by Paul Doherty
The altercation in the scriptorium swifty subsided. Both monks left, followed by the agitated servitor loudly lamenting how the Lord Abbot was stricken at what had happened to poor Leda. Athelstan waited until they’d gone and stepped out of his hiding place. He was about to continue his searches when he heard Cranston shouting his name. Athelstan sighed and walked to the door. The coroner stood at the far end of the portico gallery which ran down to the library, patting the shoulder of the stranger standing next to him as he gestured at Athelstan to join them.
Once he did, Cranston introduced his eccentric-looking visitor, Bartholomew Shoreditch, commonly known as the firedrake ‘for his skill, knowledge and expertise with all forms of fire’. The firedrake was a short, dumpy man clothed entirely in dark red including his cloak, cowl and soft Spanish boots. He preened himself like a peacock as Cranston went on to explain how the firedrake was one of his confidants, much respected by the London guilds, especially the chandlers, wool and coal merchants not to mention the great lords of the Guildhall. The firedrake was all neat and precise in his actions with closely shorn greying hair, his snub-nosed face clean-shaved and oiled. The firedrake definitely loved all things glittering. Rings shimmered on his fat fingers. Around his neck hung a collection of gold and silver chains adorned with medals depicting martyrs such as St Lawrence the Deacon who’d been grilled to death over a slow fire.
‘He used to start fires himself, did little Bartholomew,’ Cranston explained, ‘until his uncle Jack caught him, pilloried him, put him in the Fleet prison and gave him a lecture he’ll never forget all the God-given days of his life. Isn’t that right, my lovely?’
‘Truly, Sir John.’ The firedrake extended a hand gloved in a gauntlet of blood-red velvet studded with imitation diamonds.
Athelstan grasped this.
‘I’ve now seen the error of my ways, Brother. Good to meet you, Sir John often talks about you.’
‘What exactly do you do?’ Athelstan asked when the firedrake released his hand.
‘I am a journeyman, Brother. I advise my many customers and clients about candles, fires and chimney stacks as well as the storing and charging of faggots, the properties of oil, the difference between waxes, coal and charcoal, not to forget the careful preservation of cannon powder.’
Little wonder, Athelstan thought, the fellow looked so prosperous, especially at this time of year.
‘Brokersby’s death?’ Cranston declared. ‘The firedrake wants to discover what happened.’
Athelstan took their guest out into the precincts. The abbey was still disturbed by the cruel death of Leda. No one interfered when Athelstan escorted the firedrake to the guest house to inspect the charred, derelict chamber. The firedrake moved swiftly. He scrutinized the floor, walls and ceilings, concentrating on where the bed, table and candle had stood. He opened his pannier, donned a leather apron, took off his gauntlets, crouched and sifted amongst the ash, dust and fragments, letting them run through his fingers whilst questioning Athelstan on what had actually happened and what he had learnt. The firedrake picked up a piece of charred leather rim and the blackened remains of what looked like a stopper to a wineskin. He held these up.
‘You are correct, Brother Athelstan. The candle provided the spark but something else started the fire, yet how that was done I truly don’t know. Look,’ he pushed back his sleeves, ‘can I talk to the abbey chandler? Afterwards just leave me – out of friendship for you and Sir John, I will do what I can.’
Athelstan agreed. He took the firedrake across to the abbey chandlery. At first the brother responsible was wary and suspicious but the firedrake’s enthusiasm swiftly charmed him and soon both were immersed in discussing the properties of wax and which were the most important to use. Athelstan left them to it and joined Sir John sitting on a turf bench overlooking the abbey herb gardens. For a while they sat in silence. Athelstan thought about the swan, the ugly warning behind its brutal death and that painting of the beautiful Susannah. He recalled the anchorite all agitated and fearful.
‘How times change, Sir John.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Lady Purity,’ Athelstan asked, ‘otherwise known as Mistress Quicksilver – that was her reputation?’
‘I am as certain of it as I am sitting here.’
‘Then, Sir John, I want you to seek an urgent interview with Lord Walter, I mean now. The woman calling herself Eleanor Remiet must also be present.’
‘The abbot’s private life is not within our writ, Friar.’
‘He certainly needs to be warned about the Upright Men.’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘And his doxy, his leman, needs to be counselled on the evils of blackmail.’ Athelstan grinned at the surprise on the coroner’s face.
