Murder Most Holy

CHAPTER 1

Sir John Cranston, the large fat plain-speaking Coroner of the City, leaned against the high-backed chair and sipped appreciatively from a jewel-encrusted cup, brimming with the best the vineyards of Bordeaux could produce. He burped gently and beamed around him. The hall was lit by pure resin torches and great wax candles; pages wearing the livery of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, lined the chamber holding further torches so that, despite the darkness, the room shone and glittered as if it was a summer’s day.

‘Truly wonderful,’ Cranston murmured to himself.

John of Gaunt’s main hall in his Palace of Savoy on the Thames was as opulent and rich as any papal palace at Avignon, or any chamber belonging to the great Italian princes such as the one whom Gaunt was hosting at this splendid banquet. Cloth of gold, thick and embroidered with silver thread, covered every inch of the wall beneath the hammerbeam rafters. The glass in the windows was of various hues and each pane illustrated a story from the bible or classical mythology. A yellow and black turkey carpet made from the purest wool covered the hall from wall to wall. The cloths on the tables were silk and every plate and goblet fashioned out of precious metal. No wonder John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster and Regent of the realm whilst his nephew Richard II was still a boy, had ordered chosen men-at-arms to stand discreetly around the hall, one to watch every diner, for the duke would allow no thieves in his household. Gaunt had provided this banquet to show his magnificence and to entertain the Lord of Cremona, not to provide easy pickings for the thieves and rascals who hung around every palace.

Cranston burped again and tapped his ponderous girth, a contented man. His Lady Maude had recently been delivered of two fine boys, Francis and Stephen. Cranston had been confirmed in his office of coroner by the Regent, who had invited him to this banquet to sit at his right hand, a significant honour for a Justice of the Peace.

‘I wish the Lady Maude could see me now,’ Cranston murmured to himself. Yet the invitation had not included his good wife. Not that she minded.

‘God forgive me, Sir John,’ she said, ‘but I do not like the Duke of Lancaster. He has the eyes of a snake — dead and cold. His ambition is like Lucifer’s and I fear for the young king.’

Sir John had been surprised. Lady Maude was prudent. She kept her own secret counsel but, when she spoke, her words were like well-aimed arrows shot direct at the heart of the target. Cranston stirred uneasily, placed his cup on the table and turned to his left. Gaunt’s olive-skinned face with its neatly clipped golden beard and moustache looked complacent as he gazed from heavy-lidded eyes at his hall’s magnificence. On Gaunt’s left sat the young king. The boy, thought Cranston, has the looks of an angel with his pale face, clear blue eyes, sensitive features and shoulder-length golden hair. The young king appeared to be schooling himself to listen attentively to the dark-bearded, swarthy-faced Italian lord sitting on his left. Cranston leaned back in his chair and glanced sideways at this Italian lord, renowned for the cunning astuteness which had made him as wealthy as Croesus and turned his small city state into one of the great powers of Italy.

The Lord of Cremona controlled banks, ports, fertile vineyards, fields and manor houses. His ships ranged from the Adriatic to fabled Constantinople and the golden shores of Trebizond. Cranston knew why he was in England. The English exchequer was empty. Parliament was unruly; the peasants seething with such discontent, that tax collectors were fearful of moving into any village without a powerful military escort. Gaunt had invited Cremona to England in order to raise loans and consequently had not stinted in his lavish hospitality. Pageants had greeted him at Southampton; Gaunt and his brothers, dressed in pure cloth of gold, escorting him to London to be greeted by more lavish shows, colourful spectacles, banquets and speeches. These may have impressed Cremona but only increased bad feeling in the city as Londoners saw Gaunt accrue more power to himself than any emperor, pope or king.

Cranston picked up his goblet and slurped noisily from it, relishing the way the wine’s full-bodied taste drenched his mouth with sweetness. His good humour began to fade. Should he be party to these junketings? And why exactly had Gaunt invited him? Cranston stirred restlessly. The banquet was over, and what a meal! Swan, venison, boar’s meat, beef, veal, fish fresh from the river, lampreys cooked in a cream sauce, marchpane, jellies carved and sculpted in the most extraordinary forms. The jugglers had come and gone, as had the acrobats, the fire-eaters and the dwarfs who made everyone laugh. The musicians in the gallery at the far end of the hall were now half-asleep and the pure-voiced choir of young boys had long been dismissed. Cranston shook himself alert and looked down the hall with its two tables set side by side. There must be no fewer than sixty great lords attending this banquet. Why was he among their select number?

