‘What do you mean? Kilverby held that.’
‘He’s dead but the Passio Christi was, allegedly, once owned by the black monks. Richer is a Frenchman, a monk of St Calliste, which now claims it. He is a young man, vigorous, probably trained in arms but why should he murder us? That will hardly bring back the Passio Christi?’
‘I agree,’ Athelstan replied. ‘What about revenge, punishment?’
Athelstan let his words hang in the air. Busy warming his hands, he watched a solitary robin hop across the cloister garth, pecking furiously at the frost-laced grass. Incense and candle smoke wafted mixing with that from the bake house. Athelstan glanced back; both his companions had begun to hum a song, shuffling their feet in a slow dance and softly clapping their hands. Athelstan, surprised, stood back watching these two soldiers, lost in their own ritual, shuffle and clap as peasants would in a tavern celebrating their harvest. Mahant and Wenlock, eyes closed, moved clumsily to their own rhythm; the humming grew louder then faded away with both men throwing their hands up in the air and exclaiming, ‘Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia!’ The soldiers opened their eyes and turned back to the brazier, grinning at Athelstan.
‘You monks and priests have your liturgies and we have ours,’ Wenlock explained. ‘At the beginning of every battle the Wyverns always performed their dance; in the evening we did the same. You understand why?’
Athelstan nodded. When he and his brother had joined the King’s army he’d seen soldiers, veterans of the free companies, perform such dances.
‘But why now?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Because we are about to do battle.’
‘Against whom? Do you really suspect Richer?’
‘Why stop with him?’ Wenlock sneered. ‘Look around you, Friar, what do you see? Monks? Many of these hail from the farms, villages and shires around London. They know us, at least by reputation. Further up the river at All Hallows near Barking, the Upright Men gather to plot bloody treason.’
‘Don’t talk in parables.’ Athelstan drew closer.
‘We’re not. You asked us who wants us dead. Your fat friend Cranston has returned to the city to sniff around. You have remained here to do the same, so I’ll help you. We’re old soldiers. We have served our purpose. Go into the city and you’ll find others less fortunate than us,’ Wenlock, white froth staining his lips, held up his maimed hands, ‘starving at the mouth of every alleyway and filthy alcove. You ask us who wants us dead? Well, perhaps His Grace the Regent so that the Passio Christi, when it is found, will fall into his greedy hands. Or again there’s Abbot Walter, who’d like to see us ejected from his precious precincts even though, if need be, he would use us against the Upright Men should they attack this abbey. As for Richer — yes? He nurses grudges and grievances against us but there’s more.’ Wenlock paused, chest heaving, gesturing at Mahant to continue.
‘Wenlock and I have talked about this. Now Brokersby is gone and Osborne has disappeared, we thought we’d tell you. We have enemies within and without, Richer, even that anchorite. You and Cranston must have heard the rumours but let him tell you his tale. We have no blood on our hands as far as the anchorite’s concerned. We were only doing our duty.’ Mahant drew a deep breath. ‘As for the rest, the Upright Men and the Great Community of the Realm hate us. You see, Friar, before we came here we garrisoned the Tower, Rochester, Hedingham, Montfichet — indeed, all the castles around London. The shires seethe with unrest. You’ve heard about the uprisings, the attacks on houses like that at Bury St Edmunds and elsewhere? Well, to cut to the quick, the Wyverns were used by the Crown, the sheriffs, the abbots and other great lords to crush such revolts. We carried out our orders, as always, efficiently.’
‘Ruthlessly?’
‘Yes, Brother, ruthlessly. The royal banner was unfurled and the trumpets brayed. Any man, woman or child found in arms against us were either cut down or hanged out of hand.’
Athelstan nodded and walked over to a stone bench. The old soldiers joined him, sitting on either side.
‘We burnt their villages and farms,’ Wenlock continued. ‘We crammed their corpses into wells and springs.’ He paused, waiting for Athelstan to reply, but the friar just sat listening.
