a candle and picked up Father Prior’s letter, rereading it carefully, then put it down. For a short while he cried. Bonaventure came and jumped into his lap. Athelstan stroked the great tomcat. He picked up the letter again. One paragraph caught his eye:
On your oath of obedience to me, you are to leave St Erconwald’s quietly and as quickly as possible. Take those few possessions you have and proceed immediately to our house in Oxford. There you will receive fresh instructions.
Athelstan put Bonaventure down on the floor. ‘Ah well!’ he sighed. ‘Now is as good a time as any.’
For the next hour Athelstan packed, pushing manuscripts and his other paltry possessions into battered leather saddlebags. He cleared the table and cleaned the scullery, leaving out any food for his parishioners to take. He then went out to the yard and surprised Philomel, leading him out and throwing the tattered saddle across him. He secured the saddlebags with a piece of twine and went back into the house. He checked that all was well, blew out the candles and walked to the door. Behind him Bonaventure miaowed. Athelstan stared down at him.
‘It’s up to you,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s entirely up to you. Father Prior has said that I have got to go.’
Crouching down, he scratched the tomcat on the back of the neck. ‘I can’t stand any upset. I don’t want to see old Jack cry or, worse, have Watkin try and bar me in the church. I’m going, not because I want to, but because I have to.’
The old cat looked up at him, studying him carefully with his one good eye.
‘I’m sorry I can’t write,’ Athelstan continued. ‘What on earth could I say? Maybe old Jack will come to Oxford, bring the Lady Maude and the poppets? Or Watkin? He and Pike could organise a pilgrimage to some shrine, call in and see me. Philomel’s coming and, if you want, so can you.’
The cat padded back into the darkness. Athelstan shrugged and closed the door. He went and gathered Philomel’s reins.
‘Come on, old friend,’ he murmured. ‘We’ll strike east, find a place to cross the Thames.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Sleep out in the fields perhaps. Anyway, come on!’
Athelstan led Philomel down the alleyway. He turned and looked back at St Erconwald’s and then jumped as something soft brushed his ankle. Bonaventure stared up at him expectantly.
‘Oh, very well,’ the friar whispered. ‘You can come.’
And Brother Athelstan, friar in the Order of St Dominic, formerly secretarius to Sir John Cranston, coroner in the city of London, and parish priest of St Erconwald’s, walked out of Southwark accompanied by his old warhorse and the faithful cat Bonaventure.
