Bloodstone (8 page)

Ailward turned and almost fell on the sword of the cowled figure cloaked all in black. Ailward gagged as the sword dug deep, its razor-sharp blade slicing his innards. He screamed again, a long, harrowing cry choked off by the blood welling through both nose and mouth  . . .

Athelstan caught his breath as he and Sir John hurried along the byways and alleyways leading off Cheapside down to the river. The day was drawing on. Bells tolled for the Angelus and noon day Mass as well as the sign for traders to break their fast in the cook shops, pastry houses, inns and taverns. Athelstan roughly shouldered by a pedlar of old boots with an assortment of footwear hanging from a stick, swiftly dodged one of St Anthony’s pigs, bell tingling around its neck, as it charged across an alleyway pursued by a group of ragged urchins armed with sticks. He crossed himself as a funeral cortège went by with bell, cross and incense. A young boy carolled the Dirige psalms while a group of beggars, clothed as penitents and fortified with bread and strong ale, staggered behind the purple-clothed coffin, funeral candles drunkenly held. Cranston and Athelstan crossed Fish Street. They passed St Nicholas Coe Abbey where the Brotherhood of the Beggars was feeding lepers on mouldy bread, rancid pork, slimy veal, flat beer and stale fish. Athelstan glanced away in disgust at the loathsome platters set out on a tawdry stall. He also felt guilty. He and Sir John had left Kilverby’s mansion. They had braved the importunity of the two beggars who haunted Cheapside – Leif and his associate Rawbum who’d once had the misfortune when drunk to sit down on a pan of burning oil. After they had coaxed their way by this precious pair, Cranston and Athelstan went into the warmth of ‘The Holy Lamb of God’, Cranston’s favourite ‘chapel’ since the merry-mouthed, rosy-cheeked landlady had taken over from the old harridan who had once resided there. Minehost had been preparing Brouet de Capon. The tap room was enriched by the fragrance of almonds, cinnamon, clove, peppers and grains of paradise. They’d eaten and drunk well. Now, faced with all this desperation, Athelstan paused. He opened his purse and went back to distribute coins into the bandaged hands of the ever-desperate lepers.

‘Dangerous,’ Cranston observed when the friar returned, ‘the contagion could catch you.’

‘Nonsense,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘there’s no real harm to be had from that. A silly fable, Sir John. You have to live with these poor unfortunates perhaps months, years before the contagion takes you.’ Athelstan was about to continue but he noticed a well-known foist approaching so he gripped his leather satchel more tightly and urged Cranston on.

A short while later they reached Queenshithe Wharf and hired a covered barge to take them down to St Fulcher’s. The river was swollen and dark; a freezing fog had rolled in to cloak the Thames in a deep greyness. Shapes of other craft emerged then swiftly faded. Lantern horns placed in their prows glowed as beacons whilst along the banks similar warning lights flared from the steeples of St Nicholas, St Benet and other churches. Cranston had refilled his miraculous wineskin at ‘The Holy Lamb of God’. He took a generous swig from this, settled himself more comfortably against the cushions in the stern and offered Athelstan a drink. The friar shook his head and stared fearfully across the river, a forbidding thoroughfare he reflected, full of mystery and sudden terrors. He recalled the Fisher of Men who, with his little band of swimmers led by Icthus, combed the river for corpses which, at a price, could be collected from his chapel, the ‘Barque of St Peter’. Even at the height of summer this river reeked of danger and Athelstan recalled some of the ghoulish tales narrated by Moleskin the boatman.

‘Dangerous weather,’ Cranston murmured. ‘These sea banks of fog float in and the French war cogs use them. A fleet of privateers prowl the Narrow Seas; they could slip into the estuary to pillage and burn, but,’ he sighed, ‘such thoughts darken the mind. Now Athelstan, Kilverby, there’s a family of choice souls?’

‘That does not concern us, Sir John.’ Athelstan steadied himself as the barge rocked violently. ‘Not yet. Let us move to the arrow point, to the conclusion then argue backwards. According to the evidence, Sir Robert Kilverby, in good health, locked and bolted himself in that chancery chamber. He never left, no one entered. No trace, as yet, of any noxious substance has been found in that room, but Sir Robert was definitely poisoned.’

‘Could that have happened before he went in?’

