Murder Most Holy Read online

  ‘I hope he’s careful,’ Athelstan murmured to himself. He looked into his wine cup and smiled. The coroner had a big belly, a big mouth and a big heart, but Athelstan feared Cranston’s forthright honesty would one day lead him into danger. He closed his eyes and said a short prayer for Cranston and his wife, dainty, quiet Lady Maude, the only person Cranston truly feared. Athelstan shook his head that such a petite lady could produce such sturdy twin boys as Francis and Stephen. True, she had experienced a great deal of pain in childbirth, a little fever afterwards, but now the Lady Maude even looked younger whilst Cranston went around proud as a peacock. The monk laughed softly to himself as he remembered how, only a few weeks ago, he had baptised the twin boys at the small font just inside the entrance of St Erconwald’s. The boys had roared their heads off and Athelstan had had to fight to keep a straight face for both of them looked like peas out of the same pod. No one could doubt they were Cranston’s sons: red-faced, bawling, bald-headed, burping and farting, when they weren’t howling for the generous tits of a now exhausted-looking wet nurse. During the entire ceremony, Cranston, the beaming father, swayed slightly backwards and forwards as he took the occasional nip from his miraculous wineskin – so-called because it never seemed to empty. The christening had ended in chaos when Ursula the pig woman’s sow had come into the church and Bonaventure had leapt into Cranston’s lap. Cecily the courtesan had her face slapped by Watkin the dung-collector’s wife who claimed the wench was ogling her husband. All the time Lady Maude’s relatives, and Sir John’s noble acquaintances from the city, had stared in open-mouthed horror at the mummery being played out.

  Nevertheless, the day had ended well at a small banquet held in Cranston’s garden behind his large house across the river. Many of the parishioners had been invited and Athelstan had never laughed so much in his life, the climax being when Cranston, much the worse for drink, fell fast asleep on top of a manure pile, a sleeping baby son nestling gently in each arm.

  Athelstan started as Bonaventure, quiet as a thief, jumped into his lap.

  ‘Come on, cat,’ the monk murmured. ‘We have mass to offer, prayers to be said.’

  He took the small bunch of keys which swung from the hook on his belt and left to open the church. The sow gave him a friendly grunt as he passed and continued to chomp merrily at the cabbages. Bonaventure looked at the pig disdainfully and followed his master across. Crim, one of Watkin the dung-collector’s large brood, was waiting on the steps.

  ‘You’ve come to serve at mass, Crim?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Athelstan looked at his half-washed face. The lad was a mischievous angel but this morning he looked troubled, guilty even, refusing to meet Athelstan’s eye. The friar ignored this. After all, Crim’s parents were always fighting. There had probably been trouble at home. He unlocked the door and walked into the church, Crim and Bonaventure slipping in behind him. Athelstan rested against the baptismal font and gazed appreciatively around. Yes, this humble parish church was beginning to grow beautiful: the wooden rafters had been reinforced and the roof re-tiled, so it had bravely withstood the winter gales and rain. The floor of the nave was now even and well swept whilst Huddle the painter, a young man of indeterminate origin but with a Godgiven skill for etching and painting, was filling every available space on the walls and pillars with colourful scenes from the Old and New Testaments. All the windows were now filled with horn or glass and Athelstan was determined to win the favour of some powerful benefactor who would buy stained glass for the church.

  Yet St Erconwald’s was more than a house of prayer. Here parishioners met to do business or celebrate the great liturgical feasts. The young people came to be married, brought their children to be baptised, attended mass, had their sins shriven and, when God called them, were laid out to rest in the great parish coffin, wheeled in front of the rood screen for their last benediction.

  Athelstan drummed his fingers on the wooden top of the baptismal font and hummed the tune he had been singing earlier. At first he had hated the parish, been repelled by this dirty church, but now he had grown to love it and the colourful bustling characters who swarmed round him, touching his solitary life with the drama of their own. Crim, used to his parish priest’s reveries, skipped along the nave pretending to be a horse and Athelstan suddenly remembered Philomel, the former war horse, now his mount and constant companion.

  ‘God save us!’ he muttered. ‘The old man will be kicking the stable door down!’

