‘Then I shall pray for you.’ The Benedictine left, quietly closing the door behind him.
‘What do you think, Sir John?’
Cranston was now leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
‘Sir John?’
‘I can’t understand, Brother, why these knights don’t flee London. So, what I want you to do is stay here. Behind the abbey are the muniment rooms containing all the records of the itinerant justices, letters from sheriffs and royal bailiffs. I am going to go down there: onerous though it may be, I intend to obtain permission to go through every letter, memorandum, court case and petition from the king’s county of Shropshire.’ He clapped Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘And you, Brother, are going to help me.’
And, before Athelstan could object, Cranston had risen, genuflected to the altar, and almost charged out of the chapel, slamming the door behind him. Athelstan sighed and leaned back against the wall. For a while he just closed his eyes and chanted psalms from the office of the day. He even tried to pray to St Faith, but stopped when he realised that his idea of the saint was very similar to that he had of Benedicta. He got up and walked towards the small altar and stood admiring the gold, jewel-encrusted pyx hanging on a silver chain.
‘You should pray better, Athelstan,’ he murmured to himself.
His hand brushed the small Book of Hours he had pushed into the pocket of his gown. He took this out, sat on a bench, and went through the blank pages at the front and back of the prayer book, but there was nothing there. He turned to the beginning and read the first twelve verses of St John’s Gospel but, even then, he was distracted, for the book was brilliantly illuminated. Harnett must have commissioned it specially for himself; the scribe had written the text in beautiful, broad black sweeps of the quill, and decorated the margins with miniature paintings of a variety of animals. A red-coated, black-eyed dragon thrust out its green flickering tongue; a wyvern of reddish- gold extended its great scaly wings; a silver greyhound pursued a hare, its coat a rich, deep brown.
‘Harnett did love animals!’ Athelstan exclaimed.
He particularly admired the phoenix at the top of a page. A mystical bird which consumed itself, and so was often used to represent Christ. Curious, Athelstan leafed over the pages. There were elephants, panthers, foxes, wolves of every hue, apes and peacocks. Then, at the beginning of the Office of Night, one picture caught Athelstan’s attention. He sat, fascinated, before going across to sit under one of the windows so as to study the painting more carefully.
‘It can’t be!’ he exclaimed. ‘It can’t be!’
Athelstan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Suddenly the door swung open and Cranston swept in.
‘Athelstan, we have got permission, we might as well start now.’ He looked at the friar curiously. ‘Brother, are you well?’
Athelstan recalled Benedicta’s description of Simplicatas busy in the marketplace.
‘Come on, Sir John.’ Athelstan sprang to his feet. ‘Never mind the archives! We are going to Southwark!’
‘Oh, Brother, we can’t!’
‘Oh, Brother, we can!’ Athelstan replied.
‘Why?’ Cranston hurried behind him as Athelstan left the chapel, almost running down the steps to the vestibule. The soldiers on guard watched him curiously. At the bottom Cranston abruptly sat down and crossed his arms like a big baby.
‘I’ll stay here until you tell me,’ he shouted.
Athelstan hid his impatience and came back.
‘Sir John, I have just been through Harnett’s Book of Hours: I know where Perline is and what he’s been up to. Now, you can either sit and sulk until I come back-’ he tweaked Sir John’s bristling moustache — ‘or you can come and help me.’
Within the hour, Athelstan and Cranston disembarked in Southwark just near London Bridge. By now Cranston was all agog, and kept crowing with delight as Athelstan, in hushed whispers, described a possible solution to the mystery. They strode through the alleyways and runnels of the stews. Cranston didn’t know whether Athelstan was in a temper, or just eager to put his theories to the test. Half-way down one alleyway, Athelstan abruptly stopped before a house and knocked furiously on the door. A window opened, high above them, and Simplicatas poked her pretty blonde head out.
‘Oh, good afternoon, Father.’ She forced a smile. ‘I can’t come down,’ she apologised, giggling behind her hand. ‘I have to change my dress and-’
The window closed hastily, there was a sound of running footsteps, the door opened, and a pale-faced Simplicatas invited them in. Athelstan brushed by her and walked down the passageway. The house was small and dingy, with wooden stairs stretching up into the darkness.
‘Perline Brasenose!’ Athelstan shouted. ‘I and others have had enough of your games to last a lifetime.’ He looked at Simplicatas. ‘And you, my good woman, must decide whether you are going to continue this mummery or go and fetch your scapegrace husband, whether he’s hiding in the garret or the cellar.’ Athelstan glowered at Cranston, who was standing behind Simplicatas. ‘Sir Jack Cranston,’ Athelstan continued, raising his voice so it rang through the house, ‘is a terrible man with the devil’s own temper. Perline, are you going to show yourself, or skulk like a coward for the rest of your days?’
A figure appeared in the shadows at the top of the stairs.
‘I am sorry, Father. I didn’t mean any harm,’ a voice pleaded.
‘People like you never do!’ Athelstan shouted back. ‘For heaven’s sake, come downstairs! By St Erconwald’s and all that is holy!’ Athelstan pointed a finger at Simplicatas. ‘You and your husband have made fools of my entire parish.’
Cranston opened his mouth to say that wouldn’t be hard, but his little friar had, for one of those rare occasions, really lost his temper.
‘You’d best come into the parlour,’ Simplicatas whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘I am sorry, Father, but Perline stole a Barbary ape.’
‘Never mind,’ Athelstan said softly. He glared over his shoulder at an unshaven Perline now squatting at the foot of the stairs. ‘Just come in and tell me what happened.’
They all trooped into the sweet-scented parlour. Athelstan’s anger began to cool. Simplicatas apparently was skilled in embroidery: some of her work, brightly coloured cloths, hung against the whitewashed walls. Fresh green rushes strewed the floor, and little pots of rosemary stood on the battered wooden table. Simplicatas waved them to the cushioned stools on either side of this. The friar glimpsed the small wooden cradle in the far corner, a sign that Simplicatas was invoking all the lore for, if a cradle was left standing in a parlour for a year, a bouncing child would fill it within six months.
‘It’s the baby, Father,’ she murmured, catching his glance.
‘What baby?’ Cranston asked, staring around. ‘Don’t say you’ve sold that, Perline!’
The young soldier, his thin, narrow face even more pale and drawn, sat like a sleep-walker.
‘No, we want a baby,’ Simplicatas explained in a rush. ‘Perline has fashioned the cradle. I have embroidered the cloths. We hope, Father, to have it baptised at St Erconwald’s. We were thinking of calling it Athelstan if it’s a boy — or John,’ she added swiftly.
‘And if it’s a girl, I suppose Maude?’ Athelstan asked archly.
Simplicatas sat down. She put her face in her hands and sobbed, though she left a gap between her fingers so she could study Athelstan and Cranston.
‘Well, if you’re expecting a child,’ Cranston bellowed, ‘all I can say is, bless your breeches and all that’s within them!’ He hit the table with his hand. ‘But all this nonsense!’
‘Tell him,’ Simpiicatas wailed.
Perline opened his mouth.
‘From the beginning,’ Athelstan added.
‘I enjoy being at the Tower,’ the young man began. ‘Good food, good wages, free kindling, my own pot, plate and pewter spoon. A change of livery twice a year.’ Perline smiled wryly. ‘And not an enemy in sight. But it’s boring,’ he added, ‘so I used to go down to the royal beastery.’ He glanced at Athelstan. ‘Father, something should be done
