Paul Doherty - House of the Red Slayer

Athelstan fished in his purse and flicked a penny at the young man. ‘Go tell Sir John to stay where he is and not to drink too much. I’ll be there shortly!’

Athelstan took the keys of the church, tied by a piece of string to the cord round his waist, and pressed them into Benedicta’s soft, warm hand.

‘Look after the church,’ he pleaded.

Her eyes rounded with mock wonderment. ‘A woman in charge of the church, Father? Next you’ll be saying that God favours women more than men because he created Eve in Paradise, rather than before, as He did Adam.’

‘They also say the serpent had a woman’s face.’

‘Aye, and a man’s lying heart!’

‘You’ll lock the church?’

‘Such trust, Father.’

Athelstan smiled. ‘I believe you would do a better job than any of the men. Seriously, Benedicta, make sure Ranulf the rat-catcher doesn’t take Bonaventure. The children are not to play snowballs in the porch. Try to keep Ursula’s pig away from what is left of my garden, and above all watch Cecily! I think she is about to fall in love again.’ He ran down the steps and turned. ‘Oh, Benedicta?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Last night — the delicious meal, thank you. A strange man, Doctor Vincentius.’

Benedicta grinned. ‘Not as strange as some priests I have met!’

Athelstan glowered back in mock anger whilst she turned and skipped like a young girl into the church.

He roused and saddled a snoring Philomel and took the road to London Bridge. He found the stews around the riverside as busy as an overturned ant heap in summer as boatmen, sailors and fishermen flocked down to the river bank to watch the ice thaw. Athelstan gently nudged Philomel through the press around the bridge. He refused to look to either side; crossing the bridge on the pleasantest of days could be a frightening experience and more so now as the ice below split and cracked. Instead Athelstan looked across the river at the ships plying along the quays of Billingsgate and Queenshithe in a scene of frenetic activity. Galleys from Gascony laden with casks of wine, woad ships for Picardy, the whelk boats of Essex, and the great vessels of Alamein and Norway making ready for sea. Fishing boats, barges and lighters were busy around the ships, full of men smashing the ice with picks, hammers and mallets. From the high-stemmed poop of a Genoese cog, a boy sang a hymn to the Virgin in thanksgiving for the change in the weather whilst sailors in a Greek galley chanted their prayer for mercy: ‘Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison, Kyrie Eleison.’ Lord, have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy. The chant was so beautiful Athelstan stopped, closing his eyes to listen, until a rough-mouthed carter flicked his whip, bellowing how some men had to work and couldn’t laze around like stupid priests. Athelstan sketched a blessing in the air at his tormentor, dismounted and led Philomel past the church of St Magnus on the corner of Bridge Street.

They turned into Candlewick, now thronged with carts, pack horses and wagons as virtually every tradesman in the city seized the opportunity afforded by the break in the weather. Athelstan continued into Walbrook. On one side of the street ran a sluggish stream in a deep channel cut through the earth. The water was black, ice-filled, and two youths were fighting with quarter-staffs on one of the shit-strewn footbridges. Athelstan and Philomel pressed forward though, for a while, both were forced into the shadows of the overhanging houses as a group of aldermen rode pompously down the street. A herald went before them, a silver trumpet to his lips, whilst two serjeants-at-arms cleared the way with sharp knocks from their staffs. Above the aldermen the city banner snapped in a glorious splash of bright vermilion, whilst the figure of St Paul, embroidered in gold, seemed to glow with its own special light. At the corner of Walbrook the rakers were out, their great wooden rods moving piles of slush and refuse into high, stinking heaps. A bailiff had found a pig wandering where it shouldn’t and, according to city regulations, had promptly cut the animal’s throat. The blood gushed out in hot, scarlet streams whilst its owner, a little balding man, threatened the official with a stream of horrible oaths. Athelstan remembered Ursula and her great, fat sow and wondered if the bailiff would cross to Southwark. The city parasites were also massing as thick as flies over a turd: smooth-skinned lads, cloak-twitchers, quacks, night wanderers, mimes and petty sorcerers.

At last Athelstan found the Golden Lamb, a little tavern on the corner of an alleyway. The dark taproom was dominated by a morose Cranston, who sat slumped on a bench with his back against the wall. The empty ale-jacks scattered on the table before him made the coroner look like an angry Bacchus surrounded by votive offerings. Athelstan walked across and Cranston’s eyes swivelled to meet him.

‘Where have you been?’ the coroner snapped.

‘I came as fast as I could.’

‘It wasn’t fast enough!’

Athelstan silently prayed for patience and sat down on the stool opposite Sir John. He didn’t like the appearance of the coroner one bit. Cranston was a drinker but was usually a jovial soul, conscious of his own sins, faults and failings, and so tolerant of those of others. Now he looked positively sinister, his eyes continually flashing around as if seeking a challenge. His lips moved wordlessly and even the white whiskers bristled with some inner fury.

‘Do you want some wine, Priest?’

‘No, Sir John, I don’t, and I think you’ve drunk enough.’

‘Sod off!’

Athelstan leaned forward. ‘Sir John, please, what is wrong? Perhaps I could help?’

‘Mind your own business!’

Athelstan coughed and backed away. ‘This,’ he murmured, ‘is going to be a very trying day. You said the mayor and the sheriffs wished to see us?’

‘They have seen me. They got tired of waiting for you!’

‘And what did they say, Sir John?’ Athelstan asked sweetly.

The coroner shook himself, sat up and smiled shamefacedly at Athelstan. ‘Forgive me, Brother,’ he mumbled. ‘A bad night, and I’ve got an aching head.’

‘And a filthy temper to boot,’ Athelstan thought, but decided to keep his own counsel. Sir John would talk soon enough.

Cranston chewed his lip and glared into a corner where a huge rat gnawed at a bloody globule of fat glistening amongst the dirty rushes. ‘Is it the black or brown rat which carries infection?’ he suddenly asked.

Athelstan followed Cranston’s gaze and shuddered in disgust

‘Both, I think, so I’m not eating here, Sir John, and I suggest that neither should you. Anyway, tell me what’s happened.’

‘There’s been more bloodshed in the Tower. Sir Gerard Mowbray, who also received a death warning, slipped from a parapet and fell.’

‘Anything else?’

‘About the same time that Mowbray died, the great tocsin of the Tower sounded, convincing the garrison it was under attack.’

‘But there was no attack?’ Athelstan replied. ‘And, I am sure, no sign of a bell ringer?’

‘Apparently.’

‘And the business of the Mayor?’

Athelstan jumped as a fierce torn cat slunk out of the shadows, grasped the rat by its leg and pulled it squealing into the centre of the room.

‘For God’s sake!’ Cranston bellowed at the taverner.

The fellow wandered over waving a broomstick and the cat, its quarry still swinging from his mouth, fled up the spiral, wooden staircase. Cranston lifted the ale-jack, remembered the rat, and slammed it back on the table.

‘The business of the Mayor, my dear Athelstan, is that Sir Adam Horne, burgess, alderman and close friend of the late Sir Ralph, has received a drawing of a three-masted cog, together with a flat sesame seed cake.’