rats hanged themselves.’ Cranston’s words were greeted with silent disbelief until Wenlock beat the table with a maimed hand, bellowing with laughter.
‘True, Sir John.’ He glanced around his companions. ‘Come on, that is the truth! We had cozeners, tumblers, ape-carriers.’ His words won nods of approval. ‘However, we were master bowmen,’ all the good humour drained from Wenlock’s face, ‘and the Passio Christi was found in a casket on a cart along a leafy country lane.’
‘By you?’
‘By us, Friar.’
‘And what else was in that cart?’
‘Some cloths.’ Wenlock paused. ‘Cups, mazers, a few manuscripts.’
‘And you surrendered all of this to Edward, the King’s son?’
‘We did.’
‘And?’ Athelstan persisted.
‘An indenture was drawn up. You can study it at the Exchequer of Receipt . . .’
‘I have,’ Cranston interrupted.
‘We were given an allowance every month. The jewel was to be held by Kilverby, the Prince’s treasurer. You know the rest so why should we tell you?’
‘How long have you been here?’ Athelstan asked, fighting off the weariness of the day.
‘About four years. We came from France then did guard duty at the Tower, Sheen, Rochester and King’s Langley. Five years ago we petitioned the Crown. We were promised corrodies here.’
‘And why St Fulcher’s?’
‘Ask Father Abbot, Sir John. The old King and his son, before they left London for Dover and their chevauchées through France, stopped here to light tapers. They arranged for Masses to be sung to Christ, Our Lady of Walsingham, and all the saints that God would favour the Leopards of England. The old King even founded a chantry chapel here dedicated to St George.’ Wenlock pulled a face. ‘St Fulcher received other gifts and endowments from the royal family.’ Wenlock gazed over his shoulder at the capped hour candle on its stand in the far corner of the refectory. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, the day goes and so must we.’
‘Richer,’ Athelstan moved his writing tray, ‘do you find him hostile? After all, he is from the Abbey of St Calliste which once held the Passio Christi?’
‘They claim they once held it,’ Wenlock replied. ‘We have no real proof that the bloodstone we found belonged to that abbey. I mean, if it was,’ he smiled, ‘why was it outside the abbey on a cart?’
Athelstan gazed at these former soldiers. He recalled how he and his brother consorted with such men, practical and pragmatic without any real interest in religion or indeed anything else outside their own narrow world. Wenlock’s blunt language was typical.
‘Was the cart abandoned?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What happened to its escort?’
‘By all the saints,’ Brokersby exclaimed, ‘that was years ago! What does it matter now?’
‘Because, my friend,’ Cranston shouted back, ‘if it was proven, even now, that the Passio Christi was stolen from the Abbey of St Calliste that renders you excommunicate, whatever the number of years. You would still be proclaimed public sinners and stripped of everything. You might even hang. So tell us,’ Cranston added quietly.
‘We found it in a cart,’ Wenlock answered coolly.
‘No escort?’
‘Nothing, just plunder of war waiting to be taken.’
Athelstan sighed noisily. ‘That is your story.’
‘We are our own witnesses,’ Mahant declared. ‘Who else is there?’
‘Tell us,’ Cranston asked, ‘why should two of your company be so barbarously slain?’
‘We don’t know,’ Osborne declared.
‘We are old soldiers serving our time,’ Mahant added.
‘So why go armed in this abbey?’
‘Because Sir John, this abbey is not what it appears to be.’ Osborne threw off Brokersby’s warning hand.
‘You think these good brothers are united in prayer? Well, look at the facts. The abbot hates the prior who responds with as much loathing. The prior loves the Frenchman Richer with a love not known even towards women. Our Lord Abbot
‘True, Sir John.’ He glanced around his companions. ‘Come on, that is the truth! We had cozeners, tumblers, ape-carriers.’ His words won nods of approval. ‘However, we were master bowmen,’ all the good humour drained from Wenlock’s face, ‘and the Passio Christi was found in a casket on a cart along a leafy country lane.’
‘By you?’
‘By us, Friar.’
‘And what else was in that cart?’
‘Some cloths.’ Wenlock paused. ‘Cups, mazers, a few manuscripts.’
‘And you surrendered all of this to Edward, the King’s son?’
‘We did.’
‘And?’ Athelstan persisted.
‘An indenture was drawn up. You can study it at the Exchequer of Receipt . . .’
‘I have,’ Cranston interrupted.
‘We were given an allowance every month. The jewel was to be held by Kilverby, the Prince’s treasurer. You know the rest so why should we tell you?’
‘How long have you been here?’ Athelstan asked, fighting off the weariness of the day.
‘About four years. We came from France then did guard duty at the Tower, Sheen, Rochester and King’s Langley. Five years ago we petitioned the Crown. We were promised corrodies here.’
‘And why St Fulcher’s?’
‘Ask Father Abbot, Sir John. The old King and his son, before they left London for Dover and their chevauchées through France, stopped here to light tapers. They arranged for Masses to be sung to Christ, Our Lady of Walsingham, and all the saints that God would favour the Leopards of England. The old King even founded a chantry chapel here dedicated to St George.’ Wenlock pulled a face. ‘St Fulcher received other gifts and endowments from the royal family.’ Wenlock gazed over his shoulder at the capped hour candle on its stand in the far corner of the refectory. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, the day goes and so must we.’
‘Richer,’ Athelstan moved his writing tray, ‘do you find him hostile? After all, he is from the Abbey of St Calliste which once held the Passio Christi?’
‘They claim they once held it,’ Wenlock replied. ‘We have no real proof that the bloodstone we found belonged to that abbey. I mean, if it was,’ he smiled, ‘why was it outside the abbey on a cart?’
Athelstan gazed at these former soldiers. He recalled how he and his brother consorted with such men, practical and pragmatic without any real interest in religion or indeed anything else outside their own narrow world. Wenlock’s blunt language was typical.
‘Was the cart abandoned?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What happened to its escort?’
‘By all the saints,’ Brokersby exclaimed, ‘that was years ago! What does it matter now?’
‘Because, my friend,’ Cranston shouted back, ‘if it was proven, even now, that the Passio Christi was stolen from the Abbey of St Calliste that renders you excommunicate, whatever the number of years. You would still be proclaimed public sinners and stripped of everything. You might even hang. So tell us,’ Cranston added quietly.
‘We found it in a cart,’ Wenlock answered coolly.
‘No escort?’
‘Nothing, just plunder of war waiting to be taken.’
Athelstan sighed noisily. ‘That is your story.’
‘We are our own witnesses,’ Mahant declared. ‘Who else is there?’
‘Tell us,’ Cranston asked, ‘why should two of your company be so barbarously slain?’
‘We don’t know,’ Osborne declared.
‘We are old soldiers serving our time,’ Mahant added.
‘So why go armed in this abbey?’
‘Because Sir John, this abbey is not what it appears to be.’ Osborne threw off Brokersby’s warning hand.
‘You think these good brothers are united in prayer? Well, look at the facts. The abbot hates the prior who responds with as much loathing. The prior loves the Frenchman Richer with a love not known even towards women. Our Lord Abbot
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