The Meadows of Murder, page 10
‘Yes, Father?’
‘Is there anything wrong? You are hiding it well, but I sense you are troubled. Anything you wish to tell me? I can ask Benedicta to leave?’
‘No, Father, I am hungry, I must hasten home.’
‘Then hasten, my friend.’
The boatman left. Athelstan glanced at Benedicta, who just shrugged as if she too had sensed something was wrong. Athelstan was about to ask her opinion when Moleskin returned, rapping on the door, asking Athelstan to see him. Benedicta offered to refill his cup but the boatman declined.
‘Father.’ He turned to his parish priest.
‘What, my friend. Tell me? In your own words and in your own way, but do tell me what’s wrong.’
‘The business at St Osyth’s, whatever that is. I know about the proclamations posted across the city. I have heard about the murder of the three fishmongers …’ His voice trailed away.
‘What about them, my friend? Come now, the candle burns and time slips away.’
‘Father, I must say,’ Moleskin stammered, ‘I mean, you and Sir John have a fearsome reputation. You will get to the truth of the matter sooner or later, you always do.’
‘God helps us, Moleskin. He uses good people like yourself to make that help available.’
Moleskin stared down at the floor. He then sighed and crossed himself.
‘Moleskin?’ the friar gently urged.
‘Father, the Castilian, the cook, the dancer, the singer? The one who was sorely abused.’ Moleskin sighed. ‘He fled Fishmongers’ Hall …’ Moleskin paused. Athelstan tried to remain impassive, lifting a finger to his lips that Benedicta remain silent.
‘Very well, Father,’ Moleskin continued, ‘I helped Massimo to escape that night.’
‘What?’
‘Oh yes, late that evening, Tuesday Shrove-time just over a year ago. Contrary to what others say, Massimo did not cross over the bridge but stumbled down to a sally port close to it. The boatmen, including myself, gather there. Massimo begged us for help. He was seriously wounded, cut and bruised, but it was clear he was a foreigner. He did have some coins, a bracelet and two rings. So desperate, he offered these as payment for passage to Southwark, as close as possible to the house of William the Weaver. My ears pricked up at that. I knew William, his wife Leonora and daughter Marisa.’
‘Did you take his goods?’
‘No, Father, I am – or at least try to be – an honest man. And of course, if I did, I might later be accused of plundering a dying man’s goods. No, I felt deeply sorry for him, so I placed him in my barge, then I and my company crossed to Southwark. We moored in a small inlet as close as possible to your parish.’
‘And then?’
‘My crew rested in the barge whilst I looked after the Castilian.’
‘He was sorely wounded?’
‘Yes, Father, very seriously. He gaspingly informed me of his name and then described what had happened. He spoke in short jerky sentences, but his command of English was quite good. I was shocked by what he said. He was blunt enough. He had been sodomised, beaten, and suffered deep wounds in both sides. I left him with my crew and hastened to William’s house. William was up. He was complaining even then about evil humours in his belly. I told him what had happened. William grabbed his cloak and followed me back to the barge. The Castilian was growing weaker. I think he used his last reserves of strength in securing passage across the Thames. He began to sink into that deadly last sleep. William bent over him like a priest shriving a dying man, and that was what Massimo truly was. I heard him speak. He begged to be taken to St Osyth’s Priory. Both William and I asked him why. He replied that was where he wanted to die. Again, I asked him why. He declared that he had a special devotion to St Osyth. By then he was sinking fast. He suffered delirium so we decided that it would be best if we crossed immediately to the priory, which we did. We berthed at one of the jetties. William declared that he would notify the abbess who was there in residence. William went and eventually returned with others.’
‘Who?’
‘Father it was dark, and the river mist was thick and clinging. All I saw were hooded figures in the light of dancing torches. These took Massimo ashore on a pallet.’ The boatman spread his hands. ‘And that was it.’ Moleskin blew his cheeks out. ‘I ordered my crew not to discuss or inform anyone about what had happened. The fishmongers are a very powerful guild. A good ally but a bad enemy.’
