The House of Shadows

Chapter 2

‘Hoc est corpus meum. This is my Body.’

Athelstan breathed the words of consecration over the host, then genuflected. Behind him his parish council, much the worse for wear after the previous night’s revelry, coughed and spluttered as they knelt just within the rood screen. Athelstan looked over his shoulder. Crim the altar boy, half asleep, suddenly started awake and shook the hand bell.

‘And taking this excellent chalice into his hand. .’ Athelstan continued with the Mass, trying to concentrate on the mystery of the God who became man now becoming present under the appearances of bread and wine. From beyond the rood screen he heard Brother Malachi, celebrating the Eucharist in the Chantry Chapel, draw his Mass to a close. Athelstan turned and lifted the chalice with the host above it.

‘Behold the Lamb of God, behold Him who takes away the sins of the world.’

Athelstan always translated the Latin for the benefit of his parishioners, but this morning he was wasting his time. They all looked half asleep. Watkin the dung collector was actually dribbling, his head on Pike the ditcher’s shoulder. Pike’s sour-faced wife Imelda was pretending to pray but her head kept jerking backwards and forwards. Ursula the pig woman, who insisted on bringing her large fat sow into the sanc-tuary, was clearly snoring. That precious pig, which Athelstan had secretly vowed to slaughter because of the damage it wreaked in his vegetable patch, looked as sottish as its owner. The rest were there in all their dubious glory, Ranulf the rat-catcher with his wicker-work basket on the floor beside him. As Athelstan went down to give the Eucharist, both ferrets squealed and tried to push open the lid of the basket.

‘I think you should wake.’ Athelstan’s voice carried around the sanctuary. His parishioners all shook themselves awake, forcing their faces into expressions of false piety, clasping their hands as Athelstan distributed the Eucharist.

Athelstan was relieved when Mass was ended. He swept from the sanctuary into the sacristy and took off his vestments, the chasuble and stole, placing the sacred cloths back into the red oaken vestment chest. Crim came staggering in with the cruets bearing the remains of the water and wine.

‘God bless you, Crim!’

The altar boy blinked his red-rimmed eyes.

‘It’s not my fault, Father,’ the lad blurted out. ‘I did remind them that today was parish council day, but Ranulf — ’

‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘I know all about the great victory.’ He touched the lad gently on the head. ‘And you drank ale last night?’

The boy nodded.

‘So you won’t be stealing any altar wine?’

‘I never-’

‘Hush now.’ Athelstan pressed a finger against the boy’s lips. ‘The angels will hear your lie. Now clear the altar while I. .’ Athelstan knelt down and tightened the thong on his sandal. ‘I will just wait awhile until my parish council wake up.’

Athelstan left by the side door. A sharp hoar frost still whitened the grass and gorse, the twisted yew trees in the cemetery; even the battered wooden crosses had a silver coating. Athelstan followed the narrow pebbled track up to the small death house. Outside it, the goat, Thaddeus, mournfully cropped at the grass. The animal lifted its head as Athelstan approached, chewing so lugubriously that Athelstan couldn’t help laughing. The goat trotted across, nuzzling Athelstan’s hand.

‘Mercenary,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘But I have no apples for you this morning.’

‘Come in, Brother.’

Athelstan stopped and went into the darkness. God-Bless, the beggar, squatted on the ground attempting to fan the fire he had built on the makeshift hearth. Athelstan joined in, sprinkling dry twigs and crushed charcoal over the flames, then helped the beggar man fashion a grille, laying out the fatty pieces of pork he had given God-Bless the previous evening. All the time the beggar man whispered, ‘God bless, God bless.’

‘You weren’t at Mass this morning?’ Athelstan asked.

‘God bless you, Father, I was at the Great Ratting.’

God-Bless blew once more on the flames and knelt, watching the pork sizzle on the wire grille.

‘Did you drink too much?’

‘God bless you, Father, I did, but there was a killing last night.’

‘A killing?’

‘At the Great Ratting, Father. A man was stabbed. But now I am hungry.’

Athelstan left the beggar and walked across to his own house. The fire in the hearth had burned low. He looked around; everything was in order. He would break his fast after the meeting. His feet brushed feathers. He stepped back and stared down at a mauled pigeon. Bonaventure must have brought it in.

