‘Must we?’ the sub-prior protested. ‘Brother, this day has proved hard enough.’

‘Please?’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Cranston. ‘The coroner is supposed to view the place of death.’

‘The King’s coroner has no jurisdiction in an abbey.’

Cranston stopped, grasped the sub-prior by the shoulder and gently turned him. ‘My friend,’ Cranston pushed his face close to Richer’s, ‘trust me on this if nothing else. I do have jurisdiction here for if the Lord Almighty John of Gaunt wants it, then that is the law!’

Richer swiftly apologized and led them across into the gloomy cemetery. He showed William Chalk’s grave with its raw mound of earth. Above it a wooden funeral cross on which were carved the former soldier’s name and date of death with the words: ‘Requiet in luce — Let him rest in light’, etched beneath a crude carving of a dragon-like creature.

‘Gilbert Hyde came here.’ Athelstan crouched. ‘He did what I am doing now.’ He then turned, straining his neck, his outline clear in the faint light. The assailant was undoubtedly a professional swordsman, a master-at-arms. He took Hyde’s head in one clear cut. ‘Come.’ Athelstan rose, pulling his cloak closer about him.

Richer, grumbling under his breath, led them out of the cemetery across the abbey and into Mortival meadow. The broad field now looked bleaker in the gloaming, the mist still swirled, crows called raucously from the trees. The wind had turned sharper, more vigorous tugging at hood and cloak; the frozen, icy grass scored their ankles.

‘A field of ghosts,’ Athelstan whispered.

They reached the watergate. Athelstan crouched to study the place where Hyde had died, his blood flecking the curtain wall.

‘Why was he here?’ He peered up at Richer. ‘Why was an old soldier armed with a sword down here at the watergate? To meet someone? Did his assailant come by boat, kill him then flee? Or did someone in the abbey follow him down here and strike the killing blow? Yet there were two assailants, I’m sure of that, two not one, but how did the assailants kill and escape?’ Athelstan couldn’t make out Richer’s face; the monk’s cowl and the poor light made it difficult to discern any expression. Athelstan touched the wall, then went through the watergate on to the mist-hung quayside, a bleak place especially with the black three-branched gallows soaring above them. Glowing braziers shed some light. Athelstan crouched, peering at the ground, scratching it with his fingernail, then he walked back stopping now and again to do the same. He swiftly recited the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’ and stood up.

‘Very well, I have seen enough. .’

The Wyvern Company, all four of them, were assembled in the beam-raftered, whitewashed refectory in the main guest house, a long room with a roundel window at the far end; lancet windows pierced one wall whilst a narrow hearth stoked with fiery logs stood in the centre of the other. The floor was covered with green supple rushes. A common trestle table ran down the centre of the refectory with benches either side. The former soldiers sat grouped at the top of the table, whispering amongst themselves as they shared a jug of ale and a platter of bread and cheese. They hardly moved when Richer entered and introduced Cranston and Athelstan. Rugged, hard men, all four looked what they were — veteran soldiers who’d served the god of war for many a year, their furrowed, clean-shaven faces burnt by sun and wind, narrow-eyed, thin-lipped, heads shorn. They ate and drank slowly, savouring every mouthful, eyes watchful. They were dressed alike in thick woollen jerkins and cambric shirts. War belts lay close to their soft, booted feet.

‘Well, my paladins of old, if you don’t want to stand as a courtesy for Holy Mother Church,’ Cranston leaned all his considerable bulk on the end of the table, ‘I suggest you do so for the King’s High Coroner, confidant of His Grace, John of Gaunt and former veteran of the illustrious King’s, not to mention his equally illustrious son Edward the Black Prince’s wars against the French.’ His voice rose. ‘By the grace of God, Sir John Cranston, Officer of the Crown.’

