in a glorious splash of bright vermilion, whilst the figure of St Paul, embroidered in gold, seemed to glow with its own special light. At the corner of Walbrook the rakers were out, their great wooden rods moving piles of slush and refuse into high, stinking heaps. A bailiff had found a pig wandering where it shouldn’t and, according to city regulations, had promptly cut the animal’s throat. The blood gushed out in hot, scarlet streams whilst its owner, a little balding man, threatened the official with a stream of horrible oaths. Athelstan remembered Ursula and her great, fat sow and wondered if the bailiff would cross to Southwark. The city parasites were also massing as thick as flies over a turd: smooth-skinned lads, cloak-twitchers, quacks, night wanderers, mimes and petty sorcerers.
At last Athelstan found the Golden Lamb, a little tavern on the corner of an alleyway. The dark taproom was dominated by a morose Cranston, who sat slumped on a bench with his back against the wall. The empty ale-jacks scattered on the table before him made the coroner look like an angry Bacchus surrounded by votive offerings. Athelstan walked across and Cranston’s eyes swivelled to meet him.
‘Where have you been?’ the coroner snapped.
‘I came as fast as I could.’
‘It wasn’t fast enough!’
Athelstan silently prayed for patience and sat down on the stool opposite Sir John. He didn’t like the appearance of the coroner one bit. Cranston was a drinker but was usually a jovial soul, conscious of his own sins, faults and failings, and so tolerant of those of others. Now he looked positively sinister, his eyes continually flashing around as if seeking a challenge. His lips moved wordlessly and even the white whiskers bristled with some inner fury.
‘Do you want some wine, Priest?’
‘No, Sir John, I don’t, and I think you’ve drunk enough.’
‘Sod off!’
Athelstan leaned forward. ‘Sir John, please, what is wrong? Perhaps I could help?’
‘Mind your own business!’
Athelstan coughed and backed away. ‘This,’ he murmured, ‘is going to be a very trying day. You said the mayor and the sheriffs wished to see us?’
‘They have seen me. They got tired of waiting for you!’
‘And what did they say, Sir John?’ Athelstan asked sweetly.
The coroner shook himself, sat up and smiled shamefacedly at Athelstan. ‘Forgive me, Brother,’ he mumbled. ‘A bad night, and I’ve got an aching head.’
‘And a filthy temper to boot,’ Athelstan thought, but decided to keep his own counsel. Sir John would talk soon enough.
Cranston chewed his lip and glared into a corner where a huge rat gnawed at a bloody globule of fat glistening amongst the dirty rushes. ‘Is it the black or brown rat which carries infection?’ he suddenly asked.
Athelstan followed Cranston’s gaze and shuddered in disgust
‘Both, I think, so I’m not eating here, Sir John, and I suggest that neither should you. Anyway, tell me what’s happened.’
‘There’s been more bloodshed in the Tower. Sir Gerard Mowbray, who also received a death warning, slipped from a parapet and fell.’
‘Anything else?’
‘About the same time that Mowbray died, the great tocsin of the Tower sounded, convincing the garrison it was under attack.’
‘But there was no attack?’ Athelstan replied. ‘And, I am sure, no sign of a bell ringer?’
‘Apparently.’
‘And the business of the Mayor?’
Athelstan jumped as a fierce torn cat slunk out of the shadows, grasped the rat by its leg and pulled it squealing into the centre of the room.
‘For God’s sake!’ Cranston bellowed at the taverner.
The fellow wandered over waving a broomstick and the cat, its quarry still swinging from his mouth, fled up the spiral, wooden staircase. Cranston lifted the ale-jack, remembered the rat, and slammed it back on the table.
‘The business of the Mayor, my dear Athelstan, is that Sir Adam Horne, burgess, alderman and close friend of the late Sir Ralph, has received a drawing of a three-masted cog, together with a flat sesame seed cake.’
‘And where is Horne now?’
‘At his warehouse along the Thames. Horne did not tell the mayor about this, his wife did. Both message and cake were delivered anonymously to her. She handed them over to her husband and was terrified by his reaction. He became pale and ill as if taken by a sudden seizure.’
‘When was this?’
‘Earlier today. The wife immediately went to see one of the sheriffs. The rest you know.’
‘Lady Horne acted very quickly?’
‘Yes, the mayor himself is suspicious. He still believes Lady Horne knows more than she claims.’
Athelstan stared towards the door as a group of pedlars, battered trays slung round their necks, bustled in, raucously shouting for ale. A one-eyed beggar followed and, for a penny, agreed to do a dance. His skeletal body clothed in dirty rags looked grotesque as he hopped from foot to foot, to the mocking laughter of the tinkers.
‘Isn’t it strange, Sir John,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘how we men take such a delight in the humiliation of others?’
Cranston remembered Lady Maude, blinked and looked away.
Athelstan stirred. ‘So, Sir John, do we question Horne or go to the Tower?’
Cranston rose. ‘My office is to enquire as to the cause of death,’ he announced pompously. ‘Not to run errands for the powerful ones of this city. So we go to the Tower. After all, as the good book says, “Where the body lies, the vultures will gather”.’
‘Sir John?’ Athelstan scratched his head. ‘This warning — the seedcake and the ship, still troubles me.’
‘What do you mean?’ Cranston slurred, swaying dangerously against the table.
‘Well, apparently Horne, for example, recognised the seed cake as a death threat, but why does the crude drawing of a ship hold such terrors for him and others?’
‘All men are fearful because they’re liars!’ Cranston snapped. ‘No one tells the truth!’ He glared at Athelstan under bristling brows.
‘What’s wrong, Sir John?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘I can feel the fury and the hurt seething within you. You must tell me.’
‘In a while,’ the coroner muttered. ‘Let’s go!’
They collected their horses from the stables and led them through the cold, bustling streets. Every Londoner seemed to be out of doors: the stall-holders were busy making up for lost trade and the air was thick with savoury smells from taverns and cookshops. They went to Cornhill, past Leadenhall and into Aldgate, pausing where a crowd had gathered round a speaker on the corner of Poor Jewry. He was a striking figure with a long, dour face, the head completely shaven, his thin body clothed from head to toe in a black gown and cloak. The speaker paused as he glimpsed Cranston, and his mouth and jaw tensed with fury. The anger in his face made his eyes glow, reminding Athelstan of the figure of St John the Baptist in a mummer’s play. The man’s eyes never left Cranston’s as he drew a deep breath, one bony finger pointing upwards to the clear blue sky.
‘Woe to this city!’ the preacher rasped. ‘Woe to its corrupt officials! Woe to those they serve who are clad in silk, loll on couches, and fill their bellies with the best of food and the richness of wine. They will not escape the fury which is coming! How can we eat and drink when our poor brothers starve? What will their answer be then?’
Cranston angrily stepped forward but Athelstan caught him by the sleeve.
‘Not now, Sir John!’
‘Who is it?’ Cranston rasped.
‘The hedge priest, John Ball. A great preacher,’ Athelstan muttered. ‘Sir John,’ he advised, ‘the man is well liked. This is neither the time nor the place!’
Cranston took a deep breath, spun on his heel and walked on. The preacher’s fiery words pursued them as they passed the house of Crutched Friars and turned left down an alleyway towards the Tower.
