Bloodstone Page 26

  ‘We would never . . .’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ Athelstan snapped, ‘or at least Mahant bought one on your orders. He confessed how he used it against me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Wenlock’s shock was obvious. He sat gaping at Athelstan, who spread his hands.

  ‘In a while,’ Athelstan murmured, determined not to glance at Cranston, ‘you and Mahant returned to St Fulcher’s late in the afternoon on the Feast of St Damasus. You stealthily entered this abbey, probably disguised as Benedictines. I have learnt, even from my short stay here at the dead of winter, particularly with the mist seeping in, how members of this community pass unobserved all garbed in black, hoods or cowls pulled forward.’ Athelstan ignored Wenlock’s mocking sneer. He sensed this killer was truly frightened behind his scoffing front. ‘You waited near the guest house. You would have chosen any of your coven but Hyde appeared. Mahant, with you trailing behind as guard, followed Hyde into the abbey church. Hyde glimpsed Richer and set off in pursuit, curious at why this Frenchman was armed and where he was going. In a word, Mahant killed Hyde near the watergate then fled across Mortival meadow, its mist shrouded bushes and copses provided an ideal place to hide. Mahant was very clever, disguised in the robe of a Benedictine monk. If Hyde had been alerted and turned round, Mahant could have simply reverted to being the old comrade wondering what was going on. Hyde paid for his trust in you. Of course you did not wish to be implicated in his death so once Hanep was dead, you both left the abbey then reappeared in your own guise at the abbey gates which, you thought, would place you beyond suspicion.’

  Wenlock’s sneer had disappeared. He was now openly nervous, looking around as if searching for any weakness in the allegations levied against him.

  ‘Sir John is behind you,’ Athelstan observed, ‘and this guest house is now ringed with men-at-arms.’

  Wenlock just blinked and breathed in deeply.

  ‘Brokersby surprised you, didn’t he?’ Athelstan continued. ‘Admitting in my presence and that of Sir John how he was drawing up his own chronicle. God knows what he was writing. Was he also making a confession? Had William Chalk gossiped to him as well as to others?’

  ‘Brokersby was fey, madcap,’ Wenlock jibed.

  ‘Perhaps he was or perhaps he was converted,’ Athelstan replied. ‘After all, like Hanep he couldn’t sleep at night. Did his past come back to haunt him? Is that why he had to take an opiate before he could sleep?’

  Wenlock refused to answer.

  ‘Whose idea was it,’ Athelstan asked, ‘to tamper with the night candle, scoop out the tallow, fill the void with oil, sprinkle in a few grains of salt petre then reseal it? Was it yours, Wenlock? Did you also put the small pouch of oil beneath Brokersby’s bed when you came to wish him goodnight? Oil is easy to obtain for a man like you who’s lived all his life stealing from others. You and Mahant acted the Judas. You wished the heavy-eyed Brokersby goodnight but insisted he lock the door behind you as protection against that mysterious assassin stalking you all. Poor Brokersby! He never realized this murderer was you and your comrade-in-sin, Mahant. In fact, Brokersby sealed himself in his own coffin. The candle dissolved. The spitting fire caught the oil in his room and everything in it, including his chronicle, was consumed by the inferno exactly as you wanted.’ Athelstan paused as Cranston lifted a hand and came up behind Wenlock.

  ‘You’re an old soldier, a professional killer,’ Cranston remarked, ‘you have taken part in sieges where oil and salt-petre are used to undermine walls. You’re well acquainted with their effects.’

  Wenlock still refused to answer.

  ‘Osborne’s killing is also no longer a mystery,’ Athelstan persisted. ‘He must have been genuinely fearful. You and Mahant exploited that. Osborne would have only been too pleased to flee this place for what he thought was a safe refuge, “The Prospect of Heaven”. You told him to lodge there under Brokersby’s name just in case a search was made. Late on Sunday afternoon, when Sir John and I were busy with my parishioners, you moved to the second part of your plan to remove Osborne. You probably told him to leave “The Prospect” and wait for you at some deserted spot along the river. Did you promise that you’d meet him and all three of you would flee? That you were staying in the abbey to finish certain affairs and once completed you and Mahant would join him there? Well?’