Before the banquet, Gaunt had spoken to the Italian lord of Cranston’s skill in solving notorious cases of murder.

‘Is no such problem beyond your grasp?’ Cremona had asked.

‘None!’ Cranston had drunkenly boasted, beaming round at a group of gaping bystanders. Now Sir John began to regret his own vainglory.

‘Sir John, you are well?’

Cranston turned. Gaunt was looking at him speculatively as if trying to discern Cranston’s frame of mind.

‘My Lord, I am happy to be here,’ he replied. ‘You do me great honour.’

Both he and Gaunt suddenly looked down the hall at the tumult which broke out as a large rat, startled by one of the greyhounds, scampered on to the table. The guests rose in uproar, stabbing at the rodent with their knives until it jumped off the table into the jaws of a waiting dog. A general fracas then occurred amongst the pack, only broken up by huntsmen with whips who drove both dogs and their mangled quarry out of the hall.

‘Enough is enough,’ Gaunt whispered.

He rose and gestured to the heralds standing in the gallery who raised their silver trumpets and issued three long blasts which stilled the clamour in the hall. All eyes turned towards Gaunt.

‘Your Grace. .’

Gaunt nodded imperceptibly at his stony-faced nephew.

‘. . My Lord of Cremona, and you, my friends and guests, this day we have been honoured at our humble feast with the presence of one of Italy’s great rulers — Signor Gian Galeazzo, Lord of Cremona and Duke of the surrounding territories.’

Gaunt paused to allow a ripple of applause which he stilled with one beringed hand.

‘But my Lord of Cremona has a problem which he wishes to share with us. A great mystery which no one can solve. And that is why I have asked for the august presence of our noble Coroner of the City, Sir John Cranston.’

Gaunt paused and Cranston gazed quickly down the hall. He saw the suppressed smiles, the grins hidden behind raised hands, and sensed the waiting trap. He was no friend of Gaunt’s, tolerated by him but not liked, for he had no time to emulate the Regent’s court dandies and fops who lavished the nation’s wealth on their own soft, white bodies. Nevertheless, he smiled and nodded at Gaunt’s words, wary of what was to come.

‘Sir John Cranston,’ Gaunt continued, ‘is well known in the city and in the courts of law for his deductive reasoning, his subtle questioning, his ruthless tracking down of criminals, and his skill in solving intriguing mysteries. My Lord of Cremona has such a mystery which has defied the best minds and most probing intellects of Europe’s courts.’ Gaunt paused and Cranston felt how still the hall had become. ‘My Lord of Cremona,’ Gaunt continued, ‘has wagered one thousand gold crowns that no one can resolve this mystery. My Lord Coroner,’ Gaunt half-turned to Cranston, ‘will you accept the wager?’

Cranston stared speechlessly. One thousand gold crowns was a fortune! If he accepted the wager and lost, it would impoverish him. If he refused the wager, he would be mocked as a coward. Moreover, if the Lord of Cremona’s subtle mystery was so intriguing, there was very little chance of his winning such a fortune. Cranston smiled whilst his mind raced through the possibilities. He wished the Lady Maude was here. Above all, he wanted Athelstan: the monk would have seen some graceful way out. Now Cranston had no choice. What could he do — publicly retract on his earlier boast?

‘My Lord Cranston,’ Gaunt repeated, ‘will you accept?’

Cranston slurped from the wine cup. ‘Of course,’ he replied boldly, to a wave of cheering, good-natured catcalls and shouts of encouragement. The coroner lumbered to his feet, half-cursing the rich wine racing through his blood and dulling his brain. After all, he was Cranston. Why should he lose face before these nincompoops, these women in men’s clothes? He was Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City of London, husband to the Lady Maude, father of Francis and Stephen. He had held castles against the French and single-handedly charged against many a foe.

‘No mystery,’ he bellowed, ‘is beyond my wits! If a problem exists,’ he added, quoting his help-meet Athelstan, ‘then it is logical that a solution must also exist.’

‘Nobody denies that!’ Gaunt slapped him on the shoulder, pushing him gently back in his chair. The coroner saw the Regent’s sly smile, glimpsed the young king’s pitying stare and the flash of triumph in Cremona’s glittering eyes.

