‘The Genoese tried to use them at Crecy,’ Mahant explained after a particularly skilful throw. ‘Clumsy and unreliable, they were. We have our war bows, our quivers, yard long shafts and bracers, none of us would trust such a weapon.’ He clapped his hands against the cold and stared down at Brokersby putting up the pins.
‘Why these questions, Brother? We are glad you joined us yet you seem agitated. Has something happened?’
Athelstan shook his head. He made his excuses and wandered off into Mortival meadow. The river mist was thickening muffling even the cawing of the rooks and the strident calls of the many magpies who flashed in a blur of black and white. The grass was still frozen, the ground hard as iron. Athelstan walked down to the watergate. He paused where Hyde’s corpse had been found and studied the bloody spots and flecks he had noticed earlier. He opened the watergate and followed the path he’d taken previously. The smattering of blood along the quayside had disappeared. Athelstan stopped, staring out over the river; here and there misty glows of moving light showed where barges and boats made their way through the gloom. Cries and shouts echoed eerily. Athelstan listened for other sounds. He heard a clatter and whirled round, moving away from the edge of the quayside, but the noise was only the gate creaking in the strong breeze. ‘I wonder,’ Athelstan murmured, recalling what he’d learnt. He made his way back across Mortival meadow and into the abbey precincts where he asked directions from a wizened old lay brother. Chattering like a sparrow on the branch, the monk took him round to the barbican, an ancient, slate-roofed squat tower which served as the armoury. Athelstan pushed the door open; the ground floor was deserted. He glanced around. Weapons glimmered in the glow of a tallow candle, all neatly stacked in barrels and war chests: swords, daggers, halberds, a few maces, war bows, quivers of arrows, shirts of chain-mail, conical helmets, small targes, shields and, hanging on wall-hooks, a range of arbalests and crossbows. Athelstan made his way in. The room smelt of oil, iron and fire smoke. He stood, warming his fingers over a chafing dish, listening to the silence. The air was thick with dust. Athelstan sneezed loudly and a young lay brother, eyes heavy with sleep, tumbled down the stairs leading to the upper storey. The monk stopped halfway down, peering at Athelstan.
‘Ah, er, what . . .?’ He rubbed his smutty face and came down. ‘I was asleep. You’re the abbot’s guest, aren’t you? What do you . . .?’
‘I have a question for you.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Weapons are distributed from here?’
‘Only with the prior’s approval.’
‘But someone could come here when you are otherwise engaged and help themselves?’
‘But who would do that in an abbey?’
‘Have any weapons been recently distributed or taken?’
‘Oh no, just the execution party who escorted the felon down to the watergate. They carried staves.’
‘Has anyone taken an arbalest?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? Have you taken a tally?’ Athelstan patted the young man on the arm. ‘Would you please make careful search and tell me if anything is missing? I suspect there is.’ With the lay brother’s assurances ringing like a chant, Athelstan left the barbican. He continued on past different brothers now hurrying to prepare the sanctuary for the Sunday Masses. Athelstan decided to wander, observe and reflect. He found himself out in the main garden and stood watching the wavering wisps of mist. Were the souls of the departed like that? he wondered. Did Hanep and Hyde still hover here unwilling to journey into the light? Did they press his soul? Did they see him as their avenger? He walked across the grass and stood at the entrance to the great maze. The privet hedges, all prickly and leaf-shorn at the height of winter, rose like walls of sharp points at least eight feet high. The trackway into the maze was pebble-dashed, deliberately uncomfortable for all those who wished to crawl on hands and knees to the Pity in the centre. A fascinating puzzle, a place of mystery with its labyrinthine branching paths, Athelstan was tempted. He entered, stopped, then murmured a prayer. He should be more prudent. A twig snapped, sharp and abrupt. Athelstan turned and strolled quickly back. He panicked. The entrance was not where it should be. He paused, remembering how he’d turned left coming in so he must always walk to the right on his return. He did so and sighed with relief when he glimpsed a stretch of frost-gripped lawn. He pulled up his cowl, strolled out then stifled a scream as two figures abruptly emerged from the mist.
‘Good day, Brother Athelstan, we glimpsed your black and white robes.’