‘For what we are about to receive. .’ Athelstan picked up the carcass and took it out to the yard. Of the great one-eyed tom cat there was no sign. Athelstan smelt the roasting pork, God-Bless’s cooking, and knew where the cat had gone. He entered the stable built next to the house. Philomel, the old warhorse, was chewing slowly on its oats, and lifted its head as Athelstan came in. The Dominican sketched a blessing in the air and left, then walked round up the front steps and into the church.

His guests, the Falconers, were clustered around Brother Malachi, who warmly greeted Athelstan and introduced his companions: Sir Maurice Clinton, Sir Thomas Davenport, Sir Reginald Branson, Sir Laurence Broomhill and Sir Stephen Chandler. Athelstan had met them all before and welcomed them back to Southwark for their annual visit.

‘I thank you for the loan of your church.’ The Benedictine’s smooth, cherub-like face creased into a smile. He gestured down the nave at the wooden screens; Crispin the carpenter had erected these against the transept wall to form a small chapel with an altar beneath the window and a statue of St Erconwald on a plinth where the wooden screen met the wall. The Benedictine congratulated Athelstan on the carvings along the wooden screen as well as the beautiful sculptured statue of the church’s patron saint. Athelstan nodded in bemusement. He had met Brother Malachi on previous occasions and was both flattered and surprised at the Benedictine’s interest in this crumbling old church.

‘You have done wonders.’ Sir Maurice Clinton, the leader of the group, gestured at the vivid wall paintings depicting scenes from the Bible.

‘I recognise some of your parishioners.’ Sir Stephen Chandler, small and fat, mopped his face with the edge of his cloak.

‘Yes, yes.’ Athelstan stared at his parishioners gathered in a gaggle further up the nave. He wondered what they were discussing so heatedly. ‘Mind you,’ he added absent-mindedly, ‘I wish Huddle our painter wouldn’t use his fellow parishioners as models for his scenes.’

‘I don’t know.’ Sir Thomas Davenport spoke up. ‘Cecily the courtesan makes a lovely Mary Magdalene.’

‘I was thinking,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘of Pike the ditcher’s wife being cast in the role of Jezebel.’

His remark provoked laughter and the knights drifted away to look at the painting on the wall near the baptismal font. Brother Malachi began to explain the scene in detail. Athelstan adjusted the cord round his middle, fingering the three knots symbolising his vows of obedience, chastity and poverty. He studied the group of knights intently. Sir Maurice was tall, thin, and harsh-faced, Sir Stephen round and red as a ripe apple; the rest all looked like brothers, dressed as they were in their black and white cloaks with the golden falcon emblem embroidered on the shoulder. He reckoned most of them must have seen their fiftieth summer. They walked and looked like the warriors they were — men who had fought in Outremer, strong, muscular soldiers, bodies hardened, faces darkened by years of military service under the blazing sun of the Middle Sea.

Athelstan knew little about their background: knights from Kent, landowners who, some twenty years ago, had gathered in Southwark to join the great expedition of Peter of Cyprus against the Turks in North Africa. They had served under the Golden Falcon standard and every year gathered at the tavern, the Night in Jerusalem, to celebrate their achievements and talk of old times. Brother Malachi was their chaplain: the Benedictine had served with the crusading army, even had his fingers shorn in the fighting, and returned to England settling in a small monastery outside Aylesford. Each year was the same: they’d gather for Mass at St Erconwald’s, then return to their tavern to continue their celebrations. Athelstan hardly gave them a second thought, yet wasn’t there some mystery attached to it all? Hadn’t Sir John Cranston told him about a great robbery, some scandal, before the crusading fleet left the Thames? Athelstan felt immediately apprehensive. Whenever he thought of Sir John Cranston, the larger-than-life coroner always appeared. Athelstan quietly prayed that Sir John, Coroner of the City of London, would not need his services, that he would not arrive to drag him from his parish to investigate some gruesome murder. Yet hadn’t God-Bless mentioned a man being killed last night during the Great Ratting?

‘Brother Athelstan.’ Sir Maurice led the knights back from the painting. ‘Once again you have kindly allowed us to use your church for Mass and our devotions.’

He turned to the Benedictine.

‘Well,’ he barked, ‘give it to him!’

Malachi drew his hands from the voluminous sleeves of his habit and handed over a small velvet-covered box. Athelstan undid the silver clasp, pushed back the lid and carefully picked up the gold ring, very similar to what a man would use in swearing his troth. He could tell, by the thinness of the gold, that the ring was ancient.

‘Do you like it?’ Sir Stephen asked, his fat face laced with sweat.

‘Of course.’ Athelstan put the ring back.

