Stone of Destiny, page 6
For a while, this ghostly craft ploughed the river alongside Athelstan’s boat. The friar shouted his greeting to the eerie midnight figure standing in the stern, who turned and raised a hand in greeting before shouting at his oarsmen. The funeral barge surged forward like a greyhound from the slips and disappeared into a bank of rolling mist. Athelstan leaned back in his cushioned seat and wondered if the Fisher’s henchman was on board, that eerie figure who called himself Icthus, the Greek word for fish. In fact, that’s what Icthus looked like, with his webbed hands and feet, his completely hairless face and head, sloping brow and cod-like mouth. Icthus was in fact a human fish, a born swimmer, impervious to the cold, always dressed, both within and without, in a simple linen tunic. In a twinkling of an eye, Icthus could strip, slip into the river and swim like a darting salmon or a twisting porpoise.
Athelstan stole a glance at Cranston but the coroner was fast asleep, slouched sideways cradling his wineskin, as a mother would her baby. Athelstan wondered if the coroner had questioned the Fisher and his henchmen about the atrocity they had just visited? Had these mysterious river people fished out skinned corpses from the river? Athelstan chewed the corner of his lip. The Flayer who had perpetrated such an abomination must have a reason for it. Why murder a woman, skin her corpse then leave that for public view? Athelstan closed his eyes as he realized he had made one mistake in viewing that corpse. The Flayer had left mangled remains but what had happened to the skin? Athelstan was sure he had not seen that. He leaned over and shook Cranston awake.
‘Sir John, my apologies.’
The coroner forced a smile. ‘What, my little friend?’
‘The victim we’ve just viewed. Where’s the skin?’
‘The bastard took it with him – always does – he must collect them – probably stored them in a treasure chest, though heaven knows why.’ The coroner went back to sleep and Athelstan to his reflections. Did the killer rejoice in shocking others with such a disgusting sight? Or did the Flayer take a deep pleasure in the act itself? A foul deed, which poured some sort of balm over his tortured soul. If so, did the killer get rid of some of the corpses, hide them away, and what better place than the river where a corpse could lie undetected until it rotted into nothingness? Athelstan recited a verse from the psalms and steadied himself as the boat lurched. Were philosophers like Augustine correct, he wondered? Augustine argued that all human beings are a mixture of what they inherit, where they come from and how they are formed. How malignant diseases of the spirit can take root in childhood and then, dependent on circumstances, shrivel and die or even be replaced by good, healthy roots. On the other hand, such malignancy could be encouraged to grow like some pernicious weed in a garden. Did the corruption spread out to choke the good seed, destroying harmony and integrity, binding the soul to nothing except itself? But why now? Why had this Flayer emerged in these last few months? Athelstan opened his eyes at a sickening lurch of the barge and a splash of ice-cold spray across his face.
‘There it goes!’ A now-awakened Cranston nudged Athelstan. The friar stared around the edge of the canvas canopy and followed Cranston’s direction. The barge had shot along the rapid flow of the Thames as it beat against the starlings protecting the struts and pillars supporting London Bridge. Athelstan murmured a prayer of thanks. He had been so immersed in his own thoughts, he’d become oblivious to the barge surging through the narrow galleries beneath the bridge, that veritable forest of wood, a tangle of timbers. The roar of the river and the clatter of the barge now receded. Cranston, who seemed to be totally unperturbed by the violence of the river, was jabbing a finger at a huge two-masted war cog displaying the royal arms of Scotland. The warship’s gaily coloured banners flapping in the wind proclaimed the Crown of Scotland with its silver saltires and rampant red lions.
‘The Bannockburn!’ Cranston exclaimed. ‘Scotland’s greatest battle cog.’ Cranston turned back and grinned as he wiped the spray from his face. ‘It’s moving from Queenhithe quayside to the one near the stews of Southwark. From what I gather, The Bannockburn brought Prior Sinclair from Edinburgh. He must have informed the captain about his plans to stay at The Piebald, so it has moved station.’ Cranston gently nudged his companion. ‘My little monk …’
‘Friar, Sir John.’
‘Your parish is becoming important?’
‘That’s what worries me, Sir John. Why has it become so important and what will the consequences be?’
