by Paul Doherty
That night, whilst Sir John roistered in his house like Hector home from the wars, Athelstan fed Philomel and Bonaventure. He promised himself he would not go up to the tower to observe the stars. Instead he went into his own church, secured the door, lit candles and took them to his small carrel where he placed his writing tray. He chose a piece of smooth parchment and began to write down everything that had happened since he first went to the Springall mansion. He was sitting there, half dozing over what he had written, when there was a loud knocking on the door. At first he refused to answer, then realised that no assassin would make such a noise so went down to the door and called out: ‘Who’s there?’
‘Rosamund, Brother!’
Athelstan recognised the voice of the eldest daughter of Pike the ditcher. He unlocked the door and peered out into the darkness. A fresh-faced young girl burbled out her news. How her mother had just given birth to another child, her fifth, this time a boy. Athelstan smiled and mumbled his congratulations. The little girl looked at him solemnly.
‘Mother wishes you to choose a name.’
Athelstan smiled and acknowledged the great honour.
‘She wants a saint’s name, Brother.’
Athelstan promised he would do what he could and hoped to see her and her family as soon as possible. He heard the girl run back down the steps and her footsteps faded in the distance. He locked the door and went back to the carrel. Athelstan picked up the piece of parchment and the candle, scrutinising what he had written. He shook his head. He was too tired for work but felt he must continue otherwise he would think back to Cranston’s words about Benedicta. Idly, he wondered if the widow would accompany him. After all, there would be nothing wrong in a day out for both of them. ‘Christ had his friends,’ he kept murmuring to himself. He thought of little Rosamund and went to the high altar where the great missal lay. The friar opened the book, turning to the back where a previous incumbent had written the names of all the saints, listing in a neat hand which guild, craft or profession they were patrons of. Joseph, Athelstan grinned, patron saint of undertakers and mortuary men. The friar laughed. Joseph of Arimithea -the only man he ever buried was alive and well three days later! Perhaps not the best saint the church should have chosen for such a profession. His eyes ran down the list, looking for a suitable saint’s name. Suddenly he saw one and stopped, his heart pounding with excitement. He was fully awake. He looked at the name again and the craft and guild of which he was patron. Was it possible? Was it really possible?
Athelstan closed the missal, all thoughts of Pike the ditcher and his family cleared from his head. He went back to the carrel, seized his pen and continued to write out everything he knew. He tried to extract every detail from his memory, quoting to himself what he had said to Cranston earlier in the day: ‘If there’s a problem, logically there must be a solution.’ For the first time ever, Athelstan had a piece of evidence, something that would fit, something which might unlock the rest of the secrets.
He fell asleep for a few hours just before dawn and woke cold and cramped, his head on the small desk, his body somehow wedged on the stool. He stretched, cracking muscles, and looked up at the small window above the high altar, pleased to see it would be a fair day. He prepared the altar for Mass, opened the door and waited for the small trickle of his congregation to enter. At last, when he thought he could wait no longer, he glimpsed Benedicta slip silently up the nave to join the other two members of his congregation, kneeling between them at the entrance to the rood screen. The widow’s ivory face, framed in its veil of luxurious black curls, seemed more exquisite than ever and Athelstan said a prayer of thanks to God for such beauty.
As usual, after Mass, Benedicta stayed to light a candle before the statue of the Virgin. She smiled as Athelstan approached and asked softly if all was well.
Athelstan took his courage in both hands and blurted out his invitation. Benedicta’s eyes rounded in surprise but she smiled and agreed so quickly that the friar wondered if she, too, felt the kinship between them. For the rest of the day he could hardly concentrate on any problem, caught between contrition that he had done something wrong in inviting Benedicta and pleasure that she had so readily accepted. He could not really account for what he did, moving from duty to duty like a sleep-walker, so buoyed up he didn’t even bother to study the stars that night, in spite of the sky being cloud free. His mind was unwilling to rest. Sleep eluded him. Instead he tossed and turned, hoping Girth the bricklayer’s son had delivered his message to Sir John Cranston indicating where they should meet the next day.
