of the streets made that impossible. The snow clouds had broken and a weak sun had brought out the crowds. For the last few days the grey, icy frostiness had stifled trade and imprisoned people in their chambers and garrets. Now, even this mild change in the weather had enticed them out. Everybody wanted to trade, sale, buy, beg or steal, not to mention visit the cook shops, wine booths, alehouses and taverns. An enterprising leech had set up shop close to Sweet Apple Court, a name Athelstan considered to be the most blatant lie in Southwark as the enclosure was as filthy and stinking as any piggery. Nevertheless, in spite of the reeking odours, the leech had gathered a crowd, assuring all and sundry that if they adjourned to his chambers in nearby Firkin alley, he would examine their urine and let a little blood. Afterwards he would provide them with his miraculous elixir, the cheapest sort containing cloves, nutmeg, mace and similar ingredients; the more expensive, ‘for the more discerning’, would be made up of ambergris, juniper and white frankincense. Athelstan, bemused, shook his head, constantly surprised at the sheer gullibility of the human heart. He walked on cautiously. The ground underfoot was frozen, the rutted ice covering the filthy slops and congealed mud. Athelstan murmured a prayer for safety to St Christopher as he dodged sumpter ponies, high-wheeled carts and lumbering oxen. A stiff river breeze blew a cauldron of smells and odours, a rich stew of fish, spices, fried meat and freshly baked bread along with the stench of animal dung and human waste. The ever pervasive, bitter tang of saltpetre made Athelstan gag. The saltpetre was thrown along the lanes to mask rank odours till the lay stalls, crammed with frozen refuse, were emptied by the dung carts. The scavengers who manned these were now busying to clear the mess left to rot during the previous week’s snow storms. Beadles patrolled the streets, screaming at householders not to empty jakes’ pots. One beadle had been rewarded for his efforts by receiving the entire contents of two night jars over him, and now he and his colleagues were battering at the door of the citizen responsible, determined on punishment.
The dead were also being buried. The break in the weather meant requiems could be sung, graves hacked out of the iron-hard ground and mourners allowed to provide their beloved departed with the appropriate religious farewell. Coffins bobbed on shoulders or bounced in hand carts as mourners, preceded by a priest pattering the psalms, led funeral processions to this chapel or that cemetery amidst the fiery glow of candles, lantern boxes and torches. Gusts of incense sweetened the air. The throng of citizens divided to allow the dead to pass before the crowds closed again, surging in every direction. Athelstan could only murmur his own prayers and keep his hands, freezing cold despite the woollen mittens, tightly on his writing satchel. The tribe of filchers, nips and foists were out, eager for plunder, hunting the swinging purse or loosely hung wallet. Cranston was recognized. Insults were hurled when the ‘parishioners of the devil’, as the coroner called them, fled up alleyways and runnels. At last they approached the bridge, though this was fast becoming a battleground involving a group of scavengers clearing the dirt. They had clashed with street hawkers, hucksters and chapmen who insisted on taking up their position with their baskets of eggs, butter, cheese, brushwood and heather ‘fresh from the countryside’. A group of fish wives from Billingsgate, their thick leather aprons encrusted with blood, had joined the fray equally determined to sell their eel tarts, fish pies, oysters and mussels. The air was riven with curses and obscenities hurled backwards and forwards. The tumult had blocked the approach to the bridge. Cranston barked out an order. Flaxwith brought out a hunting horn from beneath his cloak and blew strident blasts before bellowing at the top of his voice that everyone was to keep the King’s peace and step aside for the Lord High Coroner. The tumult subsided. As the brawlers dispersed into the shadow of the overhanging houses, Cranston swept on. Once he had passed, the tumult began again. Athelstan heaved a sigh of relief as he glimpsed the bridge’s high gates and towers as well as the cornices, sills and steeple of the Priory of St Mary Overy. They had to pause for a while as an execution party made its way down to the gallows — three wolfsheads who’d escaped from sanctuary at the priory and been wounded during the affray. Each had been summarily tried, condemned and loaded into wheelbarrows, commonly used to collect dung, and were now being taken from the Compter Clink to the riverside gallows. Athelstan blessed each of the groaning men then passed on to the bridge through the cavernous gate, its curving rim spiked with the boiled heads of traitors.
