Bloodstone (22 page)

‘Where do you think the Passio Christi truly belongs?’

‘St Calliste.’

‘Is your uncle still abbot there?’

Richer smiled. ‘Yes, he enjoys robust health, thank God.’

‘And Kilverby,’ Athelstan continued, ‘he brought the Passio Christi here at the appointed time for the Wyvern Company to view?’

‘He used to,’ Prior Alexander declared. ‘We’ve told you that.’

‘And his relationship with the Wyverns was cordial? After all, he did finance them during the war with France.’

‘From what we know,’ Lord Walter intervened, ‘Kilverby was always distant and aloof but he was amicable enough towards the Wyverns.’

‘And this changed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Sir Robert began to reflect most carefully about them. He changed his opinion of those he once patronized.’

‘Encouraged by you, Brother Richer?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know precisely. Did you advise Sir Robert?’

‘Of course I did. He was a man much burdened with sin,’ the Frenchman replied. ‘I shrived him. I gave him ghostly advice.’

‘Did he tell you his true opinion of the Wyvern Company?’

‘He grew to dislike them intensely. He claimed he’d always believed their story about the Passio Christi but he came to the conclusion that they hadn’t found it but stolen it.’

‘A conclusion you helped him reach?’

‘I didn’t disagree with him.’

‘Then Kilverby,’ Cranston asked, ‘stopped bringing the Passio Christi here?’

‘Yes,’ Lord Walter replied, ‘last year it was brought by Crispin and Mistress Alesia.’

Athelstan tapped a sandalled foot against the floor.

‘You don’t believe us?’ Richer asked. ‘You think we lie?’

‘No,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You’re not lying but you’re not telling the full truth either. Kilverby was a leading London merchant, hard of heart, keen of wit and cunning as a snake. He financed and profited from the Wyverns. He must have suspected their story about the bloodstone years ago so why the change now?’

‘God’s grace,’ Richer declared, ‘my counsel.’

‘No,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘something else.’

‘Such as?’ Richer had recovered his arrogance. ‘Why not ask Master Crispin?’

‘Did you give Crispin ghostly comfort too, Brother Richer?’

‘Master Crispin and Sir Robert were regular visitors here,’ Richer replied. ‘I counselled Sir Robert but only exchanged pleasantries with Crispin.’

‘Can any of you three,’ Cranston gestured around, ‘cast any light on Sir Robert’s murder or the disappearance of the Passio Christi?’ The coroner’s question was greeted with muttered denials. ‘And the murders here in your abbey?’

‘Sir John,’ Lord Walter retorted, ‘you know as much as we do.’

‘And the fire in Brokersby’s chamber?’

‘Most unfortunate.’ The abbot sighed.

‘Would he,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘have any reasons to keep oil in his chamber?’

‘Not that I am aware of.’

‘And the bedside candle?’

‘Visit our chandler, Brother Athelstan,’ Prior Alexander replied. ‘Such candles are dispensed to all chambers in the guest house – tall, thick, fashioned out of tallow but still the best. They are fixed on a stand with a cap. I don’t think such a fire could be caused even if this candle was knocked over. I mean,’ the prior flailed a hand, ‘such a conflagration.’

Athelstan glanced at Cranston and raised his eyes heavenwards.

‘We have to go.’ The coroner abruptly rose to his feet, bowed and, followed by Athelstan, walked to the door. Cranston abruptly turned.

‘Lord Abbot, your sister Eleanor Remiet – her maiden name?’

‘Why, the same as mine, Chobham. She married a Gascon, Velours, then remarried Master Remiet, who also died. My niece is the only child of her first marriage. Is that all?’

‘No.’ Athelstan pointed at Richer. ‘Brother, if I could have a word with you in private.’

The Frenchman looked as if he was going to object.

‘Just we two.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Sir John will not be present.’

Richer shrugged and followed them out down to the courtyard. Athelstan waited until Cranston was out of hearing and turned.

‘Brother Richer, are you an assassin?’

‘How dare you!’

‘The day Hyde was stabbed to death close to the watergate – you went down there that afternoon. You were seen carrying a sword.’

Richer’s lower lip trembled.

‘You took a sword out of the Barbican when the lazy brother-in-charge was elsewhere. You took it because of the killings here, whilst the quayside on a lonely mist-filled afternoon could be a dangerous place. You were going to meet a boatman from a foreign ship to give him whatever you really do send from this abbey. I suspect Hyde followed and spied on you close to the watergate.’

‘Are you accusing me of murdering him?’

