by Paul Doherty
‘Don’t judge us, Brother! When the rebels burn Blackfriars and your parish church you’ll understand. True, we became hated. Undoubtedly here in this abbey we have shaven-pates, kinsmen of those we slaughtered, we know that. We’ve received dark looks, curses and spitting, signs made against the evil one and that includes Prior Alexander. We hanged one of his beloved kinsmen, no better than a hedge priest, a ranter on the common gallows outside Ospringe.’
‘So the Upright Men may have marked you down.’
‘Yes, and our Lord Abbot may well come to regret our stay. We suspect that, like many of the great lords, he’s raising Danegeld to bribe these traitorous bastards. Friar, you ask us who wants us dead? Well, we’ve given you a list. Be it John of Gaunt, some madcap monk or an assassin despatched by the Upright Men.’
‘And Osborne has fled the danger?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And Brokersby – did he take an opiate to sleep?’
Wenlock stood up and glanced down at Athelstan.
‘Brokersby took an opiate, some powder grains.’ He pulled a face. ‘Supplied by the infirmary.’
‘Did Brokersby ever keep oil in his chamber?’
‘No, why should he?’
‘Did he keep the night-candle lit?’
‘I think so.’ Mahant paused. ‘Brokersby, God assoil him, was frightened by the dark but more than that I cannot say.’ He waved at Wenlock. ‘We should go, perhaps into the city and search for Osborne there.’ He leaned down, his face so close Athelstan could smell the ale on his breath. ‘But we’ll not go today, brother, it’s Sunday. My Lord Abbot will be dispensing Marymeat and Marybread to the poor, or that’s how he describes it.’ Mahant adjusted his war belt.
‘Do you suspect us?’ Wenlock asked, archly holding up his maimed hands. ‘Poor me who can no longer swing a sword?’
‘I never said that.’
‘We were in the city when Hyde and Hanep were murdered,’ Mahant added quietly, ‘and fast asleep when the fire started.’
‘Did William Chalk,’ Athelstan asked, ‘when he fell ill, did the good brothers give him ghostly comfort, shrive him?’
‘Richer often visited him but, as you know, the secrets of the confessional are inviolate.’
‘And Kilverby the merchant?’
‘He used to visit us when he brought the Passio Christi. In the end he let others do that and, when he did come, he avoided us. I don’t think he liked us. We were not particularly fond of him.’
Athelstan watched as the two Wyverns sauntered off. Several brothers then hurried into the cloisters carrying baskets. Athelstan stopped and questioned one, who informed him that as it was Sunday Abbot Walter would distribute alms, free bread and meat to the poor clustered before the main gate of the abbey as well as to others at the watergate. Athelstan, recalling earlier remarks about this, decided to follow them. He went first to the main gatehouse, waiting under its yawning arch until the brothers assembled with their baskets at the ready. He followed them through the postern door and was surprised at the throng gathered there. Peasants in their dirt-gained smocks and mud caked boots, men, women and children, their lean, furrowed faces full of desperation, eager to eat. Other outcasts crowded in: wandering beggars in their motley array of rags, hats and footwear; pilgrims, swathed in tattered weather-worn cloaks on which were pinned the rusting badges of the shrines they had visited – Walsingham, Canterbury, Hereford and even abroad to the famous Magdalene shrine at Vezelay in Burgundy or St Peter’s in Rome. Beyond these the lepers, clothed in their shrouds, every inch of flesh hidden by swathes of soiled bandages, clustered in a solitary group ringing hand bells or rattling clappers to warn away the rest. Athelstan took two baskets over to them. He blessed both lepers and food, trying not to be affected by the rank stench and the glimpse of scabbed skin. He distributed the bread, meat and fruit, ensuring that everyone received a portion. He smiled at the benedictions and thanks hissed through worm-eaten lips, talking to the lepers about the dangers of the road and the lives they led.
