‘I bring pardons from Rome! From the Vicar of Christ himself in Avignon! If you buy this parchment which was written in ink from a pot fashioned out of the very wood of the baby Jesus’s manger, then, for a price, all your sins will be forgiven and you shall receive an indulgence of a thousand days and nights off your time in Purgatory!’
Athelstan, sitting with his head in his hands, could stand no more. He unbolted the door, threw it open and stalked out. He seized the wooden crutch of the upright man and gave him a resounding thwack across the back.
‘In God’s name, go!’ he yelled. ‘Have you not heard the verse: “This is the House of God and Gate of Heaven”? Not some shabby booth in Cheapside!’
The fellow stumbled, his hand going to the stabbing knife in his belt. Athelstan, still holding the crutch, advanced on him threateningly.
‘Go on, you little piss turd!’ he shouted, quoting directly from Cranston. ‘Draw that dagger and I’ll knock your bloody head straight off your shoulders!’ The angry priest jabbed a finger at the small group of onlookers. ‘These are honest people, they earn their pennies by the sweat of their brow!’
The fellow threw one baleful look at Athelstan and quickly retreated. The priest leaned on the crutch, breathing heavily.
‘I am sorry,’ he murmured at the now frightened spectators, ‘but go home. Look after your wives, husbands and children. Keep your money. Go and love those around you and you’ll find God there, not in this painful mummery of cheap tricks!’
‘A pardon!’ the strident voice suddenly shouted. ‘A pardon for your sins! The Gate of Heaven beckons!’
Athelstan drew himself up and glared at the Pardoner who stood on the church steps, his back towards him. Without thinking Athelstan walked over and, using the end of the crutch, jabbed the man fiercely in the small of the back, sending him stumbling down the steps. The man sprawled on all fours and turned, his bitter yellow face a mask of hatred, lips curling to reveal blackened teeth and eyes narrowed in fury. The priest crouched down on top of the steps.
‘I am going to close my eyes,’ he said quietly, ‘and recite the Ave Maria. When I get to the phrase “Now and at the hour of our death”, I will open my eyes. And if you are still here, I will beat you black and blue and throw you into a midden heap!’
Athelstan had hardly reached the words ‘Sancta Maria’ when, half-opening one eye, he saw the Pardoner scampering like a rabbit away from the church. Athelstan got up and stared at Watkin and Pike just inside the door of the church.
‘If you allow that to happen again,’ he murmured, ‘you may be my parishioners but you’ll no longer be my friends!’
He then walked slowly back to his house, locked the door and went up to lie on his bed. ‘If there’s a God in heaven,’ he murmured, ‘surely the truth will come out?’
On the following morning St Erconwald’s was a little quieter after Athelstan’s violent reaction of the previous day. The truth didn’t arrive but Cranston and Father Prior did. Athelstan had just said mass on the makeshift altar. He had checked that the workmen were making good progress, fed Philomel, and was breaking his fast on his last bowl of soup and a cup of watered wine when Cranston pounded on the door and swept in as if he was the Holy Ghost.
‘Morning, monk!’ Cranston bellowed, his miraculous wineskin clutched in one hand. Without being invited, he refilled Athelstan’s cup, took a generous swig, belched, and summoned a smiling Father Prior into the house. Athelstan rose.
‘Good morning, Father. You’ll join Sir John and I in some wine even though the hour is early?’
Prior Anselm smiled admiringly at Cranston.
‘Why not?’ he murmured. ‘Truly the psalmist claims wine gladdens the heart of man whilst, in his letters to Timothy, St Paul said: “Use a little wine for thy stomach’s sake”.’
Cranston belched and beamed at the prior.
‘Is that right?’ he asked.
‘Of course, Sir John.’
‘In which case,’ Cranston pronounced, ‘St Paul is my favourite saint. I must tell Lady Maude that. The letters to Our Lady?’
‘No, Sir John,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘The letter to Timothy. Father Prior, do sit down. You, Sir John, a cup from the buttery?’
Once they were settled, Cranston beaming and Father Prior sipping gently from the pewter cup, Athelstan rubbed his face.
‘You look tired, monk,’ Cranston commented.
Athelstan waved a hand at the door. ‘You know the reason, Sir John. That bloody skeleton and, what’s even worse, the bloody stupidity of my parishioners, so gullible they would accept black is white if someone used the right honeyed phrases.’
‘Yes, I have heard,’ Father Prior interrupted.
Sir John shifted on his stool.
‘I’m doing what I can!’ the coroner bellowed. ‘I’ve got clerks looking up the records and pursuivants, searching amongst the filth of Whitechapel to discover the whereabouts of Master Fitzwolfe, but so far — nothing.’ He gulped from his wineskin. ‘And the scarlet chamber?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes.
‘Nothing, Sir John, nothing at all.’
‘The scarlet chamber?’ the prior queried.
Cranston forced a laugh. ‘Our little joke, Father Prior. A riddle this good priest and I are trying to resolve.’
‘I am here because of a riddle,’ the prior said, looking directly at Athelstan. ‘Sir John may have told you what has been happening at Blackfriars. Now there’s worse.’ He put down his cup. ‘Brother Bruno died mysteriously. Alcuin the sacristan is still missing. Roger the sub-sacristan. . you may remember him, Brother?’
Athelstan nodded.
‘Well, he’s mumbling nonsense. The Inquisitors believe there’s heresy about. And now,’ he shifted the wine cup with his fingers, ‘Brother Callixtus the librarian was working in the scriptorium late last night — God knows why. He was searching amongst the top shelves. Well, the ladder slipped, he fell and dashed his brains out on the scriptorium floor.’
‘God rest him!’ Athelstan murmured, crossing himself quickly.
He recognised all the names Father Anselm had mentioned though the faces of these men were vague and indistinct. Some he had known from a distance when he was at Black-friars. Others, like Henry of Winchester and the Inquisitors, were visitors from other houses. Athelstan leaned against the table and thought quickly. If Father Prior had come a week ago Athelstan would have been very upset, but perhaps God worked in mysterious ways? Now a short stay away from St Erconwald’s might be for the best. He looked at the prior.
‘What do you think is happening at Blackfriars?’
Anselm stared into his cup. ‘God be my witness,’ he whispered, ‘but I think we have a son of Cain, a murderer, in our midst. I want you and Sir John to investigate. I want you to come now.’
‘What about St Erconwald’s?’ Athelstan asked.
Cranston leaned across and tapped him on the hand.
‘Don’t worry your noddle about it, Priest. What’s happening out there could be considered a breach of the peace. I’ll get a few burly Serjeants sent down with a writ from the corporation closing the church to everyone but those workmen.’
Athelstan nodded quickly. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘It would be for the best. Now, Father Prior,’ he said, ‘tell me exactly what is happening at Blackfriars.’
Athelstan closed his eyes and listened attentively to Father Anselm’s clear description of events over the last few days.