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  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘Ladies!’ Cranston bellowed, turning to Crispin. ‘Tell me, why did he change now and not five years ago?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sir John.’

  ‘According to you,’ Cranston declared, ‘when he met the Wyvern Company on his journeys with the Passio Christi to St Fulcher’s, he grew to hate them, what he saw, what he heard . . .’

  ‘That’s not entirely true,’ Crispin spluttered. ‘Yes, he had little time for the Wyvern Company but he drew close to one of them, William Chalk. Sir Robert often sought Chalk’s company. They would walk in the gardens or stroll down to the watergate.’

  ‘Who else was he close to – you?’

  ‘My master kept his own counsel. He was secretive and prudent. He never discussed his personal thoughts with either me or his family. Isn’t that true?’ Crispin appealed to the others who loudly confirmed his words.

  ‘So he talked to Master Chalk and who else? I mean, if Sir Robert’s thoughts had turned to judgement and death, he must have had a confidant, a confessor?’

  ‘Richer,’ Crispin confirmed. ‘I know that. He was often closeted with him, to be shriven, to be set penances.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Crawling to the rood screen every Friday, alms for the poor, Masses for the dead.’

  ‘And contributions to the Upright Men and the Great Community of the Realm?’

  Crispin shrugged. ‘Every powerful man in London did and does that.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Merchants are different.’ Crispin was agitated. ‘He only gave them money for the relief of the poor.’

  ‘You mean a bribe, so that when the doom arrived, this mansion would not be burnt around your heads. Tell me, is there anyone who wanted Sir Robert dead, who would profit from his murder?’

  ‘My father was much loved.’

  ‘Mistress, we all are, once we are dead.’

  ‘Sir John . . .’

  ‘Don’t “Sir John” me,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Are the seals on Sir Robert’s chamber still unbroken?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why didn’t he want to take the Passio Christi himself to St Fulcher’s?’

  ‘We have answered that,’ Alesia replied. ‘My father grew tired, weary of it all. He was old. The journey, especially during winter, was hard.’

  ‘No.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘It was more than that.’

  ‘If it was we didn’t know. He didn’t tell us.’

  ‘Is that so, Master Crispin? By the way, why was the bloodstone taken at Easter and on the feast of St Damasus?’

  ‘Well, Easter celebrates Christ’s Passion and Resurrection; the bloodstone was said to have originated during those three days.’

  ‘And St Damasus?’

  ‘A pope of the early church who wrote an extensive treaty on the Passio Christi, its origins, power and the miracles it worked.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  Crispin blew his cheeks out. ‘Still held by the monks of St Calliste near Poitiers, or so I believe but,’ he hurried on, ‘that’s why Damasus’ feast day was chosen.’

  ‘There is something very wrong here,’ Cranston declared. ‘Item,’ he emphasised his points with his fingers. ‘Sir Robert, God assoil him, was a hard-headed merchant. Years ago he financed the Wyverns, a marauding free company in France. He took a share of their plunder. Yes?’

  No one objected.

  ‘Item: He held the Passio Christi for years. He’d heard the accepted story but he must have also entertained the accepted doubts. Item: Sir Robert also knew the Wyverns for years? He apparently suffered no scruples. But then, during his visits to St Fulcher’s, he radically changes. He cannot tolerate the Wyverns.’

  ‘The influence of Richer,’ Alesia broke in.

  ‘Mistress, with all due respect – nonsense. A young French monk from St Calliste? Your father was a very shrewd merchant. He would expect Richer to be biased. No.’ Cranston returned to his argument. ‘Item: Sir Robert was influenced, like the astute man he was, by something he didn’t realize before, hence all my questions.’

  ‘True, true.’ Alesia sighed. ‘Recently, I’d often come into my father’s chamber. He’d be sitting at his chancery desk, nibbling as he so often did at the plume of his pens, the other hand smoothing the wood. He’d be lost in thought as if he was experiencing a vision.’

  ‘What was that vision?’ Cranston asked.

  The household just stared back at him, shaking their heads.

  Cranston shuffled his feet. He was finished here. He felt he had only been told what they wanted to tell him. He rose, gathered his possessions and insisted on checking the seals on Kilverby’s chamber. Crispin took him there. The coroner scrutinized the large wax blobs bearing the imprint of the city arms. Flaxwith, as usual, had done a thorough job. The chamber and all the mysteries it held was still securely sealed. Crispin escorted him out but, just before he opened the main door, Cranston grasped the clerk’s arm.

