‘Pax tecum,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Peace be with you.’
‘God bless you too, Father,’ the beggar man replied, pulling on the goat’s rope. ‘Rest assured, Father: Philomel your horse sleeps safely in the stable and Hubert the Hedgehog rests in the hermitage.’
‘And all is well here?’ Athelstan pointed across the cemetery at the old death house converted to a comfortable cottage for Godbless and his equally smelly companion.
‘Invaded, Brother! Invaded by nuns and felons, all followed by dark shapes from Hell.’
‘Godbless,’ Athelstan soothed, ‘now is not the time.’ He stared beseechingly at the beggar man, who the friar secretly considered to be as mad as a box of drunken frogs.
‘Brother Athelstan, Brother Athelstan!’
The friar turned away in relief. Benedicta stood on the top of the church steps beckoning furiously at him. He hurried across and she led him into the shadowy porch.
‘Brother, there has been great excitement whilst you have been gone.’
‘There usually is.’ Athelstan smiled at the widow woman’s pretty face framed by a white, starched, nun-like wimple. He was glad that it didn’t hide all her lustrous night-black hair. He gently tugged a loose lock lying against her sweaty brow. ‘What is it, Benedicta?’
‘Rather what was it, Brother. You informed me that Pike the Ditcher was going to meet his cousin, Sister Matilda, a Poor Clare nun, here in our sacristy?’
‘Yes, I gave him permission to do so. He claimed he wanted to meet her in some private place, well away from the usual parish gossips. Apart from quietly thanking heaven that Pike’s family has some semblance of religion, I did wonder at the truth of it. She was to meet him about mid-afternoon. So, what happened?’
‘Sister Matilda,’ Benedicta grinned, ‘was portly, red-faced and rather stout. I glimpsed her going up the sanctuary steps. Anyway, she and Pike apparently met, then Thibault’s men turned up.’
‘What?’
‘Led by Albinus. They entered the concourse outside. Watkin and Ranulf, along with Moleskin and others from the parish council, thought they had come to seize Lebarge and refused them entry.’
‘As they should have.’
‘But it wasn’t Lebarge they were after, Thibault would be too cunning for that.’ Benedicta forced a smile. ‘Brother, I know a little of him and what I’ve heard …’
Athelstan noticed her quick change of expression but was too intrigued by her message to reflect upon it.
‘Apparently,’ Benedicta continued, ‘they intended to seize Pike and this nun. Albinus and his comitatus swept through God’s Acre to the sacristy door. By then the whole parish was alerted and so was Pike. He used the ancient tunnel, the one beneath the parish chest. He and Sister Matilda escaped down that.’ She smiled. ‘The tunnel was narrow, the nun was plump enough, but they were safe. They reached Godbless’ cottage. The Earthworms were lurking close by, and they hurried Pike and Sister Matilda across God’s Acre, over the far wall and to safety.’
Athelstan shook his head in disbelief, staring at the fresh painting of St Christopher which the Hangman of Rochester had recently finished. He knew all about the trap door in the sacristy and the narrow passage beneath; the parish chest could be pulled away to reveal a shaft beyond it. He could picture Pike and the mysterious nun using it to escape. Sister Matilda, if that was who she really was, would have gone first, and Pike would have followed. Standing in the shaft, he would have pulled the chest back, then, on his hands and knees, followed the narrow tunnel to a trapdoor in the old death house. Once there, protected by the Earthworms, it would have been easy to use the broken ground, thick with sprouting gorse, not to mention the burial mounds, crosses and stones, to steal across the rest of God’s Acre. The tunnel had been dug years ago, so Athelstan had learnt, in turbulent times when the priest of St Erconwald’s had to hide and take with him all the precious and sacred objects. Now such turbulence was about to return.
‘Brother?’ Benedicta, hard-eyed, her pretty face all watchful, was staring quizzically at him.
‘And where is Pike and his beloved cousin now?’