‘The solution is known?’ Cranston asked.

‘Of course!’ Cremona replied. ‘As is customary, I shall choose one person — such as His Grace the King. If your theory is incorrect, he will, after solemnly swearing to silence, be shown part of the solution.’ Cremona laughed. ‘Though no person has yet offered a solution, not even an incorrect one.’

Gaunt turned to the Italian nobleman. ‘My Lord,’ he said silkily, ‘you have issued the challenge and Sir John has picked up the gauntlet. We wait with bated breath for your mystery.’

Galeazzo, Lord of Cremona, pulled back his silken sleeves and stood up, his robes billowing about him, exuding a faint delicious fragrance unknown in England.

‘Your Grace the King, My Lord of Lancaster, and you other noble English lords and barons — the lavish hospitality of my host has deeply impressed us and will never be forgotten.’

Galeazzo leaned on the table, threw one significant look at Cranston, then turned back to address the hall. His speech was perfect though his mellow voice was tinged with a slight accent.

‘I will not waste your time. The hour is late and we have all drunk deeply.’ He moved his hands and the rings on his fingers caught the brilliance of the light and flashed like the clearest stars. ‘Sir John Cranston has accepted my wager, a challenge to solve a problem no one has yet fathomed. Only I myself, and I have written the solution down in a sealed document. I have posed the problem to doctors in Paris, lawyers in Montpellier and professors in Cologne and Nantes, but to no effect.’ Galeazzo paused and drew a deep breath. ‘Many years ago my family owned a manor house outside Cremona — a large, three-storeyed building of great age and sinister reputation. Once, when I was a boy, I spent Yuletide there with my aged aunt, its owner.’ He smiled around the assembled company. ‘No matter what the place or its reputation, when the Yuletide log is burnt and we Italians celebrate Christ’s birth, an evening banquet is held.’ He laughed. ‘Not as lavish as this one but, as is customary, once the wine jug circulates, every guest has to tell a ghost story.

‘Now, I remember that evening well. It was the coldest Christmas anyone could remember. A biting north wind brought sheets of snow down from the Alps, the manor house was cut off by deep drifts and icy roads. Nevertheless, we had warm fires and plenty to eat and revelled in this time of shadows. Outside no sound was heard except the moaning wind and the haunting howls of the wolves as they came down from the mountains to hunt.’

Galeazzo stopped and looked around. Cranston admired his prowess and skill: his audience was no longer aware of this lavish hall on an English summer’s evening but thinking of a lonely haunted manor house in faraway Cremona. Nevertheless, the coroner was anxious. He wished the Italian nobleman would come to the point so his own wily brain could seize upon the problem posed.

‘Once the storytelling ended, my venerable aunt was challenged by one of the guests. Were there not ghosts in that very house? At first she refused to answer, but when the guests insisted, explained about the scarlet chamber — a room at the top of the house kept barred and locked because anyone who slept there died a violent, mysterious death.’ Galeazzo stopped and sipped from a mother-of-pearl-encrusted goblet.

‘My Lords, you can imagine what happened. Everyone was full of wine and itching with a curiosity which had to be satisfied. To cut a long story short, my aunt was urged to show the guests the room. Servants were summoned, torches lit, and my aunt led us out of the hall and up the great wooden staircase. I was only a small boy and went unnoticed amongst the others. Now, I knew the top storey of that ancient manor house was always barred but this time servants removed the padlocks and chains and my aunt led us up a cold, deep staircase.’ He stopped speaking and shook his head. ‘I will always remember it: the rats slithering and squeaking, the moonlight shining on the motes of dust. We reached the top of the staircase and turned. The guests milled about, their excitement now tinged with fear for it was dreadfully cold and dark. Servants went ahead and lit the flambeaux jutting out from the wall: the passageway came to life and all eyes were fixed on the door at the bottom. Barred, padlocked and chained, it drew us like some awful curse.’ Again Galeazzo stopped, sipped from his wine cup and smiled quickly at Cranston.

‘The door was unlocked and we entered a small square chamber. I mean a perfect square. There was a table, a stool, a fireplace, a small lattice window in the far wall, but the chamber was dominated by a huge fourposter bed. What really made us catch our breath was when my aunt ordered the torches lit and candles brought in. The room positively flared into life. Believe me, everything — the floor, the ceiling, the walls, the carpet, the bed — everything was bright scarlet, as if drenched in fresh blood.’ Galeazzo paused, leaned forward and selected a grape from the bowl.

