Paul Doherty - Bloodstone

The anchorite rose and paced his cell. He paused at the whispering outside the anker slit. Was she back? Trying to control his fears and the icy tremors piercing his belly, the anchorite crept towards the slit then recoiled at the pasty white face which suddenly appeared there.

‘Hangman of Rochester,’ that spiteful mouth hissed, ‘are you not ready to pay?’

‘Pay? Pay?’ The anchorite gasped. ‘Pay for what?’

‘Blood money, surety for what you’ve done. Strip yourself of your wealth. Leave it on the ledge, the profits you have made. Money for Masses. .’

The anchorite retreated. He plucked up the coffer crammed with gold and silver coins. For peace, he thought, I’ll surrender this, a shimmering cascade through that slit to buy peace from all this. The anchorite grasped the coffer even tighter. He felt his stomach drawn like a bow string. If only she’d go and leave him alone! He glimpsed movement at the anker-slit, a trail of scraggly hair. Was she gone? He startled as the door was pushed and rattled against its bolts. The anchorite opened his mouth in a silent scream. The door shook again, a threatening rattle. Agnes Rednal was trying to break in! He dropped the coffer and hurled himself at the door screaming and cursing, banging with his fists, pleading for that hell creature to leave him alone.

The following morning after his dawn Mass, Athelstan heard about the disturbance at the anker house. He was divesting in the chantry chapel assisted by Brother Simon, who’d acted as his acolyte and altar boy.

‘Screaming and banging he was,’ Brother Simon exclaimed. ‘The sacristan had just entered the church when it happened, a man possessed or so they say. Our anchorite is haunted by demons.’

Athelstan thanked Simon. Curious, he made his way down to the anker house and tapped on the door.

‘Who is it?’

Athelstan glanced at the slit and glimpsed the anchorite’s long white fingers grasping the sill.

‘Brother Athelstan, friend. I wonder if all is well? I mean no harm. If you would like to speak?’

To his surprise he heard the rattle of chains, bolts being drawn and the low door swung open. Athelstan bent his head, entered the anker house and straightened up. The anchorite immediately knelt and asked for his blessing. Athelstan gave this and stared around. The cell was rather large, apparently a disused chantry chapel — its wooden screen had been removed and a wall built across the gap. A comfortable, sweet-smelling chamber with bed, chest, coffers and a lavarium; a table stood under a window of clear glass, beside it a lectern then a prie-dieu with pegs driven into a wall on which to hang clothes. A small brazier warmed the air with scented smoke whilst a five branch candle spigot and a lantern horn provided more light. The anchorite, still agitated, invited Athelstan to the chair while he drew up a stool and gazed expectantly at the friar.

‘What happened?’ Athelstan asked.

The anchorite told him. When he’d finished Athelstan shook his head in disbelief.

‘And this has happened before?’

‘Oh yes, Brother, I always see her, at least in my mind’s eye. I always did but now, during these last few weeks, she comes here demanding vengeance and blood money.’

‘Blood money?’ Athelstan scoffed. ‘For what?’

‘For her death.’

‘Well, what money?’

The anchorite rose, went into the shadows and returned carrying a casket which he unlocked with a key from a ring attached to his leather belt. Athelstan gasped at the mound of glistening coins, good, sound silver and gold. He grasped a handful, weighing it carefully before putting it back.

‘My inheritance,’ the anchorite explained, ‘after my parents died, as well as what I’ve earned over the years both as a painter and hangman. Remember, I am allowed all my victims’ goods while some pay well for their going to be brisk.’ The anchorite paused, muttering a prayer. ‘Brother, why am I being haunted? If she wants blood money should I give it to her?’

‘She demanded that last night?’

‘Yes, she did and I nearly agreed.’

‘Look,’ Athelstan took the coffer from the anchorite’s hands and placed it on the ground, ‘demons walk, we know that. The Lords of the Air float by in hordes. Devils whisper in corners and all kind of darksmen roam the wilderness of the human soul. Ghosts cluster close before our mind’s eye or, indeed, to our physical senses. Nevertheless, I’ve never heard of a ghost demanding money. Moreover, why does she only appear when the abbey falls silent and deserted?’

The anchorite stared back, unconvinced.

‘You have eerie imaginings, my friend,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Undoubtedly the death of Agnes Rednal haunts you but not her soul. Please,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘trust me.’

The anchorite just kept staring, face all haggard.

‘You have eaten and drunk?’ Athelstan asked gently. ‘Refreshment, as Sir John says, is good for the soul as well as the body. I promise you, I will plumb these mysteries which brood so close to you.’

‘And those other mysteries, the murders here?’

‘My friend,’ Athelstan gestured round, ‘we still stumble and fall.’

‘I heard about your panic in the charnel house. Brother Athelstan, tread warily here.’

‘You said something similar when we first met. You told me you had things to say,’ Athelstan added. ‘You still nurse grievances against the Wyvern Company about your wife and child?’

‘Yes, my poor family.’ The anchorite rubbed the side of his head. ‘Sometimes I see them as I do Agnes Rednal.’ He glanced up pitifully. ‘That’s what I wanted to confess last time. My deep loathing for those soldiers yet I did not kill them.’

Athelstan stared at the man’s strong, claw-like hands.

‘You have the strength and skill,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘you are deeply troubled.’

The anchorite sprang to his feet then sat down face in his hands.

‘True, I am deeply troubled. Agnes Rednal crawls on to my bed.’ He pointed at the ledger resting on the desk. ‘I describe my dreams, my visions. Brother, I cannot distinguish between what is real and what is my imagining.’

‘Friend,’ Athelstan replied briskly, ‘you live in this anker house, you’re close to God. You are, I believe, a good man of troubled soul though your wits remain sharp. So answer my questions. Keep with the land of the living. Help me to pursue justice.’

The anchorite sighed and took away his hands.

‘Your questions?’

‘Good. You came here when?’

‘About three years ago.’

‘Did you ever talk or converse with the Wyvern Company?’

‘What do you think? I voiced my resentment of them. Once, shortly after my arrival, they came here to gape and stare. I told them who I was and what chains bound us together from the past.’

‘And?’

‘They just protested and walked away. They stayed away except for Chalk, who fell ill. I saw him here with Sub-Prior Richer; they sat in the shriving pew close to the Lady chapel. Of course all I could glimpse was him kneeling at the prie-dieu and the monk in the shriving chair. At the time I laughed to myself. I hoped Chalk would confess his sins against me and mine. I prayed such offences would thrust themselves up like black, stinking shrubs in his midnight soul.’ The anchorite breathed out noisily. ‘God forgive me, he must have done. One day Chalk, his face as white as his name, came and knelt outside my door. He begged my forgiveness for what he had done. He confessed it was a memory, something which happened on a summer’s day, a few heart beats when he’d been a soldier and didn’t give a fig about anyone. Oh, I forgave him, I had to. For his penance I asked him to pray for me and mine every day. He promised he would.’ The anchorite pulled a face. ‘Apart from that the Wyvern Company kept their distance except, strangely enough, Ailward Hyde. On the day he was murdered, he came into church. He was worried. He stopped to look at my paintings. He’d done this before. I shared a few words with him then something alarmed him. A figure crept in down near the Lady chapel. I heard a clatter as if a weapon was dropped. Hyde was also curious and followed in silent pursuit.’