Bloodstone (12 page)

The penitential service finished. The good brothers filed out of their stalls, past the prisoner who now sat in his coffin, ringed by guards. Athelstan followed the others and, once out of the abbey church, he joined the rest in washing his hands and face in the spacious lavarium near the great cloisters. Afterwards, led by a servitor, Athelstan joined Cranston for supper in the abbot’s own dining chamber, a magnificent wood-panelled room warmed by a roaring fire. Thick turkey rugs covered the floor and skilfully painted cloths hung over the square, mullioned-glass windows. The splendid dining table had been covered in samite and a huge golden Nef or salt seller, carved in the shape of a war cog in full sail, stood at its centre. The platters, tranchers and goblets were of pure silver and gold. Napkins of the finest linen draped beautifully fluted Venetian glasses to hold water drawn from the abbey’s own spring. The wines, both red and white were, so Abbot Walter assured them, from the richest vineyards outside Bordeaux. Athelstan wasn’t hungry but the mouth-watering odours from the abbot’s kitchens pricked his appetite whilst Cranston, now bereft of cloak and beaver hat, sat enthroned like a prince rubbing his hands in relish. Other guests joined them: Prior Alexander, Richer and the ladies Athelstan had glimpsed earlier. The young, fresh-faced woman was Isabella Velours, the abbot’s niece; the older one Eleanor Remiet, the abbot’s widowed sister. Isabella was dressed for the occasion in a tight fitting gown of green samite, a gold cord around her slender waist, her fair hair hidden beneath a pure white veil of the finest gauze. Mistress Eleanor, however, was garbed like a nun though in a costly dark blue dress tied tightly just under her chin, a veil of the same colour covering her hair and a stiff white wimple framing her harsh, imperious face. Unlike Isabella she wore no rings, brooches, collars or necklaces. Both women bowed to Cranston and Athelstan, then as soon as Abbot Walter delivered the ‘
Benedicite
’ they sat down on the high-backed chairs, grasped their water glasses and whispered busily between themselves. Occasionally Athelstan caught Isabella throwing coy glances at Richer, who always tactfully smiled back. The door to the kitchen opened in a billow of sweet fragrances. Leda the swan, wings half extended, waddled up to the top of the table to receive some delicacies from the abbot. Prior Alexander audibly groaned and loudly muttered that perhaps the swan could be served up in another way. The cutting remark was not lost on Abbot Walter, who grimaced and seemed about to reply in kind but then the first course was promptly served: dates stuffed with egg and cheese, spiced chestnuts, cabbage and almond soup, lentils and lamb, strips of beef roasted in a thick sauce and slices of stuffed pike. Servitors refilled wine goblets and water glasses. For a while the conversation was general: the state of the roads, French piracy in the Narrow Seas, the demand from the Crown for a poll tax and the growing unrest in the city and surrounding shires. The conversation turned to the emergence of the Great Community of the Realm, that shadowy, fervent movement amongst the shire peasants and city poor, threatening revolution and preaching the brotherhood of man. The name of the Kentish hedge-priest John Ball was mentioned as being one of the Upright Men. Judgements were made on him and opinions passed. Athelstan kept his head down as if more interested in his food. The friar quietly prayed that his views would not be asked. Many of his parishioners were fervent adherents of the Great Community; Pike the ditcher for one sat very close to some of the most zealous of the Upright Men. Cranston, wolfing down his food, caught the friar’s unease and deftly turned the conversation to what Athelstan had told him about the prisoner condemned to hang the following morning.

‘A notorious river pirate,’ Abbot Walter pronounced, feeding Leda whilst smiling at his niece.

The abbot went on to describe other depredations of this well-known felon. Athelstan just picked at his food, secretly wishing he could take the entire banquet back in baskets for his parishioners. The friar lifted his head and quickly gazed round. He was certainly learning more about this abbey. He caught the mutual dislike between Abbot and Prior, which he recognized as truly rankling. Isabella, the abbot’s niece, seemed rather vapid and flirtatious. Athelstan wondered about her true relationship with the abbot yet the more he stared at her his conviction only deepened that a strong blood tie existed between the two. The elder woman, Eleanor, was at first tight-lipped but, as the wine flushed her face, she relaxed, becoming quite chatty, a highly intelligent woman, sharp-witted with a keen mind, who shrewdly commented on different matters. However, Athelstan noticed that the more she talked the more Cranston seemed fascinated by her, staring across the table as if trying to recall something. Athelstan took advantage of the servants clearing the table for the final course of sweetened tarts crowned with cream, to pluck at the coroner’s sleeve and whisper what was the matter?

