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‘Clarice, you were with Alcest all night?’
‘Oh yes,’ she purred, rolling her shoulders, reminding Cranston of a cat. ‘We retired to an i
And?’
‘We frolicked, we drank some wine.’ She smiled. ‘I fell asleep and the next minute it was morning and Dame Broadsheet was rousing me from bed.’
‘And Alcest was still with you?’
‘Oh yes, Sir John, snoring fit to burst.’
‘And he never left you during the night?’
‘No one ever leaves me, Sir John.’
‘Less of your sauce!’ Cranston barked.
‘Sir John, I was asleep but I would have heard him leave. His clothes were where I,’ she smiled quickly, ‘put them the night before.’
‘And is this true of all of you?’
The other three girls nodded in unison.
‘You saw nothing suspicious?’ Cranston asked.
‘Oh no, Sir John.’
Cranston dismissed them; he turned back to Dame Broadsheet. ‘This must have cost a pretty pe
‘I mentioned that,’ she continued hurriedly, ‘to Alcest: how costly the evening was. He said he’d been to Master Drayton.’
‘Who?’ Cranston leaned across the table.
‘Master Drayton the moneylender. Alcest had taken a loan out.’ She added in a rush, ‘I mean, clerks of the Green Wax are well paid but the evening was costly.’
Cranston sat back, mouth half open. Alcest, he thought, going to a moneylender, offering surety to raise monies for an evening of revelry? And why should he do that? Peslep was a wealthy man. All five clerks would have contributed to the evening. So why a loan? And why Drayton? Why not the Italian bankers down near the Thames?
‘Sir John?’
Cranston stared at Dame Broadsheet. ‘Yes, mistress.’
‘Are you well? Would you like to lie down?’ she asked mischievously.
‘No, madam, I would not.’ Cranston lumbered to his feet. ‘I am finished with you for the time being.’
‘So there’ll be no bailiffs?’
‘No, madam, there’ll be no bailiffs.’
Cranston walked across the room, beckoning at Flaxwith who was sitting just within the doorway nursing a tankard of ale.
‘What now, Sir John?’ he asked.
‘Go to the Dancing Pig. Ask the landlord there if any of the clerks left during the revelry.’
‘Anything else, Sir John?’
‘Yes, don’t forget Stablegate and Flinstead.’
‘And there’s something else, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, Henry, there is.’ Cranston put an arm round Flaxwith’s shoulder and pulled him closer in order to whisper in his ear. ‘Get your best men. Have this house watched. I wager a jug of wine to a jug of wine that the Vicar of Hell will return!’
Cranston stepped back as the door of the tavern was flung open. Sir Lionel Havant strode in, hand on his sword. He bowed mockingly.
‘Sir John Cranston, I bring a personal invitation from His Grace the Regent. You are to join him in his private chambers at the Savoy Palace.’
Cranston groaned. ‘Sir Lionel, I am tired, my feet ache, I have been tramping the streets, not to mention falling downstairs.’
Sir Lionel smiled. ‘Sir John, it’s one of those invitations I would beg you not to refuse. We are to escort you to the Savoy.’ Havant sucked at his lips. ‘Whether you like it or not.’
Cranston sighed and turned to Flaxwith. ‘Carry out the tasks I have assigned to you. Tell the Lady Maude that I am His Grace’s most honoured guest, so God knows when I’ll crawl into my own bed tonight.’
Cranston went through the doorway. He heard a bark behind him and the coroner gri
The funeral of Edwin Chapler at St Erconwald’s the following morning was a solemn and dignified affair. The coffin had been carried in and laid at the entrance to the rood screen; purple candles ringed it whilst Athelstan celebrated a solemn Requiem Mass. Mistress Alison, supported by Benedicta, had maintained a dignified silence even as the coffin on which she placed a single white rose was lifted out of the church and taken to the fresh plot dug by Pike the ditcher just before dawn. The coffin had been lowered into it. Athelstan had sprinkled holy water with the asperges rod then incensed it with the thurible, the fragrance spreading throughout the graveyard. The earth had been piled in and a suitable wooden cross laid over the fresh mound of earth until Tab the tinker made a proper one. Athelstan and Alison were discussing this when a parishioner, Simplicatas, came ru
‘The new crucifix!’ she cried. ‘Huddle’s crucifix near the baptistry! It’s bleeding!’
Athelstan, followed by the rest, rushed up the steps of the church. A crowd had gathered round the small recess where the crucifix hung. At first Athelstan could not believe his eyes. The wounds on the hands, side, feet and head of the crucified Christ were glistening red. Indeed, one small drop of blood, like a small ruby, was ready to drip down. Huddle was kneeling there, hands joined; on either side of him Watkin and Pike the ditcher, reminding Athelstan of the Three Wise Men before the crib.
‘Huddle!’ Athelstan bellowed. ‘Is this some trick of yours?’ He nearly added that miracles couldn’t occur in a place like St Erconwald’s but bit back the words.
The painter just stared at him and swallowed hard.
‘Father, how can you say that?’
Alison went forward and touched the glistening drop. She brought it back on the edge of her finger. She held it to her lips and licked it.
‘It’s blood,’ she declared, her face white as snow. ‘Father, it’s not fake blood.’ She paused. ‘The type mummers use.’
Athelstan went and also took a drop. He raised it to his lips. He had the same sensation as when he had cut his lip the previous week: a salty, tangy taste. He stepped back, trying to hide the tremors in his own body. The news had spread; more parishioners were already crowding into the church.
‘Go away!’ Athelstan ordered, hands raised. ‘Go back to your homes! For the love of God!’ His mind raced. This was not the first time a miracle had occurred at St Erconwald’s. He gazed suspiciously at Watkin and Pike but they were engrossed in their devotions.
Athelstan quickly took off his chasuble and surplice. He almost threw them at Crim and grasping the lavabo cloth, the piece of linen he used to dry his hands after touching the sacred species, he thrust his way through to the cross. He dabbed at the red marks and gazed down at the cloth, they did look like bloodstains.
‘What are you doing, Father?’ Benedicta whispered, coming up behind him.
‘Maybe it’s some trick,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The crucifix is new, it might be some pigment…’
‘I only used ordinary paint,’ Huddle sang out.
Athelstan stood staring at the cross. He’d wiped the red glistening liquid away; his heart lurched: more was begi
‘Have the crucifix taken down!’ he ordered Watkin.
‘No, Father.’ The dung-collector got to his feet, his great ham fists hanging by his side. ‘The crucifix is ours, Father, it’s in the nave. The nave belongs to the people.’
Athelstan groaned. Watkin was right. The friar took a secret oath that never again would he expound on Canon Law for his parishioners: by ancient custom, the sanctuary belonged to the priest but the nave, and all it contained, was the property of the people.
‘I said take it out!’ Athelstan ordered again.
‘The cemetery’s ours.’ Pike spoke up. ‘God’s acre belongs to the people too. You did say that, Father.’
Athelstan just glared at him. He felt like taking the crucifix and putting it in the sanctuary but Watkin, despite his bulk, moved more speedily. He removed the crucifix from the wall and, lifting it up like a standard, solemnly processed out through the church porch and down the steps, the crowd following him.