by Paul Doherty
‘Yes, yes,’ he declared, scratching his bald pate. ‘Mistress Alison Chapler is here.’
A tapster was sent to fetch her.
‘I’ll have a pot of ale,’ Athelstan requested. ‘And a few moments of your time, sir.’
The taverner brought him a quart but shook his hand at the proffered coin. ‘No, Brother, remember me at Mass. Now, what do you want?’
Athelstan described what Alison had told him: the taverner scratched his cheek.
‘It’s true,’ he replied. ‘Mistress Alison asked me to keep an eye for anyone who came to the tavern asking for her, especially a young man, cowled and cloaked, with spurs on his boots. She seemed fearful of him.’
‘And you saw such a person?’
‘Well, yes. Once today and once yesterday. My counting house overlooks the yard so I can keep an eye on anyone who comes in under the gateway. I saw this young man twice. If Mistress Alison had not asked me to watch, I would not have noticed him at all.’
‘Do you know who he was or where he came from?’
The taverner shook his head. ‘The first time I didn’t mention it but after I saw him today I told Mistress Alison. She became frightened. She said she was leaving, asked me to present my bill, which I have done.’
‘Yes, she’s leaving with me.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘She’s going to stay with a friend in Southwark.’
The taverner was about to question him further but Alison and the tapster, carrying bulky saddlebags, came downstairs into the taproom. She and Athelstan made their farewells, the boy taking them out to the yard. He saddled a gentle-looking palfrey, across which Athelstan threw the baggage. Alison wrapped the reins round her hand and they left, in the direction of London Bridge.
At first they walked in silence. Alison seemed fascinated by the different sights: a woman accused of scolding standing in the thews; two sorry pickpockets standing nearby, their fingers clasped in the stocks, their hose round their ankles. A legion of beggars of every description, some genuine, others fraudulent. A group of mailed horsemen rode by, forcing everyone into the doorways of shops and houses. These were followed by an elegant young man with a hooded falcon on his wrist; two verderers followed swiftly behind. On the rods over their shoulders hung the gutted corpses of hares, pheasants and quail.
‘Some lord returning from the hunt,’ Athelstan observed. He watched the horsemen retreat in a jingle of harness. ‘This man you saw,’ he continued, ‘the one who wore spurs and was seen when Peslep was killed. Do you think he is hunting you?’
Alison stopped and stroked the muzzle of her horse who snickered and pushed at her. She took a small apple out of her pocket; the palfrey greedily seized it, shaking his head in pleasure. They moved on.
‘I asked you a question, mistress.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she replied. ‘Edwin did not talk very much about the other clerks. I don’t think he liked them: he considered Peslep was a lecher, Ollerton a glutton.’
‘And Alcest?’
‘Ah, that’s what frightened me, Brother. On one occasion I am sure Edwin called him a fop who liked to wear spurs on his boots for effect.’ She glanced sloe-eyed at Athelstan. ‘Has he ever, since this business began, worn spurs?’ She glimpsed the surprise in Athelstan’s face. ‘I thought Lesures or one of the others would remark on that.’
Athelstan paused. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Brother, I simply repeat what I heard.’
Athelstan stared around. Across the lane was a small alehouse. He told Alison to wait and went over. The owner, a small, wiry-haired man, recognised him.
‘You are thirsty, Brother?’
‘No, no.’Athelstan paused. ‘Er . . .’
‘Haman.’
‘Ah yes, Haman. I wonder if you would do me a favour?’ Athelstan’s hand went to his purse but Haman gently knocked it away. ‘I wonder if you, or one of your boys, would go to the house of Sir Jack Cranston. You know where he lives?’
The ale-keeper nodded.
‘Tell him to search out Master Tibault, he’ll know what I mean. He must ask Tibault which of the clerks liked to wear spurs.’
Haman looked perplexed. Athelstan made him repeat the message until he had it by heart. Then he rejoined Alison.
‘Was that important, Brother?’
‘Yes, yes, it was but . . .’ The friar touched her gently on the elbow. ‘Not enough to hang a man.’
