Paul Doherty: Bloodstone

‘And good day to you, Sir John. I. .’

‘I am not in the best of tempers,’ Cranston bellowed. ‘You. .’ he jabbed a finger at the terrified-looking Crispin, ‘take the corpse to your mistress’s bed chamber. You, master physician, examine it most carefully then come back here and you,’ he gestured at the others, ‘wait for me in the solar.’

Once they’d all gone, Cranston slumped down on the stool cradling the empty casket.

‘Well, Friar?’

‘This chamber was certainly locked and bolted.’ Athelstan gestured round. ‘No secret passageways, no window to be forced yet, some stealthy night-shape, some shadow-stalker gained entry. If our evidence holds true, this assassin poisoned Sir Robert, forced that casket, stole the Passio Christi, relocked the coffer and put the keys around Sir Robert’s neck. Sir John, what exactly is this bloodstone?’

‘In a while, in a while.’ Cranston’s blue eyes were now hard as glass. ‘This surely is only the beginning of our troubles. Look, Friar,’ the coroner put the coffer down between his feet. ‘Sir Robert Kilverby is — was, a merchant with fingers and toes in every pie in the kitchen. He traded in everything, silk, spices and salt. His stalls and shops displayed dazzling armour, precious silver belts, pouches and scabbards. He brought in leather goods from Cordova, linens from Genoa, scarlet silks from Lucca and Florence. He was both banker and money changer. He gave generously to the old King and his sons so they could go on chevauchee across the Narrow Seas to plunder the French. .’

‘I know of Sir Robert,’ Athelstan intervened. He picked up the quill pens and examined them carefully. He sniffed at all three plume tails and cautiously licked them with his tongue, running each of the quill pens through his fingers.

‘Monk?’

‘Friar, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I thought these might be tainted but they’re not. Anyway, the Passio Christi?’

‘The Passion of Christ.’ Cranston glanced at the wine jug and smacked his lips.

‘I wouldn’t, Sir John.’

‘True.’ Cranston sighed. ‘Well, the Passio Christi or the Passion of Christ is a precious bloodstone. When Christ died on the Cross, drops of his blood and sweat trickled down to miraculously form a precious ruby. Joseph of Arimathea took this sacred jewel and. .’ Cranston shrugged. ‘Well, it passed from hand to hand, from one generation to the next until it ended up in the Abbey of St Calliste near Poitiers in France. Now, after the Black Prince’s great victory there, a cart found near the abbey was plundered by one of those free companies who fought for the Crown, the Wyverns, a company both feared and fearful.’

‘I’ve heard of such companies,’ Athelstan intervened, chewing his lip. ‘I’ve also seen their handiwork,’ he added sadly, recalling his own youth.

‘Ah, well.’ Cranston continued in a rush, glancing at Athelstan out of the corner of his eye. He just prayed he was not stirring harsh, cruel memories in the little friar’s soul. ‘Now, a group of these Wyverns, master bowmen all, allegedly found the Passio Christi and claimed it as legitimate plunder of war. .’

‘But surely the abbey, the church objected?’

‘Oh, our noble archers were very cunning. They maintained they’d found the bloodstone, along with other precious items, in a cart on a trackway near the abbey. You know the proclamations, Athelstan. Let’s be blunt. You’ve served in France. Stealing from a church could earn you a hanging but something found on a cart in a country lane. .? Of course the good monks, their abbot and the local bishop could sing whatever hymn they wanted but, in this case, however fictitious their story might be, those who find do keep. Now, the bloodstone couldn’t be divided or kept by one of them whilst the Crown also demanded a share.’

‘The Wyverns would not be too pleased with that? As you said, those who find, do keep?’

‘Precisely. In the end an indenture was drawn up: the Passio Christi would be held by a responsible third party.’

‘In this case Sir Robert Kilverby?’

‘Correct. He would keep it safe and provide a pension, on behalf of the Crown, to the exchequer for each master bowman.’

‘How many?’

‘Oh, not the whole company — five or six I believe — only those who actually found the bloodstone.’ Cranston sighed. ‘If they survived military service, and they did, the former soldiers would also be provided with corrodies: comfortable lodgings at some great monastery. This occurred, in their case the Abbey of St Fulcher-on-Thames.’

‘And when they all died?’

‘Good question, Friar, for that may relate to our next mystery.’ Cranston shook a gauntleted hand. ‘All will be revealed in God’s good time. To answer your specific question, once all the finders of the bloodstone were dead, the precious relic would revert to the Crown who’d pay Kilverby, or his estate, one tenth of its market value as recompense for his good services.’

‘And why was it held here?’

‘Everyone trusted Kilverby. He was too rich to be tempted. Anyway, I believe the indenture was modified slightly so that twice a year he would show the Passio Christi to both the exchequer at Westminster as well as all relicts of the Wyvern Company residing at St Fulcher.’ Cranston squinted at Athelstan. ‘I am sure it was twice a year, at Easter and the Feast of St Damasus.’

‘Which is today.’

‘True, true.’ Cranston fidgeted on the stool.

‘And now something has also happened at St Fulcher’s.’

‘Horrid murder!’ Cranston retorted. ‘One of the Wyverns, Gilbert Hanep, was found headless near the grave of an old comrade.’

‘He was beheaded!’

‘Clean and neat as you would cut a flower.’

‘Why. .?’ Athelstan was interrupted by Physician Theobald storming into the chamber, in one hand a piece of bread in the other a cup of claret, which he downed in one gulp before glaring at Cranston.

‘Poison!’ he almost shouted. ‘Definitely poison, very powerful, water hemlock perhaps. So, my Lord Coroner, I’m done.’

‘Not yet.’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Good and learned physician, I want you to help us search this chamber for any trace of poison, be it smeared on a handle or anywhere else.’ He pointed at the chamber pot. ‘And you can re-examine that.’ Athelstan tapped the silver dish of comfits on the desk as well as the wine jug and loving cup. ‘You are to take these away and scrupulously search for any trace of poison.’ Athelstan caught a flicker of annoyance in the physician’s greedy eyes. ‘You’ll be paid. Now, my Lord Coroner, let us search.’

As they did so Athelstan asked Cranston to send for Flaxwith and to tell him about Kilverby and his family. Sir John, moving around the chamber, chattered about how he and the dead man were old acquaintances, though not quite friends. How he was one of the executors of Kilverby’s will, adding that in the event of Lady Helen not giving him a child, the bulk of the dead merchant’s wealth, including this fine mansion, would go to Sir Robert’s only daughter, the recently wedded Alesia.

‘Her husband is also a goldsmith,’ Theobald offered. ‘Sir Robert had ceased his trading days. He was getting ready to leave. .’

‘Leave?’

‘Aye. Leave all this in the trusting hands of Alesia and her husband Edmond Pulick whilst Sir Robert went on pilgrimage to Santiago, Rome and Jerusalem though, some say,’ Theobald lowered his voice, ‘he was fleeing from the hellish Helen and her shadow, kinsman Adam.’ He paused as Crispin knocked on the lintel and enquired how long they would have to wait in the solar.

‘For as long as it takes,’ Cranston snapped. ‘Send up Master Flaxwith; he’s filled his belly enough.’