Cranston snorted with laughter, took a gulp from the wineskin and returned to his dozing. Athelstan pulled his deep hood closer about him as he wondered about Prior Sinclair. He had learnt from friends at Blackfriars how the Scottish Benedictines were becoming keen and accurate chroniclers. John of Fordun was well-known, whilst the great historian Jean Froissart, who’d chronicled all the great achievements of Edward III and his son the Black Prince, had been invited into Scotland and given royal licence to wander wherever he wished. Athelstan also understood any chronicler’s interest in the Great Revolt, which had broken out so abruptly and spread so swiftly to engulf London and the southern shires. A rebellion which, for a brief moment in time, almost brought King, council, Parliament and Church crashing down. Now the revolt was dead, its leaders either rotting on some lonely gallows or shivering in exile. A few of the Upright Men, captains of the Earthworms, still lurked deep in the shadows. They called themselves ‘The Reapers’ but, in truth, their hour had come and gone.
Athelstan was more intrigued by the strange elation shown by his parishioners over the invitation to Halpen the Hare and Mildew. Athelstan was acquainted with both of these worthies and he’d wryly conceded to himself that Watkin and his merry crew were simply looking forward to being reunited with old comrades. Athelstan half dozed, trying to close his mind to the pitching of the boats, the blare of horns and the cries of the oarsmen. The barge had now passed the great quaysides of Dowgate, Queenhithe and Castle Baynard. Keeping close to the shoreline, the barge moved swiftly on. Athelstan glimpsed buildings along the Strand, in particular the blackened ruins of the Savoy Palace, still being cleaned and cleared after it had been burnt and pillaged during the Great Revolt.
‘I wonder,’ Athelstan murmured to himself, ‘if Watkin and his coven will take Sinclair there? Ah well.’ Still reflecting on the doings of his ever-mischievous parishioners, Athelstan closed his eyes and intoned a psalm. He’d barely finished when Cranston shook him by the arm. They were now approaching King’s Steps, close to the abbey. Athelstan disembarked, leaning heavily on Cranston’s arm, for the friar felt slightly giddy after the cramped river journey.
Athelstan followed the coroner up the steps into Westminster, a small city in itself dominated by the majestic, soaring abbey with its precincts, stone-paved corridors and passageways, over which harsh-faced gargoyles, babewyns, saints and angels gazed unseeingly down. A place of worship where smoke and incense from beeswax candles constantly fragranced the air. The abbey was also a place of study and learning with its carrel-lined cloisters, the smell of leather, scrubbed parchment, ink and wax providing a permanent perfume. Such pleasant smells reminded Athelstan of the great scriptorium at Blackfriars where he had spent so many pleasant days immersed in his studies. Clutching his satchel, Athelstan followed the coroner as they swept along galleries, Cranston’s high-heeled riding boots rapping the pavement like the beat of a drum.
Athelstan found it hard to keep up as they passed gardens, herb plots and raised flower beds. A host of different sounds echoed through the chilling, cold air: bells ringing, doors closing, choirs chanting, the constant murmuring of the brothers they passed. At last, they reached the great abbey itself, entering the nave by the narrow south door. Here they waited whilst a lay brother went searching for both Sacristan Sylvester and Prior Norbert, the infirmarian. The lay brother returned, his red-cheeked face wreathed in a fixed smile. He led Cranston and Athelstan up into the choir then left into the sacristy, a long, ill-lit chamber with aumbries on either side for vestments. More albs and surplices hung from pegs on the wall, whilst stacks of coffers, caskets and chests filled every available space. Two Benedictines sat behind a table at the far end. They rose as Cranston and Athelstan approached, waving their guests to chairs before the table.
‘Sir John Cranston, Brother Athelstan, you are most welcome.’
One of the Blackrobes came around the table to clasp hands and exchange the kiss of peace, his companion, moving a little slower, did the same. Cranston and Athelstan then took their seats. Two more candles were lit, bathing the table in a pool of light.
‘There.’ The Benedictine leaned forward. ‘Let there be light, eh Sir John, Brother Athelstan? I am Sylvester, principal sacristan of this abbey, and this is our infirmarian Prior Norbert. I understand you have questions to ask. Please accept our assurance that we will help as much as we can. But now,’ Sylvester waved to a tray bearing silver-chased goblets, ‘some refreshments, sweetmeats, a cup of Rhenish to refresh the mouth? I am afraid we cannot join you. The great Advent fast has begun.’
