Brother Athelstan sat on a plinth of stone before the rood screen of St Erconwald's church in Southwark. He stared despairingly up at the hole in the red-tiled roof then at the dirty puddle of rain water which shimmered on the flagstones two yards away from his sandalled feet. He stroked his clean-shaven face and glared down at the small scroll of parchment in his hand.
'You know, Bonaventure,' he murmured, 'and I say this in the spirit of obedience, so don't repeat my words if he ever comes, but Father Prior's remarks about my past cut like barbs.'
He folded the parchment neatly into a perfect square and slipped it into the battered leather wallet on his belt.
'I daily atone for my sins,' he continued. 'I observe most strictly the rule of St Dominic and, as you know, I spend both day and night in the care of souls.'
God knows, Athelstan thought, tapping the flagstones with his feet, the harvest of souls was great; the filthy alleyways, the piss-soaked runnels and poor hovels of his parish sheltered broken people whose minds and souls had been bruised and poisoned by grinding poverty. The great, fat ones of the land did not care a fig but hid behind empty words, false promises and a lack of compassion which even Herod would have blushed at. Athelstan stared around the empty church, noting the dirty walls, peeling pillars, and the fresco of St John the Baptist. Athelstan grinned. He knew the Baptist had been beheaded but not whilst he was preaching! Someone had scrubbed the painting, removing St John's head as well as those of his attentive listeners.
'You have seen my house, Bonaventure? It's no more than a white-washed shed with two rooms, a wooden door and a window which does not fit. My horse, Philomel, may be an aged destrier, but it eats as if there is no tomorrow and can go no faster than a shuffling cat.' He smiled. 'I mean no offence to present company, but he drains my purse. Now, I am not moaning, I am just mentioning these matters to remind ourselves of our present state, so I can advise my prior that his paternal strictures are not necessary.' Athelstan sighed and went over into the small carrel built into the wall near the Lady Chapel where he had been penning his reply to the Father Prior. He picked up his quill, thought for a while and began writing.
As I have said, Reverend Father, my purse is empty, shrivelled up and tight as a usurer's soul. My collection boxes have been stolen and the chancery screen is in disrepair. The altar is marked and stained, the nave of the church is often covered with huge pools of water for our roof serves as more of a colander than a covering. God knows I atone for my sins. I seem to be steeped in murder, bloody and awful. It taxes my mind and reminds me of my own great crime. I have served the people here six months now and I have also assumed those duties assigned by you, to be clerk and scrivener to Sir John Cranston, coroner in the city of London.
Time and again he takes me with him to sit over the body of some man, woman or child pitifully slain. 'Is it murder, suicide or an accident?' he asks and so the dreadful stories begin. Often death results from stupidity: a woman forgets how dangerous it is for a child to play out in the cobbled streets, dancing between the hooves of iron-shod horses or the creaking wheels of huge carts as they bring their produce up from the river; still a child is slain, the little body crushed, bruised and marked, while the young soul goes out to meet its Christ. But, Reverend Father, there are more dreadful deaths. Men drunk in taverns, their bellies awash with cheap ale, their souls dead and black as the deepest night as they lurch at each other with sword, dagger or club. I always keep a faithful record.
Yet, every word I hear, every sentence I write, every time I visit the scene of the murder, I go back to that bloody field fighting for Edward the Black Prince. I, a novice monk, who broke his vows to God and took his younger brother off to war. Every night I dream of that battle, the press of steel-clad men, the lowered pikes, the screams and shouts. Each time the nightmare goes like a mist clearing above the river, leaving only me kneeling beside the corpse of my dead brother, screaming into the darkness for his soul to return. I know, Reverend Father, it never will. Athelstan scrutinised the words he had written, replaced the quill beside his letter and walked back to the chancel screen. He looked across as Bonaventure rose and stretched elegantly.
'I intend no offence, Bonaventure,' he said. 'I mean, Sir John, despite his portly frame, that plum-red face, balding pate and watery eye, is, you will agree, at heart a good man. An honest official, a rare fellow indeed who does not take bribes but searches for the truth, ever patient in declaring the real cause of death. But why must I always be with him?'
Athelstan went back to sit before the rood screen. What use was it to list the terrible murders and scenes of violence he had witnessed? What would Father Prior know of them? Souls sent out into the dark before their time, unprepared and unshriven. Men with their eyes gouged out, their throats cut, their genitals ripped off. Women crushed beneath scaffolding or horribly murdered in some stinking alleyway. If Christ came to London, Athelstan thought, he would surely cross to Southwark, where poverty and crime sat like two ugly brothers or wandered the streets hand-in- hand spreading their stench. Bonaventure rose and padded gently over to him. Athelstan stared down at the cat.
'Perhaps I should tell Father Prior about you, Bonaventure,' he said, admiring the sleek black body of the alley cat which he had adopted, noting the white mask and paws, the tattered ear, the half-closed eye.
'You're a mercenary,' he continued, stroking the cat gently on the top of its head. 'But my most faithful parishioner. For a dish of milk and a few scraps of fish you will sit patiently whilst I talk to you, and be most attentive during Mass.'