‘It belonged to St Erconwald,’ Malachi explained. ‘It was his episcopal ring. I bought it from a merchant in Canterbury. I have had it tested, it is genuine. There are marks on the inside.’

Athelstan lifted the ring up against the light, studying it intently, and saw the small Celtic crosses etched on the inside of it. He put the ring back, closed the box and slipped it into the wallet which hung from his cord. He was only halfway through his speech of thanks when the door crashed open. For a moment Athelstan thought it was Cranston, but it was Benedicta the widow woman who slipped into the church, apologising profusely for giving the door such a vigorous push.

‘I am sorry, Brother.’

Athelstan smiled at her; even the knights forgot what he was saying as they stared at this beautiful woman, her pale face framed by hair black as midnight.

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ she repeated, ‘but I thought I would be late for the meeting.’

Athelstan squeezed her hand, and thanked the knights for their gift, saying that he and his parish council would have to reflect carefully about where it should be kept. He didn’t dare mention that most of his parishioners, given half a chance, be it holy relic or not, would steal the ring and sell it in the markets across the river.

Once Brother Malachi and the knights had left, Benedicta began to explain why she was late, only to be interrupted by Watkin the dung collector, leader of the council, who came striding down the church. Athelstan immediately called the meeting to order. Pike the ditcher brought out the stools and the priest’s chair from the sanctuary. Athelstan made the sign of the cross and the meeting began. Mugwort the bell clerk sat at his small desk taken from the bell tower, feather quill poised ready to take down what was decided. Athelstan showed them the ring; this was greeted with oohs and aahs. The Dominican despaired at the greed in some of their eyes and the twitch in their fingers.

‘We have to decide,’ he declared, ‘where such a precious relic should be kept.’

‘And?’ Ursula the pig woman asked.

‘Every altar,’ began Athelstan, kicking away the sow which came lumbering over to sniff at his sandals. Benedicta hid her smile behind her hand. ‘Every altar,’ he repeated, ‘has a relic stone. It can be taken out and cemented back in again. We’ll put the ring there. I’ll keep an imitation one to show any visitors.’

Athelstan’s smooth, olive-skinned face grew serious. He raised himself up in his chair.

‘It would be a most hideous sacrilege to steal such a ring. I would refuse absolution to any such thief.’

Most of the parish councillors stared down, shuffling their feet.

‘Anyway,’ Athelstan decided to move quickly to other matters, ‘Ranulf, I believe you are to be congratulated, your ferrets were victors of the game. Although I think it is a dreadful way for any of God’s creatures to die.’

‘I’ve seen rats attack babies in a house near Mary St Bethlehem,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘Four of them sucked the blood out of-’

‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘but your ferrets did well.’

‘Can they be baptised?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Father has already told you,’ Imelda screeched. ‘You can’t baptise animals.’

‘Ursula’s pig drank the holy water,’ Watkin pointed out.

‘There’ll be no baptisms of animals,’ Athelstan declared, ‘but I promise you, on the Feast of St Francis. .’ Athelstan couldn’t stop himself, even though he recalled the confusion of last time, when one of Ranulf’s ferrets had attacked Ursula’s sow and sent it squealing around the church. He just hoped that Ranulf had kept the basket secure; the ferrets had smelt the sow and were becoming excited.

‘Yes, Father?’ Pernel asked.

‘On the Feast of St Francis I will bless all animals. Now, let’s move to other business.’

Mugwort picked up his quill, dipping it ceremoniously into the inkhorn as Athelstan led his parish council through the various items of business. There was the cleaning of the cemetery, the digging of a ditch, Huddle wanted to paint a new scene from the life of St John the Baptist which provoked a fierce discussion about whether the saint was crucified or beheaded. Athelstan suspected this was a warning of what was to come. Cecily the courtesan, in a light blue robe, sat next to Benedicta, smiling flirtatiously at Pike while making obscene gestures with her fingers at the ditcher’s wife. Athelstan hurried on. There was the business of church ales, the levying of tithes, the possibility of a small market in the cemetery and the greening of the church for Advent.

‘Now,’ Athelstan closed his eyes and offered up a silent prayer, ‘we come to our pageant for Christmas, the birth of Christ.’

He paused for breath.

‘Crispin,’ he pointed to the carpenter, ‘we have decided you will be Joseph, Watkin, you can be Herod. .’ The roles were assigned; they even included Bonaventure the cat. Philomel would stand in for the donkey, whilst Athelstan ruefully conceded that Ursula’s sow could be the oxen.