  ‘The Passio Christi, could it be sold on the open market?’

  ‘No.’ Crispin gently freed himself from Cranston’s grip. ‘What buyer could ever realize gold and silver on it? He’d certainly risk detection. If he took it abroad the same would happen. Sir John, no merchant would risk sacrilege by buying a sacred relic owned by another, especially the likes of His Grace, John of Gaunt.’

  Cranston grunted his agreement and donned both hat and cloak. He strolled out into the icy darkness, smiling to himself as Crispin slammed the door noisily behind him. The coroner had only walked a few paces from the main gate, the porter’s farewells ringing in his ears, when a group of hooded, masked men burst out from an alleyway, sconce torches held high. Cranston threw his cloak back, drew sword and dagger, quickly edging round to have the wall against his back.

  ‘Good evening. Not me, gentlemen, surely,’ he said hoarsely. ‘The King’s own coroner? Not here where I will cry “Harrow” and rouse the good citizens.’

  The men, five in all, formed an arc blocking his way. None had drawn their weapons.

  ‘Sir John, Sir John, my Lord Coroner.’ The voice of the man in the middle was gentle. ‘Pax et bonum, sir. We have no quarrel with you – well, not yet, not here.’

  ‘So you’ve come to praise me, to wish me well?’ Cranston raised both sword and dagger. ‘Who are you – envoys from the Upright Men?’

  ‘Two items, Sir John. The Dominican Athelstan. He’s at St Fulcher’s because of the deaths of those former soldiers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And their assassin?’

  ‘We don’t know who yet, perhaps you or someone you’ve hired.’

  ‘Everybody is for hire and yes, we have friends in St Fulcher’s but they know little.’

  ‘So why ask me?’

  ‘For our own secret purposes as well as to assure ourselves that the Dominican is safe. His parishioners . . .’

  ‘You mean your adherents who happen to be his parishioners?’

  ‘His parishioners are worried. They want to be assured that he’s there for a good purpose. Rumour has it that His Satanic Grace, our so-called Regent, has exiled him.’

  ‘That’s nonsense.’

  ‘We have your word on that? Athelstan’s parishioners do seek reassurance.’

  ‘You have my word, now get out of my way.’

  ‘Secondly, Coroner,’ the man’s voice remained conversational, ‘we would like you to take a message to my Lord Abbot.’

  ‘Go hire Mulligrub or Snapskull. I’m not your scurrier.’

  ‘Please tell our Lord Abbot when you meet him that his payments are long overdue.’

  ‘Payments for what?’

  ‘He’ll know and, I guess, so do you, Sir John. We bid you goodnight.’ The five men swiftly withdrew back up the alleyway.

  Cranston remained where he was – pursuit would be highly dangerous. He sheathed his weapons and stared up at the sky. He certainly would have words with Lord Walter. As for those
rapscallions at St Erconwald’s, they wanted reassurance? Well, Cranston smiled to himself, tomorrow was Sunday and such reassurance would be his gift.

  FIVE

  ‘Moot: a gathering of the people.’

  Athelstan spent the remainder of the Saturday before the third Sunday Advent recovering from that mysterious attack. Immediately after that he had met the rest of the Wyverns, who said they’d been looking for him to invite him to a game of bowls. Athelstan reluctantly agreed, studying them carefully. He quickly concluded that the would-be assassin could not be one of them. It would have been impossible for any of them to launch such an attack, dispose of both cloak and arbalest and hurry round to appear with the rest outside the guest house. This conviction deepened as he played bowls, using all his skill to shatter the pins carved in the shape of demons and hell-sprites. Wenlock’s hands were too maimed to hold a crossbow whilst the rest, when questioned about their archery, proudly scoffed about using ‘a woman’s weapon such as an arbalest’.

  ‘The Genoese tried to use them at Crecy,’ Mahant explained after a particularly skilful throw. ‘Clumsy and unreliable, they were. We have our war bows, our quivers, yard long shafts and bracers, none of us would trust such a weapon.’ He clapped his hands against the cold and stared down at Brokersby putting up the pins.

  ‘Why these questions, Brother? We are glad you joined us yet you seem agitated. Has something happened?’

