The Assassin's riddle

‘Is that true?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, it’s true,’ Alcest replied. ‘Sir John, you once served as a clerk. Brother Athelstan, you were engaged in your studies, yes?’ Alcest spread his hands. ‘Life can be tedious, even as a clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax. So, yes, we have perfected the art of the riddle. We pose each other riddles and, at the end of the week, the one who has solved the most dines free.’

‘Give me an example,’ Athelstan asked.

Alcest scratched his chin. ‘Tell me, Brother, where in the world is the sky no more than three yards wide?’

Athelstan looked at Sir John, who pulled a face.

‘Think, Brother,’ Alcest added teasingly. ‘Where, in any part of the world, is the sky no more than three yards wide?’

Athelstan closed his eyes. He recalled the previous night, standing on St Erconwald’s tower, staring up at the sky. Sometimes he gazed so steadfastly he thought the sky would come down and envelope him whilst the stars, dancing round him, waited to be plucked. Then he thought of the stairs leading up to the tower, winding and narrow; sometimes he’d leave the trap door open… Athelstan opened his eyes.

‘Where in the world is the sky no more than three yards wide?’ he asked.

Alcest nodded.

‘Why, at the bottom of a well,’ Athelstan replied.

Alcest clapped his hands. ‘Well done, Brother.’

‘I have answered the riddle,’ Athelstan pointed out.

‘Repeat yours,’ Elflain asked.

Athelstan did so; the clerks murmured and whispered amongst each other, oblivious to the young woman sitting at the end of the table.

‘They are new,’ Napham declared. ‘Brother Athelstan, you must give us more time.’

‘And we will,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘But tell me, sirs, do you know of someone who, for any reason, wanted the deaths of Chapler and Peslep?’

A chorus of denials greeted his words.

‘You are sure of that?’ Cranston insisted.

‘Sir John, we are clerks,’ Elflain replied. ‘We come from different parts of the country. We have no family here.’ Elflain waved around. ‘So our companions here, these are our kinsfolk. We would know of any danger which threatened any of us.’

Cranston whistled through his teeth. ‘In which case,’ he lumbered to his feet, ‘none of you, sirs, will be leaving London!’

‘We are busy enough,’ Lesures declared primly. ‘No one can leave.’

Athelstan stared round the Chancery. Each desk had manuscripts covering it. In the far corner were seven cups, red glazed earthenware with a letter inscribed on each. Alcest followed his glance.

‘Our drinking cups, Brother.’ His face became sad. ‘Seven, if you include Master Tibault’s. Now Peslep and Chapler are dead, we’ll toast them ceremoniously tonight.’

‘It’s our custom,’ Lesures intervened. ‘After working hard at charters and writs, we always finish the day with a cup of malmsey. Tonight we’ll toast our deceased friends.’

‘What do you do here?’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet, his writing bag clasped in his hands.

‘This is the Chancery of the Green Wax,’ Lesures said in hushed, reverential tones.

‘Yes, I know that.’

‘If I want,’ Cranston explained, ‘to renew a charter, obtain a licence to go overseas, to beg or have the right to enter my father’s property, secure a writ against an enemy, I petition the Chancellor. The Chancellor and his clerks will either approve or reject; if they approve, the writ, charter, or whatever document is needed, will be drawn up and sealed.’

‘And that is done here?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes,’ Napham replied. ‘And, Brother,’ he pointed to the hour candle fixed on a large iron spigot near the door, ‘we have further work to do.’

‘Where did Peslep live?’ Athelstan asked, ignoring the hint to leave.

‘In Little Britain, near St Bartholomew’s Priory,’ Alcest replied.

And Edwin Chapler?’

‘He had lodgings near the city ditch.’

‘I think we should visit both,’ Athelstan said. He glanced round quickly and caught it, a slight grimace of a

‘Is that proper?’ Alcest asked.

‘I am the King’s coroner,’ Cranston retorted, swaying slightly on his feet. And I know what I can do, sir, and I know what I ca

‘Can I come with you?’ Alison picked up her cloak and swung it round her shoulders. ‘I have lodgings at the Silver Lute.’ She added hastily, ‘On the corner of Milk Street.’

‘Of course,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You are more than welcome, mistress! Your belongings?’ he asked.

‘They are already there,’ she replied.

The young woman picked up her leather bag and made to swing it over her shoulder. Cranston gallantly took it from her. They made their farewells and left the Chancery. Outside, in the street, Athelstan paused.

‘Daydreaming, monk?’

‘No, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled at Alison. ‘This friar is just thinking. There was something wrong with those young men.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Nothing of substance, just a look, a glance.’

‘What makes you say that, Brother?’ Alison asked.

Cranston brought his hand down on Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘Because, mistress, he has the mind of a veritable ferret, always scurrying about for the truth, and, if he’s not doing that, he’s listening to those woebegone parishioners of his or sitting on his tower staring up at the stars.’

‘You study the heavens, Father?’

Athelstan smiled at the young woman’s sweet face. ‘Why yes, and as I walk I’ll tell you about a book I’m reading by a monk called Richard of Wallingford. He was abbot of St Albans…’

Athelstan, pleased to find someone so avidly interested in the works of astrology and astronomy, briskly chattered on. Cranston, rather sulkily, hung back, now and again muttering to himself about bloody monks and stars or taking an occasional swig from his miraculous wineskin.

They made their way along Holborn. The crowds had thi