The friar was up just before dawn and celebrated his Mass, Bonaventure and Benedicta being his only congregation. Athelstan’s pleasure increased when he saw that Benedicta, her hair now braided and hidden under a wimple, had a small basket by her side in preparation for their journey to Smithfield. After Mass they talked, chatting about this and that, as they walked from Southwark across London Bridge to meet Cranston and his wife at the Golden Pig, a comfortable tavern on the city side of the river.
Lady Maude, small and pert, was cheerful as a little sparrow, welcoming Benedicta like a long lost sister. Cranston, with at least three flagons of wine down him already, was in good form, nudging Athelstan in the ribs and leering lecherously at Benedicta. After Sir John had pronounced himself refreshed they made their way up to Thames Street to the Kirtle tavern which stood on the edge of Smithfield, just under the forbidding walls of Newgate Prison.
Athelstan remembered what he had learnt from his study of the Index of Saints but decided not to confide in Sir John. The puzzle had other pieces and the friar decided to wait, although he felt guiltily that Benedicta’s presence might have more to do with his tardiness than it should have.
The day had proved to be a fine one. The streets were hot and dusty, so Cranston and Athelstan’s party welcomed the tavern’s coolness. They sat in a corner watching the citizens of every class and station go noisily by, eager to reserve a good place from which to watch the day’s events. Merchants sweltering under beaver hats, their fat wives clothed in gaudy gowns, beggars, quacks, story-tellers, hordes of apprentices, a man from the guilds. Athelstan groaned and hid his face as a crowd of parishioners led by Black Clem, Ranulf the rat-catcher and Pike the ditcher, passed the tavern door, roaring a filthy song at the top of their voices. At last Cranston finished his further refreshment and, with Benedicta so close beside him his heart kept skipping for joy, Athelstan led them out into the great cleared area of Smithfield. Three blackened crow-pecked corpses still hung from a gibbet but the crowd ignored them. The food-sellers were doing a roaring trade in spiced sausages and, beside them, water-sellers with great buckets slung round their necks sold cooling drinks to soothe the mouths of those who chewed the hot, spicy meat. Athelstan looked away, his gorge rising, after seeing Ranulf the rat-catcher sidle up beside one of these water-sellers and quietly piss into one of the buckets.
Smithfield had been specially cleared for the joust. Even the customary dung heaps and piles of ordure had been taken away. A vast open space had been cordoned off for the day. At one side was the royal enclosure with row after row of wooden seats, all covered in purple or gold cloth. In the centre a huge canopy shielded the place where the king and his leading nobility would sit. The banners of John of Gaunt, resplendent with the gaudy device of the House of Lancaster, waved lazily in the breeze. Marshalls of the royal household in their colourful tabards, white wands of office held high, directed Cranston and his party to their reserved seats.
All around them benches were quickly filling with ladies in silk gowns, giggling and chattering, who clutched velvet cushions to their bosoms as they simpered past the young men eyeing them. These gallants, with hair long and curled, and jerkins dripping pearls, proved to be raucous and strident. Cranston was merry, but some of these young men were already far gone in their cups. Athelstan ignored the lustful glances directed at Benedicta, trying to curb the sparks of jealously which flared in his heart.
/> Once they were seated, he looked round, studying the tournament area. The field, a great grassy plain, was divided down the centre by a huge tilt barrier covered in a black and white canvas. At the end of this barrier were the pavilions, gold, red, blue and scarlet, one for each of the jousters. Already the contestants were arriving and around each pavilion scuttled pages and squires. Armour glinted and dazzled in the sun; banners bearing the gules and lozenges, lions, wyverns and dragons of the noble houses, fluttered in the faint summer breeze. A bray of trumpets stilled the clamour, their shrill so angry the birds in the trees around Smithfield rose in noisy protesting flocks. The royal party had arrived.