‘Well,’ said Watkin, ‘who will be the Virgin Mary? I think it should be Benedicta.’

‘So do I,’ Imelda agreed, glaring at Cecily, who pushed her chest out and straightened herself up on the stool she was sitting on.

‘I disagree,’ Pike the ditcher responded, always ready to oppose Watkin.

‘We think it should be Cecily,’ Ranulf declared.

A bitter war of words broke out. Imelda, her face mottled with fury, fists beating the air, would have attacked Cecily if Athelstan hadn’t intervened. The Dominican let the dispute continue, hoping their pent-up fury would soon exhaust itself. Instead it grew worse, so he had to gesture at Mauger to ring his hand bell. No sooner was silence imposed, with members of the parish council glowering at each other, when there was loud shouting outside, cries and yells of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ followed by the sound of running feet. The door to the church burst open, and a man, cloak over one arm, a stick in the other, scampered around the stools and fled up the nave under the rood screen and into the sanctuary. He was followed by a man in black leather, spurs jangling on his boots, a drawn sword in one hand, a crossbow in the other. Athelstan sprang to his feet as he realised what had happened.

‘Go no further,’ he ordered.

The man carrying the crossbow paused, hands hanging as he fought for breath.

‘He’s the Judas Man,’ Pike shouted. ‘He was at the Great Ratting last night.’

‘He is also an officer of the law.’

Bladdersniff the bailiff came into the church, clearly out of breath, leaning on his staff of office, water dripping from eyes, nose and mouth.

‘He carries the King’s commission, he’s in pursuit of a felon.’

‘I demand,’ the Judas Man rasped, ‘that the felon who calls himself the Misericord be handed over to me.’

This proclamation was greeted by cries of derision from the parish council.

‘You know the law,’ Athelstan stepped in front of the Judas Man, ‘and so do you, Bladdersniff. Any man who reaches a church and grasps the altar may claim sanctuary.’

‘Which means,’ the Judas Man retorted, pointing up the church, ‘that the malefactor cannot leave this church for forty days, and when he does I will arrest him: that, too, is the law!’

Athelstan was repelled by the malice in the Judas Man’s eyes, the violence of his speech.

‘It’s against canon law,’ Athelstan pointed at the sword, ‘to carry a naked weapon in church. I ask you, sir, to sheathe it and get out.’

Athelstan insisted that the Judas Man, the bailiff and all the parish council leave immediately. Pike made to protest; Benedicta intervened and gently shooed the ditcher and the rest out on to the church porch. Athelstan followed. The Judas Man was already in the forecourt, ordering the bully boys he had brought with him to guard all the doors of the church. Athelstan had met such bounty-hunters before and recognised their ruthlessness. An outlaw’s head could be worth fifteen pounds sterling, attached to its body; severed, the price was reduced to five. The Judas Man, skilled in the hunt and invoking the law, stared malevolently at Athelstan standing on the top step. He ordered Bladdersniff to include some of the parish council in the comitatus, or posse, he was forming.

‘What do you want me to do, Father?’ Benedicta pulled up the hood of her cloak.

‘Don’t be anxious, Benedicta. I would be grateful if you would serve Bonaventure a dish of milk.’ He gestured at the priest’s house. ‘Dampen the fire whilst I see what is happening.’

Athelstan strolled back into the church, slamming the door behind him. He walked up the nave. He was distracted by the gargoyle faces staring down at him from the top of the pillars as if they were the harbingers of ill news. Yet, Athelstan sighed, the day had looked so promising. He went under the rood screen and into the sanctuary, genuflected towards the sacrament lamp and then walked over to the Misericord, who was sitting on the top step, one hand on the high altar. He was tall and red-haired, his pallid, clean-shaven face, slightly pointed ears and slanted green eyes gave him an elfin look. He was dressed in dark blue matching jerkin and hose; his boots were of dark red Spanish leather. He had a knife pushed into the top of one of them and a war belt strapped across his shoulder which carried a Welsh stabbing dirk. Around his neck hung a silver misericord sheath on a black cord lanyard.

‘I claim-’ the Misericord began.

‘Shut up.’ Athelstan pulled across the altar boy’s stool and sat down, staring up at the Misericord. ‘I know the law,’ he continued evenly. ‘You are a fugitive. You have claimed sanctuary, you can stay here for forty days. I will supply you with food and drink.’

He pointed across the sanctuary to the sacristy door.

