‘Two flaxen-haired whores and poor Toadflax,’ Cranston explained, the smile fading from his face. ‘I need you Brother, you are my secretarius.’
Athelstan bit back his disappointment. He’d planned to do so much today: visit the sick, scrutinise the accounts, and he dearly wanted to read a new commentary on Ptolemy. The manuscript had been copied by scribes in his own order, and Athelstan had been loaned it by Prior Anselm, allowed to take it away from its great oaken shelf in the library at Blackfriars.
Heavy-hearted, Athelstan returned to his house, collected his writing satchel, which he hooked over his shoulder, and donned the heavy cloak Cranston had given him as a gift last Michaelmas. The kitchen looked clean and scrubbed, everything in order. Bonaventure was sprawled in front of the dying fire. Athelstan murmured a quick benediction that all would be kept safe, then he grasped his walking stick and joined Sir John, now standing on the steps of the church like a Justice come to judgement. It was obvious that the Judas Man intended to stay, his bully boys now bolstered by members of the parish council: Pike, Watkin, Ranulf and others eager for mischief. They had ringed the cemetery, keeping every window and door under close scrutiny. The Judas Man had even hired a couple of braziers, where the charcoal and wood crackled merrily, as well as supplying his comitatus with bread, meat and wine.
‘He is being well paid,’ Cranston murmured, staring across at the Judas Man, who sat on the cemetery wall gazing coolly back.
‘Who’s hired him?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Not the Corporation?’
Cranston shook his head. ‘The Corporation won’t do it any more, not unless they have to. It’s too expensive. Yet I tell you this, Brother, and I swear by Satan’s tits.’ He gestured with his head towards the Judas Man. ‘He’s well named, an evil bastard! He doesn’t care if he brings his quarry in dead or alive. There’s more compassion in Ranulf’s ferrets than in one hair on his head. Well, let me upset him.’
Cranston strode down the steps, Athelstan hurrying behind. They were halfway across the forecourt when Cranston stopped and bellowed at the Judas Man to join him. The man slowly, insolently climbed down from the wall and strolled across, sword scabbard slap-ping against the top of his boot. He bowed mockingly and stretched out his hand.
‘Sir John Cranston.’ The coroner grasped his hand and pulled the Judas Man close, such a powerful jerk that the Judas Man nearly missed his footing. Cranston steadied him.
‘There, there.’ He tapped a finger against the Judas Man’s cheek. ‘You are not going to touch that dagger, are you?’
The man’s hand fell away from the hilt.
‘Good.’ Cranston smiled. ‘Now, sir, you killed a man last night.’
‘I am an officer of the law, I carry a commission,’ the Judas Man retorted. ‘Toadflax pulled his dagger, I had no choice. I have a score of witnesses.’
‘Aye, I am sure you have.’ Cranston pushed his face closer. ‘But I couldn’t care if it was St Ursula and her ten thousand virgins. You’re accompanying me back to that tavern. I have questions to ask.’
‘I have business here.’
Athelstan stared across at the bailiffs. They had forgotten the braziers, the cheap food and ale, and were staring fearfully across. They all knew Cranston by reputation, if not by sight.
‘I, too, carry a commission,’ Cranston’s voice rose to a shout, ‘signed by John of Gaunt, Protector of the Realm.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You can either come freely or I’ll have you arrested.’
He pushed the Judas Man away, and walked out of St Erconwald’s into the narrow, tangled streets of Southwark. Athelstan had to run to keep up. The Judas Man shouted orders at his bailiffs and, cursing under his breath, was left with no choice but to follow. As they turned and left the church, Cranston was joined by his master bailiff Flaxwith, his two mastiffs Satan and Samson bringing up the rear. Cranston teased Flaxwith over Ranulf’s victory last night; the bailiff remained surly whilst his two dogs, as if aware of the disgrace they had brought upon their master, trotted mournfully behind.
The streets of Southwark were now busy, the traders and hucksters, the chapmen and the tinkers had set out their tawdry stalls, piled high with trinkets, second-hand clothing, soiled footwear, cheap buckles and buttons. Some had brought meats and bread, discarded by the cookshops in the wealthier parts of the City, to make a profit from the poor in Southwark. Whores and prostitutes stood at corners and in doorways, guarded by their pimps holding cudgels. These all disappeared, melting away like snow under the sun, at the appearance of Cranston hastening down the centre of the street like a cog of war under full sail. Apprentices and journeymen dashed out of doorways, ready to grasp would-be customers by the sleeve. They never accosted Cranston. Now and again the coroner would stop and stare up past the creaking signs to the narrow strip of sky between the over-hanging houses. Matins had already rung, so no slops could be thrown from the windows, but the coroner was ever wary. He had many enemies in Southwark and, as he had confided to Athelstan, there were those who would like nothing better than to empty a jakes pot over him. Dogs and pigs scurried about, chased by screaming, half-naked children. On the corner of Weasel Lane, a travelling leech was shouting his remedies.
‘For gut-griping, goitres, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs and bladders full of pus…’
He kept waving his arms, pointing at the tray slung by a cord around his neck; apparently new to the ward, he tried to entice Cranston. The coroner stopped.
‘Why, sir,’ he said sweetly, freeing his arm from the man’s fast grip, ‘what remedy do you offer for so many ills?’
‘The juice of the mandrake,’ the man gabbled, eyes all greedy at the prospect of a sale.
‘The juice of the mandrake?’ Cranston replied.
