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‘Yes, Father.’
‘Last night — the delicious meal, thank you. A strange man, Doctor Vincentius.’
Benedicta gri
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 cha
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 i
‘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.’
‘And where is Horne now?’
‘At his warehouse along the Thames. Horne did not tell the mayor about this, his wife did. Both message and cake were delivered anonymously to her. She handed them over to her husband and was terrified by his reaction. He became pale and ill as if taken by a sudden seizure.’
‘When was this?’
‘Earlier today. The wife immediately went to see one of the sheriffs. The rest you know.’
‘Lady Horne acted very quickly?’
‘Yes, the mayor himself is suspicious. He still believes Lady Horne knows more than she claims.’
Athelstan stared towards the door as a group of pedlars, battered trays slung round their necks, bustled in, raucously shouting for ale. A one-eyed beggar followed and, for a pe
‘Isn’t it strange, Sir John,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘how we men take such a delight in the humiliation of others?’
Cranston remembered Lady Maude, blinked and looked away.
Athelstan stirred. ‘So, Sir John, do we question Horne or go to the Tower?’
Cranston rose. ‘My office is to enquire as to the cause of death,’ he a