by Paul Doherty
‘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.
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.