  ‘Friar, you tell a good tale.’

  ‘A murderous one and no fable. You and Mahant killed Osborne. He was vulnerable, unsuspecting. You slit his throat, smashed his face with a rock or some weapon, stripped his body, stole his possessions then tossed his corpse into the river. If the Fisher of Men had not been so observant, Osborne’s corpse would have rotted away beyond recognition. He would be proclaimed as missing, even depicted as the assassin both for past crimes and any still to be perpetrated.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know full well. You and Mahant planned to use Osborne as your cats-paw, at least for a while until this bloody tumult died down.’ Athelstan paused. ‘You and Mahant made a mistake. You said Osborne was your treasurer. You claimed he may have disappeared with the common purse.’

  ‘And?’ Wenlock mocked.

  ‘At no time, apart from a general question, did you mention this during our journey to and from the Fisher of Men – or indeed whilst we were there. No concerns about the great amount of gold and silver Osborne was allegedly carrying. Of course the truth is he was carrying very little except for his weapons and a few personal possessions. You are probably the treasurer – and a great deal more.’

  Wenlock simply raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You are a murderous soul. You are steeped in blood, you thirst for it. You never intended Mahant to live. He recognized that, which is why he left a sealed confession.’

  ‘He didn’t, he couldn’t . . .’ Wenlock’s voice faltered.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘You truly have no fear of God, do you? I am not sure when you planned to kill Mahant but there was one other death you and Mahant plotted: Richer the Frenchman.’ Athelstan paused, wetting his lips. ‘Thanks to William Chalk, Richer now had the full truth about the seizure of the Passio Christi. A very dangerous man, Richer the Frenchman, who had entered your world and turned it upside down. For that he had to be punished as well as silenced. Mahant would certainly agree – why not? His soul was like yours, black as midnight. Two nightmares in human flesh who kill whenever they wish.’

  Wenlock’s cheek muscles twitched as he fought to control what Athelstan considered to be a truly murderous temper.

  ‘You hunted Richer. You waited as he left his chamber to meet Prior Alexander. You and Mahant attacked. A swift blow to the head then, under the cover of dark, you both carried his body away from the abbey precincts to the hog pen. The swine were confined to their sty. You cut Richer’s throat and tossed his corpse over the half-door. No one would know how or why he died; the mystery would only deepen because he died alongside a member of the Wyvern Company. You then decided it was also opportune to rid yourself of Mahant. You waited out there in the hog pen, close to the sty. For one brief moment, a few heart beats, Mahant turned his back on you. Maimed hands or not, both together can lift a dagger, in this case Richer’s – you plunged or drove it deep into Mahant, a killing blow followed by another. You then threw his corpse into the sty and fled.’

  ‘I was ill, vomiting.’

  ‘Wenlock, you are a liar, you went back to your chamber. You changed. You made sure you removed all traces of your murderous foray. Only then did you act the part of the old soldier, pathetic in his night shirt, suffering from belly gripes.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Do you remember telling me about that first attack on you near the maze? How you were rescued by others? Of course there was no attack, that was just part of the web you and Mahant were beginning to spin, a sham fight with your accomplice Mahant acting as the assailant. At the time you told me how you had a great interest in herbs, that’s why you were out in the garden. You’d use such
knowledge to protect yourself. You drank some concoction, harmless enough, to cause a mild disturbance of the belly to make it look as if you were genuinely sick – but only after the murders of Richer and Mahant.’

  Wenlock was staring down at his maimed hands.

  ‘Wenlock!’

  He did not move.

  ‘Wenlock!’

  He lifted his head, hatred seething in those watery eyes.

