Paul Doherty - Murder Most Holy

‘Brother Athelstan, he drinks too much,’ she murmured. ‘But it’s the burden of high office, his responsibility for the poppets and the terrible things he sees.’

Athelstan, who now felt a great deal more sober, smiled, rose and walked over. ‘He’s a good man, Lady Maude. He’s unique. There’s only one Cranston, thank God!’

‘Shouldn’t we move him?’ she asked.

Athelstan rubbed his eyes. ‘Lady Maude, he looks comfortable. Perhaps a bolster for his head and a thick rug, for the night may grow cold.’ He pointed to the chair. ‘I shall sleep there, for my sins.’ He patted Lady Maude on the shoulder. ‘Go to bed,’ he murmured. ‘Sir John will be safe.’

‘You are sure, Brother?’

‘He sleeps the sleep of the just, Lady Maude.’

‘Oh, Brother!’ She stepped back, her fingers going to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. The messenger returned from Oxford. He brought a package for Sir John.’

She scuttled out of the room to return with a small leather sack, bound and sealed at the top.

‘Sir John mentioned it,’ she added, handing it to Athelstan. ‘He said you would be waiting for the messenger’s return.’

Athelstan broke the seal on the neck of the sack and Lady Maude, chattering as if Cranston was fully alert, made her husband comfortable for the night.

‘There, there, my sweet!’ she crooned. ‘Yes, yes, the fur-lined cloak. And your boots off.’

Athelstan looked up. Lady Maude was muttering terms of endearment she would never use to Sir John’s face. Suddenly, although he wanted to leaf through the book he now held in his hand, he felt sad and rather lonely as he watched her flutter like some butterfly around her somnolent husband. He recalled the words of Brother Paul: ‘Love is strange, Athelstan, and takes many forms. Sometimes it freezes us, other times it burns. But never be without it for there is a pain worse than love’s and that is the dreadful loneliness when it is gone.’ Athelstan thought of Benedicta and knew in his heart that the deep friendship between Lady Maude and Cranston was what he hungered for; to be touched, fussed and cared for.

‘Are you all right, Brother?’

‘Of course.’

Athelstan turned away, walking back to the fire, carefully studying the faded leather binding of the book. He looked at the small piece of parchment tucked inside its leaves bearing greetings from a fellow Dominican in the faculty of theology at Oxford. Then he sat down and carefully leafed through the book, identical to the one he and Cranston had seen at Black-friars. He turned yellow, crackling pages carefully until he reached one that had been missing from the first copy. His colleague in Oxford had found Hildegarde. Athelstan felt a cold chill run through him.

‘Brother?’

‘Yes, Lady Maude?’

‘You look as if you have seen a ghost?’

‘No, Lady Maude, I have just seen the face of a murderer!’

Athelstan was rudely awakened the following morning by Cranston who squatted before his chair, grinning like some demon from one of Huddle’s paintings. The coroner looked as fresh as a daisy.

‘Arouse yourself, Brother.’

Cranston stood and stretched until the muscles in his great fat body cracked.

‘You slept well, Sir John?’

‘Of course, Brother. A hard bed is the best bed as I used to tell my master, the Black Prince, when we campaigned in France.’

Athelstan pushed aside the blanket Lady Maude had draped over him the previous evening. He felt slightly cold, cramped, and his mouth was filled with the bitter-sweet tang of the wine he had so merrily drunk.

‘The book!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘Where’s the book?’

Cranston pointed to the table. ‘Don’t worry, Brother, it’s safe.’

Athelstan looked suspiciously at the coroner. ‘Sir John, you are washed and shaved!’

Indeed, Cranston looked resplendent in a white cambric shirt, open at the neck, and doublet and hose of dark mulberry interwoven with silver thread. The coroner even had his boots on and Athelstan glimpsed a cloak and sword belt laid ready across the table.

‘Aye, Brother, I am ready for the day. A warm bath, a sharp razor, a fresh set of clothes and a kiss from Lady Maude, and I’d go down to hell itself!’

‘You read the book?’

‘Of course, Brother, and I’m looking forward to arresting that evil bastard!’

‘Sir John, your language!’ Lady Maude swept into the kitchen, behind her the wet nurse with the two poppets who, like their father, were now fully awake and screaming for refreshment.

Cranston bowed. ‘My Lady, my most humble apologies.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘I can’t stand buggers who swear!’

Lady Maude’s shrill exclamations were abruptly stilled as Cranston strode across the kitchen, picked her up as though she was a little doll and kissed her on the lips.

‘Oh, Sir John!’ she whispered breathlessly.

Athelstan stood and glanced at her. He wondered if Sir John had given her more than a kiss since he awoke refreshed like some Adonis. Cranston seized the two poppets, juggling each of them in an arm as he bellowed with delight at them. The fury of the two boys at being so abruptly snatched from their wet nurse and tossed up and down knew no bounds. They both roared until the tears streamed down their little red faces.

‘Enough is enough!’ Lady Maude snatched one baby, the wet nurse the other, and the two women fled from the kitchen, vowing not to return until Sir John had learned how to behave himself.

Cranston seemed to have the very devil in him. He insisted on shaving Athelstan himself, roaring at the maid to bring a bowl of warm water and napkins. Then a servant was despatched to the nearest cookshop for fresh pies whilst Cranston poured what Athelstan suspected was not his first cup of claret for the day. Leif the beggar followed the servant back in, drooling at the savoury smell of the meat under its freshly baked crust.

‘Bugger off, you idle sod!’ Cranston roared.

‘Thank you, Sir John.’

Leif, who knew Cranston’s ways, sat down and patiently waited for the coroner to serve him. Sir John promptly did so, whilst giving him a pithy sermon on plucking the food from the mouths of poor priests. Athelstan, still half-asleep, sipped some watered ale and managed to eat a small portion before Cranston and Leif devoured the rest of the pies between them.

‘We should go, Sir John.’

‘True, true.’ The coroner rose, grabbing his cloak and sword belt. ‘You will bring the book, Brother?’ Cranston stood, head slightly cocked. He could still hear the faint roars of his two poppets. ‘I should bid farewell to my Lady Maude but, on second thoughts,’ he murmured, ‘let sleeping dogs lie. Or, in this case, sweet poppets roar! Leif, you idle bugger, tell Lady Maude that we’ve gone to Blackfriars. We will not be long. Oh, and by the way. .’

‘Yes, Sir John?’ Leif replied, his mouth still full of pastry and meat.

‘. . leave my bloody claret alone!’

‘Of course, Sir John.’

Athelstan followed Cranston out of the kitchen even as Leif winked at him and prepared to fill another cup. The coroner collected the miraculous wineskin from a timid servant girl standing near the door. Cranston looked at her sternly.

‘Don’t tell Lady Maude.’

‘No, Sir John.’

‘You see, Athelstan,’ Cranston whispered, ‘I have two wineskins, both identical. One I leave in the buttery so Lady Maude thinks I am dry and the other I always take with me.’ He shook his head. ‘Lady Maude is an angel but she doesn’t understand the need for refreshment.’

Athelstan closed his eyes and muttered a prayer. ‘Lord save us,’ he murmured. ‘It’s going to be one of those days!’