Athelstan jumped as he heard a sound behind him. He looked round the chancel screen and realised how dark it was in the church, the only light being that from a taper lit before the statue of the Madonna. He yawned. He had not slept the previous evening. He did not like to close his eyes on dreams where he saw his brother's marble-white and glassy face, the eyes always staring at him. So, instead, he had climbed to the top of the church tower to observe the stars, for the movements of the heavens had fascinated him ever since he had begun studying them in Prior Bacon's observatory on Folly Bridge at Oxford. He had been tired and slightly fearful as well, for Godric, a well-known murderer and assassin, had begged for sanctuary in the church. Since his arrival Godric had lain curled up like a dog in the corner of the sanctuary, sleeping off his exhaustion. He had eaten Athelstan's supper, pronounced himself well and settled down to a good night's sleep. 'How is it?' Athelstan murmured, that such men can sleep so well?' Godric had slain a man, struck him down in the market place, taken his purse and fled. He had hoped to escape but had had the misfortune to encounter a group of city officials and their retainers who had raised the 'Hue and Cry' and pursued him to St Erconwald's. Athelstan had been trying to repair the chancel screen and let him in after he hammered on the door. Godric had brushed past him, gasping, waving the dagger still bloody from his crime, and ran up the nave, shouting: 'Sanctuary! Sanctuary!' The pursuing officials had not come into the church though they expected Athelstan, as clerk to Sir John Cranston, to hand Godric over. Athelstan had refused.
'This is God's house!' he'd shouted. 'Protected by Holy Mother Church and the King's decree!'
So they had left him and Godric alone although they had placed a guard on the door and swore they would kill the murderer if he attempted to escape. Athelstan peered through the darkness. Godric still lay sleeping.
Athelstan prepared the altar for Mass, laying out the rather tattered missal and two candlesticks so bent they could hardly stand straight. A chipped, silver-gilt chalice, paten and small glass cruets, containing water and wine, were placed on the spotless altar cloth. Athelstan went into the dank sacristy, put on the alb and scarlet cope, crossed himself and went out to begin the magic of the Mass, priest before God, offering Christ to the Father under the appearances of bread and wine. Athelstan blessed himself as he intoned the introductory psalm.
'I will go into the altar of God, unto God who gives joy to my youth.'
Godric snored on, oblivious to the drama being enacted a few yards away. Bonaventure sidled up to the foot of the altar steps. The cat licked its lips, swishing its long tail in anticipation of a deep bowl of creamy milk as his reward for attention and patience. Athelstan, now caught up by the music of the words of the Mass, swept through the readings of the Epistle and the Gospel, reaching the Offertory where he mingled the water and wine. At the far end of the church a door opened and a hooded figure slipped in, moving soundlessly up the darkened nave to kneel beside Bonaventure at the foot of the steps. Athelstan forced himself to keep his eyes down on the white circle of bread over which he had breathed the words of consecration, transforming it into the body of Christ. The consecration over, he intoned the Lord's Prayer: 'Pater Noster, qui est in caelis.'
His voice rang loud and clear through the hollow nave. He paused, as the canon of the Mass dictated, to pray for the dead. He remembered Fulke the warrener, a member of his parish killed in a tavern brawl four nights earlier. Then Athelstan's own parents and his brother Francis… the friar closed his eyes against the hot tears welling there as the faces of his family appeared, clear and distinct in his mind's eye.
'God grant them eternal rest,' he whispered.
He stood swaying against the altar, wondering for the hundredth time why he felt like an assassin. Oh, in France he had killed men whilst fighting for the Black Prince, the old king's eldest son, who wanted to unite the crowns of France and Castille with that of England. Athelstan had shot arrows as good and true as the rest. He remembered the corpse of a young French knight, his cornflower blue eyes gazing sightlessly up at the sky, his blond hair framing his face like a halo, Athelstan's barbed arrow embedded deeply in his throat between helmet and gorget. The friar prayed for this unknown knight yet he felt no guilt. This was war and the Church taught that war was part of man's sinful condition, the legacy of Adam's revolt.
'Oh, God, am I a murderer?' he whispered to himself.
Athelstan thought once again how, as a novice in Black- friars, near the western wall of the city, he had broken his vows and fled back to his father's farm in Sussex. His mind had been filled with dreams of war and he had encouraged his younger brother in similar fantasies. They had joined one of those merry bands of archers who swung along the sunny, dusty lanes of Sussex down to Dover and across a shimmering sea, to reap glory in the green fields of France. His brother had been killed and Athelstan had brought the grim news back to the red-tiled Sussex farm. His parents had died of sheer grief. Athelstan had returned to Black- friars to lie on the cold flagstoned floor of the Chapter House. He had confessed his sin, begged for absolution, and dedicated his life to God as reparation for the grievous sins he had committed.
'A guilt greater than Cain's,' Father Prior had declared to the brothers assembled in the Chapter House. 'Cain killed his brother. Athelstan is responsible for breaking his vows, and, in doing so, bringing about the deaths of his entire family!'
'Father!'
Athelstan opened his eyes quickly. The woman kneeling on the steps was staring up at him, her beautiful face drawn with concern.
'Father, is there anything wrong?'
'No, Benedict a, I am sorry.'
The Mass continued, the Agnus Dei followed by Communion. Athelstan took a host down to the waiting woman who tilted back her head, eyes closed, full red lips open and tongue out, waiting for Athelstan to place Christ's body there. For a second he paused, admiring the flawless beauty: the soft golden-hued skin now stretched across the high cheekbones; the long eye-lashes like dark butterfly wings, quiveringly closed; the parted lips showing white, perfectly formed teeth.
'Even if you lust in your mind's eye…' Athelstan reminded himself. He placed the host gently in the woman's mouth and returned to the altar. The chalice was drained, the final benediction given and Mass was ended.
Godric, in his little alcove, belched, snorted and stirred in his sleep. Bonaventure stretched, miaowing softly. But the widow Benedicta still knelt, head bowed.
