Murder Most Holy (8 page)

He turned on his heel and left them and, despite the hour, went back to his house and drank a cup of wine with a speed the Lord Coroner would have admired.

CHAPTER 4

On the Monday of the Great Miracle at St Erconwald’s, Afheltan’s superior, Father Anselm, sat in his study with members of the Inner Chapter and wondered if there was an assassin loose at Blackfriars. Brother Bruno’s fall down the steps of the crypt and, more strangely, Brother Alcuin’s disappearance, raised such a possibility – as if there were not matters enough to tax the brain and fatigue the body.

He looked around the long, wooden table at his companions assembled there: hatchet-faced, sharp-eyed William de Conches, Master Inquisitor; the smooth-faced, boyish but brilliant theologian, Brother Henry of Winchester; Brother Callixtus, the librarian, his long fingers stained with ink, eyes weak from peering at manuscripts and books. The thin and angular librarian was apparently distressed for he kept fidgeting on the bench and tapping his long fingers on the table top as if he really wished to be elsewhere. Next to him sat Brother Eugenius, completely bald with a cherublike face; his short, stubby features, smiling eyes and smiling mouth belied his fearsome reputation as the Master Inquisitor’s assistant, a fanatic constantly sniffing out heresy and schism. Finally, Brother Henry’s two opponents, the Defenders of the Cause, who would challenge his theological treatise and try to disprove its logic or else argue that it was against the orthodox teachings of the Church. Nevertheless, these Defenders of the Cause were likeable men! Peter of Chingforde, sturdy and stout, his dark bearded face always smiling. He had a down-to-earth manner and a rather blunt sense of humour which he kept concealed with his subtle and skilful questioning. Next to him, red-haired and white-faced, the Irish Dominican, Niall of Harryngton.

The Irishman now looked askance at the prior and hummed some hymn under his breath, beating a small tattoo on the table top. The prior smiled weakly back. He knew Brother Niall, ever impatient, wished to get back to the matter in hand, yet there were other more pressing affairs – not just the death of Bruno and the disappearance of Alcuin but the general business of the monastery and, above all, the importunate pleadings of the sub-sacristan, Brother Roger. The prior sighed. He really must make time for the poor man but Roger, a lay brother who years previously had fallen into the hands of the Inquisition whilst serving at a community outside Paris, was broken in spirit, weak in mind, and fearful of William de Conches and his insidious assistant Eugenius.

Anselm looked narrowly at those two: they sat, heads together, murmuring about something, and he wondered if he should report them to the Chapter General in Rome. True, the psalmist sang ‘Zeal for thy house has eaten me up’. Yet, with this precious pair, their enthusiasm and zeal for eating up heresy might swallow everyone. He stared back at the top of the table. Brother Henry sat there, hands apart, waiting for the debate to continue.

‘Father Prior,’ Brother Niall spoke up, ‘we have paused to sing Nones and eat and drink, so shouldn’t we continue?’

His question drew a chorus of approval from his companions. The prior nodded and waved at Brother Henry. The young Dominican smiled, smoothing the top of the table with his finger tips.

‘Father Prior,’ Brother Henry’s voice was low but quite distinct, ‘my general thesis is this: too much emphasis has been laid on the fact that Christ became man to save us from our sins.’ He held up one hand. ‘But if the venerable Aquinas is correct in his study of the Divine Nature, God is the “Summum Bonum”, the Supreme Good. How, therefore, can the Supreme Good, the Divine Beauty, be motivated by sin? Moreover,’ Brother Henry turned and looked fully at William de Conches, ‘if God is omnipotent, why couldn’t he save us from our sins by a simple decree?’

The prior tapped the top of the table. ‘Brother Peter, Brother Niall, how will you answer that?’

Brother Peter chuckled and grinned at him.

‘We do not try to answer it for Brother Henry speaks the truth. God is the Supreme Good, the Divine Beauty, he is omnipotent. We do not challenge such a thesis.’

The two inquisitors leaned forward like hawks waiting for Brother Henry to continue. The prior suddenly felt tired.

‘We cannot go on,’ he announced to his startled companions.

‘What do you mean?’ William de Conches grated. ‘Father Prior, we are assembled here to debate and dispute certain matters. The purity of the Church’s teaching is the issue at hand.’

‘No, Brother William!’ the prior snapped. ‘The issue at hand is a matter of life and death. Brother Bruno was killed in mysterious circumstances. Sometimes, I fear he may have been murdered!’

