‘My father was much loved.’

‘Mistress, we all are, once we are dead.’

‘Sir John. .’

‘Don’t “Sir John” me,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Are the seals on Sir Robert’s chamber still unbroken?’

‘Of course.’

‘Why didn’t he want to take the Passio Christi himself to St Fulcher’s?’

‘We have answered that,’ Alesia replied. ‘My father grew tired, weary of it all. He was old. The journey, especially during winter, was hard.’

‘No.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘It was more than that.’

‘If it was we didn’t know. He didn’t tell us.’

‘Is that so, Master Crispin? By the way, why was the bloodstone taken at Easter and on the feast of St Damasus?’

‘Well, Easter celebrates Christ’s Passion and Resurrection; the bloodstone was said to have originated during those three days.’

‘And St Damasus?’

‘A pope of the early church who wrote an extensive treaty on the Passio Christi, its origins, power and the miracles it worked.’

‘And where’s that?’

Crispin blew his cheeks out. ‘Still held by the monks of St Calliste near Poitiers, or so I believe but,’ he hurried on, ‘that’s why Damasus’ feast day was chosen.’

‘There is something very wrong here,’ Cranston declared. ‘Item,’ he emphasised his points with his fingers. ‘Sir Robert, God assoil him, was a hard-headed merchant. Years ago he financed the Wyverns, a marauding free company in France. He took a share of their plunder. Yes?’

No one objected.

‘Item: He held the Passio Christi for years. He’d heard the accepted story but he must have also entertained the accepted doubts. Item: Sir Robert also knew the Wyverns for years? He apparently suffered no scruples. But then, during his visits to St Fulcher’s, he radically changes. He cannot tolerate the Wyverns.’

‘The influence of Richer,’ Alesia broke in.

‘Mistress, with all due respect — nonsense. A young French monk from St Calliste? Your father was a very shrewd merchant. He would expect Richer to be biased. No.’ Cranston returned to his argument. ‘Item: Sir Robert was influenced, like the astute man he was, by something he didn’t realize before, hence all my questions.’

‘True, true.’ Alesia sighed. ‘Recently, I’d often come into my father’s chamber. He’d be sitting at his chancery desk, nibbling as he so often did at the plume of his pens, the other hand smoothing the wood. He’d be lost in thought as if he was experiencing a vision.’

‘What was that vision?’ Cranston asked.

The household just stared back at him, shaking their heads.

Cranston shuffled his feet. He was finished here. He felt he had only been told what they wanted to tell him. He rose, gathered his possessions and insisted on checking the seals on Kilverby’s chamber. Crispin took him there. The coroner scrutinized the large wax blobs bearing the imprint of the city arms. Flaxwith, as usual, had done a thorough job. The chamber and all the mysteries it held was still securely sealed. Crispin escorted him out but, just before he opened the main door, Cranston grasped the clerk’s arm.

‘The Passio Christi, could it be sold on the open market?’

‘No.’ Crispin gently freed himself from Cranston’s grip. ‘What buyer could ever realize gold and silver on it? He’d certainly risk detection. If he took it abroad the same would happen. Sir John, no merchant would risk sacrilege by buying a sacred relic owned by another, especially the likes of His Grace, John of Gaunt.’

Cranston grunted his agreement and donned both hat and cloak. He strolled out into the icy darkness, smiling to himself as Crispin slammed the door noisily behind him. The coroner had only walked a few paces from the main gate, the porter’s farewells ringing in his ears, when a group of hooded, masked men burst out from an alleyway, sconce torches held high. Cranston threw his cloak back, drew sword and dagger, quickly edging round to have the wall against his back.

‘Good evening. Not me, gentlemen, surely,’ he said hoarsely. ‘The King’s own coroner? Not here where I will cry “Harrow” and rouse the good citizens.’

The men, five in all, formed an arc blocking his way. None had drawn their weapons.

‘Sir John, Sir John, my Lord Coroner.’ The voice of the man in the middle was gentle. ‘Pax et bonum, sir. We have no quarrel with you — well, not yet, not here.’

‘So you’ve come to praise me, to wish me well?’ Cranston raised both sword and dagger. ‘Who are you — envoys from the Upright Men?’

‘Two items, Sir John. The Dominican Athelstan. He’s at St Fulcher’s because of the deaths of those former soldiers?’