Athelstan cleared the altar. On his return from the sacristy, his heart skipped when he saw Benedicta still kneeling there. The friar went and sat next to her on the altar steps.
'You are well, Benedicta?'
The dark eyes were full of silent mocking laughter.
'I am well, Father.'
She turned, stroking Bonaventure gently on the side of the neck so the cat purred with pleasure. She glanced mischievously at Athelstan.
'A widow and a cat, Father. The parish of St Erconwald will never become rich!' Her face grew solemn. 'In Mass you were distracted. What was wrong?'
Athelstan looked away. 'Nothing,' he muttered. 'I am just tired.'
'Your astrology?'
He grinned. They had had this conversation before. He edged closer.
'Astrology, Benedicta,' he began with mock pomposity, 'is the belief that the stars and the planets affect men's moods and actions. The great Aristotle accepted the theory of the ancient Chaldeans that man is a microcosm of all there is in the universe. Accordingly, there is a bond between each of us and the stars above.'
Benedicta's eyes rounded in sham admiration of his scholarship.
'Now astronomy,' Athelstan continued, 'is the study of the planets and stars themselves.' He stretched out his hands. 'There are two schools of thought.' He thrust forward his left hand. 'The Egyptians and some of the Ancients believe the earth is a flat disc with heaven above and hell below.' Athelstan now stretched out his right arm, his hand rigid like a claw. 'However, Ptolemy, Aristotle and the Classics believe the earth is a sphere within a spherical universe. Each star, each planet, is a world in itself.'
Benedicta leaned back on her heels.
'My father,' she answered tartly, 'said the stars were God's lights in the firmament, put there by the angels at the beginning of time.'
Athelstan knew she was teasing him.
'Your father was correct.' He shrugged sheepishly. 'At Exeter Hall in Oxford I studied the greatest minds. In the end their explanations pale beside the creative wonder of God.'
Benedicta nodded, her eyes serious now, her teasing over.
'So why do you spend so many hours there, Father? On top of the church tower at night? We see your lantern.'
Athelstan shook his head.
'I don't know,' he murmured. 'But on a clear summer's night, if you stare at the velvet blackness and watch the movements of the planets, the shimmering light of the evening star, you become lost in their vastness.' He looked sharply at her. 'It's the nearest man comes to eternity without going through the door of death. When I am there, I am no longer Athelstan, priest and friar. I am just a man, stripped free of cares.'
Benedicta stared down, gently touching the crumbling altar step with the tips of her fingers.
'Tonight,' she murmured, 'I will do that, Father. Stare up at the sky, see what it is like to die without dying.'
She rose quickly, genuflected before the winking sanctuary lamp and walked quietly out of the church.
Athelstan saw the door close behind her and turned to where Bonaventure awaited his reward. The friar went into the sacristy and brought out the expected bowl of milk. He sat and watched the cat greedily lick the lacy white froth with its pink, narrow-edged tongue.
'Do you know, Bonaventure,' he muttered, 'every time she goes, I want to call her back. She comes here to pray for her husband's soul, another casualty of the king's war, but sometimes I deceive myself and believe she comes to talk to me.'
The cat raised its battered head, yawned and went back to the milk.
'The Master was right,' Athelstan continued. The friar suddenly remembered his old novice master, Father Bernard, who had been responsible for Athelstan's spiritual education in the novitiate at Blackfriars.
'A priest's life, Athelstan,' Father Bernard once began, 'has three great terrors. The first are the lusts of the flesh! These will plague your dreams with visions of soft bodies, satin-silk limbs, full sensuous lips and hair which gleams like burnished gold. Yet these will pass. Prayer, fasting and the onset of old age will drive this enemy from the field of battle.' The old novice master had leaned forward and grasped Athelstan by the wrist. 'Then comes the second terror, the sheer soul-destroying loneliness of a priest: no wife, no children, never the clasp of small warm bodies and clinging arms round your neck. But,' Father Bernard muttered,*that, too, will pass. The third terror is more dreadful.' And Athelstan remembered the old priest's eyes brimming with tears. 'There's a belief,' the novice master whispered, 'that each person is born destined to love another. Now sometimes we priests are lucky – in our early pilgrimage we never meet this person. But, if you do, then you truly will experience the horrors of the dark night of the soul.' The novice master had paused. 'Can you imagine, Athelstan, to meet, to love, but be bound by God's law never to express it? If you do, you break your vows as a priest and are condemned by the Church to be buried in hell. If you remain faithful to your priestly vows, you bury yourself in a hell of your own making for you will never forget her. You search for her face in crowds, you see her eyes in those of every woman you meet. She plagues your dreams. Not a day passes without her appearing in your thoughts.'
Athelstan thought of Benedicta and knew what the novice master had meant.
'Oh, sweet Christ!' he murmured.
He rose and dusted down his robe. Bonaventure, his milk finished, padded across and stared up.
'Catholic or Catolic, Bonaventure?' Athelstan laughed at his feeble jest. 'Is Father Prior playing a joke on me?' he murmured. 'I am past my twenty-eighth summer and I go from pillar to post.' Perhaps his superiors were testing him, sending him from the rigours of the novitiate to the academic glories of Exeter Hall, then pulling him back to menial duties at Blackfriars and finally to work as the Lord Coroner's clerk and parish priest of St Erconwald.