  ‘You despise both church and state, don’t you?’ Athelstan leaned forward, determined not to show any fear. ‘That’s why you pillaged St Calliste. You have no compunction about committing sacrilege or murder. You hunted me as well.’ Athelstan ignored the fleeting smirk. ‘Actually very clever, especially the first attack. Mahant rattled the shutter of my chamber, probably with some pebbles. I opened it and he loosed that crossbow barb. He nearly hit his mark. I suspect Mahant was skilled enough with the arbalest. Of course it’s not the war bow of which he is a master; his possible inexperience saved my life. Or was it only meant as a warning to frighten me off? I left that chamber. You and others of your coven were outside in the passageway. You asked me to join you. You acted the smiling Judas, asking me questions, delaying me so by the time I got outside Mahant had joined the rest. You tried again in a more deadly fashion in the charnel house. You were hunting me, waiting for an opportunity. I was stupid enough to provide one. You and Mahant had listened to me, watched me and decided I was dangerous. I might not be misled by your farrago of lies. I might discover the truth behind the murders. You and Mahant decided I should die. I would have done so if it hadn’t been for God’s good grace. I wondered then at the speed with which my assailant entered the crypt and doused those torches. Of course there were two, not one intruder, which explains it. I thank God I escaped.’

  Wenlock gave a final look around the chamber as if he was still searching for any gap or weakness.

  ‘Master Crispin stole the Passio Christi,’ Athelstan added softly. ‘He poisoned his master. He’s confessed. He’ll be spared the torture, the full rigours of a traitor’s death.’

  Wenlock sighed deeply.

  ‘We will visit “The Pride of Purgatory” tavern,’ Athelstan added. ‘We’ll seize your possessions, all the money you and Mahant have stored there. You’ve tortured enough men in your life to know what to expect.’

  ‘Did Mahant really leave a sealed confession?’ Wenlock murmured. ‘Where? To whom?’

  ‘We’ll produce that when you are arraigned.’

  ‘You have further proof, witnesses?’

  ‘We’ll produce those,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘when you are arraigned before the King’s justices.’

  ‘A swift death,’ Cranston urged.

  Wenlock began to hum a tune, shuffling his feet in a strange macabre dance. He stopped, smiled to himself then lifted his hands in a token of surrender.

  ‘I knew I was cursed,’ he remarked, ‘when the French cut off my fingers. I knew it was only a matter of time. Are you promising me a swift death?’

  ‘Swift,’ Cranston repeated.

  ‘The anchorite must do it.’ Wenlock glanced over his shoulder at the coroner. ‘I’ve hanged enough to know what will happen. I don’t want to dance for an hour, twitch and jerk, soil myself while I’m choking. The Hangman of Rochester will ensure it takes no more time than a Gloria.’ Wenlock forced a laugh. ‘You’re right, Cranston, I’ve seen men tortured.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘I won’t reply, Friar, to what you’ve laid against me. You’ve said enough, there’s little to add. I plead guilty. I have no more to say . . .’

  Athelstan stood in the narrow nave of St Bartholomew’s Priory in Smithfield. The church was deserted except for the Guild of the Hanged who clustered before the Great Pity just inside the main door. They knelt, pattering their Aves for the two men being hanged at the Elms only a short distance beyond the great lychgate of the priory. Athelstan half listened to the swelling murmur of the crowd thronging around the soaring scaffold which brooded over Smithfield. The Regent had insisted that both Cranston and Athelstan witness the execution of the two criminals they’d trapped and caught. The coroner was now on the scaffold together with the Hangman of Rochester garbed in black, his head and face hidden by a blood-red visor. Athelstan moved over to pray before the gilt-edged tomb of Rahere, King Henry’s jester who’d founded both the priory and the nearby hospital in fulfilment of a vow he’d made to St Bartholomew in Outremer.

  ‘God’s jester,’ Athelstan prayed, eyes tightly shut. ‘Have great pity on Crispin and Wenlock. Show even more loving mercy on their poor victims. Eternal rest . . .’ Athelstan broke off at the great roar which echoed through the church. ‘Eternal rest,’ he continued, ‘give them all.’ He pleaded, ‘And let perpetual light shine upon them.’ He remained kneeling, locked in fervent, desperate prayer.