Athelstan moved away and looked around. At first he could see little amiss until the latecomers, hooded and visored, arrived. About a dozen in all, they appeared quickly, took the baskets specially brought out for them and left. Intrigued, Athelstan decided to visit the quayside. He strolled through the now busy precincts and down across Mortival meadow. Outside the watergate another group of monks were dispensing Marymeat and Marybread. Fewer beggars congregated here, most of them destitute river people clutching their rags tightly against the bitter cold. They reeked of stale fish, dirty water and sweat. Athelstan moved amongst them. He felt both guilty and angry at his church and about the way the world was. He felt the fury well within him as it did sometimes in his own parish at the sheer injustice of it all. No wonder the Upright Men gathered to plot and the Great Community of the Realm, brimming with discontent, moved out of the shadows. Why shouldn’t they have their day of doom, fire and sword, revolt and savage attack? Athelstan turned away, blinking, shaking his head at the furious thoughts which pelted his soul. He blamed himself. Perhaps he should be more active and support the Upright Men, give his blessing to the likes of Pike and Watkin. Athelstan then glimpsed the gallows gaunt against the lowering sky, the fragments of rope attached to a hook fluttering in the breeze. Athelstan closed his eyes and recited the first verse of psalm fifty – that is why he never supported them! No matter the misery now, what the Great Community plotted would only make matters worse. The revolt would be crushed. The Lord of the Soil would dominate. They’d whistle up men like Mahant and Wenlock, professional soldiers, killers to the bone, to crush all dissent. Every gallows from here to the Wash would be heavy with corpses.
‘Brother, take care,’ Athelstan apologized to the fisherman he bumped into. The quayside was now very busy. He also noticed the new arrivals, similar to those grouped at the main abbey gateway. He was sure they were envoys from the Upright Men sent to collect purveyance by their masters; they picked up the special baskets and carried them to a waiting barge manned by four oarsmen. Such was the way of the world, Athelstan reflected. Abbot Walter was paying service to the emerging threat with special provisions for those who lurked away from the light. Athelstan approached Brother Simon, whom he’d first met after the fire in Brokersby’s chamber. The friar indicated with his head at the group he’d noticed.
‘Brother Simon, who are those men?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Both you and the poor treat them with every respect. They collect your alms, your charity as if it was their God-given right.’
‘Brother Athelstan.’ Simon peered up at him. The lay brother put a finger to his lips. ‘What do you think?’ he whispered, leaning forward. ‘The truth, as Pilate once asked, what is the truth? We must, one day, all answer that question – you, me, Father Abbot and the rest, eh?’ Simon’s face remained passive, his eyes watchful.
Athelstan recalled his conversations with the Wyverns. How the Upright Men had their adherents in the abbey – the sons, brothers and kinsmen of the earthworms, the peasants of the shires who hacked the earth for those who owned it.
‘Have you answered your own question, Brother Simon?’
‘Time will tell.’ The Benedictine smiled. ‘Time will tell. Now I’m busy.’
Athelstan walked back through the watergate and stared down at where Hyde had been murdered. The friar stood chewing his lip; there was still the vexed question of Osborne’s whereabouts. What had really happened to him? Had he fled? Was Osborne the assassin, hence his escape? Or had Osborne been terrified witless by the murder of his comrades? Yet would he leave their protection – men with whom he’d spent a generation, who’d stood with him in the battle line? Where would he go now?
‘I think you’re still here,’ Athelstan whispered at the shifting tendrils of mist. He repressed a shiver of fear as he searched for a logical answer to his own questions. He was more than convinced, conceding to a growing conviction, a deep suspicion that Osborne had not fled; he’d been murdered, p
erhaps here in the abbey, but why? Simply because he was a Wyvern or because he suspected something? If he had been murdered why had his corpse been done away with so secretively? Hyde and Hanep were left sprawling in their blood. Did Osborne’s murder involve more than one person? He was a soldier who, despite all his fears, could hold his own against the likes of the maimed Wenlock, even if the latter was helped by others. Athelstan fingered the knots on his cord. It would take a group of assassins to overcome someone like Osborne, and then what? His corpse would have to be disposed of. Not an easy task here in this sprawling abbey with its countless windows, passageways and galleries. Any struggle might be seen; the removal of a corpse would attract attention. A group of monks could do that or a coven of assassins despatched by the Upright Men. Someone must have noticed something yet it was now early afternoon. Despite the searches of Mahant and Wenlock, no trace of Osborne had apparently been found, no alarm raised.
