Stone of Destiny, page 14
Ursula the pig woman, along with Remart the relic seller, stood shivering, their cloaks pulled fast about them. Athelstan, hiding his exasperation, invited both of them in, including Ursula’s sow. The grossly overweight pig, ears flapping, flanks billowing out like bellows, trotted in and immediately sank down in front of the fire. Bonaventure, who regarded such a place as his birthright, rose, stretched disdainfully, and walked away with as much dignity as a cat could muster. Hubert the hedgehog, however, nestling in the inglenook, simply rolled himself into a threatening ball. Athelstan took some comfort in the fact that the sow was probably better off in his kitchen than rooting up the friar’s precious vegetable plot.
For a while there was confusion as Athelstan offered and served bowls of steaming oatmeal laced with nutmeg, together with fairly fresh bread, butter, honey and jugs of The Piebald’s morning ale. Both guests made themselves very comfortable. Athelstan delivered a blessing and his guests ate hungrily. Athelstan watched them curiously. Like so many in his parish, Athelstan knew very little about their past, upbringing or work. Ursula had a wizened, doughy, plump face, her deep-set eyes like small black holes in the snow, her nose more of a snout, whilst her lips, as usual, were clumsily carmined. Ursula lived in a tenement along an alleyway off the main thoroughfare to the bridge. She did not work, being too old and frail, but depended on the alms and generosity of the likes of Benedicta and others in the parish. Ursula was eccentric, the source of a great deal of laughter. Parishioners still talked of her clash with Joscelyn at The Piebald over the price of certain kitchenware she had sold the taverner late that summer. Ursula, so Athelstan understood, had lived in the parish for decades; she was regarded as one of its ancients, having a wealth of knowledge about the past. Athelstan was determined to talk to her about the parish, its history, and some of the strange characters it housed.
Remart, on the other hand, was different. He was a newcomer who created a great deal of amusement over his claims about the relics he kept locked away in his long wheelbarrow. Remart had a pale, pock-scarred face, and lank grey hair bound in a queue behind his head. From the little Athelstan could recall, the relic seller originally hailed from the mid-shires. He had been a novice in the Dominican order until he found he had no vocation. He had arrived in St Erconwald’s and settled down as a relic seller, being given every support and lodged in the death house. Athelstan had agreed to this at the behest of Prior Anselm at Blackfriars. In the end, Remart had proved to be a good parishioner. Athelstan had employed him as keeper and surveyor of God’s Acre. Lodged in the old death house, Remart had been given his task, to keep a sharp and wary eye on God’s Acre, a place beloved by the legion of wandering witches and warlocks of Southwark. Athelstan stared at the slightly hunched-back relic seller and idly wondered what the future might hold for him.
‘Father?’ Ursula tapped the table with her horn spoon. ‘I have been waiting, we have been wanting to speak to you.’
‘I am sorry, I am sorry.’ Athelstan held up his hands. ‘I know you were looking for me but other business presses hard.’
‘It’s that other business,’ Ursula intervened sharply. ‘We all know what happened at The Piebald. We have also learnt about how Sir John is pursuing that dreadful demon, the Flayer. How Sir John has even hired the mercenary Paltoc in his hunt.’ Ursula paused, fingers fluttering to her lips, her fat face abruptly falling slack.
‘What, Mother?’
‘Nothing, Father, just something I saw in God’s Acre, but I have forgotten it now. My humours are not as sharp as they used to be.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Athelstan patted the old woman on the hand. ‘Ursula, my friend, I often lose my thoughts.’
‘Thank you, Father, which brings me back to what I came to see you about.’ She turned to Remart. ‘Shall I tell him?’
‘Please do.’ The relic seller’s voice was almost a whisper; he blinked watery eyes and stared beseechingly at Athelstan. ‘Ursula and I have become good friends. We wander God’s Acre to ensure all is well, but so does Paltoc. He searches amongst the dead. He seeks out ancient graves.’
‘You know he’s trying to discover where his parents and brother lie buried?’
‘Yes, yes, he told us the same,’ Remart replied. ‘But you know he’s disturbing the ground. He claims his family were not buried in shrouds but proper coffin caskets, so the sharp rod he uses can pierce the soil to tell him what lies beneath.’