  ‘It’s over, they’ve gone!’

  Athelstan opened his eyes. Cranston and the anchorite stood in the doorway of the church.

  ‘Swift?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Like that!’ Cranston snapped his fingers.

  ‘For such small mercies,’ Athelstan whispered, getting to his feet, ‘deo gratias.’ He walked down the nave. ‘Although not over Sir John.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It never is,’ the anchorite declared, hood and visor now pulled back.

  ‘It never is, is it, Father?’

  Athelstan smiled at both of them. ‘Abbot Walter needs to do a great deal of explaining, so does Prior Alexander. His Grace the Regent must decide on what to do with the Passio Christi . . .’ Athelstan spread his hands.

  ‘Father,’ the anchorite stepped forward, ‘could I move my cell to St Erconwald’s? I cannot stay in that abbey.’

  ‘You could hang half of his parish,’ Cranston joked.

  ‘Not now, and you,’ Athelstan pointed at the anchorite, ‘you have a name, Giles of Sempringham, yes? I shall call you that. So,’ Athelstan rubbed his hands, ‘let us go back to “The Holy Lamb of God”. Let us sit before a roaring fire. Let us revel in all God’s comforts and rejoice in the approach of the feast of the birth of God’s Golden Boy.’

  ‘Oh sweet words, lovely friar,’ Cranston breathed.

  All three left the priory. Athelstan turned his face away so as not to glimpse those two corpses hanging black against the bright December sky.

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  Bloodstone is of course a work of fiction but it is based firmly on historical fact. By 1380 the war in France had turned into a disaster; the great victories of Crecy and Poitiers had been reversed. Edward III slipped into his dotage, attended by Alice Perrers, who later died in something akin to the odour of sanctity at her retreat in Essex. The Black Prince preceded his father leaving a mere child, Richard II, as his heir. (The sobriquet ‘Black Prince’ was in common use by 1378.) Real power was vested in the cunning and subtle John of Gaunt who sowed a bitter harvest for Richard to reap.

  French privateers became a real threat both in the Channel and along the south coast. However, the real menace emerged in London and the surrounding shires. The Great Community of the Realm and the Upright Men reflect the radical movement which later exploded into the Peasant’s Revolt of 1381; this nearly brought Gaunt, and indeed the Crown, to its knees. For a few days the whole kingdom teetered on the edge.

  The strange doings at St Fulcher’s should not be regarded as exceptional. St Fulcher’s, of course, is a fictitious abbey but, for example, the attempted theft of the Crown Jewels from Westminster in 1303 revealed a seemingly rich underbelly of corruption at that famous Benedictine house which included theft, blackmail, midnight orgies and violence. It ended with the abbot and a hundred of his monks being shut up in the Tower!

  The underworld of medieval London and its strange and eccentric characters are all based on original documents. The ‘scam’ involving tallow candles was common enough and led to some fairly fierce conflagrations.

  The trade and constant squabbles over the possession of relics was extre
mely vigorous; these included both the weird and the wonderful, be it a napkin which once belonged to Our Lady or the Crown of Thorns placed on Christ’s head. The bloodstone is an accurate example of this trade in relics which religious houses held and venerated to attract pilgrims as well as their cash.

  The Free Companies who fought in France were greatly feared and English bowmen were renowned for their skill and speed. At least two Popes excommunicated all members of such marauding companies. The French did, according to some sources, maim the hands of captive English archers – which may have been the origin of the famous ‘V’ sign. The use of a ‘sniper’ archer was common enough, for example in the death of John Howard, Duke of Norfolk, at the battle of Bosworth in 1485. In all other matters I have striven to be faithful to Athelstan and the strange world through which he moved.

  Paul Doherty, 2011

  www.paulcdoherty.com