The monk abruptly turned and walked away. Athelstan thought he’d forgotten him, then he returned with a small stout colleague, his belly round as a barrel.
‘Brother Simon might be able to help you.’
‘Yes, I can.’ The newcomer smiled in a show of near-toothless gums. ‘I clean poor Brokersby’s chamber. I assure you there was no oil, just a wine skin. That was all.’
Athelstan picked his way over to the remains to the door and examined the twisted lock, bolts and clasps. He studied these closely; they had definitely been rent apart. He glanced back at the shattered, scorched shutters and the open window now drawing off the worst of the smoke.
‘We had to force the door,’ Brother Simon declared. ‘But, of course, it was too late.’
‘So,’ Athelstan walked out of the room, carefully picking his way, ‘Brokersby retired for the night and his chamber was devastated by fire.’
‘So it seems,’ both monks chorused.
‘But we can’t find a reason for it,’ Brother Simon added.
Athelstan nodded his thanks and left, crossing into the gardens as he tried to deduce what had happened. Both the door and window of Brokersby’s chamber had been sealed. The grille at the top of the door was too narrow to pour oil through so how could anyone get it so close to the bed? Had oil been stored there? But how was it ignited? Did the candle topple over? Yet that had probably been planted on a firm spigot with a cap covering it. An unlucky spark? However, that would mean the fire depended on fickle chance, yet Athelstan was certain Brokersby was murdered. The assassin had deliberately flooded the area close to the bed with burning oil. Brokersby may have been drugged with some opiate and woke too late or, mercifully, never at all. So how had it all been achieved? Brokersby, probably frightened, had sealed himself in that chamber. He had then been murdered by a raging fire cunningly planned and contrived. Brokersby had no chance to escape. He had been utterly destroyed along with everything else in that room.
‘Henry! Henry Osborne!’
Wenlock and Mahant appeared, stopped and called their comrade’s name again.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s Osborne,’ Wenlock gasped, pulling his cloak closer about him. ‘He has disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’
‘Disappeared, fled!’ Mahant snapped. ‘His chamber is empty; he’s packed his panniers and taken his weapons. He appears to have left long before first light.
‘Why should he do that?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘Why flee in the dead of night?’
‘Because he’s frightened,’ Mahant snarled. ‘Terrified. Hanep, Hyde and Brokersby — all slain.’
‘So you think Brokersby’s death was no accident?’
‘Of course not,’ Wenlock retorted. ‘Brother Athelstan, a short while ago we were all comrades enjoying the vespers of our life; now we’re being hunted in this benighted place.’
‘Why? By whom?’
‘For the love of God, we don’t know.’
‘Why do you think Brokersby was murdered?’
Mahant made to walk away.
‘If Osborne’s fled,’ Athelstan added, ‘you’ll hardly find him here, will you?’
‘No, no.’ Mahant sighed and came back. ‘We hoped he may have just panicked and be hiding close by.’
‘Father Abbot is the one who should organize such a search,’ Athelstan said. ‘You must see him — demand that this happen. Tell him that I too insist on it, but first,’ he plucked at Wenlock’s cloak, ‘my friends.’ Athelstan gestured towards the abbey buildings. ‘We need to talk but not here in the freezing cold.’
The two old soldiers agreed. Athelstan led them into the grey stone cloisters where they stood warming their hands over a brazier.
‘If Osborne has fled, where would he go? Does he have family, kin?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I suspect,’ Wenlock rubbed his hands, ‘he’s probably gone into the city to hide there, perhaps seek out comrades we didn’t know.’
‘But why should he give up such comfortable lodgings here?’
‘The cowl doesn’t make the monk, Brother Athelstan. Nothing here is what it appears to be. Never mind all the babbling to God and all the holy incense.’ Wenlock shook his head. ‘This has become a slaughter house for our company.’
‘But how would Osborne live?’
Both men shuffled their feet.
‘I think,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘each of you has his own private monies, the result of years of campaigning.’
‘You mean plunder, Brother? Yes, we all have that, some more than others.’
‘When I visited your comrade’s chambers I found very few coins,’ Athelstan offered. ‘You took their money, didn’t you? I wondered. .’
‘Hanep and Hyde had little.’ Wenlock confessed rubbing his maimed hands over the brazier. ‘Of course we took whatever coins or precious objects they owned. Better us than our greedy abbot.’
‘Would Osborne have enough money to live on?’
‘Perhaps.’ Wenlock became evasive. ‘A skilled archer may still find employment.’
‘Let’s say he’s fled,’ Athelstan paused as a monk slipped by pattering his Ave beads, ‘because he was frightened. Others might allege that he was guilty of his comrades’ murder.’
‘Osborne would never kill one of his own,’ Wenlock replied in disbelief. ‘Why should he?’
‘True, I can’t think of any reason. Indeed, I can deduce no reason whatsoever for any of your colleagues being murdered. Can you? Has an ancient blood feud been invoked by someone here in the abbey or the city?’
‘None, Brother! We cannot think of any and, if there was, why now? Unless it’s the Passio Christi?’
‘What do you mean? Kilverby held that.’
‘He’s dead but the Passio Christi was, allegedly, once owned by the black monks. Richer is a Frenchman, a monk of St Calliste, which now claims it. He is a young man, vigorous, probably trained in arms but why should he murder us? That will hardly bring back the Passio Christi?’
‘I agree,’ Athelstan replied. ‘What about revenge, punishment?’
Athelstan let his words hang in the air. Busy warming his hands, he watched a solitary robin hop across the cloister garth, pecking furiously at the frost-laced grass. Incense and candle smoke wafted mixing with that from the bake house. Athelstan glanced back; both his companions had begun to hum a song, shuffling their feet in a slow dance and softly clapping their hands. Athelstan, surprised, stood back watching these two soldiers, lost in their own ritual, shuffle and clap as peasants would in a tavern celebrating their harvest. Mahant and Wenlock, eyes closed, moved clumsily to their own rhythm; the humming grew louder then faded away with both men throwing their hands up in the air and exclaiming, ‘Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia!’ The soldiers opened their eyes and turned back to the brazier, grinning at Athelstan.
‘You monks and priests have your liturgies and we have ours,’ Wenlock explained. ‘At the beginning of every battle the Wyverns always performed their dance; in the evening we did the same. You understand why?’
Athelstan nodded. When he and his brother had joined the King’s army he’d seen soldiers, veterans of the free companies, perform such dances.
‘But why now?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Because we are about to do battle.’
‘Against whom? Do you really suspect Richer?’
‘Why stop with him?’ Wenlock sneered. ‘Look around you, Friar, what do you see? Monks? Many of these hail from the farms, villages and shires around London. They know us, at least by reputation. Further up the river at All Hallows near Barking, the Upright Men gather to plot bloody treason.’
‘Don’t talk in parables.’ Athelstan drew closer.
‘We’re not. You asked us who wants us dead. Your fat friend Cranston has returned to the city to sniff around. You have remained here to do the same, so I’ll help you. We’re old soldiers. We have served our purpose. Go into the city and you’ll find others less fortunate than us,’ Wenlock, white froth staining his lips, held up his maimed hands, ‘starving at the mouth of every alleyway and filthy alcove. You ask us who wants us dead? Well, perhaps His Grace the Regent so that the Passio Christi, when it is found, will fall into his greedy hands. Or again
