‘Monk?’

‘Friar, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I thought these might be tainted but they’re not. Anyway, the Passio Christi?’

‘The Passion of Christ.’ Cranston glanced at the wine jug and smacked his lips.

‘I wouldn’t, Sir John.’

‘True.’ Cranston sighed. ‘Well, the Passio Christi or the Passion of Christ is a precious bloodstone. When Christ died on the Cross, drops of his blood and sweat trickled down to miraculously form a precious ruby. Joseph of Arimathea took this sacred jewel and. .’ Cranston shrugged. ‘Well, it passed from hand to hand, from one generation to the next until it ended up in the Abbey of St Calliste near Poitiers in France. Now, after the Black Prince’s great victory there, a cart found near the abbey was plundered by one of those free companies who fought for the Crown, the Wyverns, a company both feared and fearful.’

‘I’ve heard of such companies,’ Athelstan intervened, chewing his lip. ‘I’ve also seen their handiwork,’ he added sadly, recalling his own youth.

‘Ah, well.’ Cranston continued in a rush, glancing at Athelstan out of the corner of his eye. He just prayed he was not stirring harsh, cruel memories in the little friar’s soul. ‘Now, a group of these Wyverns, master bowmen all, allegedly found the Passio Christi and claimed it as legitimate plunder of war. .’

‘But surely the abbey, the church objected?’

‘Oh, our noble archers were very cunning. They maintained they’d found the bloodstone, along with other precious items, in a cart on a trackway near the abbey. You know the proclamations, Athelstan. Let’s be blunt. You’ve served in France. Stealing from a church could earn you a hanging but something found on a cart in a country lane. .? Of course the good monks, their abbot and the local bishop could sing whatever hymn they wanted but, in this case, however fictitious their story might be, those who find do keep. Now, the bloodstone couldn’t be divided or kept by one of them whilst the Crown also demanded a share.’

‘The Wyverns would not be too pleased with that? As you said, those who find, do keep?’

‘Precisely. In the end an indenture was drawn up: the Passio Christi would be held by a responsible third party.’

‘In this case Sir Robert Kilverby?’

‘Correct. He would keep it safe and provide a pension, on behalf of the Crown, to the exchequer for each master bowman.’

‘How many?’

‘Oh, not the whole company — five or six I believe — only those who actually found the bloodstone.’ Cranston sighed. ‘If they survived military service, and they did, the former soldiers would also be provided with corrodies: comfortable lodgings at some great monastery. This occurred, in their case the Abbey of St Fulcher-on-Thames.’

‘And when they all died?’

‘Good question, Friar, for that may relate to our next mystery.’ Cranston shook a gauntleted hand. ‘All will be revealed in God’s good time. To answer your specific question, once all the finders of the bloodstone were dead, the precious relic would revert to the Crown who’d pay Kilverby, or his estate, one tenth of its market value as recompense for his good services.’

‘And why was it held here?’

‘Everyone trusted Kilverby. He was too rich to be tempted. Anyway, I believe the indenture was modified slightly so that twice a year he would show the Passio Christi to both the exchequer at Westminster as well as all relicts of the Wyvern Company residing at St Fulcher.’ Cranston squinted at Athelstan. ‘I am sure it was twice a year, at Easter and the Feast of St Damasus.’

‘Which is today.’

‘True, true.’ Cranston fidgeted on the stool.

‘And now something has also happened at St Fulcher’s.’

‘Horrid murder!’ Cranston retorted. ‘One of the Wyverns, Gilbert Hanep, was found headless near the grave of an old comrade.’

‘He was beheaded!’

‘Clean and neat as you would cut a flower.’

‘Why. .?’ Athelstan was interrupted by Physician Theobald storming into the chamber, in one hand a piece of bread in the other a cup of claret, which he downed in one gulp before glaring at Cranston.

‘Poison!’ he almost shouted. ‘Definitely poison, very powerful, water hemlock perhaps. So, my Lord Coroner, I’m done.’

‘Not yet.’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Good and learned physician, I want you to help us search this chamber for any trace of poison, be it smeared on a handle or anywhere else.’ He pointed at the chamber pot. ‘And you can re-examine that.’ Athelstan tapped the silver dish of comfits on the desk as well as the wine jug and loving cup. ‘You are to take these away and scrupulously search for any trace of poison.’ Athelstan caught a flicker of annoyance in the physician’s greedy eyes. ‘You’ll be paid. Now, my Lord Coroner, let us search.’

As they did so Athelstan asked Cranston to send for Flaxwith and to tell him about Kilverby and his family. Sir John, moving around the chamber, chattered about how he and the dead man were old acquaintances, though not quite friends. How he was one of the executors of Kilverby’s will, adding that in the event of Lady Helen not giving him a child, the bulk of the dead merchant’s wealth, including this fine mansion, would go to Sir Robert’s only daughter, the recently wedded Alesia.

‘Her husband is also a goldsmith,’ Theobald offered. ‘Sir Robert had ceased his trading days. He was getting ready to leave. .’

‘Leave?’

‘Aye. Leave all this in the trusting hands of Alesia and her husband Edmond Pulick whilst Sir Robert went on pilgrimage to Santiago, Rome and Jerusalem though, some say,’ Theobald lowered his voice, ‘he was fleeing from the hellish Helen and her shadow, kinsman Adam.’ He paused as Crispin knocked on the lintel and enquired how long they would have to wait in the solar.

‘For as long as it takes,’ Cranston snapped. ‘Send up Master Flaxwith; he’s filled his belly enough.’

‘Oh, by the way, Crispin,’ Theobald called, ‘your eyes?’

‘Just the same,’ the clerk replied. ‘We’re all growing old, master physician.’

Cranston waited for Crispin’s footsteps to fade then clapped his hands.

‘Friar, we’ve finished here, yes?’

‘We certainly have and found nothing,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘Only the wine, the flagon, cup and sweetmeats remain. Master Theobald, don’t forget to take them away.’

‘And eat them?’ the physician protested.

‘Nonsense.’ Athelstan laughed. ‘You have a cellar plagued by rats? Put the sweetmeats and the wine down there, you’ll soon discover if they are tainted. Oh, by the way, did you examine Kilverby’s fingertips?’

‘Nothing but ink and wine,’ the physician replied wearily. ‘No trace of any noxious potion.’

Flaxwith appeared in the doorway.

‘Ah, Flaxwith.’ Athelstan waited until the physician, carrying jug, goblet and silver bowl, stomped off, grumbling under his breath about payment. ‘Flaxwith, with Sir John’s permission, I want you, whilst we are questioning our hosts in the solar, to have this door repaired. Once it is, I want it locked, barred and firmly sealed with the Lord Coroner’s signet so that no one can enter. Do you understand?’

‘Athelstan?’ Cranston queried.

‘Nothing is to leave this chamber. No one is to enter once Sir John and I have adjourned to the solar. Come on.’ Athelstan waved. ‘Sir John, the hours pass.’

A short while later Cranston, Athelstan sitting beside him, stared round this wealthy family. Edmond Pulick had now joined Alesia. He was friendly-faced with sandy hair and a snub nose above a smiling mouth. Pleasant and discreet, Athelstan considered, though with sharp eyes. The precise way Pulick acted showed he was a merchant through and through, ready to assess and weigh everything in the balance. Athelstan studied the rest. Each nursed their own soul, which was full of what? God’s grace or murder, hatred, revenge or even just the love of killing? Certainly one of them was an assassin. Athelstan then smiled and mentally murmured ‘Mea culpa’ for his rushed judgement as Cranston’s first question revealed that others may well be involved.