alleyways to the Gargoyle, since a burning house had closed off the more direct path.
‘Isn’t it strange?’ Cranston murmured. ‘We have just left the abbey where kings are crowned and parliaments are held, a sacred and venerable place; yet every rogue in the city seems to gather round it.’
Athelstan had to agree. He saw two characters, one with a patch over his eye, both with their hoods pulled up, following a pretty whore who was tripping along past the stalls. Both men were greedily watching the embroidered purse which swung from her gaudy girdle. At the corner of the alleyway three dummerers were holding up placards claiming they were deaf-mutes, had been since birth, and would passers-by please spare them a farthing?
‘Liars!’ Cranston snorted with disbelief.
‘But they are genuine,’ Athelstan exclaimed.
‘Watch this,’ Cranston muttered.
He crossed the street, jumping over the overflowing sewer in the centre, and waited till a small crowd had gathered round, ready to give coins. Cranston drew his dagger, sidled close behind one of the dummerers and, as he passed, nicked the man’s bottom with his dagger point. The fellow dropped his sign and screeched like a bird.
‘Who did that? Who did that?’
The spectators looked on in stupefaction.
‘A miracle,’ Cranston declared, holding up his dagger. ‘The man can speak.’ He advanced threateningly on the other two. ‘And perhaps I can perform the same for you.’
All three men grabbed their small bowls of coins and fled like hares up an alleyway. The word must have spread: as Cranston swept by, different characters, all begging for alms, disappeared into the shadows. Their places were soon taken outside doorways, or in the empty spaces between houses, by a legion of other vagabonds: ballad-mongers, hucksters, relic-sellers, as well as the ubiquitous pardoners eager to sell indulgence and penances to pilgrims flocking to the tomb of Edward the Confessor. At times the alleyways became packed, the noise so intense that Cranston and Athelstan had to struggle to get through.
‘Why is it that religion attracts so many rogues and fools?’ Cranston bawled. ‘Surely the good Lord objects?’
Athelstan felt like reminding him that, during his lifetime, Christ had attracted both saints and sinners. However, the clamour was so loud he decided to leave his advice for another time. At last they turned a corner and found themselves under the tavern sign of the Gargoyle. Athelstan stared up at the devil’s head depicted there. Truly frightful, painted in a greyish-green against a scarlet background. The demon’s straggling hair, horrid eyes and roaring mouth as it attacked a knight in full armour, reminded the friar of his own troubles at St Erconwald’s. They entered the taproom: Banyard was standing up by the wine tuns holding forth to a group of boatmen about the rising price of ale and beer. He broke off and smiled at Athelstan and Cranston.
‘Well, my lord Coroner, what can I do for you? Some refreshment?’
‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied hastily. ‘And if I can hire a writing-tray?’
‘Feed the body first,’ Cranston growled.
‘Some charlet?’ Banyard offered. ‘Pork mixed with egg,’ he explained. ‘And the bread will be fresh.’
Cranston and Athelstan agreed, and the landlord showed them to a table away from the rest. He brought them blackjacks of ale, then sent a boy across with a writing-tray, containing a quill, a small pot of ink, a scrap of parchment and some sealing wax.
‘What’s the matter?’ Cranston asked.
Athelstan seized the quill and began to write quickly, his hand racing across the page. He stopped and recalled those scraps of parchment sent to the dead knights.
‘Well, it wasn’t done here.’
‘What wasn’t?’
‘The parchment and ink are different,’ Athelstan explained. ‘I just wondered if the warnings had been written here.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘If we could only find what those two dead men were supposed to remember. Anyway,’ he dipped the tip of the quill into the inkpot and continued his scribbling. ‘I am writing to Father Prior,’ he explained. ‘I have to tell him about our demon in Southwark.’
‘What help can he give?’ Cranston asked.
‘He has the cunning of a serpent and the innocence of a dove.’
‘You mean just like yourself?’
‘Sir John, you flatter. . But, seriously, in a recent letter from our superior, all Dominican priests were warned to study demonic possession more accurately, and have such phenomena investigated.’ Athelstan finished writing, put his pen down and asked the potboy for a candle to melt the wax.
‘You see, Sir John,’ he continued when he’d done this, ‘Pike the ditcher can see all sorts of demons when he’s drunk, but Benedicta is level-headed. You may scoff, but something foul lurked in our death-house that night. I have to be sure. Why, Sir John,’ he blew the candle out, ‘don’t you believe in Satan and all his powers?’
‘Yes, I bloody well do.’ Cranston sipped from his tankard. ‘And a lot of his friends live in Cheapside. However, you surely don’t believe that demons come up from hell to cavort along Southwark’s alleyways? I can think of more suitable, plumper prey across the river.’
‘Whatever it is,’ Athelstan picked up the letter as Banyard approached with their meal, ‘I must report to Father Anselm and seek his advice.’
Once the landlord had placed the steaming platters of food before them, Athelstan handed him the letter.
‘Would you ensure this is taken to Blackfriars?’ he asked. He took a penny out of his purse. ‘I’ll pay for the boy.’
‘Nonsense!’ Banyard replied. ‘There’s no need to pay, Father.’
‘In which case,’ Cranston put his horn spoon down, smacking his lips, ‘one good turn deserves another. Send the lad running, Master Banyard, and come back here. Be our guest.’
Banyard accepted. He returned from the kitchen and sat down, a tankard of frothy ale in his huge fist. Cranston took a silver coin out of his purse and slid this towards him.
‘We would like your advice, Master Banyard.’
The landlord sipped from his ale, but his eyes never left the silver coin.
‘About what?’ he asked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
‘Don’t let’s be children.’ Cranston lowered his voice and pushed the silver coin towards Banyard. ‘Upstairs, sir, you have two corpses, both former customers: that cannot be good for trade.’
‘Death is a sudden visitor, Sir John. The Gargoyle has housed many a corpse.’ The taverner stared up at the smoke-blackened roof beams. ‘It has stood here for many a year. Customers die in their sleep or in a fight. We have also taken in many a corpse fished from the river.’
‘But this is different,’ Athelstan persisted.
Banyard put his tankard down; he stretched out his hand and the silver coin disappeared.
‘I have told you what I know and what I have seen,’ he whispered. ‘However, our noble representatives are not the band of brothers they appear to be. On the night Bouchon was killed, there was considerable discord over a number of matters.’ He pulled a face. ‘Local matters: the buying up of grain as well as the fixing of prices on the Shrewsbury markets.’
‘And?’ Cranston asked.
‘The discussion grew heated,’ Banyard continued. ‘They argued about a ship they’d hired to import grain from Hainault. Apparently this was done on Malmesbury’s advice, but the ship hadn’t fared well and was seized by French pirates in the Narrow Seas. Goldingham, the small dark one who walks like a woman and has a tongue like a viper, declared Malmesbury should reimburse them. Sir Edmund, red in the face, said he would not.’
‘And?’
‘Well, this led to other matters. They talked of a goblet which had disappeared. I heard the name “Arthur” mentioned.’ Banyard sipped from his tankard. ‘I was going in and out of the room, but when I returned the conversation had changed. Sir Henry Swynford was saying how they should not oppose the regent so vehemently. He talked of unrest in the shires and the growing attacks upon isolated farmhouses and manors, be it in Kent or along the Welsh march.’ Banyard stopped speaking, cradling his tankard. ‘Then Sir Francis Harnett said something very strange.’ Banyard closed his eyes. ‘Yes, that’s right: he said the old ways were the best ways. Malmesbury
