to the trestle. He took out the small phials of holy oils and insisted on anointing the corpse whilst he whispered the words of absolution. He tried to ignore the brutal remains which once housed a living soul, concentrating on the rite whilst the bile bubbled at the back of his throat. Once finished he gratefully strolled outside to the fiery heat from a huge brazier where the rest were already warming themselves. Wenlock and Mahant, now vociferous, informed Cranston how they no longer wished to reside at St Fulcher’s. Cranston warned them that, until he was finished, they could either stay there or be lodged in the Tower and that applied to anyone else involved in these dire events.
‘You must also surely,’ Athelstan added tactfully, ‘see to the burial of poor Osborne? He should be interred next to his comrades at St Fulcher’s?’
The two old soldiers, hands extended over the glowing coals, just glared back at him.
‘You, Magister.’ Athelstan turned to the Fisher of Men. ‘How long do you think Osborne’s corpse was in the water?’
‘He was discovered just after first light,’ that gleaner of the dead replied, ‘in a reed bed. We think he must have been there for at least a day. More importantly, we know where he came from.’ This stilled all conversation.
‘Osborne was murdered,’ the Fisher of Men declared stoutly, ‘on Sunday evening. The weather is too cold even for an old soldier to camp out. In addition, if you know the flow and pull of the river you can deduce where his body fell in.’ He rubbed his hands together.
‘Where?’ Wenlock snapped. ‘Let’s not play games.’
‘My friend, I am not! Listen, Osborne needed shelter. The only place providing that between here and St Fulcher’s is the great riverside tavern, “The Prospect of Heaven”.’
Cranston nodded in agreement.
‘After we found the corpse I sent one of my best scurriers, Hoghedge, who has a nose for tap room gossip. Minehost at the “Prospect” clearly remembered an old soldier armed, carrying his bow not to mention a fardel and panniers, who hired a chamber very early on Sunday morning. He called himself Brokersby.’
‘Brokersby?’
‘That’s what he called himself. Anyway, Minehost recognized an old soldier when he saw one. His guest kept to himself then, later that Sunday, this individual settled all accounts, took his baggage and walked down the towpath towards the river.’
‘And?’
The Fisher clicked his tongue noisily.
‘That is all I can tell you.’
‘Osborne left St Fulcher’s.’ Athelstan turned to the dead man’s companions. ‘He sheltered at that tavern under the name of Brokersby for most of the day then left. Can you tell us why?’
Both men just shook their heads.
‘He did not contact you?’
‘Of course not,’ Wenlock retorted. ‘Nor do we know why he’d go there. We thought he’d hide deep in the city.’
‘Did you find any of his possessions?’ Wenlock turned to the Fisher of Men who just waved back at the Sanctuary of Lost Souls.
‘Naked we come into the world,’ that strange individual intoned, ‘and naked we shall surely leave.’ The Fisher smiled at the coroner. ‘Sir John, if there’s nothing else?’
Cranston and the Fisher of Men walked away from the rest, disappearing into one of the cottages. A short while later Cranston emerged carrying a scrap of parchment, a receipt for the exchequer to account for the monies he had paid to the Fisher of Men. Cranston, Athelstan and the rest clambered back into the barge and, with the cries of farewell from that bizarre community ringing out over the water, the ‘Charon of Hades’ as the barge was called, took them back along the river. Cranston however insisted that they stay close to the bank and pull into the narrow quayside close to ‘The Prospect of Heaven’. He asked them to wait, swiftly disembarked and strode off up the towpath towards ‘The Prospect’; its great timbered upper storeys and black slate roof could be clearly glimpsed from the barge. Wenlock and Mahant followed and, cloaks wrapped about them, walked up and down, whispering between themselves as they tried to keep warm. Athelstan studied both of these. The two old soldiers were unusually taciturn and withdrawn. Were they fearful, anxious? He tried to catch the essence of their mood, their souls. Would they also flee? But, there again, Osborne really hadn’t. He’d simply assumed his dead comrade’s name and moved a short distance down the river. Athelstan took out his Ave beads and fingered them. ‘The Prospect’ was an ideal place to hide. A ramshackle sprawling tavern along the Thames where merchants, travellers, pilgrims and river folk ebbed and flowed like the water itself. So, why had Osborne really left St Fulcher’s? What was he doing at that tavern? Why had he left? How had he been so swiftly overcome, his throat slashed, his corpse stripped of everything, his face pounded beyond recognition before being tossed like rubbish into the river?
