Athelstan and Cranston walked back through an alleyway into Petty Wales.
‘Not very helpful,’ Athelstan observed.
Cranston stared back at the Tower through narrowing eyes. He had not liked what he had seen: sleeping guards, a constable more interested in his belly, the way they had been kept in the gatehouse and allowed no further in.
‘Next time I see Gaunt,’ he growled, ‘I’ll have a chat about the Tower. He needs to send the royal commissioners in to check the stores and the muster roll. Our little fat constable is, I believe, not above taking bribes; not only for people to see the royal beastery, but also from members of his own garrison in order that they can slip away.’
‘Do you think that?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I know that,’ Cranston replied. ‘According to the law of arms, and all its usages, Perline Brasenose is a deserter and his name should be posted throughout the city.’ He clapped Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘Which means, my little friar, that Perline is not dead. What he has done is slipped away and paid the constable a few coins not to look for him.’
They continued along Thames Street and into Billingsgate. The air smelt tangy with fish and salt. Here the streets were busy as men prepared for the late-night fishing. The merchants and fishmongers were already preparing their stalls and barrels of brine and salt for the morning’s catch.
On the corner of Bridge Street, Cranston and Athelstan parted, the coroner still fulminating against the constable and promising Athelstan that tomorrow he would make inquiries to learn if the Fisher of Men could contribute anything to the mysteries which confronted them. Athelstan thanked him and walked down to the entrance to the bridge. He stopped at the barrier before the entrance, where soldiers lounged or played dice, impervious to the great poles jutting out over either side of the bridge: each bore the severed head of a pirate caught plundering boats in the Thames estuary. Athelstan showed the pass which Cranston had given him. The barrier was opened and he passed on to the bridge, past the silent shops and houses built on either side.
Half-way across, just near the Chapel of St Thomas à Becket, Athelstan went and stood by the rails; he looked out over the Thames, back towards the Tower. The sky was still lit with the fading rays of the setting sun. He always liked to stop here, with the water rushing past the starlings below and, above him, the sky already peppered with the first stars. It was like being caught between heaven and earth. Athelstan breathed in deeply, his gaze fixed on the evening star. The breeze which curled his hair cooled the sweat on his brow and, for a short while, seemed to blow away the weariness and problems of the day.
‘I wish I could go to the halls of Oxford,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Study the manuscripts of Roger Bacon.’
Athelstan stared at the star. Bacon had built an observatory on Folly Bridge and written a fascinating work on the stars and the planets. Where had they come from? Why did they move? And, if they did, what kept them fixed in the heavens? Why were some stars brighter than others? And did the moon move? Athelstan leaned against the rail and closed his eyes. He wondered if Father Prior would allow him just a short break from his duties in London. Athelstan had heard the whispers: how newly discovered manuscripts of the Ancients, discovered, copied and translated in Italy, were already causing excited debate amongst the scholars. Some even whispered that these proved that the stars did affect man’s behaviour. Others, citing the great Ptolemy, argued that the earth was not flat but a veritable sphere, one amongst many in the heavens.
Athelstan opened his eyes and smiled. ‘There again,’ he whispered, ‘each way of life has its own problems.’
His own Order played a prominent part in the Inquisition, both in Italy and elsewhere. Yet the Inquisition took a very dim view of whatever was new. And, of course, there was Cranston, St Erconwald’s, and all its parishioners. Athelstan walked on briskly. He stopped at the wicker gate just near the gatehouse on the other side of the bridge. The guards, as usual, began to indulge in some good-natured banter about wandering friars and what they could possibly be up to at the dead of night. Suddenly, a window high in the gatehouse was flung open. Burdon, the diminutive keeper, thrust his head out, hair all spiked.
‘For the love of God,’ he roared, ‘will you shut up! Can’t a man and his wife, not to mention his children, sleep in peace?’
The guards pulled faces and sniggered behind their hands.
‘Master Burdon!’ Athelstan called. ‘I am sorry. It’s my fault!’
The little head turned. ‘Oh, it’s you, Brother. Sorry!’ he sang out, and the window was drawn sharply shut.
Athelstan left the guards and walked up past the priory of St Mary Overy and along an alleyway leading to St Erconwald’s. At night Southwark never slept. The streets were full of whores, pedlars and hucksters still trying to sell their tawdry goods, most of which, Athelstan knew for a certainty, had been stolen from across the river. Tavern doors stood open, the noise, light and laughter pouring out into the streets. Whores flounced by in their tawdry finery, simpering and winking at him. Two men were involved in a fight over a game of dice. Athelstan looked round. Something was wrong. Usually he’d see at least one of his parishioners: Ursula the pig-woman and her demon sow who followed her everywhere and feasted like a king amongst the cabbages in Athelstan’s garden. But there was none. The bench outside the Piebald tavern was not occupied by Tab the tinker, Manyer the hangman, Mugwort the bell clerk, or even Pernell the old Flemish lady, who dyed her hair orange and spent the night crooning over a tankard of ale.
Athelstan, his heart heavy, turned a corner. He could see the flicker of torchlight and hear the shouts and his anxiety grew. Something was wrong. He hurried on, trying hard to control the beating in his heart, but the scene in front of St Erconwald’s stopped him full in his tracks. The church doors were closed, but a large crowd of his parishioners was assembled on the steps, torches in hand, listening to a speech from Watkin the dung- collector.
‘Oh, no!’ Athelstan groaned. ‘He’s gone and armed himself!’ Watkin was striding backwards and forwards, a small metal cooking-pot on his head, a battered leather sallet round his shoulders, a rusty sword poked into the belt which held in his bulging belly. On either side stood his two lieutenants: Pike the ditcher holding a spear. He also had a cooking-pot on his head whilst, on the other side, Ranulf the rat-catcher had armed himself with a longbow and a quiver full of arrows.
‘We must arm ourselves,’ Watkin repeated, jabbing the air with his stubby fingers and beaming at the chorus of approval. ‘If Father Athelstan does not come back.’ His voice dropped. ‘And who knows if he will, eh? For all we know the demon could have taken him.’
A roar of disapproval greeted his words.
‘We must hunt for the demon.’
Again there was a roar of agreement. Athelstan noticed with a sinking heart how Tab the tinker had taken the statue of St Erconwald from its plinth inside the church, whilst Huddle the painter grasped the processional cross as if it was a spear.
‘Benedicta! Benedicta!’ Athelstan groaned. ‘Where are you?’
He searched the crowd and glimpsed the widow at the far back. She seemed to sense his presence, turned and looked straight at him. Athelstan moved out of the shadows. ‘Watkin!’ he shouted.
The dung-collector jumped in surprise. ‘It’s Father!’ he yelled. ‘The demon has released him!’
Athelstan strode across, shouldering his way through the crowd, ignoring the pats and cries of good wishes. He stared up into the dung-collector’s fat, bulbous face.
‘Watkin, Watkin,’ he whispered. ‘In God’s name what are you doing?’
‘We have seen the demon,’ Pike came forward. ‘Just before dusk, Father, a black shape in the cemetery.’
‘Have you been drinking?’ Athelstan accused.
Pike looked stricken. ‘Father, I swear, by the cross!’
‘Don’t blaspheme,’ Athelstan whispered hoarsely. ‘I have come from Newgate where they have just hanged your friend the Fox.’
Pike’s jaw sank.
‘It’s really my fault, Father.’ Ranulf edged nervously forward. ‘Early in the day I was in that house in Stinking Alley. You know, the one the merchant wants to buy. I saw the demon there, it was at the top of the stairs.’
‘And did you go back and search?’
‘Oh yes, Father, we did: it was gone but the stench was terrible.’
