he turned.
‘Brother, I’ll walk you to the bridge!’
‘No, no, I insist, Sir John. I’ll be safe. Who’d attack a poor friar?’
Cranston watched the priest cross the Mercery and go down Budge Row.
‘Aye!’ he whispered to himself. ‘Who’d attack a poor friar? This city is full of bastards who would!’
Cranston waited until Athelstan had disappeared out of sight then followed him along Budge Row, down the Walbrook into the Ropery and along Bridge Street. At the far end in a pool of light, their torches fixed on poles, guards stood at the entrance to the bridge. Cranston heard their indistinct voices as they questioned the friar. One of them laughed and Athelstan was allowed through. The Coroner sighed with relief but strained his ears once more as he heard the slither of footsteps behind him.
‘Listen, you nightbirds,’ he growled over his shoulder, ‘this is old Jack, city Coroner. If you don’t piss off I’ll have your balls round your necks!’ When he turned, the street was empty.
Cranston went to relieve himself above a sewer, finished what he termed his ‘devoir’, fastened the points of his hose and smacked his lips. He made the sign of the cross and took a generous swig from the miraculous wineskin. Then he remembered the two dogs, Gog and Magog, and wondered what Lady Maude would think of them. Cranston groaned and decided another generous swig would not go amiss.
Athelstan sat at his table in the little priest’s house just opposite St Erconwald’s church in Southwark. He had returned to find everything in order. The church doors locked, someone had left a small jar of honey in one of the recesses; obviously a gift from one of his parishioners. His old horse Philomel was lying on his side, breathing heavily through flared nostrils as he dreamed of former glories when he had been a full-blooded destrier in the old King’s wars. Athelstan stood by the stable door, talking to him for a while, but the old horse snored on so the friar continued his survey of his little church plot. His garden was in good order, or the little he could see of it, whilst Bonaventure, the great mouser, the one-eyed prince of the alleyways, was apparently out on a night’s courting or hunting.
Now he stared round the meagre kitchen. The walls had been freshly painted with lime against the flies. He closed his eyes and smelt the fragrant herbs sprinkled on the fresh green rushes and then looked at the cauldron over the fire. He half-raised himself to ensure the porridge he was cooking did not become too thick or congealed. He sighed, went into the buttery and brought back a jug of milk. It still smelt fresh so he poured this into the cauldron, carefully stirring the porridge as Benedicta had instructed him.
‘I wish I could cook,’ he muttered.
He had once entertained Cranston to breakfast and the Coroner had sworn that Athelstan’s porridge, if thrown by catapults, could break down any city wall. He returned the jug, wiped his hands on a towel and went back to stand over the table which was littered with pieces of parchment. Each scrap of parchment contained the details of a murder.
‘What do we have?’ Athelstan mockingly asked himself. ‘How did Rosamund Ingham kill Sir John’s companion, Sir Oliver? No mark of violence. No trace of poison.’ He scratched his cheek. ‘Was the man murdered? Or was Cranston just furious at seeing an old friend made a cuckold?’
And yet, he thought, Cranston despite his bristling, white whiskers, florid face, great balding head and even bigger belly, was as shrewd and cunning as a serpent. Cranston had a nose for mischief; if Sir John thought a foul act had been committed, then he was usually right.
Athelstan picked up another piece of parchment and studied his crude drawing of the garden at the Guildhall where Mountjoy had been murdered. ‘How on earth?’ he muttered to himself. On one side was the high trellis fence against which the Sheriff had been leaning, to his left a sheer brick wall, to his right the garden fence guarded by the dogs and, facing him, the wooden fence of the pentice connecting the Guildhall to its kitchen. How could an assassin enter such an enclosed space and stab the burly Mountjoy to death without any clamour from the Sheriff or his fearsome dogs?
And, finally, there was Fitzroy, killed by an unseen hand. Who could deal poison without revealing how it was done? Who was this Ira Dei? Which of these powerful politicians was the traitor?