Athelstan turned as Icthus and his oarsmen broke off from the hymn they were softly chanting and pointed excitedly as the war cog, its prow and stern richly gilded, sails billowing, the armour and weapons of its crew twinkling in the light, rounded a bend in the river. The cog, ‘The Glory of Lancaster’, was surrounded by small boats eager to sell provisions and even the joys of some whores gaudily bedecked and crammed into a skiff by an enterprising pimp. The sight of the cog made Athelstan think of Richer. Was the Frenchman responsible for Osborne’s death? Richer with his many emissaries from foreign ships? Had Richer persuaded Osborne to flee with a promise of safe passage abroad then killed him, but why? Was it to do with the truth behind the theft of the Passio Christi or even where it was now?
‘Nothing!’ Cranston almost jumped into the barge, hastily followed by Wenlock and Mahant.
‘Nothing at all.’ Cranston squeezed into the seat. ‘It’s as the Fisher of Men said. God save us, Athelstan, I tell you this.’ He raised his voice. ‘Osborne will be the last person to flee.’
On their return to St Fulcher’s Athelstan discovered the reason behind Cranston’s statement. The coroner had been busy and his messages into the city had borne fruit. The watergate and every entrance into the abbey were now guarded by royal archers, men-at-arms and mounted hobelars. The same, Cranston declared as he strode across Mortival meadow, patrolled the fields and woods beyond the abbey walls whilst the cog they’d glimpsed had taken up position off the abbey quayside.
‘There will be no more secret meetings, leaving or goings,’ Cranston insisted as they reached the guest house. ‘Everyone, and I mean everyone, will stay where they are.’ The coroner’s edict was soon felt. Cranston relaxed it a little, allowing carts of produce, visitors, beggars and pilgrims, as well as individual monks, to come and go but the royal serjeants had their orders. Everything and everyone were thoroughly searched. The protests mounted. Wenlock and Mahant tried to leave claiming they hoped to secure lodgings in the city along Poultry. Cranston refused them permission. Abbot Walter, still shocked and surprised at the truths he’d had to face as well as the death of his beloved Leda, retreated to his own chamber with his mistress and daughter. Prior Alexander and Richer, however, were furious. They both confronted Cranston and Athelstan as they broke their fast in the buttery. The two monks were joined by Crispin, who bleated he should journey back to the city, claiming he had urgent business with Genoese bankers in Lombard Street. Cranston heard them out, cleared his throat and ordered all three to shut up and listen.
‘You,’ he pointed with his finger, ‘all of you are suspects in this matter.’
‘How dare you?’ Richer’s handsome face reddened with rage. He fidgeted with the hilt of the silver dagger in its embroidered sheath on the cord around his waist.
‘Oh, I dare,’ Cranston replied evenly, ‘that’s the problem, my friends. This abbey is like a maze of alleyways. People scurry about bent on any mischief, even monks who go armed.’
‘I am fearful,’ Richer retorted, ‘the Wyverns hate me. Men are being murdered.’
‘Which is why you are all suspects?’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Anyone associated with Sir Robert, the Passio Christi or the Wyvern Company must hold themselves ready for questioning either here or the Tower. That includes you, Master Crispin. I would like you to stay here at least for a day.’
‘Why?’ the clerk protested.
‘Because I am determined to finish these matters,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Don’t worry, this applies to everyone else. Sir John, I am sure, has issued instructions that all members of Sir Robert’s household be confined to their mansion.’
‘Are you so close to the truth?’ Prior Alexander asked.