The friar knelt, crossed himself, and began softly to recite a psalm when he heard a disturbance at the back of the church. He rose in alarm, thinking that perhaps the city authorities had sent retainers to take Godric. Even in the slums of Southwark, Athelstan realised he lived in turbulent times. Edward III was dead; his heir, Richard II, a mere boy. The powerful, noble hawks still had their way in most matters. Athelstan took a taper, lit it from the candle burning before the Madonna and hurried down the church, splashing through the puddles left by the violent rain storm a few days before. He opened the door, thrust his head out and smiled. The city guards, roused from their sleep, were now locked in fierce argument with Sir John Cranston who boomed as soon as he saw his clerk: 'For God's sake, Brother, tell these oafs who I am!' Cranston patted the neck of his huge horse and glared around. 'We have work to do, Brother, another death, murder in Cheapside! One of the great ones of the land. Come on, ignore these dolts!'
'They do not know you, Sir John,' Athelstan replied. 'You go round muffled in cloak and hood, worse than any monk.'
The coroner blew his great cheeks out, pulled back his hood and roared at his tormentors, 'I am Sir John Cranston, coroner in the city, and you, sirs, are disturbing the king's peace! Now back off!'
The men retreated like beaten mastiffs, their dark faces glowering with a mixture of anger and fear.
'Come on, Athelstan,' Cranston bellowed. He looked down at the friar's feet. 'And put that bloody cat away! I hate it.'
Bonaventure, however, seemed to regard Cranston as its long lost friend. The cat skipped friskily down the steps to sit beneath the coroner's horse, staring up at the big man affectionately as if he was the bearer of a pail of thick creamy milk or a platter of the tastiest fish. Cranston just turned his head away and spat.
'Leave Godric be,' Athelstan warned the city guards. 'You are not to enter my church.'
They nodded. Athelstan locked the door and went over to his own house next to the church. He stuffed his battered leather panniers with parchment, quills and ink, saddled Philomel and joined Sir John. The coroner was in good spirits, thoroughly enjoying his altercation with the city guard as he hated officialdom. He damned the city guards loudly, along with goldsmiths, priests and, looking slyly at Athelstan, Dominican monks who studied the stars. Athelstan ignored him, urging Philomel on.
'Come, Sir John. You said we had business.'
But Cranston was thoroughly roused by now. He shouted abuse once more at the guards, kicked his horse forward and drew noisily alongside Athelstan.
'I suppose you had no sleep last night, Brother? What with your damned stars, your bloody cat, your prayers and your Masses!'
'Ever heavenwards,' Athelstan quipped in reply. 'You, too, should look up at the sky and study the stars.'
'Why?' Cranston asked brusquely. 'Surely you do not believe in that nonsense about planets and heavenly bodies governing our lives? Even the church fathers condemn it.'
'In which case,' Athelstan answered, they condemn the star of Bethlehem!'
Sir John belched, grabbed the ever-present wineskin slung over his saddle horn, took a deep gulp and, raising one buttock, farted as loudly as he could. Athelstan decided to ignore Sir John's sentiments, verbal or otherwise. He knew the coroner to be at heart kindly and well intentioned.
'What business takes us to Cheapside?' he asked.
'Sir Thomas Springall,' Cranston replied. 'Or rather, the late Sir Thomas Springall, once a powerful merchant and goldsmith. Now he is as dead as that rat over there.' Cranston pointed to a pile of rubbish, a mixture of animal and human excrement, broken pots, and, lying on top, a mangy rat, its white and russet body swollen with corruption.
'So a goldsmith has died?'
'Has been murdered! Apparently citizen Springall was not beloved of his servant, Edmund Brampton. Last night Brampton left a poisoned cup in his master's chamber. Sir Thomas was found dead and Brampton discovered later hanging from a beam in one of the garrets.'
'So we are to go there now?'
'Not immediately,' Cranston retorted. 'First, Chief Justice Fortescue wishes to see us at his home Alphen House, in Castle Yard off Holborn.'
Athelstan closed his eyes. Chief Justice Fortescue ranked foremost among the people he did not want to see. A powerful courtier, a corrupt judge, a man who took bribes and ran errands for those more powerful than he, the Chief Justice's ruthlessness was a byword amongst the petty law breakers of Southwark.
'So,' Cranston interrupted jovially,*we meet the Chief Justice and then go to examine death in Cheapside. Merchants who are murdered by their servants! Servants who hang themselves! Tut, tut! What is the world coming to?'
'God only knows,' replied Athelstan. 'When coroners drink and fart and make cutting remarks about men who are still men with all their failings, be they priest or merchant.'
Sir John laughed, pushed his horse closer and slapped Athelstan affectionately on the back.
'I like you, Brother,' he bellowed. 'But God knows why your Order sent you to Southwark, and your prior ordered you to be a coroner's clerk!'
Athelstan made no reply. They'd had this conversation before, Sir John probing whilst he defended. Some day, Athelstan decided, he would tell Sir John the full truth, although he suspected the coroner knew it already.
'Is it reparation?' Cranston queried now.
'Curiosity,' Athelstan replied, 'can be a grave sin, Sir John.'
Again the coroner laughed and deftly turned the conversation to other matters.
They continued along the narrow stinking streets, following the river towards London Bridge, pushing across market places where the houses reared up to block out the rising sun. Near the bridge they met others, great swaggering lords who rode about on their fierce, iron-shod destriers in a blaze of silk and furs, their heads held high – proud, arrogant, and as ruthless as the hawks they carried. Athelstan studied them. Their women were no better, with their plucked eyebrows and white pasty faces, their soft sensuous bodies clothed in lawn and samite, their heads covered with a profusion of lacy veils. He knew that only a coin's throw away a woman, pale and skeletal, sat crooning over her dying baby, begging for a crust to eat. Athelstan felt his own soul dim, darken with depression. God should send fire, he thought, or a leader to raise up the poor. He bit his lip. If he preached what he thought, he would be guilty of sedition and the prior had kept him under a solemn vow to remain silent, to serve but not to complain.
