Callixtus leaned back and cackled dryly as William de Conches banged on the table.
‘Athelstan is disgraced!’ he shouted. ‘He broke his vows and fled the novitiate!’
‘God is compassionate,’ Brother Henry intervened. ‘So why shouldn’t we be? Brother Athelstan’s art in questioning is as skilful and ingenious as yours. I agree with Father Prior. We assembled here to debate certain theses but I sense something else here, a malevolence and hostility which has nothing to do with theology or philosophy.’
‘Do you really?’ Callixtus asked so sardonically the prior flinched at the old librarian’s patent dislike of the young theologian.
‘Yes, I do!’ Henry retorted.
‘Then,’ the prior intervened, ‘these matters are adjourned until the arrival of Athelstan and Sir John Cranston.’ He rose. ‘Until then, brothers.’ He nodded, sketched a blessing in the air, and the meeting ended.
The rest of the Chapter trooped out but William de Conches and Eugenius stayed behind. They waited until the door closed before rounding on the prior.
‘What are you doing?’ William snarled. ‘We have not travelled from Rome to waste time on the mundane tasks of a monastery.’
‘I am Father Prior,’ Anselm interrupted, ‘the official guardian of this monastery. You are my guests — you will obey my orders or leave. If you do so, I shall report you to my Father General in Rome!’
‘This Athelstan,’ Eugenius asked, ‘he works amongst the poor?’ He folded his hands. ‘Are the stories true, Father Prior, that he has become infected by certain radical theories which allege all men are equal?’ He warmed to this theme. ‘I refer particularly to those agitators who work to overthrow Church and State in pursuit of some earthly paradise.’
Anselm glared at this dissimulating priest, so used to trapping others in heresy. He bit his lip then leaned forward. ‘Brother Eugenius,’ he answered sweetly, ‘you yourself talk heresy. You actually defy scripture, for did not Christ our Lord tell his disciples that we were not to be like the pagans who love to lord it over each other and see others bend the knee before them?’
The assistant inquisitor’s eyes hardened and the debate might have become more heated had it not been interrupted by a knock on the door.
‘Come in!’ Anselm ordered.
Roger the sub-sacristan entered, his haggard face fearful, his close-set eyes watchful. He shuffled in with stooped shoulders, took one look at the Master Inquisitor and would have scuttled away if Anselm had not gripped his wrist tightly.
‘Brother Roger, what is it?’
The sub-sacristan scratched his wispy hair and glanced sideways. ‘Father Prior,’ he mumbled. He rubbed the side of his head. ‘I had something to tell you. Something about thirteen and there shouldn’t have been thirteen.’ His anxious eyes held Anselm’s. ‘But I can’t remember now, Father Prior. It’s important but I can’t remember!’
Anselm released the poor man’s wrist. ‘Think awhile,’ he said, ‘and then come back.’
The sub-sacristan fled like a frightened rabbit.
‘The man’s an idiot,’ the Master Inquisitor snapped.
‘No, Master William, he is a child of God, frightened out of his wits. And God only knows there is something frightening, dark and sinister in this monastery.’ With that Anselm nodded at his companions and strolled out.
Prior Anselm’s prophecies proved correct. Later that same day, after Vespers had been sung and the brothers had either gone to their individual cells or were walking in the coolness of the cloistered garden, Brother Callixtus returned to the library and scriptorium.
Contrary to regulations, he re-lit the tall candles so he could continue his search. Callixtus was one of the most well read members of the Dominican Order and was proud of his prodigious memory. He was interested in the debate of the Inner Chapter and wished to make a name for himself. He made sure the scriptorium door was closed before closely studying the shelves that reached to the ceiling. They contained leatherbound volumes, the treatises and writings of the Fathers of the Church carefully sewn within. During the day Callixtus had searched amongst the lower shelves but now he was intent on completing his task: after all, it was only a matter of finding the manuscript containing the information he needed. Callixtus had boasted to Alcuin that he would, though he’d tapped his long bony nose when asked for further details. He would show these theologians that there was nothing new under the sun and how the greatest students were the lovers of books.
Callixtus lit a few more candles and stared at the shelves towering above him. He pushed the long ladder to the place he wanted and carefully climbed, a candle gripped tightly in his hand. He looked at the gold lettering on the spine of one volume, carefully etched by some former librarian: Letters, Books and Documents of the Apostolic Age. Callixtus smirked to himself and shook his head. He carefully studied the others. He heard a sound below and stared down fearfully.
‘Who’s there?’ he called softly.
Surely, he thought, none of the brothers would come in? Those who worked in the scriptorium would be tired, their eyes aching, their fingers cramped; they would be only too pleased to enjoy the evening sunshine. Callixtus continued his feverish search. He must find that tome before Athelstan arrived. Nothing remained secret for long and, after the evening meal, the gossip had run through the monastery like fire amongst dry stubble. Athelstan, that black sheep of the family, was returning to the fold!
Callixtus did not object to Athelstan. As far as a man like Callixtus could, he liked, even respected, the ascetic yet sardonic parish priest of the poor. However, he did not wish Athelstan to gain all the credit. A book caught Callixtus’s eyes. Holding the candle, he stretched out to grasp it just as the ladder was violently turned. The librarian slipped and, too terrified even to scream, plummeted like a stone to the stone floor of the scriptorium. He felt violent pain surge through his body. Callixtus gasped, trying for air, as the crash had knocked the breath out of his body: fortunately, he had fallen on to his left arm and this had protected him from more serious injury. He heard a sound and, despite the shivers of pain, turned to the dark shadowy figure bending over him.
‘Help me!’ he moaned.
‘Into eternity!’ came the hissed reply.
Callixtus opened his mouth. ‘No,’ he groaned. ‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean to!’ He made to crawl away and, as he did so, the cowled figure smashed a heavy brass candlestick on to his temple, cracking Callixtus’s head like a nut so the blood and brains seeped out.
The day after the ‘Great Miracle’, Athelstan’s troubles began in earnest. The news of the cure swept along the fetid alleyways of Southwark. The sick and the lame trooped to the church, to be welcomed by an ecstatic Watkin and Pike who turned the entrance to St Erconwald’s into a small market place.
‘They’ll soon get tired,’ Athelstan muttered to Bonaventure as he stood outside his house. He watched the long line of hopeful pilgrims queue up to go into the church, have a glimpse of the skeleton, light a candle in front of the great wooden coffin and say a prayer. Athelstan had decided to put a cheerful face on matters. The workmen in the sanctuary would be allowed to continue and he was certain Cranston would come up with some further information which would resolve the matter once and for all.
Nevertheless, by early afternoon Athelstan’s optimism had evaporated. Other cures had been reported: a child with warts claimed his gruesome ailment had disappeared. A bilious stomach was soothed, pains in the groin disappeared, a growing list of ailments cleared up after the inflicted person had prayed before the coffin. Master Bladdersniff and the other wardmen came to complain but all Athelstan could do was shout his displeasure at what was happening, say the matter was out of his hands and lock himself inside the security of his own home.
The news of St Erconwald’s miraculous find attracted all the human hawks and kites who lurked in Southwark: the counterfeiters, the upright men, the tinkers and pedlars of religious objects. They gathered like flies round a rubbish heap. One rogue with a patch over his eye and a pretended lame foot, hobbled into St Erconwald’s then came out throwing away his crutch, claiming he had been cured and offering to sell the crutch as a sacred object. He stood outside Athelstan’s house shouting at a gaping group of onlookers that for a shilling sterling this sacred wood which had taken him to Jerusalem and back was theirs for the asking. Inside the house Athelstan cringed. Then another, more strident, voice could be heard from the church.