ONE

‘Mummer: an actor wearing a mask!’

‘For my sins, truly I know them,’ Athelstan breathed as he plunged the rough rag back in to the bucket and splashed the herb-drenched water on to the last grey flagstone which lay before the door to his priest house.

‘My sin is always before me,’ Athelstan continued, ‘against you and you alone have I sinned  . . .’ Once he’d finished washing the flagstone, Athelstan, Dominican friar and parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, proudly gazed round on what he’d achieved on this the Feast of St Damasus twenty days before the great celebration of the Nativity. He’d cleaned the house thoroughly. He had scrubbed and polished every nook and cranny. The small bed loft was all clean and sweet-smelling, its linen sheets, bolsters and blankets had been changed, and not a pewter dish or copper pot had been missed by him. After that Athelstan had turned his attention to what he mockingly called his solar, the great flagstone kitchen with its whitewashed walls and rough-stone hearth. Everything had been cleaned, from the tongs and pokers in the hearth to the large oaken table which served as both his supper bench and chancery desk.

‘What do you think, Bonaventure?’ Still kneeling Athelstan joined his hands in mock prayer and gazed fondly at the great, one-eyed tom cat sprawling before the crackling hearth like the Grand Cham of Tartary on his gold-encrusted divan. The cat, the prowling scourge of the needle-thin alleyways round St Erconwald’s, deigned to lift his head; he gazed sleepily at his strange master then flopped back as if the effort had proved all too much for him.

‘I know what you are waiting for, my friend.’ Athelstan scrambled to his feet. He emptied the pail of water, wrung out the cloth and walked back into the kitchen. He crouched before the hearth next to Bonaventure and stared hungrily at the blackened copper pot hanging by its chain above the darting flames. He closed his eyes and smelt the warm savouriness of the bubbling oatmeal, hot and sweet with the precious honey Athelstan had stirred in.

‘We’ll eat well, Bonaventure.’ Athelstan stroked the cat’s silky fur. ‘But not yet – God waits.’

Athelstan stripped, shaved, washed then dressed quickly in woollen leggings, drawers and the hair shirt he always wore beneath the black and white robes of a Dominican friar. He buckled the straps of his stout sandals. Going over to a corner he took out the polished dish, a gift from a parishioner, which also served as his mirror. Athelstan stared hard at the face which gazed back at him: the close-cropped black hair, the rather long, serious face with its furrowed cheeks, the wrinkles round both mouth and eyes. Did the face portray the soul, he wondered, or was it just the eyes? In which case Athelstan reflected ruefully, God help him, his eyes were dark and deep set. He practised that hard stare he often used on some of his parishioners.

‘Lord forgive me,’ he prayed, ‘I have to; otherwise they’d lead me an even merrier jig.’

The thought of his parishioners made Athelstan hurry around. He doused the few candles, banked the fire, gazed proudly around his ‘new swept kingdom’ and, grasping his psalter, left the priest house. He secured the door and began what he called his daily pilgrimage. He walked carefully; a hard frost shimmered on the path leading up to the dark mass of St Erconwald’s. All lay quiet. He crossed to the stables, pushed open the half-door and smiled at Philomel, his mount, sprawling on the thick bed of hay Pike the ditcher had so carefully turned the night before. The old war horse lifted his head, neighed and snatched at the fodder net. Athelstan sketched a blessing in the ancient destrier’s direction and continued on. He stopped by the newly refurbished gate to the cemetery, opened it and stepped into God’s Acre. He quietly thanked the Lord for winter because in summer this was a favourite trysting place for his parishioners and others so much so, as Athelstan had wryly remarked to Sir John Cranston, on a midsummer’s day more of the living lay there than the dead. Now it was murky, forbidding and frostbitten. Only a meagre light gleamed from the ancient death house where the keeper of the cemetery, the beggar Godbless, lived with his constant companion, Thaddeus the goat. Athelstan murmured a prayer of thanks for both of them. Young lovers lying down in the long grass of summer were not so troublesome as the warlocks, sorcerers and witches who plagued the cemeteries of London with their midnight rites to summon up the dark lords of the air. The ever-curious, garrulous Godbless, with his equally curious goat, would put any practitioner of such forbidden ceremonies to flight. Godbless, called so because of his constant use of that benediction, would talk them to death whilst the omnivorous Thaddeus would chew any grimoire of spells to shreds.

‘Benedicite,’ Athelstan called out, ‘Pax et bonum.’

‘God bless you too, Father,’ came the swift reply.

Athelstan passed on up to the church. He fumbled with the key ring, opened the battered corpse door and stepped inside. He wrinkled his nose: despite his best efforts to scrub the floor, the mildewed air of the old church caught his nose and mouth. Athelstan peered through the gloom; the charcoal braziers still glowed like welcome beacons fending off the cold mustiness. Athelstan took out a tinder from the pouch on his cord. He lit the candles paid for by the Brotherhood of Rood Light, a wealthy group of local merchants who used St Erconwald’s as their guild chapel. In return they generously supplied the church with tallow and beeswax tapers. Athelstan lit those in front of the Lady chapel as well as the candles before the statue of St Erconwald. He gazed up at the severe face of the Saxon bishop of London who’d founded the first church here. Huddle the painter had elegantly regilded the statue, delicately picking out the scarlets and whites of the bishop’s vestments. Athelstan, ignoring the scurry of mice in the far corner, lit some of the sconce torches. The friar noticed the tendrils of mist seeping under the corpse door as if they were pursuing him and shivered.

‘God bring us spring soon,’ he murmured, ‘for swarms of bees and beetles bringing in the soft music of the world, for heavy bowls of hazelnuts, sweet apples, plums and whortleberries.’ Athelstan turned to go up into the sanctuary when he glimpsed Huddle’s new painting on the far wall above the leper squint. Athelstan wandered across. Huddle had been busy sketching out in charcoal the Seven Deadly Sins. Athelstan thought the painter would begin with ‘Lust’, which all the parish council wanted. Instead Huddle, who gambled and was desperate for income, had decided on ‘Avarice’. The painting was graphic enough, bold and vigorous, an eye-catching vision of startling colours and images. A goldsmith of Cheapside was Huddle’s incarnation of the deadly sin: a shrivelled up old man, bow-legged and palsy stricken, with a head as bald as a pigeon’s egg, a beard as bushy as a tangle of brier, skimpy loose cheeks, goggling eyes either side of a nose pointed and as sharp as a hook. The goldsmith was being attacked by two shaggy demons that were dragging him away from his money bags. One of these hellish creatures, all hoofed and horned, had wrapped his goatskin legs around the banker and forced his bald head down so as to clamp his wolf fangs into the back of his victim’s exposed neck. The other demon was clawing the goldsmith’s belly, ripping it open to spill out the man’s black and red innards. Gossips, and that was virtually everyone in the parish, claimed Avarice was no less a person than Sir Robert Kilverby, city goldsmith, former alderman and an acquaintance of no less a person than Sir John Cranston, the King’s coroner in London.

‘Sweet Lord, I hope not,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘or Cranston will have Huddle’s head. I just wish our painter would paint and leave the cogged dice alone.’

