removed the poisonous quill pens you’d first laid here but, in fact, you were sealing in your own guilt. You made one miscalculation: the arrival of Sir John and myself. This chamber was secured. You could not rectify any omission.’ Athelstan held up the three quill pens for all to see. ‘Are these nibbled and chewed? No. More importantly, Crispin, you are left-handed. I am right-handed, I hold the quill such and the point on the right side of the pen becomes worn, yes? These, however, have been used by a left-handed writer.’ Athelstan turned all three quill pens, tapping their worn edges.
‘Sir Robert,’ he added. ‘Even when he was in the novitiate he was known for chewing the end of his pens. He laughingly referred to this, Crispin, when you and he were once strolling up the south aisle of St Fulcher’s abbey church. You were overheard by the anchorite who shelters there. Mistress Alesia, did you not tell me the same?’
‘It’s true,’ Alesia whispered, ‘my father always chewed the ends of his pens, a mannerism he couldn’t give up despite my scolding.’
Others murmured their assent. Crispin undid the cord of his cambric shirt as if he couldn’t breathe properly.
‘But we all came in here that morning,’ Lady Helen demanded. ‘Nobody moved anything, I am sure.’
‘Are you?’ Athelstan replied. ‘Look, Crispin is Sir Robert’s clerk. He has an ink horn and quills strapped to his belt. It’s one of the first things I noticed about him.’
‘He always carries pens,’ Alesia declared, ‘he always has ever since I can remember.’
‘It was the same that morning,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘You all came in here. You were distraught and distracted. Crispin, the faithful clerk, moved to Sir Robert’s desk. Why shouldn’t he rearrange the pens? He makes the exchange in the twinkling of an eye. He leaves these quills, the ones he has used himself, and takes the poisoned ones which, I am sure, he immediately burnt.’ Athelstan paused, letting the silence deepen.
‘But surely,’ Lady Helen now spoke directly to Athelstan, ‘he must have realized the mistakes he had made?’ She paused. ‘Of course.’ She answered her own question. ‘It was too late. Crispin never expected, as you said, this chamber to be sealed with all the evidence in it.’
‘Crispin’s eyesight is also poor,’ Athelstan declared. ‘He may have failed to realize the full implications of what he’d done. Once Sir Robert’s corpse was discovered, he was committed to the heinous lie he had to live. Perhaps he delayed gnawing on the ends of the replacement quill pens until it was too late. Or did he panic, frightened that one of you would note such an act so closely associated with his master rather than himself? What he’d done was certainly settled by this chamber being sealed. However,’ Athelstan pointed to the ashen-faced clerk, ‘only he can say. But remember, for Crispin, Sir Robert’s death was only a means, a device to get his hands on the bloodstone and keep it.’
‘It must be true,’ Kinsman Adam whispered. ‘Sir Robert would only have entrusted the Passio Christi to someone in this room, someone he trusted implicitly, there’s no other explanation.’
‘Don’t accuse me!’
‘I do, Crispin,’ Athelstan declared. ‘True, I do not have full proof but I possess enough to present a bill of indictment. You’ll be arrested and lodged in Newgate. The Regent’s torturers will demand your presence at the Tower. They’ll interrogate you day in and day out. They will not let you die, though there’ll be times when you pray that they do so. Confession or not, you’ll be judged a traitor for having stolen Crown property. You will also be condemned as sacrilegious and excommunicate because the Passio Christi is a sacred relic.’ Athelstan held Crispin’s terrified gaze. ‘In the end you’ll suffer the full penalty for treason. You’ll be drawn on a hurdle from the Tower to the Elms at Smithfield. You’ll be half hanged, disembowelled and castrated. You will die the enemy of both church and realm. You’ll never be allowed to enjoy the fruits of your foul act.’
‘A full confession,’ Cranston came up and softly placed both hands on Crispin’s shoulders, ‘and the return of the bloodstone and you can expect a swift, merciful death. Your soul purged of all sin.’
Crispin swallowed hard. He tried to speak but couldn’t form the words.
‘Please,’ Alesia pleaded, ‘for any love you have for me, Crispin, confess because the odds press heavily against you.’