‘I know her,’ Cranston murmured, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. ‘Friar, I am sure I do. A face from my past but I cannot place her.’

‘Has she recognized you?’

‘No, no. Ah well, what a strange place!’ He leaned closer. ‘Well, Friar,’ Cranston whispered. ‘When you were mumbling your prayers I despatched one of the lay brothers to His Grace the Regent at his Palace of the Savoy—’

Athelstan abruptly gestured for silence. The table conversation had now changed. Mistress Eleanor was asking about the murders amongst the Wyverns. Abbot Walter immediately assured her that he could not explain the deaths but added that they might be the work of malefactors from the river.

‘The Wyverns suspect me,’ Richer declared abruptly. ‘They think I am waging a feud over the Passio Christi.’

‘Are you?’

‘You asked me that before, Brother Athelstan. As I answered then, I am a Benedictine.’

‘You also served under the Oriflamme banner,’ Cranston declared. ‘You’ve been a mailed clerk, yes?’

Richer did not disagree.

‘So why have you come here – the truth?’

‘I have already explained.’

‘Brother Richer is a peritus,’ Abbot Walter retorted, shooing off his pet swan. ‘He has done excellent work in our library and scriptorium but  . . .’ Abbot Walter smiled maliciously at Prior Alexander, whose jibe about his beloved Leda he’d not forgotten. ‘Perhaps, with all our many problems here, Brother Richer, it’s time you returned to St Calliste. I mean,’ Abbot Walter waved a hand, ‘sooner, rather than later?’

Richer simply shrugged. Prior Alexander, however, sat rigid, his wine-flushed face tense with anger.

‘Brother Richer,’ Athelstan intervened swiftly, ‘which manuscripts  . . .’ His words were cut off by a sharp knock on the door. A servitor hurried in and whispered into Abbot Walter’s ear.

‘Bring him in, bring him in,’ the abbot insisted. ‘Sir John, a messenger – Kilverby’s man, his secretarius, Crispin.’

The arrival of the sad-eyed clerk eased the tension. The two ladies immediately rose and said they must retire, as did Prior Alexander who gestured at Richer to follow suit. As they left Crispin was ushered in. He assured Prior Alexander that his eyesight had at least not worsened and he was grateful for all his advice. Once the door was closed, Crispin was offered a vacant seat, Abbot Walter insisting he drank some white wine and eat a little of the cream tart. Crispin did so, muttering between mouthfuls how he and a manservant had travelled by horseback as the river had become swollen and turbulent.

‘Never did like the Thames at night.’ He cleared his mouth.

‘Crispin, what will you do now Sir Robert is so pitifully slain?’ Abbot Walter asked.

Crispin shook his head. ‘I have sworn to perform some act of loyalty to my dead master. Perhaps I might go on pilgrimage as Sir Robert wanted to do. I could fulfil his vow at Rome, Santiago and Jerusalem. Yes,’ he smiled bleakly, ‘that’s what I should do; after all, my master has gone and Mistress Alesia has her own plans.’

‘You’ll still be most welcome here,’ Abbot Walter reassured him.

Crispin thanked him and turned to Athelstan and Cranston.

‘I came here,’ he declared, ‘because I had to. His Grace the Regent came to our house.’ Cranston groaned and put his face in his hands.

‘Sir Robert’s chamber was not unsealed, was it?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No, no, His Grace was most strict on that but his temper was very sharp. He had the rest of the mansion searched from cellar to attic but they found nothing. His Grace also sent you this.’ Crispin drew from his wallet a small scroll sealed with wax. Cranston snapped the letter open and swore under his breath, forcing Abbot Walter, more interested in his beloved Leda, to glance up sharply.

‘And there’s more, isn’t there?’ Athelstan asked Crispin. ‘You bring other news?’

‘Master Theobald the physician has scrutinized Sir Robert’s corpse most thoroughly. Some potion stained his lips and created blueish-red marks here.’ Crispin gestured at his own thin chest and sagging belly. ‘Master Theobald also declared that the wine and sweetmeats were not tainted but he detected a smell from Sir Robert’s corpse which seemed to grow stronger after death: the odour of almonds.’

‘The juice of almond seed.’ Abbot Walter had now forgotten his swan. ‘We have some of that juice here. Prior Alexander would recognize it. I am glad however that the sweetmeats, our gift to Sir Robert, were not tainted but his death is so odd, so curious. Now sirs, please excuse me.’ The abbot, dabbing his sweaty, porkish face with a napkin, rose to his feet, sketched a blessing in their direction and, followed by Leda, swept out of the chamber.

