Текст книги "Bloodstone"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

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.’

In 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.’

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.

Abbot Walter and Prior Alexander were sitting in chairs before the great mantled hearth. They rose as Cranston entered. The coroner and Athelstan immediately genuflected to kiss the abbatial ring. Once introductions were finished, they were ushered to the waiting chairs, each with a small table beside it holding a goblet of white wine and a bowl of sugared dry fruit. They made themselves comfortable after the freezing river journey. Athelstan basked in the heat from the flaming logs whilst quickly studying the abbot. Lord Walter was a small, plump man; his black robe was of the purest wool, thick buskins on his feet and a precious pectoral cross hung around his fat throat. Soft and comfortable, Athelstan considered, Lord Walter was portly with a shining, balding pate, his gloriously rubicund, clean-shaven face glistening with perfumed oil. Nevertheless, a stubborn, determined man. Athelstan noted the pert cast to Lord Walter’s thick lips and the shifting eyes ever so quick to wrinkle in a smile as if the abbot was wearing a mask to face other masks. Prior Alexander was different, tall and gangling with a slight stoop to his bony shoulders, his closely cropped red hair emphasized a long, pale face, sharp green eyes with a beaked nose over a thin lipped mouth. Simply by watching them Athelstan sensed the tension between abbot and prior; they hardly looked at each other when they talked whilst their gestures were off hand, as if they were fully aware of some resentment between them. Richer, however, urbane, cultured and soft spoken, seemed to be well liked by both, especially Prior Alexander.