‘Go through there; outside is a makeshift latrine near a butt of water. You can relieve yourself there, but make sure you leave it clean. Oh, by the way,’ Athelstan stretched out his hands, ‘I’ll take your weapons, which, as you know, must be kept near the Lady Altar.’

He pointed to his left. The Misericord cleaned his teeth with his tongue whilst he swept the sweat from his face.

‘Stay there.’ Athelstan left the church by the corpse door. Benedicta was still in the kitchen, busy brushing the floor. Bonaventure had sipped his milk and was staring at the steaming cauldron where the freshly cooked oatmeal still bubbled hot. Athelstan explained he was in a hurry. He filled a maplewood bowl full of oatmeal, added some honey, took a pewter spoon from the buttery and drew a tankard of ale. He put these on a wooden board and took them back to the church.

The Misericord ate and drank, gulping the food down, using his fingers to clean the bowl whilst draining the tankard in one swig. Athelstan collected the fugitive’s weapons, including the misericord dagger, and placed them behind the Lady Altar.

‘Very good, very good.’ The Misericord wiped his fingers on his jerkin.

‘I’ll have the bowl back and the spoon. The tankard you can keep, for a while.’

‘Did you brew it yourself?’

‘No, Benedicta did.’

‘Ah yes, the widow woman, with hair as black as night and the face of an angel. Do you love her, Father? I thought you were a priest and friar?’ The Misericord’s green eyes glinted with mischief.

‘Benedicta is an honourable widow, her husband was lost at sea. She brews ale, cooks me some bread and, not at my bidding, keeps my house clean.’

‘But not your bed warm?’

Athelstan half rose threateningly. The Misericord held up both hands in a sign of peace, his pale, mischievous face all solemn.

‘Pax et bonum, peace and goodwill, Father. I was only joking.’

The Misericord scrutinised the priest. Whenever he moved into an area, be it a village or one of the wards of London, he always discovered which was the quickest way out, where he could hide, who was to be trusted and which men or women exercised power. He had learnt a great deal about this slim, dark-faced friar with his soulful eyes and wary manner. He had also laid a great wager on Ranulf the rat-catcher, though now he regretted coming to Southwark.

‘What is your real name?’ Athelstan asked.

‘John Travisa, former clerk from the halls of Oxford, a troubadour, a poet, a chanteur, a lady’s squire. .’

‘And a thief and a boaster,’ Athelstan finished for him.

The Misericord shrugged.

‘Hard times, Father. Outside in the shires, the harvests fail and what’s left is pecked up by the tax collectors. There’s no work for an honest man.’ He pulled a face. ‘I apologise: even for a dishonest man.’

‘What have you done?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Well,’ the Misericord crossed his arms and leaned back against the altar, ‘I have been a relic-seller. Do you want to buy a piece of the True Cross, a portion of the baby Jesus’ nappy, some hairs from Joseph’s beard, one of the Virgin Mary’s shoes?’ He cleaned his teeth with his fingers. ‘I can supply it. I even took a severed head from one of the pikes on London Bridge. I cleaned it up, dried it in spices and sold it to a merchant in Norwich as the head of St John the Baptist.’

Athelstan kept his face straight.

‘And why does the Judas Man pursue you?’

‘There’s a reward of twenty-five pounds on my head. He has been dogging my footsteps through Essex, Middlesex, across the river and into Southwark. I don’t know why he is so persistent. I tried to leave Southwark this morning but he had his spies on both the bridge and the quayside.’

The Misericord pulled a loose thread on his jerkin. ‘I had no choice but to flee.’

‘But why?’ Athelstan became intrigued.

‘I don’t know,’ the Misericord sighed. ‘I expect he has been hired by a private citizen. Someone who seeks vengeance.’

‘For what?’ Athelstan demanded.

‘I don’t know! I have played so many games. There is one, perhaps that’s it. I took the name Dr Mirabilis and offered to sell a powder which would. .’ The Misericord clicked his tongue. ‘Let me put it this way, Father, I said it would make a man perform like a stallion in bed, so I wouldn’t have offered it to someone like you.’

‘And of course,’ Athelstan replied, ‘it did nothing. What did you claim it was?’

‘The ground horn of a unicorn.’

‘And the truth?’

The Misericord pressed his lips together. ‘A mixture of camomile and valerian.’

‘But that would have the opposite effect, Athelstan said. ‘Such a mixture would slow the mind, make the body relax; it’s nothing better than a sleeping potion.’

‘I know, Father.’

‘How did you sell it?’

The Misericord was about to reply when the door of the church crashed open.