‘Someone will hang,’ she replied. ‘Won’t they, Brother? All those dreadful deaths: Ollerton poisoned; Peslep killed on a latrine with his hose about his ankles.’
‘And Elflain,’ Athelstan added. ‘Earlier today he was killed by a crossbow bolt.’
He crossed himself and they continued on. At the corner of Lombard Street, near the Cornmarket, Athelstan stopped and stared back.
‘What’s the matter, Brother?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied but he was unsure. When he had crossed over to see Haman, Athelstan was certain he had glimpsed a figure behind him. He shook his head.
They went down an alleyway which led out to Gracechurch Street and London Bridge. The houses on either side towered over to block out the sunlight; the runnel was gloomy, filled with offal. The contents of chamber pots stained the walls on either side, the stench reminding Athelstan of the city ditch near Cock Lane. The palfrey became skittish, picking its way daintily over the bloated corpse of a dead cat. Alison took out a nosegay and held it to her face. Athelstan was about to apologise bitterly regretting taking this short cut, when two figures stepped out of a shabby doorway. They were dressed like rifflers, the masked foot-pads who preyed on the unwary in the warren of London’s alleyways. One was short, the other tall; battered leather masks covered their faces, their heads were concealed by pointed hoods. Each carried a stabbing dirk in one hand, a cudgel in the other.
Alison stopped. Athelstan patted her on the arm and, plucking up his courage, walked forward.
‘I am Athelstan, priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark. This young lady and myself have little wealth.’
‘Stay where you are!’ the taller of the two ordered, his voice gruff behind the mask.
‘Why do you stop us?’ Alison shouted.
‘Keep your tongue still, pretty one,’ the smaller one replied in a high, ready voice.
Athelstan peered at the diminutive footpad. He recalled Cranston’s words to him earlier in the day.
‘You are William the Weasel, aren’t you? One of the parishioners of the Vicar of Hell.’
The little man backed away as if Athelstan had slapped him. The taller one was disconcerted, coughing and muttering behind his mask.
‘Sir John would not be very pleased,’ Athelstan took another step forward, ‘to hear that William the Weasel dared to rob the coroner’s secretarius and friend.’
‘We are not here to rob you,’ the little man screeched back.
Athelstan smiled; these two would-be footpads were not as terrifying as they appeared. ‘Well, why are you here?’ he snapped. ‘How dare you stop a priest and a young lady going about their proper business!’
‘Tush, tush, Brother!’ the taller man replied. ‘We would ask you to give Sir John a message from the Vicar of Hell.’
‘What message?’
‘The Vicar of Hell is angry. He has an affair of the heart with young Clarice. He objects to Sir John keeping Dame Broadsheet’s house under strict surveillance. My Lord Coroner should be careful.’
‘I’ll tell him to be so,’ Athelstan responded. ‘But, as you know, Sir John does not frighten easily.’
‘We bring other messages.’ There was now a note of desperation in the Weasel’s voice.
‘Then you’d better hurry: we haven’t all the time in the day to stand in this stinking alleyway.’
‘Tell the lord coroner,’ the Weasel was almost pleading, ‘that the Vicar of Hell sends his compliments and that he had no hand in the dreadful murders at the Chancery of the Green Wax.’
Athelstan sighed. Si
r John was right! There was some connection between the Vicar of hell and these clerks. Now London’s most famous outlaw was trying to distance himself from the horrid murders taking place.
The two figures disappeared. Athelstan came back and patted Alison on the shoulder. He was pleased the young woman was not shaken by the encounter. ‘You do not frighten easily, mistress?’
‘No, Brother, I do not.’
They walked on down to London Bridge. City guards were already taking up their positions, chatting merrily to Robert Burdon, the little gatehouse keeper. He was busy combing the hair of three severed heads laid out on the table, before placing them on pikes which would jut out over the river.
‘I like things to be tidy and neat,’ he shouted as Athelstan passed by. The friar sketched a hasty blessing and hurried on.
In the middle of the bridge Alison stopped and stared across at the small chapel dedicated to Thomas à Becket. Tears filled her eyes and she bit her lip. ‘If only,’ she whispered, ‘if only, if only I’d been there, Brother.’
