‘Sir John, I know you’d like a blackjack of ale and a pie but the day goes on, and we have a lady to visit. Vulpina.’
Sir John reluctantly agreed and they walked up Westchepe, down Ivy Lane, passing the great soaring mass of St Paul’s Cathedral. Along its cemetery wall sat the rogues and vagabonds who sought sanctuary in St Paul’s graveyard beyond the jurisdiction of the city officers. They recognised Sir John and hailed him with raucous raillery. Athelstan pulled his hood close up over his head as Sir John, still angry at Hersham’s mocking laughter, hurled good-natured abuse back.
‘One day, my lovelies!’ he shouted before they turned a corner, ‘I’ll see you all on the gallows ladder!’
Invigorated by this exchange, he walked a little quicker, almost dragging Athelstan with him, out along Fleet Street and through a warren of mean alleyways into Whitefriars.
Whitefriars was not a wholesome place. The houses and tenements were shabby, ill-painted, the plaster decaying, the paint-work flaking. The streets seemed like needles pushed between the overhanging houses which blocked out the sun and hid the sky. Dark, cavernous passageways abounded, where beggars thronged at alley mouths and whores stood brazenly in the doorways soliciting custom. All around them swirled the rogues and rifflers of London.
Sir John was never checked. Apart from the occasional hurled obscenity, the coroner was a respected and feared figure. If provoked, it was not unknown for the coroner to enter one of the alehouses and arrest a whole gaggle of rogues by the scruff of their necks. At the end of one alleyway he stopped, fingers to his lips.
‘The streets of hell, Brother,’ he breathed. ‘In daylight it’s safe but, once darkness falls, the demons appear.’
As if in answer a group of dwarfs and mannikins, just over a yard high, came hurtling out of a doorway and ringed the coroner, jumping up and down like noisy children. They were dressed in a motley collection of rags and scraps of armour. One had a small helmet on his head. Another carried a shield. They greeted Sir John like scholars would a favourite master. Athelstan recognised the ‘scrimperers’ who lived in Rats Castle; dwarfs who lived together for self-protection. They were known to hire their services out to night-walkers and housebreakers as there wasn’t a window they couldn’t slip through or passageway too small.
‘Sir John! Sir John!’
Sir John clapped his hands and offered their leader, who rejoiced in the name of Sir Galahad, a draught from his wineskin. The diminutive, seamy-faced dwarf took it, almost falling flat on his back as he tilted his head to drink.
‘Lovely boys!’ Sir John remarked. ‘And what news do you have for Sir Jack?’
The scrimperers replied in a volley of high-pitched voices, talking the patois of the London slums. He listened, nodding benevolently, then crouched down as Sir Galahad beckoned him close to speak in his ear.
‘Well I never! Well I never!’
The coroner dropped some coins into the little man’s hand.
‘They want you to bless them, Brother.’
Athelstan lifted his hand in benediction. He could hardly believe this, it was just like a scene from some dream. But, as soon as he began the benediction, they all went down on one knee, heads bowed.
‘Give them a special blessing!’ Sir John urged.
‘I give you the blessing of St Francis,’ Athelstan intoned, keeping his face solemn. ‘It can only be given once a month and you are to receive it.’
They now went down on both knees. Athelstan felt a pang of compassion at the way they folded their little hands before them.
‘May the Christ Jesus show His face to you,’ he said. ‘May He smile at you. May He keep you safe all the days of your life.’ He sketched the sign of the cross in the air.
Sir John caught his wrist.
‘They also want an invitation,’ he said hoarsely.
‘Where to?’ Athelstan asked.
‘To St Erconwald’s.’
Athelstan’s heart sank but he kept his face creased in a smile.
‘They are moving house,’ Sir John continued. ‘They say they are unsafe here.’
‘Oh, don’t tell me, Sir John, they have chosen Southwark?’
Apparently, yes. They know one of your parishioners, Ranulf the rat-catcher. They have heard about his Guild.’
Athelstan knew what was coming next and his heart sank even further.
‘They like you, Athelstan. You see, they have formed their own Guild.’
‘And they want to make St Erconwald’s their church?’
‘Don’t refuse. They are very valuable, Brother, to me.’
‘You will be most welcome,’ Athelstan said.
Sir Galahad spoke again, fast. Athelstan knew a little of this patois: he recognised the words ‘house’ and ‘rat-catcher’.
‘Apparently,’ Sir John translated, ‘Brother Ranulf has used these in attics and cellars as well as tunnels to discover where the rats have their nests. He has found them a house not far from St Erconwald’s, on the corner of Cat Stall Alley.’
Athelstan smiled. ‘Oh, God help us, Sir John,’ he whispered as the scrimperers, chattering with excitement, disappeared up an alleyway. ‘St Erconwald’s is going to become…’
‘Are you going to say the refuge of all that is strange and wonderful?’
‘Precisely, Sir John, more like Noah’s Ark. Filled with all types of God’s creatures.’ He pushed back his cowl. ‘But what did the scrimperers want with you?’
‘Oh, they were telling me the gossip of the area: that little affray we saw in Cheapside this morning? Evidently agents of the Great Community of the Realm are now swarming in the city; their only difficulty is they have no arms.’
‘They seemed well equipped this morning.’
‘Oh, a few arrows, yes. I tell you, Brother. If the storm bursts, this city will see savage fighting. The Tower and the other fortresses along the Thames will be fortified. Many of the merchants like Thomas Parr will turn their houses into castles. The peasants may march on the city with their hoes and rakes, mattocks and old long bows but they’ll need more serious weapons.’
‘Couldn’t they transport them into the city beforehand?’
‘Every cart coming into the city is inspected by the market bailiffs and beadles, not to mention Gaunt’s legion of spies. The scrimperers also informed us,’ Sir John continued, walking slowly on, ‘that an unknown priest has been seen in the area.’
‘Is that strange?’
‘Priests do not come here. Whitefriars is dangerous even for those who live in it. Their leader, Sir Galahad,’ he went on, standing outside an old tavern and looking up at the fly-blown windows, ‘said he was in an alleyway about ten days ago. He was jostled, the man sketched a blessing and whispered his apologies in what Galahad recognised as Latin.’
‘What are you looking at, Sir John?’
‘I used to visit this ale-house when I was a lad. It was called the Mulberry Tree. Oh, it’s seen better days.’ He opened the door.
‘Sir John, if you need refreshment…’
‘No, Brother, just your company!’
They walked into the evil-smelling taproom, a dank, musty place. The windows were boarded and shuttered, a few oil lamps were lit, filling the room with a greasy smell. In their flickering light the customers who sat on overturned casks looked even more like shapes and shadows from a nightmare.
‘Good day everyone!’ Sir John bellowed. ‘And God bless you!’
Athelstan narrowed his eyes. He could make out the wine tuns on the counter, the small glow of the oven, a few beer barrels.
‘Piss off, Jack!’
‘Now that’s no way to talk to an old friend is it? Who’s that? My goodness, it’s one-eyed Isaiah! There are
