The pickpocket spun round, a startled look on his face.
‘Foulpie, me boy!’ Cranston roared. ‘I’ve got my eye on you, you bloody little thief! Now be a good lad and piss off!’
The one-eyed tinker stopped and turned, startled.
‘What’s the matter?’ he shouted.
Cranston grinned and pointed to Foulpie, haring back towards East Cheap as fast as any whippet.
‘A rapscallion interested in your takings.’
The tinker smiled his thanks and the Coroner turned back to his subdued companion.
‘Well, Brother?’ he asked between swigs from the miraculous wineskin. ‘Have you ever exorcized the Lord Satan or one of his minions?’
Athelstan half-grinned and shook his head.
‘I’ve seen an exorcism,’ Cranston continued. ‘A real one. Fifteen years ago at St Benet Sherehog. You know the church?’
Athelstan nodded.
‘A young boy was taken there from the hospital of St Anthony of Vienne. Well,’ Cranston helped himself once more to the wineskin, ‘Brother, I still have nightmares about it! You see, the exorcist was one of those rare men, a really holy friar.’ Cranston sniffed at his own joke. ‘And I was one of the official witnesses appointed by the Bishop of London. They brought this lad, no more than fourteen summers, and chained him in the sanctuary chair next to the rood screen.’ The Coroner stopped to clear his throat, now Athelstan was listening eagerly. ‘This boy,’ he continued, ‘could speak in strange tongues, raise himself from the ground and, worse, tell people their secrets.’
‘What happened?’ Athelstan asked curiously.
‘Well, the exorcist began the ceremony and the boy suddenly changed. He became violent and abusive, cursing the exorcist with every foul word he knew. Now there’s a part of the ceremony, you know, when the exorcist…’
‘Solemnly invokes?’ Athelstan asked.
‘That’s it, solemnly invokes the devil and asks him by what name he is called. The boy’s voice, usually thin and reedy, became deep and rich, “I AM THE SWINE LORD,” he replied.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘That sanctuary became dark and there was the most offensive stink of putrefaction. Then the exorcist reached the end of the ritual where he was supposed to tell the demon who possessed the boy to leave, and the demon answered: “WHERE SHALL I GO? WHERE SHALL I GO?”’ Cranston stopped and reined in his horse.
‘Go on, Sir John, please.’
‘Well, there was another witness there. A young lawyer from the Inns of Court in Chancery Lane. He had watched the proceedings in a half-mocking fashion and, when the demon cried, “WHERE SHALL I GO? WHERE SHALL I GO?” this young bright spark suddenly whispered, “Well, he can come to me.”’
Sir John turned in the saddle. ‘Brother, I do not lie. The possessed boy threw himself back in a dead faint. I heard a rushing sound as if a huge bird was swooping for the kill and this young lawyer was suddenly lifted off his feet and thrown bodily against a pillar. He was unconscious for days.’ Cranston urged his horse on.
‘Why do you tell me this, Sir John? Are you trying to frighten me?’
‘No.’ Cranston’s face remained serious. ‘That’s the only occasion I have ever witnessed such a scene and it taught me a lesson. I can distinguish, Brother, between the real forces of darkness and the countless tricks of charlatans. Believe me, I have seen them all. Voices in the night, footsteps on dusty stairs, clanking in the cellars.’ He grinned. ‘So, put your trust in old Jack Cranston, Brother. Bring your oils and holy water, by all means, but leave old Jack to his own devices.’
CHAPTER 8
Cranston and Athelstan arrived back at St Erconwald’s. Whilst the Coroner relaxed in the priest’s house, Athelstan unlocked the church and knelt at the entrance of the rood screen to recite Divine Office. He found it difficult to concentrate on the words of the psalmist and was taken by the phrase, ‘A sea of troubles’. He stopped to reflect on the problems which faced both himself and Cranston as well as the possibility that, even in this little parish of St Erconwald’s, the Regent had his spies. The friar leaned back on his heels and stared up at the crucifix. He hoped tonight’s visitation would be the first and the last; Athelstan quietly vowed that, if it was, he would apply all his energies to this Ira Dei and the horrible murders perpetrated in the Guildhall and elsewhere.
He stared across at the new, beautifully carved statue of St Erconwald, the patron saint of his parish. Athelstan smiled. Erconwald had been a great bishop of London, a man who had faced many problems here in this bustling city, before retiring to the solitude of a monastic house at Barking. The friar could feel sympathy with him and stared at the fixed, pious face, so lost in his thoughts he jumped at a soft touch on his shoulder.
‘Father, I am sorry.’
Athelstan turned to see Benedicta anxiously looking down at him.
‘Father, you did say to return at Vespers?’
Athelstan rubbed his eyes and smiled. ‘Benedicta, it’s good of you to come. Wait here.’
He mounted the sanctuary steps, opened the tabernacle, took out the sacred oils and collected from the small sacristy a stoup of holy water with an asperges rod. These he placed in a small, leather bag and went back to Benedicta.
‘I suppose,’ he said with mock severity, ‘everything is well enough in the parish?’
‘As quiet as the sea before the storm,’ she teased.
They left the church, locked it and went across to find Cranston seated in Athelstan’s one and only chair, head back, mouth wide open, snoring his head off, whilst Bonaventure lay curled in his generous lap.
‘Oh, foolish cat,’ Athelstan whispered, and gently lifted him off before shaking Cranston awake.
The Coroner awoke, as usual, lips smacking, greeted Benedicta then, at Athelstan’s urging, went into the buttery and dashed cold water over his hands and face. Cranston returned refreshed and bellowing that he was ready to do battle with the devil and anyone else.
All three left St Erconwald’s, each lost in their own surmises of what might happen, and made their way through the narrow alleys and runnels of Southwark. It was just before dusk. Shops and stalls now closed, the crowds were dispersing to their own homes. The day’s business was done and Southwark’s violent night hawks, roisterers and denizens of the underworld would only emerge from their rat holes once darkness had fully fallen. They stopped before crossing the great thoroughfare leading down to London Bridge and watched a party of mounted knights pass, bright in their multicoloured surcoats, their great war helmets swinging from saddle horns. Squires and pages rode behind holding shields and lances. After them came two long lines of dusty archers marching through Southwark towards the old road south to Dover.
‘There’s a lot of such toing and froing,’ Cranston observed. ‘The French are now attacking every important seaport along the Channel and the Regent is desperate for troops. If he withdraws any more from Hedingham and the other castles north of London, it might spark off the revolt.’
Cranston watched as the archers trooped by-crop-haired, hard-bitten, with weather-beaten faces — veterans who would make short work of any peasant levies.
‘What will you do?’ he suddenly asked Athelstan. ‘I mean, when the revolt comes?’
The friar pulled a face. ‘I’ll send Benedicta away with anyone else who wishes to escape the eye of the storm. I’ll stay in my church.’
Athelstan, too, studied the soldiers. They stirred memories of his brother Francis and himself during their short and inglorious foray with the English armies in France. He had come home, leaving Francis to be buried in some communal pit. As usual, when thinking of his brother, Athelstan closed his eyes and breathed a quick requiem for the repose of his soul.
They continued their journey and at last arrived at the Hobdens’ narrow, three-storied house. Athelstan looked up. He glimpsed a single candle glowing in an upper-story window, and shivered.
‘Christ and all his angels protect us!’ he breathed as he knocked on the door.
‘Don’t worry!’ Cranston urged. ‘Jack Cranston’s here!’