Athelstan peered up at the sky. ‘Let us say, good Brother,’ he mockingly whispered to himself, ‘poor Osborne, God rest him, was killed swiftly by dagger, garrotte or poison?’ Yes, Athelstan thought, that could be achieved without little clamour but what then? Hyde and Hanep’s corpses had been left like chunks of meat. Brokersby’s had been publicly burnt to death. So why hadn’t Osborne’s corpse been found out here in the meadow or somewhere else in the abbey? True, Athelstan continued his line of thought, the precincts could be lonely, desolate at certain times but on the other hand, once the monks were out of the abbey church, scores of them wandered here and there. Traces of violence, certainly corpses, would soon be discovered. ‘Where then?’ Athelstan murmured to himself. Where do you hide a corpse in an abbey like this? Out in the woodlands? But lay brothers constantly passed to and fro. The abbey owned lurchers; Athelstan had heard them barking in their kennels. They would soon nose out a corpse. Moreover, in this harsh winter an unburied cadaver would quickly attract kites, foxes and other scavengers which would rouse the attention of someone in the abbey. Athelstan tapped the ground with his foot. The soil was rock hard; digging a pit or a makeshift grave would also prove extremely difficult. Athelstan walked slowly back across the meadow. Of course there were the wastelands around the abbey but would a man like Osborne be trapped and killed whilst leaving during the early hours of the morning? The former soldier would not give up his life easily. Even if his murder was swift, with the flash of a blade or a mouthful of poison, the difficulty of getting rid of his corpse still remained. Athelstan paused at laughter from beyond the watergate. Of course there was always the river, yet Osborne would have to be enticed out there in the hours of the night or early morning. Now, given his comrades’ brutal murders, Osborne would be highly wary. Indeed, even if Osborne was killed and his body thrown into the Thames, it would have to be weighted down. Nevertheless, the river was fickle, especially here further east of the city with its large reed beds. Sooner or later his corpse would be discovered.
Athelstan reached the sand-covered bowling ground. The skittles with their carved demonic faces had all been set up, the bowls gathered in their box. Athelstan was tempted to make a cast to see how many he could bring down. Instead he sat on a turf bench, hands up the sleeves of his gown as he considered further possibilities. What if Osborne had truly fled? What if he, for his own secret purposes, was the assassin? Then why and how had he killed Brokersby in such a fashion? The fire had been deliberately started close to the bed in a secure, locked chamber. How could anyone ignite it from outside? The grille high on the oak door was very narrow. A line of oil-soaked string or cord might be used but that left a great deal to chance. The fire, if it was started in such a fashion, would begin slowly. Anyone near that door would be noticed; if not by a passer-by then Brokersby himself. And why had the soldier not tried to escape? Was he so drunk with wine, an opiate or both? Brokersby had certainly been murdered. Athelstan entertained an equal foreboding about Osborne. But where was his corpse? Athelstan glanced across at the crude stone table on which the monks played checkers. He glimpsed the shard of bone used in one of the games. He got up and touched this with his fingers.
‘The charnel house!’ Athelstan exclaimed. He’d passed this on the other side of the abbey church, those narrow steps leading down to a massive ancient crypt. St Fulcher’s had stood for centuries; every so often its cemetery would overflow so the brothers would remove the bones of the long deceased to make room for others. Blackfriars had a similar ossuary, a place much avoided by everyone, a macabre crypt full of dry bones and sightless skulls, reeking of corruption yet an ideal place to conceal a corpse. Most people would be reluctant to explore it. Athelstan startled as a flock of jays nesting in a large oak on the fringe of the adjoining garden burst out in a flurry of shrieks and fluttering wings. Athelstan peered at the oak. Was someone hiding there, watching him? Athelstan took a deep breath. He wanted to question Richer but that could wait. In the meantime . . .
Athelstan reached the abbey church. The choir was filing out. He went round to the north-east corner and the ancient steps leading down to the charnel house. The thick oaken door at the bottom was blackened with age, its iron studs rusting. Athelstan heard a sound behind him; he glanced over his shoulder but there was nothing. He fished into the small wallet on his belt then pulled out the sconce torch from its rusted coping; the torch was dry and fully primed. Athelstan, using his tinder, fired the pitch; the blueish yellow flame fluttered then strengthened. Satisfied it was fully caught, Athelstan lifted the latch and entered the grim mausoleum. He fired the cressets just within the door and gazed round that morbid crypt with its stout, barrel-like columns, fretted arches and mildewed walls. A truly macabre sight, the charnel house was filled with yellowing bones and skulls over a yard high, the air thick with the dust of the dead.