‘Please,’ Athelstan squeezed Cranston’s hand, ‘let me collect my thoughts. All will be revealed.’
The coroner rose and strode off, clapping his hands against the cold. Athelstan went into the abbey church. He lit a candle before the lady altar and stared up at the subtle carving of the Virgin and Child, an excellent copy of the famous Walsingham Statue. Athelstan earnestly prayed three Aves for wisdom then left. By the time he reached the abbot’s lodgings, Mistress Eleanor, haughty face all flushed, was being ushered in to join Lord Walter sitting disconsolate by the hearth, three white downy feathers on his lap. He greeted them dolefully, motioning to the other chairs. Athelstan and Cranston sat down, both expressing their deep regrets on the death of Leda. Abbot Walter, face still tear-streaked, nodded as he stroked the feathers. Mistress Eleanor just sat to the abbot’s left, impatiently tapping the arm of her chair.
‘You asked me to come here,’ she blurted out. ‘Why, what is the matter?’
‘It’s a long time,’ Athelstan replied quietly, ‘since Sir John saw you, Lady Purity, also known as Mistress Quicksilver.’ Athelstan’s words were greeted with a stunned silence. The friar gazed at the woman. She must be past her fiftieth summer but he could see that once, when her skin was smooth, her cheeks full and soft, her lips ripe and red, she must have been a truly remarkable-looking woman.
‘I don’t know what . . .’ Abbot Walter ceased his crying, the white feathers floating down to the floor.
‘I do.’ Cranston grinned. ‘You were a monk here, yes, Abbot Walter? Prior then abbot? In your earlier days you hired an artist to execute a wall fresco celebrating the vindication of the chaste Susannah and you asked your leman, your mistress to be the image. I recognized that face eventually.’ He turned to the woman. ‘Lady Purity, when you entered the Inns of Court with this or that great noble, I worshipped you from afar. Despite the passage of the years I still glimpse what I once revered.’
The woman forced a smile, fluttering her eyelids at the flattery.
‘Now, Lord Walter,’ Athelstan declared, stilling the abbot’s protests, ‘we are not concerned about your private life. My Lord of Gaunt and the Archbishop of Canterbury might be but that is a matter for them. Nor am I concerned that Isabella may be your daughter not your niece, a love child, yes? Conceived late, my Lady, raised by you and supported by Lord Walter with help from the revenues of this abbey? I advise you not to challenge that. As I’ve said, your private life is your own. However,’ Athelstan added, ‘cozening blackmail is another.’
‘How dare you!’
‘Oh, Mistress, I dare and will dare again.’
Eleanor made to rise.
‘The anchorite!’ Athelstan exclaimed. The woman promptly sat down. From her fleeting expression Athelstan knew he’d hit his mark.
‘What is this?’ Abbot Walter pleaded.
‘Agnes Rednal. The anchorite believes he is haunted by the ghost of a wicked woman he hanged. Now that poor man has all sorts of imaginings. You, Mistress, learnt his story from Abbot Walter. You are hungry for gold and silver. After all, your daughter Isabella needs a rich endowment if she is to gain a wealthy suitor. The anchorite has a box crammed with gold and silver. Well,’ Athelstan lifted his h
ands, ‘you know all this. Deny it and I’ll ask Sir John to arrest you, abbey or not, whilst I search your chamber for a box of face paints, a wig of wild hair, as well as the black Benedictine robe you wear when you flit like a bat through these supposed holy precincts after darkness has fallen.’ Athelstan glanced quizzically at her. ‘According to the anchorite, these apparitions of the real Agnes Rednal only began recently. Of course they did. They coincide with your arrival here for the festive season.’ Athelstan gestured at the abbot now drained of all pomposity. ‘I cannot prove your guilt in all this but you, Mistress, stand charged. You could be arrested. While you lodge in Newgate, Sir John will conduct a most thorough investigation into your real origins. You dreaded this moment, didn’t you? You’re sharp-witted, Mistress. Your relationship with Abbot Walter is very secretive. Your face being taken as an image for that painting so many years ago would, I am sure, have been protected by all kinds of subterfuge. Now, Sir John acts the bluff officer of the Crown but he has a most prodigious memory . . .’
‘True, true,’ Cranston whispered.
‘You must have become very alarmed when he began to stare so closely at you.’ Athelstan spread his hand. ‘You hoped it might be something passing until you realized we’d be staying here for some time. That’s why you warned me to leave.’
