‘That’s impossible!’
‘Of course it is,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘How many of these items have now been returned to St Calliste?’ He closed the book. ‘Prior Alexander, stop looking offended, it’s not honest. Sit down.’ Athelstan rejoined Cranston. ‘I shall tell you what happened,’ Athelstan continued. ‘The Wyvern Company’s plunder was handed over to the Crown within a year because all the items were sacred. They were then granted to St Fulcher’s, some twenty-three years ago.’ Athelstan tapped the book. ‘You cannot erase or change these entries. A few years ago the Abbot of St Calliste decided it was time to get his property back. Did he exchange gifts with you, Abbot Walter? Or was it bribes?’ Athelstan asked. ‘So that his beloved nephew Richer, the skilled copyist and illuminator, could visit St Fulcher’s on an extended course of study? He would definitely work for this privilege, being given the position of Sub-Prior.’ Athelstan stared at the Frenchman who looked relaxed but poised. ‘I cannot prove this but the Abbot of St Calliste also learned as he would through the chatter and gossip of his order, how the remnants of the Wyvern Company were now at St Fulcher’s. What an excellent opportunity! What a prize! To recover everything lost as well as wreak vengeance on the sacrilegious English who’d dared plunder the great Abbey of St Calliste with such impunity.’
‘Are you, yet again,’ Richer demanded, ‘accusing me of murder? Where is your proof, your evidence?’
‘Seeds grow, stalks thrust up,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Gathering time always comes, Richer. You definitely arrived here to right a whole series of wrongs and, to begin with, God was good. You must have even thought St Benedict himself had intervened on your behalf.’
‘Explain!’
‘You know full well. One of the Wyverns, William Chalk, fell ill; a defrocked priest, he desperately wanted to make his peace with God. You Richer, with Prior Alexander’s connivance, wormed your way into that man’s soul. I am not accusing you of breaking the seal of confession but you used the second miracle which presented itself. Kilverby was also undergoing conversion. Like the subtle cozener you are, you struck hard and fast. Kilverby realized that the free company he’d financed in France were sacrilegious thieves and he’d profited from them. Worse was to come. He learnt that the Passio Christi, the sacred bloodstone, had been blasphemously stolen and he was also part of that. He was under God’s doom.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I admit, I confess. I still do not fully understand Kilverby’s motives.’
‘I am sorry?’ Prior Alexander’s voice seemed hoarse and dry.
‘Richer, you are persuasive. Kilverby had his doubts but something other than your honeyed words influenced both him and Master Chalk.’
Richer half-smiled, as if he was playing a chess game and was acknowledging a cunning opponent.
‘Anyway.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘Kilverby asked what could he do? He distanced himself from the Wyvern Company. He probably promised you the bloodstone. Of course all this did not happen at once. I suspect it took almost the first two years of your stay, Richer, before you were able to reap your hidden harvest and send it home.’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the abbot and his woman; their fearful faces showed he was close to the truth.
‘Which was what?’ Prior Alexander asked.
‘Oh, you all know. Kilverby offered reparation of a different kind; influenced by Richer, he made very generous donations to this abbey on one condition.’
‘Which was?’ Prior Alexander whispered.
‘All the goods plundered from St Calliste were to be gradually returned. You, Abbot Walter, agreed to this in order to swell the coffers of your beloved kinswoman. Prior Alexander, you cooperated out of your great love for Richer . . .’
‘I . . .’
‘Please, Brother, why lie? What you feel is not my business.’ Athelstan pointed at the Frenchman. ‘Richer, you were delighted. You weren’t sending messages home but the objects listed in this ‘Book of Gifts’: cruets, crucifixes, sacred items not to be entrusted to simple river folk but specially selected emissaries who, with Prior Alexander’s full connivance, you met with on your visits to the city. I’m sure most of these objects are now gone.’
‘We could prove . . .’ Prior Alexander protested but his voice faltered.
‘What?’ Athelstan moved in his chair. ‘How you still have these items? Of course you could produce a crucifix, cruets, a triptych and claim they were those from St Calliste. One chalice looks like another, yes, but,’ Athelstan tapped the ledger, ‘give me the “Liber Passionis Christi”.’ His invitation was greeted with silence. ‘Well,’ Athelstan declared, ‘where is the Book of the Passion of Christ? I suspect it’s a manuscript written by Pope Damasus – yes? This too has gone back to France. Richer gave it to some trusted envoy on a foreign ship, well?’