‘Do you suspect us?’ Wenlock asked, archly holding up his maimed hands. ‘Poor me who can no longer swing a sword?’
‘I never said that.’
‘We were in the city when Hyde and Hanep were murdered,’ Mahant added quietly, ‘and fast asleep when the fire started.’
‘Did William Chalk,’ Athelstan asked, ‘when he fell ill, did the good brothers give him ghostly comfort, shrive him?’
‘Richer often visited him but, as you know, the secrets of the confessional are inviolate.’
‘And Kilverby the merchant?’
‘He used to visit us when he brought the Passio Christi. In the end he let others do that and, when he did come, he avoided us. I don’t think he liked us. We were not particularly fond of him.’
Athelstan watched as the two Wyverns sauntered off. Several brothers then hurried into the cloisters carrying baskets. Athelstan stopped and questioned one, who informed him that as it was Sunday Abbot Walter would distribute alms, free bread and meat to the poor clustered before the main gate of the abbey as well as to others at the watergate. Athelstan, recalling earlier remarks about this, decided to follow them. He went first to the main gatehouse, waiting under its yawning arch until the brothers assembled with their baskets at the ready. He followed them through the postern door and was surprised at the throng gathered there. Peasants in their dirt-gained smocks and mud caked boots, men, women and children, their lean, furrowed faces full of desperation, eager to eat. Other outcasts crowded in: wandering beggars in their motley array of rags, hats and footwear; pilgrims, swathed in tattered weather-worn cloaks on which were pinned the rusting badges of the shrines they had visited – Walsingham, Canterbury, Hereford and even abroad to the famous Magdalene shrine at Vezelay in Burgundy or St Peter’s in Rome. Beyond these the lepers, clothed in their shrouds, every inch of flesh hidden by swathes of soiled bandages, clustered in a solitary group ringing hand bells or rattling clappers to warn away the rest. Athelstan took two baskets over to them. He blessed both lepers and food, trying not to be affected by the rank stench and the glimpse of scabbed skin. He distributed the bread, meat and fruit, ensuring that everyone received a portion. He smiled at the benedictions and thanks hissed through worm-eaten lips, talking to the lepers about the dangers of the road and the lives they led.
Athelstan moved away and looked around. At first he could see little amiss until the latecomers, hooded and visored, arrived. About a dozen in all, they appeared quickly, took the baskets specially brought out for them and left. Intrigued, Athelstan decided to visit the quayside. He strolled through the now busy precincts and down across Mortival meadow. Outside the watergate another group of monks were dispensing Marymeat and Marybread. Fewer beggars congregated here, most of them destitute river people clutching their rags tightly against the bitter cold. They reeked of stale fish, dirty water and sweat. Athelstan moved amongst them. He felt both guilty and angry at his church and about the way the world was. He felt the fury well within him as it did sometimes in his own parish at the sheer injustice of it all. No wonder the Upright Men gathered to plot and the Great Community of the Realm, brimming with discontent, moved out of the shadows. Why shouldn’t they have their day of doom, fire and sword, revolt and savage attack? Athelstan turned away, blinking, shaking his head at the furious thoughts which pelted his soul. He blamed himself. Perhaps he should be more active and support the Upright Men, give his blessing to the likes of Pike and Watkin. Athelstan then glimpsed the gallows gaunt against the lowering sky, the fragments of rope attached to a hook fluttering in the breeze. Athelstan closed his eyes and recited the first verse of psalm fifty – that is why he never supported them! No matter the misery now, what the Great Community plotted would only make matters worse. The revolt would be crushed. The Lord of the Soil would dominate. They’d whistle up men like Mahant and Wenlock, professional soldiers, killers to the bone, to crush all dissent. Every gallows from here to the Wash would be heavy with corpses.
‘Brother, take care,’ Athelstan apologized to the fisherman he bumped into. The quayside was now very busy. He also noticed the new arrivals, similar to those grouped at the main abbey gateway. He was sure they were envoys from the Upright Men sent to collect purveyance by their masters; they picked up the special baskets and carried them to a waiting barge manned by four oarsmen. Such was the way of the world, Athelstan reflected. Abbot Walter was paying service to the emerging threat with special provisions for those who lurked away from the light. Athelstan approached Brother Simon, whom he’d first met after the fire in Brokersby’s chamber. The friar indicated with his head at the group he’d noticed.