his liberation. The other malefactors in the stocks now began to shout.
‘Sir John, over here!’
‘Innocent as a lamb, I am, Sir Jack!’
‘I didn’t mean to hit the beadle!’ another cried.
‘I only drank four quarts of ale!’ someone else bawled.
Sir John ignored them and seized the dancing Godbless. ‘You’ve worked with animals, haven’t you, Godbless?’ The man stopped his dancing and nodded.
‘Well, you’ve been freed to help the Crown.’ Sir John passed the rope over. ‘This is Judas and he’s well named. I’m taking him to St Erconwald’s. You will follow behind at least a good three yards.’
He passed across a coin. Godbless took it in the twinkling of an eye. The coroner leaned down and, grasping the beggar by the jerkin, picked him up till his face was level with his.
‘Don’t even think of it, Godbless!’
‘What, Sir John?’ Godbless’s bright eyes gleamed.
‘Running!’ Sir John declared. ‘Taking my goat and running.’ He shook Godbless. ‘Understood?’
‘Every word, Sir John. I’ll be your shadow.’
‘Not too close,’ Sir John warned.
He put the beggar man down and, with Godbless trailing behind him leading the little goat at a trot, Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city of London, swept down to London Bridge.
CHAPTER 3
Brother Athelstan leaned back in the sanctuary chair and gazed round at the members of his parish council. He drew a deep breath and glanced warningly at Watkin the dung-collector, leader of this council: one of the prime movers in everything which happened in St Erconwald’s parish.
‘Would you mind repeating that, Watkin?’
The dung-collector got up from his bench and walked into the middle of the circle of benches just inside the porch of the parish church.
‘The cemetery is God’s acre, yes, Brother?’
Athelstan nodded.
‘And, according to Canon Law…’ Watkin smiled round at the rest, eager to show his knowledge off.
Athelstan closed his eyes. He regretted, for the umpteenth time, ever telling his parishioners about Canon Law and their rights.
‘According to Canon Law,’ Watkin continued triumphantly, ‘and the sayings of St Judas…’
‘Peter,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘Judas was the traitor. Peter was the chief of the apostles.’
‘Same thing.’ Hig the pigman, who prided himself on some knowledge of the gospels, spoke up.
‘I beg your pardon! Have you been reading the same text as I?’
‘Judas betrayed Jesus,’ Hig the pigman insisted. ‘And so did Peter.’
‘Yes, but Peter asked for forgiveness. Judas didn’t.’
Hig scratched his red, greasy hair. With his flaring nostrils and jutting lower lip, Hig looked like the beasts he cared for. Athelstan nipped his thigh; he should remember charity but he was becoming rather tired. He surveyed the people present. Pernell the Fleming woman was carefully examining the tendrils of her dyed orange hair. Cecily the courtesan kept leaning down to fasten a thong on her sandal. Every time she did so, her well-endowed bodice strained and all the menfolk immediately looked towards her. Ranulf the rat-catcher, however, was becoming impatient and he seemed more interested in his two pet ferrets which nestled on his lap, Audax and Ferrox, the scourge of all rats south of the river. Crim the altar boy was sticking his tongue out at Pike the ditcher’s wife, a veritable virago of a woman; Athelstan wondered how long she would curb her temper. Huddle the painter was staring dreamily at the bare wall, lost in a reverie, desperate to do his painting of the Last Judgement. The rest, including Mugwort the bell-ringer and Amisias the fuller were staring owl-eyed at Watkin who was waiting for the sign to continue.
‘Go on, Watkin,’ Athelstan said wearily.
‘It’s quite simple,’ Watkin said. ‘God’s acre, the cemetery, belongs to the parish. According to Canon Law and the sayings of Judas
…’
Athelstan just glanced at Benedicta, laughing behind her hand as she raised her eyes heavenwards.
‘All we intend to do, Father, is make sure the far wall of the cemetery is secure. We’ll cause no hurt to anyone. The sun sets late. Pike and I can dig the ditch and the next morning fill it in.’
‘Why leave it overnight?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, that’s just to ensure that, ah…’ Watkin looked at Pike for help.
‘We do not want to do too much work, Brother. We’ll also be able to judge if any water’s trickling in from the brook on the other side. It’s best to inspect such foundations in the full light of day.’
Athelstan was surprised but could see no real problem. He clapped his hands.
‘Very good. Agreed.’
He paused as Bladdersniff the beadle burst through the door, his red, chapped face bloated with drink, his eyes bleary.
‘That bloody sow’s loose in your garden!’
Ursula the pig woman gave a screech and sprang to her feet. Despite her years, she fair ran out of the door.
‘One of these days,’ Pike muttered, I’m going to kill that sow. Cut it into collops!’
‘You can’t do that!’ Manyer the hangman declared. ‘That’s theft. You could hang, Pike!’
‘He’ll hang anyway.’ Watkin’s wife spoke up.
‘The next matter we must discuss,’ Athelstan intervened quickly, ‘is that the Guild of Rat-Catchers have asked to hold their Guild service here next week.’
Ranulf now stood up, cradling the two ferrets in his arms.
‘I have agreed to that,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Rat-catchers from all over Southwark will attend. I will offer a Mass of thanksgiving, bless the cages, traps and ferrets…’
‘And cats,’ Ranulf added, glancing enviously at the great, one-eyed Bonaventure sitting so patiently by Athelstan’s feet. The rat-catcher licked his lips. He would pay gold for Bonaventure, a great assassin of mice and vermin, a superb hunter. Ranulf secretly worshipped the ground Bonaventure trod on and, unbeknown to the priest, had tried to inveigle the cat away with dishes of cream and salted herring. Bonaventure had taken the temptation but promptly returned to his master.
‘You are all welcome to attend.’
Athelstan paused as the church door was thrown open and Sir John Cranston swaggered in, cloak over one arm, sword clanking against his leg. The coroner beamed round the parish council.
‘With a number of notable exceptions,’ he smiled at Benedicta, I have seen fairer faces in the stocks at Newgate.’
‘You keep a civil tongue in your head!’ Pike the ditcher’s wife sprang to her feet. ‘Just because you’re coroner…!’
‘Hush, woman, I’m only jesting. You are all my beloveds.’ He tucked his thumbs into his sword belt. ‘Brother Athelstan, a word?’
The parish council rose. If the truth be known they were slightly fearful of Sir John and his powers. A man, despite his girth and bluff ways, who had the eyes of an eagle and the hunting instincts of one of Ranulf’s ferrets. Athelstan nodded at Benedicta.
‘I suppose I’ll be going soon,’ he said. ‘Make sure that Philomel’s safe in the stables and leave some milk out for Bonaventura.’
The widow woman smiled and Athelstan’s heart skipped a beat. He was glad he had not left Southwark and that beautiful, dark-haired, soft-eyed woman was one reason. Athelstan had examined his conscience: he did not ‘lust after her in his mind’s eye’, as Scripture said, he just loved being near her, particularly when she teased