Cranston and Athelstan had to stop and wait a while. The entrance to the bridge was thronged with people preparing to cross to the northern parts of the city to the great market place and shops in Cheapside. Athelstan pulled his hood over his head and pinched his nostrils against the odour from an open sewer full of the turds of nearby households, dregs from the dye houses and wash houses, and rotting carrion which had been dumped there. The area was thick with the foul, tarry smell from the tattered cottages where tanners and leather workers plied their trade. Cranston nudged him and pointed across to where an inquest was being held over a dead pig, and two constables in striped gowns were scurrying about trying to discover whether there were any bawds, strumpets or scalds in the area in order to arrest them.
'Are there hot houses, sweat houses, where any lewd woman resorts?' one of the constables bellowed, his fleshy face red and sweaty.
'Yes,' Athelstan muttered, they are all here. Most of them are my parishioners.'
He watched a milk seller, buckets strapped across her shoulders, come up hoping to ply custom, but turned away as Crim, son of Watkin the dung-collector, crept up and without being noticed spat in one of the buckets. The urchin suddenly reminded Athelstan of duties he had overlooked in his haste to join Sir John Cranston.
'Crim!' Athelstan shouted. 'Come over here!'
The boy ran up, his thin, pallid face grimed with dirt. Athelstan felt in his purse and thrust a penny into the boy's outstretched hand.
'Go tell your father, Crim, I am across London Bridge with Sir John Cranston. He is to feed Bonaventure. Ensure the church door remains locked. If Cecily the courtesan sits there, tell her to move on. You have that message?'
Crim nodded and fled, fast as a bolt from a crossbow.
The crowd eased and Cranston kicked his horse forward. Athelstan followed. They went down on to London Bridge, weaving their way through houses built so close, the road was hardly a cart span across. Athelstan kept his head down. He hated the place. Houses rose on either side, some of them jutting out eight foot above the river with its turbulent tide-water rushing through the nineteen arches below. Sir John began to tell him about the history of the old church of St Thomas Overy which they had just passed. Athelstan listened with half an ear. He crossed himself as they passed the chapel of St Thomas a Becket, and only looked up when Sir John ordered them to stop so they could stable their horses at the Three Tuns tavern.
'The crowd is too great,' Sir John commented. 'It would be quicker on foot.'
He paid for ostlers to take the horses away and, with Athelstan striding beside him, they made their way up Fish Hill past St Magnus the Martyr church and into Cheapside. The good weather had brought the crowds out. Apprentices and merchants, their stalls now laid ready for trade, scurried backwards with bales of cloth, leather pelts, purses, panniers, jerkins. They piled their stalls high, eager for a day's business. The ground underfoot was a mixture of mud, human dung and animal decay, still damp from the storm. They slipped and slid, each holding on to the other, Cranston mouthing a mixture of curses and warnings, Athelstan wondering whether to protest or smile at Sir John's purple countenance and violent imprecations. The dung carts were out picking up the refuse left the day before. The burly, red-faced carters, swathed in a collection of garish rags, shouted and swore, their oaths hanging heavy in the thick, warm air. As Cranston and Athelstan passed they heard one of the dung-collectors give a cry for them to stop working as a corpse was rolled out from behind the buttress of an old house. Athelstan stopped. He glimpsed straggly, white hair, a face sunken in death, the, skeletal fingers of an elderly lady. Cranston looked at him and shrugged.
'She is dead, Brother,' he said. 'What can we do?'
Athelstan sketched a sign of the cross in the air and said a prayer that Christ, wherever he was, would receive the old woman's soul.
They went down past the Standard and the Conduit gaol with its open bars where courtesans and bawds caught plying their trade at night, stood for a day whilst being pelted with dirt and cursed by any passing citizen. Cranston asked him a question and Athelstan was about to reply when the stench from the poultry stalls suddenly made him gag: that terrible odour of stale flesh, rotting giblets and dried blood. Athelstan let Cranston chatter on as he held his breath, head down as he passed Scalding Alley where the gutted bodies of game birds were being cleaned and washed in great wooden vats of boiling hot water. At the Rose tavern on a corner of an alleyway they stopped to let a ward constable push by, leading a group of night felons, hands tied behind their backs, halters round their necks. These unfortunates were bound for the Poultry Compter, most of them still drunk, half asleep after their late night revels and roistering. The prisoners slipped and shoved each other. One young man was shouting how the Constables had taken his boots and his feet were already gashed and scarred. Athelstan pitied them.
'The gaol's so hot,' the friar murmured, 'it will either waken or kill them before Evensong.'
Cranston shrugged and pushed his way through like a great, fat-bellied ship. They walked on past Old Jewry into Mercery where the streets became more thronged. The women there moved gingerly, skirts brushing the mud, their hands on the arms of gallants who walked the streets looking for such custom, in their high hats, taffeta cloaks, coloured hose and dirty-edged lace shirts.