Athelstan plucked at his waist cord and fingered the three knots symbolizing his vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. Cranston could be genial but, like all law officers in London, watchful and wary of any dissent or mockery of authority. Winter was proving very harsh. The price of bread and other purveyance remained high. Defeat abroad and piracy in the Narrow Seas made matters worse, especially in London where The Upright Men, leaders of the Great Community of the Realm, were plotting bloody revolt to turn the world upside down. Huddle should be careful of whom he mocked. Athelstan went back to the corpse door and picked up his psalter from the stool near the collection of leaning poles. He moved under the rood screen, stood at the bottom of the sanctuary steps and stared up at the Pyx dangling on its chain, shimmering in the glow of the red sanctuary lamp hanging close by. Athelstan genuflected then busied himself, taking out the palliasse from the small alcove where any sanctuary man in flight from the law could settle. Thankfully there was no one. Athelstan unrolled the palliasse at the bottom of the steps just outside the rood screen. He prostrated himself on this, intoned psalm fifty then confessed his sins, a litany of weaknesses: his failure to love, his irritation with Watkin the dung collector, his short temper with Ursula the Pig-woman and her godforsaken sow which followed her everywhere, including into Athelstan’s vegetable patch. The friar caught his temper and smiled. If he was not careful he would be sinning again, yet behind all these petty offences gathered greater shadows: the death of his beloved brother, Francis-Stephen, and his secret love for the widow woman Benedicta, though she was not his only distraction from matters spiritual. Even more so was Athelstan’s fascination for hunting down killers, assassins and murderers who believed they could snuff out another’s life as easily as they might a taper, wipe their lips and, like Pilate, wash their hands of any blood and guilt. Athelstan let his mind drift deeper into the gathering darkness to confront more threatening shapes which questioned his very vocation and basic beliefs.

‘So much evil, Lord.’ He prayed. ‘So deep the wickedness. The rich wax stronger and more powerful whilst the poor, like naked earth worms, are crushed and stamped even deeper into the mud. Why, Lord?’

The friar recalled the words of his own confessor, the venerable Magister Ailred at Blackfriars, the principal Dominican house in London. ‘Evil is not a problem, Athelstan,’ Ailred had advised. ‘If it was a problem, like those we confront in philosophy or logic, it could be resolved. No, Athelstan, evil is a great mystery which can only be confronted. Christ did that during his passion, singing his own hymn of love as he journeyed into the very heart of evil to confront it. He became one of us to experience that same mystery. Look at the crib at Christmas, the Holy Rood on Good Friday  . . .’ Athelstan sighed, crossed himself and rose to his feet. He wandered down to the main door and stared at the crude but vivid crib set up by Tab the Tinker, Crispin the Carpenter and others. Athelstan smiled. He had imitated the Franciscan idea of the Bethlehem stable and the chanting of the ‘O Antiphons’ instead of the planned mystery play about the Nativity. He’d had a bellyful of that after Watkin, relegated to being one of the shepherds, had furiously assaulted two of the Wise Men. Athelstan sighed noisily and shook his head in admiration of the large gold star Huddle and Crispin had nailed above the crib. He recalled his own secret passion. On a clear night, he’d be up on the church tower observing the stars, but the dire weather froze even birds on the wing whilst threatening clouds blotted out heaven’s gems.

Athelstan doused some of the torches and returned to lie before the rood screen. He intended to recite a psalm but, as usual, he drifted into sleep until roused by a hammering on the locked main door. He struggled awake, pulled himself up, quickly rolled up the palliasse and returned it to the recess. He glanced up at one of the windows and groaned as he noticed the grey dawn light. He had slept too long! The door rattled again. Athelstan hurried down, turned the great key, slipped back the bolts and swung it open. Benedicta, hooded and muffled, and Crim the altar boy almost threw themselves into the church.

‘Sorry, Father, sorry, Father,’ the boy yelped, jumping up and down. ‘It was so cold, we thought we’d die. We wondered what had happened  . . .’

Athelstan peered behind them at the freezing mist boiling over the great cobbled expanse in front of the church. Night was over and a chilly day had dawned.

‘Day has come,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘and so we must continue our journey.’

‘Father?’

Athelstan smiled over his shoulder at Benedicta. She looked truly beautiful: a simple grey wimple under a cowl framed her olive-skinned face. Benedicta’s lustrous dark eyes, full of life, reminded Athelstan of the frescoes celebrating beauty in the great cathedrals of northern Italy, but now was not the time for reflection on such matters.

‘Never was and never should be,’ Athelstan murmured to himself.

‘What?’ Crim was still jumping up and down, as agitated as a box of frogs.

‘It’s never the time for certain things,’ Athelstan smiled. ‘So come.’

There was, in fact, little time for further conversation or greeting. All three hastened under the rood screen, up the sanctuary steps and into the whitewashed sacristy to the left of the high altar. Athelstan unlocked the vestment chest and the coffer holding the sacred vessels, cloths and bread and wine. Candles were brought out and lit. The sanctuary glowed into light. Manyer the bell clerk, all cowled and visored against the cold, hurried in to sound the bell for the Jesus Mass. The clanging echoed out. At short while later Athelstan’s parishioners, bustling and chattering, coughing and spluttering, filed into the church: Watkin the dung collector; Pike the ditcher with his narrow-eyed wife Imelda constantly on the search for insult; Godbless accompanied by his goat; Ranulf the rat catcher who always brought his two prize ferrets, Ferox and Audax; and Ursula and her sow, the great pig’s flanks and ears all flapping. The sight of so much luscious pork on the hoof, and so vulnerable, made people pause, stare and wet their lips. Basil the blacksmith always sat next to the sow so, as he put it, he could savour its warmth, though many noticed how the blacksmith’s fingers never wandered far from the stabbing dagger in his belt. Moleskin the boatman came along with other members of his coven: Merrylegs the pie-maker, Joscelyn the one-armed former pirate and keeper of ‘The Piebald’ tavern, Mauger the hangman and Pernel the mad Fleming woman who, in anticipation of Christ’s nativity, had dyed her wild tangle of hair red and green.

‘Green for the eternal Christ,’ she had screeched down the nave. ‘Red for his blood.’

They all congregated within the rood screen. Some squatted on the floor; others used the leaning poles. Athelstan, dressed in the purple and gold vestments of Advent, left the sacristy, approached the high altar and made the sign of the cross.

‘I will go unto the altar of God,’ he intoned, and so the Mass began sweeping towards its climax, the consecration and elevation of Christ’s body and blood under the appearance of bread and wine. The singing bread was distributed, the osculum pacis, the kiss of peace, exchanged, the Eucharist given. Athelstan delivered the final blessing.

‘The Mass is finished,’ he declared. ‘Go in peace, but not just yet.’

Athelstan ushered his parishioners out into the nave. He dramatically pointed to the small, self-standing cubicle of oak which stood near the small Galilee porch on the far side of the church.

‘Remember,’ he declared, ‘on one side is a pew for the penitent. On the other, separated by a partition with that lattice grille in the centre, is the seat for the priest.’ He paused. ‘Crispin and Tab built that; it’s our new shriving pew. We must use it. We must all go to confession.’ He smiled at the red, chapped faces of his parishioners, mittened fingers scratching their hair or tugging at ragged cloaks against the cold. ‘I shall be hearing confessions every evening during the last week of Advent to shrive you of your sins.’ His smile widened. ‘I hope to journey to Blackfriars to have my own pardoned.’

‘Do you sin?’ Watkin shouted. ‘You, a friar?’

‘Friars especially,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘then monks and even coroners. By the way, Huddle, I must have a chat with you about your most recent painting. Now,’ Athelstan hurried on, ‘as you know there’ll be no Nativity play. You also know the reason.’

He glimpsed Imelda dig Pike viciously in the ribs.