‘But he has also been hired to hunt the Flayer,’ Ursula added crossly. She then rose abruptly as the great sow stirred. Ursula knelt and stroked the pig along its ridged back, soothing it as she would a child. Athelstan caught Remart’s glance, smiled and raised his eyes heavenwards. Ursula retook her seat, tapping her fingers against the tabletop. ‘There is also something else, Father.’ She rubbed the side of her head. ‘I remembered this. My past can be sealed, its iron-bound doors firmly locked. Anyway, that’s what I tell Hilda.’ She pointed at the sleeping sow. ‘But, since Remart and I became friends, this Flayer business, memories have come floating back.’
‘Tell him,’ the relic seller insisted, wiping a dripping nose on the sleeve of his jerkin. ‘Tell him now.’
‘This talk of the Flayer stirred the past,’ Ursula declared. ‘Well, at least my past. Things I’d thought I had forgotten, I find I have not. Father, many years ago St Erconwald’s was not the parish it is today. It was a dark, sinister place, the church and its benefice were gripped by a pastor who was more wolf than shepherd. Oh yes. Little wonder, Father, the warlocks and wizards still come back. There was a time when you could see their fires blazing at night and they would bring the remains of hanged men to lonely parts of God’s Acre, if you could call it that, so they could indulge in their filthy practices. If the priest was malignant, the same could be said of some of his parishioners. Anyway, there was a corpse-dresser, Adele Puddlicot if I remember correctly.’
‘Puddlicot, you are sure?’
‘Yes, Father, I am, and yes, Father, I have heard rumours about that name. A gang leader, a chieftain amongst the rifflers, a roaring boy, but that’s all. Adele dressed corpses here at St Erconwald’s.’
‘What year was that?’
‘The season of the wolf,’ Ursula retorted. ‘The time of perpetual winter.’
‘Ursula, that means nothing to me.’
‘During the time of the Great Plague, when buboes appeared on the neck and groin. A deadly pestilence raged. People sweated to death. Corpses were piled to a man’s height. Funeral pyres roared at the dead of night.’
‘Ursula?’
‘The Black Death,’ she whispered, ‘as the chroniclers described it. A time of swift, savage infection.’ Ursula chomped on her toothless gums and wiped away a drip of saliva. ‘A time of terror,’ she continued, ‘we thought it was the day of anger, the end of the world and the rise of the Anti-Christ. Corpses were left unburied. Anyway, this Adele Puddlicot, she was a witch. She loved to skin corpses, the pathetic mortal remains of someone who was never cared for in life, let alone death. She would collect cadavers in her barrow and take them to the cellar of a tenement in Weasel Lane. Do you know it, Father?’
‘As a reeking, evil-looking runnel.’
‘Oh yes, Father, that’s the place. The Great Pestilence raged on.’ She sniffed. ‘Corpses lay piled high. No one really cared. However, stories, rumours began to swill through the parish, but you must remember, Father, law and order had collapsed. There was no Jack Cranston, no Brother Athelstan, souls like Adele were common enough, wolves incarnate. Of course, time passed. Hell had its day and the plague began to peter out. Life grew better. People began to look around to try and repair what was damaged and replace what was lost. Now you may not know this, Father, but St Erconwald’s is a very ancient church. It lies outside and beyond the authority of the city. The parish enjoys certain rites, privileges and liberties. One of these is to empanel a jury to listen to a bill of indictment and reach a judgement. The jury elects its own leader, a judge who would sit in the church porch where people come to present a petition.’
‘I have heard of this,’ Athelstan intervened.
‘Father, it was a liberty few people invoked because it lay in the hands of the priest and, believe me, Father, most of those should have been indicted.’ She smiled, her fat face creasing. ‘Of course, since you arrived, Father, what’s the use? Moreover, if things go wrong, we have always got Fat Jack to protect us.’ Her face grew solemn. ‘It wasn’t always like that, oh no.’ Again, she sucked on her gums. ‘In those hurling days when the Great Pestilence was dying out and law and order were being imposed, such a jury was convoked. Bills of indictment were drawn up and, from what I recall, a number of these levelled the most horrendous accusations against Adele Puddlicot.’
‘And?’
‘I am not too sure. You see, Father, Adele just disappeared.’
‘How?’