‘The mystery!’ one of the guests shouted from down the hall. ‘What is the mystery?’

Cranston stared down the table. Gaunt slouched, his eyes half-closed, a slight smile on his face as if he knew what was coming next. The young king, like any child, sat round-eyed and open-mouthed. Yet Galeazzo, like the born storyteller he was, played his audience for a while. He chewed slowly on the grape.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘the mystery begins. One of the guests challenged my aunt. He declared he would spend a night in the room fully armed. He would take no drink or food. A thorough search was made to ensure there were no secret passageways or trapdoors. After that the room was cleaned, fresh bolsters and linen put on the bed. Some sea coal was brought up and a fire lit in the grate. We all left that young man, that very foolish young man, to his night’s sleep.

‘The next morning broke cloud-free, the sun shone and a mild thaw set in. So, before breaking our fast, we all went out into the snow for it is a rare phenomenon around Cremona. We had a brisk walk and someone wondered how the young man fared. We knew the scarlet chamber was at the front of the house and, looking up, saw him staring down at us. We waved and went back into the house. Only after we had eaten did we notice that the young man still had not appeared so servants were sent to the scarlet chamber. A few minutes later one of them came rushing back, his face white, his eyes filled with terror. He shouted at my aunt to come, and we all followed. We entered the scarlet chamber. The fire had died in the grate. The bed had been slept in but the young man was standing by the window.’

‘I tell you no lies, sirs, the man was dead. He stood with mouth gaping and eyes staring, as we had seen him from the front of the house. He had tried to open the window, digging his nails deep into the frame. All I can say, sirs, is that on his face was a look of absolute horror. One of the guests, a physician, confirmed that something evil, something terrible in that room, had stopped the young man’s heart with fright.’

Galeazzo stopped speaking and turned to Sir John. ‘You have my drift, Lord Coroner?’

‘Yes, My Lord.’

‘You have questions?’

‘Was the room disturbed?’

‘In no way!’

‘Were there any secret passageways or tunnels?’

Cranston called out his questions in a loud voice so all in the hall could hear and Galeazzo answered in a similar fashion. The Italian turned to the assembled company, hand waving.

‘I swear, on my mother’s honour, no one had entered that room. There were no concealed doors or windows. No food or drink were served. The sea coals were from the stores, and the candles the young man brought to the room had been used in the hall below.’

Cranston stared at him in disbelief and once more wished Athelstan was here.

‘Was it some demon, some evil spirit?’

‘Ah!’ Galeazzo, Lord of Cremona, addressed the hall. ‘My Lord Coroner asks if the room was possessed of some demon. My aunt thought so and sent for a holy priest from the nearby church to come bless and exorcise the room. This venerable father arrived late in the day. He blessed, he exorcised, every corner but with no visible result. So we left him there. He said he would pray, and locked the door behind us.’

Galeazzo turned and smiled at Cranston’s expression. ‘My Lord Coroner, I am sure you suspect what happened next. It was late in the evening before my lady aunt realised the venerable father had not reappeared so servants forced the door and found the priest lying dead upon the floor — on his face the same look of horror as on the young man’s who had died earlier.’ Galeazzo stopped to bask in the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ of his audience.

Gaunt fingered his lower lip; the young king had now forgotten his hated uncle and watched the Italian nobleman attentively.

‘My Lord,’ the king cried in a shrill voice, ‘what happened then?’

Galeazzo smiled. ‘My lady aunt would not be satisfied. She called for two of her retainers, hardened warriors, one of them a good swordsman, the other a Genoese expert with the crossbow. They were bribed with gold to spend one night in the room. The men accepted and took up their posts that same evening. The door was unlocked as we’d had to force it to discover the body of the priest. The swordsman slept on a chair, the Genoese on the bed. In the middle of the night we were all wakened by a terrible scream.

‘This time I was barred from going but my aunt later told me that when she entered the scarlet chamber, she found the swordsman on the floor, a crossbow bolt embedded deep in his chest, whilst the Genoese, still clutching his arbalest, lay sprawled near him. He had died the same way as the rest, but something evil in that room, some demonic force, my aunt concluded, had forced this soldier to kill his own companion before he too perished.’