‘I will not rehearse the sorry reasons why. We took a vote and decided to form our own choir. Now, I have translated the “O Antiphons”.’ Athelstan gestured at the bell clerk, who officiously began to distribute the stained, dog-eared but precious scraps of parchment. ‘I know some of you cannot read.’

‘All of us!’ Tab joked.

‘Perhaps.’ Athelstan clasped his hands. ‘However, we’ve been through the words, we have learnt them. Now let us arrange ourselves in the proper voices.’

The usual confusion ensued but at last Athelstan had his choir ready. The gravel-hard, deep voices of Watkin, Pike and Ranulf at the back, the clear, lucid singers of Benedicta, Crim and Pernel at the front with the others in between. Once he had silence the front line, under Athelstan’s direction, began:

‘Alleluia, Oh Root of Jesse thrusting up, a sign to all the nations.’

The line of singers behind repeated it, and so on. Athelstan caught Benedicta’s eyes and smiled in delight.

‘Wonderful,’ he whispered as he directed them with his hands. These poor but grace-enriched souls sang so strong, so passionately, with all their hearts the great hymn to the Divine Child. Athelstan felt the tears prick his eyes. The antiphons continued.

‘Oh, Morning Star  . . . Oh, Key of David  . . .’

When they had finished, Athelstan shook his head in wonderment.

‘All I can do.’ He opened the wallet on his cord and took out a silver coin, a gift from Cranston. He twirled this between his fingers. ‘The labourer, or rather in this case,’ he proclaimed, ‘the singers, deserve their wages. Merrylegs, your pies are baked fresh and piping hot  . . .?’

Athelstan’s parishioners needed no further encouragement. The coin was snatched and Athelstan had never seen his church empty so swiftly.

‘Was it so good, Father?’

‘Benedicta, even the angels of God must have wept.’ Athelstan walked over and grasped her hands, warm in their black woollen mittens. ‘Benedicta, I am starving. Would you please look after the church and put the vessels back in the fosser?’

With Benedicta’s assurances ringing in his ears, Athelstan left by the corpse door. Bracing himself against the cold, the friar walked back up the lane to the priest house. He opened the door and stared at the huge figure seated on the stool, horn spoon in one hand, crouched over a steaming bowl of oatmeal. Beside Athelstan’s guest, watching every mouthful disappear, was Bonaventure, waiting so when Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London, finished the bowl he could lick it really clean.

‘Judas,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Cat, your name is Judas.’ He raised his voice. ‘My Lord Coroner, what is the penalty for stealing a poor friar’s breakfast?’

‘Murder.’ Cranston, wrapped in a Lincoln green war cloak, a brocaded beaver hat of the same colour on his head, turned, his rubicund, white be-whiskered face wreathed in a smile. ‘Murder, my little friar! I have left enough for you then we must go. The sons and daughters of Cain await us.’

‘The eyes of the dark robe of night. The shadow lands which stretch past evensong, these are all part of my story  . . .’ The enterprising taleteller, perched on an overturned barrel at the end of the lane leading on to the thoroughfare down to London Bridge caught Athelstan’s attention. The friar plucked at Cranston’s arm and paused to catch the dramatic words and colourful images which he hoped to use in a future sermon.

‘There,’ the teller of tales bawled, ‘the larvae of human souls wander whispering like bats twittering in a cave, for this truly is the realm of the screech owl  . . .’

‘Come on, Friar.’ Cranston, face almost hidden behind his muffler, pointed to where his principal bailiff Flaxwith with his hideous-looking mastiff Samson stood waiting ready to clear a way before the coroner. ‘Come on,’ Cranston repeated, ‘I’ve got a better tale to tell you.’

Athelstan dug into his wallet, dropped a penny into the storyteller’s box and, cowl pulled well over his head, joined Cranston to battle through the surging crowd. Despite a cutting breeze from the river and the stench of uncleared refuse on the slippery paths, London’s citizens had flocked out hacking and sneezing in the freezing air, oblivious to the leaden, brooding clouds which threatened more snow. They hurried down to the tawdry markets around the bridge to gawp, purchase or just gossip. The more vigorous also thronged around the stocks close to the river to fling refuse at Guillaume Lederer, who sat imprisoned for calling Bertram Mitford ‘a covetous snot, a vagabond, a wagwallet’ not to mention, ‘a side-tailed knave’. Guillaume’s name and crime were proclaimed on a placard around his neck, which also invited passing citizens to hurl abuse as well as anything else they could lay their hands on. Further down a more serious business was drawing to an end: the hanging of two women, Dulcea and her companion Katerina, who’d feloniously murdered Alice Willard of Rotherhithe – strangled her, no less, during a pilgrimage to Canterbury. The crowds swirled around the execution cart which abruptly pulled away just as Athelstan and Cranston passed. Both women were left to dance in the air as they slowly strangled on the hempen noose dangling down from the sooty, four-branched scaffold.

Death, of course, especially executions, was good for business and Athelstan was constantly distracted by the charlatans who always emerged on such occasions. One conjurer who, despite it being bleak midwinter, loudly boasted that the small pouch in his right hand contained three bumble bees which he could summon out, one by one each by their own name, as given to him by an angel he’d met on the road outside Havering-atte-Bowe. Other cozeners and conjurers had given up their tricks to plunder the corpses of the hanged and sell their ill-gotten items for a profit. A few of these knights of the dark just hoped the macabre scenes would influence the minds of those they hoped to cheat. Outside the Chapel of St Mary Overy a journeyman, his black capuchon, cotehardie and chausses embroidered with gold stars and silver moons, proclaimed how he, John Crok of Tedworth, had in the scarlet-blue fosser beside him a man’s head in a book. He proclaimed how the head was that of a Saracen. How he had bought it in Toledo in order to enclose a certain spirit which could answer questions about the future. Apparently the said spirit had not informed him about the approach of the coroner. One look at the burly Flaxwith and the equally fearsome Samson sent John Crok of Tedworth, his precious fosser clutched under one arm, fleeing through the crowds. Cranston just grunted noisily and muttered about some other time.

They passed under the gatehouse to the bridge, its crenellations ornamented with long poles bearing the severed heads of executed traitors, pirates and other criminals. On the steps leading up to the gatehouse sat the diminutive Robert Burdon, the keeper surrounded by his brood of children. Burdon was preparing another head, all pickled and tarred, to decorate the end of a pole. He glimpsed Cranston and Athelstan, shouted a greeting and continued with his macabre task of combing the long hair on the severed head.

Athelstan was now finding it difficult to keep up with Cranston’s stride. He still wasn’t sure where they were going or what they were doing. Cranston had told him little except that his wife, the diminutive Lady Maude, and their two sons the poppets were all ‘in fine fettle’. Then he added something, just as they left the priest house, about the mysterious death of Kilverby the Cheapside merchant as well as the gruesome slaying of one Gilbert Hanep at the great Benedictine Abbey of St Fulcher-on-Thames. The coroner also mentioned John of Gaunt, a precious bloodstone called the ‘Passio Christi – the Passion of Christ’ and that was it. Athelstan was curious for more but decided he would have to wait, especially here on London Bridge with its crowded shops, booths and stalls. The houses packed on either side soared up against the grey sky, forcing them and others to push up the broad narrow lane between, already packed with carts rattling on iron-bound wheels, braying sumpter ponies and apprentices bawling, ‘What do ye lack, what do ye lack?’ The sheer crush, the rancid stench of unwashed bodies, the clatter of waterwheels and the pounding of the angry river against the starlings of the bridge were a stark contrast to the silence Athelstan was accustomed to. He felt slightly dizzy as if he’d not eaten, even though he had. Cranston, thankfully, had not devoured all the oatmeal. Athelstan crossed himself and murmured the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’. He certainly needed God’s help. He was about to enter the meadows of murder, creep along the twisted alleyways along which padded the silent, soft-footed assassin. The age old duel was about to begin; as always, it would be ‘lutte à l’outrance, usque ad mortem – a fight to the death’. Would it be his? Athelstan wondered. Would he draw too close, make a mistake?

