Paul Doherty - The Assassin's riddle

The funeral of Edwin Chapler at St Erconwald’s the following morning was a solemn and dignified affair. The coffin had been carried in and laid at the entrance to the rood screen; purple candles ringed it whilst Athelstan celebrated a solemn Requiem Mass. Mistress Alison, supported by Benedicta, had maintained a dignified silence even as the coffin on which she placed a single white rose was lifted out of the church and taken to the fresh plot dug by Pike the ditcher just before dawn. The coffin had been lowered into it. Athelstan had sprinkled holy water with the asperges rod then incensed it with the thurible, the fragrance spreading throughout the graveyard. The earth had been piled in and a suitable wooden cross laid over the fresh mound of earth until Tab the tinker made a proper one. Athelstan and Alison were discussing this when a parishioner, Simplicatas, came running out of the church screaming that a miracle had occurred.

‘The new crucifix!’ she cried. ‘Huddle’s crucifix near the baptistry! It’s bleeding!’

Athelstan, followed by the rest, rushed up the steps of the church. A crowd had gathered round the small recess where the crucifix hung. At first Athelstan could not believe his eyes. The wounds on the hands, side, feet and head of the crucified Christ were glistening red. Indeed, one small drop of blood, like a small ruby, was ready to drip down. Huddle was kneeling there, hands joined; on either side of him Watkin and Pike the ditcher, reminding Athelstan of the Three Wise Men before the crib.

‘Huddle!’ Athelstan bellowed. ‘Is this some trick of yours?’ He nearly added that miracles couldn’t occur in a place like St Erconwald’s but bit back the words.

The painter just stared at him and swallowed hard.

‘Father, how can you say that?’

Alison went forward and touched the glistening drop. She brought it back on the edge of her finger. She held it to her lips and licked it.

‘It’s blood,’ she declared, her face white as snow. ‘Father, it’s not fake blood.’ She paused. ‘The type mummers use.’

Athelstan went and also took a drop. He raised it to his lips. He had the same sensation as when he had cut his lip the previous week: a salty, tangy taste. He stepped back, trying to hide the tremors in his own body. The news had spread; more parishioners were already crowding into the church.

‘Go away!’ Athelstan ordered, hands raised. ‘Go back to your homes! For the love of God!’ His mind raced. This was not the first time a miracle had occurred at St Erconwald’s. He gazed suspiciously at Watkin and Pike but they were engrossed in their devotions.

Athelstan quickly took off his chasuble and surplice. He almost threw them at Crim and grasping the lavabo cloth, the piece of linen he used to dry his hands after touching the sacred species, he thrust his way through to the cross. He dabbed at the red marks and gazed down at the cloth, they did look like bloodstains.

‘What are you doing, Father?’ Benedicta whispered, coming up behind him.

‘Maybe it’s some trick,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The crucifix is new, it might be some pigment…’

‘I only used ordinary paint,’ Huddle sang out.

Athelstan stood staring at the cross. He’d wiped the red glistening liquid away; his heart lurched: more was beginning to form.

‘Have the crucifix taken down!’ he ordered Watkin.

‘No, Father.’ The dung-collector got to his feet, his great ham fists hanging by his side. ‘The crucifix is ours, Father, it’s in the nave. The nave belongs to the people.’

Athelstan groaned. Watkin was right. The friar took a secret oath that never again would he expound on Canon Law for his parishioners: by ancient custom, the sanctuary belonged to the priest but the nave, and all it contained, was the property of the people.

‘I said take it out!’ Athelstan ordered again.

‘The cemetery’s ours.’ Pike spoke up. ‘God’s acre belongs to the people too. You did say that, Father.’

Athelstan just glared at him. He felt like taking the crucifix and putting it in the sanctuary but Watkin, despite his bulk, moved more speedily. He removed the crucifix from the wall and, lifting it up like a standard, solemnly processed out through the church porch and down the steps, the crowd following him.

‘Father, let them have their way,’ Benedicta declared. ‘Don’t act hastily.’

‘I’m sorry, I must be going.’ Alison extended her hand, offering a silver coin.

Athelstan shook his head. ‘I buried your brother as an act of charity,’ he replied.

The young woman stood on tiptoe and kissed Athelstan on both cheeks. ‘I’ll be staying at the Silver Lute until this business is finished.’ She smiled at Benedicta. ‘I will collect my things.’

Athelstan watched her go. ‘Shouldn’t you be with her?’ he asked.

‘I have a seamstress working at home,’ Benedicta replied. ‘She will let her in. What are you going to do about this, Father?’

‘What can I do, Benedicta? You know these people better than I do. The supernatural is as real to them as the sun, wind and rain. Demons stand round their sickbeds; demons slay the newborn child; they grimace in corners and lurk behind every tree.’ Athelstan rubbed his face. At night, if Watkin is to be believed, evil spirits rumble about his house; they bump on the roof and creak in the rafters. Devils howl in the wind, strike cattle down in the meadows, cause river banks to burst.’ He pointed to the parish coffin which stood in the transept. A brother told me how, at Blackfriars, a parishioner pulled a nail from a rotting coffin then drove it secretly into a bench. Whoever was the first to sit on that bench suffered the same disease from which the corpse in the coffin had died.’ He smiled thinly at Benedicta. ‘My point, Oh most faithful of parishioners, is that my people see devils and demons and evil all around them. It’s only natural they also see miracles and God’s intervention: angels swooping from heaven, relics which cure the most dreadful diseases and crucifixes which bleed.’

The door was suddenly flung open.

‘What in the devil’s fart is happening out there?’ Cranston swept into the church. ‘Brother Athelstan, have your noddlepates gone mad? They are setting a shrine up in the cemetery!’ Cranston took off his beaver hat and slapped it against his leg. ‘Those noddlepates,’ he continued ‘believe a crucifix is bleeding. They are building their own altar and are charging a penny for people to pray before it. They have got candles lit, they even tried to make me pay! I told them a kick up the arse was all they’d get from the King’s coroner!’ Cranston grinned at Benedicta, swept her into his arms and kissed her juicily on each cheek.

‘You are well, Sir John?’ she asked breathlessly.

‘Bloody awful.’ The coroner stamped his feet. ‘Come on, Athelstan, I need you. Leave your parishioners. They’ve got more maggots in their heads than mice in a hayrick.’

‘I should really stay,’ Athelstan replied.

‘Nonsense!’ Cranston bellowed. ‘Come on, Brother, let them have their run.’

‘Sir John speaks the truth, Brother,’ Benedicta added softly. ‘Go with him. I’ll tidy up the sanctuary and the house, then I’ll camp out in the cemetery.’

Athelstan closed his eyes to pray for guidance. He knew both Sir John and Benedicta were right. If he stayed, he’d only fret or interfere and Watkin was not only built like an ox, he was as stubborn as one.

‘Shall I take Philomel?’ he asked, opening his eyes.

‘No, forget your horse,’ Cranston replied. ‘I came by river. Moleskin’s waiting for us at the steps near Pissing Alley’

Athelstan followed Sir John out on to the porch and stared in disbelief across the cemetery. Watkin had moved quickly: in the far corner a calvary had been formed, a mound of earth and rocks. On the top was the crucifix with candles glowing beneath it. The word had also spread: people were thronging into the cemetery, paying their coins to Pike and Tab whilst Watkin and the ditcher’s wives strode up and down. They were both armed with ash cudgels and glared ferociously at anyone who dared approach their shrine without proper payment.