‘And did you return to St Osyth’s afterwards?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Two days later, I made a swift visit there. I didn’t go ashore, but I shouted at one of the priory labourers. Tallien, I think he is called. I asked him about the wounded man. Tallien replied that he was dead and would be buried very shortly. So, Father, I left it at that.’
‘Moleskin, you have been very helpful, and I thank you. Is there anything else?’
‘No, Father, except a warning.’
‘A warning? About what?’
‘The river is treacherous, and so are some souls who live along its banks, particularly as you get closer to the estuary. All kinds of two-legged demons prowl the darkness. None more dangerous than a man called Nightshade, self-styled captain of the Vigiles, the Watchers – river pirates who haunt the lonely inlets.’ Moleskin pulled a face. ‘Be careful with these. Sir John will know all about them, but what he probably doesn’t know is that St Osyth’s has become a very busy place.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Visited quite constantly by Castilian cogs. I have heard rumours about goods been landed and taken away.’
‘Smugglers?’
‘No, no, Father. From what I know, Castilians are not prepared to come so far just to evade custom dues. No, you must remember that the priory lies firmly in the hands of Lord Gaunt. So, it is more than just evasion of custom duties …’ Moleskin paused. ‘All kinds of fantastic theories are mentioned.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, Father, my Lord of Gaunt has, through one of his marriages, a claim on the Crown of Castile. The only person who knows the truth of the situation is Gaunt himself. No one else. At least for the time being. Now some people speculate that my Lord Gaunt is storing war supplies at St Osyth’s. If you study a sea chart, you can trace a line from London down through the Narrow Seas into the Great Ocean. Gaunt could, if he wanted, go like a well-aimed arrow straight into some Castilian port.’
‘True, true,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘Sir John often talks about this. Gaunt dreams about empire. A son of Edward III, deep in his heart, Gaunt even believes that he and the House of Lancaster should be kings here in England. Cranston keeps his opinions to himself though he shares them with me. He truly believes that one day Gaunt and his family will challenge our young King and matters will turn very bitter. I pray God it never happens.’
‘It may be true, Father,’ Moleskin replied, ‘but the doings of the great ones don’t concern me. I have told you all I can, now I must go. I will be here for poor William’s funeral. Once the Lord High Coroner has deigned to join us, we shall leave for the priory where you can see for yourselves.’
Moleskin left. Athelstan and Benedicta sat in silence for a while.
‘Strange,’ the widow women murmured, ‘I mean, what Moleskin told us about the seas. As you know, Father, my husband was, is’ – she waved a hand – ‘whatever, an excellent seaman, a most daring one. He often did business along the west coast of Ireland, where the Great Ocean hurls itself against the land. My husband often talked to the sailors there; men whose ancestors had tried to cross those seas in sturdy coracles. My husband claimed that the people of west Ireland truly believed that if you left from one of its ports and sailed due west, you would eventually come to a land flowing with milk and honey, as well as a lot more.’
‘Truly?’
‘Truly, Father, and – more to the point – seas stocked with shoals of fish so rich and plentiful they could easily be harvested from the waters.’
‘I have heard similar stores,’ Athelstan declared. ‘I also read a chronicle written about Brendan the Navigator who reportedly made incredible journeys across the Great Ocean.’
‘My husband,’ Benedicta declared, ‘also learned that the Irish living close to Galway reported how a powerful current brought into the bay the remains of strange sea boats, as well as the corpses of dark-skinned men, some still festooned with feathers, necklaces, bracelets and rings of pure coral.’ She paused. ‘Do you think, Father, that Lord Gaunt would be interested in sailing west?’
‘Well, if he was, he is going to face strong rivalry. Portugal has already started to probe possible routes across the Great Ocean. As you know, my Order, my brothers in Lisbon, are very powerful. They are reporting how there is fierce discussion both in the Royal Council and elsewhere about possible voyages to the west. However,’ Athelstan crossed himself, ‘if the truth be known, I don’t think Lord Gaunt is interested in such ventures. Bearing in mind his bitter quarrels with the Fishmongers’ Guild, I would hazard a guess that control of the fisheries would be more of interest to Gaunt than anything else. Ah well. Amen, Amen.’
‘Amen indeed, Father.’ Benedicta rose. ‘I have other business.’
