Paul Doherty: The Assassin's riddle

‘Can I come with you?’ Alison picked up her cloak and swung it round her shoulders. ‘I have lodgings at the Silver Lute.’ She added hastily, ‘On the corner of Milk Street.’

‘Of course,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You are more than welcome, mistress! Your belongings?’ he asked.

‘They are already there,’ she replied.

The young woman picked up her leather bag and made to swing it over her shoulder. Cranston gallantly took it from her. They made their farewells and left the Chancery. Outside, in the street, Athelstan paused.

‘Daydreaming, monk?’

‘No, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled at Alison. ‘This friar is just thinking. There was something wrong with those young men.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Nothing of substance, just a look, a glance.’

‘What makes you say that, Brother?’ Alison asked.

Cranston brought his hand down on Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘Because, mistress, he has the mind of a veritable ferret, always scurrying about for the truth, and, if he’s not doing that, he’s listening to those woebegone parishioners of his or sitting on his tower staring up at the stars.’

‘You study the heavens, Father?’

Athelstan smiled at the young woman’s sweet face. ‘Why yes, and as I walk I’ll tell you about a book I’m reading by a monk called Richard of Wallingford. He was abbot of St Albans…’

Athelstan, pleased to find someone so avidly interested in the works of astrology and astronomy, briskly chattered on. Cranston, rather sulkily, hung back, now and again muttering to himself about bloody monks and stars or taking an occasional swig from his miraculous wineskin.

They made their way along Holborn. The crowds had thinned; only the solitary cart, a late arrival at the markets, or the usual travellers, journeymen and chapmen were travelling into the city. Athelstan found Alison a ready listener with a keen interest in the working of astrology and astronomy, particularly in the effect of Saturn on men’s affairs. Only once, as they passed Cock Lane, the usual haunt of prostitutes, did Athelstan stop. Usually the mouth of the alleyway was thronged with whores in garish wigs and even more colourful garb touting for custom. If they ever glimpsed Sir John, the air would ring with their catcalls and lurid descriptions of what they would do to him. However, this morning the entire area was quiet, not a whore in sight. Instead the alleyway was sealed off by two great timbers placed across the entrance and guarded by a line of archers. These were all dressed in black, a hood of the same colour covering their faces. They were armed with sword and dagger, quivers on their backs; in their hands the longbows were already strung, an arrow notched to the string. Over the wooden barrier someone had draped a piece of white cloth bearing a large red cross with the words ‘Jesu Miserere’ scrawled beneath.

‘Lord have mercy on us!’ Cranston whispered. ‘The plague is here!’

Athelstan felt the hairs prickle at the back of his neck; one of the great nightmares of London had returned. Every so often the pestilential miasma would seep into the city. Sometimes it would infect every place; at others, like now, just one alleyway, street or quarter would be blighted. When this happened all the inhabitants were locked and barred in their houses, dying in bed together. Children would cry beside the corpses of their parents; priests would refuse to administer the sacraments, doctors decline to visit; even the gravediggers would not touch the dead.

‘The Plague Virgin!’ Alison whispered.

‘The what?’ Cranston asked, staring across at the barricades.

‘A Norfolk legend,’ the woman replied. ‘The Plague Virgin’s a spectre who flies through the air like a bluish flame and stops at the place of her choice. She then takes human form and goes from house to house anointing doors and windows with her feverish poison. Sometimes you can even glimpse her blood-red scarf fluttering in the wind. If you see or touch it, you die within the day.’

‘What does your Richard of Wallingford say about that?’ Cranston asked sardonically.

‘Something similar,’ Athelstan replied.

He made to walk towards the barricades. One of the archers lifted his bow. Athelstan held his hand up in a gesture of peace and stepped back. The friar sighed and made to go on.

‘Richard of Wallingford says something similar,’ he repeated. ‘He talks of black dogs roaming about at night with burning eyes and mangy coats. Every age,’ Athelstan continued, ‘has its own signs and wonders about the plague.’

‘I know,’ Cranston replied, eager to walk beside the pretty young Alison. ‘When I was a lad, knee-high to a cricket, my grandfather said the plague rode a black horse over London Bridge or floated down the Thames in a sombre barge.’

‘In Epping,’ Alison interrupted, ‘the peasants see the plague as a reaper who digs the earth with his scythe and lets out serpents, black blood and repulsive vermin. Last year, when the pestilence visited the town, a dismal wailing was heard from the cemetery. Some people saw ghosts dancing in the meadows. A taverner claimed he had seen thirty coffins in a neat line covered with black palls. On each stood a dark figure, a gleaming white cross in its hand.’

Athelstan stopped and turned to face the young woman. ‘You are very knowledgeable, mistress. You know of Richard of Wallingford, astronomy, astrology, the Plague Virgin.’

‘My father schooled both myself and Edwin,’ she replied, a slight blush to her cheeks.

Athelstan grasped her fingers. ‘But you don’t study your horn book now?’

She smiled coquettishly and glanced at the friar from under lowering eyelashes.

‘No, Brother, I am a seamstress and a very good one.’ She came closer and kissed Athelstan gently on each cheek. ‘I thank you for your generosity and kindness, Brother. When Edwin is buried, and this is all finished, I shall fashion new altar clothes for your church.’

Athelstan saw Cranston grinning eagerly behind him, thoroughly enjoying his discomfiture. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured and coughed in embarrassment. ‘But we really should move on, Sir John. Mistress Alison, there’s really no need for you to accompany us.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t care less about Peslep,’ she replied. ‘But I want to be there when you visit Edwin’s lodgings.’

They continued across the great open expanse of Smithfield. A water-tippler, who had drunk too deeply, staggered about, the buckets slung over his shoulder slopping out, much to the merriment of a group of ragged-arsed urchins.

Athelstan made for the looming mass of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. At first he thought the crowd assembled there was waiting to make their devotions at the tomb of the Blessed Rahere in the nearby priory or, perhaps, seeking sustenance from the hospital until a shriek of pain curdled his stomach.

‘Oh lord, no!’ Cranston whispered. ‘It’s branding day!’

Athelstan walked more quickly. ‘Don’t look,’ he whispered to Alison. ‘When you pass the door of the hospital, turn away.’

He pulled his cowl over his head, half closed his eyes and recited a prayer. Cranston, walking more leisurely behind, stared over the heads of the crowd to a small platform set up beside the hospital door. Beside it a line of felons from the Fleet and Newgate prisons waited to be branded: an ‘F’ for forger, a ‘B’ for the blasphemer, a ‘T’ for the twice-convicted thief. Pickpockets would have their ears clipped; whores, caught plying their trade within the city limits for the fourth time, had their noses slit. Some bore it stalwartly, others shrieked and protested, crashing their chains about as they were held down by burly city bailiffs.

‘Come, Sir John!’ Athelstan called over his shoulder. ‘This is no place for a lady’