‘Sir Miles,’ Anselm sat down on one of the beds, ‘Father Guardian told me that His Grace the King demanded my presence here. He talked of the need for an exorcism in the ancient crypt beneath the abbey, of the recent terrible crimes here. .?’
Beauchamp pulled the latchet window shut and walked slowly over to the table. He picked up a taper and, taking a flame from the solitary candle burning on its six-pronged spigot, carefully lit the other five. ‘Let there be light,’ he whispered.
‘Let there be light indeed,’ Anselm replied, pausing as the melodious plain chant from St Margaret’s carried across on the evening breeze:
‘They rise up, the kings of this world.
Princes conspire against the Lord and his Anointed. .’
Anselm nodded in agreement, then whispered the next lines from the same psalm:
‘You break them with your rod of iron.
You shatter them like a potter’s jar.’
‘All in God’s good time,’ Beauchamp added in a tone so eloquent in its disbelief of the very words he’d spoken.
‘Be careful, Beauchamp. Remember, the Lord comes like a thief in the night.’
‘And I shall render to God what is God’s,’ the clerk replied blithely. ‘But, for the moment, I must give, or I must return to Caesar, what is Caesar’s.’
‘What do you mean?’
Beauchamp, clutching a chancery pannier, sat down at the table, pushing aside the trancher and goblets. He drew out sheets of parchment as well as two velvet pouches bearing the royal coats of arms and tied at the neck with red twine. He undid these and gently shook out the contents. The first was a Saracen ivory-hilted dagger bound with fine copper wire, its curved blade of the finest Toledo steel. From the hilt and blade, Stephen guessed it was of considerable age: both were blotched and stained though they could easily be refurbished. Stephen then gasped loudly at the contents of the second pouch: a beautiful, pure gold cross studded with the most precious rubies and amethysts; even to the untrained eye the cross was a most costly item. It dazzled in the light, assuming a life of its own, as if some power within was making itself felt. Anselm, usually so reticent about anything, also exclaimed in amazement. He and Stephen handled the precious item, about six inches long and the same across. Although small the cross weighed heavy, Stephen lifted it up, staring at the sparking jewels, noting the intricate Celtic design.
‘Beautiful,’ Anselm whispered. ‘Angelic! The work of God’s own goldsmith.’
‘The Cross of Neath,’ Beauchamp explained, plucking the relic from Stephen’s hand. He then picked up the Saracen dagger. ‘Eleanor’s knife.’ He smiled at their look of puzzlement. Stephen felt a deep unease as soon as he had touched both precious items.
‘I will be succinct.’ Beauchamp put the items back in their pouches. ‘On the Octave of Candlemas last in the middle of February of this year, Adam Rishanger, a petty goldsmith, tried to flee the kingdom. He had sold most of his paltry possessions and went down to Queenhithe where a cog out of Bordeaux waited to take him to foreign parts. On the quayside Rishanger became involved in vicious dagger play with three masked assailants. Rishanger, with the help of some sailors, drove his attackers off. The captain of the cog, however, was reluctant to allow Rishanger on board, so our goldsmith fled down river. He was pursued. He managed to reach the King’s steps and sought sanctuary in the abbey, clinging on to the corner of the Confessor’s tomb. But his assailants followed him in. A lay brother who tried to intervene was killed — a blow to the heart, close to the rood screen. The assassins then seized Rishanger, stabbed him to death and fled. The abbey was put under interdict and closed, as you have said, and will remain so until the Lord Abbot decrees that reparation has been done and the church reconsecrated.’
‘And the killers?’
‘Fled, disappeared. You must have heard about this hideous affray?’
‘Of course,’ Anselm acknowledged. ‘I thought it was just a sign of the times.’
‘Yes and no,’ Beauchamp replied. ‘What was not made public,’ he tapped the pouches, ‘was that Rishanger’s killers did not have time to linger long after the murder; they fled, leaving their victim in a widening puddle of blood. Some of the good brothers tended to him. As they did, they found a sack Rishanger had pushed into one of the recesses beneath the Confessor’s tomb. Inside were these precious items.’
