Stone of Destiny, page 18
The friar stood for a while, staring up at the sky, wondering why the stars seemed so distant on a night like this. He remembered the books he had studied at Blackfriars. Search as he could, he never truly discovered a satisfying explanation of why on one night stars would seem so distant and on others hang so very low. The cold breeze startled him from his star-gazing. He went back into the church, lifted the lanternhorn and, as he did so, glimpsed one of the hangman’s miniature paintings. The lantern light brought it to life. The picture was a satire on court life, where the nobles were depicted as beasts clothed in fine raiment. One figure in particular caught his attention, and he smiled as he recalled Barak’s corpse, as well as what he’d seen in different fairs and mummers shows. The monkey the hangman had painted was clothed in coat and cap with bells around his wrists and ankles. Athelstan stood for a while then started as Bonaventure slipped through the door and padded softly towards him. Athelstan raised the lantern and watched the cat’s shadow, greatly enhanced, dance against the wall. The friar stood transfixed. He moved the pool of lantern light closer. Bonaventure thought this was a game and darted backwards and forwards. ‘I wonder,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘I truly do.’ He went out on to the path, picked up some pebbles and returned, watching Bonaventure. The cat, now bored, sloped off into the darkness on his silent hunt for vermin. Athelstan waited for him to go then, lifting the lanternhorn, threw the pebbles hard across the transept to bounce against the wall. Bonaventure immediately returned, swift and sure, twisting and turning as he tried to search out the cause of the disturbance. Athelstan threw more pebbles and watched Bonaventure’s elongated shadow dart and dance against the flickering, shifting light.
‘And so it is, God be thanked,’ Athelstan prayed, ‘and so it was. Thank you, Bonaventure, for making me a wiser fool.’
After finishing his Mass early next morning, Athelstan studiously ignored his parishioners who had flocked into church all agog with the news about Paltoc’s murder. Instead of meeting Watkin and the council, the friar returned to his house, locked himself in, broke his fast and began his studies. He followed the same method he had when analysing the deaths of Halpen and Mildew at The Piebald. He took a square of parchment and drew a crude map of his church, marking all the entrances. ‘Now,’ Athelstan murmured to himself, ‘all the entrances were locked from within. Paltoc must have made sure of that, so how was he murdered and why?’ He returned to the church and went through the corpse door, which he kept opened as he studied its ancient woodwork and the ground around it. Going down on his hands and knees, as if creeping to the cross, Athelstan slowly crawled, searching for any bloodstains, on the paving stones, or the wood of the door. He could detect none. Shaking his head in disbelief, Athelstan got to his feet and returned to his house. Benedicta arrived, carrying a coffer or chest containing what she called ‘poor Ursula’s earthly possessions’. Athelstan studied the coffer closely, wiping away the dust. ‘Look, Benedicta,’ he declared, ‘this coffer is of the finest wood. I am sure it is walnut, a treasure in itself, fashioned by a master craftsman then polished by his apprentices. In its time it must have looked magnificent. And study these!’ Athelstan tapped the clasps and locks along the rim. ‘Again the work of a guildsman, a true expert, a master locksmith. Somebody broke these, shattered them so as to force open the coffer. I do wonder how Ursula came to own something like this.’ Moving the chest into the centre of the table, Athelstan peered along the side where the finely carved medallions had been roughly gouged out, destroying the insignia displayed there. He opened the coffer and glimpsed a piece of cloth piled up to cover whatever lay beneath.
‘Father, that’s all I could find.’
‘And no one went there?’ Athelstan asked, returning to his chair.
‘Oh no, Father, once the news about Ursula’s murder was known, the parish council set up a strict guard over the place.
‘Good, good,’ Athelstan replied absentmindedly, and returned to his studies.
