‘We don’t know,’ Brokersby retorted, ‘nor do we know why Hanep was murdered out in the cemetery. For God’s sake, Priest,’ Brokersby brought his hand down flat against the table, ‘we truly don’t know. Hanep could never sleep; he loved to wander at night.’
‘That’s true,’ Richer intervened. ‘Master Hanep’s nightly pilgrimages around this abbey were well known.’
‘Yet both men were murdered,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘executed by a skilled swordsman. Indeed, Master Ailward may have been murdered by two assailants. Why?’
‘We don’t know,’ Wenlock spoke up, ‘we truly don’t. Matters between us were most amicable. We have served together for decades. We have fought, starved, been threatened and survived.’
‘We come from the same manor in Essex,’ Brokersby explained, ‘Leighton, on the way to Wodeford. We became master bowmen and joined the Company of Edward the Black Prince. We took the Wyvern as our livery. .’
‘Continue.’ Athelstan smiled.
Brokersby described how he and his companions, at least two score in number, fought in France under the Wyvern banner, about their allegiance to Prince Edward and their undying adoration of him. Athelstan warned Cranston with his eyes to remain silent, for these men needed little encouragement to wax lyrical about their exploits in the Poitiers campaign when they had shattered the power of France. Brokersby mentioned how he’d once been a scholar, a would-be cleric, educated in the local church of St Mary’s. Indeed, he added, he was writing his own chronicle of events. This caused surprise even amongst his companions. So, as darkness descended and the bells sounded for the next hour of divine office, the old soldiers reminisced. Athelstan listened and closely studied these grey-haired warriors with the archer braces still on their wrists. Once these were the scourge of France, men who feared no enemy. He also concluded that Mahant was their leader, Wenlock their adviser. More ale was supped. Cranston joined in with his own memories as Richer politely excused himself and withdrew. Once the Frenchman had closed the door behind him Cranston tapped the table for silence.
‘So we come to the Passio Christi,’ the coroner declared. ‘Did you steal it? Of course if you did you are excommunicated, cut off from the church. You shouldn’t even be here in these hallowed precincts.’ He sighed. ‘Naturally you’ll deny that. Anyway, tell us, how did you find the bloodstone?’
‘To be as blunt,’ Wenlock retorted, ‘after Poitiers we swept the fields like a windstorm, the very fires of hell.’
‘In other words you plundered and pillaged?’ Cranston barked. ‘I was there, you know. I took part in it. Our army was full of vagabonds, runaways, rascals and ribauds, the scum of our prisons who came from slums so horrid even the rats hanged themselves.’ Cranston’s words were greeted with silent disbelief until Wenlock beat the table with a maimed hand, bellowing with laughter.
‘True, Sir John.’ He glanced around his companions. ‘Come on, that is the truth! We had cozeners, tumblers, ape-carriers.’ His words won nods of approval. ‘However, we were master bowmen,’ all the good humour drained from Wenlock’s face, ‘and the Passio Christi was found in a casket on a cart along a leafy country lane.’
‘By you?’
‘By us, Friar.’
‘And what else was in that cart?’
‘Some cloths.’ Wenlock paused. ‘Cups, mazers, a few manuscripts.’
‘And you surrendered all of this to Edward, the King’s son?’
‘We did.’
‘And?’ Athelstan persisted.
‘An indenture was drawn up. You can study it at the Exchequer of Receipt. .’
‘I have,’ Cranston interrupted.
‘We were given an allowance every month. The jewel was to be held by Kilverby, the Prince’s treasurer. You know the rest so why should we tell you?’
‘How long have you been here?’ Athelstan asked, fighting off the weariness of the day.
‘About four years. We came from France then did guard duty at the Tower, Sheen, Rochester and King’s Langley. Five years ago we petitioned the Crown. We were promised corrodies here.’
‘And why St Fulcher’s?’