Galeazzo suddenly clapped his hands. ‘My aunt had done all she could. The corpses were removed, masses sung, and the scarlet chamber once again locked and barred. The years passed. I became a young man. Then, one day, an archivist from a local monastery heard of the terrible story. He demanded an audience with my aunt and said he could resolve the mystery of the scarlet chamber.’ Galeazzo shrugged. ‘Your Grace, fellow guests, I can proceed no further.’ He shook his head at the angry grumblings from the guests who felt cheated of a good story. ‘I leave that to the subtle wit of My Lord Coroner.’ He looked squarely at Cranston. ‘Sir John, do you have further questions?’

Cranston shook his head disbelievingly. ‘Four people died in that room and no one entered? No food or drink were given? And when there were two, one killed the other?’

Galeazzo smiled and nodded.

‘Unbelievable!’

‘My Lord Coroner,’ Cremona announced for all to hear, ‘what I tell you is the truth!’

Suddenly the young king rose to his feet. “The challenge has been given and accepted!’ he piped. ‘But, sweet Uncle, and My Lord of Cremona, there must be justice. How long has Sir John to solve this mystery?’

‘Two weeks,’ Galeazzo replied. ‘Two weeks from tonight I shall return to this hall and Sir John must present his solution.’

Cranston smiled at the young king for publicly supporting him. ‘How will I know the solution I offer is the correct one? My Lord, I mean no offence but there may be six solutions, all correct?’

Galeazzo stroked his silky, black moustache. ‘No, Sir John,’ he murmured, and snapped his fingers at a retainer standing behind him. ‘The documents!’

The squire handed them over. One was a roll of parchment which Galeazzo handed to Cranston.

‘This relates the mystery. You will find it as I have described it.’ He picked up a square piece of vellum, sealed with four purple blobs of wax. ‘This is the solution.’ Cremona handed it to the king. ‘Your Grace, I entrust it to your care so no foul play can be suspected.’

A hum of approval rose from the hall. The young king clapped his hands in glee whilst Gaunt grinned at Cranston.

‘Two weeks, My Lord Coroner,’ murmured Gaunt, and gripped Cranston by the arm. ‘Don’t worry, Sir John. If you lose the wager, I will pay the debt.’

Cranston’s jaw dropped at the terrible trap he had blundered into. It was not merely the loss of the gold or the disgrace of losing the wager, which he surely would; Gaunt had used this as a subtle device to please his Italian guest and, more importantly, to get the coroner into his debt. Cranston had the ear of the mayor, sheriffs and leading burgesses of London. The coroner was a man respected for his integrity and blunt criticism of the court. If he accepted Gaunt’s money he would be in the Regent’s debt and, within a year, would be regarded by everyone as Gaunt’s creature. Cranston’s rage boiled within him. He had to bite back a scathing reply and instead clenched the edge of the table until his fingers hurt, deaf to the conversations going on around him. He caught and held the Regent’s gaze. Cranston drew a deep breath.

‘My Lord of Lancaster, I thank you for your generosity, but I will not need your money. I will solve the mystery.’

Gaunt smiled and patted him on the arm.

‘Of course, Sir John. And I am going to enjoy hearing your solution.’

Gaunt turned to converse with his young nephew. Cranston could only sit, seething with anger at both himself and the subtlety of princes.

The banquet ended an hour later. Cranston collected his beaver hat and wool-lined cloak from a page boy and stamped through the narrow streets to the nearest tavern. He ordered a separate table, two good candles and the biggest jug of ale the tavern could furnish. For an hour he re-read the mystery posed by Cremona and, the more he read, the deeper his depression grew. At last, full of ale and self-pity, he left the tavern and made his lugubrious way home. Not even the prospect of seeing Maude’s cheerful face or his little poppets, Francis and Stephen, could penetrate the coroner’s deepening gloom.

Brother Athelstan rose early. The previous night had been clear and he had enjoyed studying the heavens with Bonaventure, the ever-growing church cat, squatting beside him watching him curiously. Afterwards Athelstan had taken his telescope and charts back to the only lockable chest in the priest’s small house, gone across to St Erconwald’s to chant Vespers with Bonaventure still beside him, then back for some light ale, a piece of bread smeared with honey, milk for Bonaventure, and so to bed.