Cranston broke the ensuing silence by drinking noisily from his goblet, then held up the Regent’s letter.

‘Worse and much worse to come, little friar.’

‘Sir John?’

‘The Regent must be obeyed on this,’ Cranston declared. ‘Crispin and I will leave for the city. Yes, we’ll go now even though it is dark. The city guard will let me through. In truth, I prefer to sleep in my own bed with my plump wife beside me.’

‘And me, Sir John?’

‘You, Friar, have drawn the short straw on this. His Grace insists that you stay here until this business be finished.’

Athelstan, his cowl pulled well over his head, stood by the gate which led from the abbey gardens overlooking Mortival meadow. It was certainly a morning for a hanging: sombre, grey and mist-filled. The sounds of the abbey remained muffled and distant, be it the clanging of bells, the lowing of cattle or the strident cries of geese and cockerels. Sir John and Crispin had left immediately the night before, the coroner borrowing a mount from the abbey stables. Cranston was visibly shaken by the Regent’s apparent temper and, as he whispered to Athelstan in the stable yard where they made their farewells, there was much to reflect upon about this abbey, especially Eleanor Remiet. Athelstan had watched Cranston go. Later in the evening the friar had been given a warm chamber in the abbot’s own guest house. There he tried to marshal his thoughts but tiredness overtook him and he fell asleep to dream about his own sojourn in France. Awake long before dawn, Athelstan sang prime with the brothers and celebrated his Jesus Mass in a side-chapel. Now he was here to glimpse the anchorite, who also served as the abbey hangman.

A bell began to toll the death-knell, booming solemnly, announcing to the world that another soul was about to meet its God. The refrain of the ‘
De Profundis
’ wafted on the breeze. The glow of candle sparked through the swirling mist. Out of this came the crucifer grasping a wooden cross, either side of him the acolytes carrying their capped candles, followed by a thurifer filling the air with incense. Prior Alexander followed. A cowl concealed both his head and face, hands pushed up the sleeves of his gown. He recited the death psalm which was repeated by the group of brothers huddled behind him. The anchorite, garbed in a monk’s robe, came next; the thrown back hood revealed a cadaverous, clean-shaven face framed by straggling hair the colour of straw which fell down to his shoulders. In one hand this sinister-looking individual carried a crucifix and in the other a coil of rope. Behind him lay brothers on either side bore a coffin and a set of ladders. The closely guarded prisoner came next, his mask now removed. Athelstan stared at that reddish, furrowed face, scrawny hair and the scars along his neck.

‘Fleischer the fisherman!’ he exclaimed. The prisoner paused and stared at the friar, who pushed back his cowl.

‘Brother Athelstan, you’ve come to see me dance on air.’

The entire procession stopped. Prior Alexander, intrigued, walked back. ‘You know this felon, Brother?’ the prior asked.

‘Oh, yes.’ Athelstan gazed at Fleischer. He certainly knew the fisherman. A bosom friend of Moleskin the boatman, Fleischer sometimes appeared on the shabby quaysides of Southwark to participate in the rich harvest of mischief to be found along its filthy runnels and alleyways: robbery, smuggling and counterfeiting. Fleischer was as attracted to such devilry as Bonaventure to a dish of cream.

‘I would like words with you, Brother?’

Athelstan glanced at Prior Alexander, who nodded. The anchorite pushed Fleischer across.

‘Your prisoner, Brother.’

‘
Pax et bonum
.’ Athelstan stared into the glassy, blue eyes of the anchorite. Was he mad, touched by the moon? No, Athelstan reckoned, the anchorite was only agitated. Athelstan also caught the glint of humour in the man’s strange, pallid face.

‘For a short time he is yours.’ The anchorite stood back. ‘And then he’ll be mine again.’

Athelstan gently led Fleischer out of hearing.

‘You want to be shriven?’

‘I’ve confessed,’ Fleischer replied. ‘Give me your blessing.’

Athelstan did so.

‘Will you sing a Mass for me, Brother, that my journey through the flames won’t be too long?’

‘Of course.’

‘Give Moleskin and the rest greetings.’ Fleischer tried to curb his tears. ‘I was born into wickedness, Brother, no mother or father, alone with all the other rats.’ He stared around. ‘I didn’t mean to kill the monk but I was desperate. Strange.’ Fleischer ignored Prior Alexander’s cough as he shuffled from foot to foot. ‘Here I am,’ Fleischer stepped closer, his ale-tinged breath hot against Athelstan’s face, ‘being hanged by the Lord Almighty Abbot – you’re here for the murders, to probe and snout for the killer?’