‘Sir Jack Cranston,’ Athelstan whispered.

The Misericord crept back into the shadows. Athelstan sat listening to those hard, heavy boots ring out across the paving stones of the nave.

Sir John Cranston, former soldier, Coroner of the City of London, father of the poppets, as he called his twin baby sons, and devoted husband of the Lady Maud, swept into the sanctuary like the north wind. He had a beaverskin hat pressed down on his unruly grey hair, his great body and heavy paunch were masked by the military cloak pulled halfway up to his face, yet there was no mistaking that bristling white moustache, the vein-flecked cheeks and the piercing blue eyes.

‘Good morning, Brother Athelstan.’ He peered through the gloom. ‘Aye, and morning to you, Master Misericord.’

Cranston undid his cloak, clasped Athelstan’s hand and advanced threateningly towards the fugitive now crouching beside the altar. He rested one foot on the second step and leaned forward.

‘The Misericord! Also known as John Travisa, also known as Walter Simple, also known as Edward Bowman, also known as God knows what. Wanted dead or alive in the shires of Suffolk, Norfolk, Hertfordshire, Essex and Kent. Oh, this time you’ll hang, my boy.’ Cranston gestured down the nave. ‘I know that Judas Man. You placed your wager on Ranulf’s ferrets? Well, he’s a ferret in human form. He’ll hunt you down, though I’ll be the first to deal with you. You killed a man last night.’

‘No I didn’t,’ the Misericord yelped.

‘Yes you did!’

Cranston suddenly remembered where he was and snatched off his beaverskin hat. He hurriedly made a sign of the Cross, one of the fastest Athelstan had ever seen, then fished beneath his cloak and unhooked the miraculous wine skin which never seemed to empty, unstoppered it and took a mouthful. He offered it to Athelstan, who refused, though the Misericord grabbed it greedily and took a generous swig. Cranston snatched it out of his hands.

‘Now, my lovely boy,’ Cranston breathed. ‘You killed a man last night, or had him killed. You went to Master Rolles’ for the Great Ratting, and I will see mine host about that. You knew you were being hunted, so you paid some unfortunate who had a passing resemblance to you to wear that misericord dagger around his neck, a man with red hair and pale face. The Judas Man went to arrest him, and Toadflax-’

‘Toadflax?’ Athelstan queried.

‘Toadflax,’ Cranston explained, ‘was a dog collector. He took the corpses of dead animals from the streets; now and again he became involved in petty thievery.’

Cranston jabbed a finger in the fugitive’s face.

‘He was the one you bribed. What did you give him for his life? A penny? A groat? Some numbskull who wouldn’t know his right hand from his left; now his corpse is stiffening in an outhouse.’

Cranston turned swiftly to Athelstan.

‘Will you bury him, Father? Will you anoint him with oil and put his body in the ground?’

Athelstan nodded.

‘Now we have business to do.’ Cranston pointed threateningly at the fugitive. ‘You stay here, you understand? You only leave here to go to the jakes. That Judas Man is in a fair temper; he will have your neck.’

The Misericord, all courage drained, nodded quickly. Cranston took Athelstan by the elbow and steered him out of the sanctuary.

‘Well, good morrow to you, Sir John.’

The coroner beamed down at this friar whom he loved more dearly than a blood brother.

‘You look well, Sir John, in fine fettle.’

Cranston stroked his moustache and beard. ‘The Lady Maud and I,’ he whispered, ‘we had a celebration last night, downstairs and upstairs.’ He winked knowingly.

‘So the Lady Maud is in good health?’

‘Aye, but there are three corpses at the Night in Jerusalem!’

‘Three!’ Athelstan exclaimed.

‘You know the tavern? It’s owned by one Master Rolles, a true sicarius who harvested rich plunder in France.’

‘I know of Master Rolles and his tavern, Sir John — but three corpses?’

‘Two flaxen-haired whores and poor Toadflax,’ Cranston explained, the smile fading from his face. ‘I need you Brother, you are my secretarius.’

Athelstan bit back his disappointment. He’d planned to do so much today: visit the sick, scrutinise the accounts, and he dearly wanted to read a new commentary on Ptolemy. The manuscript had been copied by scribes in his own order, and Athelstan had been loaned it by Prior Anselm, allowed to take it away from its great oaken shelf in the library at Blackfriars.