‘Rumour has it that the grand jury sat in the dead of night after darkness had fallen. Adele was seized and dragged for trial before it.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘According to rumour, Adele was buried alive in St Erconwald’s graveyard. She was wrapped in a filthy sheepskin and interred beneath the cemetery’s oldest yew tree – planted, or so they say, more than a hundred years ago.’ Athelstan repressed a shiver. St Erconwald’s, before he was despatched to this parish, had gained a fearsome, even sinister reputation. A house of malignant ghosts and malevolent spirits, they claimed, the haunt of sorcerers and spell-binders, the home of night people and dark-dwellers. Athelstan lifted his head and stared at his two visitors, pathetic souls who floated aimlessly along the river of life. They were rejected and despised by those who should know better, dismissed as petty, of no real importance or value whatsoever. He briefly closed his eyes and crossed himself. He was guilty of the same. He opened his eyes and smiled at his guests.
‘Are these just parish tales?’
‘I used to think so, Father, until I heard those stories about the Flayer now prowling the city. Frightening stories, so I went out to the ancient yew tree. Father, someone has been there. They have sacrificed God knows what. A black cockerel at the midnight hour?’
Athelstan flinched at the cold dread which seemed to caress him, ghostly hands plucking at his peace of mind. He got slowly to his feet. ‘I must,’ he stammered, ‘I must see this, even though I detest even the signs of such sacrifice. Ursula, how did you discover this?’
‘I wander the cemetery,’ Ursula eased herself up, ‘I’ve seen Paltoc poking the ground and, of course, Remart …’
‘I said she must tell you …’ the relic seller intervened.
‘I only discovered it by accident.’ Ursula gestured at the great sow. ‘As you know, Father, Hilda loves to forage. So, on this occasion she went under the branches and began to snout and tear at the ground.’
‘I must see this.’
Athelstan put on his heavy sandals, throwing his cloak about him. He grabbed the lighted lanternhorn, then ushered his visitors, including Hilda, out of the priest’s house and across the darkening God’s Acre. Ursula led the way, swinging the gnarled staff she always carried. Athelstan swiftly gazed around this memorial to the dead, truly desolate on this winter afternoon. A forbidding place! Stark plinths, battered crosses and crumbling memorial stones broke the sea of gorse, grass and bramble, which swayed backwards and forwards under a harsh bitter breeze. Athelstan realized they were going to the northern part of God’s Acre, beyond Poor Man’s Lot, reserved for the burial of strangers and others. They pushed through the gorse and into a stretch of land dominated by ancient yew trees, their trunks almost hidden by their own branches, which curved down to form a thick curtain around them. Ursula went into one of these, its branches pulled apart. Athelstan, carrying his lanternhorn, followed into what was a circular chamber created by the branches which, over the years, had stretched out, curved down then entwined. Athelstan sniffed and pinched his nostrils. The place had the reek of the slaughterhouse, that iron-like tang of dried blood. Some gathering had taken place here. The ground in the centre had been cleared for a fire, was still littered with charred embers; the soil beneath these was loose and damp. Athelstan murmured a prayer and crossed himself. Angry by what he’d seen, the remains of some macabre, midnight ceremony, the friar walked back to his house. Here he thanked Ursula and Remart, wished them a pleasant evening, then washed his hands and face. Benedicta arrived to see if all was well and he asked her to summon Watkin and Pike and others to meet him, adding that they were to bring their spades, mattocks and lanterns with them. A short while later, Athelstan met his leading male parishioners by the church steps. He ignored their questions and led them out across the cemetery to the ancient yew tree.
‘Please,’ he asked, ‘go in there. You will find the remains of a fire. Ignore that and anything else. Just dig.’
‘For what?’ Pike demanded crossly.
‘You will know when you find it. Once you do, send for me.’
Within the hour, Watkin returned, shaking his head as he met Athelstan at the priest’s house.
‘No, Father, I won’t speak. It’s best if you see for yourself. It’s a skeleton, a woman’s, we think. Come, Father.’
Athelstan, holding his lantern, followed the dung collector back across God’s Acre to the ancient yew tree, where the others stood clustered around what they had discovered. Athelstan crouched down, wrinkling his nose at the foul smell from the rotten sheet which covered the skeleton.
‘It’s sheepskin,’ Benedicta murmured. ‘A rotting sheepskin, Father. I think the skeleton is a woman. Notice the long, white wispy hair. She was buried alive, I am sure.’
Athelstan nodded. The skeleton was twisted grotesquely, a truly gruesome sight. The skull was still attached, with long tendrils of dirt-encrusted hair. The arms and legs were contorted. What caught Athelstan’s attention, and proved the manner of death, was the rotting leather gag pushed between the jaws and tied with hempen cord at the back of the skull.