  He hurried out of the church and round the house to the small shed now converted into Philomel’s stable. The old horse snickered, shaking his head as soon as Athelstan appeared and kicking his foot softly against the door. Athelstan quickly fed him a mixture of oats and bran and threw a little hay into the stable, for Philomel, despite his ponderous gait and slow ways, had a voracious appetite. When he returned to the church, Leif the one-legged beggar was sitting on the steps.

  ‘Good morrow, Father.’

  ‘Good morrow, Leif, and how is Sir John?’

  The beggar scratched his head and his horsy face became even more sombre.

  ‘My Lord Coroner is not in a good mood,’ he answered. ‘I told him I was coming across the bridge to beg so he sent a message. He hopes to see you this evening.’

  ‘Oh, bugger!’ Athelstan whispered under his breath.

  ‘Father,’ Leif pleaded, ‘I’m hungry and it was a long walk.’

  ‘The house is open, Leif. There’s some broth on the fire and wine in the buttery. Help yourself.’

  Leif needed no second invitation and, despite his ungainly gait, rose and sped like a whippet into the house. Athelstan watched him go and thought about Cranston. Another murder? he wondered. Or was it something personal?

  ‘Who cares?’ he muttered to the cat. ‘It’s going to be a fine Sunday.’ Athelstan screwed up his eyes and looked at the sky. Perhaps it was time he acknowledged the real reason for his happiness – he hadn’t been called to attend the Inner Chapter of the Dominicans at Blackfriars. Nevertheless he felt a twinge of regret. After all, some old friends would be there . . . but there again, so would William de Conches, the Master Inquisitor from Avignon. He would be in attendance on the debate about the new teaching of that brilliant young theologian, Brother Henry of Winchester.

  ‘At least I’m spared that,’ Athelstan murmured.

  ‘Who are you talking to, Father?’ asked Crim, popping his head round the church door.

  Athelstan winked at him. ‘Bonaventure, Crim. Never forget, there’s more to this cat than meets the eye.’

  Athelstan went up the nave, through the rood screen, genuflecting before the winking sanctuary lamp, and into the small sacristy. He washed his hands and face again, brushed some of the straw from Philomel’s stable from his robe and began to don gold-coloured vestments for the church was still celebrating the glory of Eastertide.

  He jumped as the door at the back of the church opened with a crash. Surely not Cranston? he thought. But it was only Mugwort the bell-ringer, who went into the small alcove and began to toll the bell for mass. Crim sped in and out of the sacristy like a fly as he prepared the altar. Water for the lavabo, wine and the wafers for the Offertory and Consecration, the great missal, suitably marked for the day, a napkin for Athelstan to wipe his hands on. At a solemn nod from the priest, candles were placed on each side of the altar, their wicks cleansed and lit as a sign that mass was imminent.

  Athelstan went to the sacristy door and stared down the church. This would be the last time he said mass in the old sanctuary. He had gained permission from the Bishop of London to remove both the altar and the sanctuary stone, and take down Huddle’s rood screen for a while so the old sanctuary could be broken up and the new flagstones laid. He watched Mugwort yank the end of the rope, the man’s twisted face alight with pleasure as he pulled on the bell like some demented spirit. Athelstan grinned to himself. Whether they came to mass or not, by the time Mugwort was finished, everyone for a mile a
round would know that it was Sunday and time for prayer.

  His parishioners began to arrive. First Watkin the dung-collector, sexton of the church and leader of the parish council: a formidable, squat man, his face covered in warts, nostrils stuffed with hair, sharp-eyed and vociferous. A step behind him came his even more formidable wife; the way she walked always reminded Athelstan of a knight in full armour. Pernel the Fleming came next, her white face half-crazed, eyes staring as she chattered to herself about this or that. Ranulf the rat-catcher followed with two of his children. Athelstan had to hide a grin behind his hand for, like their father, the children were dressed in black with tarry hoods concealing their pale, pinched features; all three looked like the very rodents Ranulf was supposed to catch. He caught Athelstan’s eye and grinned knowingly, and the priest remembered his promise that, once the new sanctuary was built, St Erconwald’s would become the Chantry church of the newly formed Guild of Rat Catchers. Others came, led by Huddle the painter, with his dreamy expression and childish face. The self-made artist immediately went up to touch one of his most recent paintings – a brilliant rendition of Daniel in the lion’s den. Next came Tab the tinker, still suffering the effects of too much ale the night before, then Pike the ditcher, leading what looked like a small army of dwarfs. Somehow or other he had become responsible both for his own large brood and for Tab’s.

