You’re crying through your fingers, Athelstan thought. You’re not penitent but plotting, nor have you told me the full truth. Athelstan rose to his feet. He stared around that luxurious chamber and remembered the lepers out in the freezing cold beyond the gate, those others on the quayside, numb and starving. Fleischer being dragged off to be hanged whilst the abbot who ordered it lived his own dissolute life. The thought of Fleischer in his boat watching the abbey made Athelstan pause. Fleischer! Those poor river people! Of course!
‘Athelstan, are you well?’ Cranston also rose to his feet.
‘Sir John, a moment with you alone. My Lord Abbot, Mistress,’ Athelstan gave them the most cursory of bows, ‘please stay here.’ Once outside the chamber Athelstan grasped Cranston’s sleeve. ‘Sir John, you’ve sent messengers from here to the city, yes?’
‘Of course, you know I have.’
‘Sir John, I beg you. Fetch Prior Alexander and Richer here now, I mean now. By the way,’ Athelstan again grabbed Cranston’s sleeve, ‘you could, if I wanted it, obtain a list of grants made by the Crown to this abbey?’
‘Of course.’
‘Very good. Please go, I shall return to Father Abbot.’
Lord Walter still sat slumped in his chair, his mistress, one hand on his arm, gazing pitifully at him. Athelstan went and stood over both of them.
‘The anchorite,’ he warned. ‘I do not know, Mistress, if what you did was solely your work or both of you, but it stops now.’
She nodded, her haughty face all worried.
‘As for you, Father Abbot, I cannot and will not condemn you except exhort you to reconcile yourself to God and,’ Athelstan leaned down threateningly, ‘tell the truth when I ask.’
Athelstan walked away and stared at one of the gorgeously painted glass windows. He silently chastised himself for his mistake and wondered how many more he had committed; he vowed to take each scrap of knowledge and pursue it to its logical conclusion. Behind him the abbot murmured to his mistress. A knock on the door a short while later ended this. Cranston, Richer and Prior Alexander entered. Both monks protested at the peremptory summons but Cranston ordered them to sit. Athelstan quickly composed himself. He would not question them but present the arguments which now tumbled through his mind.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Prior Alexander declared, ‘we are here.’
‘So you are.’ Athelstan turned and smiled. ‘Robert Kilverby and Crispin, his secretarius, were also here.’
‘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’.