‘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?’
‘You could say that, my friend.’
‘Then take a good look at these shaven heads. I’ve seen the Frenchman Richer meet boatmen from foreign ships — what is that, treason? And as for Prior Alexander, he so likes being with his good friend the sub-prior, even if it means travelling along a freezing river in a barge. Or shall we talk about those good monks who don disguises and visit the stews and bath houses of Southwark? For me retribution is close but theirs is also approaching. When the great revolt breaks out and it will, like pus from a sore, believe me, all the Marybread and Marymeat distributed on a Sunday won’t save them. They’re all as rotten and wicked as I am.’
‘Scurrilous rumours, my friend?’
‘Perhaps, Brother.’ Fleischer looked over his shoulder. ‘As for Lord Walter! Sharing the kiss of peace with the Upright Men who gather at All Hallows won’t protect him.’ Fleischer grinned bleakly. ‘Ask any of the river people. Anyway, these mumbling mouses now want to hang me.’ He nodded back at the anchorite, standing like some sombre statue. ‘At least they say he’s good. He can do it in a splice — he’s not some cow-handed peasant. Ah well, I’m getting cold and it’s time I was gone.’ He bowed his head. Athelstan made the sign of the cross over him and stepped back as the anchorite came over.
‘I would like words with you, sir,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘when this business is finished. I shall be waiting for you in St Fulcher’s chantry chapel.’
The anchorite simply darted a look, grasped Fleischer by the arm and took him back to join the others. The procession reformed. Prior Alexander intoned the opening words of the sequence, ‘Dies Irae — Oh Day of wrath, Oh Day of Mourning, See fulfilled heaven’s warning. .’ The sombre sight disappeared into the thick veil of mist. The candle light dimmed, the words faded, nothing but silence. Athelstan sighed, blessed himself and walked back through the murk into the abbey church. All lay quiet. This hymn in stone closed around him, evoking memories of his motherhouse at Blackfriars. Athelstan compared its magnificence with the simple crudeness of St Erconwald’s and felt a pang of homesickness. He would love the likes of Huddle, Watkin and all that boisterous throng to come tumbling through the porch. Athelstan reached the chantry chapel. He went in under the latticed screen with its fretted carving and sat down on a stool staring up at the painted window, marvelling at the sheer subtlety of it all. A demon had been drawn into its intricate tracery. Red stain had first been applied to the blue glass whilst the glowing left eye of the fiend had been formed by simply drilling the actual glass. The devil’s yellow, spiky hair was depicted against a background of flaming red which reflected the very fires of hell.
Athelstan glanced down at the floor. He must concentrate on why he was here. He must summarize what he’d learnt then revise and draft it as he used to before debating a theological problem at Blackfriars.
Item: Sir Robert Kilverby had apparently retired to his chamber hale and hearty. The Passio Christi was safely locked away in its coffer and kept in that chamber.
Item: No one entered that room. Sir Robert certainly never left it.
Item: No poisonous taint or potion could be found in the room, neither in the wine nor the sweetmeats.
Item: The door to that chamber had to be forced. Members of the household, very hostile to each other, had discovered Kilverby’s corpse. They were certain nothing had been interfered with or taken away.
Item: Nevertheless, Kilverby had been poisoned by some slow-acting potion, perhaps the juice of almond seed. Athelstan was well acquainted with that venom — even a few grains were deadly. Traces of a poison had been found on Kilverby’s lips and elsewhere on the corpse.
Item: After Kilverby’s two monkish visitors had left, the Passio Christi was placed back into its casket and made secure. Witnesses had seen the ruby returned to its casket, which Kilverby and Crispin had then taken to the chancery chamber. Kilverby surely would have personally assured himself of the bloodstone’s security? After all, he alone carried the keys on that chain around his neck. He would have certainly raised the alarm if anything was amiss.
Item: Sir Robert Kilverby was a very rich man who’d undergone some form of conversion. He intended to go on a life-time pilgrimage to Santiago, Rome and Jerusalem. All his business affairs would be left to his daughter and her husband. Kilverby’s widow was not his heir, so why should she kill her husband? She profited little except, perhaps, a closer intimacy with her strange kinsman Adam Lestral. Finally, Crispin appeared to be his master’s most loyal servant, who was leaving his service anyway. Kilverby’s secretarius certainly did not profit from his master’s death.
Item: The Passio Christi was, by contract of indenture, to be shown to the Wyvern Company twice a year. Yesterday the Feast of St Damasus was one of those days. However, Kilverby intended the bloodstone to be taken to St Fulcher’s not by himself but his trusted secretarius and beloved daughter. Why? Athelstan squinted up at the devil’s face on the painted window. Kilverby seemingly did not want to meet the Wyvern Company. Had he learnt something highly distasteful about them? That they had sacrilegiously stolen the sacred bloodstone?