He woke early the next morning, Cranston still snoring like a pig on the other bed. The Dominican quietly shaved, washed and donned a clean set of robes, slipping his feet into thonged sandals. He crept out of the guest house and across the mist-shrouded grounds, answering the muffled tones of the bell tolling for lauds. Athelstan joined the community in the stalls of the choir. The monks chanted their psalms and listened to the readings, arms folded, heads down, though Athelstan sensed their curiosity about his presence. He celebrated mass in a small chantry chapel and tried to concentrate on the mystery of changing the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ.
Brother Norbert acted as altar server and afterwards helped him put away the vestments and sacred vessels. Athelstan then went across to the refectory for a bowl of oats, milk and honey and two fresh rolls of the whitest bread. He remembered some of his meagre breakfasts at St Erconwald’s and smiled as he sipped the watered ale. He sat at the table, just within the doorway, specially reserved for visitors and guests. From the lectern at the top of the refectory a sleepy reader droned through the life of St Dominic until Father Prior rang the bell and the community rose and dispersed to their different tasks. Athelstan kept his eyes down.
‘You are well, Brother?’
He looked up. Henry of Winchester stood beside him.
‘As well as can be expected. Do sit down.’
The young theologian slipped on to the bench next to him. Athelstan noticed how lithe and quick he was in his movements. Henry had a physical grace and ease which neatly complemented his keen intellect.
‘Your investigations are going well?’
Athelstan made a face. ‘I’ll tell you later, Brother, when I have reported to Father Prior. And your treatise?’ Athelstan continued.
‘“Cur Deus Homo — Why God Became Man”.’
‘If the Inner Chapter declares for you, your work will be studied at every university in Europe.’ Athelstan nudged him playfully. ‘And what next, eh, Brother Henry? A bishopric? A cardinal’s hat? A place in the Curia?’
Henry of Winchester laughed softly and turned away, playing with the crumbs on the table.
‘I’ll be pleased just to win the approval of the Master Inquisitor. If I had known my work would have caused such a stir, I might have thought again. You have read my treatise?’
Athelstan shook his head.
Brother Henry looked up at the refectory and grimaced as Father Prior moved towards them.
‘Then I’ll send a copy across to the guest house. Please read it, I would value your opinion.’
The theologian rose, nodded and strode away just as Father Prior, folding back the sleeves of his gown, joined Athelstan.
‘You slept well, Brother?’
Athelstan allowed the fixed smile he had reserved for Brother Henry to fade from his face.
‘Father Prior,’ he whispered, leaning across the table, ‘I want you to search amongst the possessions of Brothers Callixtus and Alcuin. You have the power and authority to do this. If you find anything untoward then please let me see it.’
The prior looked sharply at him. ‘Why?’
‘You were right to bring me here, Father. Callixtus was murdered, beaten over the head with a candlestick. Bruno was killed, and God knows where the corpse of poor Alcuin is hidden!’
The prior’s face paled. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes.
‘You are sure?’
‘As God is my witness, Prior. You shelter an assassin here at Blackfriars. I want that search carried out, and the Inner Chapter must assemble this afternoon so I can present my conclusions to them.’
‘Must a man starve to death?’ Cranston stood in the doorway and bellowed round the refectory, making one of the old friars almost jump out of his skin. ‘By a fairy’s tits!’ He glared at Athelstan. ‘I wake cold and hungry to find you gone and no food served!’
Father Prior raised his hand, clicked his fingers and a servitor appeared with a tray bearing a bowl of deliciously fragrant lamb broth, a pile of white bread rolls and a flagon of ale. Cranston almost snatched the tray from the poor man and slumped down next to Athelstan. The coroner gazed round the refectory, tapping his ponderous girth. He saw Athelstan’s grin, the prior’s astonishment, and the round-eyed amazement of the other brothers.
‘Hell’s teeth!’ Cranston muttered. ‘I forgot about your vow of silence!’
He sniffed the meat and beamed round.
‘Ah, well, apologies to all. Morning, Father Prior, Brother Athelstan.’ He picked up the large horn spoon and attacked the bowl of meat with gusto. He wiped his mouth with the napkin covering the bread, and burped. ‘A good meal,’ he roared for at least half the monastery to hear, ‘is a celebration of the Eucharist. If the good Lord hadn’t meant us to eat-well, he wouldn’t have given us bellies and delicious food to fill them! For, as the psalmist says, “Wine gladdens the heart of men”.’
‘That’s the only line of the psalms he knows,’ Athelstan whispered to the prior.
Cranston, however, continued to eat with relish, the meat, the bread and the beer disappearing in a twinkling of an eye. He made a swift sign of the cross, rose and nudged Athelstan.
‘Come on, Brother, it’s a fine morning. Father Prior, I saw your orchard. Apples and plums, eh? And the beehives are kept there?’
The prior, fascinated by Cranston, just nodded again. Athelstan could only shrug, raise his eyes heavenwards and hasten after Cranston who was now striding out of the refectory across the pebble-dashed path leading down to the monastery gardens. He stopped, put on his beaver hat and squinted up at the mist-covered sky.
‘You wait, Brother, it will be a fine day. Did you resolve my mystery?’
‘I was trying to when you fell asleep, My Lord Coroner.’
Sir John made a rude sound with his lips. ‘And I suppose there’s been no further progress in the pretty mess here?’
‘No, Sir John.’
They walked through the herb garden, past the guest house and into the large orchard which swept down to the boundary wall of Blackfriars. Cranston was busy giving a description of his night’s sleep when Athelstan suddenly stopped, grasping his companion by the arm.
‘My Lord Coroner, look!’
Cranston peered for the mist was still swirling round the trees.
‘By Queen Mab’s buttocks!’ the coroner muttered, taking a step forward. ‘What is it?’
But Athelstan was now running through the trees.
‘Oh, no!’ he groaned, slumping down on his knees and staring up at the white, grotesque face of Brother Roger. The poor half-wit swung from an overhanging branch of the tree, his neck twisted to one side, his hands and legs dangling like some pathetic doll’s.
‘God have pity!’ Cranston shouted from behind him. He grasped his large knife, stretched up and sliced the rope, catching the dead man’s body as if it was light as a child’s and laying it gently down on the dew-soaked grass. Athelsta knelt beside the corpse and whispered quickly into the dead man’s ear whilst sketching a sign of the cross, ‘Absolve te a peccatis. . I absolve you from your sins.’ He continued with a quick absolution whilst Cranston leaned against the tree and stared at the piece of rope which still swung there, a grisly reminder of the tragedy.
‘What’s the use?’ the coroner muttered. ‘The man’s been dead for hours. His soul’s long gone.’
Athelstan undid the rope from Roger’s neck. ‘We don’t know, Sir John,’ he replied over his shoulder. ‘The church teaches that the soul only leaves the body hours, perhaps days, after death, so while there’s hope, there’s always salvation.’ He knelt back on his heels. ‘Though I think this poor man will surely benefit from Christ’s mercy. A sad end to a tragic life.’