Bloodstone (7 page)

‘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  . . .

TWO

‘Corrody: pension paid to an abbey for someone to stay there.’

I
n the Abbey of St Fulcher-on-Thames Ailward Hyde, former master bowman and a member of the Wyvern Company, stood fascinated by the wall paintings in the south aisle just near the Galilee porch. Ailward was also agitated. He’d taken the oath. He was pledged to the company. He was an experienced swordsman, a warrior yet poor Hanep! Ailward had visited the bloody remains of Gilbert Hanep laid out in its coffin on a trestle in the abbey death house. The infirmarian, the keeper of the dead, had done his best, sewing on the severed head with black twine, yet the sheer horror of seeing a comrade like that! Ailward swallowed the bile at the back of his throat and caressed the hilt of both sword and dagger. Who had committed such a horror? Surely it could not be one of them, yet who could overcome a skilled master of arms such as Hanep, and take his head as clean as snipping a button? Hanep had died like some hog slaughtered out there in the bleak, cold cemetery. Now he, Ailward, had come here to collect his thoughts, pray and perhaps plot. Ailward just wished Fulk Wenlock, their
consiliarius
, an ever-perpetual source of good advice, was here but he and Mahant had gone into the city yesterday to roister as well as to do other business. He recalled Wenlock’s nut-brown face all creased in friendly concern when they’d strolled through the maze, that subtle conceit built by a previous abbot. They had been discussing Chalk and the lingering days of his death. Wenlock had gripped Hyde’s arm with his maimed hand and spun him around.

‘Ailward,’ he urged, ‘Chalk’s death has changed nothing. You’ll see, everything will calm down.’ He had then taken him to meet Mahant, their serjeant-at-arms. Mahant, his hawk-like face as harsh as ever, had confirmed Wenlock’s words: Chalk was dead. He could speak no more; all would be as it always was. Nevertheless, Ailward was still unsure. Wenlock had given him further words of comfort promising how everything would turn out well.

‘I just wish you were here,’ Ailward whispered.

Wenlock was always reassuring; after all, he had survived. Once a fighter, a master bowman, the most accurate of archers who could send a grey goose-feathered shaft into any target. The French had captured Wenlock and hacked off the bowman fingers on each hand. Wenlock bore his infirmity well and always comforted the others. Yet he and Mahant had still not returned and probably would not be back until later. So Ailward had come here to be distracted, as he always was, by the vivid array of wall paintings which dominated the south aisle. A collection of stories demonstrating the power of God over Satan and all his works, especially when the forces of hell confronted the black monks, the followers of St Benedict. Some of these wall paintings, or so he was given to understand, were the work of the anchorite, that mysterious person who had once been an itinerant painter as well as the Hangman of Rochester, a service he still carried out for the abbot. Ailward was always fascinated by such frescoes, especially those which celebrated events from the history of St Fulcher’s such as the former abbot who had foiled an evil spirit stealing wine from the abbey cellars. Ailward smiled as his fingers traced the story. The abbot had sealed all the taps of the barrels with holy chrism oil as a trap for the demon. The next scene showed a black-limbed, red-faced devil, fiery charcoal eyes glaring, green horns twitching, glued to one of the barrels. A further story, depicted in glowing colours, narrated how a young novice monk was tempted and threatened by a demon who flung his hellish cloak over the novice’s tonsure, burning his head and blistering his skin. The painting then showed the young novice on his knees begging St Benedict to assist him, which the great saint did in a blaze of shimmering light. Ailward closed his eyes and turned away. In truth he had also come here for help, for assistance, to pray, but who would listen to him? A former soldier whose soul was sin-burdened, sin-scorched, buried deep in all kinds of crimes against both God and man?

‘Corpse-maker, slave of hell, ravenous hell brute, coward!’

Ailward almost screamed at the voice which rang like a trumpet blast through the greying light, echoing under the ribbed-vault ceiling.

‘Slash of blood, raging demons, bloated and dangerous, battle-scarred. Terrors gather amongst us  . . .’

Ailward relaxed, tapping the pommel of his sword for comfort. He recognized the sepulchral voice of the anchorite in his cell built further along the south aisle. Once a small chantry chapel with altar, ambo and sanctuary, the entire closure had been bricked up except for a small door and a ledge in the front.

‘Mad as a barrel of crickets!’ Ailward whispered reassuringly as he made his way along. He reached the anker house and stared through the aperture. In the poor light he could only dimly make out the anchorite’s tangled hair, the frenetic eyes glaring back.

‘Good morrow, Brother,’ Ailward grated.

‘Good morrow to you too.’ The anchorite’s voice was surprisingly soft and clear. ‘Frightened are we, soldier, of the jabbing daggers, the swish of smooth swords? Oh yes, I’ve heard about the harrower of the dark who crawled through the gloaming and captured one of your kind. You lived for the arrow storm; you’ll die in the arrow storm.’