Benedicta could see the friar was totally distracted, so she prepared a platter of bread and meat in the buttery, patted the friar gently on the head and left. Athelstan became more and more immersed in his studies, staring down at his drawing. He became cramped so he rose, stretched and walked across to where he had placed the battered coffer close to the stairs leading to the bedloft. He opened the lid, removed the cloth and stared down at the contents; small, white objects. Athelstan’s stomach lurched. He picked one of these up and carefully unwrapped the thick white linen covering. He put down the scrap of linen, staring at it as he leaned against the bedloft ladder. Athelstan closed his eyes as he imagined what could be the truth. He thought of Paltoc opening the corpse door to greet his killer. Athelstan was certain that the Flayer had murdered the mercenary. Paltoc must have been seen as an upstart, a challenge, a taunt, an insult which had to be met and countered. Curbing his excitement, Athelstan grabbed his cloak, swung it around him and hurried down to the church. He now recognized what had baffled him. Athelstan unlocked the corpse door, went in, closed it behind him and leaned against it. ‘You opened this door,’ he whispered, ‘you were distracted. You may have had your suspicions but that’s the mistake you made. You didn’t check before you opened this.’ Athelstan turned, pulled back the corpse door then slammed it shut. ‘You were wounded here,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘You staggered away. You went to the chantry chapel where you collapsed but, in your dying moments, you point to the altar. What is there? A cross, the ciborium containing the sacred hosts and St Erconwald’s reliquary. Oh yes!’ Athelstan curbed his surge of excitement. ‘You must have bled, you must have done, yet I can find little trace if any of your blood.’ Athelstan stared up at the painted glass window celebrating scenes from the life of St Erconwald. ‘Lord of light help me,’ he whispered. ‘I need to trap this fiend and send his soul to hell.’
Athelstan continued to sit in the chapel as his mind turned and twisted. He stared down at the spot where Paltoc’s corpse had sprawled. Benedicta had worked wonders in removing the stains left by the murder. ‘And there’s other types of stains,’ Athelstan declared, ‘more difficult to remove but, if it’s to be done it’s best done quickly.’ Athelstan continued to sit and plot. He could not directly confront the Flayer. No, Athelstan reasoned, like the killer at Westminster, the Flayer had to be teased out, enticed into an ambush. Athelstan plotted. The trap would be simple, preparing the lure was the most difficult task, but he would try then to see what happened. Athelstan left the church and, despite the cold darkness, he walked across God’s Acre. He reached the old death house and paused, his sandalled feet causing a noisy crackling. Athelstan stared down. Remart had strewn the ground with a host of dried twigs and small branches. Athelstan glanced at the light peeping through the shuttered window and walked slowly towards the door, which opened and Remart, wrapped in a cloak, slouched out.
‘Your path of bracken,’ Athelstan declared. ‘It creates a great deal of noise.’
‘Aye, Father, it alerts me to visitors and provides good protection against the mud. Are you well, Father?’
‘Very much so, thank God. I am looking forward to tomorrow. I intend to return to my indictment against that great fool and stupid sinner, the Flayer.’
‘How is that, Father?’
‘Oh, Sir John believes it will be easy to trap that hell-born creature. I have been sitting in the church reflecting on how I can help Sir John trap that fool and I’ll continue my studies throughout the evening. Anyway, I assure you, Remart, God’s Acre is desolate and empty, except for Watkin. He’s emptying the cesspits and jakes pots.’ Athelstan raised his hand in blessing and passed on. He did not immediately return to the priest’s house but hurried to The Piebald, where he had urgent words with Watkin and Pike about what he needed. Both of them were surprised but agreed, Crim being immediately despatched with an urgent message for Sir John. Once he was satisfied with his arrangements, Athelstan made his way back to the priest house where he finished his preparations and waited. He smiled thinly at the expected knock at the door. He shouted at his visitor to come in, then turned to greet Remart, who slipped through the door like the snake he was. Athelstan studied him from head to toe. This was a different Remart. The relic seller was no longer slack-faced or wet-eyed: the hunched shoulders had disappeared, the nervous mannerisms had changed. He was not drunk or dim-witted. The relic seller looked what he was, a hard-eyed, cunning killer who clutched the arbalest he carried like a man highly skilled in its use. Remart kicked the door shut and lifted the crossbow, the jagged barb only inches from Athelstan’s face.
‘Good evening, Father, Brother, or whatever else I am supposed to call you.’
‘Good evening, Remart. I have been expecting you.’
‘Really, priest?’
‘Oh yes, have you decided to leave, Remart?’
Athelstan pointed at the arbalest. ‘You sent me a warning through that poor cat you nailed to the church door. I suspect you would have loved to have snared Bonaventure, but even he is too cunning for you.’
