‘Do you think the Wyvern Company found out about Isabella?’
‘I doubt it.’ Athelstan stopped writing the cipher he always used to record his thoughts. ‘Quite honestly, I don’t think the Wyvern Company give a fig about Isabella being Abbot Walter’s niece or his daughter. They are more concerned about themselves.’
‘And Prior Alexander?’
‘Basically a good man with sympathies for the common folk. The reception of my parishioners was his work. I must thank him. We know one of his kinsman, a hedge priest, was hanged out of hand by the Wyvern Company. Prior Alexander may want revenge. He is still vigorous, able to wield a sword. He dislikes the Wyverns, whilst he was here when all three died.’ Athelstan put his tray aside, rose and stretched.
‘Do you think he suspects the truth about Isabella Velours?’
‘Perhaps, but Lord Walter can also trap him. Prior Alexander has, I believe, an inordinate love for Richer. The truth behind that relationship is difficult to discern but I suspect Prior Alexander indulges Richer. When they go into the city the prior is willing to take his young friend down to the quayside to search for foreign ships. Indeed,’ Athelstan sat down, ‘it is Richer who is the key to this mystery. He was sent here, I am certain, by his uncle, the Abbot of St Calliste, to retrieve the Passio Christi. Has he suborned Prior Alexander in order to achieve this? Perhaps. Did he or both of them kill the old soldiers including Chalk? I cannot say. What I am certain of is that Richer lies at the root of this. Look,’ Athelstan got to his feet, unbolted the door and stared out. The gallery outside was deserted. He could hear the plain chant from the church as the full choir intoned the psalm: ‘The Lord trains my arms for war, he prepares my hands for battle.’ Yes, he does, Athelstan reflected, closing the door. ‘Sir John, look at the facts. Kilverby once financed the Wyvern Company. He held the Passio Christi without protest. Time passes. Death beckons. Kilverby wants to prepare for judgement. The Wyvern Company move here. Kilverby visits them but he encounters Richer. He also meets another man frightened of approaching death, a defrocked priest, Master William Chalk. Oh yes, he was, remember?’
Cranston nodded.
‘To move to the arrow point. Apparently Richer put the fear of God into both men, especially Kilverby. He points out the terrible sacrilege which took place after Poitiers. Kilverby breaks from the likes of Wenlock. He wants nothing more to do with them. He’ll do penance, perform reparation, give up his luxurious life and go on pilgrimage. On the very day he departs he will make decisive restitution. He will leave the Passio Christi at a Benedictine Abbey.’
‘But that doesn’t explain his murder?’
‘No, Sir John. It certainly does not. Moreover, as you discovered during your last visit to Kilverby’s mansion, what did compel this hard-headed merchant to change, to want to rid himself of a sacred bloodstone he’d blithely held for years? Richer’s persuasive tongue? I don’t think so. In my view Kilverby saw or heard something which literally put the fear of God into him and that’s what Richer exploited so successfully. However, what that was and how Kilverby came to be murdered? I admit, there’s no logical answer to either of these questions.’
‘And the murders here?’
‘Again, I cannot see any logic behind their deaths. Hanep and Hyde were killed when Wenlock and Mahant were absent. Wenlock’s maimed hands are an impediment, though Mahant is a master swordsman. They were all sleeping when Brokersby was burnt to death and Osborne, by all accounts, has fled the abbey. All three murders demonstrated the Wyvern Company are very vulnerable. Perhaps that’s why Osborne fled. The Wyvern Company can no longer protect itself. As for who is the assassin? Prior Alexander? Richer? Both of them or someone else? The anchorite is certainly skilled in violent death with his own grievances against these former soldiers.’ Athelstan picked up another quill pen, dipped it into the ink and made further entries. ‘As regards to the deaths of the first two Wyverns, well, it could be the work of an assassin despatched by the Upright Men. It’s Brokersby’s death which intrigues me. Why the raging fire?’ He put the pen down. ‘How was that oil not only poured into a locked chamber but so close to the bed?’