His pronouncement drew gasps of surprise from everyone.

‘And you think Alcuin may have been the perpetrator and sought refuge in flight?’ Eugenius asked silkily.

‘No, Alcuin is no murderer but I am frightened for him. You accuse him of murder and flight, Eugenius. How do we know he is alive at all?’

‘This is ridiculous!’ Eugenius snapped. ‘Why should anyone kill Bruno, and what makes you think Alcuin is dead?’

‘I don’t know, but since this Inner Chapter assembled, I sense an atmosphere of intrigue and malevolence not suited to these hallowed walls.’

‘So what do you propose?’ Brother Henry asked.

‘I have asked for the services of Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City.’

‘He is a lay man, an officer of the crown! He has no authority in this monastery!’ William de Conches exclaimed.

‘He has the King’s authority!’ Callixtus spoke up sharply and turned weak eyes towards the prior. ‘I suspect, Father, he will not be alone.’

Now the prior beamed with pleasure. ‘Callixtus, you have read my thoughts. Sir John will not be alone. I am going to ask his secretarius, his clerk, Brother Athelstan, a member of this Order and parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, to assist him.’

Callixtus leaned back and cackled dryly as William de Conches banged on the table.

‘Athelstan is disgraced!’ he shouted. ‘He broke his vows and fled the novitiate!’

‘God is compassionate,’ Brother Henry intervened. ‘So why shouldn’t we be? Brother Athelstan’s art in questioning is as skilful and ingenious as yours. I agree with Father Prior. We assembled here to debate certain theses but I sense something else here, a malevolence and hostility which has nothing to do with theology or philosophy.’

‘Do you really?’ Callixtus asked so sardonically the prior flinched at the old librarian’s patent dislike of the young theologian.

‘Yes, I do!’ Henry retorted.

‘Then,’ the prior intervened, ‘these matters are adjourned until the arrival of Athelstan and Sir John Cranston.’ He rose. ‘Until then, brothers.’ He nodded, sketched a blessing in the air, and the meeting ended.

The rest of the Chapter trooped out but William de Conches and Eugenius stayed behind. They waited until the door closed before rounding on the prior.

‘What are you doing?’ William snarled. ‘We have not travelled from Rome to waste time on the mundane tasks of a monastery.’

‘I am Father Prior,’ Anselm interrupted, ‘the official guardian of this monastery. You are my guests – you will obey my orders or leave. If you do so, I shall report you to my Father General in Rome!’

‘This Athelstan,’ Eugenius asked, ‘he works amongst the poor?’ He folded his hands. ‘Are the stories true, Father Prior, that he has become infected by certain radical theories which allege all men are equal?’ He warmed to this theme. ‘I refer particularly to those agitators who work to overthrow Church and State in pursuit of some earthly paradise.’

Anselm glared at this dissimulating priest, so used to trapping others in heresy. He bit his lip then leaned forward. ‘Brother Eugenius,’ he answered sweetly, ‘you yourself talk heresy. You actually defy scripture, for did not Christ our Lord tell his disciples that we were not to be like the pagans who love to lord it over each other and see others bend the knee before them?’

The assistant inquisitor’s eyes hardened and the debate might have become more heated had it not been interrupted by a knock on the door.

‘Come in!’ Anselm ordered.

Roger the sub-sacristan entered, his haggard face fearful, his close-set eyes watchful. He shuffled in with stooped shoulders, took one look at the Master Inquisitor and would have scuttled away if Anselm had not gripped his wrist tightly.

‘Brother Roger, what is it?’

The sub-sacristan scratched his wispy hair and glanced sideways. ‘Father Prior,’ he mumbled. He rubbed the side of his head. ‘I had something to tell you. Something about thirteen and there shouldn’t have been thirteen.’ His anxious eyes held Anselm’s. ‘But I can’t remember now, Father Prior. It’s important but I can’t remember!’

Anselm released the poor man’s wrist. ‘Think awhile,’ he said, ‘and then come back.’

The sub-sacristan fled like a frightened rabbit.

‘The man’s an idiot,’ the Master Inquisitor snapped.

‘No, Master William, he is a child of God, frightened out of his wits. And God only knows there is something frightening, dark and sinister in this monastery.’ With that Anselm nodded at his companions and strolled out.

Prior Anselm’s prophecies proved correct. Later that same day, after Vespers had been sung and the brothers had either gone to their individual cells or were walking in the coolness of the cloistered garden, Brother Callixtus returned to the library and scriptorium.