‘A time for discipline and penitence?’
‘Of course, Brother Athelstan, all to prepare for the Holy Season and the great feast of Christ’s birth. Please?’
Cranston and Athelstan accepted a cup and one of the delicious sweetmeats; a mixture of honey, no bigger than a coin, it simply melted in Athelstan’s mouth. So delicate, he took another. The friar used the occasion, whilst the usual courtesies were being exchanged, to study the two Benedictines. Sylvester was a youngish man, the image of the perfect monk with his smooth, well-oiled, clean-shaven face, expressive eyes and full lips. His eyebrows were neatly clipped, his tonsure perfectly cut. Sylvester’s robes were of sheer, black wool, his cincture snow-white. Rings adorned his fingers and a silver brooch circled his left wrist. Sylvester was well-spoken though with a slight accent. Athelstan queried him on this and the sacristan explained how he had been raised in Scotland and educated at Melrose.
‘So you know Prior Sinclair?’
‘Of course and, before you ask, our anchorite as well, he must have seen your arrival.’
‘Ah, Brother Ricard, the so-called Magician of Melrose?’
‘Mad as a march hare,’ Brother Norbert intervened.
‘Why?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Because, my Lord Coroner, his humours are greatly disturbed caused by speculation on truth he should have left well alone. There are certain paths scholars should not even dream of walking, for they are fraught with danger. Oh yes …’
The infirmarian lapsed into silence as the sacristan gripped him gently by the arm. Prior Norbert was a complete contrast to his companion. He had an almost skeletal face with deep-set dark eyes and white, wispy streaks of hair. Sharp-nosed and thin-lipped, the infirmarian, with his claw-like fingers and dusty robe, reminded Athelstan of some black-feathered bird of prey.
‘Well, well.’ Athelstan put his goblet firmly back on the table. ‘We are here about the sudden death, or should I say murder, of your sub-sacristan, Brother Robert, earlier today. He collapsed and died during Lauds?’
‘He did, Brother Athelstan.’
‘Well at the moment there’s not much to discuss,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘So it’s best if we view the corpse immediately.’
‘Is that necessary?’
‘I am afraid so, Prior Norbert. No one wants to disturb the dead, but I need – we need – to view that corpse.’
The prior glanced at his companion, who simply shrugged and nodded. Both Benedictines rose and led Cranston and Athelstan back into the choir, across the sanctuary and down into the nave. They were making their way across to the north door when a voice rang out, strong and strident.
‘Greetings, my Lord High Coroner! Greetings, Brother Athelstan, Dominican friar and parish priest of that nest of sinners at St Erconwald’s.’
Athelstan paused, glancing to his left and right.
‘Over here,’ Sylvester murmured. ‘The anchorite cell.’
Sylvester led them deep into the shadows of the transept. The anker-hold was simply a wooden box, an oaken enclosure built against the outside wall of the abbey. It was cleverly constructed, with a pentile roof, three sides of polished wood with a door in the centre panel. Above this was a grille, a squint through which the anchorite could view what was going on around him. Athelstan tried the handle on the narrow door but it was locked from within. Standing on tiptoe, Athelstan peered through the grille at the eyes glaring back at him.
‘Greetings indeed, Brother Athelstan,’ the anchorite proclaimed. ‘You want to question me? Then come in, but only you. Not the others. Not Fat Jack. Certainly not my brethren from the abbey.’ Athelstan glanced at Cranston who merely shrugged.
‘Do what you have to,’ Sylvester murmured.
Athelstan knocked on the door to the anker-hold. It swung open, creaking on its hinges. Athelstan glanced at these; they were of the hardest leather, and yellowing with age. The friar stepped into the cell and looked around. The chamber was neat and clean, the air fresh with the scent of burning incense snaking up from a thurible in the corner. There was a cot bed, a stool, a chest, a table and a lavarium. The anchorite pulled back his hood. Athelstan clasped his hand and pulled him close to exchange the kiss of peace. The anchorite’s hands and face were freezing even though a brazier, crackling with fiery charcoal, more than warmed the room. The impression of iciness was heightened by the anchorite’s face and watery, sad eyes. Nevertheless, he was personable enough, patting his bald pate and tapping his shaven cheeks.
