Bloodstone

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Brother Athelstan, Brother Athelstan.’ A servitor came hurrying up the aisle, sleeves fluttering, breathlessly gesturing at the friar. ‘You must come!’ he gasped, pointing at the door. ‘The watergate!’

  Athelstan hurried out. He reached Mortival meadow and stopped, speechless. The mist had thinned and there, cloak billowing out, beaver hat pushed slightly back and sipping from his miraculous wineskin, strode Cranston. The coroner was surrounded by a crowd of Athelstan’s parishioners who yelled their greetings and streamed across the frozen grass to meet him.

  Once Athelstan had recovered from his surprise, staring speechlessly at a grinning Cranston, the parishioners were marshalled into some order. Prior Alexander appeared. He proved to be courtesy itself, offering the largest chantry chapel, that of St Fulcher’s, as a meeting place as well as promising that the abbey kitchens would prepare food for Athelstan’s guests in the refectory. At first, disorder and dissension reigned. Different parishioners grabbed Athelstan’s sleeve to catch his attention and divulge juicy morsels of gossip. How Watkin and Pike had got drunk; all pot-valiant they had challenged Moleskin to a fight calling him ‘a bald face coin-clipper’ until Tab the tinker and Crispin the carpenter had intervened. How the figures in the crib had been reorganized. Ursula’s sow had been attacked by Thaddeus, Godbless’ goat, and so on. Athelstan half listened to this, quietly relieved that both owners had not brought their animals with them.

  The sheer magnificence of the abbey church soon reduced such chatter to ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of admiration. Huddle immediately disappeared to study the wall paintings whilst Tab lovingly caressed the polished carved oak. Ranulf the rat-catcher had brought his prize ferrets Ferox and Audax in their cage; he wandered off sniffing the air and poking into corners. Ranulf’s tarred pointed hood, his nose sharp above yellow jutting teeth, made the rat-catcher look even more like the rodents he hunted. Athelstan kept a sharp eye on Watkin, Pike, Moleskin and the rest, whose fingers positively itched at being surrounded by such wealth. He glimpsed Benedicta, who had donned her best cloak and hood of dark murrey lined with squirrel fur. Athelstan smelt her delicate perfume, a fragrance she once laughingly described as the best of Castile, a rare soap her husband had bought on his travels. Athelstan tried not to look into those dark eyes dancing with delight at seeing him again. One hand grasping his arm, Benedicta described how Cranston had appeared in the parish like God Almighty, organizing Moleskin and his St Andrew’s Guild of Bargemen to take them along the river to St Fulcher’s. They had all decided to go. Athelstan glanced around. He noticed with a twinge of bemused sadness how his little flock had also insisted on bringing the parish hand bell as well as the small coffer holding the Blood Book, the parish records and other important memoranda, not to mention the casket carrying the keys to the church, tabernacle, sacristy and parish chest. They apparently trusted no one! Benedicta quietly assured him all was well even as she studied him closely, flicking the dust from his robe and gently touching the slight cuts and bruises on his hands and face. Cranston joined him; his bonhomie faded as he too scrutinized the little friar from head to toe.

  ‘Not now,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘let us not alarm our little flock.’

  They called back Tab, Huddle and the rest, shepherding them into the chantry chapel with the help of two burly brothers whom Prior Alexander had sent to assist as well as to guide Athelstan’s visitors around the wonders of the abbey. Athelstan took his seat in the priest’s chair and, with Cranston standing guard at the doorway, the friar delivered a short speech of welcome, then asked how matters stood? Within a few heartbeats he sincerely wished he hadn’t. Imelda, Pike’s wife, loudly demanded that only members of the parish attend the midnight Mass at Christmas. Cecily the courtesan, who usually brought her own group of Magdalenas to the Mass, was the object of Imelda’s spite. Cecily, however, ogling one of the brothers, simply stuck her tongue out and returned to stare dewy-eyed at the bemused monk. Athelstan put the matter to a vote and Imelda’s demand was promptly rejected. The friar swiftly moved on to other matters such as washing the baptismal font, the supply of altar wine and bedecking the church with more holly and ivy. Other items of business were raised. Some were voted on; others would have to wait. Mauger the bell clerk, squatting with his chancery tray across his lap, swiftly recorded the items of business; these would be later copied up into the parish ledger. Ursula the pig woman, who had spent her time in a constant mutter, now began to protest at not being able to bring her sow. Pernel the Fleming, threading her red and green hair, loudly hummed a favourite hymn. Meanwhile, Ranulf’s ferrets had caught the slither and squeal of vermin and were jumping like fury in their cage. Athelstan decided it was time to finish. He rose, exhorted his little flock to be good and handed them over to the waiting brothers for the promised tour of the abbey.

