crossed baileys and stable yards, went around duck and carp ponds, hen coops and dove cotes. Athelstan tried to recall what he knew about St Fulcher’s. All he could remember was that the Benedictine abbey, like many of the houses of the black monks, had waxed rich and strong over the centuries, generously endowed by kings, princes and all the great ones of the land. He tried to make sense of his surroundings but his heart sank. The abbey was as intricate and complex as any labyrinth of runnels and alleyways in Southwark. An assassin’s paradise, Athelstan mused, with stairs and steps leading here and there, alcoves for towel and linen cupboards, passageways and narrow galleries abruptly branching off in all directions. Dark recesses and tunnels yawned, ending in broad open spaces full of light. He was increasingly aware of hedges, walls, gates and postern doors as well as steps and stairs leading down into the cellars and crypts. Oh yes, Athelstan thought, a flitting place of many shadows where a killer could hunt and slay as stealthily as any assassin in the darkest forest.
At last they were free of the main abbey buildings and entered a walled enclosure guarded by freshly painted gates. A garrulous lay brother bustled out from the small lodge saying he was the abbot’s doorman and porter. Richer just ignored him. At the far end of the enclosure rose a stately manor house of beautiful honey-coloured Cotswold stone with a black slated roof, chimney stacks and broad windows of mullion-coloured glass. Steps of sandstone swept up to an impressive door with gleaming bronze metal work. A small bell hung in its own coping, its rope, white as snow, attached to a large clasp. On either side of the main house ranged other two-storied buildings — those to the left of the gate were the abbot’s own kitchens, scullery, buttery and bakery. On the right, with its elegant paintwork and glass-filled windows, stood the Lord Abbot’s guest house for his own special visitors. The door to this opened. A young woman dressed in russet cloak over a samite dress, a white veil around her auburn hair, came out, one arm resting on an older, grey-haired, severe-faced woman garbed in a similar fashion. They both paused and drew apart to pull up their hoods. Richer led his guests along the paved path which cut between neatly cultivated garden squares. He paused in front of the women and bowed.
‘My ladies, these are Lord Walter’s guests, Sir John Cranston and Brother Athelstan.’
The young woman, plump and pretty-faced, smiled and nodded; her older companion simply glared. Athelstan guessed there was little love lost between the sub-prior and the lady whom he introduced as the Lord Abbot’s sister, the younger woman being his niece. The two women walked away as Richer took Athelstan and Cranston up into the luxurious manor house, smelling delicately of polish and the fragrance of crushed flowers. Dark, wooden panelling, balustrades, wainscoting and floor planks gleamed in the light of many candles. The abbot’s own chamber was an elegant, oblong-shaped room boasting finely carved furniture. Striking black crosses hung against two of the smooth walls, brilliantly coloured tapestries and turkey rugs covered the others whilst the intricately tiled floor described a map of the world with Jerusalem at its centre.
Abbot Walter and Prior Alexander were sitting in chairs before the great mantled hearth. They rose as Cranston entered. The coroner and Athelstan immediately genuflected to kiss the abbatial ring. Once introductions were finished, they were ushered to the waiting chairs, each with a small table beside it holding a goblet of white wine and a bowl of sugared dry fruit. They made themselves comfortable after the freezing river journey. Athelstan basked in the heat from the flaming logs whilst quickly studying the abbot. Lord Walter was a small, plump man; his black robe was of the purest wool, thick buskins on his feet and a precious pectoral cross hung around his fat throat. Soft and comfortable, Athelstan considered, Lord Walter was portly with a shining, balding pate, his gloriously rubicund, clean-shaven face glistening with perfumed oil. Nevertheless, a stubborn, determined man. Athelstan noted the pert cast to Lord Walter’s thick lips and the shifting eyes ever so quick to wrinkle in a smile as if the abbot was wearing a mask to face other masks. Prior Alexander was different, tall and gangling with a slight stoop to his bony shoulders, his closely cropped red hair emphasized a long, pale face, sharp green eyes with a beaked nose over a thin lipped mouth. Simply by watching them Athelstan sensed the tension between abbot and prior; they hardly looked at each other when they talked whilst their gestures were off hand, as if they were fully aware of some resentment between them. Richer, however, urbane, cultured and soft spoken, seemed to be well liked by both, especially Prior Alexander.
