there’s Abbot Walter, who’d like to see us ejected from his precious precincts even though, if need be, he would use us against the Upright Men should they attack this abbey. As for Richer — yes? He nurses grudges and grievances against us but there’s more.’ Wenlock paused, chest heaving, gesturing at Mahant to continue.
‘Wenlock and I have talked about this. Now Brokersby is gone and Osborne has disappeared, we thought we’d tell you. We have enemies within and without, Richer, even that anchorite. You and Cranston must have heard the rumours but let him tell you his tale. We have no blood on our hands as far as the anchorite’s concerned. We were only doing our duty.’ Mahant drew a deep breath. ‘As for the rest, the Upright Men and the Great Community of the Realm hate us. You see, Friar, before we came here we garrisoned the Tower, Rochester, Hedingham, Montfichet — indeed, all the castles around London. The shires seethe with unrest. You’ve heard about the uprisings, the attacks on houses like that at Bury St Edmunds and elsewhere? Well, to cut to the quick, the Wyverns were used by the Crown, the sheriffs, the abbots and other great lords to crush such revolts. We carried out our orders, as always, efficiently.’
‘Ruthlessly?’
‘Yes, Brother, ruthlessly. The royal banner was unfurled and the trumpets brayed. Any man, woman or child found in arms against us were either cut down or hanged out of hand.’
Athelstan nodded and walked over to a stone bench. The old soldiers joined him, sitting on either side.
‘We burnt their villages and farms,’ Wenlock continued. ‘We crammed their corpses into wells and springs.’ He paused, waiting for Athelstan to reply, but the friar just sat listening.
‘Don’t judge us, Brother! When the rebels burn Blackfriars and your parish church you’ll understand. True, we became hated. Undoubtedly here in this abbey we have shaven-pates, kinsmen of those we slaughtered, we know that. We’ve received dark looks, curses and spitting, signs made against the evil one and that includes Prior Alexander. We hanged one of his beloved kinsmen, no better than a hedge priest, a ranter on the common gallows outside Ospringe.’
‘So the Upright Men may have marked you down.’
‘Yes, and our Lord Abbot may well come to regret our stay. We suspect that, like many of the great lords, he’s raising Danegeld to bribe these traitorous bastards. Friar, you ask us who wants us dead? Well, we’ve given you a list. Be it John of Gaunt, some madcap monk or an assassin despatched by the Upright Men.’
‘And Osborne has fled the danger?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And Brokersby — did he take an opiate to sleep?’
Wenlock stood up and glanced down at Athelstan.
‘Brokersby took an opiate, some powder grains.’ He pulled a face. ‘Supplied by the infirmary.’
‘Did Brokersby ever keep oil in his chamber?’
‘No, why should he?’
‘Did he keep the night-candle lit?’
‘I think so.’ Mahant paused. ‘Brokersby, God assoil him, was frightened by the dark but more than that I cannot say.’ He waved at Wenlock. ‘We should go, perhaps into the city and search for Osborne there.’ He leaned down, his face so close Athelstan could smell the ale on his breath. ‘But we’ll not go today, brother, it’s Sunday. My Lord Abbot will be dispensing Marymeat and Marybread to the poor, or that’s how he describes it.’ Mahant adjusted his war belt.
‘Do you suspect us?’ Wenlock asked, archly holding up his maimed hands. ‘Poor me who can no longer swing a sword?’
‘I never said that.’
‘We were in the city when Hyde and Hanep were murdered,’ Mahant added quietly, ‘and fast asleep when the fire started.’
‘Did William Chalk,’ Athelstan asked, ‘when he fell ill, did the good brothers give him ghostly comfort, shrive him?’
‘Richer often visited him but, as you know, the secrets of the confessional are inviolate.’
‘And Kilverby the merchant?’
‘He used to visit us when he brought the Passio Christi. In the end he let others do that and, when he did come, he avoided us. I don’t think he liked us. We were not particularly fond of him.’