Contrary to regulations, he re-lit the tall candles so he could continue his search. Callixtus was one of the most well read members of the Dominican Order and was proud of his prodigious memory. He was interested in the debate of the Inner Chapter and wished to make a name for himself. He made sure the scriptorium door was closed before closely studying the shelves that reached to the ceiling. They contained leatherbound volumes, the treatises and writings of the Fathers of the Church carefully sewn within. During the day Callixtus had searched amongst the lower shelves but now he was intent on completing his task: after all, it was only a matter of finding the manuscript containing the information he needed. Callixtus had boasted to Alcuin that he would, though he’d tapped his long bony nose when asked for further details. He would show these theologians that there was nothing new under the sun and how the greatest students were the lovers of books.

Callixtus lit a few more candles and stared at the shelves towering above him. He pushed the long ladder to the place he wanted and carefully climbed, a candle gripped tightly in his hand. He looked at the gold lettering on the spine of one volume, carefully etched by some former librarian:
Letters, Books and Documents of the Apostolic Age
. Callixtus smirked to himself and shook his head. He carefully studied the others. He heard a sound below and stared down fearfully.

‘Who’s there?’ he called softly.

Surely, he thought, none of the brothers would come in? Those who worked in the scriptorium would be tired, their eyes aching, their fingers cramped; they would be only too pleased to enjoy the evening sunshine. Callixtus continued his feverish search. He must find that tome before Athelstan arrived. Nothing remained secret for long and, after the evening meal, the gossip had run through the monastery like fire amongst dry stubble. Athelstan, that black sheep of the family, was returning to the fold!

Callixtus did not object to Athelstan. As far as a man like Callixtus could, he liked, even respected, the ascetic yet sardonic parish priest of the poor. However, he did not wish Athelstan to gain all the credit. A book caught Callixtus’s eyes. Holding the candle, he stretched out to grasp it just as the ladder was violently turned. The librarian slipped and, too terrified even to scream, plummeted like a stone to the stone floor of the scriptorium. He felt violent pain surge through his body. Callixtus gasped, trying for air, as the crash had knocked the breath out of his body: fortunately, he had fallen on to his left arm and this had protected him from more serious injury. He heard a sound and, despite the shivers of pain, turned to the dark shadowy figure bending over him.

‘Help me!’ he moaned.

‘Into eternity!’ came the hissed reply.

Callixtus opened his mouth. ‘No,’ he groaned. ‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean to!’ He made to crawl away and, as he did so, the cowled figure smashed a heavy brass candlestick on to his temple, cracking Callixtus’s head like a nut so the blood and brains seeped out.

The day after the ‘Great Miracle’, Athelstan’s troubles began in earnest. The news of the cure swept along the fetid alleyways of Southwark. The sick and the lame trooped to the church, to be welcomed by an ecstatic Watkin and Pike who turned the entrance to St Erconwald’s into a small market place.

‘They’ll soon get tired,’ Athelstan muttered to Bonaventure as he stood outside his house. He watched the long line of hopeful pilgrims queue up to go into the church, have a glimpse of the skeleton, light a candle in front of the great wooden coffin and say a prayer. Athelstan had decided to put a cheerful face on matters. The workmen in the sanctuary would be allowed to continue and he was certain Cranston would come up with some further information which would resolve the matter once and for all.

Nevertheless, by early afternoon Athelstan’s optimism had evaporated. Other cures had been reported: a child with warts claimed his gruesome ailment had disappeared. A bilious stomach was soothed, pains in the groin disappeared, a growing list of ailments cleared up after the inflicted person had prayed before the coffin. Master Bladdersniff and the other wardmen came to complain but all Athelstan could do was shout his displeasure at what was happening, say the matter was out of his hands and lock himself inside the security of his own home.

The news of St Erconwald’s miraculous find attracted all the human hawks and kites who lurked in Southwark: the counterfeiters, the upright men, the tinkers and pedlars of religious objects. They gathered like flies round a rubbish heap. One rogue with a patch over his eye and a pretended lame foot, hobbled into St Erconwald’s then came out throwing away his crutch, claiming he had been cured and offering to sell the crutch as a sacred object. He stood outside Athelstan’s house shouting at a gaping group of onlookers that for a shilling sterling this sacred wood which had taken him to Jerusalem and back was theirs for the asking. Inside the house Athelstan cringed. Then another, more strident, voice could be heard from the church.