‘Plunder from some robbery?’
‘True, Brother Anselm, though a robbery which took place over seventy years ago.’
‘What?’
‘In the April of 1303, during the reign of the present King’s grandfather, the Hammer of the Scots, Edward I.’ Beauchamp paused, as if listening to the faint plain chant from St Margaret’s. ‘Now, as you may know, the abbey is the royal mausoleum of the Plantagenet family. It also used to be the royal treasury. The Crown Jewels and all the King’s personal wealth and precious items were stored in the crypt, at least until that robbery. Afterwards the crypt was abandoned. It, too, has a tale to tell, but that must wait for a while.’ Beauchamp paused to collect his thoughts. ‘In April 1303, around the feast of Saint Mark, a failed London merchant, Richard Puddlicot, seeking revenge against the King and eager for plunder, broke into the crypt.’
‘What?’ Anselm exclaimed. ‘I deal with magic and things supernal. I’ve seen the crypt: it’s an underground fortress, a bastion!’
‘I know,’ Beauchamp conceded. ‘The abbot at the time, Wenlock, was being blackmailed by two of his leading monks, Sub-Prior Alexander of Pershore and his sacristan, the monk in charge of securing the abbey and keeping it safe, Adam Warfeld. These two reprobates enjoyed an unsavoury reputation with certain ladies of the town. They conspired with Puddlicot, who sowed fast-growing hempen seeds in the monks’ cemetery close to the six windows of the crypt, which are on ground level. They set up a watch and hired a stonemason, John of Saint Albans who, as you will see, worked on the furthest window. They gained entry and passed up the treasure.’
‘But they were caught?’
‘Yes, Stephen, they eventually were. Some of the monks enjoyed a long stay in the Tower. A royal clerk, John Drokensford, who later became Bishop of Bath and Wells, rounded up the ring leaders and their coven.’
‘Including Puddlicot. .?’
‘Including Puddlicot. Drokensford then began to hunt for the missing treasure. Some he found, a great deal he did not. No one has ever discovered the rest of the horde, which included items precious to the royal household. This Saracen dagger was once wielded against the present King’s grandfather when he was on crusade in Outremer. A sect known as the Assassins despatched a killer who entered the royal pavilion and actually struck the King with a poisoned blade.’
‘The same as you’ve just shown us?’
‘Yes, Stephen. The King was wounded but his beloved wife, Queen Eleanor, or so the story has it, sucked the poison from the cut. In thanksgiving Edward dedicated the dagger to the Confessor and had it placed in his treasure house. The Cross of Neath is also symbolic. Once owned by the Princes of Wales, Edward crushed and killed these and seized their most sacred relic, the Cross of Neath, for his own use. Both these sacred items disappeared during the robbery of 1303. They were never seen again until the Octave of Candlemas past.’
‘How did Rishanger come to have them?’ Anselm asked. ‘And what has that got to do with us or the business at Saint Michael’s?’
Beauchamp drew a deep breath. ‘My apologies,’ he murmured, ‘for the secrecy. I wish to finish before the good brothers complete their chanting. We searched Rishanger’s house, which also lies in the parish of Saint Michael’s, Candlewick, within the ward of Dowgate. It was stripped clean. Rishanger had also drawn all his gold and silver from his bankers in Lombard Street. He intended to flee the realm with these items. Rishanger never married. He had a mistress, Beatrice Lampeter — a courtesan, a woman of notorious reputation. She, too, had apparently disappeared, but we found her mutilated corpse, her eyes removed, buried in the garden behind Rishanger’s house. Brother Anselm, you know how the removal of the eyes of a corpse is a curse intended to blight the soul after death. We suspect Rishanger killed Beatrice to keep her mouth shut. We also discovered amulets, inverted crosses, wax figurines, a pentangle.’ Beauchamp shrugged. ‘All the instruments of a warlock. Now,’ Beauchamp kept his head down, ‘the city, the court, even the church, houses those who secretly practice the black rites. Rishanger must have belonged to one of these covens. He certainly hated Sir William Higden.’