Athelstan touched Cranston’s arm for comfort; the coroner pressed his hand reassuringly and they left the bridge, entering the wealthy part of the city. The streets, paths and alleyways here were packed with fatter, fuller bodies encased in gaily caparisoned houppelandes, capuchons, cloaks, poltocks and tabards. Merchants, shimmering in their jewellery pompously paraded, accompanied by wives bedecked in gorgeous clothes and elaborately decorated headdresses. Knights in half-armour on plump, powerful destriers trotted by. Lawyers, resplendent in red silks, hastened down to the ‘Si Quis’ door at St Paul’s. The stalls and booths were open and business was brisk. Merchants and traders offered silver tasselled dorsers and thick woollen cushions for benches. Priests and monks, armed with cross and thuribles, processed to this ritual or that. The air was rich with the many smells from the public bakehouse as well as the fragrance of the vegetable stalls stacked high with onions, leeks, cabbages and garlic. Next to these the fleshers’ booths offered suckling pigs and capons freshly slaughtered and drained of blood. Pilgrims to the shrine of Becket’s parents rubbed shoulders with those fingering pardon beads as the Fraternity of the Salve Regina made their way down to one of the city churches.

Squalor and brutality also made themselves felt. Beggars, covered in sores and garbed in rags, clustered at the mouth of alleyways and the spindle-thin runnels which cut between the mansions and shops. Outside the churches the poor swarmed, desperate for the Marymeat and Marybread given out by the parish beadles in honour of the Virgin. Fripperers pushed their handcarts full of old clothes, ever quick to escape the sharp eyes of the market bailiffs. A clerk, who’d begged after hiding his tonsure with cattle dung, was being fastened in the stocks, next to him a woman who’d stolen a baby so she could plead for alms. The noise, bustle, smell and colour deafened the ear and blurred the mind. The forest of steepled churches continuously clanged, their bells marking the hour for Mass or another recitation of the divine office. Smoke, fumes and smells from smithies, cook shops, tanneries, fullers, taverns and alehouses mingled and merged. Dung carts crashed by, full of ordure collected from the streets. Night-walkers, faces the colour of box-wood, were being marched, manacled together, to stand in the cage on the Tun in Cheapside. Children, dogs and cats raced through gaps in the crowds, spreading their own noise and confusion and drowning the shouts of tinkers and traders.

Athelstan, who’d taken to fingering his Ave beads, sighed with relief when Flaxwith, Samson trotting behind him, abruptly turned into Rosenip Lane, leaning towards the great mansions of Cheapside. Each of these stood behind its own towering curtain wall, their rims protected by shards of pottery and broken glass. The noise, stench and clatter died away. They stopped before one mansion. A porter let them through the smartly painted black gates and into the broad gardens where small square plots of herbs, shrubs and plants lay dormant in the severe grip of winter. Athelstan gazed around. There were clumps of apple and other fruit trees, their branches stark black whilst the large stew pond was nothing more than a thick sheet of ice. Athelstan hurried to keep up with Cranston as he strode along the white-pebbled path leading towards an enclosed porch built around the main door.

A grey-haired, grey-faced, grey-eyed servant, who introduced himself as Crispin, Sir Robert Kilverby’s secretarius or clerk, ushered them in. Athelstan had been struck by the gorgeous wealth of this red-brick mansion with its blue slated roof, glass-filled windows and soaring chimney stacks. The interior was no different. Athelstan and Cranston walked across tiled floors of black and white lozenges. Drapes and tapestries decorated the pink-washed plaster above gleaming wooden panelling. A gorgeous riot of colours: emeralds, deep blues, argents, purples and gleaming reds pleased the eye. Beeswax tapers glowed on spigots and candelabra, shimmering in the sheen of oaken sideboards boasting gold and silver gilt cups, mazers, dishes and goblets. Thick turkey cloths covered some floors whilst heraldic devices decorated the walls of the broad staircase they climbed. The air was fragrant with the smell of scented woodsmoke as well as the perfumes from small heated herb pots pushed into corners or on sills, a pleasing mixture of black poplar, green grape and elder oil. Nevertheless, Athelstan detected a tension, a watching silence beneath all this opulence.

Crispin eventually ushered them both into the magnificent solar, assuring Sir John that Master Flaxwith would be made most comfortable in the kitchen below. The group of people seated on chairs, stools and settles before the roaring fire rose to greet them. Lady Helen, Kilverby’s widow, was dressed in a sumptuously green and gold gown with a white lace headdress. Beautiful but as hard as flint, Athelstan thought, with a temper sharper than the panther’s tooth. Adam Lestral, whom Lady Helen introduced as ‘her kinsman’, was pasty-faced with shifting eyes and a weak mouth, his long black hair sleek with nard. A man of dark design, Athelstan considered, full of arrogance, kinsman Adam dismissed both Cranston and the friar with a look of flickering contempt. Alesia, Kilverby’s daughter, was fair-headed with crystal-grey eyes and cherry lips. She kept smoothing down the gem-encrusted stomacher of her long, tawny gown whilst glancing across at her imperious stepmother with a venom Athelstan considered to be past all understanding. The introductions were finished. Mulled spice wine and wafer thin doucettes were offered and taken. Cranston emptied his small silver dish and downed his wine in noisy gulps whilst he stood with his back to the fire, stamping his feet. Athelstan sipped his wine partly to hide his smile. Cranston, as ever, was acting the bluff, hearty old soldier as he offered his condolences to the family. The coroner refused to sit down and gestured at Athelstan to undo the leather satchel containing his writing tray.

‘My Lady,’ Cranston began, ‘your husband’s corpse?’

‘Left in the chancery chamber,’ Alesia replied before her stepmother could, ‘on the floor. I thought it was best.’ She motioned at Crispin. ‘My father’s secretarius, Crispin, found him.’

‘Found him?’ Cranston barked. ‘When?’

‘Lamp lighting time,’ Crispin replied sonorously. ‘Just before dawn, I knocked  . . .’

‘Let us see.’ Cranston interrupted harshly, all bonhomie draining from his face. He pointed at Crispin who shrugged and led them out of the solar, along a gleaming, wood-panelled passageway and up a short flight of stairs.

‘My father’s chancery or counting house,’ Alesia called from behind them.

Athelstan turned and stared at the group from the solar. Alesia, Helen, Adam and Crispin. He sensed the rancid hatred and resentment curdling in this family. Even though Sir Robert lay dead they were all determined on their rights, certainly Mistress Alesia and Lady Helen were openly competing over who exercised authority now.

‘We’ll need help.’ Cranston stepped back. The heavy oaken door had been snapped off its hinges, causing severe damage to the surrounding lintel. It now blocked the entrance to the chancery.

‘It had to be done,’ Lady Helen declared. She pointed back down the gallery where a group of servants clustered. ‘My husband would not answer. The door was both locked and bolted from the inside. It had to be forced.’