Brother Athelstan felt pleased with himself and softly sang a song from boyhood as he washed, shaved and donned his black and white robe. Beside him faithful Bonaventure stretched and yawned, licking his whiskers with his small pink tongue in hopeful expectation of a dish of fish and a bowl of milk. Athelstan re-arranged the small towel, looping it over the wooden lavarium, and crouched to stroke the cat, scratching it softly between its ears until Bonaventure purred with pleasure.

‘You are getting fat, master cat. The more I see of you the more I think of Cranston.’

Bonaventure seemed to smile and snuggled closer.

‘You are getting fat, Bonaventure,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘And I am not feeding you this morning. You will have to hunt for your breakfast.’

Athelstan gazed round his small, sparsely furnished bedchamber. He tidied the horsehair blanket on his trestle bed, emptied the water he had used out of the window and jumped as he heard an angry grunt from below. He looked down and found Ursula the pig woman’s fat sow staring up at him. Athelstan quietly swore and slammed the shutters closed. He hated that bloody pig: it seemed to have an almost demonic intelligence. As soon as the cabbages and other vegetables Athelstan had carefully planted began to sprout, that damned animal would come lurching along to help itself.

‘I wonder if Huddle would build a fence?’ Athelstan murmured. He shrugged. But there again, he had other jobs for Huddle and, despite the pig’s forays on to his small vegetable patch, Athelstan felt a small glow of triumph. Today, Sunday, the sixth after Easter 1379, the workmen would begin work on converting the sanctuary. They would take down the rood screen, lift the cracked, water-soaked flagstones and lay new ones, carefully cut and painted black and white. Athelstan didn’t care if it was Sunday, it was the best day for work and most appropriate for the beginning of a major attempt to beautify God’s house.

Humming the song, he checked that the coffer containing his astrological charts and telescope was firmly padlocked and went down the rickety stairs into the kitchen. Bonaventure, tail held high, followed as reverently as any acolyte at holy mass. The kitchen was as bare as Athelstan’s bedroom, containing a few cupboards, a table and some stools. A small fire still glowed in the hearth, slowly warming a pot of soup Athelstan had been cooking since Friday. Benedicta had advised him that stock from meat should not be discarded but boiled for a number of days, spiced and allowed to bubble until it provided the most appetising of soups. Athelstan, a hopeless cook, was delighted with the succulent smells now filling the kitchen. He went into the small scullery, cut himself a crust of bread and poured a cup of watered wine. Bonaventure followed him in and looked pleadingly up.

‘No milk, Bonaventure,’ Athelstan snapped.

The cat purred and brushed against his leg.

‘All right.’ Athelstan relented. He picked up an earthenware pitcher and poured the cream into a bowl on the floor. He admired the black sleekness of Bonaventure as this lord of the alleyways, this one-eared king of cats, daintily lapped at the milk. Bonaventure likes his milk, Athelstan thought, as Cranston likes his wine. The friar walked absentmindedly back into the kitchen, sat on a stool and gazed into the dying embers of the fire. He wondered how the good coroner was faring for he, like Sir John, had been mystified by the Regent’s invitation, Cranston being no friend of the court party.

‘I hope he’s careful,’ Athelstan murmured to himself. He looked into his wine cup and smiled. The coroner had a big belly, a big mouth and a big heart, but Athelstan feared Cranston’s forthright honesty would one day lead him into danger. He closed his eyes and said a short prayer for Cranston and his wife, dainty, quiet Lady Maude, the only person Cranston truly feared. Athelstan shook his head that such a petite lady could produce such sturdy twin boys as Francis and Stephen. True, she had experienced a great deal of pain in childbirth, a little fever afterwards, but now the Lady Maude even looked younger whilst Cranston went around proud as a peacock. The monk laughed softly to himself as he remembered how, only a few weeks ago, he had baptised the twin boys at the small font just inside the entrance of St Erconwald’s. The boys had roared their heads off and Athelstan had had to fight to keep a straight face for both of them looked like peas out of the same pod. No one could doubt they were Cranston’s sons: red-faced, bawling, bald-headed, burping and farting, when they weren’t howling for the generous tits of a now exhausted-looking wet nurse. During the entire ceremony, Cranston, the beaming father, swayed slightly backwards and forwards as he took the occasional nip from his miraculous wineskin — so-called because it never seemed to empty. The christening had ended in chaos when Ursula the pig woman’s sow had come into the church and Bonaventure had leapt into Cranston’s lap. Cecily the courtesan had her face slapped by Watkin the dung-collector’s wife who claimed the wench was ogling her husband. All the time Lady Maude’s relatives, and Sir John’s noble acquaintances from the city, had stared in open-mouthed horror at the mummery being played out.

