‘You monks and priests have your liturgies and we have ours,’ Wenlock explained. ‘At the beginning of every battle the Wyverns always performed their dance; in the evening we did the same. You understand why?’
Athelstan nodded. When he and his brother had joined the King’s army he’d seen soldiers, veterans of the free companies, perform such dances.
‘But why now?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Because we are about to do battle.’
‘Against whom? Do you really suspect Richer?’
‘Why stop with him?’ Wenlock sneered. ‘Look around you, Friar, what do you see? Monks? Many of these hail from the farms, villages and shires around London. They know us, at least by reputation. Further up the river at All Hallows near Barking, the Upright Men gather to plot bloody treason.’
‘Don’t talk in parables.’ Athelstan drew closer.
‘We’re not. You asked us who wants us dead. Your fat friend Cranston has returned to the city to sniff around. You have remained here to do the same, so I’ll help you. We’re old soldiers. We have served our purpose. Go into the city and you’ll find others less fortunate than us,’ Wenlock, white froth staining his lips, held up his maimed hands, ‘starving at the mouth of every alleyway and filthy alcove. You ask us who wants us dead? Well, perhaps His Grace the Regent so that the Passio Christi, when it is found, will fall into his greedy hands. Or again there’s Abbot Walter, who’d like to see us ejected from his precious precincts even though, if need be, he would use us against the Upright Men should they attack this abbey. As for Richer – yes? He nurses grudges and grievances against us but there’s more.’ Wenlock paused, chest heaving, gesturing at Mahant to continue.
‘Wenlock and I have talked about this. Now Brokersby is gone and Osborne has disappeared, we thought we’d tell you. We have enemies within and without, Richer, even that anchorite. You and Cranston must have heard the rumours but let him tell you his tale. We have no blood on our hands as far as the anchorite’s concerned. We were only doing our duty.’ Mahant drew a deep breath. ‘As for the rest, the Upright Men and the Great Community of the Realm hate us. You see, Friar, before we came here we garrisoned the Tower, Rochester, Hedingham, Montfichet – indeed, all the castles around London. The shires seethe with unrest. You’ve heard about the uprisings, the attacks on houses like that at Bury St Edmunds and elsewhere? Well, to cut to the quick, the Wyverns were used by the Crown, the sheriffs, the abbots and other great lords to crush such revolts. We carried out our orders, as always, efficiently.’
‘Ruthlessly?’
‘Yes, Brother, ruthlessly. The royal banner was unfurled and the trumpets brayed. Any man, woman or child found in arms against us were either cut down or hanged out of hand.’
Athelstan nodded and walked over to a stone bench. The old soldiers joined him, sitting on either side.
‘We burnt their villages and farms,’ Wenlock continued. ‘We crammed their corpses into wells and springs.’ He paused, waiting for Athelstan to reply, but the friar just sat listening.
‘Don’t judge us, Brother! When the rebels burn Blackfriars and your parish church you’ll understand. True, we became hated. Undoubtedly here in this abbey we have shaven-pates, kinsmen of those we slaughtered, we know that. We’ve received dark looks, curses and spitting, signs made against the evil one and that includes Prior Alexander. We hanged one of his beloved kinsmen, no better than a hedge priest, a ranter on the common gallows outside Ospringe.’
‘So the Upright Men may have marked you down.’
‘Yes, and our Lord Abbot may well come to regret our stay. We suspect that, like many of the great lords, he’s raising Danegeld to bribe these traitorous bastards. Friar, you ask us who wants us dead? Well, we’ve given you a list. Be it John of Gaunt, some madcap monk or an assassin despatched by the Upright Men.’
‘And Osborne has fled the danger?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And Brokersby – did he take an opiate to sleep?’
Wenlock stood up and glanced down at Athelstan.
‘Brokersby took an opiate, some powder grains.’ He pulled a face. ‘Supplied by the infirmary.’
‘Did Brokersby ever keep oil in his chamber?’
‘No, why should he?’
‘Did he keep the night-candle lit?’
‘I think so.’ Mahant paused. ‘Brokersby, God assoil him, was frightened by the dark but more than that I cannot say.’ He waved at Wenlock. ‘We should go, perhaps into the city and search for Osborne there.’ He leaned down, his face so close Athelstan could smell the ale on his breath. ‘But we’ll not go today, brother, it’s Sunday. My Lord Abbot will be dispensing Marymeat and Marybread to the poor, or that’s how he describes it.’ Mahant adjusted his war belt.