Wenlock’s cheek muscles twitched as he fought to control what Athelstan considered to be a truly murderous temper.
‘You hunted Richer. You waited as he left his chamber to meet Prior Alexander. You and Mahant attacked. A swift blow to the head then, under the cover of dark, you both carried his body away from the abbey precincts to the hog pen. The swine were confined to their sty. You cut Richer’s throat and tossed his corpse over the half-door. No one would know how or why he died; the mystery would only deepen because he died alongside a member of the Wyvern Company. You then decided it was also opportune to rid yourself of Mahant. You waited out there in the hog pen, close to the sty. For one brief moment, a few heart beats, Mahant turned his back on you. Maimed hands or not, both together can lift a dagger, in this case Richer’s — you plunged or drove it deep into Mahant, a killing blow followed by another. You then threw his corpse into the sty and fled.’
‘I was ill, vomiting.’
‘Wenlock, you are a liar, you went back to your chamber. You changed. You made sure you removed all traces of your murderous foray. Only then did you act the part of the old soldier, pathetic in his night shirt, suffering from belly gripes.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Do you remember telling me about that first attack on you near the maze? How you were rescued by others? Of course there was no attack, that was just part of the web you and Mahant were beginning to spin, a sham fight with your accomplice Mahant acting as the assailant. At the time you told me how you had a great interest in herbs, that’s why you were out in the garden. You’d use such knowledge to protect yourself. You drank some concoction, harmless enough, to cause a mild disturbance of the belly to make it look as if you were genuinely sick — but only after the murders of Richer and Mahant.’
Wenlock was staring down at his maimed hands.
‘Wenlock!’
He did not move.
‘Wenlock!’
He lifted his head, hatred seething in those watery eyes.
‘You despise both church and state, don’t you?’ Athelstan leaned forward, determined not to show any fear. ‘That’s why you pillaged St Calliste. You have no compunction about committing sacrilege or murder. You hunted me as well.’ Athelstan ignored the fleeting smirk. ‘Actually very clever, especially the first attack. Mahant rattled the shutter of my chamber, probably with some pebbles. I opened it and he loosed that crossbow barb. He nearly hit his mark. I suspect Mahant was skilled enough with the arbalest. Of course it’s not the war bow of which he is a master; his possible inexperience saved my life. Or was it only meant as a warning to frighten me off? I left that chamber. You and others of your coven were outside in the passageway. You asked me to join you. You acted the smiling Judas, asking me questions, delaying me so by the time I got outside Mahant had joined the rest. You tried again in a more deadly fashion in the charnel house. You were hunting me, waiting for an opportunity. I was stupid enough to provide one. You and Mahant had listened to me, watched me and decided I was dangerous. I might not be misled by your farrago of lies. I might discover the truth behind the murders. You and Mahant decided I should die. I would have done so if it hadn’t been for God’s good grace. I wondered then at the speed with which my assailant entered the crypt and doused those torches. Of course there were two, not one intruder, which explains it. I thank God I escaped.’
Wenlock gave a final look around the chamber as if he was still searching for any gap or weakness.
‘Master Crispin stole the Passio Christi,’ Athelstan added softly. ‘He poisoned his master. He’s confessed. He’ll be spared the torture, the full rigours of a traitor’s death.’
Wenlock sighed deeply.
‘We will visit “The Pride of Purgatory” tavern,’ Athelstan added. ‘We’ll seize your possessions, all the money you and Mahant have stored there. You’ve tortured enough men in your life to know what to expect.’
‘Did Mahant really leave a sealed confession?’ Wenlock murmured. ‘Where? To whom?’
‘We’ll produce that when you are arraigned.’
‘You have further proof, witnesses?’
‘We’ll produce those,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘when you are arraigned before the King’s justices.’
‘A swift death,’ Cranston urged.
Wenlock began to hum a tune, shuffling his feet in a strange macabre dance. He stopped, smiled to himself then lifted his hands in a token of surrender.
‘I knew I was cursed,’ he remarked, ‘when the French cut off my fingers. I knew it was only a matter of time. Are you promising me a swift death?’
‘Swift,’ Cranston repeated.
‘The anchorite must do it.’ Wenlock glanced over his shoulder at the coroner. ‘I’ve hanged enough to know what will happen. I don’t want to dance for an hour, twitch and jerk, soil myself while I’m choking. The Hangman of Rochester will ensure it takes no more time than a Gloria.’ Wenlock forced a laugh. ‘You’re right, Cranston, I’ve seen men tortured.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘I won’t reply, Friar, to what you’ve laid against me. You’ve said enough, there’s little to add. I plead guilty. I have no more to say. .’
Athelstan stood in the narrow nave of St Bartholomew’s Priory in Smithfield. The church was deserted except for the Guild of the Hanged who clustered before the Great Pity just inside the main door. They knelt, pattering their Aves for the two men being hanged at the Elms only a short distance beyond the great lychgate of the priory. Athelstan half listened to the swelling murmur of the crowd thronging around the soaring scaffold which brooded over Smithfield. The Regent had insisted that both Cranston and Athelstan witness the execution of the two criminals they’d trapped and caught. The coroner was now on the scaffold together with the Hangman of Rochester garbed in black, his head and face hidden by a blood-red visor. Athelstan moved over to pray before the gilt-edged tomb of Rahere, King Henry’s jester who’d founded both the priory and the nearby hospital in fulfilment of a vow he’d made to St Bartholomew in Outremer.
‘God’s jester,’ Athelstan prayed, eyes tightly shut. ‘Have great pity on Crispin and Wenlock. Show even more loving mercy on their poor victims. Eternal rest. .’ Athelstan broke off at the great roar which echoed through the church. ‘Eternal rest,’ he continued, ‘give them all.’ He pleaded, ‘And let perpetual light shine upon them.’ He remained kneeling, locked in fervent, desperate prayer.
‘It’s over, they’ve gone!’
Athelstan opened his eyes. Cranston and the anchorite stood in the doorway of the church.
‘Swift?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Like that!’ Cranston snapped his fingers.
‘For such small mercies,’ Athelstan whispered, getting to his feet, ‘ deo gratias.’ He walked down the nave. ‘Although not over Sir John.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It never is,’ the anchorite declared, hood and visor now pulled back.
‘It never is, is it, Father?’
Athelstan smiled at both of them. ‘Abbot Walter needs to do a great deal of explaining, so does Prior Alexander. His Grace the Regent must decide on what to do with the Passio Christi. .’ Athelstan spread his hands.
‘Father,’ the anchorite stepped forward, ‘could I move my cell to St Erconwald’s? I cannot stay in that abbey.’
‘You could hang half of his parish,’ Cranston joked.
‘Not now, and you,’ Athelstan pointed at the anchorite, ‘you have a name, Giles of Sempringham, yes? I shall call you that. So,’ Athelstan rubbed his hands, ‘let us go back to “The Holy Lamb of God”. Let us sit before a roaring fire. Let us revel in all God’s comforts and rejoice in the approach of the feast of the birth of God’s Golden Boy.’
‘Oh sweet words, lovely friar,’ Cranston breathed.
All three left the priory. Athelstan turned his face away so as not to glimpse those two corpses hanging black against the bright December sky.