Athelstan watched as the two Wyverns sauntered off. Several brothers then hurried into the cloisters carrying baskets. Athelstan stopped and questioned one, who informed him that as it was Sunday Abbot Walter would distribute alms, free bread and meat to the poor clustered before the main gate of the abbey as well as to others at the watergate. Athelstan, recalling earlier remarks about this, decided to follow them. He went first to the main gatehouse, waiting under its yawning arch until the brothers assembled with their baskets at the ready. He followed them through the postern door and was surprised at the throng gathered there. Peasants in their dirt-gained smocks and mud caked boots, men, women and children, their lean, furrowed faces full of desperation, eager to eat. Other outcasts crowded in: wandering beggars in their motley array of rags, hats and footwear; pilgrims, swathed in tattered weather-worn cloaks on which were pinned the rusting badges of the shrines they had visited — Walsingham, Canterbury, Hereford and even abroad to the famous Magdalene shrine at Vezelay in Burgundy or St Peter’s in Rome. Beyond these the lepers, clothed in their shrouds, every inch of flesh hidden by swathes of soiled bandages, clustered in a solitary group ringing hand bells or rattling clappers to warn away the rest. Athelstan took two baskets over to them. He blessed both lepers and food, trying not to be affected by the rank stench and the glimpse of scabbed skin. He distributed the bread, meat and fruit, ensuring that everyone received a portion. He smiled at the benedictions and thanks hissed through worm-eaten lips, talking to the lepers about the dangers of the road and the lives they led.
Athelstan moved away and looked around. At first he could see little amiss until the latecomers, hooded and visored, arrived. About a dozen in all, they appeared quickly, took the baskets specially brought out for them and left. Intrigued, Athelstan decided to visit the quayside. He strolled through the now busy precincts and down across Mortival meadow. Outside the watergate another group of monks were dispensing Marymeat and Marybread. Fewer beggars congregated here, most of them destitute river people clutching their rags tightly against the bitter cold. They reeked of stale fish, dirty water and sweat. Athelstan moved amongst them. He felt both guilty and angry at his church and about the way the world was. He felt the fury well within him as it did sometimes in his own parish at the sheer injustice of it all. No wonder the Upright Men gathered to plot and the Great Community of the Realm, brimming with discontent, moved out of the shadows. Why shouldn’t they have their day of doom, fire and sword, revolt and savage attack? Athelstan turned away, blinking, shaking his head at the furious thoughts which pelted his soul. He blamed himself. Perhaps he should be more active and support the Upright Men, give his blessing to the likes of Pike and Watkin. Athelstan then glimpsed the gallows gaunt against the lowering sky, the fragments of rope attached to a hook fluttering in the breeze. Athelstan closed his eyes and recited the first verse of psalm fifty — that is why he never supported them! No matter the misery now, what the Great Community plotted would only make matters worse. The revolt would be crushed. The Lord of the Soil would dominate. They’d whistle up men like Mahant and Wenlock, professional soldiers, killers to the bone, to crush all dissent. Every gallows from here to the Wash would be heavy with corpses.
‘Brother, take care,’ Athelstan apologized to the fisherman he bumped into. The quayside was now very busy. He also noticed the new arrivals, similar to those grouped at the main abbey gateway. He was sure they were envoys from the Upright Men sent to collect purveyance by their masters; they picked up the special baskets and carried them to a waiting barge manned by four oarsmen. Such was the way of the world, Athelstan reflected. Abbot Walter was paying service to the emerging threat with special provisions for those who lurked away from the light. Athelstan approached Brother Simon, whom he’d first met after the fire in Brokersby’s chamber. The friar indicated with his head at the group he’d noticed.
‘Brother Simon, who are those men?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Both you and the poor treat them with every respect. They collect your alms, your charity as if it was their God-given right.’
‘Brother Athelstan.’ Simon peered up at him. The lay brother put a finger to his lips. ‘What do you think?’ he whispered, leaning forward. ‘The truth, as Pilate once asked, what is the truth? We must, one day, all answer that question — you, me, Father Abbot and the rest, eh?’ Simon’s face remained passive, his eyes watchful.
Athelstan recalled his conversations with the Wyverns. How the Upright Men had their adherents in the abbey — the sons, brothers and kinsmen of the earthworms, the peasants of the shires who hacked the earth for those who owned it.