Nevertheless, the day had ended well at a small banquet held in Cranston’s garden behind his large house across the river. Many of the parishioners had been invited and Athelstan had never laughed so much in his life, the climax being when Cranston, much the worse for drink, fell fast asleep on top of a manure pile, a sleeping baby son nestling gently in each arm.

Athelstan started as Bonaventure, quiet as a thief, jumped into his lap.

‘Come on, cat,’ the monk murmured. ‘We have mass to offer, prayers to be said.’

He took the small bunch of keys which swung from the hook on his belt and left to open the church. The sow gave him a friendly grunt as he passed and continued to chomp merrily at the cabbages. Bonaventure looked at the pig disdainfully and followed his master across. Crim, one of Watkin the dung-collector’s large brood, was waiting on the steps.

‘You’ve come to serve at mass, Crim?’

‘Yes, Father.’

Athelstan looked at his half-washed face. The lad was a mischievous angel but this morning he looked troubled, guilty even, refusing to meet Athelstan’s eye. The friar ignored this. After all, Crim’s parents were always fighting. There had probably been trouble at home. He unlocked the door and walked into the church, Crim and Bonaventure slipping in behind him. Athelstan rested against the baptismal font and gazed appreciatively around. Yes, this humble parish church was beginning to grow beautiful: the wooden rafters had been reinforced and the roof re-tiled, so it had bravely withstood the winter gales and rain. The floor of the nave was now even and well swept whilst Huddle the painter, a young man of indeterminate origin but with a Godgiven skill for etching and painting, was filling every available space on the walls and pillars with colourful scenes from the Old and New Testaments. All the windows were now filled with horn or glass and Athelstan was determined to win the favour of some powerful benefactor who would buy stained glass for the church.

Yet St Erconwald’s was more than a house of prayer. Here parishioners met to do business or celebrate the great liturgical feasts. The young people came to be married, brought their children to be baptised, attended mass, had their sins shriven and, when God called them, were laid out to rest in the great parish coffin, wheeled in front of the rood screen for their last benediction.

Athelstan drummed his fingers on the wooden top of the baptismal font and hummed the tune he had been singing earlier. At first he had hated the parish, been repelled by this dirty church, but now he had grown to love it and the colourful bustling characters who swarmed round him, touching his solitary life with the drama of their own. Crim, used to his parish priest’s reveries, skipped along the nave pretending to be a horse and Athelstan suddenly remembered Philomel, the former war horse, now his mount and constant companion.

‘God save us!’ he muttered. ‘The old man will be kicking the stable door down!’

He hurried out of the church and round the house to the small shed now converted into Philomel’s stable. The old horse snickered, shaking his head as soon as Athelstan appeared and kicking his foot softly against the door. Athelstan quickly fed him a mixture of oats and bran and threw a little hay into the stable, for Philomel, despite his ponderous gait and slow ways, had a voracious appetite. When he returned to the church, Leif the one-legged beggar was sitting on the steps.

‘Good morrow, Father.’

‘Good morrow, Leif, and how is Sir John?’

The beggar scratched his head and his horsy face became even more sombre.

‘My Lord Coroner is not in a good mood,’ he answered. ‘I told him I was coming across the bridge to beg so he sent a message. He hopes to see you this evening.’

‘Oh, bugger!’ Athelstan whispered under his breath.

‘Father,’ Leif pleaded, ‘I’m hungry and it was a long walk.’

‘The house is open, Leif. There’s some broth on the fire and wine in the buttery. Help yourself.’

Leif needed no second invitation and, despite his ungainly gait, rose and sped like a whippet into the house. Athelstan watched him go and thought about Cranston. Another murder? he wondered. Or was it something personal?

‘Who cares?’ he muttered to the cat. ‘It’s going to be a fine Sunday.’ Athelstan screwed up his eyes and looked at the sky. Perhaps it was time he acknowledged the real reason for his happiness — he hadn’t been called to attend the Inner Chapter of the Dominicans at Blackfriars. Nevertheless he felt a twinge of regret. After all, some old friends would be there. . but there again, so would William de Conches, the Master Inquisitor from Avignon. He would be in attendance on the debate about the new teaching of that brilliant young theologian, Brother Henry of Winchester.