  Once they’d all left singing the praises of Prior Alexander and rubbing their bellies in anticipation of a good meal, Athelstan and Cranston adjourned to the friar’s chamber in the abbot’s guest house. A servitor brought them bread, cheese, a small pot of delicious preserve and tankards of the abbey’s own ale. Athelstan did not wish to eat but washed himself at the lavarium. Once Cranston had broken his fast, the friar tersely informed him about everything that had happened since the coroner had left. Cranston, eyes half closed, heard him out and after Athelstan had finished, reported all he had learnt in the city.

  ‘We need to scrutinize all this logically but first,’ Cranston rose to his feet, ‘three matters. First, I am staying with you. Secondly, you and I remain close – no more wandering in deserted places.’ He glared down at the friar.

  ‘And thirdly, Sir John?’

  ‘We are going to demand an immediate audience with our Lord Abbot. I want the prior and sub-prior in attendance. I want that meeting now with no dalliance or delay.’

  Cranston was true to his word and, within the hour, he and Athelstan swept into the abbot’s chamber. The coroner immediately ensconced himself on a chair before Lord Walter’s desk and smiled falsely at this prince of the church flanked by his two most senior monks.

  ‘My Lord Walter, I want the truth.’

  ‘I always tell it.’

  ‘Good, I expect that from a priest. The Upright Men, the Great Community of the Realm who, we all know, meet at All Hallows, Barking. Do you pay them protection money?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘You pay them protection money – yes or no?’ Cranston thundered.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Five pounds in gold every month.’

  Cranston whistled under his breath.

  ‘Don’t threaten me with treason, Sir John. I am protected by Holy Mother Church; other great lords also pay the piper.’

  ‘In return for what?’

  ‘As you say, protection. You’ve heard of the attacks elsewhere. My duty to God and my brothers is to protect this abbey until His Grace the Regent resolves this problem once and for all.’

  ‘And you two know of this?’

  Prior Alexander and Richer nodded in agreement.

  ‘As you are about the purveyance given every Sunday to the Upright Men. They take the lord’s share of the Marybread and Marymeat, yes?’

  Prior Alexander nodded his agreement. Cranston turned back to the abbot. ‘So why have the money payments stopped?’

  Prior Alexander’s mouth opened and shut in surprise. Abbot Walter squirmed in his chair.

  ‘Father Abbot,’ Prior Alexander demanded. ‘I have seen the accounts. The money was given to you to pass on.’

  The abbot sighed noisily.

  ‘Well,’ Cranston asked, ‘how do you pay?’

  ‘On Sundays, don’t you?’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Or you used to, at the distribution of purveyance before the main gate as well as on the quayside.’

  ‘Why have you suspended payments?’ Prior Alexander’s anger boiled over. ‘Where is that money? Your beloved niece?’

  ‘What I do,’ Abb
ot Walter pulled himself up, ‘is my business.’

  ‘When this abbey is burning about our ears it will be ours,’ Prior Alexander snapped.

  ‘How dare you!’ The abbot turned in his chair. ‘How dare you,’ he repeated, ‘accuse me.’ He darted a look at Sub-Prior Richer. ‘Put your own house in order first.’

  Leda the swan, nestling in her comfortable bed rose, neck out, wings ruffling. A beautiful sight, Athelstan thought, except for that malevolent hissing. Prior Alexander sat tense, his face full of fury. Abbot Walter turned away, murmuring softly to the swan.

  ‘And you, Brother Richer.’ Athelstan asked, ‘We have reports of you meeting boatmen from foreign ships?’

  ‘So?’ The Frenchman shrugged. ‘I send letters and presents to my family, my brethren, my kinsmen in France.’