The paths became softer underfoot as the sewer running down the middle had begun to spill over, choked to the top with the refuse dumped there by householders cleaning the night soil from their chambers. The road narrowed as they passed Soper Lane. The heavy, tiered houses closed in. Dogs barked and frenetically chased the cats hunting amongst the piles of refuse heaped outside each doorway. The crowd now thronged into an array of colour; the blues, golds, yellows and scarlets of the rich contrasting sharply with the brown frocks, russet smocks and black, greasy hats of the farmers who made their way from city market to city market, pulling their small carts behind them. The noise grew to a resounding din. Apprentices were busy yelling and screaming as they searched for custom. The taverns and cook shops were open, the smell of dark ale, fresh bread and spiced food enticing the customers inside. Cranston stopped and Athelstan groaned softly.
'Oh, Sir John,' he pleaded, 'surely not refreshments so early in the day? You know what will happen. Once inside, it will take the devil himself to get you out!'
Athelstan sighed with relief as the coroner shook his head regretfully and they moved on. A party of sheriffs men appeared, dressed in their bands of office, carrying long white canes which they used to clear a way through the crowds. They circled a man in a black leather jerkin and hose. His hands were bound, the ends of the cord being tied around the wrists of two of his captors. The prisoner's jerkin was torn aside to reveal a tattered shirt. His unshaven face was a mass of bruises from brow to chin. Someone whispered, 'Warlock! Wizard!' An apprentice picked up handfuls of mud and threw them, only to receive whacks across his shoulders from the white canes.
'Make way! Make way!'
Cranston and Athelstan walked on, past the stocks already full with miscreants: a pedlar; a manservant caught in lechery; a foister; and two other pickpockets. At last they turned off the Holborn thoroughfare into Castle Yard. A pleasant place, the houses being fewer, better spaced, each ringed by sweet-smelling rose gardens and tree-filled orchards. Fortescue's house was the grandest, standing in its own grounds, a massive framework of black timber, thick and broad as oaks, gilded and embossed with intricate devices. Between the black beams the white plaster gleamed like pure snow. Each of the four storeys jutted out slightly over the one on which it rested and each had windows of mullioned glass, reinforced with strips of lead. Cranston lifted the great brass knocker shaped in the form of a knight's gauntlet and brought it down hard. A servant answered and, when Cranston boomed out who they were, ushered them through the open door into a dark panelled hall with woollen carpets on the floor and gold-tinged drapes on the wall.
Athelstan noticed how cool the place was as they were led up an oak staircase and into a long gallery, so dark the wax candles in their silver holders had already been lit.
The servant tapped on one of the doors.
'Come in!' The voice was soft and cultured.
The chamber inside was rectangular in shape, walls painted red with silver stars and the polished tile floor covered with rugs; candles also glowed here because the light was poor and the mullioned window high above the desk was small. The candles bathed the area round the great oak desk in a pool of light. Chief Justice Fortescue, enthroned behind it, barely moved as they entered. One beringed hand continued silently to drum the top of the desk while the other shuffled documents about. Like all his kind, Fortescue was a tall, severe man, completely bald, with features as sharp as a knife and eyes as hard as flint. He greeted Sir John Cranston with forced warmth but, when Athelstan introduced himself and described his office, the Chief Justice smiled chillingly, dismissing him with a flicker of his eyes.
'Most uncommon,' he murmured, 'for a friar to be out of his order even, and serving in such a lowly office!'
Cranston snorted rudely and would have intervened if Athelstan had not.
'Chief Justice Fortescue,' he answered, 'my business is my own. You summoned me here, I requested no audience.'
Cranston belched loudly in agreement.
'True! True!' Fortescue murmured. 'But this meeting was arranged by someone more powerful than I.' He smiled mirthlessly and picked up a knife he used for cutting parchment, balancing it delicately between his hands. 'We live in strange times, Brother. The old king is dead and for the first time in fifty years we have a new king, and he a child. These are dangerous times. Enemies within and enemies without!' He lowered his voice. 'Some people say that a strong man is needed to manage the realm.'
'Like your patron, His Grace John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster?' Cranston interrupted.
'Like His Grace the Duke of Lancaster,' Fortescue mimicked in reply. 'He is the regent, proclaimed so by the late king's will.'
'Regent!' Cranston snapped. 'Not king!'
'Some people say he should be.'
'Then some people,' Cranston barked, 'are varlets and traitors!'
Fortescue smiled as if he had tried to go down a path and realised it was blocked.
'Of course, of course, Sir John,' he murmured. 'We know each other well. But Gaunt is regent, he needs friends and allies. Other lords seek his head; the Commons mutter about conspiracies, expenditure, the need to make peace with France and Spain. They object to taxes which are necessary.'
'The Commons may be right,' Cranston tartly replied.
'About others,' Fortescue continued,*they may be, but the regent is steadfast in his loyalty to the young king and looks for support from his friends and allies. Men like Springall, Sir Thomas Springall, goldsmith, merchant, and alderman of the city.'
'Springall is dead,' Cranston retorted, 'and so the duke has lost a powerful friend.'
'Exactly!'
Athelstan saw the obsidian eyes of the Chief Justice glare at the coroner and intervened before further damage was done. Sir John was a lawyer from the Middle Temple and appointed as coroner by the late king, an appointment confirmed by the Commons and the powerful Guildhall merchants, yet even he could go too far.
'My Lord of Gaunt must grieve for Springall's death?' Athelstan asked.
'He does.'
Fortescue rose and went to a small table in the corner where stood a number of cups. He filled them to the brim and brought them back. Athelstan refused his, it was too early in the morning for such drink, but Cranston did justice to both of them, draining one goblet then the other down his cavernous throat in a long, gulping sound. After he had finished, Cranston slammed the cups on the table in front of him, folded his great thick arms and looked steadily back at the Chief Justice.
