Paul Doherty - The Assassin's riddle

‘They are not his to sell,’ Athelstan murmured as they walked on. ‘Oh, they are not thieves, Mistress Alison. As Sir John Cranston often remarks, it’s just that they find it difficult to tell the difference between their property and everyone else’s!’

As Alison and Athelstan threaded their way through the alleyways of Southwark, Thomas Napham, clerk of the Green Wax, was also hurrying home. Napham was highly anxious. He did not trust Alcest but he recognised that he was in great danger. That little friar whom they had mocked was as sharp as a razor, and someone was killing his colleagues, hinting that he knew what they were guilty of. Napham had given in to Alcest’s urging. He would leave the Chancery, collect a few belongings and make his way downriver to the Tower. He’d be safe there and, by all that was holy, he would never leave that narrow, well-guarded place until the assassin was caught. He paused in the entrance to his lodgings and peered through the gloom. Was someone there? A door opened further down the passageway; another tenant emerged, a journeyman apprenticed to a clothier in Cheapside.

‘Have you been here all day?’ Napham asked abruptly.

‘Why, yes, I have, working on my master’s accounts.’

‘Has anyone come here inquiring after me?’

‘Not that I know of but, there again, I am a journeyman not the doorkeeper!’

Napham unlocked the door to his chamber and pushed it open. He failed to see the scrap of parchment nailed to the wall above the door. Instead, he stopped and savoured the sweet smell from the herb pots placed around the room. ‘You have nothing to fear,’ he whispered.

The door had been locked. No one had forced an entry. Napham walked into the darkness. He took his tinder out and lit a candle on the table. The shutters on the window flapped in the evening breeze. Napham froze. The window had been shuttered before he left this morning! He lifted the candle up, but could see nothing disturbed. The shelf containing his books, the small coffers and pieces of parchment on the table beside his bed: everything was as he had left it. He walked across to pull the shutters open and allow in the light whilst he packed a few belongings. Napham’s foot caught something hard. There was a snap followed by the most excruciating pain. Napham screamed. The pain in his right foot shot up his leg like a sudden spurt of fire. He collapsed to the floor, and the lighted candle, as if it had a life of its own, rolled away from him. Instead of the flame going out it now burned greedily as it caught the dry rushes. Napham didn’t care. The pain in his foot was so intense! He pulled himself up and saw the great iron-toothed caltrop hidden amongst the rushes had bitten through his soft boot, gripping his foot. The blood now poured out like wine from a cracked jug.

Napham screamed, yelling for help. He turned round, his terror increasing as the flames raced along the rushes, catching the cloth of the bedstead. Sobbing and gasping, Napham tried to push himself towards the door. If he could only reach it, take himself and his pain beyond the fury of the growing fire. He pulled himself two, three paces but the agony was intense. He fell into a dead swoon even as the fire licked the dry cloths of the small four-poster bed and roared greedily towards the ceiling.

Athelstan sat in his kitchen. Even though the rays of the setting sun streamed in through the open shutters, the friar was cold with rage at what he had witnessed in the cemetery. Bonaventure, sitting on the table, studied his little master with his one good eye. The cat sat motionless as if he knew there was something wrong. Athelstan smiled and gently caressed the tangled remnants of Bonaventure’s damaged ear.

‘It’s not you, great cat,’ he murmured. ‘But you should have seen that great fool Watkin! He was striding up and down with a tin pot on his head, a basting spoon in his hand, guarding the gateway to the cemetery! And the others! Tab the tinker, Pike, Pernell, even Ranulf the rat-catcher, organising the visitors now streaming into St Erconwald’s to pray before their miraculous crucifix.’

Athelstan rose and paced up and down. Bonaventure solemnly followed. ‘It’s not right,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Crucifixes don’t bleed!’

He paused, the great tomcat almost crashing into his legs. There was something wrong. Watkin was bellicose, Pike and the rest were screeching about their rights. Athelstan could see the figure on the crucifix had been bleeding again, the blood glistening in the light of the many candles which had been placed beneath it.

Athelstan glanced down at the tomcat. ‘What happens if it wasn’t a miracle, Bonaventure, eh?’

The cat winked and yawned.

‘Exactly,’ Athelstan rejoined. ‘Miracles don’t happen in Southwark!’

‘They happened in Bethlehem!’

Athelstan whirled round. The tall, lean-visaged Dominican stood just within the door, hidden in the shadows.

‘Why, brother Niall!’

Father Prior’s lieutenant and messenger walked into the kitchen. He and Athelstan embraced each other and exchanged the kiss of peace. Athelstan stared at the pale face and green eyes under the shock of red hair.

‘Welcome to St Erconwald’s, Brother Niall. Pax tecum. ’

‘Et cum spirito tuo.’

‘Some wine, Brother?’

Athelstan’s visitor nodded. ‘And if you have some bread and cheese?’ he called out as Athelstan went into the buttery. ‘I decided to fast today but the journey exhausted me. The good Lord will understand.’

‘Man does not live by bread alone,’ Athelstan retorted.

‘That’s why I asked for the cheese as well,’ Niall quipped back.

Athelstan brought back food and drink for himself and his visitor as well as a pannikin of milk. Bonaventure, if not distracted, would only join in and take the food literally from his visitor’s mouth.

They sat down. Brother Niall took out a small knife, cut himself a piece of cheese and popped it into his mouth. He stared appreciatively around. ‘The house is clean and sweet-smelling, Athelstan. The bread and cheese are soft and fresh.’

Athelstan shrugged. ‘Nowhere in the Gospel does it say you have to be dirty to be saintly.’

Niall laughed, covering his half-open mouth with his hand. ‘You were always quick, Athelstan.’ His face became grave. ‘I’ve been in the cemetery. I’ve seen the crucifix.’

‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ Athelstan snapped back. ‘And don’t tell me you’re here on a pilgrimage!’

Niall shook his head. ‘How long have you been here, Brother?’

‘Almost three years.’

‘Athelstan, Athelstan.’ Niall shook his head. ‘You were one of the best scholars in the schools. Your love of mathematics and sciences were well known. And then…’

‘And then,’ Athelstan finished, ‘I wrecked it all three years before my final vows, by going off with my brother Francis to the wars.’

‘Why did you do it?’

‘My brother and I were always close.’ Athelstan half closed his eyes. ‘Two peas out of the same pod, Niall. Oh, he was a merry soul, his eyes and heart were full of joy. He could charm the birds out of the trees. He didn’t want to kill, he saw himself as a knight errant. He begged me to join him. Perhaps, for the last time in our lives before I became a Dominican, we’d share something together, come back laden with glory. So I went.’ Athelstan fought to keep his voice steady. ‘Francis was killed and I saw the glory of war: mangled corpses, widows and orphans. I committed a great sin before God and my parents. I broke their hearts and the rule of St Dominic. I returned to Blackfriars, took my vows and spent three years cleaning the latrines, kitchens and corridors.’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Niall interrupted. Athelstan was on the verge of tears.