Athelstan moved away and looked around. At first he could see little amiss until the latecomers, hooded and visored, arrived. About a dozen in all, they appeared quickly, took the baskets specially brought out for them and left. Intrigued, Athelstan decided to visit the quayside. He strolled through the now busy precincts and down across Mortival meadow. Outside the watergate another group of monks were dispensing Marymeat and Marybread. Fewer beggars congregated here, most of them destitute river people clutching their rags tightly against the bitter cold. They reeked of stale fish, dirty water and sweat. Athelstan moved amongst them. He felt both guilty and angry at his church and about the way the world was. He felt the fury well within him as it did sometimes in his own parish at the sheer injustice of it all. No wonder the Upright Men gathered to plot and the Great Community of the Realm, brimming with discontent, moved out of the shadows. Why shouldn’t they have their day of doom, fire and sword, revolt and savage attack? Athelstan turned away, blinking, shaking his head at the furious thoughts which pelted his soul. He blamed himself. Perhaps he should be more active and support the Upright Men, give his blessing to the likes of Pike and Watkin. Athelstan then glimpsed the gallows gaunt against the lowering sky, the fragments of rope attached to a hook fluttering in the breeze. Athelstan closed his eyes and recited the first verse of psalm fifty — that is why he never supported them! No matter the misery now, what the Great Community plotted would only make matters worse. The revolt would be crushed. The Lord of the Soil would dominate. They’d whistle up men like Mahant and Wenlock, professional soldiers, killers to the bone, to crush all dissent. Every gallows from here to the Wash would be heavy with corpses.
‘Brother, take care,’ Athelstan apologized to the fisherman he bumped into. The quayside was now very busy. He also noticed the new arrivals, similar to those grouped at the main abbey gateway. He was sure they were envoys from the Upright Men sent to collect purveyance by their masters; they picked up the special baskets and carried them to a waiting barge manned by four oarsmen. Such was the way of the world, Athelstan reflected. Abbot Walter was paying service to the emerging threat with special provisions for those who lurked away from the light. Athelstan approached Brother Simon, whom he’d first met after the fire in Brokersby’s chamber. The friar indicated with his head at the group he’d noticed.
‘Brother Simon, who are those men?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Both you and the poor treat them with every respect. They collect your alms, your charity as if it was their God-given right.’
‘Brother Athelstan.’ Simon peered up at him. The lay brother put a finger to his lips. ‘What do you think?’ he whispered, leaning forward. ‘The truth, as Pilate once asked, what is the truth? We must, one day, all answer that question — you, me, Father Abbot and the rest, eh?’ Simon’s face remained passive, his eyes watchful.
Athelstan recalled his conversations with the Wyverns. How the Upright Men had their adherents in the abbey — the sons, brothers and kinsmen of the earthworms, the peasants of the shires who hacked the earth for those who owned it.
‘Have you answered your own question, Brother Simon?’
‘Time will tell.’ The Benedictine smiled. ‘Time will tell. Now I’m busy.’
Athelstan walked back through the watergate and stared down at where Hyde had been murdered. The friar stood chewing his lip; there was still the vexed question of Osborne’s whereabouts. What had really happened to him? Had he fled? Was Osborne the assassin, hence his escape? Or had Osborne been terrified witless by the murder of his comrades? Yet would he leave their protection — men with whom he’d spent a generation, who’d stood with him in the battle line? Where would he go now?
‘I think you’re still here,’ Athelstan whispered at the shifting tendrils of mist. He repressed a shiver of fear as he searched for a logical answer to his own questions. He was more than convinced, conceding to a growing conviction, a deep suspicion that Osborne had not fled; he’d been murdered, perhaps here in the abbey, but why? Simply because he was a Wyvern or because he suspected something? If he had been murdered why had his corpse been done away with so secretively? Hyde and Hanep were left sprawling in their blood. Did Osborne’s murder involve more than one person? He was a soldier who, despite all his fears, could hold his own against the likes of the maimed Wenlock, even if the latter was helped by others. Athelstan fingered the knots on his cord. It would take a group of assassins to overcome someone like Osborne, and then what? His corpse would have to be disposed of. Not an easy task here in this sprawling abbey with its countless windows, passageways and galleries. Any struggle might be seen; the removal of a corpse would attract attention. A group of monks could do that or a coven of assassins despatched by the Upright Men. Someone must have noticed something yet it was now early afternoon. Despite the searches of Mahant and Wenlock, no trace of Osborne had apparently been found, no alarm raised.
Athelstan peered up at the sky. ‘Let us say, good Brother,’ he mockingly whispered to himself, ‘poor Osborne, God rest him, was killed swiftly by dagger, garrotte or poison?’ Yes, Athelstan thought, that could be achieved without little clamour but what then? Hyde and Hanep’s corpses had been left like chunks of meat. Brokersby’s had been publicly burnt to death. So why hadn’t Osborne’s corpse been found out here in the meadow or somewhere else in the abbey? True, Athelstan continued his line of thought, the precincts could be lonely, desolate at certain times but on the other hand, once the monks were out of the abbey church, scores of them wandered here and there. Traces of violence, certainly corpses, would soon be discovered. ‘Where then?’ Athelstan murmured to himself. Where do you hide a corpse in an abbey like this? Out in the woodlands? But lay brothers constantly passed to and fro. The abbey owned lurchers; Athelstan had heard them barking in their kennels. They would soon nose out a corpse. Moreover, in this harsh winter an unburied cadaver would quickly attract kites, foxes and other scavengers which would rouse the attention of someone in the abbey. Athelstan tapped the ground with his foot. The soil was rock hard; digging a pit or a makeshift grave would also prove extremely difficult. Athelstan walked slowly back across the meadow. Of course there were the wastelands around the abbey but would a man like Osborne be trapped and killed whilst leaving during the early hours of the morning? The former soldier would not give up his life easily. Even if his murder was swift, with the flash of a blade or a mouthful of poison, the difficulty of getting rid of his corpse still remained. Athelstan paused at laughter from beyond the watergate. Of course there was always the river, yet Osborne would have to be enticed out there in the hours of the night or early morning. Now, given his comrades’ brutal murders, Osborne would be highly wary. Indeed, even if Osborne was killed and his body thrown into the Thames, it would have to be weighted down. Nevertheless, the river was fickle, especially here further east of the city with its large reed beds. Sooner or later his corpse would be discovered.
Athelstan reached the sand-covered bowling ground. The skittles with their carved demonic faces had all been set up, the bowls gathered in their box. Athelstan was tempted to make a cast to see how many he could bring down. Instead he sat on a turf bench, hands up the sleeves of his gown as he considered further possibilities. What if Osborne had truly fled? What if he, for his own secret purposes, was the assassin? Then why and how had he killed Brokersby in such a fashion? The fire had been deliberately started close to the bed in a secure, locked chamber. How could anyone ignite it from outside? The grille high on the oak door was very narrow. A line of oil-soaked string or cord might be used but that left a great deal to chance. The fire, if it was started in such a fashion, would begin slowly. Anyone near that door would be noticed; if not by a passer-by then Brokersby himself. And why had the soldier not tried to escape? Was he so drunk with wine, an opiate or both? Brokersby had certainly been murdered. Athelstan entertained an equal foreboding about Osborne. But where was his corpse? Athelstan glanced across at the crude stone table on which the monks played checkers. He glimpsed the shard of bone used in one of the games. He got up and touched this with his fingers.