Cranston pointed out John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, his face cruel under blond hair, skin burnt dark from his campaigns in Castille. On either side of him stood his brothers and a collection of young lords. In the centre of the group, with one of John of Gaunt’s hands on his shoulder, stood a young boy, his face white as snow under a mop of golden hair, a silver chaplet on his head. Cranston nudged and pointed again: beside the royal party Athelstan glimpsed Chief Justice Fortescue in scarlet, lined with pure white lamb’s wool, Sir Richard, Lady Isabella, the priest Crispin, Master Buckingham, Dame Ermengilde, and others of their household. Athelstan was sure that they all looked his way but again came the shrill bray of the trumpets. Gaunt raised his hand as if welcoming the plaudits of the crowd. There was clapping from the claque of young courtiers around him but the London mob was silent and Athelstan remembered Cranston’s mutterings about how the expensive tastes of the court, coupled with the military defeats against the French, had brought Gaunt and his party into disrepute.
‘Our quarry’s in sight!’ Cranston whispered to the friar, though his voice carried for yards around them. Athelstan looked sideways at Benedicta and his heart lurched. She had turned slightly, staring coolly back at a young, dark-faced gallant, resplendent in red and white silks, who lounged in his seat with eyes for no one but Athelstan’s fair companion. Cranston, sharp enough under his bluff, drunken exterior, caught the friar’s pained glance. He leaned over and tapped Athelstan on the arm.
‘The tournament is about to begin, Brother,’ he said. ‘Watch carefully. You may learn something about combat.’
Another shrill blast of the trumpets. Banners were lowered, and behind the pavilions came a procession led by pages in tight quilted jackets, multi-coloured hose and gaudy feathered hats. They carried huge canvas paintings depicting scenes from the Bible and classical times. Hercules fighting with the python; the slaying of Hector; the Siege of Troy; Samson amongst the Philistines; and the serpent entering Eden. Such a tableau always preceded tournaments. It was followed by musicians with tambour, fife and viol. Behind them came squires and further pages and, finally, the knights themselves, not yet armoured, their colours carried before them. The procession wound around the whole tournament area, knights and men-at-arms acknowledging the cheers and cries of the crowd.
Athelstan looked more closely at one of the paintings, a scene from the Book of Genesis, remembered something he had glimpsed in the Springall house, and he gasped. The sounds around him died away. All he could see was that crude canvas painting being carried by two pages. Of course! His stomach churned with excitement. He turned to Cranston, grabbing him by the arm.
‘The paintings! The canvas paintings!’ he whispered hoarsely.
Cranston looked at him blearily.
‘The paintings, Sir John, in the Springall house? The canvas ones on the walls. When we first went there, they were covered in black drapes because of the mourning. Don’t you remember? Genesis Chapter Three, Verse One, the serpent entering Eden! There was a painting like that in one of the galleries in Springall’s house. Maybe that is what Sir Thomas was referring to?’
Cranston blinked. Making sure his wife did not see him, he pulled a wineskin from underneath his cloak and took a generous swig.
‘I am here to enjoy myself, man,’ he said hoarsely. As he put the stopper back, Athelstan’s words sank in. ‘My God, of course, you’re right! The paintings, the three riddles. They may hold the secret!’
Athelstan dare not tell him that he had already resolved one of them.
‘What shall we do?’ murmured Cranston.
‘Go now!’ Athelstan said.
‘But we are here as the guests of John of Gaunt. I know the duke. If we leave, he will send some busy body squire or serjeant-at-arms after us.’
‘Now is the best time,’ Athelstan replied, drawing closer, whispering into Sir John’s ear, conscious that Lady Maude was totally absorbed in the pageant before her whilst Benedicta, distracted, was still staring back at the admiring gallant.
‘Sir John, the Springall house is empty now. Let us strike whilst the iron is hot!’
Cranston looked as if he was going to refuse but thought again. ‘Follow me,’ he said.
Cranston whispered to his wife, then waddled off with Athelstan in tow, pushing through the crowd towards the royal enclosure. Knight bannerets of the king’s household stopped them but Cranston muttered a few words and they let him by. Athelstan, however, had to stand outside the protective ring of steel watching Cranston bow at the foot of the steps and fall to one knee. Athelstan looked behind him. The procession was still circling the arena. John of Gaunt came down the steps, laughing. He tapped Cranston on the shoulder and raised him up, whispering in his ear. The coroner replied. Behind Gaunt, Chief Justice Fortescue glowered like some angry hawk. John of Gaunt looked up abruptly and stared like a hungry cat at Athelstan, his eyes yellow, hard and unblinking. He nodded and muttered something over his shoulder to Fortescue, then to Cranston. The coroner bowed and backed away. Athelstan looked to his left to where the Springall household sat. Surprisingly, no one seemed interested in Sir John’s meeting with the regent.