Athelstan shook his head and went back to his parish accounts. He felt tired but, since his return from the city, he had snatched only a few hours’ sleep before rising, reciting his office by candlelight, washing and dressing upstairs in his small bed chamber. Athelstan pulled the accounts over. He was sick of murder, intrigue and mystery, and the figures had to be totalled before he met the parish council at Michaelmas.
Athelstan nibbled at the edge of his quill. The power struggle on his little parish council was just as fierce as that of any Guildmasters. Watkin the dung-collector, Mugwort the bell ringer, Tab the tinker, Huddle the painter, Ursula the pig woman, Cecily the courtesan, and Tiptoe the pot boy from The Piebald tavern were still fighting off a bitter attack headed by Pike the ditcher. The latter was aided by Jacob Arveld, a pleasant-faced German with a comely wife and brood of children, Clement of Cock Lane, Pernell the Fleming and Ranulf the rat-catcher, whilst Athelstan and the widow woman, Benedicta, tried to keep the peace.
Benedicta… There she was in his mind’s eye: her jet-black hair framing a smooth olive face which Huddle the painter always used in his depictions of the Virgin Mary.
Athelstan stared at the hungry flames of the fire and remembered Father Paul’s warning: ‘Never forget, it’s not the physical longing for a woman which will haunt you but the sheer, empty loneliness, the bitter-sweet taste of longing for someone you can never possess.’ He jumped as a dark form slunk through the window.
‘Ah, good morning, Bonaventure, my most faithful parishioner.’
The great torn cat padded softly across to his master and looked hungrily at the porridge bubbling over the fire. Athelstan got up and brought him a bowl of milk from the buttery. The cat licked it daintily and nestled down in front of the fire whilst his master went back to considering his troubled parishioners. He had to have peace on the council, particularly if Watkin’s daughter was to be wed to Pike the ditcher’s son.
‘Oh, Lord!’ he said to a now snoozing Bonaventure. ‘That will put the cat amongst the pigeons!’
Bonaventure moved his head lazily; his one good amber eye seemed full of compassion for his master. Athelstan pulled the accounts closer. He wondered if the woman had come back about her possessed stepdaughter and shivered at what could be awaiting him there. He coughed, dipped his quill in the ink pot and began to fill in the entries, listing what he had spent in decorating the church now the new sanctuary had been laid:
• Correcting the Ten Commandments 3s.
• Varnishing Pontius Pilate and putting in a front tooth 5d.
• Renewing Heaven, adusting the stars amp; cleaning the moon 20s.
• Taking the spots off the Son of Tobias 4s. 6d.
• Brightening up the Flames of Hell, putting a new left horn on the Devil amp; cleaning tail 3s.
• Jobs for the Damned 2s. 6d.
• Putting New Shirt on Jonah amp; enlarging the Whale’s mouth accordingly 10s. 6d.
• Putting new leaves on Adam and Eve 15s.
Athelstan looked at the list and smiled. He was about to continue when suddenly he heard a gentle tapping on the door. He went across, opened it and looked out. It was the watching time, just before dawn, the sky already lightening and the shadows beginning to disappear.
‘Who is it?’ he called and looked around. It was too early for any urchin’s game. ‘Who is it?’ Athelstan repeated. Only the wind rattling a loose shutter in the church disturbed the silence. The hairs on the nape of his neck prickled. He felt a shiver down his back. He stared down the track beside the church. Was it some rogue? Some drunk from the stews of Southwark? Suddenly he saw the little wicket gate to the church stood half-open. He grasped the staff Cranston had given him and walked across.
‘Brother Athelstan!’
The voice seemed to be coming from behind the church and the friar, followed by an even more inquisitive Bonaventure, warily walked round. Again the voice called his name and Athelstan stared out across the headstones
‘Who is it?’ he shouted angrily. ‘This is no game but God’s house and God’s own acre!’
‘Turn round, Brother Athelstan!’
‘Why should I?’
A crossbow bolt smacked into the church wall beside his head.
‘I am convinced,’ Athelstan shouted back and turned round, eyes closed, fingers clenched.
‘What is it you want?’
