Murder most holy

These matters must be resolved. If you are incorrect, Brother, then nothing is really lost. However, if what you say is true, then some progress may be made.’ Father Anselm lifted a hand-bell and rang it.
    A servitor entered and Anselm whispered instructions to him. The man gazed at him in shocked surprise.
    ‘Do what I say,’ the prior ordered. ‘Tell Brother Norbert, and you yourself get two others. Swear them to silence, and carry out my instructions.’
    As soon as the servitor left, Anselm looked round the table. ‘Is there any other matter, Athelstan?’
    ‘Yes, Father, there is, but Sir John and I must see you alone.’
    ‘Why?’ William de Conches spoke up. ‘As the Master Inquisitor I demand to be present.’
    ‘I couldn’t give a pig’s buttocks what you do, man!’ Cranston spoke up. ‘This is an English monastery, albeit under Canon Law, but the Crown’s writ holds here. I, as a principal law officer of the King in this city, demand to see Father Prior by himself.’
    ‘Agreed,’ Anselm said briskly. ‘Brothers, we shall meet in the sanctuary.’
    Athelstan waited till the door closed behind the rest of the group.
    ‘What is it, Brother?’ asked the prior.
    ‘Father Prior, the name Hildegarde fascinates me. Who at Blackfriars would be able to place such a name?’
    ‘It’s not an English one,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘I see lists of many names of jurors and tax payers. Hildegarde’s German.’ The prior rubbed his eyes. ‘Who do you think she might be, Athelstan?’
    ‘I don’t know. Maybe an abbess or one of the saints.’
    ‘I know of no devotion to such person. But we have an old scholar here, Brother Paul. You remember him, Athelstan? He’s sick now, partially blind and bed-ridden. He spends most of his time in the infirmary. But, come. His mind’s still sharp and we may jog his memory.’
    The prior led them out round the cloister garth, through a small side door and across a flower-filled garden to the two-storeyed infirmary. The place smelt sweetly of crushed herbs, soap and starch, though Athelstan caught the bitter taint of certain potions. The infirmarian took them upstairs and into a long room with rows of beds on either side, each hidden behind its own curtain. Anselm whispered a few words to the infirmarian, who pointed to an alcove at the far end, cordoned off by a white, green-edged cloth hanging from a bright brass bar.
    ‘You’ll find Brother Paul there. He’s in good fettle. He has been promised some time to sit in the garden.’
    Anselm, followed by Athelstan and Cranston , strode across the bright polished floor. The prior pulled back the cloth. An old man lay with his head against a bolster: the hair round his tonsure was snow-white, his face thin and high cheek-boned under eyes once bright but now covered by a milky white film. ‘Who is it?’ The voice was surprisingly strong.
    ‘It’s Father Prior. I have brought two friends, Sir John Cranston and young Athelstan.’
    Cranston nudged his colleague playfully.
    ‘Young Athelstan!’ he whispered in mimicry.
    ‘I know you, Cranston .’ Brother Paul turned his head. ‘I often worked in Newgate, the Fleet and Marshalsea prisons, hearing the confessions of condemned felons. Do you know, they always called you a bastard?’ The old friar’s lips parted in a toothless grin. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘a just, even compassionate, bastard!’
    Cranston pushed his way past the others and crouched by the bed.
    ‘Of course,’ he muttered, ‘I remember you. The friar who always insisted on cases being reviewed. You saved many a man from the hangman’s noose.’
    The old friar cackled with laughter, his hand going out to fall on Sir John’s shoulder.
    ‘Still as slender as ever, Sir John.’ Father Paul moved his hand. ‘Athelstan, where are you, you young scapegrace?’
    He clasped the old man’s spotted, vein-streaked hand and his eyes brimmed with tears for he remembered Father Paul: he had been old when Athelstan was a novice, but vigorous, sharp, with an incisive brain and a cutting tongue. He used to lecture the novices in philosophy, theology and the subjects of the Quadrivium.
    ‘Still studying the stars, Brother, are we?’
    Athelstan patted the old man’s hand.
    ‘I always remember you quoting the psalms, Father Paul: “Who shall know the ways of the Lord? As the heavens and its lights are far above the earth so are his ways above ours. ”’
    ‘You haven’t quoted correctly!’