Bloodstone (17 page)

Cranston got to his feet, knocking over the stool.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Vox Populi squinted up at him, ‘one last thing. The Great Community have marked you down for death.’

‘Like so many others in my long life.’

‘I know you, Jack. You’ll fight, and you’ll survive, but your monk  . . .?’

‘Friar, and he’s not mine.’

‘Athelstan, on him,’ Vox Populi whispered, ‘sentence has not yet been passed.

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Everyone is buying protection, Jack. Kilverby did and so has Abbot Walter. Have you ever wondered why he gave the Wyverns such comfortable lodgings?’

‘He had to, the Crown insisted.’

‘I’ve never yet met a monk who didn’t try to wriggle out of an agreement. No, Jack, Abbot Walter was only too pleased to have master bowmen in the abbey just in case the Upright Men decided not to be so upright. Can you imagine Jack, seven master archers, their bows strung, arrows notched, loosing showers of barbed shafts at any intruders?’ Vox Populi lowered his head. ‘Well then, there were six. Now there are four, that’s better than nothing. Who knows, Jack, the deaths of my comrades Hanep and Hyde could be the work of the Upright Men, removing the guard dogs before they attack.’

Cranston picked up the stool and sat down. ‘Who else would murder them? Some old blood feud?’

‘Well, I doubt if the abbot would kill his own watch dogs. The Frenchman Richer? Does he have the skill? Perhaps his infernal Grace the Regent wants the Passio Christi so badly he killed Kilverby and now he wants to annihilate the Wyverns. Who knows what in this vale of tears?’

‘Would they turn on each other?’

‘Hardly likely. Wenlock is a cripple, captured by the French. They sheared off his archer fingers. He and Mahant, according to you, were in London when Hanep was killed and still out of the abbey when Hyde was slaughtered. I used my last coins to send a message to them. I don’t know if they came to meet me. Look at me,’ he gestured around the cell, ‘a crust of bread would have been a gift from heaven.’ Vox Populi stared wistfully into his empty wine cup. ‘Now, Sir Jack, your promise?’

Cranston leaned across and seized the prisoner’s beard.

‘I’ll have a word with the keeper. You’ll be moved to the common hold. In two days time Master Flaxwith and my bailiffs will collect you, washed, shaved and clothed with a few pennies to spend. You’ll be taken down to Queenshithe. If I ever see your face again I’ll hang you myself.’ Cranston released his grip. ‘Goodnight, friend, I will not see you again.’

The coroner left Newgate intent on Cheapside. He had learnt enough. He only wished he could share his thoughts with Athelstan. Undoubtedly the Passio Christi lay at the heart of all these mysteries, but how and why? Cranston was certainly determined to question Crispin and intended do so before the end of the day. The coroner gathered his cloak about him and stared around. The harsh early frost and seeping river mist had already cleared the great concourse in front of Newgate. The Fleshers’ stalls had gone, as had all the remains and slops from the day’s trade. Torches, braziers and great bonfires flared, drawing in the poor and homeless, who gathered silently in their ragged cloaks for any warmth. Franciscans appeared, moving amongst the huddled groups, dispensing what physical or spiritual comfort they could. Cranston ignored these, more alert to the twinkling light of naked steel or the shapes flitting along the shadows’ edge. He was certainly being followed but that was normal. Life had a pattern. Cranston was very alert to that pattern being disturbed.

The city now lay silent, sinking deep into the fierce frost which already sparkled in the fading light. The night creatures were out; these kept to the murky mouth of alleyways or grouped close to the makeshift bonfires the bailiffs had kindled to burn rubbish as well as warm the homeless who brought whatever raw meat or fish they’d pilfered to roast over the flames. The Mendicants of Christ, garbed in robes of dark murrey festooned with the Five Holy Wounds, did their nightly rounds with baskets of stale bread and rejected fruit and fish. A pilgrim, absorbed in his own private devotions, came out of an alleyway dragging a cross in reparation for some sin. Cranston noticed this and trudged on, only stopping to greet bailiffs and beadles he recognized. Cranston was cold, hungry and angry. Kilverby’s family could have been more honest with him and he intended to rectify this.

The coroner reached the dead merchant’s mansion and immediately gained entrance. He strode in and demanded the household meet him in the solar. Cranston only gave the barest apology for dragging them away from their supper, though he sensed that the deep antagonism between Lady Helen and Mistress Alesia probably marred such occasions. They eventually gathered and sat in the comfortable leather-cased chairs near the fire. Cranston drained the cup of hot posset he’d been given, watching their faces, especially the furrowed, anxious-looking Crispin, who kept blinking and wetting his lips.

‘Sir John,’ Lady Helen coughed prettily, ‘you have more questions?’

‘Yes, you,’ Cranston pointed at Crispin, ‘know your master’s business. Years ago he financed the Wyvern Company through loans to the King’s son the Black Prince – yes?’

Crispin nodded.

‘He took a share of the spoils?’

Again, the nod.

‘So he was fervent in his support of such warriors?’

‘Of course, Sir John.’

‘He profited from their plundering. He held the Passio Christi in trust.’

‘Yes.’ Crispin’s nervousness deepened, ‘But that was years ago.’

‘Sir John,’ Alesia intervened, ‘your questions – they’re leading to my father’s recent change of heart.’

‘What change of heart,’ Cranston barked. ‘Why, when?’

‘In the last three years,’ Alesia’s cheeks had turned slightly red, ‘my father grew tired of his life; he wanted to change, to go on pilgrimage, to make reparation.’

‘Reparation for past sins, I presume.’

‘You presume right, Sir John,’ Lady Helen declared. ‘My good husband,’ she darted a venomous look at Alesia, ‘had grown tired of his life.’

‘And his marriage!’ Alesia snapped.

‘How dare you!’

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

‘I don’t know, Sir John.’

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

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

‘Who else was he close to – you?’

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

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

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

‘Such as?’

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

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

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

‘I don’t.’

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

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

‘My father was much loved.’

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

‘Sir John  . . .’

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

‘Of course.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And St Damasus?’

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

‘And where’s that?’

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

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

No one objected.

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

‘The influence of Richer,’ Alesia broke in.

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

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

‘What was that vision?’ Cranston asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes.’

‘And their assassin?’

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

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

‘So why ask me?’

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

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

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

‘That’s nonsense.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Payments for what?’

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

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

FIVE

‘Moot: a gathering of the people.’

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