‘Brother,’ the coroner sighed, ‘my eyes grow heavy. I must adjourn and reflect. I also need to despatch certain letters to the city. I want them to go at first light.’ Cranston walked over and gripped Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘No wandering this abbey by yourself little friar, promise me.’
Athelstan did. Cranston put on his boots, picked up his cloak, made his farewells and swept from the chamber. .
The anchorite had been dreaming about his days as the Hangman of Rochester. He woke in his anker house bathed in sweat and sat listening to the sounds of the abbey. Compline had been sung. The monks had shuffled out. Candles and lantern horns had been snuffed; only the occasional light gleamed but these solitary taper flames did little to repel the darkness. The anchorite peered around. The smells of the church, beeswax, burning charcoal, incense and that strange mustiness still swirled. The anchorite crossed himself, knelt on the narrow prie-dieu and stared up at the crucifix. He’d had a good day, cheered by the sight of Athelstan’s parishioners. During his long walk he had planned more frescoes and wall paintings but now the day, was gone, night was the mistress. He strained his ears for other sounds — nothing! The abbey church had yet to be locked. The sacristan and his entourage still had to make their nightly patrol to ensure all lights were extinguished, doors secured, especially after the peace of the abbey had been so deeply disturbed. The anchorite had quietly marvelled at the shocking news. Brokersby had been visited by fire whilst Osborne had apparently fled. Was this God’s justice? Perhaps it was. After all, why should such killers be allowed to end their days in peace?
The anchorite rose and paced his cell. He paused at the whispering outside the anker slit. Was she back? Trying to control his fears and the icy tremors piercing his belly, the anchorite crept towards the slit then recoiled at the pasty white face which suddenly appeared there.
‘Hangman of Rochester,’ that spiteful mouth hissed, ‘are you not ready to pay?’
‘Pay? Pay?’ The anchorite gasped. ‘Pay for what?’
‘Blood money, surety for what you’ve done. Strip yourself of your wealth. Leave it on the ledge, the profits you have made. Money for Masses. .’
The anchorite retreated. He plucked up the coffer crammed with gold and silver coins. For peace, he thought, I’ll surrender this, a shimmering cascade through that slit to buy peace from all this. The anchorite grasped the coffer even tighter. He felt his stomach drawn like a bow string. If only she’d go and leave him alone! He glimpsed movement at the anker-slit, a trail of scraggly hair. Was she gone? He startled as the door was pushed and rattled against its bolts. The anchorite opened his mouth in a silent scream. The door shook again, a threatening rattle. Agnes Rednal was trying to break in! He dropped the coffer and hurled himself at the door screaming and cursing, banging with his fists, pleading for that hell creature to leave him alone.
The following morning after his dawn Mass, Athelstan heard about the disturbance at the anker house. He was divesting in the chantry chapel assisted by Brother Simon, who’d acted as his acolyte and altar boy.
‘Screaming and banging he was,’ Brother Simon exclaimed. ‘The sacristan had just entered the church when it happened, a man possessed or so they say. Our anchorite is haunted by demons.’
Athelstan thanked Simon. Curious, he made his way down to the anker house and tapped on the door.
‘Who is it?’
Athelstan glanced at the slit and glimpsed the anchorite’s long white fingers grasping the sill.
‘Brother Athelstan, friend. I wonder if all is well? I mean no harm. If you would like to speak?’
To his surprise he heard the rattle of chains, bolts being drawn and the low door swung open. Athelstan bent his head, entered the anker house and straightened up. The anchorite immediately knelt and asked for his blessing. Athelstan gave this and stared around. The cell was rather large, apparently a disused chantry chapel — its wooden screen had been removed and a wall built across the gap. A comfortable, sweet-smelling chamber with bed, chest, coffers and a lavarium; a table stood under a window of clear glass, beside it a lectern then a prie-dieu with pegs driven into a wall on which to hang clothes. A small brazier warmed the air with scented smoke whilst a five branch candle spigot and a lantern horn provided more light. The anchorite, still agitated, invited Athelstan to the chair while he drew up a stool and gazed expectantly at the friar.