blessing. 'Lord, thank You for the lovely meal and let's eat it before Godbless does!' Athelstan raised his cup and toasted Eleanor. 'Now, let me tell you what happened today because it will be common knowledge soon enough in the city.'
Athelstan half closed his eyes, his mind going back to Black Meadow: the Four Gospels, those shadowy shapes slipping in from the river at night and, above all, that dreadful pit and the skeletons and corpses it housed. 'Brother?'
Athelstan glanced at Benedicta. 'It's a tale of murder,' he replied. 'And, I'm afraid, before God's will is known, more blood will be shed!'
Chapter 6
Athelstan was up early the next morning. He celebrated a dawn Mass with Bonaventure as his only congregation. He tidied the kitchen, checked on Philomel, Godbless and Thaddeus while trying to make sense of what had happened the day before.
The business of Kathryn Vestler he put to one side. It was too shadowy, too insubstantial, but he still held to the conclusion he had drawn about the murder of Sholter and the other two. However, his real concern was Eleanor, Basil's daughter, and, when Crim appeared to serve as altar boy for his second Mass, he sent him round to members of the parish council. Afterwards Athelstan hastily broke his fast, went back to his bed loft and knelt by a chair to recite the Divine Office. He kept the window open and eventually heard the sounds of his parishioners arriving. He flinched at Pike's wife screeching at the top of her voice. He closed his eyes.
'Oh Lord, please look after me today as I would look after You, if Athelstan was God and God was Athelstan.'
He crossed himself. He often recited that prayer, particularly when he was troubled or anxious. Then he put away his psalter, climbed down from the bed loft and went out across to the church.
Athelstan always marvelled how his parishioners sensed some impending crisis. The whole council had turned up, eager to learn any tidbits of scandal and gossip. They all now sat in a semi-circle at the back of the church where he and Benedicta had met their two visitors the previous evening. The benches were neatly arranged, the sanctuary chair had been brought down for himself.
Of course there had been the usual struggle for positions of authority. Athelstan groaned at the way Pike's wife was glaring at Watkin's bulbous-faced spouse, for her expression suggested civil war must be imminent. Watkin, as leader of the council, sat holding the box which contained the blood book and seals of the parish. These were the symbols of his authority; the way Watkin gripped them and looked warningly at the rest from under lowered bushy brows reminded Athelstan of a bull about to charge.
Pike sat next to him. Hig the pigman, his stubby face glowering, looked ready to pick a quarrel with the world and not give an inch. Pernell the Fleming woman had tried to change the dye in her hair from orange to yellow. Athelstan tried not to laugh. The result was truly frightening. Pernell's hair now stuck up in the most lurid colours. Benedicta sat next to her, whispering to assuage the insult one of the rest must have levelled at the poor woman. Mugwort the bell clerk, Manger the hangman, Huddle the painter, eyes half-closed, and Ranulf the rat-catcher: from the huge pockets on his leather jacket Ranulf's two favourite ferrets, Ferox and Audax, poked out their heads. Cecily the courtesan wore a new bracelet and looked like a cat which had stolen the cream. Basil the blacksmith and Joscelyn from the Piebald tavern were also present. The door was flung open and Ursula the pig woman hurried in, her great sow trotting behind her. The ferrets sniffed the air and disappeared. The pig would have headed like an arrow straight into the sacristy but Ursula smacked its bottom and it sat down immediately. Athelstan looked daggers at the offended sow. If I had my way, he thought, I'd bring bell, book and candle and excommunicate that animal!
'We are ready, Brother,' Watkin announced sonorously. 'The council is in session.'
'Do you know what that means, Watkin?' Pike jibed.
'Shut your mouth!' Watkin's wife retorted. 'My man knows his horn book, he can make his mark. Unlike some of the ignorant…!'
'Thank you. Thank you,' Athelstan intervened. 'Remember we are in God's house. The Lord is a witness to what is going to happen. I do thank you all for coming.'
Before anyone could object, Athelstan made the sign of the cross and intoned the 'Veni Creator Spiritus'. He sat down.
'We are in session!'
'We need more sinners for the choir!' Mugwort spoke up: his remark immediately provoked roars of merriment. 'I mean singers,' he corrected himself.
'In St Erconwald's,' Athelstan said, 'it's the same thing. We are not here for singers.' He continued, 'You know the reason why. Eleanor, Basil's daughter, is deeply in love with Oswald, Joscelyn's son. They are both good young people. I hope to witness their vows here at the church door. We will have dancing, singing, church ales…'
'Aye and a lot of fun in the long grass in the cemetery!' Pike's wife snapped, glaring at Cecily.
'Why, is that what you do?' the courtesan answered in mocking innocence.
'However,' Athelstan continued remorselessly, 'we have a problem. The Church's law is very clear on this matter. You cannot marry within certain blood lines. It would appear that Basil and Joscelyn's great-grandmothers were sisters. Now, you know that, although we have a blood book, it does not go back to those years.'
'What years?' someone asked.
Everyone looked at the blacksmith.
Basil flapped his leather apron and folded his great muscular arms. 'I don't know.'
'It must have been in the time of the young King's great-grandfather, Edward II,' Athelstan put in.
'Wasn't he the bum-boy?' Mugwort asked, eager to show his knowledge. 'Didn't they kill him by sticking a hot poker up his fundament?'
'That's disgusting!' Watkin's wife exclaimed. 'Anyway, how could they put a poker…?'
'Listen,' Athelstan continued. 'We have a blood book but it doesn't go back that far. What we are missing…' He waved his hand. 'Well, you know the previous incumbent?'
'He was a bad bastard, Brother,' Pike said darkly. 'Dabbled in the black arts, out at the crossroads in the dead of night.'
'He was sinful and he was wicked,' Huddle added. 'He didn't like painting. He kept the church locked.'
'He also stole things,' Athelstan continued. 'And probably sold them for whatever he could, including our blood book.'
'Yet, what's the harm in all this?' foscelyn asked. He sat awkwardly, the empty sleeve, where he had lost an arm at sea, thrown over his shoulder, his other hand stretched out to balance himself. 'I mean, Brother, if they marry? Our great-grandmothers lived years ago, the blood line must be pure.'
'Not necessarily,' Pike's wife retorted. 'Things can still go wrong. We don't want monsters in the parish.'
'True, true,' Ranulf murmured. 'We have enough of those already.'
'How do we know they were sisters?' Athelstan asked. 'That's the reason for this meeting. Who will speak against me proclaiming the banns? You know what they are. I ask you formally. Who, here, can object to such a marriage taking place? It is a very grave matter. You must answer, as you will to Christ Himself.'
All eyes turned to Pike's wife.
'There is a blood tie,' she declared, adopting the role of the wise woman of the parish. Her voice became deeper, relishing the importance this proclamation gave her. Pike looked down and shuffled his feet.
'And what proof do you have of this?'
Athelstan's heart sank at the spiteful smile on the woman's face.
'Proof, Brother? No less a person than Veronica the Venerable.'
'Oh no!' Basil groaned.
'And you are sure of this?' Athelstan asked.
'Go and see her yourself, Brother. She may well be four score years and ten but her mind is still sharp and her memory good. I know the rules. If two witnesses speak out against a marriage, it cannot take place.'
Athelstan lowered his head. Veronica the Venerable was an ancient crone who lived in a tenement on Dog Tail
