small cages, chisels, hammers and a large leather bag for the rodents he caught and killed.
‘Ah, that’s better!’ Ranulf murmured. He pulled back the black-tarred hood from his pale pink features. ‘I am happy,’ he declared, his voice echoing eerily through the empty house. Ranulf stared up the long dusty staircase and, half closing his eyes, listened with pleasure to the scrabbling and the squeaking from behind the wainscoting and under the floorboards. Such sounds were always music to Ranulf s ears.
‘Rats!’ The merchant who had recently bought the house had roared, ‘The whole place is infested with them: black, brown and varieties I have never heard or seen before!’ The merchant had poked Ranulf s tarry jacket. ‘Ten pounds sterling! I’ll pay you ten pounds sterling to clear the place of rats. Three now, three when you have done it, and the balance after my steward has inspected your work.’
‘Ten pounds!’ Ranulf chortled.
He opened his eyes. Although a widower, Ranulf had a large brood of children, all of whom dressed and looked like their father, but all with appetites and a penchant for growing which constantly worried him. Nevertheless, the warm weather had been good to Ranulf. Rats were back in London, whilst the disappearance of cats from Cheapside had meant their numbers had multiplied. The rat-catcher had been in great demand, and his mound of silver and gold, so carefully stowed away with a goldsmith just off Lothbury, was growing quite steadily. Out of the corner of his eye, Ranulf saw a small black furry shape race across the floorboards. Ranulf smiled beatifically.
‘Others might curse you,’ he whispered into the darkness, ‘but, every morning in church, Ranulf thanks God for rats.’
He put his finger to his lips. Would there be rats in heaven? And, if there were, would he be allowed to catch them? But how could there be rats in heaven? Brother Athelstan had told him that it was a beautiful place and rats only existed where there was muck and dirt. Ranulf had pondered deeply on this. He had even raised it at the last meeting of the Guild of Rat-catchers when they had met in the Piebald tavern. None of his colleagues could give an answer.
‘You’ll have to ask Brother Athelstan,’ Bardolph, who was skilled in catching bats in church belfries, had declared.
Ranulf pursed his lips and nodded. The guild were to have their special Mass at St Erconwald’s soon: they would ask Brother Athelstan, he always had an answer; though Ranulf sometimes wondered if the little friar was teasing him with his gentle, sardonic replies. Another black shape raced across the floorboards further down the gloomy passageway. Ranulf stared at the two ferrets he had brought: Ferrox, his favourite, and its younger brother, Audax. He picked up Ferrox’s cage and stared at the little beady eyes and quivering snout.
‘Don’t worry,’ he murmured. ‘Hunting will soon begin: as soon as Daddy catches his breath.’
If a ferret could smile, Ranulf was sure Ferrox did. The rat-catcher put the cage down and stared at the dust motes dancing in the sunlight pouring through a small window in the stairwell above him.
‘If I could only buy Bonaventure,’ he murmured.
Ranulf had a vision of the united power of Bonaventure, Ferrox and Audax: an unholy trinity to loose upon the rat population of Southwark. Athelstan had been most unwilling.
‘Bonaventure might kill your ferret,’ the friar had warned.
Ranulf had violently disagreed. ‘No, Brother, they always unite against rats. Rats be their common enemy. Anyway, there’s not a cat alive which could catch old Ferrox.’
‘In which case,’ Athelstan had replied, ‘remember the tenth commandment, Ranulf. Thou shalt not lust after thy neighbour’s goods, nor his cattle, nor, in this instance, his cat.’
Ranulf smiled. He would remember that next time Bardolph asked to borrow Ferrox. His face became grave. He had come back from across the river: he had heard about more cats being stolen from the streets, and how the great Sir John ‘Horse-cruncher’ Cranston was now pursuing the felons responsible.
‘Old Big Arse will catch them,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘But Brother Athelstan should be careful about Bonaventure. Our little friar does love that tom-cat.’
Hadn’t Athelstan once said Bonaventure was the only parishioner the friar was sure of getting into heaven? And then made a joke about his pet being a true ‘Catholic’. Ranulf stared down at Ferrox who was now beginning to show great interest in the squeaking and scrabbling behind the wainscoting.