‘At least I’m spared that,’ Athelstan murmured.

‘Who are you talking to, Father?’ asked Crim, popping his head round the church door.

Athelstan winked at him. ‘Bonaventure, Crim. Never forget, there’s more to this cat than meets the eye.’

Athelstan went up the nave, through the rood screen, genuflecting before the winking sanctuary lamp, and into the small sacristy. He washed his hands and face again, brushed some of the straw from Philomel’s stable from his robe and began to don gold-coloured vestments for the church was still celebrating the glory of Eastertide.

He jumped as the door at the back of the church opened with a crash. Surely not Cranston? he thought. But it was only Mugwort the bell-ringer, who went into the small alcove and began to toll the bell for mass. Crim sped in and out of the sacristy like a fly as he prepared the altar. Water for the lavabo, wine and the wafers for the Offertory and Consecration, the great missal, suitably marked for the day, a napkin for Athelstan to wipe his hands on. At a solemn nod from the priest, candles were placed on each side of the altar, their wicks cleansed and lit as a sign that mass was imminent.

Athelstan went to the sacristy door and stared down the church. This would be the last time he said mass in the old sanctuary. He had gained permission from the Bishop of London to remove both the altar and the sanctuary stone, and take down Huddle’s rood screen for a while so the old sanctuary could be broken up and the new flagstones laid. He watched Mugwort yank the end of the rope, the man’s twisted face alight with pleasure as he pulled on the bell like some demented spirit. Athelstan grinned to himself. Whether they came to mass or not, by the time Mugwort was finished, everyone for a mile around would know that it was Sunday and time for prayer.

His parishioners began to arrive. First Watkin the dung-collector, sexton of the church and leader of the parish council: a formidable, squat man, his face covered in warts, nostrils stuffed with hair, sharp-eyed and vociferous. A step behind him came his even more formidable wife; the way she walked always reminded Athelstan of a knight in full armour. Pernel the Fleming came next, her white face half-crazed, eyes staring as she chattered to herself about this or that. Ranulf the rat-catcher followed with two of his children. Athelstan had to hide a grin behind his hand for, like their father, the children were dressed in black with tarry hoods concealing their pale, pinched features; all three looked like the very rodents Ranulf was supposed to catch. He caught Athelstan’s eye and grinned knowingly, and the priest remembered his promise that, once the new sanctuary was built, St Erconwald’s would become the Chantry church of the newly formed Guild of Rat Catchers. Others came, led by Huddle the painter, with his dreamy expression and childish face. The self-made artist immediately went up to touch one of his most recent paintings — a brilliant rendition of Daniel in the lion’s den. Next came Tab the tinker, still suffering the effects of too much ale the night before, then Pike the ditcher, leading what looked like a small army of dwarfs. Somehow or other he had become responsible both for his own large brood and for Tab’s.

Athelstan watched Pike carefully. He knew the ditcher was friendly with the radical peasant leaders both inside and outside the city, known to be constantly plotting rebellion. What concerned Athelstan more was that Pike, together with blonde-haired, sweet-faced Cecily the courtesan, was plotting a violent assault on Watkin’s position as leader of the parish council. He sighed, for when that happened, a violent power struggle would ensue.

Benedicta the widow woman entered, dressed in a light blue kirtle with a white veil over her night black hair. Athelstan’s heart beat a little faster. He lowered his gaze for he loved the widow with an innocent passion which sometimes embarrassed them both.

Benedicta closed the door and waved to him, then moved away quickly as it was thrown open again and Ursula the pig woman, followed by her evil-looking sow, waddled in.

‘I’ll kill that bloody pig!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘I’ll kill it and eat pork for a year!’

Ursula, however, smiled sweetly at him, then crouched by a pillar, the sow squeezing between her and Watkin. Athelstan had to bite his lip for the pig bore a striking resemblance to the sexton.

Ursula was usually the last to arrive so he went round to the foot of the altar, made the sign of the cross and began the great mystery of the mass. His small congregation, who had been sitting whispering to each other, now gathered at the entrance to the rood screen, watching intently as their priest began to intercede for them before God.