‘There’s no trace of any clothing,’ Benedicta added. ‘No jewellery or ornament.’
Athelstan whispered his agreement and continued his study. The skeleton was grey and brittle, its twisted limbs indicative of a hideous death, slowly suffocating in that sheepskin buried deep in the soil. The heavy gag was used to mute all protests and cries whilst the soiled sheepskin was a well-known method for abusing or mocking a corpse. Athelstan could only guess what had happened here so many years ago. The grand jury of St Erconwald’s, and Athelstan was determined to remember that privilege, had tried Adele Puddlicot, probably in secret at the dead of night. They had judged her guilty of heinous cruelty and condemned her to a living death: that should have been the gruesome end to a very grisly story.
‘But it wasn’t,’ Athelstan exclaimed to himself.
‘Father?’
Athelstan startled from his reverie, smiled at Benedicta. ‘One question,’ Athelstan declared, ‘who knew about this? Ursula certainly did. Anyone else? Well?’
Watkin and Pike shuffled forward. ‘We heard rumours,’ the ditcher confessed, ‘parish gossip, tittle-tattle but …’ Pike fell silent.
‘I heard the same,’ a voice declared and Paltoc, pushing at the branches, came into the clearing. ‘Rumours,’ he murmured staring down at the skeleton, ‘stories, tales.’ The mercenary pulled back his hood. Athelstan stared at the pale, unshaven face. Paltoc certainly looked agitated.
‘You have not discovered your family grave?’
‘Oh, Father, I know the area but not the precise plot. I asked Ursula to help. Although she could remember the funerals, she could not recall where the graves lay.’ Paltoc seemed distracted.
‘You buried what I gave you?’
‘Yes, yes, Father, where you told me, in the hummock of earth over Godbless’s grave.’
‘God rest him too,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘And have you discovered anything about the Flayer?’
‘No, no, not really.’ Paltoc was now openly evasive. The mercenary turned and walked back into the cemetery. Athelstan let him go now, busying himself. Watkin, Pike and the rest were to carry their grim findings to the death house whilst Benedicta and Crim agreed to take messages to Cranston. Athelstan returned to his house and the problems which now truly taxed him.
The next morning Athelstan celebrated his Mass, recited the Divine Office and tended to parish business when he had to, including the burial in the Poor Man’s Lot of that hideous find beneath the yew tree. Athelstan scrutinized the parish records for any trace or mention of Adele Puddlicot, but this proved to be a fruitless task. The Great Plague years had brought an end to all parish business, a situation not helped by the devil-may-care attitude of the priest at the time. Cranston received his message and sent a reply that he too could find no reference to Adele Puddlicot. The coroner offered to visit Athelstan but the friar declined, saying it was best to wait for further developments.
Prior Sinclair asked to see him, a fleeting meeting in which the prior thanked Athelstan for his help and support. He reassured the friar that despite the mysterious murders of Halpen and Mildew, he’d amassed a great deal of information for his chronicle. He also informed Athelstan that Sylvester the sacristan would be accompanying him back to Melrose to attend a very important chapter meeting. Athelstan heard him out and then expressed his own deep regret about not resolving the murders at Westminster. Sinclair reassured him that the Blackrobes knew Sir John was doing everything in his power, adding that the deaths of the four Scottish Benedictines weighed heavily on the community. However, they still hoped Sir John and Athelstan would make some progress before the delegation departed for Edinburgh.
Athelstan watched the prior leave, going down through God’s Acre, and the friar repressed a slight thrill of excitement. He closed the door and went back to his broad kitchen table where Bonaventure was waiting, all solemn and attentive.
‘My dear, dear friend,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘if I have one fault amongst many, it is that I fail to see the obvious, in this case the very obvious! Prior Sinclair made me realize that. He is correct. The mysteries of Westminster are tightly woven together but not, as I first thought, by mere chance. All the murder victims are Scottish. Secondly, they define themselves as Guardians of the Stone. Thirdly, at the same time these dreadful murders are being perpetrated, we have a Scottish delegation visiting Westminster. Its leader, Sinclair, has a deep interest in the doings of my parish. Fourthly, the massive Scottish war cog The Bannockburn is not berthed at Queenhithe or Dowgate but here in Southwark. No, no,’ Athelstan breathed, ‘there’s more to all this. I am dealing with the strands, separate strands. However, in truth, a very clever web of intrigue has been woven. So, what is the purpose of all this, eh Bonaventure? We shall see.’
