He was still thinking about this when they reached the bridge and walked along its thoroughfare, stopping every so often to examine the gaps between the houses and shops built on either side. Some of these places were nothing more than short, thin alleyways leading down to the high rails overlooking the gushing water. Athelstan went into the Chapel of St Thomas, but quickly realised no one could bring a corpse in there. He went out, further down, until they came to the great refuse mound, piled high between two wooden slats with a third behind; this served as a drawbridge. Cranston explained how, when the cords were released, the slat would fall, and the be tipped into the river. The front of the lay stall was a high wooden board. Two young boys, pushing a wheelbarrow, loosened the pegs, pulled the board down and, wheeling their barrow in, tipped the rubbish out. The area around the lay stall was free of any encumbrance and the passers-by hurried along, clutching their noses, pulling cloaks up or using pomanders against the awful stench. The rubbish was a dark slimy mass: broken pots, scraps of clothing, the refuse of citizens, piled high to be fought over by rats, cats, and the gulls which wheeled screaming above them, angry at being disturbed from their feasting.
‘Must we stay here, Brother?’
‘That’s where the Judas Man was tossed,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I’m sure of that. Buried deep in the rubbish. When that trap door was lowered, his corpse fell, into the river. Sir John, I’ve seen enough.’
They hurried across the bridge. Athelstan agreed with Sir John to stop at a small ale house to wash, as the coroner put it, the dirt and smell from their noses and mouths. Cranston persisted in questioning Athelstan about the lay stall on London Bridge, but the friar sat on a stool as if fascinated by the chickens pecking in the dust just outside the ale-house door. He seemed particularly interested in the carts which passed, and although Sir John asked him questions, Athelstan replied absent-mindedly; he even began to hum the ‘Ave Maris Stella’ under his breath.
‘I think the Archangel Gabriel is outside the door, don’t you?’
‘I think you’re right, Sir John,’ Athelstan replied dreamily.
‘Brother, you are not listening to a word I am saying.’
‘I would like to go to the Night in Jerusalem.’
Athelstan put his tankard down and, like a sleepwalker, left the inn, leaving Cranston to drain his blackjack.
They made their way through the streets and into the tavern yard. Athelstan looked into the hay barn, then visited the stables, asking the ostlers which was the Judas Man’s horse. He patted this distractedly on the flanks and left, walking across the yard, stopping now and again, trying to memorise every detail before following Sir John into the tavern. Being mid-afternoon, the tap room was busy with all the traders and pedlars chewing on roasted pork from tranchers at the communal table and warming their fingers over the chafing dishes. There was no sign of the knights or Brother Malachi. Master Rolles came bustling up.
‘You’ve a visitor!’ He pointed to the far corner.
‘Oh yes.’
Athelstan went across and stared down at Ranulf the rat-catcher, the ferrets scratching in the box by his feet.
‘Ranulf?’
‘Brother, I have come as a messenger from the parish council.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Cranston asked, coming up behind.
‘Hush now,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Ranulf,’ he warned, ‘I’m busy. I’ll take no nonsense.’
‘Oh no, peace has been made.’
‘Deo gratias.’
‘Oh no, Brother, not that!’ Ranulf had misunderstood the Latin. ‘We all put it to the vote,’ he smiled triumphantly, ‘on one condition: that everybody agreed to abide by the majority decision. Cecily the courtesan will be the Virgin Mary.’
‘Good.’ Athelstan sat down on the stool opposite. ‘Can I buy you a pot of ale?’
‘No, no.’ Ranulf seized his precious box and kissed the small bars through which the ferrets pushed their pink snouts. ‘We’re all going to celebrate at the Piebald tavern. Oh, Brother, by the way,’ Ranulf sat down again, ‘Benedicta decided to clean the church. She found this.’ Ranulf undid his leather jerkin, took out a piece of rolled cloth, put it on the table and left, eager to join the celebrations at the Piebald tavern. Cranston took his seat whilst Athelstan unrolled the cloth. He stared down at the thin, wicked-looking dagger.
‘One of those used against Malachi.’ Athelstan quickly put it into his leather writing satchel.
‘I’ve seen that before.’ Cranston leaned across the table. ‘It belonged to the Judas Man.’
Athelstan was about to reply when the tap room fell strangely silent. He glanced across; mailed men-at-arms wearing the royal livery thronged in the doorway behind a dark cowled figure.
‘Sir John Cranston, Brother Athelstan?’
The cowled figure came forward. Master Rolles pointed to the corner and Matthias of Evesham strolled across, a beaming smile on his face.
‘Well, Sir Jack,’ he gave a mocking bow, ‘Brother Athelstan. As Scripture says, you have appealed to Caesar, and to Caesar you will go. His Grace, the Regent, awaits you at his Palace of the Savoy.’
Chapter 12
The journey to the Savoy Palace was solemn and silent. Matthias of Evesham led the way as men-at-arms garbed in the royal livery grouped around Athelstan and Cranston under standards and pennants displaying the lions of England and the fleur-de-lys of France: thirty soldiers in all, the sight of their drawn swords clearing the streets as they marched down to the quayside and the awaiting royal barge. They clambered in, Matthias in the prow, Cranston and Athelstan sitting under an awning in the stern. The order was given to cast off. The barge drifted away, the rowers lowered their oars, cutting through the icy, misty river. They had hardly reached mid-stream when other boats grouped around them; these were full of royal archers in their brown and green padded jerkins, across their chests the personal