‘No hair, Brother Athelstan, because I am really no longer a Blackrobe, so no tonsure.’ The man’s voice, thickened by a strong northern burr, faded away as he glanced quickly to his right and left as if something was distracting him. He stood scratching his chin, lost in thought, then glanced slyly at Athelstan. ‘Brother,’ he waved the friar to a stool, ‘you can sit there whilst I perch, like a scholar, on the edge of my bed. Now,’ he leaned forward as Athelstan settled himself, ‘you have questions to ask me?’
‘I certainly have, my good anchorite. What happened on the night you tolled the tocsin? Well?’
The anchorite grinned slyly, whispered to himself, and Athelstan wondered if the man was fully in his wits yet, just as abruptly, the grin faded, being replaced by a knowing, cunning look.
‘This abbey is a strange place, Brother Athelstan.’
‘Why?’
‘A hall of ghosts, a place of flitting shadows. The dead throng here. I can hear them whispering as they ride the air.’
‘And on that particular night?’
‘Oh, the abbey was locked and shuttered. The night lanterns had been lit and placed along the nave. I am glad they do, Brother Athelstan; they keep the darkness at bay even though the shadows still dance. They dance and they dance. I am sure they call my name then they go. You see, once this abbey is locked, silence descends. That night was different. I am sure I heard voices and the sound of grating.’
‘Grating?’
‘Yes, Athelstan, grating as if a piece of timber was being dragged along the nave, but that also faded. I thought it was my imagination until I heard noises again. I peered through the squint,’ the anchorite pointed to the grille high in the door, ‘I saw them. Honestly, Brother Athelstan. I saw the demons dance. I thought I saw the flap of their jerkins and heard their demonic bells.’
‘Demons? Bells?’
‘Oh yes, Friar, they were long and tall, at least a child’s height, sliding and twisting around the pillars. Up and down, up and down, climbing here, climbing there! Then,’ the anchorite made a face, ‘more noise! God knows what that was, then there was silence. I sat straining for any sound but there was none. I became nervous, frightened. I,’ he paused, ‘the Advent fast had begun.’ He moaned. ‘It started this Sunday morning and now it is Sunday evening. Oh Brother, what I would love is a plate of those honeyed comfits I saw being taken into the sacristy.’
‘Perhaps Prior Norbert might …’
‘No, Brother, not now! The prior and sacristan are strict, obedient to the letter and the spirit of our rule, even though I am no longer a Blackrobe.’
‘So, to return to that night here in the abbey church. Silence descends: did this make you more nervous, agitated?’
‘Yes, Brother, so I decided to investigate. There is a narrow postern in the north transept, the Devil’s door, the only door to be left unlocked and unbolted just in case something happens here during the night. Sometimes there are vigils or a man may take sanctuary or, of course, there is myself. Anyway, I thought that whatever had troubled me would have left through that postern. So I hurried across, only to find it firmly locked. I became even more concerned,’ the anchorite babbled on, ‘I tried every single door. They were all locked. I felt as if I was a prisoner. I wondered if some malignant was hiding in the church. Brother Athelstan, I shelter here in my anker-hold. I am not a prisoner, a captive, but that’s what I felt that night, trapped in a dark church with heavens knows what.’
‘So you sounded the tocsin?’
‘Of course.’
‘And?’
‘Oh, the brothers came hurrying down. The doors were unlocked. The church searched, but nothing was discovered, nothing at all.’
‘And Brother Robert?’
‘He claimed to have made a simple mistake, it must have been. The only Blackrobes who hold the keys are Brother Robert and, of course, Sacristan Sylvester. They are responsible for all the doors, windows and entrances. They are the ones who lock and unlock. Of course, Father Abbot has his keys and so has Prior Norbert, but they only act when necessary, and certainly not that night.’ The anchorite took a deep breath. ‘So, you have no food for a poor, famished anchorite?’
‘None.’ Athelstan smiled apologetically. But,’ Athelstan got to his feet, ‘I will have a word with Prior Norbert, who knows …’
Athelstan left the anker-hold and rejoined Cranston and the two Blackrobes. They were studying a freshly executed wall fresco depicting a scene from Revelation which celebrates the victory of the Lamb of God over the powers of darkness.
