Murder most holy

He had wanted to be alone to pray and think during the quiet time between Vespers and Compline. Alcuin rubbed his face between his hands, lifting his head, once more staring up at the crucifix. This gave the assassin, who had slid up behind him, the opportunity he needed to wrap the garrotte string round Alcuin’s thin, scrawny throat. For a few seconds the sacristan struggled violently but the noose tightened and, with the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears Alcuin died before he could cry out, whisper a prayer or whisper the name of his old friend Athelstan.

    On the corner of the stinking alleyway opposite St Erconwald’s, another person stood, staring at the sombre, gloomy mass of the church. He too wondered about past sins and God’s imminent vengeance and justice. The watcher kept close to the urine-stained wall. He ignored the beggar whining behind him, shifting his feet now and again as foraging rats slipped out of the crevices in the wall to hunt amongst the reeking piles of offal and muck.
    From a window further up the alleyway a young girl began to sing in a clear, sweet voice that seemed out of place in that fetid passageway and most inappropriate to the watcher in the darkness. The man leaned against the wall. The song was bittersweet, evoking past memories and, above all, a secret sin. Yet he had done everything he could: a hundred wax candles lit before the statues in St Paul ’s Cathedral, a pilgrimage to lie prostrate before Becket’s tomb at Canterbury , as well as money freely given to the poor. He had even gone to those who dabbled in black arts, creatures of the night with their books of spells and secret airless chambers. He had slipped a coin under the tongue of a hanged man and, following the instructions of the sorcerer, spent two nights beneath the scaffold, chanting a song to the Dark Lord that his secret be kept hidden.
    The watcher stared up at the top of St Erconwald’s tower. He caught a sparkle of reflected light which signalled that Father Athelstan was there with his telescope and zodiac charts, consulting the heavens, waiting on this balmy summer’s night for the evening star to appear. The watcher stirred. Truly scripture was right — sin always pursued the sinner. He could feel it close about him as if it was some loathsome creature crawling along the alleyway behind him. He could smell its breath and feel its cold claws on the nape of his neck, and yet what could he do? To confess would be to hang; to stay silent would only put off the evil day. He looked towards the church, the House of God and the gate of heaven. Yet, for the watcher in the darkness, the church reeked of an ancient sin.

CHAPTER 1

    Sir John Cranston, the large fat plain-speaking Coroner of the City, leaned against the high-backed chair and sipped appreciatively from a jewel-encrusted cup, brimming with the best the vineyards of Bordeaux could produce. He burped gently and beamed around him. The hall was lit by pure resin torches and great wax candles; pages wearing the livery of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, lined the chamber holding further torches so that, despite the darkness, the room shone and glittered as if it was a summer’s day.
    ‘Truly wonderful,’ Cranston murmured to himself.
    John of Gaunt’s main hall in his Palace of Savoy on the Thames was as opulent and rich as any papal palace at Avignon , or any chamber belonging to the great Italian princes such as the one whom Gaunt was hosting at this splendid banquet. Cloth of gold, thick and embroidered with silver thread, covered every inch of the wall beneath the hammerbeam rafters. The glass in the windows was of various hues and each pane illustrated a story from the bible or classical mythology. A yellow and black turkey carpet made from the purest wool covered the hall from wall to wall. The cloths on the tables were silk and every plate and goblet fashioned out of precious metal. No wonder John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster and Regent of the realm whilst his nephew Richard II was still a boy, had ordered chosen men-at-arms to stand discreetly around the hall, one to watch every diner, for the duke would allow no thieves in his household. Gaunt had provided this banquet to show his magnificence and to entertain the Lord of Cremona, not to provide easy pickings for the thieves and rascals who hung around every palace.
    Cranston burped again and tapped his ponderous girth, a contented man. His Lady Maude had recently been