‘A killing?’
‘At the Great Ratting, Father. A man was stabbed. But now I am hungry.’
Athelstan left the beggar and walked across to his own house. The fire in the hearth had burned low. He looked around; everything was in order. He would break his fast after the meeting. His feet brushed feathers. He stepped back and stared down at a mauled pigeon. Bonaventure must have brought it in.
‘For what we are about to receive…’ Athelstan picked up the carcass and took it out to the yard. Of the great one-eyed tom cat there was no sign. Athelstan smelt the roasting pork, God-Bless’s cooking, and knew where the cat had gone. He entered the stable built next to the house. Philomel, the old warhorse, was chewing slowly on its oats, and lifted its head as Athelstan came in. The Dominican sketched a blessing in the air and left, then walked round up the front steps and into the church.
His guests, the Falconers, were clustered around Brother Malachi, who warmly greeted Athelstan and introduced his companions: Sir Maurice Clinton, Sir Thomas Davenport, Sir Reginald Branson, Sir Laurence Broomhill and Sir Stephen Chandler. Athelstan had met them all before and welcomed them back to Southwark for their annual visit.
‘I thank you for the loan of your church.’ The Benedictine’s smooth, cherub-like face creased into a smile. He gestured down the nave at the wooden screens; Crispin the carpenter had erected these against the transept wall to form a small chapel with an altar beneath the window and a statue of St Erconwald on a plinth where the wooden screen met the wall. The Benedictine congratulated Athelstan on the carvings along the wooden screen as well as the beautiful sculptured statue of the church’s patron saint. Athelstan nodded in bemusement. He had met Brother Malachi on previous occasions and was both flattered and surprised at the Benedictine’s interest in this crumbling old church.
‘You have done wonders.’ Sir Maurice Clinton, the leader of the group, gestured at the vivid wall paintings depicting scenes from the Bible.
‘I recognise some of your parishioners.’ Sir Stephen Chandler, small and fat, mopped his face with the edge of his cloak.
‘Yes, yes.’ Athelstan stared at his parishioners gathered in a gaggle further up the nave. He wondered what they were discussing so heatedly. ‘Mind you,’ he added absent-mindedly, ‘I wish Huddle our painter wouldn’t use his fellow parishioners as models for his scenes.’
‘I don’t know.’ Sir Thomas Davenport spoke up. ‘Cecily the courtesan makes a lovely Mary Magdalene.’
‘I was thinking,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘of Pike the ditcher’s wife being cast in the role of Jezebel.’
His remark provoked laughter and the knights drifted away to look at the painting on the wall near the baptismal font. Brother Malachi began to explain the scene in detail. Athelstan adjusted the cord round his middle, fingering the three knots symbolising his vows of obedience, chastity and poverty. He studied the group of knights intently. Sir Maurice was tall, thin, and harsh-faced, Sir Stephen round and red as a ripe apple; the rest all looked like brothers, dressed as they were in their black and white cloaks with the golden falcon emblem embroidered on the shoulder. He reckoned most of them must have seen their fiftieth summer. They walked and looked like the warriors they were – men who had fought in Outremer, strong, muscular soldiers, bodies hardened, faces darkened by years of military service under the blazing sun of the Middle Sea.
Athelstan knew little about their background: knights from Kent, landowners who, some twenty years ago, had gathered in Southwark to join the great expedition of Peter of Cyprus against the Turks in North Africa. They had served under the Golden Falcon standard and every year gathered at the tavern, the Night in Jerusalem, to celebrate their achievements and talk of old times. Brother Malachi was their chaplain: the Benedictine had served with the crusading army, even had his fingers shorn in the fighting, and returned to England settling in a small monastery outside Aylesford. Each year was the same: they’d gather for Mass at St Erconwald’s, then return to their tavern to continue their celebrations. Athelstan hardly gave them a second thought, yet wasn’t there some mystery attached to it all? Hadn’t Sir John Cranston told him about a great robbery, some scandal, before the crusading fleet left the Thames? Athelstan felt immediately apprehensive. Whenever he thought of Sir John Cranston, the larger-than-life coroner always appeared. Athelstan quietly prayed that Sir John, Coroner of the City of London, would not need his services, that he would not arrive to drag him from his parish to investigate some gruesome murder. Yet hadn’t God-Bless mentioned a man being killed last night during the Great Ratting?
‘Brother Athelstan.’ Sir Maurice led the knights back from the painting. ‘Once again you have kindly allowed us to use your church for Mass and our devotions.’
He turned to the Benedictine.
‘Well,’ he barked, ‘give it to him!’
Malachi drew his hands from the voluminous sleeves of his habit and handed over a small velvet-covered box. Athelstan undid the silver clasp, pushed back the lid and carefully picked up the gold ring, very similar to what a man would use in swearing his troth. He could tell, by the thinness of the gold, that the ring was ancient.
‘Do you like it?’ Sir Stephen asked, his fat face laced with sweat.
‘Of course.’ Athelstan put the ring back.
‘It belonged to St Erconwald,’ Malachi explained. ‘It was his episcopal ring. I bought it from a merchant in Canterbury. I have had it tested, it is genuine. There are marks on the inside.’
Athelstan lifted the ring up against the light, studying it intently, and saw the small Celtic crosses etched on the inside of it. He put the ring back, closed the box and slipped it into the wallet which hung from his cord. He was only halfway through his speech of thanks when the door crashed open. For a moment