  Athelstan shook his head. He made his excuses and wandered off into Mortival meadow. The river mist was thickening muffling even the cawing of the rooks and the strident calls of the many magpies who flashed in a blur of black and white. The grass was still frozen, the ground hard as iron. Athelstan walked down to the watergate. He paused where Hyde’s corpse had been found and studied the bloody spots and flecks he had noticed earlier. He opened the watergate and followed the path he’d taken previously. The smattering of blood along the quayside had disappeared. Athelstan stopped, staring out over the river; here and there misty glows of moving light showed where barges and boats made their way through the gloom. Cries and shouts echoed eerily. Athelstan listened for other sounds. He heard a clatter and whirled round, moving away from the edge of the quayside, but the noise was only the gate creaking in the strong breeze. ‘I wonder,’ Athelstan murmured, recalling what he’d learnt. He made his way back across Mortival meadow and into the abbey precincts where he asked directions from a wizened old lay brother. Chattering like a sparrow on the branch, the monk took him round to the barbican, an ancient, slate-roofed squat tower which served as the armoury. Athelstan pushed the door open; the ground floor was deserted. He glanced around. Weapons glimmered in the glow of a tallow candle, all neatly stacked in barrels and war chests: swords, daggers, halberds, a few maces, war bows, quivers of arrows, shirts of chain-mail, conical helmets, small targes, shields and, hanging on wall-hooks, a range of arbalests and crossbows. Athelstan made his way in. The room smelt of oil, iron and fire smoke. He stood, warming his fingers over a chafing dish, listening to the silence. The air was thick with dust. Athelstan sneezed loudly and a young lay brother, eyes heavy with sleep, tumbled down the stairs leading to the upper storey. The monk stopped halfway down, peering at Athelstan.

  ‘Ah, er, what . . .?’ He rubbed his smutty face and came down. ‘I was asleep. You’re the abbot’s guest, aren’t you? What do you . . .?’

  ‘I have a question for you.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Weapons are distributed from here?’

  ‘Only with the prior’s approval.’

  ‘But someone could come here when you are otherwise engaged and help themselves?’

  ‘But who would do that in an abbey?’

  ‘Have any weapons been recently distributed or taken?’

  ‘Oh no, just the execution party who escorted the felon down to the watergate. They carried staves.’

  ‘Has anyone taken an arbalest?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure? Have you taken a tally?’ Athelstan patted the young man on the arm. ‘Would you please make careful search and tell me if anything is missing? I suspect there is.’ With the lay brother’s assurances ringing like a chant, Athelstan left the barbican. He continued on past different brothers now hurrying to prepare the sanctuary for the Sunday Masses. Athelstan decided to wander, observe and reflect. He found himself out in the main garden and stood watching the wavering wisps of mist. Were the souls of the departed like that? he wondered. Did Hanep and Hyde still hover here unwilling to journey into the light? Did they press his soul? Did they see him as their avenger? He walked across the grass and stood at the entrance to the great maze. The privet hedges, all prickly and leaf-shorn at the height of winter, rose like walls of sharp points at least eight feet high. The trackway into the maze was pebble-dashed, deliberately uncomfortable for all those who wished to crawl on hands and knees to the Pity in the centre. A fascinating puzzle, a place of mystery with its labyrinthine branching paths, Athelstan was tempted. He entered, stopped, then murmured a prayer. He should be more prudent. A twig snapped, sharp and abrupt. Athelstan turned and strolled quickly back. He panicked. The entrance was not where it should be. He paused, remembering how he’d turned left coming in so he must always walk to the right on his return. He did so and sighed with relief when he glimpsed a stretch of frost-gripped lawn. He pulled up his cowl, strolled out then stifled a scream as two figures abruptly emerged from the mist.

  ‘Good day, Brother Athelstan, we glimpsed your black and white robes.’

  Athelstan bowed as Eleanor Remiet and Isabella Velours approached. Both women wore thick woollen cloaks, ermine-lined hoods and elegant gloves which stretched past the wrist.

  ‘Ladies,’ Athelstan pushed his hands up the sleeves of his gown, ‘I have tempted the cold enough. I need some warmth.’

  They walked back into the cloisters and crossed the yard into the buttery where fresh bread was being sliced for the waiting platters from the refectory. Isabella, gossiping about this and that, thankfully fell silent as she crammed her mouth with bread smeared with honey. Athelstan chose his slice holding the cold, grey gaze of Eleanor Remiet, who’d hardly spoken a word.

  ‘You’ve been here since when?’ Athelstan broke the uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Since Advent began. We will return to my house in Havering once Epiphany has come and gone, though Abbot Walter says Christmas is not over until the Baptism of the Lord and the commencement of the Hilary Term.’