'Sir Thomas Springall,' Fortescue continued, 'was a good friend of the duke's. A close associate. Last night he held a banquet in his house in the Strand. I was there, together with his wife, his brother Sir Richard, and other colleagues. I left after sunset when the bells of St Mary Le Bow were ringing the curfew. A pleasant evening – the conversation, like the food, most appetising and titillating. From what Sir Richard Springall has told me, Sir Thomas retired just before midnight. Although married, he slept in his own bed chamber. He bade his wife, brother and associates good night and went upstairs to his chamber where, as always, he locked and bolted the door. Now Sir Thomas was a fleshly man. Like you, Sir John, he liked a good glass of claret. Every night he ordered his servant, Brampton, to leave one such cup on the table beside his bed. This morning, Springall's chaplain, Father Crispin, went to rouse him and received no answer. Others were called and, to cut a long story short, the door was forced. Sir Thomas Springall was found lying dead in his bed, the cup beside him half empty. The local physician was summoned. He examined the corpse as v/ell as the contents of the wine cup and pronounced Sir Thomas had been poisoned. A search was immediately made.' Fortescue paused and licked his thin lips. 'Brampton's chamber was deserted but, when his chest was rifled, they found phials of poison hidden beneath garments at the bottom. Then an hour ago Brampton was found hanging in a garret of the house.' Fortescue heaved a sigh. 'It would appear that Brampton and Sir Thomas had quarrelled during the day and this reached a climax early in the afternoon. Brampton kept to himself in a sulk. He must have purchased the poison or had it ready, took the cup to his master's room, put the poison in and left. However, like Judas, he suffered remorse. He went up to the garret of the house and, like Judas, hanged himself there.'
'Strange,' Cranston mused, and pursed his lips.
'What is, Sir John?'
'We have a steward who has quarrelled with his master and stormed out. Nevertheless he remembers his duty and takes up a goblet of wine.'
'If the wine had not been poisoned,' Fortescue replied sharply, 'it would have been a kindness. But, Sir John, a man who offers a poisoned chalice is no friend.'
'So what is the mystery?'
Fortescue smiled thinly.
'Ah, that is for you to discover. My Lord Gaunt thinks there is one. Remember, Springall lent the crown monies. There may be reason to see the merchant's death as a hindrance to the regent.' Fortescue shrugged. 'His Grace has not opened his secret thoughts to me but he believes there is a threat to his rule here.'
The Chief Justice picked up a scroll tied with scarlet ribbon and handed it over to Cranston. Athelstan glimpsed the purple seals of the regent.
'Your commission,' Fortescue said drily, 'warrants, and permission for you to pursue this matter.'
The Chief Justice rose as a sign that the meeting was over.
'Of course, all expenses are to be handed over to the clerk of the Exchequer.' He rubbed his hands together dryly. 'Though the Barons will question any over-indulgence in food or drink.'
Cranston rose.
'My bills will be fair, as they always are, and I will be taking constant refreshment. After all, My Lord, when you listen to some men, their lies stick in your throat and give you a terrible thirst.'
He picked up his cloak; Athelstan, clutching his leather bag of writing materials, followed Cranston's lumbering gait towards the door. The friar did not dare look up and fought to keep his face straight.
'Sir John!'
The coroner stopped.
'The Sons of Dives?' Fortescue asked. 'Do you know of them?'
Cranston shook his head. 'No, why should I?'
'They are a secret group,' Fortescue testily replied. 'Their nature and purpose a mystery. But Sir Thomas's name, so my spies relate, was linked to them. Dives means nothing to you?'
'He was a judge in the gospels, was he not? Rich and corrupt who let the poor starve outside his gates.'
Fortescue smiled and looked at Brother Athelstan.
'Is it true, Friar,' he said abruptly, 'that you atone for your brother's death? Is that why your Order has put you in St Erconwald's church and made you clerk to Sir John Cranston here?' The Chief Justice's grin widened. 'You should sit at his feet, Brother. Sir John will instruct you in the law. He will tell you all he knows. I am sure it will not take long!'
Cranston turned. His steel grey mop of hair seemed to bristle with anger, and his dark eyes held the ghost of malicious mockery as he stroked his beard and moustache.
'I will do that, My Lord,' he said slowly. 'I will instruct Brother Athelstan in what I know about the law and I am sure it will not take long. Then, of course, I will instruct him in what you and I both know, and I am sure it will not take any longer!'
Cranston spun on his heel and, with Athelstan scurrying behind him, choking on his laughter, swept out of Alphen House into Castle Yard and back to Holborn.
'Bastard! Varlet! Lecher! Arse pimple!' Cranston indulged in a succinct summary of what he thought of the Chief Justice. Athelstan just shook his head, caught between admiration of Cranston's honesty and a desire to burst into laughter at the way he'd dealt with the Chief Justice. They paused on the corner of Holborn thoroughfare to let an execution cart rattle by, its iron wheels crashing on the cobbles. Inside a black-masked hangman and a parson, his sallow face covered in sweat, were standing over a pirate caught, so the notice pinned to the cart said, two days ago off the mouth of the Thames. Despite the placard around his neck, the fellow was laughing and joking with the small crowd which followed on either side, chanting a song popular on execution days: 'Put on your smocks on Monday.' The condemned man did not seem to give a fig for his impending death. He was more determined to cut up his scarlet cloak and taffeta jerkin and distribute the pieces amongst the spectators. Every so often he would look up and grin at the executioner.