‘Don’t judge us, Brother! When the rebels burn Blackfriars and your parish church you’ll understand. True, we became hated. Undoubtedly here in this abbey we have shaven-pates, kinsmen of those we slaughtered, we know that. We’ve received dark looks, curses and spitting, signs made against the evil one and that includes Prior Alexander. We hanged one of his beloved kinsmen, no better than a hedge priest, a ranter on the common gallows outside Ospringe.’
‘So the Upright Men may have marked you down.’
‘Yes, and our Lord Abbot may well come to regret our stay. We suspect that, like many of the great lords, he’s raising Danegeld to bribe these traitorous bastards. Friar, you ask us who wants us dead? Well, we’ve given you a list. Be it John of Gaunt, some madcap monk or an assassin despatched by the Upright Men.’
‘And Osborne has fled the danger?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And Brokersby — did he take an opiate to sleep?’
Wenlock stood up and glanced down at Athelstan.
‘Brokersby took an opiate, some powder grains.’ He pulled a face. ‘Supplied by the infirmary.’
‘Did Brokersby ever keep oil in his chamber?’
‘No, why should he?’
‘Did he keep the night-candle lit?’
‘I think so.’ Mahant paused. ‘Brokersby, God assoil him, was frightened by the dark but more than that I cannot say.’ He waved at Wenlock. ‘We should go, perhaps into the city and search for Osborne there.’ He leaned down, his face so close Athelstan could smell the ale on his breath. ‘But we’ll not go today, brother, it’s Sunday. My Lord Abbot will be dispensing Marymeat and Marybread to the poor, or that’s how he describes it.’ Mahant adjusted his war belt.
‘Do you suspect us?’ Wenlock asked, archly holding up his maimed hands. ‘Poor me who can no longer swing a sword?’
‘I never said that.’
‘We were in the city when Hyde and Hanep were murdered,’ Mahant added quietly, ‘and fast asleep when the fire started.’
‘Did William Chalk,’ Athelstan asked, ‘when he fell ill, did the good brothers give him ghostly comfort, shrive him?’
‘Richer often visited him but, as you know, the secrets of the confessional are inviolate.’
‘And Kilverby the merchant?’
‘He used to visit us when he brought the Passio Christi. In the end he let others do that and, when he did come, he avoided us. I don’t think he liked us. We were not particularly fond of him.’
Athelstan watched as the two Wyverns sauntered off. Several brothers then hurried into the cloisters carrying baskets. Athelstan stopped and questioned one, who informed him that as it was Sunday Abbot Walter would distribute alms, free bread and meat to the poor clustered before the main gate of the abbey as well as to others at the watergate. Athelstan, recalling earlier remarks about this, decided to follow them. He went first to the main gatehouse, waiting under its yawning arch until the brothers assembled with their baskets at the ready. He followed them through the postern door and was surprised at the throng gathered there. Peasants in their dirt-gained smocks and mud caked boots, men, women and children, their lean, furrowed faces full of desperation, eager to eat. Other outcasts crowded in: wandering beggars in their motley array of rags, hats and footwear; pilgrims, swathed in tattered weather-worn cloaks on which were pinned the rusting badges of the shrines they had visited — Walsingham, Canterbury, Hereford and even abroad to the famous Magdalene shrine at Vezelay in Burgundy or St Peter’s in Rome. Beyond these the lepers, clothed in their shrouds, every inch of flesh hidden by swathes of soiled bandages, clustered in a solitary group ringing hand bells or rattling clappers to warn away the rest. Athelstan took two baskets over to them. He blessed both lepers and food, trying not to be affected by the rank stench and the glimpse of scabbed skin. He distributed the bread, meat and fruit, ensuring that everyone received a portion. He smiled at the benedictions and thanks hissed through worm-eaten lips, talking to the lepers about the dangers of the road and the lives they led.