‘No, but Hyde had also been followed. The mysterious assassin pierced Hyde’s belly and he gave the most hideous scream. You must have heard that. You told your boatman to wait and hurried back to find Hyde dying of his belly wound.’ Athelstan paused. ‘You really hate those archers, don’t you? Did Hyde, an old soldier, ask for the mercy cut or did you see him as the hated enemy? Did you stab him with that sword then carry it back to your friend the boatman?’

Richer refused to answer.

‘And then what? Did the boatman take you up or down river so you could make your own way back to the abbey?’ Athelstan drew closer. ‘You’re a very dangerous man, Brother Richer.’

‘Am I? A Benedictine?’

‘You came here undoubtedly with a letter of recommendation from the Abbot of St Calliste, but he’s your uncle. Are you really a monk, Richer, or a knight, a mailed knight in the guise of Benedictine, a man with one mission to secure the return of the Passio Christi?’ Athelstan paused. ‘I wonder, Richer  . . .’

‘What?’

‘Chalk? Did he fall ill from some malignant ill-humour or did you cause it with some poisonous potion? Did you prepare him for death then parade the horrors of judgement before him?’

Richer stepped back. ‘Friar, I do not know what you are talking about. Whatever I am, whatever you are, I know the law. Where is your proof, your evidence?’ Without waiting for a reply Richer turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him.

Athelstan walked across to Cranston.

‘An upset monk? What did you say?’

‘Not for the moment, Sir John.’ Athelstan stamped his feet against the cold. ‘It’s time I rejoined my flock and shepherded them back to the watergate. Many thanks, Sir John.’

‘For what?’

‘You know what.’ Athelstan grasped the coroner’s hand and squeezed it. ‘They wanted to see me. I wanted to see them but it was not just that, was it? You told me what happened outside Kilverby’s mansion. The Upright Men questioned you about me being held here against my will. The Upright Men have many adherents in my parish; they’ll report back that I am safe and well. I just hope they remain so. Anyway, it’s time they were gone. We will talk later tonight.’

SIX

‘Hoodman blind: blindman’s bluff.’

A
thelstan found his parishioners well away from the abbey. They had seen the glories of the church and were full of stories about the strange anchorite who’d swept by them like some baleful cloud to hide himself in his anker house. They had all supped well in the refectory on fish stuffed with almonds, lentil soup, rich beef stew, blancmange, sweet cakes and as many blackjacks of ale as they could down. Now, rosy cheeked with merriment, they had gathered around the new hog enclosure to stare at the abbey’s herd of fierce, snouting pigs with hairy, bristling ears and greedy maws. Powerful animals with quivering flanks and muscular legs, the hogs had turned their great enclosure and the surrounding stys into a reeking quagmire of cold, hard mud and steaming droppings. The hogs, aroused by the noise and chatter, crashed into the sturdy stockade much to the enjoyment of Athelstan’s parishioners who relished it, as Watkin slurred, better than any bear baiting. Athelstan, wary of these ferocious beasts, coaxed his little flock back up into the church. Cloaks were put back on, only to be taken off as Pike the ditcher announced he wished to personally inspect the abbey latrines.

At last, as the shadows crept from the corners, order was imposed. Athelstan lined them up. He glimpsed the bulging pockets in cloaks and gowns and guiltily realized that his parishioners had probably left little in the refectory and that included tankards, platters and anything else which moved. He led them down to the darkening quayside and, having given them parting words of advice, delivered what he called his most solemn blessing. He sadly watched the two barges manned by Moleskin and his comrades disappear into the mist, the good wishes of his parishioners carrying eerily towards him. Athelstan turned and walked back to where Cranston stood waiting for him by the watergate.

‘Very well,’ Athelstan breathed, ‘let us return to my chamber. I suggest you take the one next to it. We’ll have something to sup. Let the bells of the abbey clang for divine office. Sir John, God has more pressing work for us. He wants us to search out the children of Cain and bring them before the bar of his justice.’ Athelstan escorted Cranston to the buttery then back to his warm chamber. He bolted the door, prepared his writing tray and stared at his portly friend now sitting bootless on the edge of the bed.

‘Item:’ Athelstan began, ‘The murder of Kilverby and the disappearance of the Passio Christi? Any thoughts?’

Cranston shook his head.

‘Neither have I.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘We are assured that chamber was secured locked and no one entered or left. Nevertheless, Kilverby was poisoned, the Passio Christi taken. We know the merchant was visited earlier that day. He showed the two monks the Passio Christi which was to be brought here on the morrow. The bloodstone was displayed in the solar. Kilverby, escorted by Crispin, then took it back to his chamber. Everything must have been in order. The bloodstone was locked away. We know that, we saw the locked coffer. Kilverby kept the keys round his neck. The chancery was also secured. Kilverby joined his family for supper before returning to his chamber. Only then does hell’s black spy, the killer, manifest himself, or herself.’ He added wistfully: ‘Certainly some hell-born soul contrived a trap which created this mystery.’

