‘Brother Athelstan?’ Grindcobbe brought him back to the present.
‘Do you think Whitfield knew such secrets?’ Althelstan asked.
‘There is a very good chance he did, Brother, but,’ Grindcobbe pushed back his stool, ‘the hour is passing. I must be gone. It’s only a matter of time before Thibault’s soldiers return. Benedicta will walk you back to your house.’
Athelstan rose and crossed to the door.
‘Brother?’
The friar turned.
‘Athelstan, I doubt if we will meet again this side of Hell. Pray for me and, if I fail, pray that my death be swift.’
Athelstan nodded, gave his blessing and left, going down the stairs to where Benedicta was waiting in a now deserted taproom. They left the Piebald, walking in silence for a while. Benedicta slipped her hand into his.
‘I never lied, Athelstan. I am what I truly am. I do what my heart tells me is right. I have made my confession to you at the mercy pew. You have sat in the shriving chair and absolved my sins. I have dedicated myself to you and this community.’ She stopped and faced him squarely now, grasping his other hand. ‘Well,’ she added impishly, ‘what would the parish gossips say about us standing, hands clasped, in the moonlight?’
Athelstan stepped closer; her smile faded. ‘You could have told me, Benedicta.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I kept it hidden from you because, my dear friar, you would have worried, worried and worried yet again. I am telling you now as it is the truth, but tomorrow when I rise, I shall put on my mask to meet the others who hide behind their masks, though not from you, beloved Brother.’ And, leaning forward, Benedicta kissed him on both cheeks, pressed his hands and disappeared into the night.
After a troubled night’s sleep, Athelstan finished his dawn Mass attended by Benedicta, Mauger, Crim and the ever vigilant Bonaventure, who seemed very interested in what might be lurking in the sanctuary, though Crim kept shooing him away. Athelstan was divesting in the sacristy afterwards and wondering what to do when the green-garbed Tiptoft slipped like a moonbeam into the church to whisper that Sir John sent his greetings and would Athelstan meet him in the Lamb of God as a matter of great urgency.
‘I surely will,’ Athelstan replied. He collected his belongings and whatever else he needed and followed Tiptoft with a small escort of Flaxwith’s bailiffs down to London Bridge. The day was mist-hung. The swirling white cloud masked both sight and sound, though as they approached the gallows and stocks near the entrance to the bridge, Athelstan glimpsed the pole set up with Radegund’s head spiked on the top, and beneath it a colourful scrolled proclamation which publicized the stark, brutal message: ‘Radegund the Relic Seller, adjudged a traitor, condemned to death’, followed by the date and the phrase, ‘by order of the Upright Men and the Great Community of the Realm’. Athelstan murmured a prayer, pulled his cowl closer over his head, took his beads out and began a decade of aves as his escort led him across the mist-strewn bridge and up into the city. Cries and shouts rang out. Figures passed like wraiths, except for one of the numerous preachers of doom, garbed in animal skins, walking up and down with a torch in each hand, quoting texts from the Apocalypse.
At last he reached the Lamb of God. Mine Hostess had opened specially for Sir John who, all trimmed and freshly garbed, was sitting in his favourite window seat eating newly baked bread and drinking a stoup of ale. Athelstan and Cranston exchanged the kiss of peace whilst a heavy-eyed servant brought more bread and ale. The friar had hardly blessed this when Cranston started to describe the previous night’s meeting at St Edward’s shrine. Athelstan did not interrupt but, once the coroner had finished, he gave an equally terse account of all that happened: the murder of Lebarge, the confrontation with Radegund, the relic seller’s swift and brutal execution and the information Grindcobbe had shared with him.
‘Satan’s tits!’ Cranston grumbled, staring quickly around. ‘We know enough treason to really set the pot bubbling. We have been given halves of the same coin, Brother.’
‘And we will put them together when the time comes, though that is not now, Sir John.’ Athelstan bit into the bread, eager to break his fast, chewed quickly, then continued. ‘When that hour does come, my Lord High Coroner, you will know it. God forgive me, I am supposed to be a man of peace, but we are talking about the Lord’s anointed, our king, an innocent boy. So, when the danger threatens, Sir John, strike hard and may God’s angel strengthen your arm.’
Cranston sipped at his ale. He and his colleague, Walworth the Mayor, had already decided what to do when what Athelstan called ‘the hour’ arrived. He put his cup down.
‘Amen to that, Brother,’ he declared. ‘Interesting, though, how the Upright Men, at the very time they need unity, are beginning to divide into at least three factions. There are those who wish to pull up everything, root and branch, and destroy the present order. The second group, like Grindcobbe, simply want the present order purged of all sin and reformed. And now a sinister third group. One, possibly more, of the leaders amongst the Upright Men have been suborned by Gaunt with a dream of a new king, a new royal house and fresh beginnings.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘No wonder Whitfield was murdered. Perhaps Thibault despatched his own assassins into the Golden Oliphant and all that rage and temper was just a pretext, a cover for his deep relief at the death of a clerk who knew too much and could no longer be trusted. The fact remains: we do not know who killed him, why or how. The list of suspects seems to be growing all the time. Mistress Cheyne is ruthless enough to hire killers. Grindcobbe correctly described the rest and it agrees with what we already know. Stretton enjoys a most sinister reputation. Odo Gray is no better. Foxley, and I truly suspect this, is an Upright Man. Did you notice the wrist guard on his left arm? I am sure he is skilled at loosing a crossbow. And of course there is Thibault’s assassin, Albinus. Did he, by himself or with others, slink back into that brothel at the dead of night and kill Whitfield?’ Cranston sighed noisily. ‘Nor must we forget young Camoys, who had enough sway with Whitfield to coax our hapless clerk, desperate to escape, into trying to resolve the riddles left by his uncle. Well, talking of riddles, Brother, what about the cipher?’
Athelstan pulled a face, ‘I have hardly looked at it. I suspect the cipher itself cannot be unlocked. As for the triangles and the litany of saints, I suggest these are Whitfield’s workings, as much as he could deduce from the cipher. Well, Sir John, now I am in the city, I think it’s time I spent a period of reflection in our library at Blackfriars where I can pursue these matters a little further.’
‘Away from your parish and the likes of the lovely Benedicta?’
Athelstan just smiled. He thought it best if he did not inform Cranston about Benedicta, or at least not for the time being.
‘Sir John?’ a voice interrupted them.
Athelstan glanced up. Osbert Oswald, Cranston’s Guildhall clerk, had slipped into the tavern, two pieces of parchment clutched in his hands. The coroner took them and read them swiftly.
‘Well, Brother, one trouble after another. Physician Philippe has replied; copies have been sent to you whilst I have received what is due to the coroner. Lebarge was definitely poisoned. Some herbal plant. Our beloved physician believes it could be deadly nightshade.’