Benedicta just shrugged and raised her eyes heavenwards, a return to those pretty, feminine gestures which always intrigued Athelstan.
‘I will deal with Pike later, but I wonder …’ Athelstan murmured.
‘What?’
‘How on earth did Thibault know about Pike meeting his mysterious cousin in the sanctuary at that particular time?’ He glanced at the widow woman. Benedicta lowered her head as if to hide her face. Athelstan felt a chill of fear as he recalled his meeting earlier that day with Thibault and his realization that Gaunt’s Master of Secrets might have a spy deep in the parish of St Erconwald’s.
‘Benedicta?’
She lifted her head and he caught a wary look in those beautiful, dark eyes.
‘Benedicta, what is happening?’
‘Nothing, Brother.’ She leaned forward to grasp his hands, but Athelstan turned and walked away to stare down the nave. The light coming through the roundel window above the sanctuary was fading to a dull grey.
‘I wonder …’ Athelstan murmured, distracted. ‘It truly would be so beautiful if we had some painted glass here.’ He knew his mind was wandering, eager to be diverted from his present troubles. The friar closed his eyes and murmured a prayer for help. Pike the Ditcher would have to wait. Lebarge was more important. He opened his eyes, crossed himself and walked back to Benedicta, who stood in the shadows away from the light thrown by the candles before St Christopher’s pillar.
‘Our sanctuary man,’ Athelstan indicated with his head, ‘Oliver Lebarge?’
‘Terrified, Brother, frightened out of his wits. He trusts you, me and Crim but no one else. Watkin tried to approach him and Lebarge protested loudly. He will only eat and drink what I bring him from your house. On the last occasion he asked me to taste both food and wine.’
‘Has he said anything?’
‘Nothing, Brother.’
‘Very well.’ Athelstan turned away and made his way up the dappled, dark nave through the heavy rood screen and into the sanctuary. He first visited the sacristy and, using all his strength, pulled away the parish chest, which revealed the shaft dropping into the tunnel beneath. He could see the shards of plaster knocked off when Pike and his so-called cousin had entered. Athelstan now entertained the greatest suspicions about that so-called worthy nun. He pushed the chest back and examined the outside of the sacristy door, battered and broken by the weapons of Thibault’s men.
‘Master of Secrets or not,’ he whispered, ‘Great Revolt or not, Master Thibault can pay for these repairs.’ He strode back into the sanctuary and across the enclave where Lebarge sat huddled on the mercy stool, lost in his own thoughts. Athelstan fetched the footrest from the celebrant’s chair and sat down opposite him.
‘Oliver?’
Lebarge looked up.
‘I’ve recently come from the Golden Oliphant. Whitfield is truly dead; his corpse now lies at St Bartholomew’s …’
The scrivener put his face in his hands and glanced up. ‘I will not say anything,’ he hissed. ‘I will say nothing unless I receive a royal pardon for all offences I may have committed or be accused of. If not, I demand that the law of sanctuary be enacted, and that after forty days I be escorted to the nearest port.’
‘In other words, Queenshithe and Odo Gray’s Leaping Horse, as you and Whitfield were plotting to do, yes? I have been to your chambers in Fairlop Lane,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You stripped them of all valuables and moveables. You arranged to pawn or sell these to Mephistopheles at the Tavern of Lost Souls. You were both preparing to flee. You wanted to be out of England for a while to escape the coming fury. You aimed to confuse Thibault. Whitfield even separated articles of clothing which would be found along the Thames with some other items, all pointers to an accident or possible suicide. I have also read Whitfield’s death note and discovered that he was to meet young Camoys and help him with those enigmatic carvings left by his late uncle Reginald, which may or may not indicate the true whereabouts of the Cross of Lothar. And finally,’ Athelstan edged closer on the footrest, ‘I truly believe Whitfield did not commit suicide. He was murdered, wasn’t he?’ Lebarge, now all narrow-eyed with shock, stared in surprise.