Cranston himself said nothing until they had walked away from the royal enclosure.
‘Brother,’ he whispered, ‘we have the Regent’s permission to go down to the Springall house now, to examine and take anything we wish. The regent has said, even if it takes all day, we are not to appear at the royal palace or the Savoy until we have something more to tell him!’
Athelstan’s heart sank. On the one hand he wished to examine those paintings and resolve the mystery. But on the other, he wished to be with Benedicta. He looked up. Fitful clouds were beginning to obscure the sun. He glanced across to where the women sat. Cranston’s wife was making herself comfortable on the bench whilst the gallant who had been eyeing Benedicta had now moved closer and was talking quietly with her. He was teasing her but Benedicta did not seem to mind. She seemed absorbed in the young man’s conversation. Athelstan barely listened to Cranston’s muttering. He fought to control a sense of panic and reminded himself that he was a priest, a man ordained, sworn to God. Had he not taken a vow of celibacy? Although he might have a woman as a friend, he could not lust, he could not desire or covet any woman, whether she be free or not. Athelstan steeled himself. Benedicta was courteous to everyone, whether it be Hob’s wife, Ranulf the rat-catcher, or now a court gallant. Nevertheless, Athelstan felt a growing rage at his condition; a sense of jealous hurt that Benedicta could find someone else so attractive and entertaining, even though he dismissed the emotion itself as both childish and dangerous.
CHAPTER 9
They left Smithfield, taking a different route back into the city, past the ditch which smelt so rank and fetid that even Cranston, filled to his gills with wine, stopped to gag and cover his nose. The coroner made a mental note to include in his treatise a special chapter on the cleaning of the ditch. They hurried past Cock Lane. The mouth of the street was thronged with whores in scarlet, red or violet dresses; one of them, swaying her hips and making her breasts dance, shouted: ‘Sir John! Sir John! See us now!’
Cranston turned, a broad smile on his expansive face, not caring about Athelstan standing beside him, writhing in embarrassment.
‘All my girls!’ he muttered. ‘All my lovely girls!
’
Then, urged on by Athelstan, they continued past Newgate into the Shambles and Westchepe. The city was fairly silent, quieter than usual due to the great tournament at Smithfield. The city authorities had taken care to use the day to process certain cases in the court. A number of whores caught and convicted at their second offence were being taken, their heads shaved, a white wand in their hands, down towards the Tun near Cornhill, the open gaol where they stood to be reviled by any passerby. They did not seem to mind, each patting her head and calling out that her hair would soon grow, which was more than could be said for the balding bailiffs escorting them. A liar or perjurer stood in the docks, a great whetstone round his neck, a placard proclaiming that he was a false perjurer and breaker of oaths; beside him a hapless youth who had stolen a leg of mutton and was standing there with the piece of meat, now well decaying and buzzing with flies, slung round his neck. Athelstan watched the scene around him and tried to keep his mind free of Benedicta and the petty jealousies which nagged him.
They found the Springall house deserted except for a few servants. By the looks of them, they had been playing whilst the cat was away. Most of them were well gone in their cups and offered no objection when Cranston knocked at the door and demanded entrance. The old retainer who had received them on their first visit tried to help but Cranston pushed him gently away, saying it was a holiday and besides he was here at Sir Richard’s request to pursue his inquiries privately. Naturally, the fragrant smell of wine reminded Cranston of how long it had been since he had refreshed himself so he ordered a large jug and the deepest goblet to be found in the kitchen.
He followed Athelstan as the friar went from one canvas painting to the next. Cranston showed himself surprisingly knowledgeable on the subject of the paintings they examined. He claimed that some were the work of Edward Prince, an artist who lived in the north of the city. Athelstan half listened to Cranston’s chatter, trying to remember where he had seen the painting of Eve in the garden enchanted by the serpent. At last he recalled it was not in the Nightingale Gallery but in the one running to the left.