‘Of course, Benedicta.’ The friar rose, and he and Benedicta exchanged the kiss of peace. The widow-woman was about to leave when she paused and turned.
‘Father, I will have to buy more clothes for the sanctuary enclave. Poor William often lacked control over his stomach and bowel; he lost a considerable amount of blood.’
‘Oh yes, I understand.’ Athelstan replied. ‘Buy what you have to, Benedicta. Mauger will ensure you are paid. Is there anything else?’
‘William had little on him, except a few coins and a pouch of what I later discovered to be an opium. I gave these to Leonora.’
‘Make sure all of William’s property is returned, and what has to be replaced, do so on the parish. Yes, yes,’ Athelstan replied absent-mindedly, ‘you are correct, Benedicta. Poor William now demands our attention.’
Athelstan reflected on his conversation with Benedicta as he sat in the canopied stern of Moleskin’s barge. He felt a little crushed. Sir John sat next to him, along with Flaxwith and two of his bailiffs. Athelstan quietly thanked the Lord that Flaxwith had not brought his mastiff, Samson, the ugliest dog in London. The beast adored Cranston and would have hurled himself at the coroner in joyful adulation. He was particularly glad the dog was not with them as the barge needed to keep steady. The Thames was running fast and strong and Moleskin and his crew had to battle the river’s sudden eddies and swirls.
At last, they reached the northern bank, before turning to tack downriver. Eventually they rounded a bend. Athelstan sighed in relief as Moleskin’s son Pitcairn, who acted as lookout in the prow, shouted that they were in sight of the priory. Athelstan, forgetting his previous nervousness and the warn-ings of Sir John, stood up to watch the barge thrust itself forward, aiming for one of the broad wooden jetties which jutted out from the land. There were two of these, and Athelstan recalled Moleskin’s assertion that even heavy cogs could berth there. The barge swiftly docked and its passengers safely disembarked. They made their way up the pebble dashed path, through the main gateway, before turning left into the prioress’s parlour where, much to everyone’s surprise, Master Thibault and his henchman Alfonso sat waiting. The Master of Secrets murmured something about the need for urgency. Cranston was tempted to ask him why, but then reflected that silence was probably the better choice.
Both Cranston and Athelstan nodded at Alfonso, who raised a gauntleted hand in greeting. The other two individuals who were sitting there introduced themselves. Sister Veronica, the infirmarian, was a haughty woman, who possessed a hard beauty like a clear blue sky on a freezing morning. She was garbed in a dark gown, hood and snow-white coif, which framed her beautiful cold face with its smooth alabaster skin. Athelstan noticed how the nun had rings on each finger of her left hand, a bracelet on her right wrist and a gold chain around her neck, which had a square medal inscribed with the phrase ‘Amor Vincit Omnia – Love Conquers All’. Sister Veronica, Athelstan reflected, was very much the imperious lady, with one foot in the religious life, the other planted firmly in the world of vanities. She caught Athelstan staring at her and smiled, her teeth as white as those of any noble lady. She moved languorously in an aura of sweet perfume. Chaplain John, Sister Veronica’s companion, was more soberly attired, though he too sported finger rings and a gold wrist clasp. His gown and cloak were of the purest wool, and his boots, like Sister Veronica’s sandals, fashioned out of the finest Cordovan leather. Athelstan, however, also noticed the grievous injury to the priest’s right wrist where the hand had been shorn clear off. The chaplain now wore a stump sheathed in the finest wool and leather.
Athelstan stared down at the floor as Cranston continued to proclaim, in a hearty voice, why he and his good friend had come to St Osyth’s. He demanded comfortable lodgings for himself and Athelstan, along with Flaxwith and his bailiffs. The coroner then began to list other arrangements. Athelstan stood nodding, as if he was in full agreement. In fact, he was reflecting on why Chaplain John was here at the priory. Athelstan abruptly recalled that, according to canon law, a deformed priest could not act as God intended. Consequently, Holy Mother Church, or so the lawyers argued, was not a hospital or a refuge for the diseased and deformed. Therefore, any priest who was grievously wounded or any applicant to the priesthood who was, in the words of the codex, ‘not fully formed’, could only exercise their ministry in some private residence or religious house. Athelstan was sure that this was the case here but, there again, he would wait for his opportunity to discover more.
