dancing round him, waited to be plucked. Then he thought of the stairs leading up to the tower, winding and narrow; sometimes he’d leave the trap door open… Athelstan opened his eyes.
‘Where in the world is the sky no more than three yards wide?’ he asked.
Alcest nodded.
‘Why, at the bottom of a well,’ Athelstan replied.
Alcest clapped his hands. ‘Well done, Brother.’
‘I have answered the riddle,’ Athelstan pointed out.
‘Repeat yours,’ Elflain asked.
Athelstan did so; the clerks murmured and whispered amongst each other, oblivious to the young woman sitting at the end of the table.
‘They are new,’ Napham declared. ‘Brother Athelstan, you must give us more time.’
‘And we will,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘But tell me, sirs, do you know of someone who, for any reason, wanted the deaths of Chapler and Peslep?’
A chorus of denials greeted his words.
‘You are sure of that?’ Cranston insisted.
‘Sir John, we are clerks,’ Elflain replied. ‘We come from different parts of the country. We have no family here.’ Elflain waved around. ‘So our companions here, these are our kinsfolk. We would know of any danger which threatened any of us.’
Cranston whistled through his teeth. ‘In which case,’ he lumbered to his feet, ‘none of you, sirs, will be leaving London!’
‘We are busy enough,’ Lesures declared primly. ‘No one can leave.’
Athelstan stared round the Chancery. Each desk had manuscripts covering it. In the far corner were seven cups, red glazed earthenware with a letter inscribed on each. Alcest followed his glance.
‘Our drinking cups, Brother.’ His face became sad. ‘Seven, if you include Master Tibault’s. Now Peslep and Chapler are dead, we’ll toast them ceremoniously tonight.’
‘It’s our custom,’ Lesures intervened. ‘After working hard at charters and writs, we always finish the day with a cup of malmsey. Tonight we’ll toast our deceased friends.’
‘What do you do here?’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet, his writing bag clasped in his hands.
‘This is the Chancery of the Green Wax,’ Lesures said in hushed, reverential tones.
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘If I want,’ Cranston explained, ‘to renew a charter, obtain a licence to go overseas, to beg or have the right to enter my father’s property, secure a writ against an enemy, I petition the Chancellor. The Chancellor and his clerks will either approve or reject; if they approve, the writ, charter, or whatever document is needed, will be drawn up and sealed.’
‘And that is done here?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes,’ Napham replied. ‘And, Brother,’ he pointed to the hour candle fixed on a large iron spigot near the door, ‘we have further work to do.’
‘Where did Peslep live?’ Athelstan asked, ignoring the hint to leave.
‘In Little Britain, near St Bartholomew’s Priory,’ Alcest replied.
And Edwin Chapler?’
‘He had lodgings near the city ditch.’
‘I think we should visit both,’ Athelstan said. He glanced round quickly and caught it, a slight grimace of annoyance on Ollerton’s face, an anxious licking of the lips by Elflain.
‘Is that proper?’ Alcest asked.
‘I am the King’s coroner,’ Cranston retorted, swaying slightly on his feet. And I know what I can do, sir, and I know what I cannot. I will visit their dwellings.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Let us not forget, sirs: you are clerks of the Green Wax, an important office of state. God knows why your companions were killed but His Grace the Regent has a deep interest in the matter.’ He waved a stubby finger around. ‘Every preacher leaves with a good text, so will I. Two of your comrades are dead. Now that may be the end of the matter but, for all I know, the assassin may wish more, or even all of you, dead. So I beg you to be careful.’ He glanced round, pleased to see these arrogant young men had lost some of their hauteur. ‘I also ask you to think, to reflect. Have you made any enemies? Have the clerks of this office offended someone? Who may nurture a grievance against you? Brother Athelstan, the day draws on.’
‘Can I come with you?’ Alison picked up her cloak and swung it round her shoulders. ‘I have lodgings at the Silver Lute.’ She added hastily, ‘On the corner of Milk Street.’
‘Of course,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You are more than welcome, mistress! Your belongings?’ he asked.
‘They are already there,’ she replied.
The young woman picked up her leather bag and made to swing it over her shoulder. Cranston gallantly took it from her. They made their farewells and left the Chancery. Outside, in the street, Athelstan paused.
‘Daydreaming, monk?’
‘No, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled at Alison. ‘This friar is just thinking. There was something wrong with those young men.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Nothing of substance, just a look, a glance.’
‘What makes you say that, Brother?’ Alison asked.
Cranston brought his hand down on Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘Because, mistress, he has the mind of a veritable ferret, always scurrying about for the truth, and, if he’s not doing that, he’s listening to those woebegone parishioners of his or sitting on his tower staring up at the stars.’
‘You study the heavens, Father?’
Athelstan smiled at the young woman’s sweet face. ‘Why yes, and as I walk I’ll tell you about a book I’m reading by a monk called Richard of Wallingford. He was abbot of St Albans…’
Athelstan, pleased to find someone so avidly interested in the works of astrology and astronomy, briskly chattered on. Cranston, rather sulkily, hung back, now and again muttering to himself about bloody monks and stars or taking an occasional swig from his miraculous wineskin.
They made their way along Holborn. The crowds had thinned; only the solitary cart, a late arrival at the markets, or the usual travellers, journeymen and chapmen were travelling into the city. Athelstan found Alison a ready listener with a keen interest in the working of astrology and astronomy, particularly in the effect of Saturn on men’s affairs. Only once, as they passed Cock Lane, the usual haunt of prostitutes, did Athelstan stop. Usually the mouth of the alleyway was thronged with whores in garish wigs and even more colourful garb touting for custom. If they ever glimpsed Sir John, the air would ring with their catcalls and lurid descriptions of what they would do to him. However, this morning the entire area was quiet, not a whore in sight. Instead the alleyway was sealed off by two great timbers placed across the entrance and guarded by a line of archers. These were all dressed in black, a hood of the same colour covering their faces. They were armed with sword and dagger, quivers on their backs; in their hands the longbows were already strung, an arrow notched to the string. Over the wooden barrier someone had draped a piece of white cloth bearing a large red cross with the words ‘Jesu Miserere’ scrawled beneath.
‘Lord have mercy on us!’ Cranston whispered. ‘The plague is here!’
Athelstan felt the hairs prickle at the back of his neck; one of the great nightmares of London had returned. Every so often the pestilential miasma would seep into the city. Sometimes it would infect every place; at others, like now, just one alleyway, street or quarter would be blighted. When this happened all the inhabitants were locked and barred in their houses, dying in bed together. Children would cry beside the corpses of their parents; priests would refuse to administer the sacraments, doctors decline to visit; even the gravediggers would not touch the dead.
‘The Plague Virgin!’ Alison whispered.
‘The what?’ Cranston asked, staring across at the barricades.
‘A Norfolk legend,’ the woman replied. ‘The Plague Virgin’s a spectre who flies through the air like a bluish flame and stops at the place of her choice. She then takes human form and goes from house to house anointing doors and windows with her feverish poison. Sometimes you can even glimpse her blood-red scarf fluttering in the wind. If you see or touch it, you die within the day.’
‘What does your Richard of Wallingford say about that?’ Cranston asked sardonically.
‘Something similar,’ Athelstan replied.
He made to walk towards the barricades. One of the archers lifted his bow. Athelstan held his hand up in a
