‘He told me.’ Athelstan started in surprise. Benedicta came out of the kitchen at the far end of the taproom. She was shrouded in her cloak, wiping her hands on a napkin. Athelstan stared at her as he realized he did not truly know this woman, not really. He had judged her to be a pious widow, lovely in all aspects, dedicated to good work, the care of the church and the priest’s house. He crossed himself as he secretly confessed to his own arrogance. Benedicta was so different now: her walk, her poise, the simple gesture of carefully wiping her hands on a cloth, the way she was staring at him, the half-smile which faded as she stopped behind Radegund the Relic Seller.
‘You told me, Brother, in the sacristy. Radegund here, a veritable bee of busy gossip, in hiding because of an alleged fraud against some lord of the soil, crept across the sanctuary and eavesdropped.’
‘I did not.’ Radegund half turned on his stool. ‘I did not!’ he spluttered.
‘Oh, yes, you did.’ Benedicta leaned down and whispered hoarsely in his ear. ‘Master Lebarge, then in sanctuary, saw you. He commented on how much you questioned him about this and that, but he definitely saw you and told me so.’ She glanced up. ‘Brother, do you remember when we discussed Pike the Ditcher’s meeting? I went to the sacristy door. I thought I’d heard something – I did. But by then Radegund had hastily withdrawn.’
Athelstan stared at the relic seller as he recalled how Thibault, that sinister Master of Secrets, had insinuated that he had a spy in the parish of St Erconwald’s. Radegund would be ideal. A man who flitted here and there, a friend to all who could act the merry rogue, a true son of the soil.
‘You claimed sanctuary, Radegund,’ Benedicta continued, now addressing the entire company. ‘You claimed that you had offended a great one and so fled for sanctuary …’
‘You knew about Lebarge,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘You entered St Erconwald’s and gained his confidence to discover what had really happened at the Golden Oliphant. And when you failed, you decided to leave. You knew you would be closely protected by Watkin, Pike and the others.’
‘But he also learnt,’ Benedicta declared, ‘about Pike the Ditcher’s meeting with a mysterious cousin and passed that information on.’
‘I had to come here,’ Grindcobbe declared, ‘as you will learn, Brother Athelstan. I need to have urgent and secret words with you, which is why I met Pike in the first place. Thibault’s spies swarm like fleas over a turd. I thought,’ he grinned, ‘I could pass through here as a rotund but cheery-voiced Poor Clare sister.’
‘And we would both have been taken,’ Pike screeched, ‘had it not been for that secret shaft. In the end,’ he shrugged, ‘Godbless did not know what to make of it all, especially when the Earthworms appeared.’
Benedicta patted Radegund on the shoulder. ‘We suspected we had a spy and you, Radegund, are he. You act the roaring boy, but in truth you are a whore touting for custom, blithely betraying those you eat and drink with.’
‘Did you poison Lebarge?’ Athelstan demanded.
‘Of course not! I have done nothing wrong!’ Radegund protested. Grindcobbe ordered the relic seller to be searched, and his pockets and wallet, the lining of his jerkin as well as his sack of geegaws were all emptied on to the table. Even before they were seized, Athelstan noticed the freshly minted silver, new from the Tower, and the green-ribboned seal bearing a crown above a portcullis: Thibault’s personal waxed insignia given to protect Radegund if he was ever taken up. All of these were inspected and gleefully passed around. Athelstan stared pityingly at the relic seller. He was already tried, judged and condemned. Behind him Benedicta, so poised and so silent, watched everything closely. Athelstan thought the relic seller would be hustled away, but now the rest of the company thronged about Radegund, punching and tearing at his clothes.
‘Guilty!’ a voice cried. ‘Treason!’ another shouted. ‘Traitor!’ The violence deepened. Athelstan tried to intervene but the Earthworms held him back. He watched in horror as the fighting men of the Great Community lifted the screaming Radegund on to his stool, a rope was produced, looped over the roof beam and a noose fastened tightly around Radegund’s throat. The Raven kicked the stool away. Athelstan shouted and struggled to break free but there was nothing he could do. Radegund jerked and choked until the Hangman seized his legs and pulled him down. Radegund convulsed one final time and hung still. For a brief while silence reigned. Athelstan looked for Benedicta, but she was gone. The others, however, were elated, triumphant at the discovery and summary execution of a traitor.
‘You may have him now, priest,’ a voice shouted. Radegund was cut down and laid on the table whilst Joscelyn, the one-armed former river pirate, ordered jugs of ale and tankards to be brought. Athelstan walked around the table. He closed his mind to the living bustling about him as, shaking and sweat-soaked, belly lurching, he administered the last rites and commended Radegund’s soul to the mercy of God. Once finished, the friar slumped on a stool and, for a matter of heartbeats, cursed both his life and his calling. He would get out of here! He would plead with his superiors to send him elsewhere. He could not understand, he could not bear this sudden, horrid violence. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Pike pressed a goblet of wine into his hand.
‘Drink, Father,’ he urged. ‘Do not judge us. We knew there was a traitor. Radegund would have hanged us all, destroyed our families. He came crying “All hail” when like Judas he meant all harm. But come, Master Grindcobbe needs urgent words with you.’
Athelstan finished the wine and allowed Pike to take him up to a chamber above stairs. Simon Grindcobbe was already there, hunched over a table with a platter of cheese, bread and dried meats. He waved Athelstan to the stool opposite and filled a tankard, toasting the friar with his own.
‘Be at peace, Brother.’
‘I am – I was at peace until I saw murder.’ Athelstan swiftly blessed the food and stared around. They were alone. The window firmly barred. The heavy door shut. No fire burnt in the grate. Candle spigots and lanterns hooked to the wall provided light.
‘It wasn’t murder, you know that, Brother. Radegund could have had every man, woman and child in this tavern hanged for treason and myself quartered and filleted at Smithfield.’
‘I could do the same.’
‘But you won’t. Radegund was worse than a common whore in Cock Lane, selling what he knew to anyone who would pay, and to the devil with the consequences. Now, Brother, why I am here?’
‘A very good question.’
‘To talk to you. I came in disguise to meet Pike to arrange this meeting.’ Grindcobbe shrugged. ‘My features and form are well known. A Poor Clare sister, burly and big, face hidden by a veil, one who came and went within the hour, was probably the safest way. A nun closeted in the sacristy would not provoke as much attention as Pike and I meeting in some market alehouse or tavern where the likes of Radegund swarm like lice.’
‘You suspected him?’
‘No, we did not. We knew that Thibault had spies but never guessed our notorious relic seller was one of them, except for …’
‘Benedicta?’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘She also sits high in the Council of the Upright Men?’
‘Yes, Brother, she does. A good woman trusted by all, including you.’
‘Perhaps not now.’
‘Don’t judge her hastily, Athelstan. Sharp and swift as a hawk is Benedicta. She is no hypocrite. Has she hurt anyone in your parish? Does she not care for you and the brethren? Believe me, she has good cause to be one of ours. She hails from the Weald of Kent, where her father was executed for poaching, hunting meat for his starving family. Benedicta’s brother was cut down in an affray over taxes. Her husband had his ship impounded by the crown for the King’s war at sea and, when both he and ship were lost, she received a mere pittance in compensation.’
Athelstan sipped his drink as he mentally beat his breast. One of my many faults, he considered, I must remember: still waters run very, very deep and behind every soul stretches a life known only to God.