The friar then glanced at Thibault. The Master of Secrets was dressed in dark blue velvet with snow-white bands at collar and cuff. Thibault was his usual charming, sardonic self. The Master of Secrets could, with his blond crimped hair, shaven face, soft blue eyes and innocent ways, be mistaken for some scholar in the schools. Athelstan knew this to be a total façade. A truly handsome man in his mid-thirties, Thibault was very treacherous and very dangerous, a perfect foil for his lord and patron, John of Gaunt. Alfonso, Thibault’s captain of mercenaries, was a sharp contrast to his master, with his sallow face, jet-black hair and hooded eyes. A Castilian mercenary, Alfonso continually apologised for his meagre grasp of the English tongue. Another lie, Athelstan reflected. The friar strongly suspected that Alfonso was as skilled in the English tongue as himself. Athelstan broke from his reverie as Cranston clutched him by the arm.
‘You agree, Brother?’ he demanded. ‘That we should question each person individually?’
‘I fully agree, Sir John. And, Master Thibault, with all due respect, we should begin with you, here and now.’
‘No, no,’ Thibault shook a beringed hand, ‘a more secure place. I believe the priory houses a most comfortable chancery room, yes?’
Cranston and Athelstan agreed. Sister Veronica led them out along a polished corridor, where the elmwood furnishings caught the light of the many candles burning in their small wall clasps. The chancery room was also well lit, warm and comfortable, its walls covered with brightly coloured diptychs celebrating the life of Scholastica, Saint Benedict’s sister. A fire burned lustily in the hearth and scented charcoal dishes perfumed the air with their trailing plumes of smoke. Cranston took the chair behind the chancery table, with Athelstan seated at one end and Master Thibault at the other.
‘Let us begin,’ Cranston declared. ‘Brother Athelstan, you have probably created a timeline of events here at St Osyth’s?’
‘I did so yesterday. Master Thibault, I would be grateful if you would listen carefully and agree or disagree with what I say. So,’ Athelstan drew a deep breath, ‘St Osyth’s Priory is an ancient foundation. It went into a great decline but then the Crown, in its wisdom, supported by the local bishop, granted the advowson to my Lord of Gaunt. Why?’
‘Because he asked for it,’ Thibault replied arrogantly. ‘You know full well, Brother Athelstan, that such grants to members of the royal family are common practice.’
‘I don’t deny that, Master Thibault, but why was this given to Lord Gaunt?’
‘He asked for it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he wanted a religious foundation which would pray for his soul and those of his family. Again, a common enough practice. He chose St Osyth’s,’ Thibault hurried on, ‘because the advowson lay vacant and because he could use it as a port. We were not too sure at the time but my Lord of Gaunt was delighted to discover that the priory also had a deep-water inlet.’
‘Why?’
‘So that my Lord of Gaunt could import whatever he wanted.’
‘Ah yes,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘St Osyth’s is not defined as a port or harbour but a private inlet. Accordingly, custom officials cannot interfere, even more so when that inlet is attached to a religious house. Customs men cannot even search the place, let alone impound goods or impose levies. My Lord of Gaunt must have been truly delighted.’
‘To be blunt, yes, Brother.’
‘Quite so, quite so,’ Cranston grunted, surprised by Athelstan’s knowledge about customs and excise. Athelstan, however, just smiled at Cranston, then winked.
‘You are very knowledgeable, Brother.’ Thibault gave voice to what Cranston was thinking.
‘Not really, Master Thibault. I do have two parishioners, Moleskin the Boatman and Joscelyn, the owner of The Piebald tavern. Both men know a great deal about harbour dues and the work of port reeves and others.’
‘So,’ Cranston declared, ‘St Osyth’s has a private inlet, through which my Lord of Gaunt could, and does, bring in goods for himself, his household, and of course for his garrison at the Tower.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Then if there’s nothing more, perhaps we can concentrate on the mysterious events here and elsewhere, Brother Athelstan?’
