Athelstan agreed. He clasped shut the phial of anointing oil and rose to his feet. He took a lighted candle and walked slowly back out into the sanctuary, across to the mercy enclave, studying the floor at every step. He could detect nothing except dried drops of thick saliva which must have come from Lebarge as he staggered across to die. Once in the sanctuary recess, Athelstan put the candle down. Crouching on all fours, he carefully scrutinized the floor but, apart from dried mud, candle grease and some rat droppings, he could discover nothing unusual. How then had Lebarge been poisoned: by food or by some cut or wound? Benedicta and Mauger, having ordered the others to stay back, came across to join him.
‘Where’s Pike, Watkin, Ranulf and the rest of their merry crew?’ Athelstan demanded.
‘Celebrating in the Piebald.’ Bladdersmith the bailiff, reeking of ale and unsteady on his feet, entered the sanctuary. ‘Now what do we have here, a corpse?’
‘Most perceptive,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Master Bladdersmith, have the body shrouded and carted. It is to be taken to Brother Philippe at St Bartholomew’s hospital. Ask him, for my sake, to scrutinize the corpse most carefully. Go on, go on,’ Athelstan urged, waving his hands. ‘There are enough of the curious outside to assist you, but first …’ He knelt and went through the dead man’s pockets and belt wallet. He was surprised to find a small, dark green velvet purse fastened with twine containing a number of silver coins. ‘I will give these to Cranston,’ he murmured, ‘with a plea to return them to me for funeral expenses and what’s left for the poor.’ The friar continued his search and discovered a stiletto-like dagger pushed into a concealed sheath on the dead man’s belt. ‘Strange and stranger still,’ he murmured.
‘What is?’ Benedicta asked.
‘Here was I thinking Lebarge had fled here with only the clothes on his back, yet I now find him armed and monied. Benedicta, Mauger, are you sure no one else approached our sanctuary man?’
‘Brother,’ Mauger protested, ‘true, we did not mount close guard on the entrance to the rood screen or the sacristy door, but I’m sure no one met Lebarge.’
‘I agree,’ Benedicta added. ‘Master Bladdersmith,’ the widow woman turned to the bailiff, ‘you were sleeping in God’s Acre. You and Godbless were sharing a tankard …?’
‘I saw nothing,’ the bailiff slurred.
Athelstan stared down at the corpse and blessed it one final time. ‘What is strangest of all,’ he declared, ‘is that Lebarge would have nothing to do with anyone except us, yet he dies of poison …’ He thanked them all, walked quickly out of the sanctuary and down the gloomy nave. Benedicta called his name but he walked faster. He needed to think, to be alone. He paused by the entrance to the church tower and glimpsed Crispin’s work-bench and tools. He smiled to himself and slipped through the main door back up to the priest’s house. Athelstan believed he had done enough and fully agreed with the verse from scripture which advised that one should not worry about the morrow as each day had troubles of its own. It certainly had! The friar sat for a while at the table quietly reciting the office of compline from his psalter. He finished, tended the dying coals in the hearth, then started at a rap on the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Brother, it’s Pike the Ditcher. I need to speak to you!’
‘And I want to speak to you,’ Athelstan shouted back and, without a second’s thought, he unbolted the door and flung it open. The grotesques who pushed him back into the kitchen were frightening to look at: Earthworms, the Upright Men’s street warriors, garbed in cow-skin dyed and daubed in an array of garish colours, their faces blackened, hair tied up in greasy tufts like the horns on some demon goat. They were all armed with oxhide shields, swords, daggers and maces. They crowded in around Athelstan before parting to let a shame-faced Pike and Watkin through.
‘I could excommunicate you for this.’ Athelstan tried to hide his fear. ‘Cursing you with bell, book and candle. Denying you the church and all its sacraments. There is no need to come for me like this in the dead of night as if I was some felon.’
‘You have been summoned.’ The Captain of the Earthworms, his face hidden behind a grotesque raven’s mask, beckoned. ‘You must come. You have no choice.’
‘Please?’ Pike pleaded.
Athelstan put on his sandals and cloak and stormed out of the house. Immediately the Earthworms surrounded him and he was gently guided down the lane. Athelstan wondered if they were going to some desolate place along the river and hid his surprise when they stopped at the Piebald Tavern. He looked up and down the narrow lane: silence. No foraging cats or swarming rats, no dogs prowled or howled against the sky, nothing but moving shadows. The Piebald, and all approaches to it, would be closely guarded.
Pike rapped on the tavern door, bolts were pulled, locks turned and Athelstan was ushered in to the tangy warmth of the taproom. This had been transformed into a council chamber with men ranging either side of the long common table. A monstrously fat figure, head and face covered by hood and veil, sat enthroned at the far end. Athelstan glanced at the men. Most were his parishioners: Ranulf, the Hangman, Crispin, Hig the Pig Man, Moleskin and the usual motley crew. He glared at them as he sat down on the chair placed at the near end of the table. Pike and Watkin also took their seats. The Earthworms gathered near the door or fanned out behind those sitting there. The Raven walked to the top of the table and whispered to the veiled figure, who removed the heavy headdress to reveal a fleshy, sweaty face under a balding pate, hungry eyes and a strong mouth over a jutting chin.
‘I am Simon Grindcobbe, Brother.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘I am a lord, a master on the Council of the Upright Men.’
‘So you have lords already.’ Athelstan’s response provoked grunts of approval and even snorts of laughter from others around the table.
‘The Great Community of the Realm demands leadership.’
‘And naturally you regard yourself as the logical choice, hence your self-election?’
Grindcobbe leaned forward, lacing stubby fingers together. ‘In the end, Brother, all my titles mean – and you know this – is that I will die a slower, more painful death than our comrades here.’
‘Our comrades?’
‘You are with us, Brother Athelstan, or so they say.’
‘Those who say so can go hang, Master Grindcobbe. I have chosen my vocation. I am a Dominican priest.’
‘And the Lord High Coroner’s Secretarius?’
‘He chose me for a task, necessary for good order in our violent community.’
‘You have no solidarity with the poor?’
‘If I didn’t, what would I be doing here? Master Grindcobbe, I am tired and weary. You have brought me to you at the dead of night, for what reason?’
‘To determine if you are a traitor.’
‘My allegiance is to Christ and the Church, my Order and the King.’
‘And to your parishioners?’
‘I have never betrayed them.’ Athelstan stared around at the men gathered there. None dared meet his gaze except Radegund the Relic Seller, who glared sullenly at him.
‘You know,’ Grindcobbe pointed at Athelstan, ‘I was to meet Pike the Ditcher in the sacristy three hours after midday.’
‘I did not know that. I was informed by Pike that he was meeting a cousin, Sister Matilda of the Poor Clares. He asked for somewhere quiet and reclusive, and suggested our sacristy. I agreed. I had my doubts then; now I realize how true my feelings were.’
‘And you told no one else?’
Athelstan closed his eyes. He recalled meeting Benedicta in the sacristy. He repressed a chill and stared down at the table top. He had told her, he was sure he had.
‘Brother, if you told no else – and I certainly didn’t, and Pike the Ditcher wouldn’t – who informed Thibault’s men of the day, the hour and the place?’
Athelstan closed his eyes. ‘I …’