‘I had it placed back,’ Alesia added sharply, ‘to seal the chamber. My father, Sir John, did not die. He was murdered.’

‘Nonsense,’ Lady Helen whispered, ‘who would  . . .’

Athelstan came back down the steps. ‘Whatever is the cause, that is why we are here.’

Athelstan and Cranston waited until the servants moved the door. They then told the household to wait outside and walked into the chamber. Athelstan stared round that comfortable, luxurious room. He crossed himself then knelt and removed the sheet over the corpse lying on its makeshift bed of turkey rugs. Kilverby, an old man with scrawny white hair, had certainly died in agony: eyes popping, throat constricted, his partly opened lips had turned faintly blueish. The skin of his face was slightly liverish, the flesh swiftly hardening.

‘Has he been shriven?’ Athelstan called.

‘No, Father,’ Alesia retorted falteringly.

‘Or a physician called?’ Cranston added.

‘Yes.’ Lady Helen came up into the doorway and stopped at Athelstan’s sign to remain outside.

‘Master Theobald the physician, but he has been detained.’

Athelstan fished inside his leather satchel, took out his stole, put it round his neck then brought out the small phial of holy oils. Lady Helen walked away whilst Athelstan swiftly murmured the ‘Absolvo te’ into the dead man’s ear. Afterwards he anointed the corpse on the brow, eyes, nose, mouth, hands and feet as he intoned the funeral prayer: ‘Go forth Christian soul  . . .’ Once completed Athelstan undid the man’s clothing. Pulling up the quilted jerkin, cambric chemise and linen undershirt, Athelstan felt the belly, hard like a ball of old string. He also noticed the blueish-red stains on the stomach and lower chest.

‘Poison?’ Cranston, who’d been wandering the chamber, came back to stand over him.

‘I think so, Sir John, of the garden variety.’ Athelstan took off his stole and put the items back in his satchel.

‘Hemlock, henbane, belladonna are the most powerful potions and, at the same time, the easiest to disguise.’

‘Well, it’s not in the wine.’ Cranston brought across both the half-filled flagon and the loving cup, still quite full.

Athelstan sniffed at these. ‘No trace, no odour,’ he murmured. He knelt back down and smelt the dead man’s mouth. He caught a highly bitter, rather sour tang.

‘Any food?’ He glanced up.

‘Only these.’ Cranston brought across the small silver dish of sweetmeats. He pulled back the linen covering. ‘One is half eaten.’

Athelstan picked this up and examined it. ‘Nothing but sweetness. I wonder?’ He stared down at the corpse. ‘Was it really poison or just a seizure?’ He crouched and swiftly went through Kilverby’s pockets and belt purse but found nothing untoward. He rose and went round that chamber, a jewel of a chancery with its broad oaken desk, side tables, high-backed quilted chair and stools. Shelves fastened against the walls alongside cunningly crafted pigeon-hole boxes were used to store manuscripts and rolls of vellum. Fossers, chests and coffers stood neatly stacked. Cranston seemed more concerned with these, trying lids and locks. Athelstan crouched before the hearth. The fire was nothing more than white ash but the chafing dishes and small heating pans, perforated to emit spiced smoke, were still warm. Wrinkling his nose, Athelstan uncovered the chamber pot kept in the corner; it contained nothing but urine, no trace that Sir Robert had vomited or been caught by some stomach seizure. Athelstan put this back, washed his hands at the small lavarium and sat down on the chancery chair. The desk in front of him was littered with blank scraps of vellum. The writing tray, a pallet of exquisitely carved silver, contained three luxuriously plumed quill pens, all used. Nearby ranged pots of red, green and black inks, pumice stones, a parchment knife, a sander and scraps of sealing wax.

‘Sir John?’ Lady Helen, eager to exert her authority, reappeared in the doorway.

‘Not yet, my Lady.’ Cranston pointed at the sheeted corpse. ‘Though your husband’s corpse can be taken away, perhaps to your own bed chamber?’

A short while later Crispin and a few servants entered. Cranston supervised the removal of the corpse whilst Athelstan studied the tapestry hanging above the wainscoting. A vision of hell rich with gory scenes of the avaricious swallowing fiery coins, vomiting them up, then being forced to re-devour them under the supervision of a wrathful goblin. A synod of demons watched this torture. They all sat in council around Hell’s dread Emperor enthroned under a purple-black awning. On either side of him clustered night-hags and hell-hounds.

‘Wait!’ the coroner ordered. ‘Don’t move the corpse yet.’

Athelstan broke from his reverie.

‘Lady Helen, Mistress Alesia?’ Cranston called.

Both women, Adam Lestral slipping in behind, entered the chamber.

‘My ladies,’ Cranston made a bow, ‘once again, my condolences. However, His Grace the Regent is not only concerned about the mysterious death of Sir Robert but the safety and security of the Passio Christi.’

‘He kept it here.’ Alesia declared. ‘Always in this chamber. The room is so secure. You’ve seen the door?’ She gestured at the small oriel windows filled with painted glass. ‘Those are too small for entry, and there are no secret entrances or closets.’

‘And which coffer or casket holds the bloodstone?’

‘This one.’ Crispin crossed and picked up a small iron-bound casket with a barrel-shaped lid, three stout locks ranged along its lip.

‘And the keys?’

‘Three separate locks each with its own unique key,’ Crispin muttered.

‘And?’ the coroner demanded.

‘Only Sir Robert kept them.’

‘I know where.’ Athelstan smiled, recalling the jingling as he examined the dead man’s belly. Athelstan crossed to the stretcher, each of its poles held by a servant. He ran a finger round the dead man’s neck and pulled free the chain, undid the clasp and gently drew it away.

‘That should be done  . . .’ Lady Helen gasped.

‘This shall be done by the King’s coroner,’ Cranston snapped, and took the keys. After a great deal of trial and error, he inserted each into its appropriate lock. Whilst the coroner was busy, Athelstan studied Kilverby’s household gathered in the doorway then gazed round that opulent chamber. He was certain of this: under the cope of night, murder had slipped like some silent fury into this locked chamber and snatched Kilverby’s soul. The Apostate Angel hovered in that wealthy house, brushing them all with his wings. Murder had certainly unfurled its dark banners but how had this bloody mayhem been so cunningly executed? He half expected Cranston’s cry of surprise, echoed by the others, as the coffer lid snapped back.

‘Empty!’ Cranston whirled round. ‘The Passio Christi has gone!’

‘Impossible!’ Crispin blurted out. ‘It was there yesterday, I and others were present when Sir Robert showed it to the two monks from St Fulcher’s. We were there later in the solar when he put it back. I  . . .’

Athelstan glanced at the others. Alesia stood, her mouth gaping. Helen, face in her hands, peered through her fingers. Kinsman Adam just stared at the open coffer and the empty dark blue samite which once held the bloodstone.

‘His Grace will not be pleased,’ Cranston muttered. ‘He’ll claim treason and vow that someone will hang for this.’

‘We have not taken it,’ Alesia cried.

‘Taken what?’ a voice shouted from the stairwell. Theobald de Troyes, the local physician, shoved his way in coughing and spluttering as he apologized for his tardiness. Unaware of the confusion in the chamber, Theobald pulled back the shroud and stared down at the cadaver.

‘He’s dead!’ he bellowed. ‘And that will cost you five shillings.’ He turned to go but Cranston caught at his costly, ermine-trimmed robe and dragged him back.