‘A place where Mother Midnight lurks,’ Athelstan whispered.
The bones had been unceremoniously tossed behind a crude wooden palisade which had been erected to create a path between the pathetic remains of former monks. The ominous words of the liturgy of Ash Wednesday sprang to mind.
‘Remember man,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘that thou art dust and into dust thou shalt return.’ Lifting the torch Athelstan made his way through what he called this garden of the dead, past the mound of bones heaped high behind their great wooden casing. He ignored the squeak and rustle of vermin. Bones loosened in the pile clattered down, skulls rolled and bounced to crash against the fencing. Athelstan made his way towards the steps he’d glimpsed at the far end of the crypt. He felt as if he was going through a maze. Torch held out, he scrutinized the gruesome pyre looking for any disturbance, a flash of colour or glint of metal which would indicate something untoward. A disembodied shadow, black and fluttering, flittered past the dancing torchlight. Athelstan’s mouth went dry. Others followed, the bats squeaking in protest. Athelstan continued on, now regretting his decision to come down here. He could detect nothing.
Abruptly the door he’d entered opened and shut with a crash. The torches on either side of it were swiftly extinguished but not before Athelstan glimpsed a darting shadow and the glint of steel. Athelstan fled up the path crashing against the wooden palisade. Bones and skulls tumbled down. Behind him echoed the soft slither of boots. Athelstan grabbed a skull, turned and hurled it at the moving shadow. The midnight figure faltered and slipped on some of the shiny bones smashing on to the floor. Athelstan hurried on. He stretched out the torch and glimpsed the steep steps built into the far wall. He turned. The shadow was not yet up and following. Athelstan leaned over the palisade, dragging down more skulls and bones, then he hurled the torch. Blackness descended. Athelstan, however, had glimpsed the steps and the path leading to it. He reached the staircase, sweat starting, and clambered up. He tugged at the door but it held fast. His pursuer was still slipping and slithering along the narrow path, bumping into the fencing. Athelstan desperately beat on the door shouting, ‘Aux aide! Aux aide!’ The door shook. Bolts on the other side were drawn and it creaked open.
Athelstan pushed the gaping monk aside, turned and slammed the door shut, shoving across the rusting bolts.
‘Brother Athelstan, what is the matter?’
The friar turned, leaning his back on the door and stared at his rescuer. ‘God be thanked.’ Athelstan gasped. He crouched down, arms across his belly, trying to curb the panic seething within him. ‘Thank you!’ he murmured.
‘My friend.’ The monk knelt beside him.
Athelstan now recognized Odo from the infirmary.
‘What were you doing in our charnel house? I came into the church to set up the funeral trestles for poor Brokersby. I heard the clattering and your shouting. What happened?’
‘I was searching for the other one.’ Athelstan gasped again, now weak with shock. ‘Henry Osborne. I thought I’d search . . .’
‘Why look for the living amongst the dead?’ Odo helped Athelstan to his feet.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Brother Fidelis, who guards the postern door in the main gateway? Well,’ Odo gabbled on, ‘he is getting quite old. He does the nightly vigil and sleeps during the morning. Prior Alexander agreed to that. Anyway, Fidelis declared that Master Henry Osborne, with pack and fardle, weaponed like a man of war, left our abbey in the early hours of this morning. He did not say much. He demanded the postern be opened then he was gone, slipped through like a moon beam. So what happened in the charnel house?’
‘Nothing.’ Athelstan took a deep breath. ‘A frightening, macabre place; I panicked.’ Athelstan’s eye caught a wall painting celebrating the martyrdom of St Agnes. ‘I need to speak to the anchorite.’
‘He is not in his cell,’ Odo replied, stepping back. ‘On a Sunday he always goes for a walk. He says he likes to celebrate the day of the Lord’s resurrection in a garden.’
‘I am sure he does.’ Athelstan, now recovered from his shock, patted the dust from him. He was tempted to seek out his mysterious assailant but that would be fruitless. By now that ominously dark, threatening shape in the crypt would have fled.