The woman swallowed hard and just stared back.
‘Did you also try to terrify me with a quarrel from a crossbow?’
‘Never!’ Eleanor now looked genuinely frightened. Abbot Walter gave a strangled cry.
‘Of course His Grace the Regent will get to know.’ Athelstan continued: ‘In time he would undoubtedly inform your superiors, Abbot Walter, not to mention the Archbishop of Canterbury.’
The abbot looked pale enough to faint. He cleared his throat and tried to speak.
‘Don’t, Walter.’ The woman leaned across and patted his hand, ‘What is the use? The truth always emerges, especially when you don’t want it to. Yes, Brother Athelstan, Sir John, I was Lady Purity in my early days, a great beauty, a courtesan sans pareil. I feasted on delicacies; I was clothed in silk and satin. Men fought for my favours but my heart was always given to Walter Chobham, Sub-Prior of the Benedictines at St Fulcher’s. Yes, I’m depicted as Susannah in that painting but those were my green and salad days. Age withers us. The years stale. Your body fails – mine certainly did. I was ravaged by the pestilence. An even greater surprise occurred in my last years, just before my courses stopped: I became pregnant with Isabella. Both pregnancy and delivery were difficult and by then all real traces of my beauty were gone. Walter has stayed faithful to me, especially now Isabella has come of age. Yes, I am desperate for her, for me. If Abbot Walter dies what will happen to us?’ She took a deep breath. ‘True, Walter told me the anchorite’s tale. I heard of his wealth stored in that coffer,’ she stroked the side of her face, ‘so I became Agnes Rednal.’ She smiled icily at Athelstan. ‘I assure you, Brother, it was desperation not greed which prompted it, nothing but a game to secure his wealth.’
‘A cruel game, Mistress, one that ends now, yes?’
‘Of course. And what else?’
‘Nothing, Mistress.’
‘As for you,’ Cranston gestured at the abbot, ‘I urge you to be most prudent; the Upright Men have sent you a warning.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Be vigilant. As for my part,’ Cranston added, ‘well, leave that to me.’
‘The Wyvern Company will be of use,’ Abbot Walter added desperately.
‘True,’ Cranston agreed, ‘but that brings me to my last question. Is there anything you haven’t told us about the murders here?’
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I swear I know nothing. Yes, I have failed, I have sinned. I am locked in my own deep worries about Isabella and Eleanor. All I can say is that I fervently regret allowing Brother Richer to come here. Why? I cannot say. Only after his arrival did Sir Robert Kilverby change.’ The abbot picked up the fallen feathers. ‘Perhaps,’ he mumbled, ‘perhaps it’s time I resigned my post.’ He put his face in his hands and began to sob.
You’re crying through your fingers, Athelstan thought. You’re not penitent but plotting, nor have you told me the full truth. Athelstan rose to his feet. He stared around that luxurious chamber and remembered the lepers out in the freezing cold beyond the gate, those others on the quayside, numb and starving. Fleischer being dragged off to be hanged whilst the abbot who ordered it lived his own dissolute life. The thought of Fleischer in his boat watching the abbey made Athelstan pause. Fleischer! Those poor river people! Of course!
‘Athelstan, are you well?’ Cranston also rose to his feet.
‘Sir John, a moment with you alone. My Lord Abbot, Mistress,’ Athelstan gave them the most cursory of bows, ‘please stay here.’ Once outside the chamber Athelstan grasped Cranston’s sleeve. ‘Sir John, you’ve sent messengers from here to the city, yes?’
‘Of course, you know I have.’
‘Sir John, I beg you. Fetch Prior Alexander and Richer here now, I mean now. By the way,’ Athelstan again grabbed Cranston’s sleeve, ‘you could, if I wanted it, obtain a list of grants made by the Crown to this abbey?’
‘Of course.’
‘Very good. Please go, I shall return to Father Abbot.’
Lord Walter still sat slumped in his chair, his mistress, one hand on his arm, gazing pitifully at him. Athelstan went and stood over both of them.
‘The anchorite,’ he warned. ‘I do not know, Mistress, if what you did was solely your work or both of you, but it stops now.’
She nodded, her haughty face all worried.
‘As for you, Father Abbot, I cannot and will not condemn you except exhort you to reconcile yourself to God and,’ Athelstan leaned down threateningly, ‘tell the truth when I ask.’