‘Master Theobald,’ he said mockingly, ‘good day!’

‘And good day to you, Sir John. I  . . .’

‘I am not in the best of tempers,’ Cranston bellowed. ‘You  . . .’ he jabbed a finger at the terrified-looking Crispin, ‘take the corpse to your mistress’s bed chamber. You, master physician, examine it most carefully then come back here and you,’ he gestured at the others, ‘wait for me in the solar.’

Once they’d all gone, Cranston slumped down on the stool cradling the empty casket.

‘Well, Friar?’

‘This chamber was certainly locked and bolted.’ Athelstan gestured round. ‘No secret passageways, no window to be forced yet, some stealthy night-shape, some shadow-stalker gained entry. If our evidence holds true, this assassin poisoned Sir Robert, forced that casket, stole the Passio Christi, relocked the coffer and put the keys around Sir Robert’s neck. Sir John, what exactly is this bloodstone?’

‘In a while, in a while.’ Cranston’s blue eyes were now hard as glass. ‘This surely is only the beginning of our troubles. Look, Friar,’ the coroner put the coffer down between his feet. ‘Sir Robert Kilverby is – was, a merchant with fingers and toes in every pie in the kitchen. He traded in everything, silk, spices and salt. His stalls and shops displayed dazzling armour, precious silver belts, pouches and scabbards. He brought in leather goods from Cordova, linens from Genoa, scarlet silks from Lucca and Florence. He was both banker and money changer. He gave generously to the old King and his sons so they could go on chevauchee across the Narrow Seas to plunder the French  . . .’

‘I know of Sir Robert,’ Athelstan intervened. He picked up the quill pens and examined them carefully. He sniffed at all three plume tails and cautiously licked them with his tongue, running each of the quill pens through his fingers.

‘Monk?’

‘Friar, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I thought these might be tainted but they’re not. Anyway, the Passio Christi?’

‘The Passion of Christ.’ Cranston glanced at the wine jug and smacked his lips.

‘I wouldn’t, Sir John.’

‘True.’ Cranston sighed. ‘Well, the Passio Christi or the Passion of Christ is a precious bloodstone. When Christ died on the Cross, drops of his blood and sweat trickled down to miraculously form a precious ruby. Joseph of Arimathea took this sacred jewel and  . . .’ Cranston shrugged. ‘Well, it passed from hand to hand, from one generation to the next until it ended up in the Abbey of St Calliste near Poitiers in France. Now, after the Black Prince’s great victory there, a cart found near the abbey was plundered by one of those free companies who fought for the Crown, the Wyverns, a company both feared and fearful.’

‘I’ve heard of such companies,’ Athelstan intervened, chewing his lip. ‘I’ve also seen their handiwork,’ he added sadly, recalling his own youth.

‘Ah, well.’ Cranston continued in a rush, glancing at Athelstan out of the corner of his eye. He just prayed he was not stirring harsh, cruel memories in the little friar’s soul. ‘Now, a group of these Wyverns, master bowmen all, allegedly found the Passio Christi and claimed it as legitimate plunder of war  . . .’

‘But surely the abbey, the church objected?’

‘Oh, our noble archers were very cunning. They maintained they’d found the bloodstone, along with other precious items, in a cart on a trackway near the abbey. You know the proclamations, Athelstan. Let’s be blunt. You’ve served in France. Stealing from a church could earn you a hanging but something found on a cart in a country lane  . . .? Of course the good monks, their abbot and the local bishop could sing whatever hymn they wanted but, in this case, however fictitious their story might be, those who find do keep. Now, the bloodstone couldn’t be divided or kept by one of them whilst the Crown also demanded a share.’

‘The Wyverns would not be too pleased with that? As you said, those who find, do keep?’

‘Precisely. In the end an indenture was drawn up: the Passio Christi would be held by a responsible third party.’

‘In this case Sir Robert Kilverby?’

‘Correct. He would keep it safe and provide a pension, on behalf of the Crown, to the exchequer for each master bowman.’

‘How many?’

‘Oh, not the whole company – five or six I believe – only those who actually found the bloodstone.’ Cranston sighed. ‘If they survived military service, and they did, the former soldiers would also be provided with corrodies: comfortable lodgings at some great monastery. This occurred, in their case the Abbey of St Fulcher-on-Thames.’

‘And when they all died?’

‘Good question, Friar, for that may relate to our next mystery.’ Cranston shook a gauntleted hand. ‘All will be revealed in God’s good time. To answer your specific question, once all the finders of the bloodstone were dead, the precious relic would revert to the Crown who’d pay Kilverby, or his estate, one tenth of its market value as recompense for his good services.’

‘And why was it held here?’

‘Everyone trusted Kilverby. He was too rich to be tempted. Anyway, I believe the indenture was modified slightly so that twice a year he would show the Passio Christi to both the exchequer at Westminster as well as all relicts of the Wyvern Company residing at St Fulcher.’ Cranston squinted at Athelstan. ‘I am sure it was twice a year, at Easter and the Feast of St Damasus.’

‘Which is today.’

‘True, true.’ Cranston fidgeted on the stool.

‘And now something has also happened at St Fulcher’s.’

‘Horrid murder!’ Cranston retorted. ‘One of the Wyverns, Gilbert Hanep, was found headless near the grave of an old comrade.’

‘He was beheaded!’

‘Clean and neat as you would cut a flower.’

‘Why  . . .?’ Athelstan was interrupted by Physician Theobald storming into the chamber, in one hand a piece of bread in the other a cup of claret, which he downed in one gulp before glaring at Cranston.

‘Poison!’ he almost shouted. ‘Definitely poison, very powerful, water hemlock perhaps. So, my Lord Coroner, I’m done.’

‘Not yet.’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Good and learned physician, I want you to help us search this chamber for any trace of poison, be it smeared on a handle or anywhere else.’ He pointed at the chamber pot. ‘And you can re-examine that.’ Athelstan tapped the silver dish of comfits on the desk as well as the wine jug and loving cup. ‘You are to take these away and scrupulously search for any trace of poison.’ Athelstan caught a flicker of annoyance in the physician’s greedy eyes. ‘You’ll be paid. Now, my Lord Coroner, let us search.’

As they did so Athelstan asked Cranston to send for Flaxwith and to tell him about Kilverby and his family. Sir John, moving around the chamber, chattered about how he and the dead man were old acquaintances, though not quite friends. How he was one of the executors of Kilverby’s will, adding that in the event of Lady Helen not giving him a child, the bulk of the dead merchant’s wealth, including this fine mansion, would go to Sir Robert’s only daughter, the recently wedded Alesia.

‘Her husband is also a goldsmith,’ Theobald offered. ‘Sir Robert had ceased his trading days. He was getting ready to leave  . . .’

‘Leave?’

‘Aye. Leave all this in the trusting hands of Alesia and her husband Edmond Pulick whilst Sir Robert went on pilgrimage to Santiago, Rome and Jerusalem though, some say,’ Theobald lowered his voice, ‘he was fleeing from the hellish Helen and her shadow, kinsman Adam.’ He paused as Crispin knocked on the lintel and enquired how long they would have to wait in the solar.

‘For as long as it takes,’ Cranston snapped. ‘Send up Master Flaxwith; he’s filled his belly enough.’

‘Oh, by the way, Crispin,’ Theobald called, ‘your eyes?’

‘Just the same,’ the clerk replied. ‘We’re all growing old, master physician.’

