Bloodstone by Paul Doherty Page A

the Crown’s pledges.’
    ‘True, true,’ Cranston considered. ‘But where were you all yesterday – here?’
    ‘No,’ Wenlock retorted, ‘not all of us. Mahant and I left in the afternoon for the city.’
    ‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Our business, Friar, but if you want to know to roister, to drink and I had petty business with a goldsmith in Poultry.’
    ‘His name?’
    ‘John Oakham.’
    ‘Which tavern did you lodge at?’
    ‘The Pride of Purgatory.’
    ‘I know it well,’ Cranston replied. ‘Large and sprawling. Minehost is famous for his stews.’
    ‘And you returned?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Late in the afternoon. We immediately heard the news of poor Ailward’s death.’
    ‘And you?’ Athelstan turned to Osborne and Brokersby. ‘Where were you when Hanep was murdered?’
    ‘Asleep in our beds, Friar.’
    ‘And when Master Hyde was murdered down near the watergate?’
    ‘We were here together.’ Osborne’s voice portrayed a strong burr. ‘We were eating a slice of venison pie and a dish of vegetables.’
    ‘So why was Hyde wandering Mortival meadow?’
    ‘We don’t know,’ Brokersby retorted, ‘nor do we know why Hanep was murdered out in the cemetery. For God’s sake, Priest,’ Brokersby brought his hand down flat against the table, ‘we truly don’t know. Hanep could never sleep; he loved to wander at night.’
    ‘That’s true,’ Richer intervened. ‘Master Hanep’s nightly pilgrimages around this abbey were well known.’
    ‘Yet both men were murdered,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘executed by a skilled swordsman. Indeed, Master Ailward may have been murdered by two assailants. Why?’
    ‘We don’t know,’ Wenlock spoke up, ‘we truly don’t. Matters between us were most amicable. We have served together for decades. We have fought, starved, been threatened and survived.’
    ‘We come from the same manor in Essex,’ Brokersby explained, ‘Leighton, on the way to Wodeford. We became master bowmen and joined the Company of Edward the Black Prince. We took the Wyvern as our livery  . . .’
    ‘Continue.’ Athelstan smiled.
    Brokersby described how he and his companions, at least two score in number, fought in France under the Wyvern banner, about their allegiance to Prince Edward and their undying adoration of him. Athelstan warned Cranston with his eyes to remain silent, for these men needed little encouragement to wax lyrical about their exploits in the Poitiers campaign when they had shattered the power of France. Brokersby mentioned how he’d once been a scholar, a would-be cleric, educated in the local church of St Mary’s. Indeed, he added, he was writing his own chronicle of events. This caused surprise even amongst his companions. So, as darkness descended and the bells sounded for the next hour of divine office, the old soldiers reminisced. Athelstan listened and closely studied these grey-haired warriors with the archer braces still on their wrists. Once these were the scourge of France, men who feared no enemy. He also concluded that Mahant was their leader, Wenlock their adviser. More ale was supped. Cranston joined in with his own memories as Richer politely excused himself and withdrew. Once the Frenchman had closed the door behind him Cranston tapped the table for silence.
    ‘So we come to the Passio Christi,’ the coroner declared. ‘Did you steal it? Of course if you did you are excommunicated, cut off from the church. You shouldn’t even be here in these hallowed precincts.’ He sighed. ‘Naturally you’ll deny that. Anyway, tell us, how did you find the bloodstone?’
    ‘To be as blunt,’ Wenlock retorted, ‘after Poitiers we swept the fields like a windstorm, the very fires of hell.’
    ‘In other words you plundered and pillaged?’ Cranston barked. ‘I was there, you know. I took part in it. Our army was full of vagabonds, runaways, rascals and ribauds, the scum of our prisons who came from slums so horrid even the