They made their way along the narrow lane between the houses and shops, which rose above them, leaning over to block out the sky. Beneath them echoed the thunderous roar of the river as it crashed against the starlings protecting the pillars of the bridge. Athelstan was sure the bridge was moving; as always, he tried to distract himself while keeping a wary eye on the ground beneath. A cluster of eel stalls stood at the near end of the thoroughfare and the discarded skins made the lane more slippery than ice. Athelstan glanced to his left and right. He was always fascinated by the apparent wealth displayed by the stalls and shops along the bridge. Some of the costliest items in London could be purchased here. Cloths and fabrics from Constance, Tournai and Rouen. Canvas from Westphalia and silver thread from Cologne were sold alongside amber and bone beads, ivory combs, silk girdles, brass rings, leather hats and hand mirrors of steel, crystal and jasper. Apprentice boys loudly proclaimed the virtues of buckram, silk, sarcanet, lawn and dyed wool. Jewellers and goldsmiths offered diamond necklaces, buckles and girdles, precious stone paternosters, mazer cups, silver gilt goblets and salt cellars, as well as spoons of every precious kind studded with gems or embroidered with gold or silver tracery. Another stall, manned by three clerks, ‘learned in the halls, schools and Inns of Court,’ offered to write or copy letters, deeds, leases, memoranda or bills of exchange. Between life-size statues of St Catherine the Virgin and St Nicholas of Colenso, the haberdashers of the hat, haberdashers of the small wares and ironmongers offered kerchiefs embroidered with religious devices, pyxes or kissing boxes, night-time laces, pepper mills, girdles and pouches, the latter adorned and embroidered with silver clasps. At Becket’s shrine in the centre of the bridge, merchants met bankers before going into the chapel either to seal documents at the altar or pass money over. All this was recorded by the chapel’s clerks in a leather-bound book of debts kept in an iron chest beneath the relic stone; this made repayment a matter of faith not just business. In the stocks next to the chapel, a vintner, found guilty of mixing cobbler’s wax with the dregs of his wine, was sitting with his legs firmly clasped. The disgraced merchant was being forced to drink a draught of his own adulterated beverage. A market beadle slowly emptied another jug over the unfortunate man’s head while a second beadle loudly proclaimed, ‘That Richard Pemrose, vintner, could do no further trade in wine or any other commodity for a year and a day’. Beside Pemrose sat an imprisoned cook’s apprentice from a nearby pie stall. He had sold pies and patties stuffed with the flesh of hen, goose, duck, lark and fish, but he’d also plucked at the costly gowns of passers-by and so, as the notice around his neck proclaimed, ‘damaged their clothes with hands dirtied and fouled’. Cranston paused to take a drink from his wine skin. He offered this to Athlestan, who refused even as he shook off the grasp of a chapman eager to sell him a trinket.
‘It will change now, little friar.’ Cranston gestured to the near-end of the bridge. ‘The hustle and bustle will fade and,’ he nodded at the spikes above the gate leading into the city, ‘there will be fresh offerings on them tomorrow morning.’
They left the bridge, turning right up the lane leading to St Magnus Church. Men-at-arms had sealed the streets. Chains had been pulled across. Carts closed over the entrance to the twisting alleys and lanes. Knights in chain-mail stood by their war horses. Mounted hobelars, swords drawn, clustered nearby. The air reeked of sweat, leather and horse. Cranston had to leave Flaxwith and the bailiffs at one of the barriers; only he and Athelstan were allowed up the lane to where the Roundhoop stood behind its high curtain wall. Athelstan had visited the tavern before, a strange building, circular in shape, of harsh grey stone with a sloping red-tiled roof. Once it had been a barbican or weapons’ tower until some enterprising ale-master had bought it and reopened its great doors as a hostelry. The main gates to the tavern hung loose, and on either side along the wall stood men-at-arms and archers. Cranston recognized Rossleyn; now and again the captain would edge forward, peer round the open gate then hastily withdraw. On the other side of the gates clustered a group of men, heads together in heated discussion. These broke off as Cranston and Athelstan approached. The friar immediately recognized Thibault, Master of Secrets, the senior clerk of John of Gaunt’s chancery. A born plotter, an inveterate schemer, Thibault dabbled in all the dark, sinister affairs which flowed around his master. Thibault was also a cleric who nursed secret ambitions of a bishopric. Cranston had mocked this, claiming Thibault would make a fine shepherd as long as his flock produced a rich fleece. ‘A man who would merrily give you the shirt off your back,’ the coroner had added. Thibault’s looks belied such barbs: small and plump, his round, smiling shaven face glistened with oil and good living. A fastidious man, Thibault’s corn-coloured hair was neatly cropped in strict accordance with Canon Law to show his tonsure. Master Thibault dressed ever so modestly in a dark fustian cotheardie over a white cambric shirt and Lincoln-green leggings pushed into the finest leather boots from Cordova. Thibault’s blue eyes creased in good humour as he clasped Athelstan’s hand and welcomed him to what he termed ‘this delicate affair’. Other introductions were made. Athelstan nodded at Lascelles, Thibault’s man-at-arms dressed completely in black leather, his dark hair swept back and tied in a queue. Lascelles always reminded Athelstan of a raven with his sallow-pitted skin, pointed face and a nose as sharp as a hook above thin, bloodless lips. A strange soul, Athelstan