Cranston waited for Crispin’s footsteps to fade then clapped his hands.

‘Friar, we’ve finished here, yes?’

‘We certainly have and found nothing,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘Only the wine, the flagon, cup and sweetmeats remain. Master Theobald, don’t forget to take them away.’

‘And eat them?’ the physician protested.

‘Nonsense.’ Athelstan laughed. ‘You have a cellar plagued by rats? Put the sweetmeats and the wine down there, you’ll soon discover if they are tainted. Oh, by the way, did you examine Kilverby’s fingertips?’

‘Nothing but ink and wine,’ the physician replied wearily. ‘No trace of any noxious potion.’

Flaxwith appeared in the doorway.

‘Ah, Flaxwith.’ Athelstan waited until the physician, carrying jug, goblet and silver bowl, stomped off, grumbling under his breath about payment. ‘Flaxwith, with Sir John’s permission, I want you, whilst we are questioning our hosts in the solar, to have this door repaired. Once it is, I want it locked, barred and firmly sealed with the Lord Coroner’s signet so that no one can enter. Do you understand?’

‘Athelstan?’ Cranston queried.

‘Nothing is to leave this chamber. No one is to enter once Sir John and I have adjourned to the solar. Come on.’ Athelstan waved. ‘Sir John, the hours pass.’

A short while later Cranston, Athelstan sitting beside him, stared round this wealthy family. Edmond Pulick had now joined Alesia. He was friendly-faced with sandy hair and a snub nose above a smiling mouth. Pleasant and discreet, Athelstan considered, though with sharp eyes. The precise way Pulick acted showed he was a merchant through and through, ready to assess and weigh everything in the balance. Athelstan studied the rest. Each nursed their own soul, which was full of what? God’s grace or murder, hatred, revenge or even just the love of killing? Certainly one of them was an assassin. Athelstan then smiled and mentally murmured ‘Mea culpa’ for his rushed judgement as Cranston’s first question revealed that others may well be involved.

‘Who gave Sir Robert the dish of sweetmeats?’

‘Not us,’ Crispin replied swiftly. ‘Sir Robert, God assoil him, entertained Prior Alexander and Brother Richer from St Fulcher’s yesterday afternoon. They brought the comfits as a gift. I even ate one.’

‘Why did they visit Sir Robert?’

‘Business,’ Crispin replied. ‘The Passio Christi was to be taken to St Fulcher’s today – they came to fix the hour. There were other matters. Sir Robert also confirmed that I would be given good lodgings when he began his pilgrimage at the beginning of Lent.’

‘And who,’ Cranston interrupted, ‘would have looked after Sir Robert’s affairs when he was away?’

‘Edmond and I,’ Alesia replied, throwing a hateful glance at her stepmother. ‘Matters would be in safe hands.’ She grasped her husband’s arm. He simply smiled, eyes watchful for Cranston’s next question.

‘And the Passio Christi, what would have happened to that when Sir Robert left?’

‘We would have kept it secure.’ Alesia didn’t seem so certain now. ‘After all, Edmond is a very respected member  . . .’

Kinsman Adam suddenly sniggered. Athelstan glanced sideways. Sir John’s eyes were growing heavy; he was slumping in the great chair brought up in front of the roaring fire.

‘Sir John is weary.’ Athelstan paused at the furious knocking from down the gallery. ‘Your father’s chamber is being made secure and sealed. No one, and I repeat no one, on their allegiance to the Crown, is to enter that chamber. I repeat.’ He ignored all their protests, especially from Lady Helen. ‘No one is to enter.’ He pointed at Alesia, her red-rimmed eyes now dry in her long, pale face. ‘Mistress, your father was murdered – undoubtedly poisoned.’ He waited for the gasps and cries to subside.

‘But how?’ Edmond demanded. ‘We had supper with him last night. Sir Robert was in good spirits when he left the table.’

‘Then?’ Cranston abruptly drew himself up in the chair, smacking his lips, fingers impatiently beating against the arm rest. ‘What happened then?’ he repeated.

‘He adjourned to his chamber.’ Crispin spoke up.

‘Did you go with him?’

‘No, Sir John,’ Lady Helen replied. ‘My husband,’ she emphasized the word, ‘said he wanted to reflect. I don’t know why, we don’t know why, he simply asked not to be disturbed. He had his wine and those sweetmeats, to which he was partial. He bolted and locked the door and never came out.’

‘And no one visited him?’

‘Nobody,’ Crispin declared. ‘Once Sir Robert had decided to be alone that was it.’

‘I wished him goodnight,’ Lady Helen declared. ‘I called through the door.’

‘As did I,’ Alesia added.

‘And Sir Robert replied both times?’

‘Of course, Brother. If he hadn’t, we would have been alarmed.’

‘And the Passio Christi?’

‘I saw it,’ Alesia declared. ‘Crispin, Edmond and I were here after the monks had left. He showed it to us and put it back in the coffer. Crispin and he took it back to his chamber. I saw him lock the casket and put the keys back on the chain around his neck.’ Alesia wetted her lips, slender fingers rubbing her brow. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, my father kept the bloodstone in that coffer in his chancery. I  . . .’

‘Mistress,’ Athelstan soothed, ‘after supper your father retired for the night about what hour?’

‘He went to the garderobe first,’ she replied. ‘It’s a little further along the gallery. He made himself comfortable. I think it must have been  . . .’

‘About compline,’ Crispin interjected, ‘the bells were ringing for compline. I remember glancing through the window and saw the beacons flaring in the church steeples. The streets below were quiet.’

‘And Sir Robert definitely stayed in his chamber?’

‘Yes, yes.’ They spoke together.

‘So,’ Athelstan cradled his leather satchel rocking gently backwards and forwards. ‘No one goes into that chamber. It is bolted and locked from the inside, and this morning?’

‘I went there,’ Crispin replied. ‘I knocked, then I hammered and shouted.’

‘I came down,’ Lady Helen leaned forward. ‘Kinsman Adam and I also tried.’ She pulled a face and one, Athelstan reflected, not so full of grieving. ‘By then the entire house was roused. The door was forced and Sir Robert,’ she tried to create a tremor in her voice and dabbed quickly at her eyes with the long hem of her cuff, ‘lay dead on the floor but, apart from that horrid sight, nothing else was disturbed.’

‘And nothing was?’ Athelstan queried sharply. ‘Nobody touched anything?’

‘Nobody,’ Alesia agreed. ‘I was so shocked I just stood in the doorway. Master Crispin scrutinized the chancery table and asked me if the casket holding the Passio Christi was secure. I did. It was undisturbed. Sir John, you discovered where my father kept his keys?’

For a while there was silence.

‘One more thing.’ Athelstan smiled round. ‘Let’s go back to something you have mentioned. Yesterday afternoon, Tuesday the eve of St Damasus, you were visited by two monks from St Fulcher’s – Prior Alexander and Sub-Prior Richer, yes?’

‘True,’ Crispin murmured, ‘we’ve explained that.’ Crispin’s eyes were blinking so furiously Athelstan recalled Physician Theobald’s earlier question and wondered if this old secretarius had a serious ailment of the eyes.

‘Who met them?’

‘My father,’ Alesia declared. ‘Crispin, Edmond and I were also present.’

‘They brought gifts?’

‘Yes, delicious sweetmeats. They asked to see the Passio Christi.’

‘So what was the purpose of their visit?’

‘I’ve explained already,’ Crispin answered. ‘They had business in Cheapside dealing with other merchants but,’ he fingered the cap of the inkhorn strapped to his belt, ‘Sir Robert also wanted to see them.’

