along.’
‘Did you ever examine the arrows?’
‘I did,’ Watkin replied. ‘I took a sack out one morning when you were saying Mass, Brother. I opened the rope at the top and shook them out.’
‘That’s how we discovered it,’ Athelstan told them.
Both men were now shuffling their feet, wiping their hands and licking their lips.
‘I want to pee,’ Pike muttered. ‘I am sorry, but…’
‘Go outside,’ Athelstan ordered. ‘And, when you are finished, both go into the church and stay there. What time will these men return?’
‘We don’t know, Brother! After dark. One night Pike and I, well, we hid outside the cemetery and watched. There were two of them with sumpter ponies. They call themselves Valerian and Domitian. Yes, that’s their names, or so they say.’
‘Educated men.’ Athelstan scratched his chin.
‘What will happen to us?’
‘Well.’ Athelstan rubbed his hands. ‘You two have helped the coroner with his enquiries. We will not betray you to the Great Community.’ He glanced quickly at Sir John who nodded. ‘Nor will we hand you over to the authorities. Nevertheless, you betrayed my trust. In the church you’ll find some brooms and a little oil. They’re kept in the basement of the tower. I’ll lock you in and you’ll clean the church till this matter’s finished!’
‘Can I have a pee first?’ Pike moaned, jumping from foot to foot.
‘Oh, get out! I’ll unlock the church in a few minutes.’
Both men scampered out. Athelstan slammed the door behind them.
‘They are stupid,’ Sir John observed. ‘Yet, they could be hanged.’ He rubbed his face. ‘But, there again, they are poor, their hovels are smoke-filled; they eat hard bread and drink coarse ale. What I’d like to know is who Valerian and Domitian really are? And, more importantly, I want to check on something.’
He hurried out across the cemetery. Athelstan went to the church, where Watkin and Pike stood in the porch. Athelstan gripped each of them by the wrist.
‘Look at me!’ They did so. ‘Nothing is going to happen,’ Athelstan reassured them. ‘However, I want this church swept and I want you out of harm’s way. You must never do that again!’ He unlocked the door.
‘Brother?’
Athelstan turned.
‘We are very sorry, Brother,’ Watkin said contritely. ‘We truly are.’
‘If you get really thirsty,’ Athelstan told them, ‘go into the sacristy, you can each have a little drink of altar wine.’
He closed the church door and locked it behind him. Sir John had returned to the priest’s house, where he was refilling his jug of ale.
‘There must be dozens of sacks there, literally thousands of arrows. I wonder who has the wealth to pay for that? Certainly not peasants.’ Sir John clicked his tongue. ‘You see, what your two noddle-pates said is true. There’s a storm coming. Two or three years ago the Great Community of the Realm was a jest, a little demon who lived out in the countryside, lurking in the woods or the bottom of wells. A creature of the hedgerow and the hay rick: a figure of ridicule and scorn.’
‘And now the demon’s grown?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, into a figure of fear and terror. The lords of the soil and the men of power no longer laugh but sit in their counting houses; they scratch their chins and wonder what will happen when this storm breaks.’
‘I must see these arrows,’ Athelstan said.
Both he and the coroner walked out. Athelstan noticed how quickly rumour had spread; some of his parishioners were congregating in front of the church: Ursula the pig woman, Pernell the Fleming, Mugwort the bell clerk, Amisias the fuller and others. They were pretending to talk to each other and looked guiltily up when Athelstan approached them.
‘I know why you are here,’ he said. ‘But you must leave. You are not to come near the church nor the cemetery today and that’s the end of the matter.’
‘What about my painting?’ Huddle cried from the back of the crowd.
‘Huddle, my lad! Don’t lie to your parish priest. The day is drawing on, the light is fading. It will wait until tomorrow.’
The crowd dispersed; Athelstan was at the lych gate when he heard his name called. Sir Maurice came striding across and thrust a scroll of parchment into Athelstan’s hand.
‘Your brothers at Blackfriars send you greetings.’ He patted his stomach and grinned at Sir John. ‘You should have come, my lord coroner: ale thick and rich and pastry soft in the mouth.’
Athelstan opened the letter.
‘What’s wrong, Brother?’ Sir John caught his disappointed look.
‘Simeon says it will take some time. However, he hopes that by tomorrow morning I can have an answer. I was going to look at these arrows but perhaps, Sir John, I’ve done enough for the day.’
‘I think it’s time,’ Sir John declared, ‘we prepared for our visitors tonight. If you don’t mind, Henry Flaxwith and my buckoes will stay? The noddle-pates are locked in the church?’
Athelstan nodded.
‘Good!’ Sir John rubbed his hands. ‘Maltravers, I’ll explain later what’s happening. Anyway, I am leaving you on guard. No one goes into that church or cemetery. You’ve had refreshment and it’s time Athelstan and I did the same.’ He clapped the knight on the shoulder. ‘You can stay and write a love poem, Brother Norbert. And I’ll be raising my goblet to you in the tavern!’
Darkness had fallen over Southwark when the two men, caped, cowled and hooded, sword and dagger clinking in their war belts, led the two sumpter ponies up along the trackway into Southwark. Valerian and Domitian had met the carter in the fields beyond the Tabard Tavern. The sacks had been taken from the cart and loaded on to the ponies. Now they made their way through the gloomy runnels and alleyways. The hovels, the dilapidated houses, rose dark and forbidding on either side, blocking out the night sky. They pulled their mufflers up over their noses against the stench from the midden-heaps and unclean sewers. Cats fought and screeched; rats slithered out from crevices in the walls. Beggars whined on corners. They thrust out their clatter boards but received little comfort from these two dark shadows. Now and again, from behind a closed shutter, faces peered out, eyes glittering, but Valerian and Domitian were known to the gangs who plagued Southwark, who were more terrified of these two men than they were of all Gaunt’s spies and agents. Valerian pulled at the rope and glanced over his shoulder at his companion.
‘It won’t take us long.’
‘How many more?’
‘Perhaps another four or five nights’ work and then we’ll be finished.’
They walked on, the sumpter ponies docile, their hooves muffled in rags. Valerian and Domitian had also wrapped wool round their boots, so that they seemed to glide like shadows from one dark alleyway to another.
At last the line of houses ended. They crossed the barren wasteland which stretched to the cemetery walls of St Erconwald. Valerian stopped, his hand going to his dagger; he could make out the dark mass of the church, the tall tower soaring up against the starlit sky. He peered at the crenellated top but could see no flame or light which meant that the little friar was not gazing at the stars. He was about to go on but paused. Was something wrong? Last night the fierce thunderstorm would have prevented the friar going up the tower. Surely, on a clear night like this, he would seize the opportunity? Valerian licked his lips; he had to be careful, very careful.
‘What are we waiting for?’ his companion hissed.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is it safe?’
‘Why shouldn’t it be? We can’t very well go back.’
Glaring into the gloom, Valerian led the sumpter pony forward. They crossed the small brook now drying up in the summer heat. They reached the wall. Valerian took a rope and climbed on. He flung one end of the rope round a branch of the sycamore tree, pulled it down, fashioned a slipknot and lowered himself into the trench. Was something wrong? Those fools usually dug to a certain depth; now it seemed shallower. He wished he had a cresset torch. Had the earth been disturbed? Did those two oxen-heads have the temerity to search for what was buried