One of the company raised a badly-maimed hand, grunted and rose slowly to his feet; the rest followed. They all clasped Cranston’s now outstretched hand, nodded at Richer and Athelstan then sat down, their insolence barely concealed by their reluctant courtesy. Cranston took Athelstan to the other end of the table. He sat on the high stool with Athelstan and Richer either side, forcing the soldiers to turn and shuffle awkwardly towards them.

‘The day is dying,’ Cranston smiled, ‘and we are all waiting for the dark which comes sooner or later. Well, you know who I am. Who are you?’

Richer swiftly introduced the four former soldiers: Richard Mahant, Fulk Wenlock, Andrew Brokersby and Henry Osborne. Once he had their attention, Cranston briefly described what had happened in the city — the mysterious death of Kilverby and the disappearance of the Passio Christi. All four were shocked and surprised, although Athelstan suspected that since they’d already told the abbot such news would spread swiftly in an enclosed community.

‘It does not affect us really.’ Fulk Wenlock raised his right hand, the two forefingers savagely cut off at the stump. ‘The Passio Christi was surety for our comfortable quarters here, but I am sure my Lord of Gaunt will honour the Crown’s pledges.’

‘True, true,’ Cranston considered. ‘But where were you all yesterday — here?’

‘No,’ Wenlock retorted, ‘not all of us. Mahant and I left in the afternoon for the city.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Our business, Friar, but if you want to know to roister, to drink and I had petty business with a goldsmith in Poultry.’

‘His name?’

‘John Oakham.’

‘Which tavern did you lodge at?’

‘The Pride of Purgatory.’

‘I know it well,’ Cranston replied. ‘Large and sprawling. Minehost is famous for his stews.’

‘And you returned?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Late in the afternoon. We immediately heard the news of poor Ailward’s death.’

‘And you?’ Athelstan turned to Osborne and Brokersby. ‘Where were you when Hanep was murdered?’

‘Asleep in our beds, Friar.’

‘And when Master Hyde was murdered down near the watergate?’

‘We were here together.’ Osborne’s voice portrayed a strong burr. ‘We were eating a slice of venison pie and a dish of vegetables.’

‘So why was Hyde wandering Mortival meadow?’

‘We don’t know,’ Brokersby retorted, ‘nor do we know why Hanep was murdered out in the cemetery. For God’s sake, Priest,’ Brokersby brought his hand down flat against the table, ‘we truly don’t know. Hanep could never sleep; he loved to wander at night.’

‘That’s true,’ Richer intervened. ‘Master Hanep’s nightly pilgrimages around this abbey were well known.’

‘Yet both men were murdered,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘executed by a skilled swordsman. Indeed, Master Ailward may have been murdered by two assailants. Why?’

‘We don’t know,’ Wenlock spoke up, ‘we truly don’t. Matters between us were most amicable. We have served together for decades. We have fought, starved, been threatened and survived.’

‘We come from the same manor in Essex,’ Brokersby explained, ‘Leighton, on the way to Wodeford. We became master bowmen and joined the Company of Edward the Black Prince. We took the Wyvern as our livery. .’

‘Continue.’ Athelstan smiled.

Brokersby described how he and his companions, at least two score in number, fought in France under the Wyvern banner, about their allegiance to Prince Edward and their undying adoration of him. Athelstan warned Cranston with his eyes to remain silent, for these men needed little encouragement to wax lyrical about their exploits in the Poitiers campaign when they had shattered the power of France. Brokersby mentioned how he’d once been a scholar, a would-be cleric, educated in the local church of St Mary’s. Indeed, he added, he was writing his own chronicle of events. This caused surprise even amongst his companions. So, as darkness descended and the bells sounded for the next hour of divine office, the old soldiers reminisced. Athelstan listened and closely studied these grey-haired warriors with the archer braces still on their wrists. Once these were the scourge of France, men who feared no enemy. He also concluded that Mahant was their leader, Wenlock their adviser. More ale was supped. Cranston joined in with his own memories as Richer politely excused himself and withdrew. Once the Frenchman had closed the door behind him Cranston tapped the table for silence.