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‘I’m sorry I can’t write,’ Athelstan continued. ‘What on earth could I say? Maybe old Jack will come to Oxford, bring the Lady Maude and the poppets? Or Watkin? He and Pike could organise a pilgrimage to some shrine, call in and see me. Philomel’s coming and, if you want, so can you.’
The cat padded back into the darkness. Athelstan shrugged and closed the door. He went and gathered Philomel’s reins.
‘Come on, old friend,’ he murmured. ‘We’ll strike east, find a place to cross the Thames.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Sleep out in the fields perhaps. Anyway, come on!’
Athelstan led Philomel down the alleyway. He turned and looked back at St Erconwald’s and then jumped as something soft brushed his ankle. Bonaventure stared up at him expectantly.
‘Oh, very well,’ the friar whispered. ‘You can come.’
And Brother Athelstan, friar in the Order of St Dominic, formerly secretarius to Sir John Cranston, coroner in the city of London, and parish priest of St Erconwald’s, walked out of Southwark accompanied by his old warhorse and the faithful cat Bonaventure.