‘He carries the King’s commission, he’s in pursuit of a felon.’
‘I demand,’ the Judas Man rasped, ‘that the felon who calls himself the Misericord be handed over to me.’
This proclamation was greeted by cries of derision from the parish council.
‘You know the law,’ Athelstan stepped in front of the Judas Man, ‘and so do you, Bladdersniff. Any man who reaches a church and grasps the altar may claim sanctuary.’
‘Which means,’ the Judas Man retorted, pointing up the church, ‘that the malefactor cannot leave this church for forty days, and when he does I will arrest him: that, too, is the law!’
Athelstan was repelled by the malice in the Judas Man’s eyes, the violence of his speech.
‘It’s against canon law,’ Athelstan pointed at the sword, ‘to carry a naked weapon in church. I ask you, sir, to sheathe it and get out.’
Athelstan insisted that the Judas Man, the bailiff and all the parish council leave immediately. Pike made to protest; Benedicta intervened and gently shooed the ditcher and the rest out on to the church porch. Athelstan followed. The Judas Man was already in the forecourt, ordering the bully boys he had brought with him to guard all the doors of the church. Athelstan had met such bounty-hunters before and recognised their ruthlessness. An outlaw’s head could be worth fifteen pounds sterling, attached to its body; severed, the price was reduced to five. The Judas Man, skilled in the hunt and invoking the law, stared malevolently at Athelstan standing on the top step. He ordered Bladdersniff to include some of the parish council in the comitatus, or posse, he was forming.
‘What do you want me to do, Father?’ Benedicta pulled up the hood of her cloak.
‘Don’t be anxious, Benedicta. I would be grateful if you would serve Bonaventure a dish of milk.’ He gestured at the priest’s house. ‘Dampen the fire whilst I see what is happening.’
Athelstan strolled back into the church, slamming the door behind him. He walked up the nave. He was distracted by the gargoyle faces staring down at him from the top of the pillars as if they were the harbingers of ill news. Yet, Athelstan sighed, the day had looked so promising. He went under the rood screen and into the sanctuary, genuflected towards the sacrament lamp and then walked over to the Misericord, who was sitting on the top step, one hand on the high altar. He was tall and red-haired, his pallid, clean-shaven face, slightly pointed ears and slanted green eyes gave him an elfin look. He was dressed in dark blue matching jerkin and hose; his boots were of dark red Spanish leather. He had a knife pushed into the top of one of them and a war belt strapped across his shoulder which carried a Welsh stabbing dirk. Around his neck hung a silver misericord sheath on a black cord lanyard.
‘I claim—’ the Misericord began.
‘Shut up.’ Athelstan pulled across the altar boy’s stool and sat down, staring up at the Misericord. ‘I know the law,’ he continued evenly. ‘You are a fugitive. You have claimed sanctuary, you can stay here for forty days. I will supply you with food and drink.’
He pointed across the sanctuary to the sacristy door.
‘Go through there; outside is a makeshift latrine near a butt of water. You can relieve yourself there, but make sure you leave it clean. Oh, by the way,’ Athelstan stretched out his hands, ‘I’ll take your weapons, which, as you know, must be kept near the Lady Altar.’
He pointed to his left. The Misericord cleaned his teeth with his tongue whilst he swept the sweat from his face.
‘Stay there.’ Athelstan left the church by the corpse door. Benedicta was still in the kitchen, busy brushing the floor. Bonaventure had sipped his milk and was staring at the steaming cauldron where the freshly cooked oatmeal still bubbled hot. Athelstan explained he was in a hurry. He filled a maplewood bowl full of oatmeal, added some honey, took a pewter spoon from the buttery and drew a tankard of ale. He put these on a wooden board and took them back to the church.
The Misericord ate and drank, gulping the food down, using his fingers to clean the bowl whilst draining the tankard in one swig. Athelstan collected the fugitive’s weapons, including the misericord dagger, and placed them behind the Lady Altar.
‘Very good, very good.’ The Misericord wiped his fingers on his jerkin.
‘I’ll have the bowl back and the spoon. The tankard you can keep, for a while.’
‘Did you brew it yourself?’
‘No, Benedicta did.’
‘Ah yes, the widow woman, with hair as black as night and the face of an angel. Do you love her, Father? I thought you were a priest and friar?’ The Misericord’s green eyes glinted with mischief.
‘Benedicta is an honourable widow, her husband was lost at sea. She brews ale, cooks me some bread and, not at my bidding, keeps my house clean.’
‘But not your bed warm?’
Athelstan half rose threateningly. The Misericord held up both hands in a sign of peace, his pale, mischievous face all solemn.
‘Pax et bonum, peace and goodwill, Father. I was only joking.’
The Misericord scrutinised the priest. Whenever he moved into an area, be it a village or one of the wards of London, he always discovered which was the quickest way out, where he could hide, who was to be trusted and which men or women exercised power. He had learnt a great deal about this slim, dark-faced friar with his soulful eyes and wary manner. He had also laid a great wager on Ranulf the rat-catcher, though now he regretted coming to Southwark.
‘What is your real name?’ Athelstan asked.
‘John Travisa, former clerk from the halls of Oxford, a troubadour, a poet, a chanteur, a lady’s squire…’
‘And a thief and a boaster,’ Athelstan finished for him.
The Misericord shrugged.
‘Hard times, Father. Outside in the shires, the harvests fail and what’s left is pecked up by the tax
