‘Henry! Henry Osborne!’
Wenlock and Mahant appeared, stopped and called their comrade’s name again.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s Osborne,’ Wenlock gasped, pulling his cloak closer about him. ‘He has disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’
‘Disappeared, fled!’ Mahant snapped. ‘His chamber is empty; he’s packed his panniers and taken his weapons. He appears to have left long before first light.
‘Why should he do that?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘Why flee in the dead of night?’
‘Because he’s frightened,’ Mahant snarled. ‘Terrified. Hanep, Hyde and Brokersby – all slain.’
‘So you think Brokersby’s death was no accident?’
‘Of course not,’ Wenlock retorted. ‘Brother Athelstan, a short while ago we were all comrades enjoying the vespers of our life; now we’re being hunted in this benighted place.’
‘Why? By whom?’
‘For the love of God, we don’t know.’
‘Why do you think Brokersby was murdered?’
Mahant made to walk away.
‘If Osborne’s fled,’ Athelstan added, ‘you’ll hardly find him here, will you?’
‘No, no.’ Mahant sighed and came back. ‘We hoped he may have just panicked and be hiding close by.’
‘Father Abbot is the one who should organize such a search,’ Athelstan said. ‘You must see him – demand that this happen. Tell him that I too insist on it, but first,’ he plucked at Wenlock’s cloak, ‘my friends.’ Athelstan gestured towards the abbey buildings. ‘We need to talk but not here in the freezing cold.’
The two old soldiers agreed. Athelstan led them into the grey stone cloisters where they stood warming their hands over a brazier.
‘If Osborne has fled, where would he go? Does he have family, kin?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I suspect,’ Wenlock rubbed his hands, ‘he’s probably gone into the city to hide there, perhaps seek out comrades we didn’t know.’
‘But why should he give up such comfortable lodgings here?’
‘The cowl doesn’t make the monk, Brother Athelstan. Nothing here is what it appears to be. Never mind all the babbling to God and all the holy incense.’ Wenlock shook his head. ‘This has become a slaughter house for our company.’
‘But how would Osborne live?’
Both men shuffled their feet.
‘I think,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘each of you has his own private monies, the result of years of campaigning.’
‘You mean plunder, Brother? Yes, we all have that, some more than others.’
‘When I visited your comrade’s chambers I found very few coins,’ Athelstan offered. ‘You took their money, didn’t you? I wondered . . .’
‘Hanep and Hyde had little.’ Wenlock confessed rubbing his maimed hands over the brazier. ‘Of course we took whatever coins or precious objects they owned. Better us than our greedy abbot.’
‘Would Osborne have enough money to live on?’
‘Perhaps.’ Wenlock became evasive. ‘A skilled archer may still find employment.’
‘Let’s say he’s fled,’ Athelstan paused as a monk slipped by pattering his Ave beads, ‘because he was frightened. Others might allege that he was guilty of his comrades’ murder.’
‘Osborne would never kill one of his own,’ Wenlock replied in disbelief. ‘Why should he?’
‘True, I can’t think of any reason. Indeed, I can deduce no reason whatsoever for any of your colleagues being murdered. Can you? Has an ancient blood feud been invoked by someone here in the abbey or the city?’
‘None, Brother! We cannot think of any and, if there was, why now? Unless it’s the Passio Christi?’
‘What do you mean? Kilverby held that.’
‘He’s dead but the Passio Christi was, allegedly, once owned by the black monks. Richer is a Frenchman, a monk of St Calliste, which now claims it. He is a young man, vigorous, probably trained in arms but why should he murder us? That will hardly bring back the Passio Christi?’
‘I agree,’ Athelstan replied. ‘What about revenge, punishment?’
Athelstan let his words hang in the air. Busy warming his hands, he watched a solitary robin hop across the cloister garth, pecking furiously at the frost-laced grass. Incense and candle smoke wafted mixing with that from the bake house. Athelstan glanced back; both his companions had begun to hum a song, shuffling their feet in a slow dance and softly clapping their hands. Athelstan, surprised, stood back watching these two soldiers, lost in their own ritual, shuffle and clap as peasants would in a tavern celebrating their harvest. Mahant and Wenlock, eyes closed, moved clumsily to their own rhythm; the humming grew louder then faded away with both men throwing their hands up in the air and exclaiming, ‘Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia!’ The soldiers opened their eyes and turned back to the brazier, grinning at Athelstan.