‘A full confession,’ Cranston came up and softly placed both hands on Crispin’s shoulders, ‘and the return of the bloodstone and you can expect a swift, merciful death. Your soul purged of all sin.’

Crispin swallowed hard. He tried to speak but couldn’t form the words.

‘Please,’ Alesia pleaded, ‘for any love you have for me, Crispin, confess because the odds press heavily against you.’

Crispin bowed his head and sobbed, a heart-rending sound. Athelstan steeled himself. This man had deliberately and maliciously killed another human being. He had betrayed his master who, despite all his faults, had meant him well.

Crispin lifted his head. ‘It is,’ he confessed, ‘as you say. .’

Athelstan sat in the inglenook of ‘The Port of Paradise’, an ancient tavern which, Cranston claimed, was built in the time of the present King’s great, great grandfather. A claim, Athelstan stared round, which he would not challenge. The lowering beams of the tap room were black with age, the onions and cheeses hanging in nets from these exuded a tangy smell which offset the stench of gutted fish drying outside the main door. Athelstan bit into the freshly baked manchet loaf smeared with honey and sipped at the ale which the barrel-bellied Minehost had proclaimed to be the best in London.

‘In which case I’d hate to taste the worst,’ Athelstan whispered, putting the blackjack on the floor beside him. Cranston had promised he wouldn’t be long. Athelstan stretched his hands out to the blaze. The leaping flames in the great hearth reminded him of the Passio Christi. Crispin had confessed and then, with Cranston as his guard, had gone down into the garden at the rear of the mansion where he had cunningly hidden the bloodstone amongst a pile of ancient sacking.

‘Beautiful,’ Athelstan murmured to himself. He’d handled the bloodstone, big as a duck’s egg, as Cranston had described it. Turning the ruby Athelstan had marvelled at what appeared to be shooting flames of fire within; these caught the light and dazzled even more. Athelstan was wary of most relics. He’d seen the most ludicrous venerated, the worst being a pile of straw miraculously preserved from the stable at Bethlehem. For all his scepticism Athelstan had appreciated the sheer beauty of the bloodstone. Its unique glow alone would convince many that it had been formed by Christ’s precious blood and sweat. Athelstan had returned it to its coffer, nestling the ruby amongst the soft blue samite. Crispin had then repeated his confession which virtually agreed with every aspect of Athelstan’s bill of indictment. Crispin also admitted that his mind had been turned by his intense dislike of St Fulcher’s, the powerful resentment he felt against Sir Robert and how subtly Richer had played on this.

‘Once Richer died. .’ Crispin paused at the exclamations this provoked from the rest of the household.

‘Oh, yes,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Richer has gone to a higher judge in a way he did not expect.’

‘Whatever his death,’ Crispin continued muttering as if to himself, ‘he deserved it. Now he is gone what can I do?’

‘All finished.’

Athelstan glanced up. Cranston towered over him, his head and face almost hidden by the great beaver hat and the folds of his cloak.

‘Crispin is lodged in Newgate and the bloodstone lies in the great iron chest at the Guildhall.’

‘But the bloodstone,’ Athelstan added, getting to his feet, ‘has not yet finished its work. We must now confront the act which began this bloody mayhem, “the Radix Malorum — the Root of all these Evils”.’

As soon as Athelstan returned to the abbey, he sent Cranston with two archers to bring Wenlock to his chamber. The veteran had apparently recovered from his belly gripes, the colour returning to his ruddy face. He was dressed for travelling in thick woollen jerkin and leggings, riding boots on, his maimed hands hidden by gauntlets.

‘Sit down,’ Athelstan ordered, ‘you’ll be going nowhere, Master Wenlock, except to Newgate then on to be hanged at Smithfield. Don’t lie,’ Athelstan ordered, ‘but sit and listen. Take off your gauntlets, Wenlock, that’s right; let us see your maimed hands. You were caught by the French?’

Wenlock, eyes watchful, glanced over his shoulder at Cranston standing by the door.

‘You know I was,’ he retorted.

‘You were punished, maimed for being an English master bowman,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Did you and your coven see this as just punishment for stealing the Passio Christi?’

‘I did not. .’

‘You did,’ Athelstan retorted flatly. ‘Your story about finding a cart near St Calliste piled high with treasure, its escort having fled, is a lie. Many have regarded it as such, but now we have the truth. Wenlock, you stole that bloodstone. You pulled it out of its tabernacle, out of its shrine. You stole that and the “Liber Passionis Christi”, probably chained to a nearby lectern together with other sacred items. Your later capture and maiming by the French may have provoked some fears in you and your company. Wenlock, I have read the “Liber”: it curses any sacrilegious act against the bloodstone. The “Liber” boldly proclaims, with fitting examples from its past, how the hands of such a perpetrator would wither like dry leaves. Look at your hands, Wenlock, they have shrivelled. You lost your skill as a master bowman though I suspect you have enough grip, perfected over the years, to wield a dagger or club.’

Wenlock stared above Athelstan’s head, lips moving as if memorizing something.

‘Matters changed when you came to St Fulcher’s, even more so when Richer arrived here as sub-prior. He was ruthlessly dedicated to recovering all the property stolen from St Calliste. He was well placed to do this because he had at his disposal a looted item which you probably overlooked, the “Liber Passionis Christi”. Kilverby also came here. He was vulnerable, growing old, becoming frightened of impending judgement. Using the “Liber” as evidence, Richer converted that merchant but then seized on an even greater prey, your old companion William Chalk.’

Wenlock just snorted derisively.

‘I am sure that’s how Richer regarded Chalk,’ Athelstan countered, ‘a defrocked priest, a man growing old and fearful. Richer counsels Chalk. He shows him the curses against those who have sinned against the bloodstone. Chalk may have even come to see his own malignant disease as God’s judgement on him. In the end Chalk confesses. Of course Richer is protected by the seal of confession but I suspect Chalk began to chatter. The sub-prior certainly used Chalk to influence Kilverby; he hoped the same would happen amongst your coven with all their memories and hidden guilt. You, Wenlock, the recognized counsellor of the Wyverns, sensed the danger now emerging. Chalk and Kilverby were both victims of Richer’s subtlety — who would be next? Who knows? Richer might eventually persuade Brokersby, Hyde or Hanep to go in front of a King’s officer, Sir John Cranston or any other Justice and, on surety of being pardoned or even rewarded, confess what really happened at St Calliste so many years ago. Of course your story about finding that cart was always doubted but matters would radically change if a full confession was made. Once one of your coven did that, others would soon follow. They would swear that you, not them, stole the Passio Christi; perhaps you were helped by Mahant and only protected by the others. In the end you know how such matters proceed?’

Wenlock simply smiled to himself.

‘In the final conclusion,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you’d be cast as the thief, your maimed hands as proof of divine judgement. Once such a confession was made public, the church would declare you excommunicate and insist that the Crown use the full rigour of the law against you. His Grace the Regent would, despite any personal feelings, be forced to act or suffer similar ecclesiastical punishment.’