‘A lot of strange things are happening, Ferrox my son,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘Perline Brasenose, our young soldier, has also disappeared, and a demon has been seen outside St Erconwald’s.’
Ranulf loosened the clasp at the top of his jacket and dabbed the sweat with his fingers. Were the two connected, he wondered? Or even all three mysteries? Perline was a scapegrace, a roaring boy. Had he deserted from the Tower garrison and turned to thieving cats? But where would he sell them? To the tanners for their skins? Or the fleshers for their meat? Ranulf shook his head: that would be dangerous. The traders would buy them only to turn poor Perline over to Cranston just for the reward. Or was Perline pretending to be a demon? He had acted a similar role in the parish play last Lammas Day? Ranulf congratulated himself on his perspicacity and stirred himself. Ferrox and Audax began to squeak, circling their cages, pushing their snouts through the bars. Yes, their time had come!
Ranulf got to his feet. He was about to pick up the cages when he heard the sound on the floor above him. Ranulf remembered the demon and his blood ran cold. He walked quickly into a small chamber on his right and became more aware of how dark and dank it was; the cobwebs in the corner seemed like nets spread to catch him. There was a terrible smell and the old house was creaking and groaning around him. The light was poor, shadows danced, and Ranulf wondered whether he was truly alone.
‘Nonsense!’ he whispered.
He saw a small hole in the far corner; going across he undid the clasp of the cage, grasped Ferrox’s thin, muscular body and, in a blink of an eye, the ferret disappeared down the hole. Ranulf walked back into the passageway and despatched Audax in a similar fashion.
‘Now the dance begins,’ Ranulf muttered, quoting his favourite phrase.
He sat down, undid the small bundle he carried, and ate the bread and cheese his eldest daughter had wrapped for him in a linen cloth. The rat-catcher tried to close his ears to all sounds, except for that of his two ferrets now engaged in a busy, bloody massacre under the floorboards. Time and again Ferrox and Audax reappeared, carrying in their sharp teeth the corpse of some hapless rat. They dropped these at their master’s feet before disappearing again.
Ranulf felt a warm glow of satisfaction and bit deeply into the bread and cheese. But suddenly he heard a different sound. No rat or ferret could make the footfall he heard in the gallery above. Someone was moving there, slithering along the floorboards. Ranulf, a piece of cheese in his hand, rose and walked to the bottom of the stairs. He peered up into the gloom and almost choked on the cheese: on the top of the stairs was the demon of St Erconwald’s! Large, dark and furry, teeth bared, its face so terrifying that Ranulf forgot about his ferrets and fled for his life.
Cranston and Athelstan followed Sir Miles Coverdale through the Jericho Parlour of Westminster Abbey, across Deans Yard and along the south cloister towards the chapter-house. Every so often they passed Cheshire archers resplendent in their green livery and white hart emblem. These were professional soldiers from the garrisons at the Tower or Baynard’s Castle; hair cropped, faces dark and lean. All carried longbows and a quiver of twenty yew arrows, as well as sword and dagger. Men-at-arms wearing the red, blue and gold royal livery also stood on guard at every door and on every corner.
‘Why so many soldiers?’ Cranston asked as they entered the cloisters.
‘His Grace the Regent is determined that the Commons be allowed to sit unmolested,’ Coverdale replied. ‘No one enters the cloisters or chapter-house who is not either a member of Parliament or one of the royal clerks commissioned to assist them in their discussions.’
‘Don’t the Commons ever object?’ Cranston declared. ‘Some might claim the soldiers overawe them.’
‘Aye, some addle-brains might say that, but there are no soldiers in the chapter-house, Sir John, whilst the good knights and burgesses are free to come and go as they wish.’
They entered the eastern cloister where some monks, taking full advantage of the spring sunshine, now sat at their desks, copying or illuminating manuscripts. In the centre garth, soldiers played checkerboard games whilst a few conversed with the monks.
‘The brothers certainly welcome our presence,’ Coverdale declared.
‘It’s the same in any enclosed community,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Always eager for fresh faces, or to indulge in
