‘He’ll find little comfort there,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Brother, where are you going?’ Athelstan was already striding towards the gate.
‘Why, Sir John, to Newgate. I want to question the Misericord before the Judas Man pays him a visit.’
This time Cranston found it difficult to keep up with Athelstan’s pace as they threaded through the needle-thin alleyways down to the quayside. They were delayed for a short while, as bailiffs with staves and clubs were trying to break up a small but very noisy crowd shouting, ‘Shovels and spades!’ the usual cry which went up along the riverside whenever any private individual tried to take over a stretch of the Thames.
‘It’s happening along both banks of the river!’ Cranston exclaimed as they climbed into Moleskin’s barge.
‘That’s right, Sir John,’ Moleskin agreed. ‘If the rich have their way they will buy up every plot of land along the Thames. I won’t be able to moor my barge without paying a tax, whilst you, Sir John, won’t be able to water your horse.’
‘And the women of the parish,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘won’t have anywhere to wash their clothes. Water is a gift, Sir John; as the Gospel says, the Good Lord lets his rain fall on the just and the unjust.’
‘But the unjust gets more,’ Sir John quipped, ‘because he owns a bigger barrel.’
‘And has stolen the just man’s,’ Moleskin added, pulling back the oars and taking the boat out across the choppy tide.
While Cranston and Moleskin badgered and teased each other, Athelstan stared moodily across the river. A bank of mist still hovered mid-stream. Athelstan quietly prayed that Moleskin would have his wits about him, as well as a sharp eye for the various wherries, fishing boats and barges of every description going up and down the Thames. To his right he could make out the lines of London Bridge, including the poles bearing the severed heads of traitors. He wondered how Master Burdon, the Keeper of the Bridge, was doing. Burdon was a mannikin, very proud of the trust shown to him, an engaging little man if it wasn’t for his rather macabre habit of combing the hair of the severed heads.
Athelstan, reflecting on the tumult behind him, wondered how the likes of Burdon, Moleskin, Pike the ditcher, Ranulf and the rest would cope when the great revolt occurred. He had listened most attentively to Sir John, he had witnessed first hand the soul-wrenching poverty of London’s poor, aware of the stories flooding in from the countryside of how the peasants seethed at the taxes, levies and tolls imposed upon them. Would the revolt reach Southwark? Would his own parishioners join in? Would they achieve anything, or would it all end in murderous street fighting, and mass executions in Smithfield and elsewhere? He heard Moleskin mention the death of the two whores on the night of the Great Ratting, eager to find out if Cranston knew all the gory details. Was their journey across the Thames connected with this? Cranston replied evasively while Athelstan thought about the Misericord being trapped outside Bishopsgate.
‘Have you taken anyone suspicious across?’ he asked abruptly.
‘I am suspicious about all my passengers, Father.’ Moleskin nodded at Cranston.
‘You’ve heard how the Misericord escaped?’
Moleskin shook his head, but his eyes betrayed him.
‘If you were fleeing London?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I certainly wouldn’t use the bridge or a barge,’ Moleskin replied, ‘but go south through the countryside.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Athelstan pointed at the approaching bank. ‘So he must have been going to meet someone, and I know who.’
Once they had landed at Queenhithe, Athelstan reminded Cranston about his previous night’s visitor.
‘So he was going to meet his sister?’ Cranston asked.
‘I think so. One last visit, perhaps,’ Athelstan replied. ‘He made a mistake; the Judas Man knew more about the Misericord than his victim realised.’
They walked up into Thames Street, making their way through the busy crowds. The thoroughfares and lanes were much broader here than in Southwark, the people better dressed in their fur-edged coats, mantles and ermine-lined hoods, the markets more prosperous, the stalls piled high. From the prices being bawled Athelstan understood how steeply the cost of everything had risen, be it cloths and leather goods from abroad, or vegetables from the garden estates outside the City. They passed the towering mass of St Paul’s, up Dyer Lane and into the shambles, where the fleshers and butchers had their stalls. The broad cobble-lined lane had turned slippery with the offal and blood strewn about. Packs of dogs vied with beggars and the poor in snapping up these morsels. The air was rich with the odour of raw flesh; even the butchers and apprentices were drenched in blood, their stalls slippery with the juices dripping off. For the price of a penny, the poor were allowed to place pots and pans underneath to collect these drippings. Cranston was well known here; he was greeted noisily by the bailiffs and beadles as well as the officials who guarded the chain in front of Newgate, its forecourt stretching up to the prison’s iron-barred black gates.
Athelstan always hated the place; it was a veritable pit of misery. Outside the gate, prisoners thronged, manacled together, sent out to collect alms by their gaolers for both themselves and other inmates. Relatives of those held in the pits and dungeons fought to bribe guards and turnkeys with messages and gifts for their beloved ones within. A woman shrieked that she had children to feed but how could she do so whilst her husband was in chains? Athelstan pressed a coin into her hand; only when they had passed through the gate and into the prison yard beyond did Cranston, with some exasperation, explain how the woman was a mummer who often preyed on passers-by. The prison yard itself was also noisy. Lines of prisoners, shivering in their rags