‘I talked to Crispin,’ Cranston declared. ‘I did the same with Jumble-guts.’

‘Who?’

‘One of my spies along Cheapside, called so because his belly rumbles like a drum. Both Crispin and Jumble-guts sing the same hymn. It would be almost impossible, as well as highly dangerous, to try and sell the bloodstone on the open market.’

‘So why was it stolen in the first place?’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘My mistake, Sir John. We should discover as much as we can about that sacred ruby but  . . .’

Athelstan picked up his quill pen, stared at its plume then the point, dipped it in the ink and became lost in his own thoughts.

‘Friar?’

‘I’m thinking about the attacks on me, Sir John. No,’ Athelstan shook his head, ‘I cannot say much. I can only remember fragments that I cannot properly explain.’

‘Such as?’ Cranston demanded.

‘Oh, just who was where when that crossbow was loosed. The speed with which my assailant entered the charnel house and extinguished those torches just within the doorway.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Never mind. What we do have in this abbey is the Wyvern Company disliked and barely tolerated. Abbot Walter may have confidence in their presence if his abbey is ever attacked, yet I am sure he would like to rid himself of the old soldiers. They’re an embarrassment and possible provocation to the Upright Men who may have dispatched assassins to kill Hanep, Hyde and Brokersby. Our abbot is supposed to pay the Upright Men protection money, but for his own secret reasons, has withheld this.’ Athelstan stroked his face with the plume of his quill pen. ‘By the way, Sir John, you say you recognized Eleanor Remiet?’

‘I did, I’m sure.’ Cranston tapped his feet on the floor. ‘God send me his grace. I recognized her face but it’s years, decades ago.’ He glanced up. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘At first I wondered if Isabella Velours was the abbot’s mistress. Of course that’s not true. However, I believe she is not his niece but his daughter.’

‘What?’

‘Nor do I believe Eleanor Remiet is his sister.’ Athelstan continued: ‘Although I accept she’s Isabella’s mother. I am sure if we made careful search in certain parish and manor records we’d uncover a legion of lies regarding those precious three.’

‘We could do that.’

‘Come, Sir John, it would take months. Moreover, Lord Walter’s private life is not our concern, even if our abbot doesn’t give a fig about anything except that swan and his two women.’

‘You’ve little evidence for what you say.’

‘Sir John, why should the abbot be so concerned about his niece? No, Isabella is his daughter and, more importantly, she has just come of age and  . . .’

‘Needs a dowry,’ Cranston breathed.

‘Hence the money to the Upright Men being drained away along with whatever else Abbot Walter can seize.’

‘Do you think the Wyvern Company found out about Isabella?’

‘I doubt it.’ Athelstan stopped writing the cipher he always used to record his thoughts. ‘Quite honestly, I don’t think the Wyvern Company give a fig about Isabella being Abbot Walter’s niece or his daughter. They are more concerned about themselves.’

‘And Prior Alexander?’

‘Basically a good man with sympathies for the common folk. The reception of my parishioners was his work. I must thank him. We know one of his kinsman, a hedge priest, was hanged out of hand by the Wyvern Company. Prior Alexander may want revenge. He is still vigorous, able to wield a sword. He dislikes the Wyverns, whilst he was here when all three died.’ Athelstan put his tray aside, rose and stretched.

‘Do you think he suspects the truth about Isabella Velours?’

‘Perhaps, but Lord Walter can also trap him. Prior Alexander has, I believe, an inordinate love for Richer. The truth behind that relationship is difficult to discern but I suspect Prior Alexander indulges Richer. When they go into the city the prior is willing to take his young friend down to the quayside to search for foreign ships. Indeed,’ Athelstan sat down, ‘it is Richer who is the key to this mystery. He was sent here, I am certain, by his uncle, the Abbot of St Calliste, to retrieve the Passio Christi. Has he suborned Prior Alexander in order to achieve this? Perhaps. Did he or both of them kill the old soldiers including Chalk? I cannot say. What I am certain of is that Richer lies at the root of this. Look,’ Athelstan got to his feet, unbolted the door and stared out. The gallery outside was deserted. He could hear the plain chant from the church as the full choir intoned the psalm: ‘The Lord trains my arms for war, he prepares my hands for battle.’ Yes, he does, Athelstan reflected, closing the door. ‘Sir John, look at the facts. Kilverby once financed the Wyvern Company. He held the Passio Christi without protest. Time passes. Death beckons. Kilverby wants to prepare for judgement. The Wyvern Company move here. Kilverby visits them but he encounters Richer. He also meets another man frightened of approaching death, a defrocked priest, Master William Chalk. Oh yes, he was, remember?’