‘What have you done?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Well,’ the Misericord crossed his arms and leaned back against the altar, ‘I have been a relic-seller. Do you want to buy a piece of the True Cross, a portion of the baby Jesus’ nappy, some hairs from Joseph’s beard, one of the Virgin Mary’s shoes?’ He cleaned his teeth with his fingers. ‘I can supply it. I even took a severed head from one of the pikes on London Bridge. I cleaned it up, dried it in spices and sold it to a merchant in Norwich as the head of St John the Baptist.’
Athelstan kept his face straight.
‘And why does the Judas Man pursue you?’
‘There’s a reward of twenty-five pounds on my head. He has been dogging my footsteps through Essex, Middlesex, across the river and into Southwark. I don’t know why he is so persistent. I tried to leave Southwark this morning but he had his spies on both the bridge and the quayside.’
The Misericord pulled a loose thread on his jerkin. ‘I had no choice but to flee.’
‘But why?’ Athelstan became intrigued.
‘I don’t know,’ the Misericord sighed. ‘I expect he has been hired by a private citizen. Someone who seeks vengeance.’
‘For what?’ Athelstan demanded.
‘I don’t know! I have played so many games. There is one, perhaps that’s it. I took the name Dr Mirabilis and offered to sell a powder which would…’ The Misericord clicked his tongue. ‘Let me put it this way, Father, I said it would make a man perform like a stallion in bed, so I wouldn’t have offered it to someone like you.’
‘And of course,’ Athelstan replied, ‘it did nothing. What did you claim it was?’
‘The ground horn of a unicorn.’
‘And the truth?’
The Misericord pressed his lips together. ‘A mixture of camomile and valerian.’
‘But that would have the opposite effect,’ Athelstan said. ‘Such a mixture would slow the mind, make the body relax; it’s nothing better than a sleeping potion.’
‘I know, Father.’
‘How did you sell it?’
The Misericord was about to reply when the door of the church crashed open.
‘Sir Jack Cranston,’ Athelstan whispered.
The Misericord crept back into the shadows. Athelstan sat listening to those hard, heavy boots ring out across the paving stones of the nave.
Sir John Cranston, former soldier, Coroner of the City of London, father of the poppets, as he called his twin baby sons, and devoted husband of the Lady Maud, swept into the sanctuary like the north wind. He had a beaverskin hat pressed down on his unruly grey hair, his great body and heavy paunch were masked by the military cloak pulled halfway up to his face, yet there was no mistaking that bristling white moustache, the vein-flecked cheeks and the piercing blue eyes.
‘Good morning, Brother Athelstan.’ He peered through the gloom. ‘Aye, and morning to you, Master Misericord.’
Cranston undid his cloak, clasped Athelstan’s hand and advanced threateningly towards the fugitive now crouching beside the altar. He rested one foot on the second step and leaned forward.
‘The Misericord! Also known as John Travisa, also known as Walter Simple, also known as Edward Bowman, also known as God knows what. Wanted dead or alive in the shires of Suffolk, Norfolk, Hertfordshire, Essex and Kent. Oh, this time you’ll hang, my boy.’ Cranston gestured down the nave. ‘I know that Judas Man. You placed your wager on Ranulf’s ferrets? Well, he’s a ferret in human form. He’ll hunt you down, though I’ll be the first to deal with you. You killed a man last night.’
‘No I didn’t,’ the Misericord yelped.
‘Yes you did!’
Cranston suddenly remembered where he was and snatched off his beaverskin hat. He hurriedly made a sign of the Cross, one of the fastest Athelstan had ever seen, then fished beneath his cloak and unhooked the miraculous wine skin which never seemed to empty, unstoppered it and took a mouthful. He offered it to Athelstan, who refused, though the Misericord grabbed it greedily and took a generous swig. Cranston snatched it out of his hands.
‘Now, my lovely boy,’ Cranston breathed. ‘You killed a man last night, or had him killed. You went to Master Rolles’ for the Great Ratting, and I will see mine host about that. You knew you were being hunted, so you paid some unfortunate who had a passing resemblance to you to wear that misericord dagger around his neck, a man with red hair and pale face. The Judas Man went to arrest him, and Toadflax—’
‘Toadflax?’ Athelstan queried.
‘Toadflax,’ Cranston explained, ‘was a dog collector. He took the corpses of dead animals from the streets; now and again he became involved in petty thievery.’
Cranston jabbed a finger in the fugitive’s face.
‘He was the one you bribed. What did you give him for his life? A penny? A groat? Some numbskull who wouldn’t know his right hand from his left; now his corpse is stiffening in an outhouse.’
Cranston turned swiftly to Athelstan.
‘Will you bury him, Father? Will you anoint him with oil and put his body in the ground?’
Athelstan nodded.
‘Now we have business to do.’ Cranston pointed threateningly at the fugitive. ‘You stay here, you understand? You only leave here to go to the jakes. That Judas Man is in a fair temper; he will have your neck.’
The Misericord, all courage drained, nodded quickly. Cranston took Athelstan by the elbow and steered him out of the sanctuary.
‘Well, good morrow to you, Sir John.’
The coroner beamed down at this friar whom he loved more dearly than a blood brother.
‘You look well, Sir John, in fine fettle.’
Cranston stroked his moustache and beard. ‘The Lady Maud and I,’ he whispered, ‘we had a celebration last night, downstairs and upstairs.’ He winked knowingly.
‘So the Lady Maud is in good health?’
‘Aye, but there are three corpses at the Night in Jerusalem!’
‘Three!’ Athelstan exclaimed.
‘You know the tavern? It’s owned by one Master Rolles, a true sicarius who harvested rich plunder in France.’
‘I know of Master Rolles and his tavern, Sir