Athelstan gently led her on, trying to cheer the girl with his chatter. They entered Southwark, now coming alive as the sun began to set and the stallholders set up their evening market. One of the traders called him over.
‘Come, buy something, Brother Athelstan, needles, pins, a bit of cloth. A new leather bridle for your horse?’
‘I’m in a hurry,’ Athelstan replied.
‘Oh yes, of course. Everyone’s heard of the great miracle at St Erconwald’s. I’ve been there myself and paid a groat. Tell your parishioners I’ve lovely things to sell, cheap at the price.’
‘They are not his to sell,’ Athelstan murmured as they walked on. ‘Oh, they are not thieves, Mistress Alison. As Sir John Cranston often remarks, it’s just that they find it difficult to tell the difference between their property and everyone else’s!’
As Alison and Athelstan threaded their way through the alleyways of Southwark, Thomas Napham, clerk of the Green Wax, was also hurrying home. Napham was highly anxious. He did not trust Alcest but he recognised that he was in great danger. That little friar whom they had mocked was as sharp as a razor, and someone was killing his colleagues, hinting that he knew what they were guilty of. Napham had given in to Alcest’s urging. He would leave the Chancery, collect a few belongings and make his way downriver to the Tower. He’d be safe there and, by all that was holy, he would never leave that narrow, well-guarded place until the assassin was caught. He paused in the entrance to his lodgings and peered through the gloom. Was someone there? A door opened further down the passageway; another tenant emerged, a journeyman apprenticed to a clothier in Cheapside.
‘Have you been here all day?’ Napham asked abruptly.
‘Why, yes, I have, working on my master’s accounts.’
‘Has anyone come here inquiring after me?’
‘Not that I know of but, there again, I am a journeyman not the doorkeeper!’
Napham unlocked the door to his chamber and pushed it open. He failed to see the scrap of parchment nailed to the wall above the door. Instead, he stopped and savoured the sweet smell from the herb pots placed around the room. ‘You have nothing to fear,’ he whispered.
The door had been locked. No one had forced an entry. Napham walked into the darkness. He took his tinder out and lit a candle on the table. The shutters on the window flapped in the evening breeze. Napham froze. The window had been shuttered before he left this morning! He lifted the candle up, but could see nothing disturbed. The shelf containing his books, the small coffers and pieces of parchment on the table beside his bed: everything was as he had left it. He walked across to pull the shutters open and allow in the light whilst he packed a few belongings. Napham’s foot caught something hard. There was a snap followed by the most excruciating pain. Napham screamed. The pain in his right foot shot up his leg like a sudden spurt of fire. He collapsed to the floor, and the lighted candle, as if it had a life of its own, rolled away from him. Instead of the flame going out it now burned greedily as it caught the dry rushes. Napham didn’t care. The pain in his foot was so intense! He pulled himself up and saw the great iron-toothed caltrop hidden amongst the rushes had bitten through his soft boot, gripping his foot. The blood now poured out like wine from a cracked jug.
Napham screamed, yelling for help. He turned round, his terror increasing as the flames raced along the rushes, catching the cloth of the bedstead. Sobbing and gasping, Napham tried to push himself towards the door. If he could only reach it, take himself and his pain beyond the fury of the growing fire. He pulled himself two, three paces but the agony was intense. He fell into a dead swoon even as the fire licked the dry cloths of the small four-poster bed and roared greedily towards the ceiling.
Athelstan sat in his kitchen. Even though the rays of the setting sun streamed in through the open shutters, the friar was cold with rage at what he had witnessed in the cemetery. Bonaventure, sitting on the table, studied his little master with his one good eye. The cat sat motionless as if he knew there was something wrong. Athelstan smiled and gently caressed the tangled remnants of Bonaventure’s damaged ear.
‘It’s not you, great cat,’ he murmured. ‘But you should have seen that great fool Watkin! He was striding up and down with a tin pot on his head, a basting spoon in his hand, guarding the gateway to the cemetery! And the others! Tab the tinker, Pike, Pernell, even Ranulf the rat-catcher, organising the visitors now streaming into St Erconwald’s to pray before their miraculous crucifix.’