'You will take no share of my clothes!' he bawled. 'I came naked into the world and I will go out naked. And all the more merrily for knowing you got nothing from me!'
The crowd roared with laughter at this sally and, as the cart trundled up to the great three-branched scaffold at the Elms, broke into fresh chants and songs.
'More like a wedding than an execution!' Cranston muttered. 'The hangman will slip the knot. This fellow will dance for a long time before he dies.'
They crossed the rutted track leading to the shady side of the street for the sun now shone much stronger, beating fiercely down on them. Cranston mopped his sweating face and pushed Athelstan into the welcoming shadows of the Bishop's Pig tavern. The tap room inside was dark and cool with a high, black-timbered ceiling letting the air circulate as it poured through the great open windows at the far end. Cranston and Athelstan sat there, the friar silently wondering to himself about Sir John's constant need for refreshment; the coroner seemed to eat and drink as if there was no tomorrow. As usual Sir John did full justice to himself, ordering two large tankards of frothy dark ale, an eel pie and a dish of vegetables. All disappeared down his yawning throat as the coroner continued to berate Fortescue. At last, the rancour drained from him, Sir John wiped his lips, leaned back against the wall and glanced across at the friar. Athelstan, looking up from his own thoughts about his church, realised Sir John's good humour had returned and now they would concentrate on the matter in hand.
'Was the Chief Justice right?'
'About what?' Athelstan asked.
'About you and your brother?'
Athelstan made a face.
'To a certain extent he spoke the truth, but I do not think the Chief Justice was concerned with that. More with the malicious desire to hurt.'
Cranston nodded and looked away. Now, he did not like priests. He did not like monks. He certainly did not like friars, but Athelstan was different. He looked at the friar's dark face, the black hair cut neatly in a tonsure. More like a soldier, he thought, than a monk. He sighed, wiping the sweat from his throat; every man had his secrets, and Cranston had his own.
'This matter,' he said. 'Springall's death. Do you think there is a mystery?'
Athelstan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
'There is something strange,' he muttered. 'A merchant is murdered by his servant who then commits suicide. A very neat death, orderly. All the ends tied up like a parcel, a package, a gift for Twelfth Night. Surely two mysteries? The first one is the neatness of the deaths, the second my Lord of Gaunt's interest in them. Yes, Sir John, I think there is a mystery but only the good Lord knows whether we will solve it!'
'There is more, isn't there?' Cranston said, pleased to have confirmation of his own thoughts.
'Oh, yes,' Athelstan replied, sitting up and stretching. 'Gaunt seems frightened that Springall has died, as if the death poses a personal threat. It must be so otherwise why would he get the Chief Justice of the Courts to interview us? To impress upon us the importance of the task? To test our loyalty and give us a special commission?'
He got up. 'If you are refreshed, Sir John, perhaps it is time we found out.'
Cranston rose, picked up his cloak and threw it across his arm. He adjusted his great sword belt round his girth. From it hung a long thin Welsh dagger shoved into a battered leather sheath and the broadest sword Athelstan had ever seen. Once again he tightened his lips to hide his smile. Cranston waddled through the tavern, shouting goodbye to the landlord and his wife who were busy amongst the barrels at the far end of the room. The coroner's good spirits were restored and Athelstan braced himself for an exciting day.
They walked back up Cheapside. It was now early afternoon and the traders were busy.
'A fine hat for the French block!' one called. 'Pins! Points! Garters! Spanish gloves! Silk ribbons!' shouted] another.
'Come,' a woman cackled from a doorway, 'have your ruffs starched, fine cobweb lawn!'
The cries rose like a demonic chorus. Carts rumbled by, now empty after a morning's trade, their owners desirous of getting clear of the city gates before the curfew tolled. A group of aldermen attired in long, richly furred robes; were rudely mocked by a troupe of gallants resplendent in gold, satin garments and cheap jewellery, the air thick with their even cheaper perfume. A party of horsemen trotted in: from the fields, hawks on their wrists. The fierce birds, their blood hunger satisfied, sat quietly under their hoods. Cranston stopped by a barber's shop, fingering his beard and moustache, but one look at the steaming blood in the bowls beside the chair changed his mind. They continued back up Cheapside.
'You know the house, Sir John?'
Cranston nodded and pointed. 'It is there, the Springall mansion.'
Athelstan paused and took Cranston by the elbow. 'Sir John, wait awhile.' He pulled the bemused coroner into a darkened doorway.
'What is it, Monk?'
'I am a friar, Sir John. Please remember that. A member of the preaching order founded by St Dominic to work amongst the poor and educate the unenlightened.'
Cranston beamed. 'I stand corrected. So what is it, Friar?'
'Sir John, the warrants? We should inspect them.'
The coroner made a face, pulled out the scrolls handed to him by Fortescue. He broke the seals and opened them.
'Nothing much,' he muttered, reading them quickly. 'They give us full authority to investigate matters surrounding the death of Sir Thomas Springall and oblige all loyal subjects, on their loyalty, to answer our questions.' He looked sharply at Athelstan. 'I wonder if that includes the Sons of Dives?'
The friar shrugged.
'You know the city better than I do, Sir John. Every trade has its guild, every coven its patron saint. I suspect the Sons of Dives is a title fabricated to cover the less salubrious dealings of certain of our rich merchants. They do not plot treason but profit.*
Cranston grinned and stepped out of the doorway.
'Then come, trusty Dominican, let us discover more!'