The Nightingale Gallery

'Christ, Matthew, I miss you!' he murmured. 'Oh, let the world hang itself!'

He was about to order another when he thought of Maude and his promise to her. At least tonight he would return halfway sober. Cranston pushed the tankard away and waddled out of the tavern to collect his horse and return to his house in Poultry. Two days after he returned from the city, Athelstan rose early and went to examine his small garden. Outside he glared angrily about. Someone's pig had been rooting amongst the cabbage patch. Athelstan cursed in some of the language Cranston used on such occasions. He felt angry, agitated. He had come back to find his church safe but Godric gone.

'You see, Father,' Watkin the dung-collector explained, the silly bastard thought he could slip out, so he did, through the sacristy door. Of course, they were waiting for him, the sheriff's men. They beat him up in the alleyway, tied his hands and led him off to the Marshalsea. He'll probably hang!'

'Yes, Watkin,' Athelstan replied, 'hell probably hang.'

Apart from that, everything had been in order except for Bonaventure, who had slipped away and had not been seen since. Athelstan hoped he was safe and would come padding back when he was hungry, tail in the air, miaowing for food and comfort.

The friar looked up. The sky was still blue; the sun, growing in strength, promised a hot sweltering day. He sighed. He'd said his prayers and celebrated Mass, Benedicta just slipping in at the door and kneeling next to the baptismal font instead of coming further up the nave. Athelstan wondered if there was anything wrong. He moved down the side of his church to see if Crim was waiting on the steps but they were empty. He went back, took a hoe from inside the door of his house and stabbed furiously at the cabbage patch, trying to rearrange the furrows in neat order. Once Crim had arrived he would go and see Hob the grave-digger, dying they said after he had slipped and fallen under a cartwheel which had crushed his ribs.

Athelstan tired of his task. He threw the hoe to the ground, hoped that at least the pig had had a good meal, and went back inside his church. He looked around and felt happier. Simon the tiler had done a good job. The roof was secure against the coming winter rains. Huddle the painter had scraped the wall and begun a new fresco, his first church painting. Athelstan had requested that Huddle should first draw charcoal sketches, from these giving the gifted young man scriptural advice to the effect that there was no evidence whatsoever that Herod had eventually stabbed Pilate in the back! So the charcoaled drawings had been wiped out and Huddle had begun again, a lovely vigorous painting of the A

'Honestly, Father,' she confessed, leaning on her broom of brittle twigs, 'I've changed. I intend to change.'

Athelstan stared into her child-like eyes and wondered if the woman was a little simple. The friar was sure he had seen her lying in the graveyard amongst the tombs with Simon the tiler, and he a married man with three children.

'So, Father,' she had whispered, moving closer and swinging her hips suggestively, 'can I play the part of the Virgin Mary in the parish masque for Corpus Christi?'

Athelstan had hidden his smile beneath a stern look and said he would discuss it with the church council.

'Watkin the dung-collector,' he advised, Hakes his duties as church warden most seriously. He has his own thoughts in the matter.'

'I don't give a fig for what Watkin says!' Cecily had snapped. 'I could tell you a lot about Watkin, Father!'

'Thank you, Cecily,' Athelstan had said. 'Soon the church will look nicer.'

Cecily got on with her cleaning. Athelstan felt sorry. Perhaps he had been a little too harsh with her. Cecily was a good girl who meant to do well. He could see no objection to her playing the part of the Virgin. The only obstacle was Watkin the dung-collector whose own ample wife also had her eye on the role.

On balance, decided Athelstan, he was pleased. All was well, apart from Godric, Bonaventure, and of course the pardoner. Huddle had told him about the rogue, turning up in his garish garments and standing on the church steps, offering to sell pardons to those who could afford them. Athelstan swore that if he got his hands on the fellow, Cranston would have another murder to investigate.

He leaned against the rood screen and stared up at his newly repaired roof. He wondered where Cranston was. Why had he allowed two days to go by? Was he sulking Or just ill with drinking? Athelstan couldn't leave his parish and go into the city, but he wished he could speak to the coroner, apologise for leaving him so abruptly the night before last. He hadn't meant to, it was just that he had become so tired, so exhausted with the Springalls, the murders, the deceit and the lies. He felt Vechey and Brampton had not committed suicide. He also suspected that Sir Thomas Springall had not been murdered by Brampton. The real murderers now hid in the shadows, mocking both him and Cranston, believing they would never search out the truth. Athelstan smiled thinly. Cranston, when he gathered his wits, would soon prove the bastards wrong.

Athelstan heard a sound and looked round. The church door opened and Crim, the young urchin, scampered in. His mother had taken special care to remove the dirt from his face and hands at least.

'Good morning, Crim,' Athelstan called. 'Come!'

He took a taper and lit it from the large wax candle burning in front of the statue of the Mado

'Now hold that and, as I walk through the street, you go before me carrying the light. And here,' he went behind the altar and took a small bell, 'you ring this. Now, if the candle goes out, don't be afraid. Just keep on walking and ringing the bell. You know where we are going?'

The little boy, round-eyed, shook his head.

'To Hob the grave-digger.'

'Oh. He's dying, Father!'

'Yes, Crim, I know. And he must die with Christ, so it's important we get there. Do you understand?'

The little fellow nodded solemnly. Athelstan, taking the keys from his belt, went up beneath the winking red sanctuary lamp and opened the tabernacle door. He took out the Viaticum, placing it in a small leather pouch which he slung round his neck, then went into the sacristy to collect the church's one and only cope. A faded, red and gold garment, showing the Holy Spirit as a dove with one wing, sending faded rays down on an even more faded Christ. Athelstan wrapped the cope around him and, telling Crim to go forward, they left the church, processing down the steps and into the maze of Southwark streets. Athelstan was always surprised at the effect he caused; here he was in a place where men died for the price of a few coins, but at the sight of the lighted wax candle, the sound of the small tinkling bell and him swathed in a cope, the coarsest men and women stood aside as if they acknowledged the great mysteries he carried.

Hob's cottage was a dour, earth-floored building divided into three rooms; one a bedroom for Hob and his wife, the second for his four children, the third a scullery and eating- place. It was poor but swept clean, a few pewter pots and pans, scrubbed in boiling water, hanging from nails in the wall. Inside, at the far end of the hut, Hob lay on a bed, his face white, the red blood frothing at his lips. Athelstan blessed the man, holding his hand, reassuring his good wife that all would be well whilst trying not to look at the blood. He gave the man the Viaticum and blessed him, anointing him on the head, chest, hands and feet. Afterwards he had a few words with Hob's wife, the children cowering around her. Athelstan promised he would do something to help her and left quietly, the cope still round his shoulders, Crim jumping up and down in front of him all the way back to the church.