‘No. I suspect the potion he took grew in its malignancy. We deduced from those who knocked on the door later that evening that Sir Robert remained hale and hearty. No, that rich man was poisoned by some malevolent potion growing within him. But how and why I do not know. Even more mysteriously, someone took those three keys from the chain around his neck, opened the casket, removed the Passio Christi and put the keys back.’

‘Kilverby could have admitted someone during the evening; such a person could have brought the poison.’

‘But how, Sir John? The wine, the sweetmeats – we have no proof that these were tainted?’

‘She or he could have offered a poisoned cup or a dish of savouries, then taken them away?’

Athelstan steadied himself again as the barge rose and fell on the swell. The four oarsmen, capuchined against the stinging wind, quietly cursed as the surge broke the even beat of their rowing. ‘We have no evidence for that, Sir John. Surely Sir Robert would be suspicious of anyone entering with wine and food? He’d already supped whilst he had his own flagon. He’d insisted on being left alone and, as we heard, he was not to be disobeyed. Moreover, how does that explain the disappearance of the Passio Christi? In addition, Kilverby’s chamber is on a gallery close to the solar; anyone approaching, entering or leaving that chamber would easily be seen. No, Sir Robert was not disturbed. Indeed, knowing the little I do about that family, they would scrupulously watch each other; they all confirm nobody entered or left that room.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘Kilverby was mysteriously poisoned. The Passio Christi was stolen, not violently but by using those three keys which Kilverby guarded so zealously.’

‘And why?’ Cranston murmured. ‘Why has he been murdered now?’

‘That,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘is another mystery. Nor can I detect a suspect. Alesia is wealthy; her father’s death would enrich her further but why hasten it? In truth, she seems a dutiful daughter whilst Lady Helen certainly did not benefit from her husband’s death, nor is Master Crispin scarcely helped by such a dramatic, murderous change in the family’s fortunes.’

‘Did the assassin use the chaos which ensued when the corpse was found to mask their bloody handiwork?’

‘I cannot see how,’ Athelstan shook his head, ‘as I said that family watch each other. Any untoward action, I am sure, would have been observed.’

Cranston took another swig from the miraculous wineskin and began to hum an old marching tune under his breath. Athelstan looked across the river, fascinated by how the curtain of mist would suddenly part to reveal a wherry crammed with goods making its way up to one of the city wharfs or a fishing smack lying low in the water. On one occasion a royal barge broke through, lanterns glowing on its carved prow, the royal pennant of blue, scarlet and gold flapping in the breeze, the oarsmen all liveried, six on either side, bending over their oars, archers clustered in the stern with arrows notched. The mist would then close again and the silence descend. Was that a pale reflection of the spiritual life? Athelstan wondered. Did the veil between the invisible and visible thin, even part? Athelstan closed his eyes and murmured a prayer. He relaxed as the rocking of the boat lulled him into a light sleep and fitful dreaming about what he’d seen and heard that morning.

As soon as they reached the watergate at St Fulcher’s, they recognized some dreadful act had recently taken place. Lay brothers clustered around the quayside or just within the watergate. Cranston leapt from the barge, helped Athelstan out and immediately tried to impose order on the brothers, who gathered around him like frightened chickens. Eventually a young man, face bronzed by the sun, his dark hair neatly cropped to show the tonsure, made his way through the throng. He pushed his hands up the voluminous sleeves of his black gown and bowed.

‘Sir John Cranston, Brother Athelstan,
pax et bonum
. I am Sub-Prior Richer, librarian and keeper of the scriptorium. Welcome indeed to St Fulcher’s. We have been expecting you but the murder of poor Hanep has been overtaken by another slaying, Ailward Hyde.’ He ushered them through the watergate and pointed to the great black stains on the frozen ground then the splashes of blood on the curtain wall. ‘Murdered most recently – we’ve just removed his corpse to our death house.’

‘How?’ Athelstan asked.

‘A fatal sword thrust to the belly.’ Richer swallowed hard. ‘A killing cut which sliced his vital organs. His screams were terrible. The good brothers working in the gardens have never heard the like before. Father Abbot, indeed our whole community, is most disturbed. Lord Walter and Prior Alexander are waiting for you.’ He led them across what he called Mortival meadow. Athelstan stared around with a pang of nostalgia. The great field with its rolling frozen grass and mist hung bushes and copses evoked memories of his parents’ farm at this time of year, of him running wild with his brother and sisters. How he used to stop to watch the peddler with his emaciated horse come along the trackway at the bottom, followed by the warrener with his sack of rabbits or foresters with a deer slung on their poles.