‘Yes.’

‘And their assassin?’

‘We don’t know who yet, perhaps you or someone you’ve hired.’

‘Everybody is for hire and yes, we have friends in St Fulcher’s but they know little.’

‘So why ask me?’

‘For our own secret purposes as well as to assure ourselves that the Dominican is safe. His parishioners. .’

‘You mean your adherents who happen to be his parishioners?’

‘His parishioners are worried. They want to be assured that he’s there for a good purpose. Rumour has it that His Satanic Grace, our so-called Regent, has exiled him.’

‘That’s nonsense.’

‘We have your word on that? Athelstan’s parishioners do seek reassurance.’

‘You have my word, now get out of my way.’

‘Secondly, Coroner,’ the man’s voice remained conversational, ‘we would like you to take a message to my Lord Abbot.’

‘Go hire Mulligrub or Snapskull. I’m not your scurrier.’

‘Please tell our Lord Abbot when you meet him that his payments are long overdue.’

‘Payments for what?’

‘He’ll know and, I guess, so do you, Sir John. We bid you goodnight.’ The five men swiftly withdrew back up the alleyway.

Cranston remained where he was — pursuit would be highly dangerous. He sheathed his weapons and stared up at the sky. He certainly would have words with Lord Walter. As for those rapscallions at St Erconwald’s, they wanted reassurance? Well, Cranston smiled to himself, tomorrow was Sunday and such reassurance would be his gift.

Athelstan spent the remainder of the Saturday before the third Sunday Advent recovering from that mysterious attack. Immediately after that he had met the rest of the Wyverns, who said they’d been looking for him to invite him to a game of bowls. Athelstan reluctantly agreed, studying them carefully. He quickly concluded that the would-be assassin could not be one of them. It would have been impossible for any of them to launch such an attack, dispose of both cloak and arbalest and hurry round to appear with the rest outside the guest house. This conviction deepened as he played bowls, using all his skill to shatter the pins carved in the shape of demons and hell-sprites. Wenlock’s hands were too maimed to hold a crossbow whilst the rest, when questioned about their archery, proudly scoffed about using ‘a woman’s weapon such as an arbalest’.

‘The Genoese tried to use them at Crecy,’ Mahant explained after a particularly skilful throw. ‘Clumsy and unreliable, they were. We have our war bows, our quivers, yard long shafts and bracers, none of us would trust such a weapon.’ He clapped his hands against the cold and stared down at Brokersby putting up the pins.

‘Why these questions, Brother? We are glad you joined us yet you seem agitated. Has something happened?’

Athelstan shook his head. He made his excuses and wandered off into Mortival meadow. The river mist was thickening muffling even the cawing of the rooks and the strident calls of the many magpies who flashed in a blur of black and white. The grass was still frozen, the ground hard as iron. Athelstan walked down to the watergate. He paused where Hyde’s corpse had been found and studied the bloody spots and flecks he had noticed earlier. He opened the watergate and followed the path he’d taken previously. The smattering of blood along the quayside had disappeared. Athelstan stopped, staring out over the river; here and there misty glows of moving light showed where barges and boats made their way through the gloom. Cries and shouts echoed eerily. Athelstan listened for other sounds. He heard a clatter and whirled round, moving away from the edge of the quayside, but the noise was only the gate creaking in the strong breeze. ‘I wonder,’ Athelstan murmured, recalling what he’d learnt. He made his way back across Mortival meadow and into the abbey precincts where he asked directions from a wizened old lay brother. Chattering like a sparrow on the branch, the monk took him round to the barbican, an ancient, slate-roofed squat tower which served as the armoury. Athelstan pushed the door open; the ground floor was deserted. He glanced around. Weapons glimmered in the glow of a tallow candle, all neatly stacked in barrels and war chests: swords, daggers, halberds, a few maces, war bows, quivers of arrows, shirts of chain-mail, conical helmets, small targes, shields and, hanging on wall-hooks, a range of arbalests and crossbows. Athelstan made his way in. The room smelt of oil, iron and fire smoke. He stood, warming his fingers over a chafing dish, listening to the silence. The air was thick with dust. Athelstan sneezed loudly and a young lay brother, eyes heavy with sleep, tumbled down the stairs leading to the upper storey. The monk stopped halfway down, peering at Athelstan.