Athelstan walked away and stared at one of the gorgeously painted glass windows. He silently chastised himself for his mistake and wondered how many more he had committed; he vowed to take each scrap of knowledge and pursue it to its logical conclusion. Behind him the abbot murmured to his mistress. A knock on the door a short while later ended this. Cranston, Richer and Prior Alexander entered. Both monks protested at the peremptory summons but Cranston ordered them to sit. Athelstan quickly composed himself. He would not question them but present the arguments which now tumbled through his mind.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Prior Alexander declared, ‘we are here.’
‘So you are.’ Athelstan turned and smiled. ‘Robert Kilverby and Crispin, his secretarius, were also here.’
‘I . . .?’
‘No. I mean years ago. They were novices here. Lord Walter, you’re of the same age, you must remember them.’
‘I do,’ the abbot replied slowly, ‘but what has that got to do with all this?’
‘They were novices here.’
‘Yes, I was an assistant to the novice master, I . . .’
‘Did anything singular happen to them?’
‘No, they were both the sons of London citizens. Kilverby was special. He had a sharp mind and keen wit, he excelled in logic and debate.’
‘And Crispin?’
‘Oh, he was called “the Silent One”, sometimes “Sinister”, because he was left-handed. He was often punished for that. The novice master said he must change.’
‘And did he?’
‘No.’
‘Were both men happy?’
‘Kilverby more than Crispin.’ The abbot scratched his head. ‘I believe he hated being here. Both young men publicly declared their intention of not taking minor orders and left. Kilverby soon made his name as a trader, an astute merchant. Crispin became his helpmate. Kilverby rose to be an alderman, a leading member of the guild, a banker, a trader in every kind of commodity, much patronized by the Crown.’
‘And you can see no link between Kilverby’s novitiate here and his mysterious death?’
‘No.’ Abbot Walter’s voice was clipped; he glanced nervously at Prior Al
exander.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Richer asked, ‘what has this got to do with me, with us?’
‘Oh, everything,’ Athelstan sat down. ‘Prior Alexander, go to your chancery and bring me the list of all the items seized by the Wyvern Company from the cart they found so opportunely on a country lane near the Abbey of St Calliste.’
‘There isn’t such a—’
‘Don’t lie.’ Athelstan saw the deep flush in the prior’s face. Abbot Walter simply groaned. Richer glanced longingly at the door.
‘It is abbey property,’ Abbot Walter blustered.
‘In which case,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I could ask all three of you to join me and Sir John, the King’s officer, in the muniment room at the Tower where such a list, I am sure, is recorded on a memoranda roll of the exchequer or royal chamber. Now,’ Athelstan sighed, ‘that may take some time – days, weeks – but I am sure we can secure you comfortable lodgings in the Tower until that list is traced. After that,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘the Crown might decide to hold an inventory on what goods donated to St Fulcher’s actually remain here? Silence!’ Athelstan pointed at the abbot. ‘Do not make a bad situation worse. I doubt if much remains. Most of the goods seized by the Wyvern Company from St Calliste have been despatched back to France by you, Richer. You sent these items by this cog or that ship. You weren’t sending messages. Why should a boatman from a foreign cog come down here?’ Athelstan gestured at the door. ‘You have servants, lay brothers, not to mention the river folk who would leap at the chance to earn good coin by taking letters to this ship or that. You were sending precious, sacred items which could only be entrusted to certain people. Prior Alexander,’ Athelstan spread his hands, ‘Sir John and I are waiting for that list. I want it now.’
Prior Alexander glanced at the abbot who simply fluttered his fingers.
‘Do as he asks,’ Eleanor whispered. ‘Walter, do it, we have to.’
‘The list,’ Athelstan insisted.
The prior rose and swept out of the chamber. Athelstan glanced across at Sir John, who sat cradling a goblet of wine he’d poured from the jug on the great open dresser. Athelstan rose and walked back to the window where the winter light still picked out scenes from St Benedict’s life at Subiaco. He was aware of the silence behind him as he prepared his indictment. Richer was wily and subtle: a spider who’d entered this abbey and spun his web cleverly, adroitly drawing in the likes of Kilverby and William Chalk but who else – Prior Alexander? Athelstan wondered about Osborne and then his own desperate flight through the charnel house. Had that been Richer? Was the Frenchman determined to prevent his probing even if it meant murder?