‘And you,’ Ailward taunted back, ‘live in fear of ghosts?’

‘We all have wolfish souls and hate-honed hearts,’ the anchorite retorted. ‘Guilty, God cursed.’ The anchorite breathed out noisily – a gust of air through the aperture. ‘And you, soldier, don’t the spirits gather around you? The ghosts of my wife and child?’

‘I’ve heard your fable,’ Ailward snapped, ‘your family’s blood is not on our hands. You rant and rave. You chatter like some earth-bound spirit but no one listens.’

‘I do,’ the anchorite whispered. ‘I listen to all the tales, especially about your comrade’s death.’

‘What do you know about Hanep’s murder?’

‘The good brothers gossip like women around the well. You should be careful, all of you! More walks this abbey than you think.’

‘Such as whom?’

‘She with that wicked face,’ the anchorite’s voice changed, ‘with slimy hair. Hanged her I did yet still she walks. Hush!’

Ailward felt a prickling fear. The anchorite, despite his ranting, was right. The soft slither of sandal echoed through the stone-hollowed darkness. The brothers were out in the fields or tending to other duties. The abbey church should be deserted now, that’s why he had come here. Ailward lifted a warning hand towards the anchorite. He moved to stand behind one of the great drum-like pillars; a sculpted fool’s face grinned down at him from the acanthus leaves carved around its top.

‘Horror from the great darkness,’ the anchorite’s voice boomed, ‘horror on all sides! A hideous oppression fills the soul with dread.’

Ailward ignored him; the mysterious intruder would also do likewise. The anchorite’s doom-laden pronouncements were common enough. Ailward peered round the pillar. A shape moved near the Lady chapel. Ailward could make out the garb of a black monk, hood pulled forward. Something clattered to the ground. The figure pushed back his cowl as he stretched out to pick up the sword, its blade blinking in the dancing light of the tapers. Ailward recognized him – Richer, the sub-prior, the Frenchman! Why was he carrying a sword and creeping about so closely cloaked and cowled? Richer had once been a monk at St Calliste which formerly housed the Passio Christi. Hadn’t Henry Osborne, another of the Wyvern Company, also remarked about Richer’s strange recent comings and goings? The sub-prior, in charge of the library and the scriptorium, had shown little love for the Wyvern Company ever since his arrival. Hadn’t he, chattering in French, once dismissed Ailward and his companions as tail-bearing Englishmen worthy of hell fire? Although to be fair, Richer had proved to be most compassionate to that old reprobate Chalk. Had he done that to squirrel out secrets? Had he been successful? Wenlock claimed he had. Curious, Ailward now decided to follow the sub-prior. The monk had disappeared. Ailward followed swiftly, his soft-soled boots making little noise.

Outside in the freezing cold, Ailward glimpsed the black gowned sub-prior go around a corner and across the monk’s bowling yard where the good brothers played nine-pins. Ailward drew his dagger. He kept this low as he pursued his quarry across the frozen gardens, through the apple yard and into Mortival meadow which stretched down to the watergate, usually a desolate spot especially at the height of winter. Ailward followed using the bushes and small copses to hide himself. Richer strolled boldly on. Now and again the monk would turn and glance back but Ailward was skilled in subterfuge and concealment. Hadn’t he and his comrades done similar work against so many French camps and strongholds? Ailward was now absorbed, his former unease and fear dissipated. Mahant was correct. The prospect of battle and conflict solved all misery. Ailward felt he was young again, heading towards the enemy. He was aware of the gathering river mist, the sharp breeze and the oppressive silence which seemed to shroud this lonely abbey. There again he had experienced the same many times in France. Ailward gripped his dagger. Richer was now near the lychgate in the curtain wall. The Frenchman abruptly paused. He put down what he was carrying and called out, a strident cry like that of a bird. A reply echoed in from the river. Richer picked up what he was carrying and hurried towards the watergate. Ailward made to follow but paused at the sound of dry wood snapping behind him. He turned round, dagger out; nothing, only the thickening mist billowing and shifting. He glanced back. Richer was now through the watergate. Ailward followed. Ignoring the stench of fox and other vermin, he pushed the gate open and stared through the crack. Richer stood further along the narrow quayside. He was crouching down beneath the soaring three branched scaffold handing a package to a man hooded and visored standing in a ship’s boat alongside the quay. The conversation was hushed and swift but Ailward caught the occasional French word. The man on the boat took the oilskin pouch Richer handed him. Ailward tensed. Was Richer a spy? What could he be handing over to some foreign ship? Something for the French or some other power? Ailward fought to control his excitement. He calmed himself, drew his sword and peered again. The monk had disappeared. Nothing was there but the boat, the figure in it now squatting down. ‘God go with you.’