  Athelstan watched Pike carefully. He knew the ditcher was friendly with the radical peasant leaders both inside and outside the city, known to be constantly plotting rebellion. What concerned Athelstan more was that Pike, together with blonde-haired, sweet-faced Cecily the courtesan, was plotting a violent assault on Watkin’s position as leader of the parish council. He sighed, for when that happened, a violent power struggle would ensue.

  Benedicta the widow woman entered, dressed in a light blue kirtle with a white veil over her night black hair. Athelstan’s heart beat a little faster. He lowered his gaze for he loved the widow with an innocent passion which sometimes embarrassed them both.

  Benedicta closed the door and waved to him, then moved away quickly as it was thrown open again and Ursula the pig woman, followed by her evil-looking sow, waddled in.

  ‘I’ll kill that bloody pig!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘I’ll kill it and eat pork for a year!’

  Ursula, however, smiled sweetly at him, then crouched by a pillar, the sow squeezing between her and Watkin. Athelstan had to bite his lip for the pig bore a striking resemblance to the sexton.

  Ursula was usually the last to arrive so he went round to the foot of the altar, made the sign of the cross and began the great mystery of the mass. His small congregation, who had been sitting whispering to each other, now gathered at the entrance to the rood screen, watching intently as their priest began to intercede for them before God.

  CHAPTER 2

  Once mass was over, Athelstan invited the members of the parish council across to the priest’s house. Mugwort and Crim were left to clear everything from the sanctuary – altar-cloths, candles, flowers and glasses – as the labourers Athelstan had hired were waiting in the entrance of the church, ready to begin their work. Once assembled, Athelstan served his council cups of wine, intoned the prayer to the Holy Ghost and began the meeting. Within minutes his worst fears were realised and he suspected there had been a great deal of plotting the night before.

  Pike the ditcher, aided and abetted by a smirking Cecily and a red-faced Ursula, launched a vitriolic attack against Watkin, the bone of contention being whether children should be allowed to play in the cemetery or if they could afford the building of a new fence there. Naturally, Watkin’s wife intervened and the row became even more acrimonious. Athelstan just sat back and stared in disbelief at the intense passion of the debaters who argued like lawyers in King’s Bench, pleading over a matter of life and death. Huddle just grinned dreamily, Tab the tinker constantly changed sides, whilst Leif the beggar man, sitting on a stool in the inglenook, his mouth full of Athel-stan’s soup, occasionally intervened to shout abuse at Watkin’s wife whom he heartily detested. Benedicta bit her lip and grinned at Athelstan.

  By noon, as his irritation grew, Athelstan sensed they were all becoming exhausted and quickly brought the discussion to an end; he served his guests bowls of the soup Leif was still drinking, slurping noisily from it as he leered at Cecily and shouted abuse at Watkin’s wife.

  For a while silence reigned. Athelstan and Benedicta seized the opportunity to go out into the sunshine and inspect the small garden. The friar not only wanted to evade the heated atmosphere, he was also concerned at Benedicta’s silence. Usually she would intervene to pour oil on troubled waters, or else be taken by a fit of the giggles at the abuse which was exchanged. Benedicta always alleged that the real cause of the power struggle in the parish council was that Watkin’s wife hated Cecily, and Pike the ditcher hated Watkin, because they both jealously suspected that Watkin’s walks with the young courtesan through the cemetery were not always connected with parish business.

  Once outside, Athelstan stood next to Benedicta, listening to the growing commotion from his house and the clanging and crashing from the church where the labourers were now raising the old flagstone.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  Benedicta looked up. He noticed the tear running down her olive face with more brimming in her dark restless eyes. Were they blue or violet? Athelstan wondered. Benedicta always reminded him of a painting of the Virgin Mary he had seen in a stained glass window. She had that same beautiful serenity, even now when she was troubled. Athelstan touched her gently on the shoulder.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he repeated, closing his ears to the squabble back at his house and the sounds of workmen busy in the church.