  ‘Including those at St Calliste?’

  ‘Including those.’

  ‘And Father Abbot approves of this?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Lord Abbot interjected, eager to keep Richer’s support. ‘We communicate rarely with our brothers in France. Brother Richer, however, has close ties to his home community. He has every right to do what he has.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘Why, Richer, have you come to this cold, lonely place?’

  ‘I’ve told you. I am a skilled clerk, a copyist, a calligrapher. St Fulcher’s library is famous . . .’

  ‘I need to question you on that,’ Athelstan interjected, ‘but not now. These boatmen from foreign ships? How do you arrange the exact time and place to meet?’

  ‘I often go into the city.’ The usually urbane Richer was now flustered.

  ‘As you did on the eve of St Damasus during your visit to Sir Robert? You and Prior Alexander visited the Queenshithe or elsewhere. You made the arrangements then?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Prior Alexander is very understanding.’

  ‘I am sure he is. Your visit with Kilverby . . .?’

  ‘We’ve explained that.’ Prior Alexander spoke up. ‘It was a courtesy visit. Sir Robert was not coming to St Fulcher’s. There was the business of Crispin being given lodgings here and other minor items.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Sir Robert was a most generous benefactor,’ Lord Walter intervened. ‘His donations for Masses to be sung helped us build the new hog pen on our farm as well as re-gild some of our sacred vessels. We wanted to assure him that such gifts were both appreciated and well spent.’ The reply was rather rushed and from Prior Alexander’s face Athelstan concluded that a great deal of such gold and silver revenue stuck to the abbot’s greedy fingers. Little wonder Lord Walter’s beloved niece and sister lived so high on the hog! Athelstan recalled Isabella’s chatter at their recent meeting; he was sure she’d let slip that she had come of age. Was Abbot Walter preparing a generous dowry for his beloved kinswoman?

  ‘Tell me.’ Athelstan glanced around. ‘Let us establish the times and seasons of all that has happened here.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The Wyvern Company arrived here when?’

  ‘Four years last summer.’

  ‘And you, Richer?’

  ‘I have been here just under three years.’

  ‘And the first fatality amongst the Wyvern Company was William Chalk?’

  ‘That was not murder,’ Prior Alexander answered flatly. ‘I examined him and so did local physicians. Master Chalk had growths in his belly and groin – I’ve told you this.’

  ‘When did he fall ill?’

  ‘About eighteen months ago.’

  ‘And who gave him ghostly comfort?’

  ‘I tended to him first,’ Prior Alexander retorted. ‘Brother Richer later on.’

  ‘Did you shrive him?’

  ‘Of course,’ Richer snapped. ‘I also gave him the last rites but,’ the Frenchman glared at Athelstan, ‘Chalk turned to God. You’ve been through his chamber. You must have seen his prayers scrawled on scraps of parchments pleading for mercy. You’re a priest. You know, under pain of excommunication, Brother Athelstan, no priest can break the seal of confession.’

  ‘He must have talked outside the seal.’

  ‘Everything is covered by the seal.’

  ‘You hate the Wyvern Company?’

  ‘You know I do. They are thieves, blasphemers, killers and the perpetrators of sacrilege.’

  ‘So Chalk did not abuse you of that.’

  ‘What passed between us, Brother, is protected by the seal.’

  ‘Where do you think the Passio Christi truly belongs?’

  ‘St Calliste.’

  ‘Is your uncle still abbot there?’

  Richer smiled. ‘Yes, he enjoys robust health, thank God.’

  ‘And Kilverby,’ Athelstan continued, ‘he brought the Passio Christi here at the appointed time for the Wyvern Company to view?’

  ‘He used to,’ Prior Alexander declared. ‘We’ve told you that.’

  ‘And his relationship with the Wyverns was cordial? After all, he did finance them during the war with France.’

  ‘From what we know,’ Lord Walter intervened, ‘Kilverby was always distant and aloof but he was amicable enough towards the Wyverns.’

  ‘And this changed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sir Robert began to reflect most carefully about them. He changed his opinion of those he once patronized.’

  ‘Encouraged by you, Brother Richer?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know precisely. Did you advise Sir Robert?’