Crispin bowed his head and sobbed, a heart-rending sound. Athelstan steeled himself. This man had deliberately and maliciously killed another human being. He had betrayed his master who, despite all his faults, had meant him well.
Crispin lifted his head. ‘It is,’ he confessed, ‘as you say. .’
Athelstan sat in the inglenook of ‘The Port of Paradise’, an ancient tavern which, Cranston claimed, was built in the time of the present King’s great, great grandfather. A claim, Athelstan stared round, which he would not challenge. The lowering beams of the tap room were black with age, the onions and cheeses hanging in nets from these exuded a tangy smell which offset the stench of gutted fish drying outside the main door. Athelstan bit into the freshly baked manchet loaf smeared with honey and sipped at the ale which the barrel-bellied Minehost had proclaimed to be the best in London.
‘In which case I’d hate to taste the worst,’ Athelstan whispered, putting the blackjack on the floor beside him. Cranston had promised he wouldn’t be long. Athelstan stretched his hands out to the blaze. The leaping flames in the great hearth reminded him of the Passio Christi. Crispin had confessed and then, with Cranston as his guard, had gone down into the garden at the rear of the mansion where he had cunningly hidden the bloodstone amongst a pile of ancient sacking.
‘Beautiful,’ Athelstan murmured to himself. He’d handled the bloodstone, big as a duck’s egg, as Cranston had described it. Turning the ruby Athelstan had marvelled at what appeared to be shooting flames of fire within; these caught the light and dazzled even more. Athelstan was wary of most relics. He’d seen the most ludicrous venerated, the worst being a pile of straw miraculously preserved from the stable at Bethlehem. For all his scepticism Athelstan had appreciated the sheer beauty of the bloodstone. Its unique glow alone would convince many that it had been formed by Christ’s precious blood and sweat. Athelstan had returned it to its coffer, nestling the ruby amongst the soft blue samite. Crispin had then repeated his confession which virtually agreed with every aspect of Athelstan’s bill of indictment. Crispin also admitted that his mind had been turned by his intense dislike of St Fulcher’s, the powerful resentment he felt against Sir Robert and how subtly Richer had played on this.
‘Once Richer died. .’ Crispin paused at the exclamations this provoked from the rest of the household.
‘Oh, yes,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Richer has gone to a higher judge in a way he did not expect.’
‘Whatever his death,’ Crispin continued muttering as if to himself, ‘he deserved it. Now he is gone what can I do?’
‘All finished.’
Athelstan glanced up. Cranston towered over him, his head and face almost hidden by the great beaver hat and the folds of his cloak.
‘Crispin is lodged in Newgate and the bloodstone lies in the great iron chest at the Guildhall.’
‘But the bloodstone,’ Athelstan added, getting to his feet, ‘has not yet finished its work. We must now confront the act which began this bloody mayhem, “the
As soon as Athelstan returned to the abbey, he sent Cranston with two archers to bring Wenlock to his chamber. The veteran had apparently recovered from his belly gripes, the colour returning to his ruddy face. He was dressed for travelling in thick woollen jerkin and leggings, riding boots on, his maimed hands hidden by gauntlets.
‘Sit down,’ Athelstan ordered, ‘you’ll be going nowhere, Master Wenlock, except to Newgate then on to be hanged at Smithfield. Don’t lie,’ Athelstan ordered, ‘but sit and listen. Take off your gauntlets, Wenlock, that’s right; let us see your maimed hands. You were caught by the French?’
Wenlock, eyes watchful, glanced over his shoulder at Cranston standing by the door.
‘You know I was,’ he retorted.
‘You were punished, maimed for being an English master bowman,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Did you and your coven see this as just punishment for stealing the Passio Christi?’
‘I did not. .’
‘You did,’ Athelstan retorted flatly. ‘Your story about finding a cart near St Calliste piled high with treasure, its escort having fled, is a lie. Many have regarded it as such, but now we have the truth. Wenlock, you stole that bloodstone. You pulled it out of its tabernacle, out of its shrine. You stole that and the “
