where the weights were carved in the shape of a man’s penis. Cranston, huffing and puffing, not knowing whether to be embarrassed or laugh, pulled at the rope then moved his hand quickly away.
Thank God the Lady Maude can’t see me here, he thought. Oh Lord and all his saints forfend she ever does!
The sweet sound of the bell inside the house was answered by a patter of footsteps and the door swung open. In any other circumstances Athelstan would have thought the young girl was a novice: a white, gold-edged veil covered her lustrous hair, and she was dressed in a high-necked grey gown, but this was flounced at the hem and her nails were painted a deep red. What Athelstan had first thought was a white cloth over her bosom, was instead a rather thin gauze veil over ripe, luscious breasts.
‘Good morrow, sirs.’ The girl smiled at them. She clutched at her gown and raised this slightly, showing the thick white petticoats beneath. She gestured airily to Athelstan. ‘Come in, Father. You will not be the first friar we have had here.’ She fought back the laughter in her voice. ‘And you will certainly not be the last. Any friend of Master Banyard’s is a friend of ours.’
‘Master Banyard is leaving,’ Cranston growled, regaining his wits and pushing by Athelstan. ‘And you, my little hussy, should know that I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the city.’
‘Coroners are also welcome,’ the girl answered pertly. ‘Though the lady of the house — ’ she pouted at Cranston’s warbelt — ‘does not permit swords.’
Banyard sniggered, but when Sir John whirled round, pulled his face straight. ‘Sir John, I have to go back.’
‘Dame Mathilda Kirtles,’ Cranston pushed his face towards the young woman. ‘I want to see her now or it will be the bailiffs. And don’t tell me they’d be most welcome as well!’
The young girl, covering her mouth with her hand, stepped back and led them along an airy passageway and into a sweet-smelling parlour. She told them to wait, closed the door behind her. Athelstan sat in a cushioned windowseat, mouth half open as he stared around.
‘Oh, come, come, Brother,’ Cranston called out. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been in a molly-house before!’
Athelstan quietly raised his hands. ‘Sir John, I swear, I have never seen a place like this.’
The friar stared down at the floor where the boards were so highly polished that they caught the sunlight. Here and there lay thick woollen rugs. The walls were half covered with wooden panelling, above this the plaster had been painted a rich cream shade. Tapestries, full of colour, hung there. Athelstan, craning his neck, studied one. At first he thought it was a young maiden listening to the song of a troubadour, but he blushed as he realised the troubadour was naked, whilst the young lady had her dress split down the middle.
‘Yes, yes, quite,’ he murmured.
‘Have you ever been with a maid?’ Cranston asked.
‘Sir John, that’s for me to think about and you to wonder. .’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘At first glance, this could have been an abbess’s parlour.’
‘Knowing some of the abbesses I do,’ Cranston growled, ‘you’re probably right!’
‘Doesn’t the city try to close them down?’ As he spoke Athelstan heard a sound from the wall just next to the canopied hearth. He glanced quickly over; he was sure he glimpsed a wooden shutter being drawn closed.
‘Who would shut a place like this down?’ Cranston answered. ‘Dame Mathilda and her
‘Aye, and a few others!’
Cranston whirled round. A tall, severe lady, dressed in a white veil and grey dress, stood just within the doorway. Her hair was grey, her face thin and haughty, her eyes sharp and watchful. She walked across, fingering the golden girdle tied round her waist. Athelstan felt like pinching himself: she walked and talked like some venerable mother superior.
‘I am Dame Mathilda Kirtles.’ She stared down at Athelstan. ‘You are the Dominican from St Erconwald’s, aren’t you? One of your parishioners, Cecily, often talks about you.’
Athelstan was too tongue-tied to reply.
‘And you, of course, must be Sir John Cranston: the fattest, loudest and most bibulous of coroners!’ She held a hand out. Cranston grasped and kissed it.
‘Madame, I am your servant.’
‘No you are not,’ Dame Mathilda snapped, ‘you have nothing to do with whores, Sir John, more’s the pity.’ Her eyes softened a little. ‘But they say you can’t be bribed, and that makes you unique.’ Dame Mathilda swept away and sat down on a small cushioned chair before the fireplace.
‘Sir John, you are not here for pleasure, so what is your business?’
Cranston sat down in the windowseat next to Athelstan. For some strange reason he felt like a little boy again, quietly throwing stones into the stewponds and being reproved by one of his elderly aunts.
‘I’d offer you some refreshment,’ Dame Mathilda declared, ‘but I’ll be honest, Sir John, the sooner you’re gone the better!’ She smiled thinly. ‘Banyard cackles like a goose. No one will dare come near the house whilst you are here.’
‘Including the honourable representatives from Shrewsbury?’ Cranston asked. ‘They were here last Monday night, Dame Mathilda. Bellies full, deep in their cups.’
‘Aye, and their purses full of silver. They came here about two hours before midnight.’ She continued. ‘My girls entertained them. .’ She indicated with her head at the ceiling. ‘Each went their separate ways with the girl of his choice.’
‘All of them?’
‘One left.’
‘Who?’ Athelstan asked.
‘The small, funny one. He sat for a while with one of my girls, boring her to sleep with chatter about animals, beasteries and what he had seen in the Tower. He looked at the hour-candle, gabbled an excuse and left.’
‘And he did not return?’
‘I did not say that. He came back just before the rest left. And, before you ask, Cranston, I don’t know where he’d gone or what he’d been doing: his cloak was damp so I think he had been on the river. Mind you, if he stayed,’ she continued tersely, ‘he’d have been as useful as the rest.’
‘What do you mean?’ Cranston asked.
‘Sir John, these are men of middle years, mature in wisdom, their bellies full. They may still hold their lances straight, but not in the bedchamber.’
‘Yes.’ Cranston glanced quickly at Athelstan, but the friar seemed totally bemused at what Dame Mathilda was saying. ‘And I suppose, good lady, when your guests stay here, you keep an eye on them?’ The coroner gazed round. ‘Even in this room there must be eyelets and hidden peep-holes?’
‘Sir John, you are wiser than you look.’
‘And they talked to the girls?’
‘Sir John, come, come!’ Dame Mathilda clasped her hands demurely in front of her. ‘Do you really expect me to tell you that?’
‘Well…’ Sir John stretched out his legs and folded his arms. ‘You can either tell me here or I could ask the bailiffs to accompany you to the Guildhall tomorrow.’
‘They boasted, Sir John, like all men do: what barns they had, what granges, how fat their sheep, how high their own standing. .’
‘And what?’
‘How they were members of the Commons and would not lift a finger to help the regent unless he met their demands.’ Dame Mathilda got to her feet. ‘And that, Sir John, is all I can tell you, either here or in your Guildhall.’ She walked towards the door then turned. ‘Brother Athelstan, have you found out where Perline Brasenose is?’
‘Why no.’ The friar got to his feet. ‘You know him?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Dame Mathilda came back. ‘Years ago his mother worked here. Perline was, how can I put it, an unexpected result of a night’s work here.’
‘He’s a member of my parish, he’s married to Simplicatas.’
‘Oh, is that what she’s calling herself now?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Athelstan smiled and stared down at his hands.