  ‘Of course I did. He was a man much burdened with sin,’ the Frenchman replied. ‘I shrived him. I gave him ghostly advice.’

  ‘Did he tell you his true opinion of the Wyvern Company?’

  ‘He grew to dislike them intensely. He claimed he’d always believed their story about the Passio Christi but he came to the conclusion that they hadn’t found it but stolen it.’

  ‘A conclusion you helped him reach?’

  ‘I didn’t disagree with him.’

  ‘Then Kilverby,’ Cranston asked, ‘stopped bringing the Passio Christi here?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lord Walter replied, ‘last year it was brought by Crispin and Mistress Alesia.’

  Athelstan tapped a sandalled foot against the floor.

  ‘You don’t believe us?’ Richer asked. ‘You think we lie?’

  ‘No,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You’re not lying but you’re not telling the full truth either. Kilverby was a leading London merchant, hard of heart, keen of wit and cunning as a snake. He financed and profited from the Wyverns. He must have suspected their story about the bloodstone years ago so why the change now?’

  ‘God’s grace,’ Richer declared, ‘my counsel.’

  ‘No,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘something else.’

  ‘Such as?’ Richer had recovered his arrogance. ‘Why not ask Master Crispin?’

  ‘Did you give Crispin ghostly comfort too, Brother Richer?’

  ‘Master Crispin and Sir Robert were regular visitors here,’ Richer replied. ‘I counselled Sir Robert but only exchanged pleasantries with Crispin.’

  ‘Can any of you three,’ Cranston gestured around, ‘cast any light on Sir Robert’s murder or the disappearance of the Passio Christi?’ The coroner’s question was greeted with muttered denials. ‘And the murders here in your abbey?’

  ‘Sir John,’ Lord Walter retorted, ‘you know as much as we do.’

  ‘And the fire in Brokersby’s chamber?’

  ‘Most unfortunate.’ The abbot sighed.

  ‘Would he,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘have any reasons to keep oil in his chamber?’

  ‘Not that I am aware of.’

  ‘And the bedside candle?’

  ‘Visit our chandler, Brother Athelstan,’ Prior Alexander replied. ‘Such candles are dispensed to all chambers in the guest house – tall, thick, fashioned out of tallow but still the best. They are fixed on a stand with a cap. I don’t think such a fire could be
caused even if this candle was knocked over. I mean,’ the prior flailed a hand, ‘such a conflagration.’

  Athelstan glanced at Cranston and raised his eyes heavenwards.

  ‘We have to go.’ The coroner abruptly rose to his feet, bowed and, followed by Athelstan, walked to the door. Cranston abruptly turned.

  ‘Lord Abbot, your sister Eleanor Remiet – her maiden name?’

  ‘Why, the same as mine, Chobham. She married a Gascon, Velours, then remarried Master Remiet, who also died. My niece is the only child of her first marriage. Is that all?’

  ‘No.’ Athelstan pointed at Richer. ‘Brother, if I could have a word with you in private.’

  The Frenchman looked as if he was going to object.

  ‘Just we two.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Sir John will not be present.’

  Richer shrugged and followed them out down to the courtyard. Athelstan waited until Cranston was out of hearing and turned.

  ‘Brother Richer, are you an assassin?’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘The day Hyde was stabbed to death close to the watergate – you went down there that afternoon. You were seen carrying a sword.’

  Richer’s lower lip trembled.

  ‘You took a sword out of the Barbican when the lazy brother-in-charge was elsewhere. You took it because of the killings here, whilst the quayside on a lonely mist-filled afternoon could be a dangerous place. You were going to meet a boatman from a foreign ship to give him whatever you really do send from this abbey. I suspect Hyde followed and spied on you close to the watergate.’

  ‘Are you accusing me of murdering him?’

  ‘No, but Hyde had also been followed. The mysterious assassin pierced Hyde’s belly and he gave the most hideous scream. You must have heard that. You told your boatman to wait and hurried back to find Hyde dying of his belly wound.’ Athelstan paused. ‘You really hate those archers, don’t you? Did Hyde, an old soldier, ask for the mercy cut or did you see him as the hated enemy? Did you stab him with that sword then carry it back to your friend the boatman?’

  Richer refused to answer.