The Assassin's riddle

Athelstan closed his eyes and drifted into a dream about constructing, with the help of Sir John Cranston, a marvellous clock at the top of St Erconwald’s tower.

A few hours later, in the writing room of the Chancery of the Green Wax, the clerks were finishing the major tasks of the day. They had, Master Lesures reflected, been quiet, not the respectful silence due to the deaths of two of their colleagues, but something else, as if they were afraid. He walked into the centre of the room and rang his small handbell.

‘The day’s work is done,’ he declared. ‘So it’s time we took a little refreshment, a break from our duties. Perhaps toast the memory of our dead comrades?’

The others agreed, climbing down off their high stools. They left their quills on their desks, or pushed them into the pouches on their belts. They stood in a small group talking softly amongst themselves, almost ignoring him. Lesures shrugged and walked across to the table where their cups were kept. He picked up the jug of malmsey, removing the linen cloth which covered it, and filled the cups. He then took the tray round the room. Each clerk picked up the cup which carried the letter of their surname; they sipped appreciatively, savouring the rich, honey-fused drink. This evening, however, Lesures felt like a stranger. They looked at him out of the corner of their eyes and he could see that they wished him elsewhere.

‘Are we to attend the funerals?’ he asked.

‘Chapler was an acquaintance,’ Alcest retorted. ‘But he was not a friend. I don’t like Southwark and I want to keep far away from Brother Athelstan and that drunken coroner.’

‘And Peslep?’ Lesures asked.

‘I suppose he’ll be buried in St Mary Le Bow,’ Napham replied. ‘We’ll pray for a priest to sing a chantry Mass and watch his body being tossed into the grave.’

‘You’re rather hard,’ Lesures stuttered.

‘It’s what Peslep would have wanted,’ Elflain responded. ‘I don’t think he believed in God so why should we make a mockery in death of what he made a mockery in life?’

Lesures was about to object when Ollerton staggered back, the pewter cup dropping from his hand, his face contorted in pain. He clutched at his throat and stomach.

‘Oh my God!’ he whispered. ‘Oh heaven and all the…!’ He slumped to his knees.

His companions hurried to assist but Ollerton, the pain so intense, drove them off with his hand before crashing face down to the floor. He lay there convulsing in agony. Alcest managed to secure him, gripping him under the shoulders. All he could do, whilst the others shouted and exclaimed around him, was try to control the terrible spasms which racked his friend’s body. Ollerton was already losing consciousness, eyes rolling back, mouth open, jaw tense, a long line of saliva drooling down his chin. He closed his eyes and coughed, his body shaking again. Suddenly he went rigid and then slack, head falling away, eyes and mouth half open. Alcest put him gently back on the floor. The others stared, horror-struck.

‘Don’t drink,’ Elflain whispered, putting his own cup back on the table.

‘Apoplexy?’ Lesures asked.

‘Apoplexy!’ Alcest sneered. He turned Ollerton’s face over; it was now a garish white, dark rings under the staring eyes. ‘This is no coup de sang. Ollerton has been poisoned.’

He edged across the floor and picked up the fallen cup, whose contents had now soaked into the floorboards. Alcest sniffed at the rim but realised the sweet honey taste could hide any potion. He went across to the jug.

‘You poured the cup, Lesures?’

‘I…’ The Master of the Rolls lifted his hand in alarm. ‘We should send for a physician,’ he wailed.

‘Unless,’ Alcest sneered, ‘you know one who can bring the dead back to life, Master Lesures, perhaps a priest would be better? One of the good brothers from St Bartholomew’s. I’d be grateful.’

Lesures took the hint and fled. Once the door closed behind him, the rest grouped round the corpse.

‘Three now!’ Napham whispered. ‘Three dead!’

Alcest was already going through the man’s wallet and purse.

‘Is that necessary?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Alcest snarled. And tonight, before the snooping coroner arrives, we visit his chambers.’

He paused at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Lesures hurried in, clutching a piece of parchment. He thrust this at Alcest. The clerk read aloud the riddle scrawled there.

‘“My second is the centre of woe and the principal mover of horror.”’ He glanced at his companions. ‘We are being hunted,’ he said. ‘Ollerton’s death will not be the last!’

CHAPTER 5

Athelstan was standing on the top of St Erconwald’s tower looking through a huge telescope. Bonaventure was talking to him but Cranston was calling from below. Athelstan opened his eyes; roughly woken from his dream, he gasped and looked around. Bonaventure was gone. The sunlight in the small window above his bed was fading. He swung his legs off the bed and realised that what had woken him was the knocking on the door below.

‘Father, Father, are you all right?’

Benedicta had now come into the kitchen.

‘I’m up here, Benedicta,’ Athelstan called, rubbing his face. ‘I went with the cat for a nap.’ He paused. ‘That’s witty,’ he whispered. ‘For a man just woken up.’

‘Athelstan, are you all right?’

The friar rose and looked down the ladder at Benedicta. She was dressed in a summer smock made of light green cloth. She had a small silver chain round her neck. Someone, probably one of the children, had made a daisy chain; she still had this over her jet-black hair. She had such a look of concern in her beautiful dark eyes that Athelstan’s heart skipped a beat. Deep in his soul he loved this widow, but never once would he dare tell her. I love you passionately, he thought, and ruefully recalled the advice of his novice master.

‘It’s not the body, Athelstan, that hungers, it’s the soul. Physical desire is like a flame. Sometimes it leaps up, at other times it burns low. The love of the soul, however, is a raging fire that is never quenched.’

‘Athelstan!’ Benedicta stamped her foot. ‘Have you lost your wits? You are staring at me!’

‘I was thinking.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I know what it’s going to be like in heaven.’

Benedicta sighed in exasperation. ‘Athelstan, the council will be meeting soon. You know what Watkin is like. If you’re not there, he’ll start saying Mass. We also have a visitor, a young woman, Alison Chapler. I didn’t know there was a corpse in the death house!’

Athelstan’s fingers flew to his lips and he groaned. ‘Oh Lord save us!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’d forgotten about that, Benedicta. I’ve been with Cranston. You know what it’s like.’

He hurried down the ladder, grasped Benedicta by the shoulder and gave her a kiss on each cheek.

‘What’s that for, Father?’

‘One day I’ll tell you. That poor woman.’

Athelstan quickly grabbed his stole and the phial of holy oils he kept in the cupboard in the far corner of the kitchen. He tightened the girdle round his robe and hurried out. The evening was a gorgeous one; the sun not so strong and bright whilst a refreshing breeze bent the grass and flowers in the cemetery. Crim the altar boy was having a pee in the corner just inside the gate.

‘Hello, Father!’ he called out over his shoulder.

‘Pull up your hose!’ Athelstan ordered. ‘I’ve told you not to do that in God’s acre.’

‘Sorry, Father, but the water-tippler gave me a free drink, cool and sweet it was. Where are you going, Father? I did chase the sow from your garden! It’s a good job you didn’t come earlier.’ Crim chattered on, ru

‘What?’ Athelstan paused. ‘And who was with her?’

‘I don’t know,’ the boy mumbled, his face crestfallen.