PART SIX
‘Another type of fire … Which burnt houses situated in the mountains and burnt the mountain itself.’
Athelstan stood at the top of the long common table in the taproom of the Piebald tavern. He stared at the men grouped either side – Joscelyn, Watkin, Pike, Merrylegs, Ranulf, Giles of Sempringham also known as the Hangman of Rochester, Fulchard of Richmond, Fitzosbert and all the other members of the canting merry crew. Parson Garman had also joined them, summoned by Athelstan, ‘on a matter of life or the cruellest death’. Night had fallen. Curfew lamps glowed in church steeples, for darkness had wrapped everything in its shroud. The parish church had been closed. Athelstan had insisted that all approaches to the Piebald be strictly guarded. Everything was now ready. Joscelyn had served the ale and fired the torches and candles as well as the corner braziers. All doors and windows were firmly bolted. The assembled men, now cleansed of their masks, painted faces and other disguises used in the previous night’s assault, did not know where to look – at Fulchard, Athelstan or that crutch lying down the centre of the table. Athelstan dramatically intoned the ‘Gloria’, blessed them and sat down.
‘If Sir John Cranston were here,’ he began, ‘you would need every prayer I could utter because all of you would undoubtedly hang. No, Pike,’ he slapped the table with the palm of his hand, ‘you would hang and it would not be swift. Now, Fulchard of Richmond, or so you call yourself, what do the following mean: “arete”, “doulos”, “agathos”, “kakos”, “kalos”?’
The man gazed blankly back.
‘They are Greek words,’ Athelstan explained, ‘from Koine, the lingua franca used commonly around the Middle Sea. They mean “virtue”, “servant”, “good”, “bad” and “beautiful”. Fulchard of Richmond was allegedly injured whilst working at a tavern in Athens. If he worked there he must have known such common, simple words. To continue,’ Athelstan leaned over and touched the crutch, ‘Fulchard of Richmond was damaged on his right side. Crutches for the perennial cripple are fashioned uniquely. Fulchard’s crutch was made to be held under the right armpit. However, this one, which Fulchard allegedly used, is for the left. Of course, it would not matter for that very brief journey into the church before this farce took place. All the false cripple had to do was shuffle up the steps and along the nave and lie down near the chantry chapel. When the so-called miracle occurred, the crutch was only needed as a relic and nothing else. You also carried a small phial of perfume to exude something akin to the odour of sanctity, a fragrance which could indicate the intervention of heaven. It was all a sham. The real Fulchard of Richmond never entered that church – you did.’ Athelstan pointed down the table at the imposter. ‘Darkness was falling, the nave was gloomy. All you needed was to disguise the right side of your face with make-believe burns. Southwark houses a legion of counterfeit cranks and cunning men and, if that wasn’t the case, you may have even worn a mask. Who would remember a hooded, visored cripple, the crutch under the wrong arm, face down, stumbling up towards the shrine?’
‘The witnesses?’ Pike spluttered.
‘Oh, shut up!’ Athelstan roared. ‘Do not depict me as a complete fool. The witnesses, including you, Fitzosbert, were all hand-picked, fervent supporters of the Upright Men.’ Heads were bowed, booted feet shuffled. ‘Now,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the real Fulchard of Richmond was indeed very ill. Brother Philippe, an eminent physician, testified to that. It was a shrewd move to take Fulchard to St Bartholomew’s, where Philippe would adjudge him both as a cripple and a very sick man.’ Athelstan snapped his fingers at Pike. ‘You also brought the real Fulchard to see me: you wanted me to personally witness how ill he truly was.’
The ditcher kept his head down.
‘So,’ Athelstan declared, ‘on the night of the so-called miracle, the real Fulchard remained hidden, either here at the Piebald or in a garret at Merrylegs’ shop. He would keep his crutch as he still needed it. The so-called miracle occurred, but Fulchard, truly ill, quietly died, and his corpse was kept hidden. I was, thankfully for you, distracted by other business. I am sure you planned Fulchard’s secret burial in my cemetery but then Merrylegs senior also died around the same time. This provided you with an excellent opportunity for honourable interment. Watkin and Pike dug the grave deep and on the night before the funeral Mass for Merrylegs senior, you arranged Fulchard’s secret burial. Some of you miscreants, under the guise of gaping pilgrims, visited Godbless and his goat.’ Athelstan ignored the snort of laughter from the shadows. ‘There was great excitement in the church and the parish. Godbless was only too willing to be swept up in the festivities. Thanks to you, both he and Thaddeus became helplessly drunk. Godbless did not watch the cemetery – he did not see the secret burial of Fulchard whose funeral rites were conducted by you, Fitzosbert, a defrocked priest but still an ordained minister with the God-given power to conduct such a ceremony.’
Athelstan banged the table. ‘I can easily prove this if needed. Once dawn breaks I’ll have Cranston’s bailiffs open that grave and dig until they find what I am looking for.’ He noticed Fitzosbert’s hand drop beneath the tabletop. Ranulf the rat-catcher, sitting beside him, jabbed the defrocked priest with his elbow and Fitzosbert’s hand reappeared.