  ‘Father, you know I have been a widow for three years.’

  Athelstan nodded.

  ‘Well,’ Benedicta looked away and bit her lip, ‘I have had news from France.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘My husband may still be alive!’

  Athelstan stepped back in amazement. ‘Your husband was a ship’s captain. I though he was killed at sea?’

  ‘Yes, he took out Letters of Marque to act as a privateer in the Channel. He was attacked by a French man-of-war and was making a run for Calais when a sudden storm blew up and his ship was sunk with all hands. Now I have had news that he may be a prisoner.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘An acquaintance, a journeyman, recently returned from France now the truce has been renewed. He claims he saw my husband in a prison stockade outside Boulogne. ‘She laced her fingers together. ‘What can I do, Father? I cannot go to France, it might only make a bad situation worse, and it would take months to petition the council.’

  Athelstan took a deep breath, steeling himself against secret thoughts and desires.

  ‘The Dominicans have a house outside Boulogne,’ he said. ‘I shall write to them tonight and ask Cranston to order one of the royal messengers to deliver the letter. Cranston will be able to furnish him with safe conducts.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘We are not called Dominicans for nothing, Benedicta. We are literally the Hounds of the Lord. If your husband is alive, this house will intervene, perhaps make a plea to the French officials. Some gold may change hands and your husband could be home within a month.’

  He patted her gently on the shoulder and felt guilty at the sheer pleasure he derived from being so close to her. Benedicta turned away as if to hide her face: as she did so, a tendril of her hair touched Athelstan’s cheek and he caught the fragrance of her perfume. She smiled at him over her shoulder.

  ‘You’d better go back, Father,’ she murmured. ‘Watkin’s wife has her mind set on murder!’

  Athelstan took the hint and strode back into the house. Benedicta was right; the soup had simply provided extra strength and now the entire group was standing, everyone shouting, no one listening. Athelstan clapped his hands noisily and refused to stop until every one of them had fallen silent. He stared at them sternly.

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p; ‘We have all taken the sacrament,’ he announced, ‘and have all exchanged the kiss of peace, so these arguments will end. When we meet again I will ask for a vote about the cemetery and, if there’s a majority, then our decision has been reached.’ He looked at the beggar man still crouched on his stool. ‘Leif!’ he shouted. ‘Stop eating my soup. It’s supposed to last me for a month!’ He stretched out his hand. ‘Now, the rest of you, take your seats, sit down and shut up!’

  He went into the scullery and brought out a flask of wine, an Easter gift from Cranston. He poured them each a small measure. His parishioners murmured their thanks, smiling secretly and winking at each other for it was very rare for their parish priest to lose his temper. Benedicta rejoined them and everyone took their seats again. After a short bantering conversation in which he made an appeal for unity, Athelstan deftly turned the discussion to the parish preparations for the feast of Corpus Christi.

  ‘The children,’ he declared, ‘will stage their play in the nave.’

  ‘There’s a procession,’ Watkin added.

  ‘And maybe a new painting?’ Huddle demanded expectantly. ‘Just near the door, Father. Christ feeding the five thousand.’

  Athelstan smiled and held up a hand. ‘One thing at a time, Huddle.’

  ‘More importantly,’ Cecily interrupted, her face becoming angelic, ‘we must set up a curtain between the pillar and the wall just near the sanctuary. Remember, Father, you are to hear our confessions and shrive us before the great feast.’

  Athelstan closed his eyes. Hearing his parishioners’ confessions was something he would gladly have avoided for he knew the inevitable outcome. After it was all finished, Watkin’s wife would come and interrogate him on what her husband had confessed and, of course, Athelstan would have to reassure her without lying or betraying confidences. Benedicta, who must have sensed his apprehension, quickly intervened with the idea of a flower festival on the Wednesday before Corpus Christi, and they were in the middle of a more peaceful discussion when the door was flung open and one of the workmen rushed in.