‘I want you to help me,’ he began. ‘Cecily, you know Mistress Veritable?’
‘Whore Queen!’ Cecily spat back. ‘A bitch steeped in villainy. She tried to get me into her house.’ She shook her head, blonde curls dancing, blue eyes angry.
‘Hush now,’ Athelstan warned. ‘Today you and Benedicta must pretend to be her friends. This is what you must do. You are to go to the Friar Minoresses near Aldgate and speak to a novice called Edith Travisa. You are to tell her to meet Mother Veritable and pretend to accede to all her demands. Tell her to negotiate to make it believable.’
‘Brother, what are you doing?’ Benedicta exclaimed. ‘I know Mother Veritable by reputation, a most unsavoury woman.’
‘And so does Edith,’ Athelstan replied. ‘She knows it’s only pretence, but she must be convincing. Once you have done that, you must return to Southwark. Act as though you are the Lady Edith’s messengers. You must tell Mother Veritable how Edith Travisa, now bereft of her brother, is seriously considering entering Mother Veritable’s house. You must pretend, you must convince that hideous woman. You must also persuade her to come back with you across the river this very morning to meet Edith to negotiate certain matters. She’ll ask you who you are. For the sake of the truth you must tell her you are Edith’s friends, and that you support her decision. Garnish your tale as you would a meal; emphasise Edith’s poverty, her lack of family; but one thing you must achieve is Mother Veritable’s departure from Southwark, before the ninth hour.’
Both women agreed and left. Athelstan continued with his cleaning of the church, interrupted now and again as parishioners drifted in. Satisfied, he went across to the priest’s house, where Malachi had just risen and was praying from his psalter before celebrating Mass.
‘Brother Athelstan, you have been up early?’
‘I have celebrated my Mass, Malachi. Now I have business to do.’ Athelstan kept his face impassive, closing his mind to what he now knew, as well as what he planned to happen before this day finished. ‘Once you have celebrated Mass,’ he continued, ‘I must insist you go back to the Night in Jerusalem. No, no, you will be safe. You must inform Master Rolles, Sir Maurice and Sir Reginald that I, and the Lord Coroner, must have words with them in the solar just after the ninth hour. If they are not there, Sir John will issue warrants for their arrest. I’m sorry, Brother, I cannot tell you the reason why, but all four of you have to be there.’
The Benedictine, mystified, left for the church. Athelstan finished his preparations. He donned his cloak, put the casket in a leather bag, collected his writing satchel and walked down through the early morning streets. He paused outside Merrylegs’ cookshop to eat one of the cook’s specialities, a sweet pie of apple and raisins. He stopped at the Piebald for a mug of ale, then continued down to the riverside to watch the mist lift and the fishing fleets come in. People passed him, Athelstan smiled or raised his hand in blessing, yet he was still very distracted. He kept turning over in his mind what he had planned for that meeting in the solar at the Night in Jerusalem. Church bells chimed, drowning the scream of the hunting gulls. Athelstan felt the cold seep through his heavy robe, and turning round, he walked up to the tavern.
Master Rolles greeted him in the doorway. Athelstan was equally courteous in reply.
‘I have received your message, Brother.’
‘Thank you, thank you. Master Rolles, do you have spades and mattocks? I would like to borrow them for my church field.’
‘Of course, quite a few.’
‘Good.’ Athelstan answered absent-mindedly, patting him on the arm. ‘I need to see you this morning, I assure you it won’t take long.’
Athelstan warmed himself in front of the tap room fire, listening to the chatter of the spit boy, who questioned the friar closely on how much he ate, and did he have a spit? Was it true that friars were forbidden to eat? Athelstan laughed and gave the boy a penny. The lad was still chattering when Athelstan heard a clamour outside, and Sir John, with his retinue of bailiffs and serjeants-at-arms, strode into the tap room.
‘Brother, good morrow, what’s this all about?’
Athelstan took him into a far corner, whispering what he had planned and what Sir John must do. The coroner loosened his cloak, took off his beaver hat, scratched his head and whistled under his breath.
‘Little friar, you have been busy!’ He nodded at the doorway. ‘As I came in, they were gathering in the solar.’
‘So, we must join them. There must be a guard in the room and one outside.’
‘And the bailiffs?’
‘Oh, they’ll be busy. They have a garden to dig!’
Athelstan, clutching his writing satchel and leather bag, left the tap room, followed by a mystified Cranston. The others were already grouped either side of the solar table. Athelstan sat at one end with his back to the window, Sir John at the other.
‘Good morning, gentlemen.’
The knights grunted a reply as if bored by the proceedings. Rolles, however, was clearly agitated by the presence of the guards and so many bailiffs.
‘Ah, Henry.’ Athelstan pointed at Flaxwith, who was standing behind Cranston. ‘I must ask you to leave. I have a very important task for you. In the outhouse, across the stable yard, you will find spades, mattocks and hoes. No, keep still, Master Rolles.’ Athelstan spoke as the taverner scraped back his chair. ‘I want you to collect them, go into the garden behind me and start digging.’
Athelstan glanced quickly at the knights, gratified at the shock in their faces. Rolles was so agitated he couldn’t keep still.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Flaxwith retorted, ‘Master Rolles’ garden is beautiful.’
‘Master Rolles, you will keep seated,’ Athelstan