Cranston, sipping his wine, noisily cleared his throat to speak when the door abruptly opened and the largest swan Athelstan had ever seen waddled pompously into the chamber. The bird’s webbed feet slapped the polished floor, its long elegant neck arched, the oval-shaped head of downy white and black-eyed patches ending in a yellow bill which opened to cry eerily as the bird fluffed snow-white feathery wings. The swan headed straight for the abbot. Cranston made to rise. The swan turned, hissing furiously, glorious wings unfolding.
‘It’s best to sit down,’ Prior Alexander declared wearily. ‘Leda only answers to Father Abbot.’
Cranston resumed his seat and the bird continued on to receive food from the abbot’s hand before nestling on soft cushions in the corner. Cranston just glared at the bird as Abbot Walter explained how Leda had been his special pet since a hatchling.
‘A change from the monkeys, apes and peacocks,’ Prior Alexander breathed, ‘not to mention the marmosets, greyhounds and lap dogs.’
‘All God’s creatures,’ Abbot Walter commented cheerfully, ‘all gone back to God.’
‘There’s even a small place in God’s Acre for God’s own creatures.’ Prior Alexander could not keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
‘All God’s creatures,’ Cranston echoed sharply, ‘and there’s two more for God’s Acre, former soldiers who lodged here, Gilbert Hanep and Ailward Hyde brutally despatched to judgement before their time and,’ Cranston now had the monks attention, ‘I bring you the most distressing news. You expected the Passio Christi to be brought here this morning by Sir Robert Kilverby’s steward Crispin, together with his daughter and son-in-law?’
‘Yes, we wondered. .’
‘Murdered!’ Cranston retorted. ‘Sir Robert was foully poisoned in his chamber and the Passio Christi has disappeared.’
Abbot Walter almost choked on his wine. Prior Alexander sat back clutching the arms of his chair, mouth gaping in surprise. Richer stared in disbelief at both Cranston and Athelstan then glanced away, shaking his head. Once they had recovered, Cranston, ignoring their questions, pithily informed them what they had learnt at Kilverby’s house.
‘So,’ Cranston concluded. ‘Did Sir Robert share with you his intention to leave the Passio Christi here at St Fulcher’s on the very day he left on pilgrimage?’
‘That,’ Abbot Walter waved a hand, ‘may have been in his mind but,’ his fat face creased into a smile, ‘I cannot comment on what Sir Robert intended or what might have been. Sir Robert is now dead. The Passio Christi is missing, then there are the deaths here.’
‘Murders,’ Athelstan broke in. ‘Father Abbot, two of the Wyvern Company have been foully slaughtered in your abbey.’
‘My Lord of Gaunt has heard of the first death,’ Cranston added, ‘when he hears of the second, not to mention the murder of Sir Robert and the disappearance of the Passio Christi, his rage will know no bounds.’ Cranston’s words created a tense silence. His Grace the Regent was not to be crossed, even by Holy Mother Church.
‘I would not be surprised,’ Cranston added softly, ‘if His Grace did not honour you with a visit, Lord Walter, but now, reverend fathers, these murders?’
Prior Alexander replied. He assured Sir John how the Wyvern Company were happy, as they had been for the past four years. They’d claimed the Passio Christi was their find, so twice a year they were allowed to both view and hold it. For the rest, Sir Robert paid the abbey through the exchequer a most generous amount so the former soldiers enjoyed very comfortable lodgings.
‘Until now?’ Athelstan declared.
‘Yes, early this morning just after first light, Brother Otto who tends the cemetery went for his usual morning walk. Gilbert Hanep’s corpse was found near the grave of his old comrade William Chalk.’
‘Another death?’
‘By God’s good grace, in the order of nature,’ the prior replied. ‘William Chalk was sickening for some time from tumours in both his belly and groin.’
‘So Hanep rose in the middle of night to pay his respects to this dead comrade?’
‘Brother Athelstan, Hanep, like his comrades, was a veteran, a warrior, a professional soldier. He was restless, much given to wandering this abbey at night.’
‘And someone who knew that was waiting? His assassin must have followed him down to the cemetery and killed him?’
‘Took his head, Brother, a swinging cut; those who found him were sickened by the sight.’