  Athelstan questioned her about her life at Havering. Eleanor’s replies were quick and curt. She told him how Isabella was the daughter of the abbot’s only beloved sibling, namely herself. Isabella’s father had died so she, Eleanor, had become her official guardian. Athelstan sensed the woman’s deep dislike of him from her clipped tone, the way her eyes kept looking him up and down.

  ‘You’re not overfond of priests or friars, are you, Mistress?’

  ‘Brother Athelstan, once you’ve met one you have met them all.’

  ‘Except for Uncle Walter,’ Isabella broke in and trilled volubly about the gifts she expected at Christmas.

  Athelstan listened and wondered how a young woman could be so spoilt and empty-headed. A pampered life, Athelstan reflected, but Eleanor Remiet is different. The woman’s face was harsh and severe, yet Athelstan could detect, beneath the layers of age and hardship how, in her youth, Eleanor must have been a most remarkable beauty.

  ‘You’ll stay here long, Brother?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘You should go.’

  ‘Is that a warning?’

  ‘Yes, Brother.’ She divided a piece of bread with her long, delicate fingers. ‘It is a warning. This is a field of blood. We are in the world of men.’ She paused. Isabella rose and went across to help herself to ale from a barrel on a trestle near the door.

  ‘Isabella hardly hears what others say let alone understands,’ she remarked. ‘You be careful, Brother. The old soldiers who are being slaughtered here? Kilverby, whose fingers were
in every juicy pie? They’ve all gone. The Passio Christi has disappeared.’ She popped a piece of honeyed bread into her mouth. ‘The root grows silently but eventually it erupts through the soil and harvest time always comes.’ She rose, brushing the crumbs from her cloak. ‘So yes, Brother, I think you should go before the evil flourishing here entangles you.’ She nodded brusquely and walked over to Isabella, now gossiping loudly with the lay brother who supervised the refectory.

  Athelstan stood reflecting on what she’d said, finished his bread and left. He decided to stay in the precincts. The day was greying and the bells would soon toll for the next hour of divine office. He went across to the library and scriptorium; he stood just within the doorway revelling in the sights and smells. For Athelstan this was heaven. Shelves, lecterns and racks all crammed with books of every size bound in calfskin or leather. Capped candles, judicially placed, glittered in the polished oaken woodwork and silver chains kept precious volumes secured to their shelf or ledge. The windows on either side were sealed with thick painted glass, now clouded by the poor light though some colours still glowed, springing to life in the reflection from the candle flame. Down the centre of the scrubbed, pave-stoned floor ranged long tables interspersed by the occasional high stool and sloping desk where monks worked at copying or illuminating manuscripts drawn from a cluster of pigeon-hole boxes attached to the walls. Covered braziers, perforated with holes, exuded warmth and a sweet fragrance from the herb pouches disintegrating between the glowing coals. Other sweet odours, ravishing in the memories they provoked, mixed and swirled: ink, paper, paints, sandalwood, vellum freshly honed, wax soft and melting. A hive of learning, the scribes busy with pens or delicate brushes. Athelstan recalled his own days as a novice in the rare world of books, of cleaning a piece of vellum until it glowed white and innocent as a newly baptized soul.

  ‘Brother Athelstan?’ Richer was standing before him, his delicate, handsome face all concerned.

  Athelstan blinked, shook his head and apologized. Richer demanded that he join him. He took Athelstan down past the tables, pointing out the different books and manuscripts: theological tracts by Aquinas, Anselm and Albert the Great; the writings of the early Fathers, Origen, Tertullian, Boethius and Eusebius. The abbey’s collection of Books of Hours bequeathed by the rich and powerful. The works of the Ancients: Aristotle, Plato, Cicero and Lactantius. By the time they’d reached the end of the library, Athelstan had recovered his wits. The distractions of that beautiful, well-endowed scholars’ paradise faded as he followed Richer into the scriptorium. The room was richly furnished with lecterns, shelves and pigeon boxes. Two glowing triptychs adorned either wall depicting St Jerome studying the Bible in his cave at Bethlehem. The far wall was dominated by a huge crucifix with a twisted figure of the crucified Christ beneath the shuttered window. Athelstan, however, was more concerned with the great desk littered with manuscripts and books. Richer had apparently pulled across large sheets of blank vellum together with a napkin from a nearby lavarium to hide what he’d been working on. Athelstan moved towards the table. Richer stepped quickly into his path.