Heavy-hearted, Athelstan returned to his house, collected his writing satchel, which he hooked over his shoulder, and donned the heavy cloak Cranston had given him as a gift last Michaelmas. The kitchen looked clean and scrubbed, everything in order. Bonaventure was sprawled in front of the dying fire. Athelstan murmured a quick benediction that all would be kept safe, then he grasped his walking stick and joined Sir John, now standing on the steps of the church like a Justice come to judgement. It was obvious that the Judas Man intended to stay, his bully boys now bolstered by members of the parish council: Pike, Watkin, Ranulf and others eager for mischief. They had ringed the cemetery, keeping every window and door under close scrutiny. The Judas Man had even hired a couple of braziers, where the charcoal and wood crackled merrily, as well as supplying his comitatus with bread, meat and wine.

‘He is being well paid,’ Cranston murmured, staring across at the Judas Man, who sat on the cemetery wall gazing coolly back.

‘Who’s hired him?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Not the Corporation?’

Cranston shook his head. ‘The Corporation won’t do it any more, not unless they have to. It’s too expensive. Yet I tell you this, Brother, and I swear by Satan’s tits.’ He gestured with his head towards the Judas Man. ‘He’s well named, an evil bastard! He doesn’t care if he brings his quarry in dead or alive. There’s more compassion in Ranulf’s ferrets than in one hair on his head. Well, let me upset him.’

Cranston strode down the steps, Athelstan hurrying behind. They were halfway across the forecourt when Cranston stopped and bellowed at the Judas Man to join him. The man slowly, insolently climbed down from the wall and strolled across, sword scabbard slap-ping against the top of his boot. He bowed mockingly and stretched out his hand.

‘Sir John Cranston.’ The coroner grasped his hand and pulled the Judas Man close, such a powerful jerk that the Judas Man nearly missed his footing. Cranston steadied him.

‘There, there.’ He tapped a finger against the Judas Man’s cheek. ‘You are not going to touch that dagger, are you?’

The man’s hand fell away from the hilt.

‘Good.’ Cranston smiled. ‘Now, sir, you killed a man last night.’

‘I am an officer of the law, I carry a commission,’ the Judas Man retorted. ‘Toadflax pulled his dagger, I had no choice. I have a score of witnesses.’

‘Aye, I am sure you have.’ Cranston pushed his face closer. ‘But I couldn’t care if it was St Ursula and her ten thousand virgins. You’re accompanying me back to that tavern. I have questions to ask.’

‘I have business here.’

Athelstan stared across at the bailiffs. They had forgotten the braziers, the cheap food and ale, and were staring fearfully across. They all knew Cranston by reputation, if not by sight.

‘I, too, carry a commission,’ Cranston’s voice rose to a shout, ‘signed by John of Gaunt, Protector of the Realm.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You can either come freely or I’ll have you arrested.’

He pushed the Judas Man away, and walked out of St Erconwald’s into the narrow, tangled streets of Southwark. Athelstan had to run to keep up. The Judas Man shouted orders at his bailiffs and, cursing under his breath, was left with no choice but to follow. As they turned and left the church, Cranston was joined by his master bailiff Flaxwith, his two mastiffs Satan and Samson bringing up the rear. Cranston teased Flaxwith over Ranulf’s victory last night; the bailiff remained surly whilst his two dogs, as if aware of the disgrace they had brought upon their master, trotted mournfully behind.

The streets of Southwark were now busy, the traders and hucksters, the chapmen and the tinkers had set out their tawdry stalls, piled high with trinkets, second-hand clothing, soiled footwear, cheap buckles and buttons. Some had brought meats and bread, discarded by the cookshops in the wealthier parts of the City, to make a profit from the poor in Southwark. Whores and prostitutes stood at corners and in doorways, guarded by their pimps holding cudgels. These all disappeared, melting away like snow under the sun, at the appearance of Cranston hastening down the centre of the street like a cog of war under full sail. Apprentices and journeymen dashed out of doorways, ready to grasp would-be customers by the sleeve. They never accosted Cranston. Now and again the coroner would stop and stare up past the creaking signs to the narrow strip of sky between the over-hanging houses. Matins had already rung, so no slops could be thrown from the windows, but the coroner was ever wary. He had many enemies in Southwark and, as he had confided to Athelstan, there were those who would like nothing better than to empty a jakes pot over him. Dogs and pigs scurried about, chased by screaming, half-naked children. On the corner of Weasel Lane, a travelling leech was shouting his remedies.

‘For gut-griping, goitres, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs and bladders full of pus. .’

