Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘Did Sir Walter know Rievaulx’s birth name?’ Athelstan tried to hide his growing excitement. The line of logic he had been developing before the arrival of Sir John and Nicephorus was beginning to strengthen. ‘Rievaulx’ could finally clear the way forward.

‘No, he did not.’ Nicephorus chose his words carefully. ‘However, a year ago Beaumont believed this Rievaulx had emerged to threaten him.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Athelstan couldn’t hide his excitement.

‘Brother?’ Cranston looked askance at him.

‘Think, Sir John.’ Athelstan tried to divert his own secret joy at making progress. ‘A year ago Beaumont was being threatened. “As I and ours burnt, so shall ye and yours”!’

‘He told us the same,’ Nicephorus agreed. ‘The warnings were public. Rievaulx was hunting him.’

‘So,’ Cranston shook his head, ‘Beaumont needed you to rid him of a wife he no longer wanted, a priest who reminded him of his dark, sinister past and a former member of his company who had now emerged from the shadows. I can see why he chose you. No, do not take offence,’ he held up a hand, ‘Beaumont would be most reluctant to hire some London assassin who might later confess or blackmail him. He therefore chose someone who needed something precious from him, as well as one who would not be a constant reminder, an ever-present threat to his peace of mind. So,’ he raised his eyebrows, ‘what was your response?’

‘Sir John, we realize why he chose us but I am the accredited envoy of His Most Imperial Excellency.’ For a few heartbeats Nicephorus’ tactful demeanour faded. ‘We will kill and we have killed but we are not assassins. For the love of the Holy Face, Beaumont was demanding the murder of an innocent, high-born lady whatever her character, a priest much loved by the commons and a former member of his company whom we desperately wanted to talk to. Naturally we couldn’t tell that to Beaumont.’

‘So you temporized?’

‘Yes, Brother, we temporized. We promised to find Rievaulx. We never did. Naturally we continued to meet Beaumont, assuring him we were trying our very best.’

‘Did you inform Lady Isolda about what her husband wanted or Parson Garman that his former leader wanted him dead?’

‘Of course not.’ Nicephorus got to his feet. ‘The anger of God caught up with Black Beaumont. Oh, we met the Lady Isolda. Trust me, Brother, I’ve learnt what happened at Firecrest Manor – your discovery of Vanner’s corpse and your conviction that Lady Isolda was a murderess; she and Sir Walter richly deserved each other. As for Garman, there is nothing more dangerous than a former sinner who has found religion. He has his own secret cause and even a king’s ransom would not turn him.’ He paused. ‘I have told you what I know because one day I am sure you will discover the truth of all this. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you enjoy a most formidable reputation. What I ask is a favour but, when you discover the truth, as an act of kindness, inform me, someone who also did his best to help you.’

‘We shall.’ Athelstan spoke before Cranston could intervene.

‘Very well, until then.’ Nicephorus clasped hands with both of them and left.

‘And I must go too.’ Cranston lurched to his feet. He strapped on his warbelt, put on his beaver hat, swung his cloak about him and grasped Athelstan by the shoulder, pulling him close.

‘The hunt has begun, hasn’t it, little friar? You, the human ferret, are in full pursuit of your quarry.’

‘Yes, I am racing down dark and twisting tunnels in search of our killer. In the meantime, I will deal with miracles.’

‘I do wonder about that,’ Cranston replied. He pulled the friar closer and hugged him. ‘Little friar,’ he whispered, ‘I am nurturing my own deep suspicions about what is happening in your parish but I leave that to you. On this we are divided.’ He released Athelstan and stepped back. ‘You, my friend, must look after your flock, and God knows they need looking after. I am the King’s officer – sometimes you must walk your path and I walk mine.’ Cranston put his hand on the latch. ‘My friend, I think we have just reached such a crossroads.’

Athelstan grinned, raised his hand in blessing and stood in the doorway watching Cranston stomp off towards London Bridge. The friar stared across at the concourse before his parish church. Men-at-arms and mounted hobelars, their scarlet and blue tabards proclaiming the royal arms, now mingled with the visitors and pilgrims. Their arrival was a logical result of the previous night’s attack on the barges. A fruitless task. The Upright Men would have long disappeared, separated and merged back into their villages, farms, hamlets or, as here, their wards and parishes. Moreover, the soldiers would have to be most careful. Any overbearing search or scrutiny might provoke a riot.

Athelstan wondered when the miscreants from his own flock would appear. Until then he would pursue the hypothesis he had begun to develop before his visitors arrived. Nicephorus’ information had been most useful but most of it would have to wait for a while. The question of Rievaulx wouldn’t. Athelstan collected his cloak, left the house and hurried into the church. The throng of visitors had thinned. The only parishioners were Crim, Benedicta, Imelda and other women. Athelstan raised his hand in greeting but hurried on up the nave into the chantry chapel. Once there he paused, collecting his thoughts and trying to recall the sequence of events. On the night of the great miracle, Fulchard of Richmond had hobbled into the church, a crutch resting under his right arm. He was cloaked and hooded; he may have had a visor over his face. He lay down and was cured so he did not need the crutch. Pilgrims whose prayers were answered at a shrine, be it a cure or any other type of healing, would leave some token of appreciation: a stick, a cane or, as in this case, a crutch to be hung over the saint’s shrine. ‘Right,’ Athelstan whispered to himself, ‘I will begin with that.’ He went into the chapel and he pushed his way through the worshippers, explaining he needed to clean the crutch. He grasped this, smiled benevolently at everyone and hurried back to his house. Once inside he pulled back his cloak and pushed the crutch under his right armpit. At first he thought the discomfort and unsteadiness were due to him being shorter than Fulchard whilst the crutch, being even-sided, could be used either way. Mystified, he laid the crutch on the floor, examining it carefully, and realized the crutch had been specially fashioned to be used only on the right side of the body. The cushioned rest was slightly angled to accommodate this; the hand clasp further down faced the outside whilst the very thick leather toe, stiffened to hardness, was worn away by the angle of how the crutch rested against the ground. Athelstan turned it over time and again – he could hardly believe his eyes. Then he lifted it up, trying it under his left armpit and then his right. Once finished, he put it across the table and sat down face in his hands. ‘You stupid, stupid, stupid friar,’ he whispered. ‘You pride yourself on your sharp eyes and perception, yet you can’t distinguish your left from your right.’ He took his hands away from his face. ‘Very well, my beloveds. You now have my full attention.’

Athelstan stood at the top of the long common table in the taproom of the Piebald tavern. He stared at the men grouped either side – Joscelyn, Watkin, Pike, Merrylegs, Ranulf, Giles of Sempringham also known as the Hangman of Rochester, Fulchard of Richmond, Fitzosbert and all the other members of the canting merry crew. Parson Garman had also joined them, summoned by Athelstan, ‘on a matter of life or the cruellest death’. Night had fallen. Curfew lamps glowed in church steeples, for darkness had wrapped everything in its shroud. The parish church had been closed. Athelstan had insisted that all approaches to the Piebald be strictly guarded. Everything was now ready. Joscelyn had served the ale and fired the torches and candles as well as the corner braziers. All doors and windows were firmly bolted. The assembled men, now cleansed of their masks, painted faces and other disguises used in the previous night’s assault, did not know where to look – at Fulchard, Athelstan or that crutch lying down the centre of the table. Athelstan dramatically intoned the ‘Gloria’, blessed them and sat down.