‘Ask Father Abbot, Sir John. The old King and his son, before they left London for Dover and their chevauchées through France, stopped here to light tapers. They arranged for Masses to be sung to Christ, Our Lady of Walsingham, and all the saints that God would favour the Leopards of England. The old King even founded a chantry chapel here dedicated to St George.’ Wenlock pulled a face. ‘St Fulcher received other gifts and endowments from the royal family.’ Wenlock gazed over his shoulder at the capped hour candle on its stand in the far corner of the refectory. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, the day goes and so must we.’
‘Richer,’ Athelstan moved his writing tray, ‘do you find him hostile? After all, he is from the Abbey of St Calliste which once held the Passio Christi?’
‘They claim they once held it,’ Wenlock replied. ‘We have no real proof that the bloodstone we found belonged to that abbey. I mean, if it was,’ he smiled, ‘why was it outside the abbey on a cart?’
Athelstan gazed at these former soldiers. He recalled how he and his brother consorted with such men, practical and pragmatic without any real interest in religion or indeed anything else outside their own narrow world. Wenlock’s blunt language was typical.
‘Was the cart abandoned?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What happened to its escort?’
‘By all the saints,’ Brokersby exclaimed, ‘that was years ago! What does it matter now?’
‘Because, my friend,’ Cranston shouted back, ‘if it was proven, even now, that the Passio Christi was stolen from the Abbey of St Calliste that renders you excommunicate, whatever the number of years. You would still be proclaimed public sinners and stripped of everything. You might even hang. So tell us,’ Cranston added quietly.
‘We found it in a cart,’ Wenlock answered coolly.
‘No escort?’
‘Nothing, just plunder of war waiting to be taken.’
Athelstan sighed noisily. ‘That is your story.’
‘We are our own witnesses,’ Mahant declared. ‘Who else is there?’
‘Tell us,’ Cranston asked, ‘why should two of your company be so barbarously slain?’
‘We don’t know,’ Osborne declared.
‘We are old soldiers serving our time,’ Mahant added.
‘So why go armed in this abbey?’
‘Because Sir John, this abbey is not what it appears to be.’ Osborne threw off Brokersby’s warning hand.
‘You think these good brothers are united in prayer? Well, look at the facts. The abbot hates the prior who responds with as much loathing. The prior loves the Frenchman Richer with a love not known even towards women. Our Lord Abbot is more concerned about that nasty swan than he is about the rule of St Benedict. He keeps his beloved niece, if that is what she really is, in the guest house guarded by that old harridan. Meanwhile Richer slips in and out of this abbey like a rat from its hole. We’ve seen him wander down to the watergate. Was he there when poor Ailward was murdered?’ Osborne breathed in heavily, wiping the white flecks of foam from his lips on the back of his hand. ‘Then there’s that anchorite, mad as a March hare, in the abbey church, screaming that he is haunted. He has grudges against us, as do Prior Alexander and others who, I am sure, have great sympathy for the Great Community of the Realm and their leaders the Upright Men. Now two of our comrades are foully murdered, certainly not by us. Why not make your enquiries amongst the brothers: Abbot Walter, Prior Alexander, Richer the Frenchman? After all, we’ve seen military service, but they’ve also done their fair share of spilling blood. They can wield swords.’ Osborne’s voice trailed off in a fit of coughing and throat clearing.
‘Do you see Richer as your enemy?’
‘No, Brother, but he may view us as his.’
‘So why are you armed?’
‘Because,’ Wenlock intervened, ‘three weeks ago, just before the beginning of Advent, I was attacked out in the abbey grounds. I have a passion for herbs and shrubs — I always have. I visited the gardens and afterwards I went for a walk. Nearby runs a maze, its high hedgerows, all prickly, laid out in a subtle plan. A former abbot had built it so those who could not take the cross to Outremer to fight the infidel could crawl through its maze of narrow paths to the centre where there is a Great Pity surmounted by a cross. I entered but dusk was creeping in. I was about to leave when a figure charged out of the gloom, hooded and masked, sword and dagger whirling. I was petrified; all I carried was a pilgrim staff.’ Wenlock grimaced. ‘The forefingers of both my hands are maimed, the French, God curse them. I cannot pull a bow but still, albeit clumsily, wield a weapon.’