‘I. .?’
‘No. I mean years ago. They were novices here. Lord Walter, you’re of the same age, you must remember them.’
‘I do,’ the abbot replied slowly, ‘but what has that got to do with all this?’
‘They were novices here.’
‘Yes, I was an assistant to the novice master, I. .’
‘Did anything singular happen to them?’
‘No, they were both the sons of London citizens. Kilverby was special. He had a sharp mind and keen wit, he excelled in logic and debate.’
‘And Crispin?’
‘Oh, he was called “the Silent One”, sometimes “Sinister”, because he was left-handed. He was often punished for that. The novice master said he must change.’
‘And did he?’
‘No.’
‘Were both men happy?’
‘Kilverby more than Crispin.’ The abbot scratched his head. ‘I believe he hated being here. Both young men publicly declared their intention of not taking minor orders and left. Kilverby soon made his name as a trader, an astute merchant. Crispin became his helpmate. Kilverby rose to be an alderman, a leading member of the guild, a banker, a trader in every kind of commodity, much patronized by the Crown.’
‘And you can see no link between Kilverby’s novitiate here and his mysterious death?’
‘No.’ Abbot Walter’s voice was clipped; he glanced nervously at Prior Alexander.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Richer asked, ‘what has this got to do with me, with us?’
‘Oh, everything,’ Athelstan sat down. ‘Prior Alexander, go to your chancery and bring me the list of all the items seized by the Wyvern Company from the cart they found so opportunely on a country lane near the Abbey of St Calliste.’
‘There isn’t such a-’
‘Don’t lie.’ Athelstan saw the deep flush in the prior’s face. Abbot Walter simply groaned. Richer glanced longingly at the door.
‘It is abbey property,’ Abbot Walter blustered.
‘In which case,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I could ask all three of you to join me and Sir John, the King’s officer, in the muniment room at the Tower where such a list, I am sure, is recorded on a memoranda roll of the exchequer or royal chamber. Now,’ Athelstan sighed, ‘that may take some time — days, weeks — but I am sure we can secure you comfortable lodgings in the Tower until that list is traced. After that,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘the Crown might decide to hold an inventory on what goods donated to St Fulcher’s actually remain here? Silence!’ Athelstan pointed at the abbot. ‘Do not make a bad situation worse. I doubt if much remains. Most of the goods seized by the Wyvern Company from St Calliste have been despatched back to France by you, Richer. You sent these items by this cog or that ship. You weren’t sending messages. Why should a boatman from a foreign cog come down here?’ Athelstan gestured at the door. ‘You have servants, lay brothers, not to mention the river folk who would leap at the chance to earn good coin by taking letters to this ship or that. You were sending precious, sacred items which could only be entrusted to certain people. Prior Alexander,’ Athelstan spread his hands, ‘Sir John and I are waiting for that list. I want it now.’
Prior Alexander glanced at the abbot who simply fluttered his fingers.
‘Do as he asks,’ Eleanor whispered. ‘Walter, do it, we have to.’
‘The list,’ Athelstan insisted.
The prior rose and swept out of the chamber. Athelstan glanced across at Sir John, who sat cradling a goblet of wine he’d poured from the jug on the great open dresser. Athelstan rose and walked back to the window where the winter light still picked out scenes from St Benedict’s life at Subiaco. He was aware of the silence behind him as he prepared his indictment. Richer was wily and subtle: a spider who’d entered this abbey and spun his web cleverly, adroitly drawing in the likes of Kilverby and William Chalk but who else — Prior Alexander? Athelstan wondered about Osborne and then his own desperate flight through the charnel house. Had that been Richer? Was the Frenchman determined to prevent his probing even if it meant murder?
‘I have it.’
Prior Alexander had returned to the chamber. He carried a calf skin ledger inscribed with the title ‘Dona Recepta — Gifts Received’. Athelstan leafed through the yellowing pages, tied to each other and the strong spine with reddish twine. Athelstan recognized it as a true document over which these deceitful monks could not deceive him. The ‘Liber Donorum Receptorum — the Book of Gifts Received’ was an important record of any religious house. It provided the day, month and year of every gift received, along with the donor’s name. The record had to be kept because every religious house had a special day when Masses were offered for the intentions of all such benefactors. More importantly, it was a document drawn up years ago over which these monks had no control. Prior Alexander offered to help. Athelstan shook his head.
‘I know where to look,’ he murmured and took the book across to the window. The battle of Poitiers had been fought in 1356. Athelstan moved to January 1357 and scrutinized the entries, quietly marvelling at the generosity of lords, merchants and other patrons. At last he found the entries under ‘Rex Angliae, King of England’ or ‘Edwardus Princeps Walliae, Edward Prince of Wales’. Athelstan studied the list of about sixty items ‘found on a cart near St Calliste’: candlesticks, triptychs and crucifixes, missals and other sacred items such as a small tabernacle, gold and silver cruets then the entry he’d been looking for: ‘Liber Antiqua, Liber Passionis Christi’ — An old book, The Book of the Passion of Christ’.
‘Very well,’ Athelstan lifted his head, ‘I would like to see all these items now.’
‘That’s impossible!’
‘Of course it is,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘How many of these items have now been returned to St Calliste?’ He closed the book. ‘Prior Alexander, stop looking offended, it’s not honest. Sit down.’ Athelstan rejoined Cranston. ‘I shall tell you what happened,’ Athelstan continued. ‘The Wyvern Company’s plunder was handed over to the Crown within a year because all the items were sacred. They were then granted to St Fulcher’s, some twenty-three years ago.’ Athelstan tapped the book. ‘You cannot erase or change these entries. A few years ago the Abbot of St Calliste decided it was time to get his property back. Did he exchange gifts with you, Abbot Walter? Or was it bribes?’ Athelstan asked. ‘So that his beloved nephew Richer, the skilled copyist and illuminator, could visit St Fulcher’s on an extended course of study? He would definitely work for this privilege, being given the position of Sub-Prior.’ Athelstan stared at the Frenchman who looked relaxed but poised. ‘I cannot prove this but the Abbot of St Calliste also learned as he would through the chatter and gossip of his order, how the remnants of the Wyvern Company were now at St Fulcher’s. What an excellent opportunity! What a prize! To recover everything lost as well as wreak vengeance on the sacrilegious English who’d dared plunder the great Abbey of St Calliste with such impunity.’
‘Are you, yet again,’ Richer demanded, ‘accusing me of murder? Where is your proof, your evidence?’
‘Seeds grow, stalks thrust up,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Gathering time always comes, Richer. You definitely arrived here to right a whole series of wrongs and, to begin with, God was good. You must have even thought St Benedict himself had intervened on your behalf.’
‘Explain!’
‘You know full well. One of the Wyverns, William Chalk, fell ill; a defrocked priest, he desperately wanted to make his peace with God. You Richer, with Prior Alexander’s connivance, wormed your way into that man’s soul. I am not accusing you of breaking the seal of confession but you used the second miracle which presented itself. Kilverby was also undergoing conversion. Like the subtle cozener you are, you struck hard and fast. Kilverby realized that the free company he’d financed in France were sacrilegious thieves and he’d profited from them. Worse was to come. He learnt that the Passio Christi, the sacred bloodstone, had been blasphemously stolen and he was also part of that. He was under God’s doom.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I admit, I confess. I still do not fully understand Kilverby’s motives.’