‘Enter by the narrow door!’

Athelstan broke from his reverie.

‘Sir John?’

‘I was quoting scripture,’ Cranston whispered, plodding behind the fast-paced Richer. ‘We are, my good friend, about to enter the halls of murder yet again. Pray God we enter the narrow door and leave just as safely.’

They continued on up into the abbey precincts. Athelstan caught his breath at the sheer magnificence of the buildings, dominated by the great church with its scores of windows, most of them filled with coloured glass. Soaring buttresses and elaborately carved cornices with balustrades and sills closed in around them. Saints, angels, demons, satyrs, babewyns and gargoyles stared down at them with a variety of expressions on their holy or demonic carved faces. They crossed the sand-packed bowling alley, through gardens of neatly laid out herb and shrub plots, all contained within small red-brick walls, the path winding around them covered in packed white pebbles. Richer pointed out the dormitories, chapter house, guest house, refectory, infirmary and the rest, a bewildering array of grey stone or pebble-dashed buildings. Bells chimed and the stony corridors echoed with the slap of sandals and the murmur of voices. Snatches of plain chant trailed. The air grew rich with a variety of smells, odours and fragrances: incense, sandalwood, burning meat, fresh bread, candle wax and tallow. The tang of soap and the powerful astringent the brothers used to scrub the paving stones permeated the great cloister. They crossed baileys and stable yards, went around duck and carp ponds, hen coops and dove cotes. Athelstan tried to recall what he knew about St Fulcher’s. All he could remember was that the Benedictine abbey, like many of the houses of the black monks, had waxed rich and strong over the centuries, generously endowed by kings, princes and all the great ones of the land. He tried to make sense of his surroundings but his heart sank. The abbey was as intricate and complex as any labyrinth of runnels and alleyways in Southwark. An assassin’s paradise, Athelstan mused, with stairs and steps leading here and there, alcoves for towel and linen cupboards, passageways and narrow galleries abruptly branching off in all directions. Dark recesses and tunnels yawned, ending in broad open spaces full of light. He was increasingly aware of hedges, walls, gates and postern doors as well as steps and stairs leading down into the cellars and crypts. Oh yes, Athelstan thought, a flitting place of many shadows where a killer could hunt and slay as stealthily as any assassin in the darkest forest.

At last they were free of the main abbey buildings and entered a walled enclosure guarded by freshly painted gates. A garrulous lay brother bustled out from the small lodge saying he was the abbot’s doorman and porter. Richer just ignored him. At the far end of the enclosure rose a stately manor house of beautiful honey-coloured Cotswold stone with a black slated roof, chimney stacks and broad windows of mullion-coloured glass. Steps of sandstone swept up to an impressive door with gleaming bronze metal work. A small bell hung in its own coping, its rope, white as snow, attached to a large clasp. On either side of the main house ranged other two-storied buildings – those to the left of the gate were the abbot’s own kitchens, scullery, buttery and bakery. On the right, with its elegant paintwork and glass-filled windows, stood the Lord Abbot’s guest house for his own special visitors. The door to this opened. A young woman dressed in russet cloak over a samite dress, a white veil around her auburn hair, came out, one arm resting on an older, grey-haired, severe-faced woman garbed in a similar fashion. They both paused and drew apart to pull up their hoods. Richer led his guests along the paved path which cut between neatly cultivated garden squares. He paused in front of the women and bowed.

‘My ladies, these are Lord Walter’s guests, Sir John Cranston and Brother Athelstan.’

The young woman, plump and pretty-faced, smiled and nodded; her older companion simply glared. Athelstan guessed there was little love lost between the sub-prior and the lady whom he introduced as the Lord Abbot’s sister, the younger woman being his niece. The two women walked away as Richer took Athelstan and Cranston up into the luxurious manor house, smelling delicately of polish and the fragrance of crushed flowers. Dark, wooden panelling, balustrades, wainscoting and floor planks gleamed in the light of many candles. The abbot’s own chamber was an elegant, oblong-shaped room boasting finely carved furniture. Striking black crosses hung against two of the smooth walls, brilliantly coloured tapestries and turkey rugs covered the others whilst the intricately tiled floor described a map of the world with Jerusalem at its centre.