alexander and others who, I am sure, have great sympathy for the Great Community of the Realm and their leaders the Upright Men. Now two of our comrades are foully murdered, certainly not by us. Why not make your enquiries amongst the brothers: Abbot Walter, Prior Alexander, Richer the Frenchman? After all, we’ve seen military service, but they’ve also done their fair share of spilling blood. They can wield swords.’ Osborne’s voice trailed off in a fit of coughing and throat clearing.
‘Do you see Richer as your enemy?’
‘No, Brother, but he may view us as his.’
‘So why are you armed?’
‘Because,’ Wenlock intervened, ‘three weeks ago, just before the beginning of Advent, I was attacked out in the abbey grounds. I have a passion for herbs and shrubs – I always have. I visited the gardens and afterwards I went for a walk. Nearby runs a maze, its high hedgerows, all prickly, laid out in a subtle plan. A former abbot had built it so those who could not take the cross to Outremer to fight the infidel could crawl through its maze of narrow paths to the centre where there is a Great Pity surmounted by a cross. I entered but dusk was creeping in. I was about to leave when a figure charged out of the gloom, hooded and masked, sword and dagger whirling. I was petrified; all I carried was a pilgrim staff.’ Wenlock grimaced. ‘The forefingers of both my hands are maimed, the French, God curse them. I cannot pull a bow but still, albeit clumsily, wield a weapon.’
