CHAPTER 6
Athelstan sat in the nave of his church, a group of young adults and children round him; this being a working day, their parents had attended morning Mass and left for their day’s routine. Athelstan’s school, as Cranston jokingly referred to it, met two hours before noon twice a week so the friar could try to educate the young in reading, writing, and the basics of arithmetic and geometry. Naturally, they were also instructed in their faith and Athelstan had been surprised at how quick and eager some of his students proved to be.
He looked round the group, his heart lurching with compassion as he gazed at their grimy, thin faces, makeshift clothes and tattered sandals. They sat in a circle, Bonaventure included, as Athelstan tried to explain how God was everywhere.
Now and again he stole glances at Pike’s son Thomas who couldn’t sit any closer to Watkin’s beautiful daughter Petronella. Athelstan gazed at the girl’s jet-black hair, smooth, white skin and sea-green eyes. How could Watkin and his portly wife have produced such a beautiful girl? Thomas was so deeply smitten by her, he hardly bothered even to glance in Athelstan’s direction.
‘Go on, Father!’ Crim, the altar boy, shouted
‘Of course.’ Athelstan rubbed his eyes. He was beginning to feel tired after his previous day’s labour.
‘Of course God is everywhere, he sees everything, hears everything.’
‘Is he in my hand?’ Crim asked.
‘Of course.’
Crim clapped his hands together. ‘In which case he’s trapped. I’ve got him!’
‘No, no,’ Athelstan laughingly explained. ‘It’s not like that, Crim.’
‘But you said he was everywhere?’
‘Crim.’ Athelstan leaned back on his ankles, wincing as his knee cracked. ‘God is like the air we breathe. He’s in us, part of us, yet at the same time outside of us. Like the air which you suck into your mouth and yet, at the same time, it is in your hand.’
Mugwort the bell ringer bounded into the church and Athelstan winced as the little goblin of a man disappeared into the small enclosure and began to tug like a demon at the bell, the sign for the mid-day Angelus. Athelstan said the prayer, got to his feet and dusted down his robe.
‘You can play now. Crim, don’t drink from the holy water stoup. John and James,’ he glanced in mock severity at Tab the tinker’s two sons, as like as two peas out of a pod with their grimy faces and greasy, spiked hair, ‘the baptismal font is not a castle. You can play on the steps but not inside the church. Petronella and Thomas, stay for a while.’
The rest of the children grinned behind their hands and there was a chorus of ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’ as Athelstan ushered them out of the church. The two lovebirds were well known in the parish; to everyone, that is, except their parents.
‘Father?’
‘Yes, what is it?’ Athelstan looked at the pinched white little face peering out of the tarry, pointed hood.
‘What is it, Roland?’
The little boy whispered something and Athelstan had to crouch to listen as Ranulf the rat-catcher’s son explained that his father wanted an urgent meeting with Athelstan.
‘Yes, yes,’ he replied, straightening up. ‘Tell your father, I’ll see him tomorrow.’
He chewed his lip to hide his smile for the little boy was the image of his father, with the same cast of features as the very rodents he hunted. The boy scampered off to join the rest and Athelstan walked back up the nave where the two young lovers sat in front of the rood screen.
‘Father.’ Thomas got to his feet. ‘You must see our parents soon.’
‘Why?’ Athelstan looked nervously at the girl. ‘Has anything happened?’
She smiled and shook her head.
‘Father,’ she pleaded, ‘we have come and told you our secret. You have checked the blood book, there are no ties between us except Thomas’s great-great-uncle was married to a relation of my grandmother.’ The girl ticked the points off on her fingers. ‘We have agreed to receive instruction. Thomas has a fine job with the port reeve at Dowgate and I am very good at embroidery. Father, it was I who made the altar cloths. So why can’t the banns be published?’
Athelstan held up his hand. ‘All right. I will see your parents this Sunday after morning Mass. Perhaps they can all come for a glass of wine at my house to celebrate the good news?’ He kept the fixed smile on his face as the two love-birds jumped for joy and almost ran down the nave, hand in hand.
‘Oh, Lord!’ he breathed. ‘There are only five days left till Sunday and the outbreak of civil war!’
‘In which case I had better be there!’
Athelstan smiled. ‘Benedicta,’ he replied without turning round. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Long enough to hear you talking to yourself, Father.’
Athelstan turned and walked down the church to where the widow woman stood, one hand on a pillar. She looked as elegant and beautiful as ever. Her smooth, olive-skinned face framed in a cream-coloured wimple, and those eyes which could be mocking, smiling, tearful, generous, sad and soulful, and those lips… Athelstan slipped his hands up the sleeves of his gown and pinched himself as he remembered the words of scripture: ‘Even if you desire a woman in your mind’s eye…’ He unclasped his hands.
‘Benedicta, what brings you here?’
She grinned impishly. ‘How’s the baking going for the autumn festival?’
‘That,’ Athelstan declared heatedly, ‘is the least of my worries.’
He described his previous day’s visit to the Guildhall, breaking off only when Benedicta began to laugh at his description of Cranston and the two wolf hounds. However, as he described the killings, her face grew sombre.
‘You should be careful, Father,’ she murmured. ‘The gossip is spreading through Southwark like fire in dry stubble. There’s talk of a great revolt, of assaults on tax collectors, and Pike the ditcher is up to mischief again.’
‘Does the name Ira Dei mean anything to you, Benedicta?’
I have heard it bandied about, that and the Great Community of the Realm. Pike the ditcher knows everything.’ She smiled wryly. ‘Or at least he says he does. Pike is more full of ale than malice.’
‘I expected Cranston,’ Athelstan said, wistfully staring at the door. ‘You see, one of his old comrades has been murdered, and the city fathers not only want their murders resolved and their gold back, they are also demanding an explanation of why the dismembered limbs of traitors are disappearing from the spikes above London Bridge.’
‘A cup of troubles,’ Benedicta said. ‘But, Father, I have to add to them.’
‘How?’ he asked sharply.
‘A woman came to the church last night.’ Benedicta narrowed her eyes, trying to recall the name. ‘Eleanor Hobden, that’s right.’
Athelstan’s heart sank.
‘She claims her daughter’s possessed,’ Benedicta continued. She says she will take you to her house tonight after Vespers. What’s it all about, Father?’
Athelstan’s dark eyes looked mournful but she resisted the urge to clasp his hand or stroke his cheek.
‘Trouble,’ the priest muttered. ‘Benedicta, when I do go tonight, will you come with me?’
‘Are you frightened?’ she half-teased.
‘No, no. But I’ll ask Sir John to accompany me too. In these cases the salt of common sense can be better than a priest’s blessing.’
‘Caught you at last, monk!’
Athelstan and Benedicta started and looked round as Cranston, hat off, legs astride, stood at the entrance to the church beaming at them.
‘Oh, Lord,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘He’s been at the miraculous wineskin.’
‘Caught you at last!’ Cranston boomed again, and walked down the nave. He stopped and peered about.
‘Where’s that bloody cat?’
‘He’s gone hunting.’
‘Good!’ Cranston came over, put one bear-like arm round Benedicta and planted a juicy kiss on her cheek.
