‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’
Athelstan froze as he recognised the voice of Benedicta. He closed his eyes, clenching his hands together. This was the first time Benedicta had ever come to him. Like others in the parish, perhaps too embarrassed to confess to their priest, she always went elsewhere. He relaxed a little at her litany of petty offences: uncharitable thoughts and words, being late for mass, sleeping through one of his sermons. When he heard this, Athelstan stuck out his tongue at the curtain. Then Benedicta stopped.
‘Is that all?’ he quietly asked.
‘Father, I am a widow. For a while I thought my husband might be alive. I was glad, yet I was also sad.’
Athelstan steeled himself.
‘I shouldn’t have been sad,’ Benedicta continued. ‘And, if I wished him dead, I confess to that.’
‘Then you are forgiven.’
‘Don’t you want to know, Father, why I was sad?’
‘You must confess according to your conscience and that is all.’
‘I was sad, Father, because, you see, I love another man. Sometimes I desire him.’
‘There is no sin in loving anyone.’ Athelstan was sure Benedicta was going to continue.
‘I see, Father,’ she softly answered. ‘In which case I am truly sorry for these and all other sins.’
Athelstan set her a small penance, almost gabbled the words of absolution and sat tense as a bowstring until Benedicta rose and slipped quietly out of the church, closing the door gently behind her.
He let out a loud gasp and slumped back in his chair. He knew what Benedicta had been going to say and was only too happy she had not continued. He rose and stretched, went through the rood screen and stood looking up at the crucifix on the altar. ‘Father Paul was right,’ he murmured. ‘Love is a terrible thing!’ For a few minutes he squarely faced his own conscience. He loved Benedicta! He stared at the twisted figure nailed to the wooden cross. Would Christ understand? Did he, who was supposed to love everyone, love anyone in particular? Athelstan rubbed his eyes. He remembered scripture, the women who followed Christ, the women who were with him when he died. Athelstan took off his stole. If he started following that line of thought, what conclusions would he reach? He genuflected hurriedly before the sanctuary and strode out of the church, locking the door behind him. He must concentrate on other things.
The business at Blackfriars was like a game of chess. So far his opponent, hidden in the darkness, controlled every move. Athelstan had to make sure that the initiative he had gained would not be lost.
Once back in the kitchen Athelstan sat down and hastily wrote a short letter, getting his wax and seal out of the large chest beside his bed. He studied the letter again, concluded it was appropriate, melted the wax and affixed a seal. An hour later Crim, who had now forgotten everything about onions, was running like a hare across London Bridge. He clutched Athelstan’s letter tightly in his hand, lips breathlessly repeating the instructions the friar had given him.
Late in the evening, just before sunset, Pike and Watkin returned to St Erconwald’s, the former having procured a sheet of canvas, a pinewood coffin and some rope. In a pathetic ceremony the skeleton of the former whore Aemelia was placed in its shroud and laid before the altar. Athelstan, accompanied by an inquisitive Bonaventure, went back to the church, lit the candles and, wearing a purple cope, began the funeral ceremony. Pike and Watkin stood on either side of the poor remains as Athelstan invited the angels to come out to welcome this person’s soul. He was careful not to name the woman. He passed incense over the coffin and blessed it with holy water then, followed by Watkin and Pike acting as pallbearers, took it to the shallow grave in a far comer of the cemetery. In the fading light Athelstan read the final prayers. He blessed the grave and, picking up a lump of clay, threw it down so it rattled like raindrops on the wooden lid. He then took off his cope and helped Pike and Watkin to fill the grave in.
‘Shall we leave it like that?’ Pike asked.
Athelstan wiped the muddy clay from his hands and looked sad.
‘No, no, it would not be right. Tomorrow, Pike, ask Huddle to fashion a cross. Something simple.’
‘Shall a name be carved on it?’
‘No.’ Athelstan stared up at the darkening sky, watching the evening star glow like a diamond in the heavens. ‘Tell Huddle to carve: “Sweet Jesus, remember Magdalene”.’
‘He won’t know what that means,’ Watkin objected.
‘Who cares? Christ will.’
Early the next morning Athelstan met Cranston on the comer of Bowyers Row. They entered a tavern where the landlord defied city regulations about opening and closing times. Cranston insisted on breaking fast and, though Athelstan quietly cursed, he felt it was neither the time nor place to object. The lord coroner had lost his ebullience of the previous day and Athelstan suspected he had already been at the miraculous wineskin. They breakfasted on ale and oatcakes, the coroner moodily chewing his food while staring into the middle distance.
‘Damn My Lord of Gaunt!’ he breathed.
Athelstan touched him gently on the hand. ‘Sir John, I do not wish to be questioned but I believe I have a solution.’
The change in Cranston’s face was marvellous. His eyes became alive with excitement, his morose look disappeared in a grin which seemed to stretch from ear to ear. He roared, snapped his fingers for more ale and nudged Athelstan furiously, trying to make him tell what he had deduced. But when the friar refused to be drawn, Cranston fell back into a sulky silence.
‘I cannot tell you yet, I must be certain. Until then I insist on keeping secret what I do know. After all, Sir John, you drink deeply.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘Sir John, you do, and if in your cups you began to boast, it might prejudice the whole solution.’
‘The young king himself holds the solution in a sealed document.’
‘Sir John, it has been known for such documents to be changed.’
‘Tits and bollocks!’ Cranston replied.
‘Such comments, Sir John, are not helpful and show little gratitude for what I have done.’
‘Gratitude! Gratitude!’ Cranston mimicked cuttingly. He lifted his tankard, drained it and flung it on the table, half-turning his back like a sulky boy.
‘How are the poppets?’ Athelstan asked mildly.
‘Lovely, lovely lads!’ Cranston breathed.
‘And the Lady Maude? As sweet as ever?’
Cranston threw one wicked glance across his shoulder and Athelstan knew the source of Sir John’s discomfort.
‘I see,’ the friar concluded.
Sir John made a snorting sound and turned back.
‘Athelstan, I am sorry. I feel like a bear with a sore head.’
He chose not to disagree.
‘You received my second message?’
‘Yes, and within the hour the city’s swiftest messenger was riding north with a change of horses. I have done all I can there.’
‘Then, Sir John, let us see what we can do at Blackfriars.’
To all intents and purposes, despite the dreadful deaths which occurred there, the monastery seemed back in its usual serene routine. The porter let them in and Brother Norbert greeted them warmly, handing their horses over to an ostler and leading them across to the guest house.
‘All the books are there now,’ he announced proudly. ‘Every single one, though I think the brothers know that you are searching for something.’ The young lay brother smiled at Cranston. ‘And there’s mead, ale and wine for you, Sir John. I think your search is going to be a long one.’
He was correct. In the upstairs chamber, more vast leather-bound volumes awaited them. Cranston moaned and shot like an arrow down to the buttery. Athelstan washed his hands and face and immediately went back to his search, with the occasional assistance of Sir John.