Bloodstone(85)

The young woman just stared back, tears welling in her eyes.

‘Sir Robert, guided by the subtle Richer, decided to do penance.

‘Surely,’ Kinsman Adam broke in, ‘Sir Robert would not be so easily influenced.’

‘Why not?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Read the “Liber” and you’ll see the long litany of curses and their effects. As I have said, Richer could not only point to Kilverby’s life, the death of his first wife, his second marriage and Crispin’s blindness, but to the Wyverns. They told me they had no families; their wives and children now lie cold in the clay. A curse? Surely! Not to mention Chalk’s illness and Wenlock’s maimed hands. Were the rest any better? Hanep, unable to sleep, wandering the abbey at night? Brokersby feeding himself on opiates? Richer may have included the dotage of the old King, the fate of his son the Black Prince who contracted that malevolent disease in Spain and wasted away, leaving the kingdom to a mere child.’

‘Not to mention the failure of the war in France,’ Cranston added mournfully.

‘Richer could,’ Athelstan continued, ‘argue all this was due to the bloodstone. Sir Robert had all the evidence he needed. He decided to bribe Abbot Walter to send back the plunder taken from St Calliste. He also paid for a copy of the “Liber” to be made. He was making it very clear how, before he left England on his pilgrimage of reparation, he would return the bloodstone, not to its rightful owners outside Poitiers, but at least to another Benedictine abbey.’ Athelstan paused, picked up the quill pens and examined them carefully. He wondered if Crispin already suspected what he was going to say. ‘You, Crispin,’ Athelstan glanced up, ‘hoped to join your master on his journey; a lifetime of love and loyalty merited companionship on such a pilgrimage but your sight is failing after years of poring over Kilverby’s ledgers and account books. You were already receiving treatment from Prior Alexander with all the skills and knowledge he’d learnt as the abbey infirmarian. He actually achieved very little. So, instead of going with your master or even staying here in this comfortable mansion, Sir Robert, thinking he was acting kindly, insisted on you taking up a corrody at St Fulcher’s.’

‘I accepted that.’

‘Nonsense, Crispin, you only pretended to. You’d served as a novice at St Fulcher’s. You hated that place. You also grew to hate your master for giving you such short shrift after decades of loyal and faithful service. Hatred is the soil where murder thrives as vigorous as any shrub. Into that midnight garden wormed the serpent Richer. Sir Robert must have told him all about you. Richer was pleased. He wanted the Passio Christi either to be given to him or returned directly to St Calliste. On that, however, Sir Robert was insistent: the bloodstone would not leave England.’

‘Yes, yes, you are correct,’ Alesia broke in. ‘My father told me that the bloodstone should be handed back to its rightful owner yet he was fearful of the Lord Regent’s wrath falling on me if he fled to France with the bloodstone.’

‘Quite so,’ Cranston declared from where he stood near the door. ‘The Crown’s lawyers would have spun a fine tangled trap of treason.’

‘Richer turned to you, Master Crispin,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Only God and you know what was offered: a huge bribe, freedom to settle down quietly in France, not to mention the opportunity of exacting revenge on your hard-hearted master who apparently no longer cared for you? Oh, Richer was cunning and devious. He would smear all that with righteousness. He would argue how Sir Robert should be rightfully punished for his share in what had happened. You, Crispin, would not only be the divine instrument for that but also do great good. You would return the bloodstone to its rightful home. Unbeknown to Sir Robert, you and Richer secretly plotted his murder.’

‘Murder?’ Crispin protested. ‘Me, how can I buy poisons?’

‘I never said you did. Richer gave them to you. He was sub-prior in an abbey where the abbot was lost in his own concerns, where the prior was pliable as soft clay in the potter’s hands. St Fulcher’s is a treasure house of potions and powders. Either on the eve of St Damasus when he visited here or sometime before, Richer handed over these poisons to you: hemlock, henbane, nightshade or the juice of almond seed, perhaps all four. You certainly knew their properties.’

‘I do not.’

‘Yes, you do. I have studied the muniments at St Fulcher’s. You are left-handed, Crispin, a matter I shall return to. When you were a novice, the master was frustrated by this, he would not allow you to work in the library, scriptorium or chancery so you became an assistant to the abbey apothecary.’