‘Shut up, priest.’
‘I think I’ll sit down.’ Athelstan, steeling himself, returned to sit at the table, pushing away the heap of clothes placed there and pulling the tankard of fiery hot mulled wine closer to him. ‘Remart, tell me your real name, or the one that you took for yourself, Pudlicott! Yes, your mother or the woman who raised you was Adele Pudlicott, who created such tumult in the parish some years ago during the Great Pestilence. Well, well.’ Athelstan joined his hands together as if in prayer. ‘Remart, you certainly are a cunning man. Much more so than Sir John and I ever imagined.’
‘Good, good,’ Remart purred. Still holding the arbalest, the relic seller made himself comfortable in Athelstan’s chancery chair. He smiled as if he and the friar were old friends, only to rise and hurriedly lock and bolt the door. He retook his seat, still beaming, and Athelstan realized his adversary was not just a killer to the very marrow but a consummate mummer. Remart could, in the blink of an eye, change his mood and appearance. No longer the shabby beggar, the travelling tinker with his tawdry items, but a man of deep menace, highly dangerous in his madness and cunning. Remart’s face seemed longer, harder, like that of many a veteran Athelstan had met. Even the relic seller’s speech had changed, betraying a northern burr Athelstan hadn’t noticed before. The friar sat quietly watching. Remart’s deep weakness would be his arrogance, a devilish belief that he was superior to all and sundry, especially Athelstan. The friar was determined to exploit this. He knew from experience that Remart would not only love to boast but fence words with his opponent.
‘You killed Ursula, you murdered her! You abused her corpse!’
‘Of course.’ Remart wagged a finger reprovingly. ‘The cowl doesn’t make the monk. Ursula was a cunning old bitch; she noticed things, you know.’
‘What things?’
‘Oh, I brought back skins – well, you know that. They would corrupt. Some of the fragments, little white wisps, would be blown across the cemetery. I mean, it couldn’t be helped. Anyway, that silly old bitch thought they were fragments from the wings of an angel. Well at first she did.’ Remart shook his head. ‘I do wonder if she changed her mind, she was certainly dangerous. You see the old troll loved to wander the cemetery watching this, watching that. She was too nosey, too inquisitive for her own good.’
‘And you kept your parcels, relics of your murders, of your killings,’ Athelstan hastily corrected himself, ‘in the death house, yes? That’s why you had the approach strewn with bracken so you’d be warned of any visitor.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s what I did. Something I learned when I served in the royal array in Normandy. We used to do the same outside our bothies and tents.’
‘So you have been a soldier?’ Athelstan stared in genuine surprise at Remart. Then, ‘Of course,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Les Écorcheurs.’ He continued. ‘The Flayers, English mercenaries. The dregs of humanity, pardoned, armed and sent to France to fight for the old King. I heard stories about how they flayed their victims.’
‘All true, Friar. Did you know that Paltoc served in the same for a while?’
‘A prime reason for killing him.’
‘Yes, yes, one amongst many. There were times I did wonder if he recognized me or he might do so. I was furious when that fat bastard Cranston, that moving mountain of flesh, which I would love to skin, hired Paltoc to hunt me.’ Remart wiped the spit frothing from between his lips. ‘Of course, that wasn’t the truth, was it? Paltoc wasn’t really hunting me, nor was he searching for any family grave. No, no, I was there when the Savoy was burnt. Fascinating how the fire and heat make the human skin buckle, bubble and peel.’ Remart smacked his lips, as if savouring a tasty meal. ‘Yes, yes, I believe Paltoc was looking for a treasure chest, which, I suspect, he spirited away from the smoking ruins of the Savoy and brought here. He chose his family burial plot as a memorable place to hide his ill-gotten gains. But, as he soon discovered, it is so easy to forget where something is buried, especially when that godforsaken cemetery was occupied by hordes of rebels during the great revolt. Anyway …’ Remart placed the arbalest on the table. ‘Not such a good idea, Paltoc roaming the cemetery like an unquiet ghost. He became curious about the slivers of skin blown by the breeze to be caught tangled in the brambles and gorse.’ Remart shook his head like a magister in the schools dealing with a recalcitrant scholar. ‘Oh yes, Paltoc was becoming dangerous, even more so when he began to gossip with Ursula.’
