‘Brother Athelstan, what is the matter?’
The friar turned, leaning his back on the door and stared at his rescuer. ‘God be thanked.’ Athelstan gasped. He crouched down, arms across his belly, trying to curb the panic seething within him. ‘Thank you!’ he murmured.
‘My friend.’ The monk knelt beside him.
Athelstan now recognized Odo from the infirmary.
‘What were you doing in our charnel house? I came into the church to set up the funeral trestles for poor Brokersby. I heard the clattering and your shouting. What happened?’
‘I was searching for the other one.’ Athelstan gasped again, now weak with shock. ‘Henry Osborne. I thought I’d search . . .’
‘Why look for the living amongst the dead?’ Odo helped Athelstan to his feet.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Brother Fidelis, who guards the postern door in the main gateway? Well,’ Odo gabbled on, ‘he is getting quite old. He does the nightly vigil and sleeps during the morning. Prior Alexander agreed to that. Anyway, Fidelis declared that Master Henry Osborne, with pack and fardle, weaponed like a man of war, left our abbey in the early hours of this morning. He did not say much. He demanded the postern be opened then he was gone, slipped through like a moon beam. So what happened in the charnel house?’
‘Nothing.’ Athelstan took a deep breath. ‘A frightening, macabre place; I panicked.’ Athelstan’s eye caught a wall painting celebrating the martyrdom of St Agnes. ‘I need to speak to the anchorite.’
‘He is not in his cell,’ Odo replied, stepping back. ‘On a Sunday he always goes for a walk. He says he likes to celebrate the day of the Lord’s resurrection in a garden.’
‘I am sure he does.’ Athelstan, now recovered from his shock, patted the dust from him. He was tempted to seek out his mysterious assailant but that would be fruitless. By now that ominously dark, threatening shape in the crypt would have fled.
‘Brother Athelstan, Brother Athelstan.’ A servitor came hurrying up the aisle, sleeves fluttering, breathlessly gesturing at the friar. ‘You must come!’ he gasped, pointing at the door. ‘The watergate!’
Athelstan hurried out. He reached Mortival meadow and stopped, speechless. The mist had thinned and there, cloak billowing out, beaver hat pushed slightly back and sipping from his miraculous wineskin, strode Cranston. The coroner was surrounded by a crowd of Athelstan’s parishioners who yelled their greetings and streamed across the frozen grass to meet him.
Once Athelstan had recovered from his surprise, staring speechlessly at a grinning Cranston, the parishioners were marshalled into some order. Prior Alexander appeared. He proved to be courtesy itself, offering the largest chantry chapel, that of St Fulcher’s, as a meeting place as well as promising that the abbey kitchens would prepare food for Athelstan’s guests in the refectory. At first, disorder and dissension reigned. Different parishioners grabbed Athelstan’s sleeve to catch his attention and divulge juicy morsels of gossip. How Watkin and Pike had got drunk; all pot-valiant they had challenged Moleskin to a fight calling him ‘a bald face coin-clipper’ until Tab the tinker and Crispin the carpenter had intervened. How the figures in the crib had been reorganized. Ursula’s sow had been attacked by Thaddeus, Godbless’ goat, and so on. Athelstan half listened to this, quietly relieved that both owners had not brought their animals with them.
The sheer magnificence of the abbey church soon reduced such chatter to ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of admiration. Huddle immediately disappeared to study the wall paintings whilst Tab lovingly caressed the polished carved oak. Ranulf the rat-catcher had brought his prize ferrets Ferox and Audax in their cage; he wandered off sniffing the air and poking into corners. Ranulf’s tarred pointed hood, his nose sharp above yellow jutting teeth, made the rat-catcher look even more like the rodents he hunted. Athelstan kept a sharp eye on Watkin, Pike, Moleskin and the rest, whose fingers positively itched at being surrounded by such wealth. He glimpsed Benedicta, who had donned her best cloak and hood of dark murrey lined with squirrel fur. Athelstan smelt her delicate perfume, a fragrance she once laughingly described as the best of Castile, a rare soap her husband had bought on his travels. Athelstan tried not to look into those dark eyes dancing with delight at seeing him again. One hand grasping his arm, Benedicta described how Cranston had appeared in the parish like God Almighty, organizing Moleskin and his St Andrew’s Guild of Bargemen to take them along the river to St Fulcher’s. They had all decided to go. Athelstan glanced around. He noticed with a twinge of bemused sadness how his little flock had also insisted on bringing the parish hand bell as well as the small coffer holding the Blood Book, the parish records and other important memoranda, not to mention the casket carrying the keys to the church, tabernacle, sacristy and parish chest. They apparently trusted no one! Benedicta quietly assured him all was well even as she studied him closely, flicking the dust from his robe and gently touching the slight cuts and bruises on his hands and face. Cranston joined him; his bonhomie faded as he too scrutinized the little friar from head to toe.