He kept waving his arms, pointing at the tray slung by a cord around his neck; apparently new to the ward, he tried to entice Cranston. The coroner stopped.

‘Why, sir,’ he said sweetly, freeing his arm from the man’s fast grip, ‘what remedy do you offer for so many ills?’

‘The juice of the mandrake,’ the man gabbled, eyes all greedy at the prospect of a sale.

‘The juice of the mandrake?’ Cranston replied. ‘And you have a licence to sell?’

The man stepped back. Cranston grabbed the tray and plucked up one of the leather pouches tied with yellow twine. He opened this, sniffed, and passed it to Athelstan.

‘Mandrake, Brother?’

Athelstan sniffed too.

‘No, Sir John, chalk mixed with mint, and thanks be to God.’ Athelstan emptied the contents on to the ground. ‘If it was mandrake it would truly cure you of all those ailments.’

The leech half smiled.

‘You’d be dead within a day, and free of all pain,’ Athelstan stated.

Cranston stepped back and, swinging his cudgel, smashed the tray, jerking it loose from the cord, then began to grind the pouches under his boot. Flaxwith’s two mastiffs growled. The bailiff himself joined in, squeezing the pouches under his muddy boot into the dirt and ordure, before kicking them towards the sewer which ran down the centre of the street. The travelling leech, aware of his hideous mistake, tried to flee, but Cranston grabbed him by his shabby jerkin.

‘You’ll be gone from the City within the hour, or I’ll have you whipped the length of London Bridge,’ he shouted.

The cunning man bolted up an alleyway whilst Cranston and his small retinue continued apace. They passed the gate leading to St Thomas’ hospital and down the busy thoroughfare which led to the Night in Jerusalem. Athelstan had been here before. The tavern was a stately four-sided mansion, built on a stone base with white plastered walls stitched with black timber. A place of contrasts. Some of the windows high in the wall were mere arrow slits, but others lower down were protected by sheets of horn, or treated linen set in strip panels, with an open lattice framework and shutters on the inside. For the grand chambers on the second floor, the windows were of mullion glass and, in some places, even decorated with small pictures of leaping white stags, red hearts or yellow shields. Athelstan knew Master Rolles by reputation. He had only met him when begging for alms, and the taverner had been most generous. They found him in the spacious stable yard, talking to a group of ostlers. As Cranston swept into the yard, Master Rolles dismissed these: he treated Sir John as an equal, grasping his hand and nodding at Athelstan.

‘Master Henry Rolles,’ Cranston exclaimed. ‘Squire to Sir Walter Manny. How well you have prospered!’

Cranston stared around the yard.

‘I understand you had the Great Ratting last night. I’m sure you had a licence from the Corporation?’

‘The City has no power here, Sir John,’ the taverner replied, ‘and you know that. If I have broken the law then I shall be summoned to the Guildhall. Yet who cares about licences when there’s been gruesome murder?’

He beckoned them forward.

‘I do pay taxes, Sir John, for the King’s peace to be upheld.’

Cranston ignored the jibe at his expense. Rolles led them all, including the Judas Man, across to an outhouse, pulled back the doors and ushered them in. Two lantern horns hung on hooks suspended from the rafters. In the pool of light below lay three corpses on wooden pallets. Athelstan immediately recognised Toadflax. He had seen him collecting the corpses of dogs; now his own corpse sprawled, eyes staring blindly, blood-encrusted mouth gaping, the front of his shabby jerkin soaked in gore. The other two Athelstan did not recognise, but he felt a deep pang of sadness. Alive, these two young women must have been vibrantly beautiful, with their ivory skin and golden hair, which not even the horror of death could disguise, but now they too lay sprawled, eyes open, heads to one side, faces encrusted with splatters of blood. One had been stabbed, a knife thrust to the belly; the other had had the top half of her chest crushed by the iron-hard crossbow bolt still deeply embedded there.

Athelstan knelt down and gently moved the blonde hair from each of their faces. He began the prayer, ‘De profanais. . Out of the depths I cry to thee, O Lord. .’

‘Lord, hear my voice!’

Athelstan turned round. Brother Malachi had entered the outhouse.

‘I have already recited the death prayers; the Benedictine explained. ‘I have whispered the words of absolution and anointed their hands and faces with holy water.’

Cranston, standing in the shadows, came forward and Athelstan introduced the two men. The coroner glanced down at the corpses. ‘Wherever their souls have gone,’ he murmured, ‘their bodies lie murdered, and someone, Master Rolles, will have to answer for that.’