‘About what?’
‘Oh, how the Flayer, as I am well known, lurked in Southwark. Then of course Ursula found the burial pit of my dear mother Adele, a place where I performed the sacrifice.’
‘You are Adele Pudlicott’s son?’
‘Yes, priest, I like to call myself that, Richard Pudlicott’s grandson.’
‘And how did you get to know all this?’
Remart’s face abruptly fell slack, then it sharpened; the killer glanced slyly at Athelstan and pulled the arbalest a little bit closer.
‘Tell me.’ Athelstan’s voice took on a pleading tone. He just hoped he could exploit the killer’s great weakness, his desire to talk, to lecture, to boast.
‘Adele told me all about Richard Puddlicot’s execution. How his corpse was peeled on the scaffold and the skin nailed to a door in Westminster Abbey. How it was allowed to hang there until it rotted. Anyway, the Great Plague came. Adele was a corpse-dresser. She collected cadavers and sewed them in their shrouds. She seemed fascinated by the dead. Then she would have nightmares about her father and she’d have terrible thoughts. Here, here.’ Remart tapped the side of his head. He then paused, muttering under his breath. ‘Terrible times, priest! Terrible times! No one could help, especially people like you. We lived with the dead, corpses stacked high. Anyway, Adele started to peel this cadaver, that cadaver. She just loved human skin, called it her silk. As she skinned, so she would perform a dance, sinuously, calling herself Salome. I would watch her. Adele prepared the corpses in the same cellar I met that silly bitch Ursula. She was so knowing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s just. It’s just,’ Remart repeated himself, ‘that the past releases humours here in my head. They are like devils, priest, demons, constantly chattering to me. Anyway, I know what happened to Adele. She was seized, taken in the dead of night: judged, found guilty and buried alive beneath that yew tree.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I was there, priest, though I hid my past from Ursula. Nevertheless, she was quicker than I thought. Sooner or later she might begin to wonder about me, the hapless relic seller trying to trick people with the corpse of a mummified monkey.’
‘And, of course,’ Athelstan replied, ‘you encouraged her to inform me about Adele Puddlicot, or at least some of the story, otherwise I would have become suspicious if you hadn’t.’
‘Oh yes, priest. I tried to keep everything hidden but, on reflection, I can see that I made mistakes so I had to act. Paltoc was supposed to hunt me down and I learnt about your sermon.’ Remart’s voice turned ugly. ‘There were other things. The wisps of skin blown around the cemetery. The linen I used to wrap my relics in. I overlooked such issues. Suspicions might be raised so I reached the conclusion that it was time to go. Wouldn’t you agree?’
Athelstan nodded. Even as he heard a sound from outside, the clink of metal, he tried to distract Remart from hearing this by coughing noisily.
‘True, true,’ Athelstan declared, clearing his throat. ‘You certainly made a mistake with that linen you wrapped your pathetic relics in, as well as the skin of your victims. Paltoc himself made the very shrewd observation, which I did not reflect on until too late, that not many people carry such linen around with them. But you did.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Remember the hideous gift you sent Sir John at The Lamb of God in Cheapside? I suspect you did that immediately after you’d slaughtered and skinned your wretched victim. So you must have had the linen with you.’
Remart just grinned, though Athelstan glimpsed the anger in his opponent’s eyes. Soon, Athelstan quietly reasoned, he must bring these matters to a close.
‘You had marked Paltoc down for death, hadn’t you?’
Remart just grinned wolfishly.
‘You did, didn’t you?’ Athelstan repeated.
‘He brought it on himself,’ Remart protested. ‘He kept wandering God’s Acre, talking to Ursula. He was a most vexatious man.’ Remart laughed abruptly. ‘I mean, he was always here, constantly watching me. In the end, Ursula had to go and so did Paltoc.’
‘And how did you do it?’
‘Oh, Ursula was very easy. I asked her to help me with something I discovered in that cellar. The stupid bitch believed me. I delivered a good clean blow to the back of her head. Of course her sow, as stupid and as fat as its mistress, immediately began squealing. I took care of that with one swift slash of my knife.’