Athelstan rose and paced up and down. Bonaventure solemnly followed. ‘It’s not right,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Crucifixes don’t bleed!’
He paused, the great tomcat almost crashing into his legs. There was something wrong. Watkin was bellicose, Pike and the rest were screeching about their rights. Athelstan could see the figure on the crucifix had been bleeding again, the blood glistening in the light of the many candles which had been placed beneath it.
Athelstan glanced down at the tomcat. ‘What happens if it wasn’t a miracle, Bonaventure, eh?’
The cat winked and yawned.
‘Exactly,’ Athelstan rejoined. ‘Miracles don’t happen in Southwark!’
‘They happened in Bethlehem!’
Athelstan whirled round. The tall, lean-visaged Dominican stood just within the door, hidden in the shadows.
‘Why, brother Niall!’
Father Prior’s lieutenant and messenger walked into the kitchen. He and Athelstan embraced each other and exchanged the kiss of peace. Athelstan stared at the pale face and green eyes under the shock of red hair.
‘Welcome to St Erconwald’s, Brother Niall. Pax tecum.’
‘Et cum spirito tuo.’
‘Some wine, Brother?’
Athelstan’s visitor nodded. ‘And if you have some bread and cheese?’ he called out as Athelstan went into the buttery. ‘I decided to fast today but the journey exhausted me. The good Lord will understand.’
‘Man does not live by bread alone,’ Athelstan retorted.
‘That’s why I asked for the cheese as well,’ Niall quipped back.
Athelstan brought back food and drink for himself and his visitor as well as a pannikin of milk. Bonaventure, if not distracted, would only join in and take the food literally from his visitor’s mouth.
They sat down. Brother Niall took out a small knife, cut himself a piece of cheese and popped it into his mouth. He stared appreciatively around. ‘The house is clean and sweet-smelling, Athelstan. The bread and cheese are soft and fresh.’
Athelstan shrugged. ‘Nowhere in the Gospel does it say you have to be dirty to be saintly.’
Niall laughed, covering his half-open mouth with his hand. ‘You were always quick, Athelstan.’ His face became grave. ‘I’ve been in the cemetery. I’ve seen the crucifix.’
‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ Athelstan snapped back. ‘And don’t tell me you’re here on a pilgrimage!’
Niall shook his head. ‘How long have yo
u been here, Brother?’
‘Almost three years.’
‘Athelstan, Athelstan.’ Niall shook his head. ‘You were one of the best scholars in the schools. Your love of mathematics and sciences were well known. And then . . .’
‘And then,’ Athelstan finished, ‘I wrecked it all three years before my final vows, by going off with my brother Francis to the wars.’
‘Why did you do it?’
‘My brother and I were always close.’ Athelstan half closed his eyes. ‘Two peas out of the same pod, Niall. Oh, he was a merry soul, his eyes and heart were full of joy. He could charm the birds out of the trees. He didn’t want to kill, he saw himself as a knight errant. He begged me to join him. Perhaps, for the last time in our lives before I became a Dominican, we’d share something together, come back laden with glory. So I went.’ Athelstan fought to keep his voice steady. ‘Francis was killed and I saw the glory of war: mangled corpses, widows and orphans. I committed a great sin before God and my parents. I broke their hearts and the rule of St Dominic. I returned to Blackfriars, took my vows and spent three years cleaning the latrines, kitchens and corridors.’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Niall interrupted. Athelstan was on the verge of tears.
‘Then Father Prior sent me here to work amongst the poor. I fell in love with these ordinary people who lead such extraordinary lives. They can’t read, they can’t write. They are taxed and they are pushed around, but they have a joy, a courage I have never seen before.’ Athelstan closed his eyes. ‘And sometimes they are stupid. God knows what lies behind that mummery in the cemetery!’
‘And Cranston?’
‘Sir John is my brother. A fat, uncouth, curmudgeonly coroner but brave as a fighting cock, innocent as a child. A good father, a loving husband, a man of deep integrity. He likes his wine and his food but there’s not a shred of malice in that huge frame. Anyway, why has Prior Anselm sent you?’