‘What I mean is this,’ Athelstan paused, ‘I understand the Passio Christi had to be taken to St Fulcher’s to be shown to the members of the Wyvern Company. Your father would have taken it, so why see the monks yesterday when a further meeting was planned for today?’

‘I shall answer that,’ Lady Helen declared fiercely.

‘Shall you, mother dearest?’

‘Alesia!’ Helen’s face was a mask of fury. ‘My husband also confided in me, Sir John.’ Lady Helen apparently considered Athelstan beneath her notice; she hardly glanced at him. ‘My husband was a devout man. He did not ask to hold the Passio Christi, which he regarded as a precious relic. He did not like the Wyvern Company. More importantly, he resented taking the Passio Christi out to them.’

‘So he asked the monks to come here?’

‘Brother, you have it wrong!’ Lady Helen snapped. ‘My husband may have done wrong, been harsh, but he did penance for all that. At the same time he continued to do his duty here in London. You see,’ Lady Helen forced a smile, ‘the bloodstone still had to be taken to St Fulcher’s today for those old soldiers to see whatever happened yesterday.’

‘So?’

‘I was to take it!’ Alesia declared.

‘As was I.’ Crispin rubbed his hands on his gown. ‘Lady Helen is correct. My master hated taking the Passio Christi to St Fulcher’s. He did not go last year and he certainly didn’t intend to this year. The Passio Christi was to be taken by me, Mistress Alesia and Master Edmond. We planned,’ he controlled the quaver in his voice, ‘to leave at first light this morning, which is when I tried to rouse my master.’

‘So why did the good brothers visit here?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘The Passio Christi was a curiosity but why else?’ He smiled apologetically. ‘I know I have asked this before but I want to clarify matters.’

‘My eyesight is failing,’ Crispin explained. ‘I have been examined by skilled oculists. When my master left on pilgrimage I was to be given comfortable lodgings at St Fulcher’s, in the abbot’s own guest house. Prior Alexander, who used to be infirmarian and skilled in physics, would look after my eyes.’

‘And you wanted that?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Crispin confessed. ‘I would be distraught about my master’s leaving but one day he would return.’

‘And the Passio Christi?’ Athelstan asked.

‘You are persistent, Friar,’ Crispin murmured. He glanced around. ‘I must tell the truth.’ He paused. ‘Sir Robert was tired of holding the Passio Christi. He wanted to give it back.’

‘To whom?’ Cranston asked.

‘Why, the Abbey of St Fulcher,’ Alesia replied. ‘Father truly disliked those old soldiers. He’d always thought the bloodstone was taken as the legitimate plunder of war but, in the last few years, he began to wonder whether they had stolen it – an act of sacrilege. Of course he liked to go to the abbey itself. He was a generous benefactor and often visited the brothers.’

‘For what?’ Cranston asked.

‘To retreat, to pray, to fast, to cure his soul.’

‘And would the exchequer have agreed to the Passio Christi being given to the abbey?’ Cranston asked.

‘My father  . . .’ Alesia’s voice faltered, she looked askance at Crispin.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake tell them the rest,’ Lady Helen almost shouted. ‘Sir Robert intended to leave the Passio Christi at St Fulcher’s and let the Crown fight its own battle. The Abbey of St Calliste outside Poitiers was Benedictine. Sir Robert couldn’t return it there but he could at least hand it over to the Benedictines in this kingdom. True?’

Athelstan glanced at the others, who murmured their agreement.

‘Very astute,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Once Holy Mother Church seizes something, it is very difficult to force her to relinquish it, especially when she can claim rights in the first place. So,’ he drew a deep breath, ‘nothing else was discussed? You’re sure the Passio Christi was still here when the good brothers left?’

‘We all saw it,’ Edmond replied. ‘Brother Athelstan, I know what you are thinking.’

‘Do you?’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Then you are a better man than I.’

‘I suspect you are wondering whether we allowed the Passio Christi to be taken by our visitors, but that would have been highly dangerous. The Crown would have blamed us, yes?’

Athelstan nodded.

‘What Edmond is saying,’ Alesia spoke up, ‘is my father would have taken the bloodstone to St Fulcher’s on the very day he left for Jerusalem. It would be his decision, his responsibility, not ours. Brother,’ Alesia waved around, ‘look at our great wealth. My father was a hard but honourable man; in his last days he turned more and more to God. Sir John,’ she appealed to the coroner. ‘Would you like to be the custodian of the Passio Christi? A sacred relic possibly pillaged from the sanctuary of an abbey?’

‘But why the change?’ Cranston asked. ‘After all the bloodstone was in his care for decades, yes?’

‘In years past my father would take it to the exchequer at Westminster where one or all of the Wyvern Company would always be present. He simply viewed that as part of his many business relationships.’

‘And recently?’

‘Four years ago the Wyverns were given lodgings at St Fulcher’s. It was agreed that the twice a year journey would take place whilst they were there.’

‘Why?’

‘The soldiers were growing old; William Chalk became frail. My father also had considerable business with the abbey. All parties agreed to that so the indenture was amended accordingly.’

‘And Sir Robert’s attitude towards the Wyverns?’

‘At first they were simply one group amongst my father’s many commercial acquaintances. However, once they were at St Fulcher’s, my father’s attitude towards them changed. I suspect that as he grew more devout, he began to question whether they really had stolen it. He grew to resent them.’

‘Why did he change?’

‘I’ve told you, there are two accounts: first that the Wyvern Company found the Passio Christi, the other that they’d stolen it. My father began to believe the latter.’

‘Did he have proof for that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘When your father visited St Fulcher’s, which monk was he friendly with?’

Alesia moved her head from side to side. ‘From what I gather  . . .’ She glanced at Crispin.

‘Abbot Walter,’ the old clerk replied. ‘Prior Alexander as well as the young Frenchman, Sub-Prior Richer.’

‘Did any of them,’ Athelstan asked, ‘give your father ghostly advice?’

‘He spoke to all three – I don’t really know.’

‘So,’ Cranston declared, ‘Sir Robert Kilverby came to dislike those old soldiers; he also resented holding the Passio Christi. He didn’t like what he’d done or what he was doing. He turned to God. He was preparing to leave on pilgrimage and that raises a further possibility. Did Sir Robert himself decide to get rid of the Passio Christi?’

‘What?’ Adam Lestral’s voice was thin and reedy. ‘Sir John, are you saying that Sir Robert took the Passio Christi and cast it down the privy or threw it into the street?’

Despite the petulant, strident tone Athelstan recognized the logic of the question. If this company were to be believed, and on this Athelstan certainly did, Sir Robert regarded the Passio Christi as a most sacred relic to be securely kept, not thrown away like a piece of rubbish.

‘We would all go on oath,’ Alesia said quietly. ‘The Passio Christi was here last night long after those monks had returned to their abbey. Look at my father’s chancery chamber; there is no hiding place, no window to open even if he wanted to throw something away.’

‘I agree,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘When he died Sir Robert truly believed the Passio Christi was still firmly in his care. So,’ he shook his head, ‘what really happened remains a mystery.’ Athelstan sat, allowing the silence to deepen.

Cranston gently tapped the friar’s sandalled foot with the toe of his boot. Athelstan got to his feet and both he and Sir John took their leave. The friar was now fully distracted, eager to escape and reflect on all this murderous mayhem and the mysteries which surrounded it  . . .